Sod this healthy eating lark .....

Today was the first day of my health kick. Again. No really, it was. I'd planned it well. I'd emptied Holland & Barrett's shelves of various lotions and potions. I got the book. And I dusted off the Gillian McKeith Superjuicer. Got a fridge full of fruit, veg and live yogurt and there was nothing to stop me.

In theory, it should have all been very straightforward. It's just a change of routine. It can't be that difficult. But it was. And it went something like this.

6.30am. Dark. Got up. Went to loo. Tripped over cat. Made hot water with lemon. Let cat out. Let cat in. Let cat out. Drunk lemon water. Was I meant to put sugar in it? Probably not. Start assembling juicer. It's been a while. Seems bits are missing. Never mind. I'll make do. Start chopping fruit and veg. Let cat in. Let cat out. Throw everything in juicer. Press button. Odd whirring sound and smell of burning. Turn everything off. Step away.

7.00am. Drink 2 glasses of water. Start Tibetan 5 Rites. Book says they are "A set of exercises that are meant to promote increased energy, stress reduction, and an enhanced sense of calm, clarity of thought, increased strength and flexibility, and an overall improvement in health and well-being". Just difficult whilst holding a book. Apparently these exercises will also wake up my entire endochrine system. But probably won't fix the juicer. Rite 1 involves spinning round very fast until you feel dizzy. It's a stress buster. Allegedly. A top tip if you try this. Move the table out of the way. And anything else that your flailing arms might knock over. I have a bruise on my shin and I smashed a plant. I am not calm now.

7.10am. Exercises 2-5 are fairly manageable. Assuming you don't have back problems. Which I do. Still, I've done them and hopefully I shall soon have clarity of though and endochrines that are cock-a-hoop by. Let cat in. Kick the juicer. It springs into life. 2 minutes later, my liver flushing, toxin-eliminating, cocktail is done. I tip the brownish liquid into a glass and drink. Funny, I didn't gag half as much as I thought I would.

7.15am. Throw all the peelings into a pot of boiling water to make a potassium-rich soup. Rest of household wake to the smell of hot rotting veg and threaten to leave home. Leave to simmer. (The veg, not family members). Drink another glass of water. Wonder where cat is.

7.20am. Up to the bathroom for a spot of body brushing before showering. This will remove dead cells, toxins and improve lymphatic drainage. It will also leave you looking like you have had a rub down with a brillo pad. So, red raw and bleeding, I have a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And finish with a cold shower. Well I'm meant to. But it's too cold. So I finish with a hot one. I now look like a freshly boiled lobster.

7.30am. Have a wee. Check colour. It's meant to look like straw. Make a note to self to go and buy some straw by way of comparison.

7.40am. With a soft dressing gown covering my wounded body, I head back down to the kitchen to strain the rotting veg into a flask to take to work. Try to dismantle the juicer but it seems to be wedged together where I thumped it. Make rest of lunchbox. Box? I need a picnic hamper! Lunch consists of seeds, nuts, oatcakes, cottage cheese, salad and chicken. Stare longingly at cat food.

7.50am. Spend 10 minutes trying to find something to wear that's made of cotton wool. Fail. Start hair and make up. I am now late.

8.00am. Scrape tongue with a teaspoon. And probably won't ever again.

8.10am. Time to leave the house. I'm wearing odd socks. The cat has left home. I've got wet hair and have only managed to put mascara on one eye. "World Renowned Fucking Holistic Nutritionist" Gillian McKeith's fucking juicer is in 29 different pieces on the floor. The Liver Flushing elixir has given me terrible wind and I think I've fractured a shin.

8.30am. Greggs.

Sod this healthy eating lark .....

Today was the first day of my health kick. Again. No really, it was. I'd planned it well. I'd emptied Holland & Barrett's shelves of various lotions and potions. I got the book. And I dusted off the Gillian McKeith Superjuicer. Got a fridge full of fruit, veg and live yogurt and there was nothing to stop me.

