The Woman Who Talked Too Much

On Thursday morning I got up, got dressed and went to the butcher. About a 10 minute walk each way. I was wearing a knee-length denim skirt. By the time I got to the butcher, the skirt had rotated through 180 degrees and was on backwards. By the time I got home again, it had traveled through a further 90 degrees so as to be facing sideways.

It's not the most festive blog posts to end on, I'll grant you, but I thought it worthy of mention. I'm off to Mozambique now, back January 7th, ideally not full of lurgy. Have a fabulous Christmas, and see you here once I have got home and watched both the Strictly Come Dancing Christmas special and Doctor Who, out of season, too scared to turn my computer on for fear of rogue spoilers.

This is proving harder than I thought - *much* harder than the original broadly-rock CD. As before, I have taken your suggestions and put them through my filter (ie left out anything I don't know (this means almost everything on your list, Persephone) or don't like or don't already own - pausing to register with shock that I have neither 'Love Shack', possibly because if I hear it even one more time my brain will turn into taramasolata, or 'Groove Is In The Heart' - then suddenly craving all kinds of other things I've never owned, like Avril Lavigne, who nobody suggested, but even so, rushing over to iTunes to start rectifying these absences, before realising that if I download anything at all I am not going to be able to stop), added a few ideas of my own, and then ruthlessly pruned the list.

The rules that I have been playing by are: it must be a proper pop classic; the artist cannot have appeared on the previous CD, as that interferes with educational purposes; it must be something you'd totally love if you heard it for the first time between the ages of 3 and 11; and I can't put on anything that might warp their tiny minds. I don't mean because of lyrical filth - that would rule out Prince, for a start - but I mean because it can only be approached with a heavy dose of world-weary ironic appreciation if it is not going to lead you seriously astray. So that ruled out Take That. And also, to my immense disappointment, Lionel Ritchie's 'All Night Long' - I don't want to curse these kids to a lifetime of sloppy R'n'B.

After all that I have been left with the following list which is far too long and not at all conclusive and is still a great matter of internal turmoil for me. I know: why don't you make that turmoil worse with your comments?

1. Take On Me - aha
2. Walk This Way - Aerosmith / Run DMC
3. Respect - Aretha Franklin
4. Holding Out For A Hero - Bonnie Tyler
5. Baby One More Time - Britney Spears
6. Video Killed The Radio Star - The Buggles
7. Move On Up - Curtis Mayfield
8. The Magic Number - De La Soul
9. Hot Stuff - Donna Summer
10. Son Of A Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield
11. Mr Blue Sky - ELO
12. Sound Of The Underground - Girls Aloud
13. River Deep, Mountain High - Ike & Tina Turner
14. Higher & Higher - Jackie Wilson
15. I Want You Back - Jackson 5
16. Can't Get You Out Of My Head - Kylie Minogue
17. Lady Marmalade - Labelle
18. Music - Madonna
19. I'm A Believer - The Monkees
20. Ca Plane Pour Moi - Plastic Bertrand
21. Kiss - Prince
22. Don't Stop Me Now - Queen
23. Shake Your Tail Feather - Ray Charles
24. Rock DJ - Robbie Williams
25. Leader Of The Pack - Shangri-las (non-negotiable: it's their mum's favourite song)
26. Everyday People - Sly & The Family Stone
27. Wannabe - Spice Girls
28. Birdhouse In Your Soul - They Might Be Giants

I know what you're thinking. What about...? Not to mention....? But the sad truth is we have to *cut* this to the tune (ahem) of about eight songs. Which is not to say that there can't be substitutions. But they had better be good ones.

The BBC has described its mistake in messing up the Strictly voting as "unforgivable". For crying out loud. If someone from the BBC were to come round, break into my house and piss on my curtains, all funded by the unique way that the BBC is paid for by you, the license fee payer, that would be unforgivable. If the show was called Strictly Come Dying, with a celebrity couple being shot each week by firing squad in an order determined by a combination of judge's voting and phone votes, and they shot the wrong person because they counted the phone votes wrong, so Matthew Cutler got six bullets to the brain leaving Brendan Cole unscathed when the public had demanded the exact opposite, *that* would be unforgivable. Taking slightly too long to realise that 3 + 1 = 4 just as much as 1 + 3 = 4, thus cheating the public out of 15p from a BT landline, up to 75p from mobile phone providers, and then freezing the votes, and rolling the votes over, and having an eviction halfway through the final which will take into account those votes, and offering a refund to those who are still unhappy?

