Crazy Homies and Not-so-crazy Oxford

Just when we thought Saturday night couldn't get any worse, Crazy Homies came to the rescue. After waiting in the rain for hours and hours for a table at a Mexican restaurant, I finally found something to fill the Pepe's-shaped-hole in my life. Pepe's, for the uninitiated, was the Mexican restaurant where I practically grew up. Cheap, cheerful and my employer for a good five years, it pretty much single-handedly kept me and my student mates alive throughout university. Years and years later, I still crave Mexican on a weekly basis. (In fact, after looking forward to a Mexican dinner all day on Saturday, Erin spotted the washing up and texted me a suspicous message: 'Did you have Mexican for lunch?' 'Just avocado and cheese' I replied meekly).

Anyway, Crazy Homies took us in when no-one else would, sodden and grumpy and in dire need of elderflower margaritas. And it gets better - Nick Cave lives upstairs when in London and apparently eats (or, assumedly, drinks) at Crazy Homies four nights a week. I knew he was classy. I have a feeling it will become a recurring feature in our lives. Once upon a time, Mr Cave did me a great kindness (well it seemed that way for a misfit teenage girl) and so I would love to buy him a burrito to say thanks.

Meanwhile I also went to visit old friend Lachlan in Oxford where we dined genteely upon scones and clotted cream at the university (one of the elderly attendants told us the scones were left over from the floods last week, we weren't quite sure if he was joking or not). Lachie, being an athlete, gave me a brisk walking tour of the town so at least I probably walked off most of the scones. And fish and chips. And burger. And ice-cream. And Crazy Homies.

Lunchlady Doris and the parallel universe

Yesterday my soul decided to take a trip into a few parallel dimensions before being forcefully yanked back into my body, which at that point was sprawled on a doctors surgery floor. Those of you who know me will know my irrational fear of doctors*, in particular, doctors with blood pressure monitors (one of my colleagues informs me that she actually LOVES getting her blood pressure taken... which for one moment prompted the hatchling of an evil plan, but I guess it's just too much to hope that the doctor wouldn't notice a switch after the havoc I caused yesterday morning).

On a routine visit to the doctor they wanted to test my blood pressure. I warned the matronly nurse that I may faint, and that she should have a glass of water to hand. She began to cheerily tell me about her own aversion to needles and various details about her tonsilectomy, which patently did not help the situation. So down I went, and if you've never fainted you might not be able to imagine the strange state between waking and dreaming (Christian I believe I met you in some parallel dimension for a whisky or two). Opening my eyes, my first thought was: Am I in Australia? No. Am I in Sweden? No. Am I in England? Hmm...yes I think so. Only England could have carpet like this in a doctor's surgery... And then I noticed this huge face leaning over me, she looked familiar...then it hit me - it was a human version of Lunchlady Doris from the Simpsons. 'Are you alwrigh'?' she asked in an accent which left me in no doubt what country I was in, but was kind of confusing because last time I checked, the Simpsons wasn't set in East London.

My instinctive response (apart from, 'Oh my God, you're ALIVE?') was, 'Who the HELL are you?' but I kept my mouth shut until I could stumble outside and Mia came to get me and fed me numerous cups of hot tea. I felt literally beside myself for the rest of the day. Mum tells me that when I was a baby (born mind-boggling early) I spent the first two months of my life in hospital, and my heart actually stopped several times. This has quite shocked me - I mean obviously I remember going to the hospital incessantly, but I never knew quite how touch and go it was. So that put a hell of a lot in perspective - a student house and soggy summer are no match for me.

Later I met Simon who I haven't seen since I left Amsterdam. It was strange to catch up, but obviously my soul had left a bit of its alcohol-processing ability in some far-off multiverse (that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it) and I fear after a few red wines I blabbed incoherently at him for four hours.

Meanwhile, my brush with oblivion has also put work in perspective, and I am far more inspired at the media corporation. I have even written my first pitch for a tv show as part of a staff competition, and if I get to work on that, then life-changing plan A (national fame, instant new career, famous husband and holiday house in Stockholm archipelago) might just come off in time for Christmas...

p.s. Queens Park update: celebrity resident list now includes Daniel 'James Bond' Craig, spotted last week at the local Starbucks.

*Fear of doctors does not apply to The Very Attractive Doctor Anders (TM)

Oh what a weekend

Today I had my first dealings with the UK health system since 2003 when I took my ex-boyfriend to hospital thinking he was having a heart attack and unfortunately his rather feminine first name made the doctors try and sedate me... but I digress. As a certain singing nun with a penchant for clothing made from drapery would say, let's start at the very beginning.

