The Woman Who Talked Too Much

"Yes! Yes! Yes! Oh, yes!" she cried, as she fell to her knees, overwhelmed with the desperate pleasure of the 2007 Bad Sex in Fiction Awards.

Here, in fact.

Norman Mailer won it, which as well as being fitting testament to his efforts here - the line "Uncle was now as soft as a coil of excrement" was always going to take some beating, not to mention all the references to The Hound - is also something of a lifetime achievement award, because if there was ever a man who knew how to write crassly about women and sex, it was Norm.

But spare a thought for the runners up, in particular poor Christopher Rush. Being nominated for a Bad Sex Award in a year where Norman Mailer and Jeanette Winterson have both been recognised is like waking up to find yourself on the Booker shortlist with Ian McEwan and Peter Carey. You must be pleased with your achievement but you don't start placing any bets. Rush's entry, so to speak, is supposedly a first person account of Shakespeare nailing Anne Hathaway. It sort of reads like if you made a papier mache codpiece out of all of Shakespeare's plays ripped up and mixed with that stuff a snail leaves behind. Consider:

"I searched wildly with the fingers of my left hand, groping blind as Cyclops, found the pulpy furred wetness, parted the old lips of time and slipped my middle finger into the sancta sanctorum. It welcomed me with soft sucking sounds, syllables older than language, solace lovelier than words."

The old lips of time? Now I feel like I've got Methuselah between my legs. And just before bed as well. Thanks a lot.

Gary Shteyngart also got my attention for his extract from Absurdistan but it is very hard to comment on it out of context as it seems to be meant to be funny. Though even in that case the need for the following is debatable:

"Her vagina was all that, as they say in the urban media - a powerful ethnic muscle scented by bitter melon, the breezes of the local sea, and the sweaty needs of a tiny nation trying to breed itself into a future. Was it especially hairy? Good Lord, yes it was."

Can these male writers please leave my genitals alone? First old father time and now melons and seaside resorts. There's precious little penis on offer in any of the selected passages, just what we get from Mailer in fact. Winterson and Ali Smith are both writing about lesbian sex and Clare Clark is getting off on a hand. Wither the poorly-rendered objectification of the male form?

It was a powerful ethnic palm tree swinging its bitter coconuts of pleasure, the waft of the local cheese factory, and the sweaty needs of millions of tiny civil servants bureaucratising in its two rounded barracks...

The only truly undeserved inclusion is Richard Milward for Apples, which is a fantastic passage - if still vaginally obsessed ("her fanny looked like a tropical fish or a bit of old carpet... [and] smelt a bit like an armpit") - which is genuinely about bad sex, rather than about sex and written badly.

That caveat aside, congratulations to Mailer, commiserations to the losers, and here's to plenty more terrible sex in 2008.

...is to be found here!

Do I get to go on Strictly now? Do I? Do I?

Well, probably not. But Ben Stiller would look magnificent in sequins...

The system worked! I am a Strictly genius.

I am sad to see the (hunched) back of John, although, to be absolutely clear about it, that natural talent they kept banging on about? Not natural, not a talent. But he was a nice man with a nice smile and a cheering Saturday mid-evening presence, getting between me and the outright psychosis that the wardrobe department is trying to inflict on me. The wardrobe department and the orchestra. Did anyone else catch them butchering Oasis on the final dance this evening? Terrifying. And I speak as someone who is generally quite enthusiastically pro the butchering of Oasis.

So yes, goodbye John, a fitting departure for a bad week in English football. Kelly the wide-mouthed frog, and her frogspawn Brendan, live to dance another day.

It really is starting to turn into the Matt and Alesha show on Strictly - they were both brilliant, nobody else even came close. There's little else to report from this week's Strictly, even Tess's dress wasn't something I'd burst into tears if forced to wear, although she should probably have a long talk with her hairdresser at some point. And Leticia did another waltz, which means another fixed expression: no face dancing, boo. Get the girl back into Latin! The most surprising thing that happened was that I spent a few seconds liking Kelly: Brendan was just defending their boring samba by saying what little time they had, and she muttered to him "It was the same as everyone else, that's no excuse." Knowledge of self and humility! That's her Strictly "journey". I suppose it's not her fault she's been partnered with Evil Brendan, though that's no excuse for that laugh, or the way she keeps her mouth open all the time.

