Punk rocks

I've just been to see the Stiff Little Fingers - just plain ol' Fingers to those in the know (which is not me by the way) - with my friend Suzie as part of our 'as many gigs as we can fit in before she gives birth' campaign. Both Suzie and I are rock fans, although Suzie is definitely on the punk rock side, whilst I'm, as you are probably already aware, firmly on the progressive rock side. This is actually my second punk gig in a month, having also been to see The Buzzcocks a few weeks ago. On both occasions, due to Suzie's expectant status (that's my excuse and I'm sticking to it), we have managed to secure seating in the gallery - at the Buzzcocks gig this was in fact on a very comfortable sofa. Lovely.

This meant that at both gigs we had an excellent view, not only of the band on stage, but also of the crowd below us: The Mosh Pit. Now given that I have only just lost my punk gig cherry, the mosh pit has been a source of complete fascination to me. In fact, at both gigs, I spent more time watching the moshing than the bands. It's just so violent! It looks like a huge brawl and I just thank my lucky stars I'm not down in it. But then, on the other hand, the more you watch it, the more you realise that there's obviously a 'mosh code' to which they all abide, and it is (largely) good-natured. I mean, when someone falls over (not an uncommon occurrence) the four or five people around them automatically help them up - then start shoving them over again, of course. And everyso often, you will see two people facing each other, pushing, grimacing, head-butting and gripping each other's arms in what looks like the beginnings of something nasty, and then 10 seconds later they're hugging and all smiles. It's very strange. There's obviously some songs that set it off more than others - when the first few chords of one of these particular songs began, Suzie would turn to me and say 'Oh watch them now, they'll go mental' and sure enough, a few seconds later frenzy ensued. Occasionally someone would appear to rise above the crowd - never quite saw how it happened, it was almost ethereal - and surf along, legs and arms akimbo, until the bouncers at the front of the stage picked them up - tenderly, the way you'd carry a small child - and escorted them past the front of the stage and then released them back at the side of the venue, allowing them to run back round and get straight back into the mosh pit and repeat the process. We saw one guy do exactly that 7 times in a row. Anyway, when Suzie offered to take me moshing one day once the little 'un's born, I politely declined. She asked me if you ever saw a bit of moshing at Marillion gigs and I pointed out that you sometimes get some rather vigorous nodding and, rather than have someone flick lit fag butts at you (which I witnessed this very eve), you might risk getting slightly warmed by the end of someone's pipe. But no actual moshing, no.

On the way there, by the way, we saw Nicholas Burns (aka Nathan Barley) and the AWESOME KG from Tenacious D, both just walking down Oxford Street. We even followed KG for a while, but couldn't bring ourselves to speak to him - whaddya say?

I'm just watching 'Take My Mother-in-Law', which is where a family replace the wife/mother with her mother for a week or so. This week it's about a Geordie family and not only is the husband the most obnoxious pig I've EVER seen in my life - a rude, arrogant, bullying little prick of a man - but I can't understand a bloody word he's saying. I've had to put the subtitles on.

Boing...*

Thank goodness the weather's looking up! And, now the clocks have gone forward, it's so nice to find it's a bit lighter in the evenings. Went up to Yorkshire at the weekend - nice to see the family (hi guys!) - and it was even warm up there. I was boiling in my goosedown coat.


Did I say I have a new car? Here it is. It's lovely. It's nice to be back in a Volkswagen and not to have to worry about spending the GNP of a small country on petrol every month (not to mention the insurance & tax). Don't get me wrong, my Saab (Thor) has been absolutely brilliant and just what I needed over the past year, given that I've moved four times and bought shelves, chest of drawers and wardrobes a-plenty. But now I need something cheaper to run and the Polo is ideal. It's got very low mileage and full service history, runs very well. Pretty impressed with the 1.4l engine; to my surprise, she's a bit of a goer! Okay, so it's got a few bumps and scratches from the previous owner and the passenger door is a bit reluctant to open pending a bit of jiggery pokery but the nice thing is it means I don't have to be worried about it. Plan is to keep it till it falls apart. Only thing I need to sort out now is a name. Any suggestions? The number plate, in case it inspires you, is BJM, which is great for two reasons. Firstly, it stands for the British Journal of Midwifery, which is very appropriate, and secondly it looks a bit like BUM, which is very funny. Or is that just me...?

*A clever reference to spring springing.