Last night, Mia and I met the remains of Team London in Notting Hill to 'get out of the house'. This of course turned into a bit of an extravaganza and despite me accidentally kissing JonJon's flatmate again, poor Mia took the cake as far as dramatic evenings go. After a few Mojitos anyone would be a bit tipsy, but suddenly her legs fell out from under her and she threw up prolifically - Linda Blair herself would have been horrified. By this stage, my feet in uncharacteristic heels were killing me, but I miraculously managed to get Mia up the stairs in one piece where we hailed that cornerstone of British life, the mini-cab. My faith in Londoners was further eroded when the cab driver decided he did not want to risk having poor Mia in the car and abandoned us at a service station somewhere in the dark, tumble-weed ridden terrain of north London (ok the tumbleweed is just a special effect). 'Are you REALLY going to be this irresponsible?' I asked him, Greenpeace-interrogation style. "Yes I am,' he said coolly and drove off. Times like that you desperately need a Simpsons scriptwriter to put a biting response in your mouth.

We finally got home via a much nicer minicab driver who even helped me propel Mia inside (heels had gone flying down the stairs by this point). This morning, she awoke in a panic, and told me she thought her drink had been spiked. She had no memory at all of getting home. Erin and I rang the hospital - and this is the bit where I was considering a plane bound for Sydney (or Stockholm).

Apparently, the UK doesn't really believe in drink spiking. You see, whenever they test these women, they just have alcohol in their bloodstream. I think I have an explanation for that: namely, they don't test you until you have been in a hospital waiting room for the better part of a millenium and convinced the nurse that you are not in fact an alcoholic or a tramp (despite the fact you may have lost your painful high heels in the process), and you are then shunted off to a police station since the NHS refuses to test you. In Australia you can buy drink-testing kits, call advice lines and go to efficient 24-hour medical centres (...on second thoughts, maybe that says more about Australian men than British ones!) In the UK, you are basically accused of having had a few too many vodkas and given an injection. Admittedly, we finally convinced the well-meaning nurse at the hospital. 'I would put you in a bed for monitoring,' she said ruefully, 'But we don't actually have any'.

But after a large pizza, strawberry Haagen Daaz and a highly therapeutic dose of David Tennant, I think Mia's on the road to recovery. And one thing's for sure, we sure as hell got out of the house this weekend.

p.s. The Mac is back - yay! - life's a bit better (something to do with new shoes perhaps?), and, despite positively apocalyptic weather, London life is at least a lot more interesting - and not only in medical-emergency ways.

Fortuna

Where to start? Forgive my infrequent posts. My beloved Mac, Audrey, is in Mac hospital, leaving bereaved iPod Marvin and me with only an archaic pen to blog with. But that is the least of my woes, I'm afraid I'm going to have to be honest and say my entire life seems to have taken a sharp turn for the worse.

I have been forced to return to what I eupemistically (and that's scary enough in itself) term the Youth Hostel, my six (or sometimes seven) person household, to my tiny barely-furnished room. Upon arrival yesterday, I was greeted by a seemingly mute goth guy forlornly eating pizza in the kitchen. I don't know who he is, no-one has bothered to explain, but his long black hair is all over my bathroom sink, his collection of Metallica shirts hanging in the kitchen, and he is sleeping in the living room. I have a terrible suspicion he was previously sleeping in my bed before I got back.

The lamp in my room has mysteriously disappeared, so although I planned to waste away the next miserable four weeks reading, it will be in the prison-cell-like glare of my ceiling bulb. My room is so small that my bed turns it, appropriately, into a kind of padded cell, which combined with the harsh light is definintely an interior-decorating tip to avoid like the plague.

My clothes (the ones that aren't in Ben and Erin's house, Stockholm, Brisbane or Sydney) are in an impenetrable pile and I have to lean against the cupboard and duck down to see the mirror while I use my bed as a makeup table. I won't use the dimly-lit bathroom to apply makeup since it apparently hasn't been cleaned since I left as I discovered to considerable horror last night, and someone has broken the shower head (I don't even want to think about how...but then again, it could have been the dodgy Polish builders who would turn up without notice and inform us belatedly that the bath was about to go through the floor - an undignified death I guess I should be grateful to have avoided so far) so I have to lean into the slimy shower curtain. I hate my job, but I go there early to escape the house, where I can't even watch tv since there will be random people in the living room or French flatmates who sleep all day complaining about the sound through the paper-thin walls.

The constant moving (countries and houses), desperate attempts to avoid being at home, and lack of routine has depleted my finances. Considering that, combined with the odd combinations of clothing that I am no doubt leaving the house in, it's not really surprising that I'm still hopelessly single (despite rumours of my ongoing secret affair with a certain BBC actor, which will only actually happen if Queens Park vegetable market comes up trumps - not entirely out of the realms of possibility and certainly more likely than someone other than me cleaning the bath tub any time soon). Although the vege market has been a bit deprived of celebrities lately, even Alex Lloyd hasn't turned up. Had champagne with Terry Wogan the other night (no really I did, my life is weird), even that couldn't lift my spirits. And without my Mac even Jake Gyllenhaal can't comfort me.