Expulsions are getting easier to predict because of the judges getting the final say, and we know more or less what order they like the dancers in. So if you just make a list of what order they'd like them to go, I'd say approximately:

Kenny
John
= Gethin
= Leticia
Kelly
Matt
Alesha

...and then pick from there who is most likely to get the audience vote, and off they'll go.

I will now prove that this doesn't work by picking entirely the wrong names.

Hmm. Bottom two Kelly (in shock moment) and John, John to go?

Videos here.

Off you go then, Kate and Anton. Let's face it, you were rubbish. Move along. Nothing to see here.

Or do I mean I Dream of Jeanie, judging by Tess's dress?

She wasn't the only one with wardrobe problems tonight. They tried to make out that Kate was in trouble because of her back injury, but that was only her third biggest handicap - fourth biggest, if you count not being able to dance - after being dressed as a Quality Street, and being made to paso doble to The Killers. In comparison, Leticia's whorehouse lampshade dress was postively tasteful. (I do think the boys are getting off lightly, clothes-wise, this year. Where are the frilly hot pink shirts? The sequinned cummerbunds?)

Anyway, Kelly did a great jive (and continued the Jeanie outfit theme) but is still too smug to win; Alesha is the only woman getting through wardrobe unscathed and dances like an angel, but I wonder if she is being let down by slightly lacklustre choreography from Matthew; Matt was adorable in the quickstep, but really needs to manage to get through an entire dance without falling over (is a jealous rival greasing his shoes?); and I liked John's tango far more than the judges did. On the debit side, Gethin continues to bore me, and while Ola is doing her best with what is essentially a novelty act, Kenny really needs to go soon.

No firm predictions about who might go this week. Maybe Kenny.

Videos, comme toujours, ici.

I'm guessing that you have never seen Gilmore Girls, if you're a UK reader anyway. From what I understand, they put it out on the Hallmark channel, which I didn't even know existed, at lunchtime, which is surely when any sane person is watching Neighbours (or Home and Away, depends what time you have lunch). I would never have heard of it myself if I hadn't had it recommended to me, and the recommendation came from someone I barely knew, online, so I was very suspicious of it. And at first my suspicions appeared to be confirmed. Check out the opening credits, with travesty of a song by the once divine, here irredeemably slushy Carole King:



I know. You want to vomit now, don't you? Quite aside from anything, it reminds me of the Golden Girls opening credits, and nothing should, really, nothing should:



I'll be singing that for days now. Incidentally, I got confused, because I thought that song was in the opening credits for Blossom, but when I YouTubed it it turned out that it was the yet more irritating:



Sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your day.

Anyway, in this case my first impressions were utterly wrong, because Gilmore Girls is brilliant. You'd never guess it. I suspect it has ambitions to be a less edgy Northern Exposure, mixed with Mystic Pizza, with a single parenting twist, and all of the ingredients point to horror on a massive scale: it's set in ultra-quirky small town America, it's about a single woman in her early thirties and her teenage daughter, it's a crossover comedy drama with elements of soap, and it is definitely "heart-warming". YUK. However, and it's a *huge* however, it is brilliantly scripted. Very very fast, very funny, very clever, full of both popular and high culture allusions, and mostly delivered by the rather beautiful and extremely likable Lauren Graham, who I spend a considerable amount of trying to figure out how to become. Additionally to this, the two female leads spend a large proportion of the programme reading high quality literature and eating vast quantities of delicious but fattening food, which is roundly to be encouraged. When was the last time you saw beautiful women permitted to eat on TV? (Nigella excluding.) As for reading, that's unheard of. Plus, as an extra bonus, from season two you can enjoy the presence of a young Milo Ventimiglia, aka Peter Petrelli from Heroes, as a taciturn teen rebel who also reads a lot. Hours of fun to be had figuring out if he's had a nose job, deciding which era hair suits him best, and waiting to see if he will go invisible, fly, or burst into flames.