Last night I went to a gig with a bunch of doctors - not my usual choice of bedfellows but this lot were jolly nice - and some of their non-doctor friends. As is usually the way with gigs, it was very loud and while I was trying to have a conversation with one of the non-doctor members of the group, due to a combination of ill-timed head turning from both sides and open-mouthed shouting, I accidentally bit his nose.

ALSO

I've just spend the weekend doing the ALSO course - which for those of you not in the know (and why would you be?) stands for Advanced Life Support in Obstetrics. It's for midwives and doctors (or anyone else who's prepared to pay £400) and is notoriously hard work. I'm bloody shattered but I passed with somewhat flying (or at least hovering steadily) colours, so that's nice. I actually really doubted that I'd passed the written exam, because it was very very hard (although a multiple choice exam so at least you had a 1 in 5 chance of getting each question right) but it seems I knew more than I thought! The practical was pretty good and I got 100% (yes I am showing off. Wanna make something of it?) after doing a ventouse delivery (all by myself! Imagine!), then managing a shoulder dystocia and a subsequent post partum haemorrhage. Anyway, it was all good fun and they've (unofficially as yet) asked me to come back and train to be an instructor for them (no, it's not paid), so that's nice. I think I probably will, if/when I get a formal offer.

I really want to sleep now (even though it's only 9.15pm) but may - for long-winded and boring reasons I won't go into here - have to go into the labour ward tonight and work through...bloody hell I hope not. I'm not fit for anything after all that...

Anita Roddick sells out

I was horrified to hear the news today that Anita Roddick has agreed to a takeover of The Body Shop by L'Oreal. Unbelievable. Aside from the appalling track record L'Oreal have in terms of animal testing - something you'd think Anita Roddick would be most concerned about - but they are also owned in part by Nestle, one of the world's most unethical companies. What the hell is she thinking? How will she be able to sleep at night? I suppose the £130m might just soften the blow, but if this goes ahead I for one will never be shopping in Body Shop again.

Bet she's terrified now...

The value of good service

Last night I went to Waitrose in Hersham to buy some salmon to cook for a vegetarian (alright alright, pescatarian) friend. Never cooked salmon before, though had been given some tips from a friend at work, so asked the nice man behind the fish counter what he'd recommend and how much I'd need for 2 people. He offered me some nice organic stuff, asked how hungry I thought we'd be (answer: very) and gave me two steaks of appropriate size. Then he asked how I planned to cook it (in foil with olive oil, white wine and dill) and what with (new potatoes and asparagus), which he said sounded lovely. I asked him if he knew if there were any creamy-type sauces I could have with it and he left the counter to come and show me what they had on the shelves. He then took me round to look at the fresh herbs and we selected some lemon thyme which might be an interesting alternative to dill (it was). He then asked if I'd be interested in making a sauce myself (I was) so he said he'd go and check out some recipes on Waitrose.com and then come and find me. He came back with two alternatives, a cucumber and dill sauce and a hollandaise, which he explained would go particularly well with asparagus (it did). He then went back to the fish counter asking me to come back and tell him how it went, saying I'd be welcome to ask for more fish tips anytime. His name was James. That is why I shall henceforth always shop in Hersham Waitrose.

Just heard on Radio 2 that the police in North Wales are cracking down on children throwing snowballs, after a teenager involved in a snowfight was charged with assault. Thank God they are FINALLY taking this snow brutality seriously. I have it on good authority that children, all over the UK and almost certainly abroad also, have been systematically manufacturing these weapons - innocuously dubbed 'snowballs' by these reprobates - with the express purpose of HAVING FUN. It is clear to us all, I'm sure, that this MUST be stopped. Alongside those who take pleasure in 'sliding' on puddles of ice and forming the ubiquitously sinister 'snow angels', these sickening degenerates have enjoyed their reign of terror for too long.

Just keep walkin'

I just went to see The Piano Tuner of Earthquakes with my friend John. I've never walked out of a film before, but half an hour or so before the end of the film I realised that if I sat there for just one more minute of that mind-numbingly pretentious wank, I'd scream. Or die. Or most likely, die screaming. And later, the nice people at the Renoir cinema would have to peel our dessicated corpses off the astoundingly uncomfortable seats in order to allow the poor suckers who were destined to unwittingly pay good, honest, hard-earned money to see the 'film' the following day entrance.

Please don't let it be you.