So...I nervously await the results of last week's job interview and hope that one more country, house and job might bring me some kind of happiness. As my dubious hero Ignatius J. Reilly would advise, I patiently wait for Fortuna to spin her wheel. Midnight is where the day begins and all that. Strangely, I'm not actually that depressed, I'm clinging to the feeling that this is all very temporary and some crazy miracle is about to change everything.

I think I should go back to my padded cell.

End of miserable rant.

p.s. just found out I didn't get the job either. i have no idea what to do next. now i'm depressed.

Living out of a suitcase

Health Warning: this will be a rather haphazard posting for the sole reason that I'm incredibly slack. Still camping at Ben and Erin's and still with belongings strewn across three houses. Not much to report except that temporary flatmate Mia has become addicted to Pacman, Sophie Dahl shops at our vegetable market and I have started ballet again. Yes, Missy M returns to the stage after a 12 year hiatus. Well okay I've just been doing ballet at home but I'm remembering how much I love it. When I feel comfortable enough appearing in front of other grown women in a leotard I will consider a class (that will be never then).

I've been lying low since Sweden and trying to get through the daily grind, which no matter how positive I am or how much Green & Blacks' chocolate I keep in my desk drawer, just doesn't get better. It's become more and more obvious that unless I suddenly get a starring role - or more realistically, a lackey job...and then starring role - on Doctor Who, London is not really the place for me.

But a chink of light at the end of the tunnel - I got a phone call from my dream company on Monday. If all goes well, I may be either returning to Stockholm or moving to New York very soon. I don't actually know many people in New York, unless you count the Soup Nazi. I won't give details in case I jinx it but it sounds like the perfect job: including ski trips, no shoes policy and daily fika (that's Swedish afternoon tea - even in the New York office). If I thought it would help I'd pray but small daily sacrifices and obsessive-compulsive gestures aren't out of the question. If that fails, I guess it's back to finding a creative outlet here. I don't know why they just don't film the farmer's market here in Queen's Park where most of the city's cast and crew appear to live or at least shop for vegetables - Mia and I have taken to donning sunglasses and spending more time ogling stars than onions on Sunday mornings.

But it's not just about the job, I need to find a place where I love living. It will be good to get out of Britain - where the conservatives are about to propose tax breaks for married people (the solution to all of Britain's problems, apparently - force everyone to get married for cash, yes, that will make for a stable and happy society, well done!), Al Qaeda is all worked up about Salman Rushdie and as far as I know John Travolta is still calling up BBC management about scientology (I'm serious).

So...fingers and toes, as they say back home. And I promise more regular updates soon, if anything exciting would happen. Next week promises a meeting with 'The Google Guy' who I have emailed for years but never met in person, and possibly a speed-dating extravaganza with some single pals. I know I know, but never say never...

Sweden: the aftermath

Well, back in Blighty, after some exceptional juggling between airports by SAS (no they don't pay me to say that, but seriously, if I had've been flying KLM today I'd still be in Gothenburg looking for my bag).

Impressively, London is extremely calm despite the near-miss bombings, Heathrow was possibly even calmer than usual. I did however sit next to a strange man on the tube on the way in who, while consuming his 'dinner', consisting of an entire packet of dried spiced peas, told me to seek spiritual assistance. I had chosen the seat in order to chat to the nice Swedish guy sitting opposite, but he wisely averted eye contact and left me stuck with the pea man, who went on to offer me a job as his secretary, and told me that I was better looking than Kylie Minogue and could I please send Kylie back to Australia. Maybe it was a sign of some sort... but I took it as a sign to change tubes three stops early.

This morning, after hankering for American pancakes for three days, Irina and I went to treat ourselves to brunch at Stockholm's Folkoperan. Of course, American pancakes were off the menu this morning, causing much gnashing of teeth. We made do with a rather strange combination of vegetarian sausages, baked beans, coleslaw and sliced oranges. 'Geez, that looks like Pommie food,' remarked Mr Unrequited who had joined us - and was very proud of his Australian vocabulary. I am so glad that against all odds, Mr U and I can actually talk now, I left Sweden feeling calm and happy and am determined to go back for good - as soon as possible. (Anyone out there who wants to offer me a job in Stockholm please do. Preferably not as a secretary and preferably not while consuming a packet of dried spicy peas).

It's been a hectic, liver-damaging week of catching up on life among my Swedish friends. Ludvig kindly invited the Very Attractive Doctor Anders (TM) to a beery event which while I managed to speak a mere three words to him, did restore my faith that there are actually attractive men out there, albeit usually married, unrequited or averting their eye contact on trains and abandoning me to the attentions of men whose mental faculties are slightly questionable.

