Wednesday, December 26, 2007

17 blocks of cheese later


Christmas Day began and ended with eggs. Erin and I lined our stomachs with eggs for breakfast, but the tactic didn't seem to work that well as my last champagne-fuddled memory is Erin hurling an egg out the window at the retreating figure of our friend Andrew. 'Don't worry, it's organic!' we reassured the neighbours, before boiling up another pot of mulled wine and bringing out another round of cheese. It's all pretty blurry from there.

It's been a strange Christmas, rather housebound. Housemate Ben suffered a collapsed lung last week and so can't leave the house (he has also earned himself, possibly permanently, the nickname Bung Lung). This has meant a lot of sympathetic sitting around eating, drinking, watching random DVDs we have pulled from the depths of the cupboard - including but not limited to a documentary on obsessive robotic-dog-owners, the entire series of We Can Be Heroes - The Search for Australian of the Year, and (forcibly) The Doctor Who Christmas Special - all interspersed with a hell of a lot of cheese. (Erin and I have just counted 17 blocks of various cheeses in the fridge, including haloumi, smoked cheddar, horseradish, Stilton, Danish Blue and my personal favourite purely for its association with Wallace & Gromit, Wensleydale). Maybe it's because I lived in Holland, but I am still addicted to cheese. Despite this, a few days cooped up and I have been starting to get cabin fever but everyone I know seems to be on an exotic holiday. But it's pretty tropical here, no snow to be seen.

So not much scintillating news from this little corner of London, hoping to up the social factor after a good long bath and another does of cheese - a hangover cure if ever there was one.

Update: I am now feeling quite insane, coupled out, and the cabin fever is unbearable. I'm resorting to some Prosecco and a new Mexican recipe. Unfortunately if I venture out now, it will be alone, and I'm sick of living in my head for the last few days. I'm almost looking forward to going back to work ...

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Hitlergate (aka The sordid confessions of Hitler Girl)

[ORIGINALLY WRITTEN FOR ARIEL AT THE BBC, THEN BBC NEWS, HOWEVER BBC NEWS COULDN'T RUN THIS DUE TO THE DEATH OF MARK SPEIGHT]

Tuesday night at the Doctor Who Christmas Special launch, I felt like Bridget Jones, and I fear that forevermore I shall always be known as Hitler Girl. Since I’m leaving the Corporation soon – and, perhaps to the relief of some people, the field of journalism entirely - here’s the whole story.

I had two missions: 1. Ask a question on behalf of the corporation staff to the Doctor Who crew, since let’s face it, everyone wants to feel a part of it, and 2. At least say hello to David Tennant. Unfortunately, I failed on the latter point, and even more unfortunately, succeeded at the first.

This was no normal press conference – I had to yell my question across hundreds of people – people such as Nick Cave, John Simm, Andrew Marr, and Richard Curtis. Not to mention David Tennant. Heart in my throat, I prepared to ask my question. (Thank you QUT drama, they actually heard me...for those who don't know that I'm a failed actress).

‘I’m from the corporation's staff magazine,’ I began – as I usually do. ‘Oh, what FUN,’ replied exec producer Russell T. Davies slightly disparagingly. To me, he might as well have groaned. Tennant, bless him, fixed his eyes on me, went completely expressionless and did not flinch. Wishing desperately that John Simm would punch me in the head and send me back to 1973, I uttered a rather pathetic, ‘No don’t, us staff really love Doctor Who,’ and then launched dutifully into the question that several staff had sent in from the far flung corners of Lancashire and uh, Victoria Road. ‘If you could cast anyone, living or dead, as the next Doctor, who would you choose?’

Downhill from here, I thought. I thought wrong. ‘I’d choose Hitler,’ said Davies. Oh God, I thought. Why couldn’t you just say Laurence Olivier? Michael J. Fox? Elvis? I saw David Tennant’s mouth drop open and hoped desperately that no-one from The Sun was in earshot. ‘He’d be a great Doctor,’ went on Davies. ‘Stern…sharp…’ My dreams of one day working on a Doctor Who website rapidly evaporated, I doubted I'd ever be working in this town - or Cardiff - again.