You will have to take it all with a ladleful of syrup, don't say I didn't warn you. But at least if you get the DVD you can flick past the opening credits.

Oh sorry, did you want me to leave you with a decent theme tune, just to clear the palate? OK then. Never say I'm indifferent to your needs.

I can't believe I forgot to mention how much Jessica Hynes looks like Anthea Turner these days.

Adios, then, Penny and Ian. You suffered hugely from dancing early on on a bad night and getting disproportionately bad marks; for the public votes being split between Penny and each of her breasts, Rod and Bod; and I think you lost a clutch for voters every time Penny was described as "model and photographer" without any supporting evidence for either of those careers. But I don't want to be mean, as everything I've seen points to Penny being one of the nicest women ever to have lived, and I got a little bit moist-eyed myself when she cried.

So let's think happy thoughts. Happy thoughts, for example, of John Barrowman singing a swinged-up version of Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic, and then doing some mid-song ballroom moves with Karen. Did I complain that there wasn't enough camp yesterday? Now we know why. If it had been any camper I'd have choked on a tent. Happy thoughts like Matt surviving the dance-off, sweet little pygmy boy that he is - I reckon Penny could carry him under her arm with ease, and that's with him in heels. Happy thoughts like the rumour that Matt (pygmy boy, not dancing pro) and Alesha are "An Item", which, if my predictions are correct, could lead to an interesting final.

What madness is this? It is just as well that Tess's crimes against fashion this week only amounted to a dreadful high ponytail / fringe combo and bad eighties sleeves so that I barely need to mention them before racing headlong into Len's inexplicable 10 for John's salsa. For those who need reminding, *this* is what a 10-rated salsa should look like:



Oh, but my mistake. That actually got four 9s, only scoring a 10 when repeated in the final. And Len scored John higher than that? Really? John's dance was pretty good, in that he actually appeared to be dancing, in his "natural" way of course (did we all take a drink?), but it wasn't a perfect 10. I can only assume that all that jetlag is going to Len's head.

Actually it was a weak week all round, with nobody particularly standing out and few truly camp moments either: though I'll mention Kate's "extra on 'Gladiator: The Porno Years'" outfit and Leticia's facedance expression of the week ("My underwear is too tight"). Kelly was probably the best, but she and Brendan make such a dislikable couple that I doubt it will do her much good with the public. Meanwhile Gethin and Camilla came top with the judges for something pretty forgettable, by which I mean I've already forgotten what for.

My prediction for leaving this week? Leticia or Kate. My prediction for the final remains Blog Mascot Alesha (let down by boring choreography this week, though she should have got an extra point for bravery in the face of fuschia eyeshadow) and Matt.

Videos here.

I'm in love again. I know, I know. But this time it's real. This time it's true. This time it's with someone over the age of consent: Murray, from Flight of the Conchords.



Yes, I know that Bret is better looking and Jemaine is funnier. But Murray ("Present!") is the most adorable.

I have to say though that I am not one hundred percent at ease with the choices of my heart. Consider the evidence:

1. Murray is a sad, lonely, pathetic, badly-dressed, badly-coiffed drip.
2. Actually, I think that 1. is enough.

What do you reckon. Am I in with a chance?

Siiiiiiiiigh... Goodbye, shorter-than-average ginger.

Last night, I dreamed that I was watching a film about Amy Winehouse. In my dream, the role of Amy Winehouse was being played by Kelly Brook of Strictly Come Dancing "fame". And with it being a dream, the emotions didn't quite match what was going on, so as I watched Kelly Brook pretending to smoke crack (and I do love what my subconscious think smoking crack looks like: dipping a cigarette in a bottle) the whole thing was so utterly, utterly, utterly terrifying that I woke up in a blind panic, gasping for breath. Sometimes I worry about my mind.