Meanwhile back in Queen's Park Mia has upped the Celebrity Resident list, which now consists of David 'Dr Who' Tennant, Thandie 'Chick from Mission Impossible' Newton, Cillian 'Guy from 28 Days Later' Murphy, David 'multipurpose tv host' Baddiel and Alex Lloyd Fat Bastard. However Lloyd is probably down at Hugo's restaurant having spicy peas and unfortunately Mr Tennant is still averting his eyes, metaphorically speaking.

Midsommar Madness

I'm too tired to write much after getting to Stockholm and finding myself on stage on a boat/gay bar singing 'I Will Survive' with Irina and Jack, and then last night meeting pretty much everyone in Stockholm for successive beers.

So here's a small sample of the craziness that ensued on Midsommar courtesy of the lovely Angelica.

Nora

Nora, my six year old surrogate daughter - her choice - wants me to call this blog entry 'Nora'. So I did. That's us on a night time flower hunt over a small island in Sweden trying to find seven different flowers to put under our pillows (because we are at sea-captain Papa Pelle's place, we had to do this properly with torches strapped to our heads). We are then supposed to dream of our future husbands, as I mentioned last year. However, I have now been told that not only did I get the wrong day (again!) but you are also supposed to jump over seven fences, and various other far too physically exerting things. After meeting the lovely Mads in Copenhagen for a decadent beer yesterday then making the trek over to Sweden, I think I'll leave my fate to serendipity rather than attempt outdoor athletics. Nora may have dreamt of her future husband but if so I think it may be a small cat named Starboard. I have already been in trouble for feeding Nora Nutella for breakfast, so I guess I'm not the best person to guide her in nutritional OR romantic choices.

Anyway the preparations for Midsommar Madness have been somewhat stalled by the rain so we are all cooped up inside like a mini Glastonbury festival. It's just so good to be 'home'. Christian offered me 5 quid to drink a bottle of gin before 12 then retired to bed himself, so I might go and set Nora onto something productive and send her off in Christian's direction. Ludvig only just woke up and Hansi hasn't even appeared yet. More when the midsommar party is over and the incriminating photos have arrived...

Johnny Gash

Andy and Ben have released a special Father's Day song from Andy's alter-ego, Johnny Gash, and this is probably a world exclusive ...or something.

Dad I know you never really liked Johnny Cash, well you sure as hell aren't going to like Johnny Gash. But this is for you (open in iTunes).

The Farter's Day Song

'If you want something to happen to you...'

Another weird day at the Corporation. Today I finally found out what the Secret TV Controller was referring to. In my attempt to move careers away from the desk and into production I discovered (despite being offered a role as a humble runner at the Princess Diana Memorial Concert and imminently on Doctor Who.... maybe...at least as a Dalek mechanic) I had to do a Production and TV Studio safety course. And oh my God. Look what happened to the last person (Anthea Turner) who obviously didn't pay attention.

"Are you alright love?"

...I'm scared.

This was seriously in the video training. Twice.

The Dalek's ear

In a weird moment of synchronicity, not only is Doctor Who my neighbour, but today, someone gave me a Dalek's ear (that's him in the picture - the Dalek that is, not the good Doctor).

We have a pet Dalek in one of the cafe areas downstairs. Recently, it suffered a horrific tragedy when someone ripped one of its 'ears' off and took it home as a souvenir. Today as I was innocently working away, a guy from the IT team came up to my desk. 'I hear we're missing a Dalek's ear?' he said. I stared at him as he placed what looks like the tail-light from a Morris Minor on my desk. 'I found it at a garage sale on the weekend,' he explained. 'The guy who sold it to me asked me what kind of car it was for. I told him it was for a space robot. He was not impressed'.

I went downstairs before to see if I could fix the Dalek (or have a great excuse for phoning David Tennant). Unfortunately, the ear I have is red, and the one the Dalek needs is white - although considering how much he scared me as a kid, he's lucky to have any ears at all right now.

So for the foreseeable future I am in possession of one Dalek ear, unused, free to a good home (preferably a home not focused on the annihilation of the planet). Any takers?

Fame, fortune, lack thereof, and Queens Park

"This one's a goner". That was the remark Andy, our Mancurian friend, made last night as he carved up the lifeless body of Ben's carefully roasted chook.*

Happily he was not referring to the snot-faced, sobbing American girl we had to rescue at 2.00 in the morning. Andy, Ben and I were having a glass of wine or three in the living room when we heard someone crying uncontrollably downstairs, on a mobile saying 'I don't know where I am' over and over again. Racing downstairs heroically, we then attempted to call her a cab. She just kept swearing at us and spilling great deals of cash into the road. "I just want to go home, why is that so fucking difficult!" she said. The taxi driver was distinctly unimpressed by the time he did turn up, as were we (largely because we suffered abuse for twenty minutes with no cash reward). Andy woke up early this morning in the hope that a stretch limousine would be outside and a large Texan with a Stetson would be knocking on our door saying 'Thanks for saving mah daughter. Y'all get $10,000 each.' I noted that the girl was hardly in a state to recall where we lived. Andy was extremely disappointed.