In theory, it should have all been very straightforward. It's just a change of routine. It can't be that difficult. But it was. And it went something like this.

6.30am. Dark. Got up. Went to loo. Tripped over cat. Made hot water with lemon. Let cat out. Let cat in. Let cat out. Drunk lemon water. Was I meant to put sugar in it? Probably not. Start assembling juicer. It's been a while. Seems bits are missing. Never mind. I'll make do. Start chopping fruit and veg. Let cat in. Let cat out. Throw everything in juicer. Press button. Odd whirring sound and smell of burning. Turn everything off. Step away.

7.00am. Drink 2 glasses of water. Start Tibetan 5 Rites. Book says they are "A set of exercises that are meant to promote increased energy, stress reduction, and an enhanced sense of calm, clarity of thought, increased strength and flexibility, and an overall improvement in health and well-being". Just difficult whilst holding a book. Apparently these exercises will also wake up my entire endochrine system. But probably won't fix the juicer. Rite 1 involves spinning round very fast until you feel dizzy. It's a stress buster. Allegedly. A top tip if you try this. Move the table out of the way. And anything else that your flailing arms might knock over. I have a bruise on my shin and I smashed a plant. I am not calm now.

7.10am. Exercises 2-5 are fairly manageable. Assuming you don't have back problems. Which I do. Still, I've done them and hopefully I shall soon have clarity of though and endochrines that are cock-a-hoop by. Let cat in. Kick the juicer. It springs into life. 2 minutes later, my liver flushing, toxin-eliminating, cocktail is done. I tip the brownish liquid into a glass and drink. Funny, I didn't gag half as much as I thought I would.

7.15am. Throw all the peelings into a pot of boiling water to make a potassium-rich soup. Rest of household wake to the smell of hot rotting veg and threaten to leave home. Leave to simmer. (The veg, not family members). Drink another glass of water. Wonder where cat is.

7.20am. Up to the bathroom for a spot of body brushing before showering. This will remove dead cells, toxins and improve lymphatic drainage. It will also leave you looking like you have had a rub down with a brillo pad. So, red raw and bleeding, I have a cold shower. Followed by a hot shower. And finish with a cold shower. Well I'm meant to. But it's too cold. So I finish with a hot one. I now look like a freshly boiled lobster.

7.30am. Have a wee. Check colour. It's meant to look like straw. Make a note to self to go and buy some straw by way of comparison.

7.40am. With a soft dressing gown covering my wounded body, I head back down to the kitchen to strain the rotting veg into a flask to take to work. Try to dismantle the juicer but it seems to be wedged together where I thumped it. Make rest of lunchbox. Box? I need a picnic hamper! Lunch consists of seeds, nuts, oatcakes, cottage cheese, salad and chicken. Stare longingly at cat food.

7.50am. Spend 10 minutes trying to find something to wear that's made of cotton wool. Fail. Start hair and make up. I am now late.

8.00am. Scrape tongue with a teaspoon. And probably won't ever again.

8.10am. Time to leave the house. I'm wearing odd socks. The cat has left home. I've got wet hair and have only managed to put mascara on one eye. "World Renowned Fucking Holistic Nutritionist" Gillian McKeith's fucking juicer is in 29 different pieces on the floor. The Liver Flushing elixir has given me terrible wind and I think I've fractured a shin.

8.30am. Greggs.

An old person reviews The Brits 2011

I haven't watched the Brits since 1989 when some clearly mental events organiser thought it was a good idea to get drummer Mick Fleetwood and Page 3 deformed dwarf-model Sam Fox to present a live music show. They had about as much chemistry as an art lesson. She kept whooping. And he clearly didn't know where he was. Or who she was. And they also appeared to be reading from auto-cues for a different show entirely. So when Stock, Aitken and Waterman strolled off with Best Producer and Best Single for Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up, I decided to switch off this car crash and go to the pub, or a rave, or take horse pills. Or something.