As I slunk off to the toilet, I swear I saw David Tennant staring at me in pity. Admittedly maybe he forgot his glasses and was merely watching the dejected blur sliding down the stairs, but I like to think he sympathised. Maybe, I muse hopefully, he was fighting the urge to drag me with him heroically – or at least punch me in the head and send me back to 1973. Sadly, I will never know, as by the time I had steeled myself to face the party, he had vanished like the medicinal glass of wine I proceeded to consume.

I went to tell John Simm how much I liked Life on Mars, but if the fear in his eyes as I approached him is any indication, he knew exactly who I was. ‘Oh my God it’s that Hitler Girl,’ I bet he was thinking. (He was very sweet though and talking to him for a whole 30 seconds was the high point of my night - and mum, he thought it was 'great news' that you loved Life on Mars in China).

I decided to stay and keep a brave face as planned, but had miscalculated my tendency for surreal adventures. Just as I was beginning to feel better, I met a friendly guy. ‘So, where are you from?’ I asked, noting his accent. ‘Germany,’ he replied. Yep, I should have left when Tennant did. The final cue to leave was when I got told off for trying to take a photograph of the exquisite setting for the after-show party. And this morning, after being reprimanded for various aspects of the resulting article, I almost wish I’d gone with the apparently less troublesome Sun’s angle (‘Doctor Grabs Kylie’s Bum’).

The whole night was quite gutting. On the upside, I got some sympathy from a journalist who said at least I’d stayed true to my mandate. I refrained from pointing out that Hitler could probably say the same.

Sunday, December 09, 2007

From Tiananmen to...Townsville


Sorry for the delay in posting, it's been a whirlwind tour from teaching small children in China to getting kicked out of a hotel in Shanghai because the French president booked the whole place out, to in a surreal twist finding myself in Townsville, Australia, begging my grandmother to survive a massive heart attack.

China was fascinating but weird - it's like it's talking itself into the 21st century but haven't quite got the hang of it. You can't get banknotes higher than 100 RMB because they believe that will curb inflation, and mum and I never quite solved the mystery of the rubbish bin on the Great Wall itself which says 'Don't Call On Thunder Storm Days'. Evidently, that particular piece of wisdom was well and truly lost in translation. But I'm so glad I got to see it in-depth, the way you only can if you are living there (in my case, vicariously through my mum, but I got an up-close look).

One of my favourite parts was the giant Buddha outside Wuxi. Mum couldn't believe I liked it, since it was constructed a mere ten years ago and is blatantly a tourist exercise, complete with a veritable boulevard of merchandise stalls leading up to Buddha's feet. But I thought it was great. I'm considering conversion to Buddhism - or at least a renewed interest in meditation - despite the fact a certain friend of mine doesn't deem it 'hardcore' enough. He obviously hasn't seen the Chinese merchandise sellers when they whiff a sale.

When we got the call that my grandmother was ill, we got straight on a plane to Australia. I have never seen my nana sick let alone in a hospital with oxygen tubes hanging off her. Four generations were there to drag her through however - including my cousin's four-year-old daughter Mia. Mia, her angelic looks betraying her mischievous nature and tendency to proclaim loudly that fat people are sitting at the next table in Sizzler, became my number one fan. She even gave me some handmade drawings. 'I wanted to draw you some good ones, but I don't like these very much,' she said. 'But you can have them anyway'. I am still trying to convince her brother to try the Chinese delicacy mum discovered to her horror at a market stall - pig noses on a stick (seriously).

The only other news is that I have quit my job at the corporation, and will be moving into a small digital design agency. It's all part of my new three-fold plan: 1. Move into the film industry/a more creative role 2. Move back to Sweden and 3. Maybe do a stint in New York first.

If all that fails, maybe I can start an authentic pig-nose-on-a-stick restaurant.