Meanwhile summer in Queen's Park rolls on with Pimms and G&T all round. Yesterday we discovered that David 'Doctor Who' Tennant lives around the corner, a piece of news I was incredibly excited about. But despite my strolling about the park alluringly in skinny jeans, aviators, Scottish-radio rock star tshirt (he's Scottish, guess he can't help that) and messy hair... he has failed to materialise.

I have also embarked upon OPERATION: CAREER CHANGE and am eagerly awaiting a rejection notice for my application to work as an Assistant Producer on BBC drama 'Waking the Dead', which would be an exceptionally appropriate project for me (and my career). If that fails, I will study filmmaking in the autumn with the Monty Python filmmakers (no seriously, they support young Londoners, particularly those suffering at the hands of a boss who is deluded that he works at The Times and phones at 6.30am to ask why The Guardian has beaten us to a story -- something the Guardian journos think is quite funny), and my world domination or at least, Hollywood superstardom, will proceed from there.

Meanwhile it's back to Sweden this week (thank God), and I celebrated today by meeting Sven for a huge smorgåsbord brunch, whereupon we managed to meet the King of Sweden's former drinking buddy and hear lots of gossip from 1965 about all his model girlfriends. Unfortunately I don't think the King will be attending Pelle's midsommar party in Sweden but you know, the way fate is treating me lately I wouldn't be entirely surprised.



*Chook - noun - Australian for chicken, also used to affectionately describe a female as in 'Cheer up you silly old chook'.

Madame Z

:(

The grapevine doesn't lie. I guess now I have to answer annoying soul-searching questions about babies. And did I want his babies?? I could do what my friend did and buy two dogs. Yep, that'll do the trick. I don't think I actually even want babies, at least not for a good couple of years...maybe not even then (although I remember my cousin said the same thing about being too selfish and now she has several). So why has this made me so uncomfortable? Maybe because Erin and Mia have been hitting the microdermabrasion creams this week to stave off wrinkles- neither of them need to.

I know that there are some of my friends who would be incredulous that I even care what my ex does. I know that some would be heading straight for the Eurostar with a large stick to beat some sense into me with. But it's ok, there is no need to instigate an emergency rescue operation (Team Sweden, you can put the rescue-horse-costume away)...Operation Oslo made me realise I probably still love him somewhere - but it was pretty clear I was still below pool, blondes and lads on the priority list. Which is fair enough, I know, I'm not his girlfriend any more. Still kind of bites somewhere though. So instead of doing anything stupid, I went and got my hair cut - Erin and I actually are both lovely blondes now.

Anyway, this is all getting a tad bit personal for a blog that 100 people a month now read! (Who ARE you all?? Especially you at the University of Oslo... I now have traffic from Canada to Germany via China and even a mysterious return visitor in Sri Lanka or somewhere. Sweden is on the top of the league table though. I suspect a lot of readers are just Crowded House fans looking for the webcast. It's not here people!!)

Yesterday I was edging towards stupid and wrote a letter that I should have written back in January, but my friend and colleague known as Madame Z physically put it through the office shredder, pranced past my desk and dropped the pieces in front of me saying 'PROOF!', kidnapped my phone (for my own good, apparently) and then proceeded to get me exremely drunk. (She has also kindly offered to lend me 'He's just not that into you', a book which I have actually bought once, had given to me once, and had someone lend to me once. What does THAT say?!) Weirdly, we discovered that our benevolent workplace has drivers who will take you where you need to go at night, which in our case was a nightclub in Shepherd's Bush with copious amounts of reasonably priced wine.

Madame Z is right. I REFUSE to be Duckface from Four Weddings and a Funeral...no hang on, it wasn't Duckface, it was Kristin Scott Thomas. Didn't she end up with Prince Charles in the end of the film? Lord save me...

Jake Gyllenhaal movie tally: 53, with a few Tim Tams thrown in for good measure.

Unexpected (first) life

That's Blix there in the picture. She's my alterego in Second Life, which, due to the fact my first life is so boring yet confusing at the same time, I've become quite addicted to (Ludvig will you please sign in for once!!). Blix, whose hair I am extremely jealous of, has even applied for a job at the Swedish Embassy (that's where she is in the postcard). But then today some very weird things happened, some good some bad, that reminded me that life can take some unexpected turns.

