How to Hypnotise a Woman (NSFW if you can bare to watch it all the way through)

I defy you to find one woman this could possibly, ever, ever, work on, those having undergone frontal lobotomies or aged under eight excluded. That said, Brenda's sheer gullability and the toys on her bed suggest that actually both these things might be the case...

Honestly, it's more like an episode of The Red Shoe Diaries than a self help video and was clearly made for men by men who clearly haven't spent much time in the company of those who are not men.

Note to self: If any therapist ever utters the word 'horny' run for the fucking hills!

Amazon Have Got Me Sussed

Following on from their previous recommendation, which made me out to be a bit of a psycho nut, this presumerbly narrows my profile down to 'psycho Shepherd nut'. Once again, I am slightly peeved that they decline to recommend things similar to the obscure documentaries or interesting novels I usually buy, but instead focus on one dvd I bought my gran for Christmas two years ago.

Out In De Streets Dey Call it Muuuurdah

Aah so I have just returned from the chicken bone strewn circle of hell also known as the Notting Hill Carnival.

I suppose it was okaaay, I mean, I used to think I was the whitest girl alive and so looked about as 'in place' at Carnival as Cher would on a pilgramage to Mecca, but that was before I went to Carnival with A and E who take being 'whitey' to a loud shrieky level not seen since Julia Stiles in Save the Last Dance. (or maybe those Step Up films but I haven't seen them) But Y to the T anyway.

Although I drew the line at drinking rose from a cup and bogling to reggae in the middle of Porterbello Road with several other rah-sterfarian* friends of A, after a while (and several drinks) it felt less like a poultry stinking pressure cooker of barely repressed anarchy and violence and more like a noisy dirty festival in the middle of London.

After a while (and some more drinks) we had a dance and a drum n bass stage, which is where I got a pondering on precisely how bizarre drum n bass dancing is. I mean, I think I have thought this before - and by thought I mean druggily ranted at someone in the toilet queue at Fabric - but never have I put finger to keyboard about it.

But yeah, so for one, dancing to DnB you basically dance by yourself. This in itself is quite weird if you think of the great grand history of Dance, which is basically an inclusive group activity. But in DnB you barely touch, unless your gun fingers (pow! pow!) accidentally go on the opposite trajectory as the person next to you's eyeball socket.

Secondly, you don't really move from the same spot. Unless you are a bit of a fancy dick with your leg work or are off your face and flail about like a psychotic spider, you generally bop about from foot to foot as if you are standing on rather hot sand.

Thirdly, one of the most common moves is to slump your shoulders forwards and sway from either them if you are male, or from your waist if you are female. This is not terrible attractive, again, unusual for a Dance, traditionally a roundabout way of attracting people.

Remember those plastic anthropomorphic flowers you could buy that danced when you played them music? I imagine from the stage we must have all looked like that, albeit bedecked in Jamaica whistles, soaked in Red Stripe and with poor posture.

But anyway, Carnival. It's over for another year and maybe in 2009, unlike the last two years, I won't be saddled with a friend who is all 'omg but I've never beeeeen and you have to go to Carnivaaaaal'.

Honestly, I'm such a whore for London knowledge based flattery - tell me you've never been to Brick Lane and we'll be sitting there having overpriced shitty curry made with 40% water injected chicken breast before you can say 'oh cool was this like, where that book was set?'

*rah like 'awful privately educated braying Henrys and Camillas who gad about Carnival in their multicoloured Ray Bans going 'oh yah, I rahly love that Leathal Bizzle, his shit is like, totally street? yeah?' I just thought of that phrase and although it undoubtly exists already, I am quite proud of myself.

Won't Somebody Think of the Children?

Possibly the creepiest Wikipedia entry I have found to date*




* I was looking up the Todd Solondz film 'Happiness' yeah?

Colindale - A Photo Essay.

As Oriental City is closing it's doors for good on 1st June 2008, R, the Bruv and I decided to make one last pilgimage to the citadel of all that is cheap and tacky and Chinese. Unfortunately due to a mix up we didn't have a car, so had to journey on public transport. This neccesitated a short walk through Colindale, a place so bleak I was moved to take a lot of photos on my phone, then faff around town for ages today trying to find a cable so I could share them all with you, dear reader.
The waiting room for the local cab office...

In fact, alfresco seating is very much derigur in Colindale it would seem.

This house has ideas above it's station. Colindalia? Nope, sorry love, you still live in an area which sounds like something you wash peas in.

Still, they have their pride in these parts. Don't want no foreign bins coming over here, nicking our rubbish... (kudos to the Bruv for that one)

The window of a long closed Bookies. I like how there is a bit of the base relief missing, like once someone lost a load of money and punched the wall in sheer RAGE. Colindale is kind of emotionless these days.

Yet another example of al fresco seating, this time outside Dixy Chicken. It's hard to show the true surrealist nature of this bench, but it was built either by someone with a Dali fixation or a spirit level that was out by about 45 degrees.

The sad fact is that when Oriental City closes, this will be Colindale's claim to fame. The Bruv was sent here after he trod on a dog in Thailand ('It was a black dog sleeping in the middle of a dark road. Really he was asking for it') It's proximity to Dixy Chicken is a bit worrying.

Indiana Jones and the Temple of Hmmmmm

Childhood film nostalgia is a funny thing. I'm currently sitting here with my brother, watching Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, one of our all time favorite films from the days of yore. We both remembered exactly what would happen when: 'Oh yeah then they go off the cliff in a dinghy' 'He drives because he has boxes stuck to his shoes' etc, what we both didn't realise is *ahem* quite how racist it is..

Now I know Indian cuisine is a tad different to chips and peas, but monkey brains, beetles and snakes? What region is that from? And who knew Indians in turbans (Sikhs?) who worship Shiva (Hindus?) also spend their time sacrificing humans by tearing out their still beating hearts?

Then again maybe we're just being unduly sensitive and PC because our uncle is Indian, and although he covers everything in chilli sauce and is want to make horrible phlegmy noises in the bathroom, I have yet to see him drink from a skull or attempt to extract my brother's still beating heart when he forgets to flush the loo.

It is still a great action film though, brain and social consciense set far aside... much better than the Goonies, which everyone else in the world ever watched as a bairn, but is curiously absent from my and my brother's collective memory. Either some awful psychological event happened to us that afternoon, or our parents had the taste to not expose us to a load of shrieking yank brats looking for treasure. Hmmm that said, it's kind of hard to take a moral high ground when we gobbled up images of colonial India which would make Salman Rushdie, Anita Desai etc's heads spin. Although Harrison Ford was very fit back then and there is only one shrieking stereotyped child...

Edit: My brother would like to make it clear that he has never forgotten to flush the toilet ever. Even though hardly anyone who reads this blog knows who he is, and a quick straw poll of those who do suggests that even though he never forgets to flush the loo, he certainly looks like someone who might. Conclusion: Brother of Biche needs to stop lacing his trainers with string and buy a jacket that doesn't have 'anti capitalista' glued to the back with PVA glue.