Last night, I dreamed that I was watching a film about Amy Winehouse. In my dream, the role of Amy Winehouse was being played by Kelly Brook of Strictly Come Dancing "fame". And with it being a dream, the emotions didn't quite match what was going on, so as I watched Kelly Brook pretending to smoke crack (and I do love what my subconscious think smoking crack looks like: dipping a cigarette in a bottle) the whole thing was so utterly, utterly, utterly terrifying that I woke up in a blind panic, gasping for breath. Sometimes I worry about my mind.

Today I went to the State Opening of Parliament - not on my own account, of course, but as a result of being related to someone who has far more right than me to be there. Now I am aware that this is a popular culture blog and that the State Opening of Parliament doesn't really count as such, but it *is* something I have seen recently, and it will probably be the closest thing I get to going to a panto this year (although I only say that for effect, as I am already booked in to see one, maybe two, pantomimes. Bear with me, it's a metaphor that comes into its own later.)

There aren't that many people allowed into the public gallery of the SOOP, if I may call it that (and I'd like to - it's snappy) and I was lucky enough to be in the second row at what is essentially the business end of the gallery, where all the good stuff happens. When I say "all the good stuff", I mean people bring in the Crown and the Sword of State and a thing called the Cap of Maintenance, which looks like a hat that Father Christmas might wear to sleep in (yes: it does look like exactly what you are imagining, except on a stick), and put them down and pick them up and hand them from one important person to another and then leave the room with them again. If you are at the back of the far end of the gallery, you probably don't get to see that stuff. You also don't get to see the Queen's shoes, and I am getting ahead of myself here, but: surprisingly chic silver slingbacks. No wonder Vogue has named her the most glamorous woman ever to have sported solid hair, or something.

OK, so what basically happens is that you go past seventeen thousand police checkpoints, give or take one or two, and then you find the public gallery which is full of old ladies in hats, and when you sit down they give you a handy programme who tells you who everyone in the procession is. Didn't you always want to know who the Rouge Dragon Poursuivant is? That's assuming you knew that the Rouge Dragon Poursuivant is a person, and not a type of lipstick, or a really posh slang expression for shooting up heroin. Well, it is a person, and it's Clive Cheesman Esq. There. Also, according to my programme, The Cap of Maintenance is not only Santa Claus's sleepwear, it's also The Baroness Ashton of Upholland.

The programme also gives you a minute-by-minute itinerary for what is going to happen, so that you know that if the Gentlemen of Arms are proceeding to the Prince's Chamber, it must be 10.52, and therefore you are standing up, which is handy to know, because your mobile phone is switched off and you are not wearing a watch. Equally, if the Lord Privy Seal is proceeding to the top of the Sovereign's Staircase, it is 11.03 and you are sitting down. The Lord Privy Seal, in case you were wondering, is Harriet Harman, and maybe you don't think it is ridiculous that she gets refered to as a Lord, but until you get male Ladies in Waiting I still think they should rename the position.

As it happens, the Queen was late, throwing us out by minutes, but she looked so unexpected glorious and stylish that nobody minded, and if they minded they would probably have been beheaded and you don't want that. The second nearest anybody got to being beheaded was the little old lady in the red hat who was sitting right next to the ceremonial table they put the crown on when they are in the middle of bringing it is, handing it around and carrying it back out again. I saw her face. She wanted to nick it. The nearest anyone got to being beheaded was the last yeoman at the back, who stood a bit too close to the yeoman in front, and when the yeoman in front turned around with a spear over his shoulder, the last yeoman at the back had to duck to avoid being scalped.

Anyway all of this standing and marching and sitting and handing around of caps is just gilding, because none of what is important happens in the public gallery at all, although the none of what is important does happen in the public gallery for quite some time, in fact 41 minutes, if the Queen isn't tardy. What is important happens in a whole other room, and is apparently the Queen's speech, if you believe what you read in the papers, and what have I told you about that? Well, nothing. But I meant to.

In fact, what I think is the most important happens just before the Queen makes her speech. She is sitting on her throne, or a throne, I'm not sure if it is a special one. In front of her is the whole of Parliament, the judges, the Lords. And the Lord Chancellor steps forward and hands her the speech. Think about it. He steps forward and hands her the speech. Sure, he has to walk away backwards because something very bad would happen if the Queen ever saw anybody's back, but he could have given it to her earlier that day. But he doesn't. He hands it to her in front of everybody, so that everybody knows who is really in charge.