First the bad news... I heard on the grapevine that my ex-boyfriend is pregnant. Well not him personally of course, but most likely that girl who was bringing over IKEA furniture in Oslo. Looks like she had a backup plan. For some reason, this has quite upset me, and I was sneaking down to the Tesco's to get a very illicit packet of cigarettes which I have not touched since Sweden, when I saw a familiar face in the foyer from the misty depths of yesteryear (no Jonathan, it was NOT Stephen Merchant. Dammit. It was a girl for starters.).

I stared at her. She smiled politely at me. I kept staring. A look of recognition dawned on her face slowly. We both felt like we were in some kind of surreal reality tv show. Sally, my flatmate from nearly ten years ago on the other side of the planet, is working in the same building as me. In fact, directly above me in the department where I was loitering yesterday and yet we still managed to be completely oblivious to each other's existence.

I've known Sally since my days as an actress when I was an innocent young sixteen year old constantly subjected to curfews who would attempt to hide at Sally's parent-less house and hang out with the thespian Goths who frequented the local arty venues.

Who knows what this random meeting will bring, but hopefully it's a little signpost that London doesn't have to be quite so empty from now on.

Jake Gyllenhaal movie tally: 2

Insulting Jimmy Nesbitt

Another misguided foray into the world of celebrity. I was feeling a little worse for wear this morning after attending the press screening of new BBC drama Jekyll at the incredibly swanky Mayfair Hotel last night - and the inevitable free wine and canapes that accompanied it.

I'm no tv critic, but I made the mistake of freely offering my production advice over canapes (incidentally, they were mini packages of chips whose fat content probably made this morning far more bearable for many of us than it otherwise would be). I boldly commented to my new journalist friends that the main change I would make to the program would be not to show the 'Hyde' character's vampiric teeth - even going so far as to say 'it's a bit tacky'. Heresy! And they'd given us free wine and everything! Unfortunately, this came back to bite me in the... well let's just say I regretted it.

At the end of the night after probably one too many glasses of said wine my new friends from a certain women's magazine and I went to chat to the cast. As the journalist introduced me to the star James Nesbitt (who Irina and I used to watch in an Irish detective show all the time), the journo's mind went blank (she told me later). 'She doesn't like your teeth,' she blurted to him. He took it hard. 'My teeth?' he said, looking extremely crestfallen. I protested that I had meant Hyde's teeth, not Nesbitt's personally, but he was having no excuses. 'I have to text my wife now,' he said and the conversation was clearly over. I was hoping he was one of the group that a little birdie tells me was drinking at Soho House until 3.30am, so he won't remember - or will at least have drowned his sorrows. But alas the birdie has updated me and told me he left shortly after we did. Oh dear. Well he was a bit wobbly, perhaps he won't remember anyway. I am officially the worst celebrity liasion person ever. Thank God I never got that interview with Stephen Merchant.

The real star of the night was veteran executive producer Beryl Vertue - my new hero. She was what I believe can only be called The Consummate Professional - even chatting and introducing herself to nobodies like me. She worked the room with the assistance of a much-coveted Chanel handbag (judging by much younger women's envious glances...not mine though, those handbags always remind me of bed linen) and you felt you could ask her pretty much anything and get a straight answer.

I was too shy to ask her advice on how to break into the industry (my current job doesn't count). But at least I wasn't stupid enough to share my toothy opinions with her.

Alex Lloyd, fat. b*stard.

A few weeks ago, on my way to the shops in Queens Park, I saw a familiar face. A guy who looked uncannily like Australian singer-songwriter Alex Lloyd was talking loudly to a builder about the renovations on his house. I stopped and stared - could it be Alex Lloyd? Could he have followed me from Sydney where last I heard (from a glossy Sydney Morning Herald magazine) he was happily ensconced in an expensive house with a wife and kids? There *are* an unprecedented amount of Australians in Queens Park, comprising of about 97.3% of the clientele of the war-zone Sainsburys but this was getting ridiculous.

A long time ago in a university household far away I used to know a lot of bands, and manage a lovely singer. I was at a gig once where Alex Lloyd was playing, and my very English friend Andrew was commenting on the lineup. The first in his sights was a techno band called Sonic Animation. He scoffed at the musical talent on offer. 'Sonic Animation - knob twiddlers, Alex Lloyd - fat. Bastard' is how he summed up the entire show. Someone in front of Andrew turned around. 'What did you say?' he asked - it was Alex Lloyd, reducing us to fits of giggles and meaning that no-one could ever call him anything other than Alex Lloyd Fat Bastard from then on. My only other encounter with him was when my friend's band was supporting him and Mr Lloyd was singularly unconcerned with whether or not I could find said friend after the gig, looking at me as if I was a groupie. So he only earned a more persistent use of the ALFB nickname.