So 30 years on, I thought it was about time I tuned in and see if things had improved and throw in my two penneth worth. Which, considering I'm currently listening to German Prog Rock, is probably going to be cynical at best. Don't get me wrong, I'm a massive music fan and like allsorts from Andy Williams to the Arctic Monkeys. But most of today's offerings do leave me a bit chilly round the ears.

So James Corden hosts. Shouty and not terribly funny. Or good at presenting. There seems to be a growing trend that just because you have a hit comedy, you can turn your hand to pretty much everything! I mean, is Michael Aspel really that uncool now? Isn't Noel Edmonds available? Still, anything rather than Davina McCall!

I know nothing of Arcade Fire. Other than a chap behind me on the escalator telling a friend that they were an "8-piece bunch of twats from Canada and their music makes you want to slit your wrists". Hmmmm. It's a fair point. On their own advice, I googled them. Sadly, they appear to have all the worst kind of words associated with them - namely 'husband & wife team', 'accordian' and 'hurdy gurdy'. A sort of Fleetwood Mac meets a Bosnian folk group. In all fairness, I think they were as shocked to hear they'd won as the rest of us were. But on the plus side, if it keeps 11th century Middle Eastern fiddles at the forefront of the music scene, then surely, it can only be a good thing. I won't be rushing out and buying any of their LPs. Especially as the first one was called 'Funeral'!

I'm guessing Tinie Tempah isn't his real name. Actually I know it's not. it's Patrick Chukwuemeka Okogwu Jr. Which doesn't sound terribly 'grime', does it. Mind you, neither does the line 'Bin Southampton but I never bin to Scunthorpe'. Still he managed to win 'Best British Breakthrough Act' and 'Best British Single'. With that sort of fame beckoning, he'll be welcome at the Bamboogy Retro Bar in Scunthorpe in no time! I don't mind this stuff. It's quite clever and catchy. In fact, my daughter was playing it in her room yesterday while I was in their scraping her socks off the wall. So I sang along. And now she's not talking to me. Again.

'Best Album' went 'Sigh No More' by Mumford & Sons. They sound more like a removal company to me. In fact, they are a London folk rock band, rather than the west country bumpkins I thought they were. This was the first time I'd heard them. And to be honest, I thought it was all rather dull. Plus there really is no excuse for young people to dress like The Wurzels. As The Sun describes them, Banjos, beards and blokes in chunky jumpers. Meet the Folkers!

I'm glad Take That won Best British Group. Because I hadn't heard of most of the others on the list. The XX - Nope. Technically, the Gorillaz don't really exist and can't recall hey've had lots of songs in the hit parade recently, Mumford & Sons - those blokes in waistcoats again and Biffy Clyro who I'd also never heard of. Apparently they're a Scottish rock group and one time Mercury Prize nominee - the kiss of death for anyone that wins it! Anyway, well done TT - although sadly they couldn't muster up a decent acceptance speech. Robbie says "Shabba" and Mark Owen thanks Robbie for coming back (for good). Ends

There were others of course. But I really did lose interest. Shouty fat bloke and whooping crowds. A room full of egos and tables full of Dom Perignon. Jarvis Cocker didn't run on the stage and show his bum and no-one tipped a bucket of ice over a politician. And for that reason, I shall probably not bother watching it again. The current music scene is starting to baffle me therefore I shall gracefully retire from it.

So it's back to German prog rock for me. And Dreaming of Tangerines.

Shabba!

An old person reviews The Brits 2011

I haven't watched the Brits since 1989 when some clearly mental events organiser thought it was a good idea to get drummer Mick Fleetwood and Page 3 deformed dwarf-model Sam Fox to present a live music show. They had about as much chemistry as an art lesson. She kept whooping. And he clearly didn't know where he was. Or who she was. And they also appeared to be reading from auto-cues for a different show entirely. So when Stock, Aitken and Waterman strolled off with Best Producer and Best Single for Rick Astley's Never Gonna Give You Up, I decided to switch off this car crash and go to the pub, or a rave, or take horse pills. Or something.