So the 41 minutes of standing and marching and sitting and handing around of caps is, as we knew all along, a total charade, a puppet show, yes, a panto. It means nothing. And I'm not really sure who it is for. Is it for us? Is it to make the Queen feel better? To keep the manufacturers of swords, crowns, and cute silver slingbacks in business? Is it because the nation would be imaginatively impoverished if The Gold Stick In Waiting, General The Lord Guthrie Of Craigiebank, was just plain old Charles Guthrie and we melted down the gold stick to help make up the NHS budget deficit? I think it would be, but does it matter? Does it matter enough?

After it was all over I got on the tube home and ate my lunch in front of Neighbours. And tomorrow I'm going to M&S to see if they've got anything in like the Queen's shoes.

So I was right for once! A John vs Dominic dance off, with Dom leaving because nobody likes him much and John has a lovely smile. I am, however, considering instigating a drinking game where you have to down a shot every time one of the judges describes John's dancing as "natural". Except that none of us would survive the evening.

It's only week 5 and already the costume budget must be running very low, because Tess was sporting a plastic patent leatherette belt that cost £3 from Matalan, Kenny had two-tone underpants underneath his kilt, Kelly was only allowed the back half of her skirt, and the female professionals had to split the fabric for one outfit between three. Pass the feathers.

It was Paso Doble week which is always a treat because who doesn't like a bit of cape action? Well, Matt apparently, but I still think he's great, even though he fell over, so I will overlook this sorry retreat from camp. In fact lots of my assumptions were turned on their heads this week: I'm starting to like Kenny, which is just perverted, Kate was halfway decent, which is a miracle, Leticia's face-dancing (expression of the week: is something burning?) was a joy, plus she had the best choice of song ever (Live and Let Die) or at least I thought so until Kenny came on and started ballroom dancing to a light entertainment reworking of Franz Ferdinand's Take Me Out, which made me think I was hallucinating, Gethin no longer dances like a piece of well-oiled teak, in fact I'd go so far as to say he was good, I actually liked Kelly's cape-waving, and I'm sure Brucie said something funny at one point but I can't remember what. Then again, neither can he.

Alesha remains blog mascot even though - or do I mean because? - she was sporting dayglo sulphurous yellow nail polish and matching eyeshadow. WHTTM thumbs down this week goes to John Barnes - you're a sweet man, but a bit rubbish, so off you go, although if you want to leave your *gorgeous* son Jordan at the door feel free. Or otherwise the increasingly charmless Dominic, currently being kept afloat by Lilya's characteristically effervescent choreography. Dominic: you can't really dance, so there is no need to look grumpy when you are being given incredibly generous 7s by the judges.

It will be interesting to see if voting regains some kind of sanity tomorrow... I have half a suspicion that the judges were nicer to the crap dancers this week and ruder to the good ones to ward off more of last week's flagrant sympathy voting.

Videos here, with commentary apparently: ooooooooh!

Is it actually possible to sing along to The Proclaimers without doing the voices?

My thought is: no.

My television is talking to me again. It doesn't do it all that often, but when it does, it's spooky. Today it spoke to me in the form of a very long but utterly pointless conversation on Neighbours about Doctor Who. Pepper (looks like a lingerie model, acts like a lingerie model) and Adam (bizarrely unconvincing as British given that he is, in fact, British) spoke for several minutes on the subject, concluding that, while Tom Baker is untouchable, David Tennant comes a very close second, that in fact David Tennant is also incredibly attractive, as is Billie Piper, who was a fantastic companion, but that Freema in the most recent series was a bit weak.

OH MY GOD! I THINK THAT TOO! MY TELEVISION IS READING MY MIND! MY TELEVISION IS READING MY MIND AND TALKING IT BACK TO ME!

Unless of course there is another reason why Neighbours would take a five minute break to talk about Doctor Who, but I can't imagine what that would be. My television's giving me messages. It's the only explanation. God, I hope it doesn't start asking me to annihilate small villages.