Anyway, this Lloyd-a-like was wearing a horrendously British tracksuit - you know, matching blue polyester Adidas a la Del Boy in 'Only Fools and Horses'. I rang Erin. 'Erin, I think I just saw Alex Lloyd in Queens Park,' I said. 'But he was wearing this horrendous polyester tracksuit... could it be him?' 'It's weird you say that,' Erin replied. Apparently she had started singing an Alex Lloyd song to herself for no reason while walking down Salusbury Road and realised now it was because she'd seen a Lloyd-a-like too.

We forgot about this, but yesterday I was at local jazz joint Hugo's having a vino or two with an Australian friend Mia and, like some kind of scary clone, the Lloyd-a-like complete with blue tracksuit walked out of Hugo's with a cold beer - despite the fact he didn't seem to have walked in at at any point - and besides, who* goes to a restaurant to get a cold beer when they sell it at the corner shop, I ask you! Smacks of rockstar lifestyle. This time I had a witness. After paying our bill we set off around the corner to see if we could gather more evidence, but like the Terminator, Lloyd had melted into the urban landscape. 'He moves pretty fast for a fat bastard,' remarked Mia.

So we repaired to Ben and Erin's where we did a bit of google stalking. The headline on his personal site was 'Look out London'. Yes, it turns out - Alex Lloyd has moved to London. It seems you can run but you can't hide, Sydney is following me around the world.

BoBAR

Bored. Beyond All Recognition. Why haven't I written for weeks, oh demanding readers? Because I have absolutely nothing to report. Nothing. And I'm not one of those people that says nothing and in reality just means 'nothing that is scandalous enough to make Heat magazine'. I MEAN nothing. I'm starting to doubt the whole meaning of my existence.

I have not been this bored since the International Whaling Commission meeting at 11pm on a Friday night last year, where I had to sit in the office (or rather, outside the door smoking and looking melancholy in the hope that Mr Unrequited would take pity and stay - he didn't, but he did give me a cigarette to while away the next three hours) waiting until some godforsaken hour so I could post the results on the Greenpeace website. I remember that night looking ahead to the same empty calendar, seemingly for the next twenty years. Funnily enough, that was pretty much exactly a year ago - hopefully it's cyclical.

I miss my heady days of flitting off to Tokyo on a romantic whim or booking trips to New York to see horrendous cheap daytime tv filmed (oh yes and attend the MoMA of course), or even getting bundled off to a toxic waste dump in Korea. I miss Stockholm summers with a variety of friends to call on for brunch, impromptu wine, or an inevitable thousand beers, usually starting in the sun after work and ending in the sun in the early hours of the next morning, probably with a midnight swim on the way. I miss having my life socially engineered by Team Sweden. Irina was right - how long do you want to be on the way to somewhere else? she asked. Good bloody question.

But since leaving Sweden, and despite the best efforts of Team London (I rather suspect that Team London's stamina is not quite up to Team Sweden's especially after a rather unfortunate evening of drunkenness and debauchery involving a bank holiday weekend, kebabs and 'shenanigans,' as Jonathan would say), I have struggled to do anything more exciting than eat, work and sleep (in my tiny tiny room). Too much of my own company is actually starting to drive me a little bit crazy - I'm afraid I'm going to start muttering to myself on the tube and hanging out at the local Sainsburys (the one that makes you feel like you're in a war zone...more about that later) yelling at the kids.

Sure - I could go to the all-night Alien-fest at the British Film Institute, I could go to see Swedish band The Concretes or The Sounds next week, or I could even go get yelled at by celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay at his new gastropub - but... I would have to do all those things alone.

This is the worst thing about moving cities/countries, and even worse when you know you left something good behind and just can't see how to build it again. I have a feeling I'm going to be watching a lot of Jake Gyllenhaal movies and single-handedly keeping the manufacturers of Green & Black's vanilla bourbon ice-cream racking up a healthy profit for quite a while yet.

Scientologists and sushi

It's been a strange week. It started with a YouTube war between Scientology and the BBC. On Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I came out of the tube thinking that some benevolent FM radio station had decided to bestow the humble media workers of West London with free breakfast. Smiling girls in shiny black bomber jackets were standing the length of the street. Feeling quite peckish, I eagerly approached them, only to find that they were handing out DVDs called 'Panorama: Exposed' (Panorama is the name of the BBC documentary that so offended the Church of Scientology). I handed it back faster that a hot potato, especially when I noticed the logo on the bomber jackets was not for a radio station but for one FREEDOM TV, which is actually owned by the Church of Scientology. Weirdly, the girl didn't flinch when I handed back the DVD, but merely continued to smile vacuously at me as if she was handing out something pleasant like free Glastonbury tickets. I've already seen Panorama: Exposed and it is complete propaganda. (As I write this, I worry that somewhere a little alarm is going off and two Tom-Cruise lookalikes in sunglasses and menacing black suits are being dispatched to my door to reprimand me). Anyway, I was telling a journalist this on Tuesday night and ended up making The Guardian - my first small taste of UK fame (rather pathetic I know).