So 30 years on, I thought it was about time I tuned in and see if things had improved and throw in my two penneth worth. Which, considering I'm currently listening to German Prog Rock, is probably going to be cynical at best. Don't get me wrong, I'm a massive music fan and like allsorts from Andy Williams to the Arctic Monkeys. But most of today's offerings do leave me a bit chilly round the ears.

So James Corden hosts. Shouty and not terribly funny. Or good at presenting. There seems to be a growing trend that just because you have a hit comedy, you can turn your hand to pretty much everything! I mean, is Michael Aspel really that uncool now? Isn't Noel Edmonds available? Still, anything rather than Davina McCall!

I know nothing of Arcade Fire. Other than a chap behind me on the escalator telling a friend that they were an "8-piece bunch of twats from Canada and their music makes you want to slit your wrists". Hmmmm. It's a fair point. On their own advice, I googled them. Sadly, they appear to have all the worst kind of words associated with them - namely 'husband & wife team', 'accordian' and 'hurdy gurdy'. A sort of Fleetwood Mac meets a Bosnian folk group. In all fairness, I think they were as shocked to hear they'd won as the rest of us were. But on the plus side, if it keeps 11th century Middle Eastern fiddles at the forefront of the music scene, then surely, it can only be a good thing. I won't be rushing out and buying any of their LPs. Especially as the first one was called 'Funeral'!

I'm guessing Tinie Tempah isn't his real name. Actually I know it's not. it's Patrick Chukwuemeka Okogwu Jr. Which doesn't sound terribly 'grime', does it. Mind you, neither does the line 'Bin Southampton but I never bin to Scunthorpe'. Still he managed to win 'Best British Breakthrough Act' and 'Best British Single'. With that sort of fame beckoning, he'll be welcome at the Bamboogy Retro Bar in Scunthorpe in no time! I don't mind this stuff. It's quite clever and catchy. In fact, my daughter was playing it in her room yesterday while I was in their scraping her socks off the wall. So I sang along. And now she's not talking to me. Again.

'Best Album' went 'Sigh No More' by Mumford & Sons. They sound more like a removal company to me. In fact, they are a London folk rock band, rather than the west country bumpkins I thought they were. This was the first time I'd heard them. And to be honest, I thought it was all rather dull. Plus there really is no excuse for young people to dress like The Wurzels. As The Sun describes them, Banjos, beards and blokes in chunky jumpers. Meet the Folkers!

I'm glad Take That won Best British Group. Because I hadn't heard of most of the others on the list. The XX - Nope. Technically, the Gorillaz don't really exist and can't recall hey've had lots of songs in the hit parade recently, Mumford & Sons - those blokes in waistcoats again and Biffy Clyro who I'd also never heard of. Apparently they're a Scottish rock group and one time Mercury Prize nominee - the kiss of death for anyone that wins it! Anyway, well done TT - although sadly they couldn't muster up a decent acceptance speech. Robbie says "Shabba" and Mark Owen thanks Robbie for coming back (for good). Ends

There were others of course. But I really did lose interest. Shouty fat bloke and whooping crowds. A room full of egos and tables full of Dom Perignon. Jarvis Cocker didn't run on the stage and show his bum and no-one tipped a bucket of ice over a politician. And for that reason, I shall probably not bother watching it again. The current music scene is starting to baffle me therefore I shall gracefully retire from it.

So it's back to German prog rock for me. And Dreaming of Tangerines.

Shabba!

Who am I?

A recent conversation with my daughter went something like this:

ME: I quite like Rihanna's music.
DAUGHTER: WHY??????
ME: Er ... because it's good?
DAUGHTER: OH MY GOD I HATE YOU!!
ME: Oh what have I done now??
DAUGHTER: YOU CAN'T LIKE IT. IT'S NOT FOR OLD PEOPLE. WHY DO YOU WANT TO BE COOL!!!!!!