The rest of the week wasn't quite as exciting as on one evening I discovered that however nice people are, there are some people who may like to fill their diaries with visits to the theatre, buy memberships to the National Portrait Gallery, and have invaluable tickets to the latest hot rock act, but really can only talk about shoes, Excel spreadsheets and financial takeovers. Maybe my old friend Demis was right - there are two types of people in the world. These people, well-meaning though they were, were not mine. To top it off, I ended the evening - which did at least provide an authentic Japanese meal and brought back memories of Tokyo - with a nasty bout of food poisoning. It was enough to induce a rather stupid shopping spree today in an attempt to revamp my wardrobe into something more Kirsten Dunst-like. (Unfortunately I forget that I don't have her credit rating.)

And the dubious week was rounded out by the people who organise the BAFTA Television Awards denying me a press pass (to add insult to injury, it took about ten phone calls and an email to get that denial. Don't they know I was in The Guardian?). Weirdly, they did offer me a red carpet pass, but I couldn't bear the thought of getting all dressed up, fighting a scrum of professional journalists for the chance to yell something incoherent at Stephen Merchant, and then have to go back on the tube in my fancy dress and high heels while everyone else got to go inside. I declined, and plan to instead write a scathing blog about how unprofessional their publicists are.

No longer Swedish

Last night I got a letter from the Skatteverket - Swedish tax office - you know, those guys with the super friendly forms. It's like a door has been slammed in my face. Against Team Sweden's advice I told the tax office that I would not be living in Sweden for at least a year. I figured it would be kind of like temporarily suspending my membership in the H&M Shopping Club or something. (Considering that every institution in Holland seems to still be under the illusion that I live there, I figured that extracting yourself from European society is quite difficult. I forgot about the firm and friendly efficiency of the Swedes). I opened the letter, which basically said 'Fine then, we've removed you from the register'. I was heartbroken - it's kind of weird, it was like the final proof that I've left, the final proof of the blindingly obvious fact I don't live there any more. I feel so terrible about it I almost want to ring them up and beg them to keep me on the list 'just in case'. There goes Calle's theory that I secretly work for the Swedish government as a propoganda machine.

Well Sweden, you may have rejected me, but I am still going to vote for The Ark on tonight's Eurovision contest and there is nothing you can do to stop me.

An evening with Queen Victoria

I've just got back, exhausted and slightly hungover, from a two day training course. Unfortunately, my primary memory from the whole experience is an encounter with a woman who I at first thought reminded me of Queen Victoria (our whole conversation dominated by my mental images of a huge head with a tiny bitter face in the middle, as if she was peering at me through a monocle from above a ski-slope of a nose with her lips pursed disdainfully at me...which wasn't too far from the truth). However upon reflection I think she also reminded me of the Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland (the Disney version) - a kind of deranged pompous Britishness that left me flabbgergasted and wondering if Kafka had taken over my life as a scriptwriter.

This woman was the most snobby, colonial-minded person I think I have ever met. I don't even want to repeat some of the things she said but basically all of you Australians (and indeed, anyone who doesn't live in England) is completely worthless. Oh and by the way Australians - you are also singlehandedly responsible for all of the colonial acts of horror perpetrated by Australians who had been in the country for five minutes (and were, in fact, English, but that fact is a little too inconvenient for our royal friend). When I tried to point out that I had in fact lived in Australia (and I'm not the most patriotic person, since I now refuse to live there) as well as Sweden and the Netherlands and in fact I don't think England has higher living standards or a better approach to multiculturalism than any of those countries, she looked at me sympathetically and said in her most patronising voice 'You know, you're kind of annoying. I'm going to go and talk to someone else'. I sat there gaping like a fish, which those who know me will realise is rather unlike me especially in the face of gross injustice. Luckily a friendly Northern Irish guy sitting next to Queen Vic, who'd had a growing look of puzzlement on his face, chose this moment to rescue me.

I really am surprised that this empire-mindedness still exists, especially when Channel 4 is currently producing a show called the Seven Sins of England about the violence, hooliganism, xenophobia, binge-drinking and, I quote, 'slaggishness' that have always been present in English culture.

I'm not saying England is all bad, but I do think that Queen Victoria could do with a bit of Clockwork Orange-style exposure to other cultures before looking down her nose at us mere colonials. Hopefully, however, I'll never have to see her again. I'm off with Ben and Erin to enjoy some nice sides of English culture that may or may not invoke the sin of binge drinking or at least a nice Pimms with fruit.