OK so two things here. One: there's some sort of age cut off point for musical tastes that I didn't know about so I'm guessing I shouldn't be listening to anything beyond Spandau Ballet or Wham. Two: I am mum. Not Carrie. Mum doesn't listen to hip trendy garage or R&B, or drink, or have sex (well that's another post). Nor does she swear like a navvie or dance uncontrollably through mind-enhancing drugs. In her eyes, I'm placed on this mortal coil to cook her food, wash her clothes, pick her up from here, there and everywhere, dish out the cash, clear up the mess and dry the tears. Beyond those tasks, I don't exist. Mention old boyfriends and 'that's disgusting'. Recount old antics I engaged in and that's just 'WRONG'. It seems I was born and married on the same day she was.

It's a shame in some ways. Carrie is quite good fun. Done some pretty crazy things over the years. Some funny, some worthy of a few columns in the Sun. So I guess she won't want to know about the time I got arrested in Spain for indecent behaviour, or the time I was physically removed from some fancy pants launch party by a burly bouncer for abusing the Radio 1 DJ. She'll miss the story of me being sick in the collection plate at Midnight Mass because I'd had too many sweet martinis and thrown out of the girl guides for 'being the exact opposite of everything they stand for'. And best she doesn't know about the time I was found in the PE teacher's wardrobe during a school ski trip.

Plus there was the incident on the West Ham team bus, the girls 5-a-side football match fight and that time I accidentally knocked that nice policeman's helmet off. I really did think he'd find it funny. And they're the ones I can remember.

On reflection? Maybe it's best she doesn't know all this. I would hate for her to think that this is normal behaviour or an imperative rite of passage. Best she only knows how good my chicken casserole is and how generous I am with pocket money rather than see me as a sort of rubbish 80's Jordan-esque role model.

I can only hope she doesn't read Frank McAvennie's biography!

Who am I?

A recent conversation with my daughter went something like this:

ME: I quite like Rihanna's music.
DAUGHTER: WHY??????
ME: Er ... because it's good?
DAUGHTER: OH MY GOD I HATE YOU!!
ME: Oh what have I done now??
DAUGHTER: YOU CAN'T LIKE IT. IT'S NOT FOR OLD PEOPLE. WHY DO YOU WANT TO BE COOL!!!!!!

OK so two things here. One: there's some sort of age cut off point for musical tastes that I didn't know about so I'm guessing I shouldn't be listening to anything beyond Spandau Ballet or Wham. Two: I am mum. Not Carrie. Mum doesn't listen to hip trendy garage or R&B, or drink, or have sex (well that's another post). Nor does she swear like a navvie or dance uncontrollably through mind-enhancing drugs. In her eyes, I'm placed on this mortal coil to cook her food, wash her clothes, pick her up from here, there and everywhere, dish out the cash, clear up the mess and dry the tears. Beyond those tasks, I don't exist. Mention old boyfriends and 'that's disgusting'. Recount old antics I engaged in and that's just 'WRONG'. It seems I was born and married on the same day she was.

It's a shame in some ways. Carrie is quite good fun. Done some pretty crazy things over the years. Some funny, some worthy of a few columns in the Sun. So I guess she won't want to know about the time I got arrested in Spain for indecent behaviour, or the time I was physically removed from some fancy pants launch party by a burly bouncer for abusing the Radio 1 DJ. She'll miss the story of me being sick in the collection plate at Midnight Mass because I'd had too many sweet martinis and thrown out of the girl guides for 'being the exact opposite of everything they stand for'. And best she doesn't know about the time I was found in the PE teacher's wardrobe during a school ski trip.

Plus there was the incident on the West Ham team bus, the girls 5-a-side football match fight and that time I accidentally knocked that nice policeman's helmet off. I really did think he'd find it funny. And they're the ones I can remember.

On reflection? Maybe it's best she doesn't know all this. I would hate for her to think that this is normal behaviour or an imperative rite of passage. Best she only knows how good my chicken casserole is and how generous I am with pocket money rather than see me as a sort of rubbish 80's Jordan-esque role model.

I can only hope she doesn't read Frank McAvennie's biography!