BBC, I FORGIVE YOU.

Now please, let this lie.

Like many of you I'm sure, I've recently been getting a lot of spam which appears to have been sent from my own e-mail address. This beats the computer but it's doesn't beat me, as I am no more likely to buy Canadian Viagra online if I have recommended it to myself than if someone else has recommended it to me. Anyway, today I received one of those pieces of self-posted spam, only this one had the subject line: "Please, forgive me and answer."

Forgive myself and answer. Forgive myself and answer.

That's going to haunt me all day.

For those in the UK, I highly recommend tonight's Channel 4 documentary 'Chosen'. I caught it earlier in the year when it was broadcast on More 4 and it is exceptional. It's a very simply made documentary, in which three men, now in middle age, talk with extraordinary honesty and articulacy about their experiences of being sexually abused at prep school. As the film tells us, 3 in 20 children are abused at UK schools, so it's an important film, as well as a desperately sad one. Please make the effort to see it, even if it sounds like a gruelling watch for a Monday night - it's rare that a film of such good quality makes it onto our screens.

Could I be allergic to my computer monitor? The "evidence":

1. I have been ill ever since I got it.
2. Every time I sit down to start work I sneeze uncontrollably.

Maybe it just attracts a lot of dust.

I recorded the X Factor final and the results show which means that with judicious use of the fast forward button I managed to get through about 2 hrs 40 mins of television in approximately half an hour, and I probably enjoyed it a hell of a lot more than anybody who actually had to sit through Kym Marsh in North London, surrounded by Alexandra Burke fans, asking them if they thought she was any good, which, I am guessing, they did.

As did I. Thank god she won. There was no way that I could countenance a JLS victory after the one on the end with the funny shaved head pulled a cheesy R'n'B come-on grin during Hallelujah - which, Simon Cowell, is not a Christmas song, even if it has a religious word in it. Eoghan, the High School Musical leprechaun, went out in the first half of the finals so we were denied his version, about which I am utterly dejected, because I was hoping they they would have the same dancing teenagers they wheel out for everything else he sings. Alexandra turned it into a massive power ballad which was only to be expected but at least she does massive power ballad well.

I actually love Alexandra, and I feel quite guilty about having thought she was a cheap Leona Lewis knock-off, and I am totally delighted that she has won, and can actually put up with the thought of her releasing singles and stuff, which is not quite the case for all reality show winners. (I do wonder what it is like for the likes of Dannii Minogue and Cheryl Cole "mentoring" people who are such better singers than they are.) Anyway, I particularly enjoyed Alex singing with Beyonce, who tried to look happy about it but gave off the unmistakeable aura of a member of royalty not used to having to touch other human beings and really hoping that Alex didn't get snot on her dress when she sobbed into her shoulder. I was, however, disappointed that they didn't give her an upbeat song to sing but just a series of soupy ballads. Thus, in tribute to her win, I post her rendition of Candyman from Big Band week, in which she looks absolutely stunning and has FUN and is surrounded by sexy sailors in stripy tops. I am all about fun at the moment. Probably because I have spent the entire festive season at home ill and haven't had any. Anyway, enjoy:

Or not quite results, because (a) my PVR threw a wobbly and decided not to record the results show, and (b) there wasn't a result anyway, as they decided to put all three dancers through to the final. Officially this is because Lisa and Rachel tied for the top spot, meaning that there was no way that Tom could avoid the dance off, but I suspect that it makes for a better final if there are three dancers in it, and also there was a mathematical irony after John Sergeant dropped out in that everyone was complaining that his staying in was forcing a better dancer to go out each week, but once he dropped out it meant that a better dancer had to go out a week early each week anyway. Also I do wonder whether Tom is miles ahead in the voting, and if the entire voting public voted for him but couldn't save him from the dance off and then the judges put him out they would advance on TV centre with pitchforks. Someone should probably set up a little stall selling pitchforks just outside White City station, they'd make a killing. But anyway, they all go through.

So there are only three dancers left now, Rachel, Tom and Lisa. This means that in my week one prediction I got two out of three, with Lisa the wild card. Lisa - handicapped by being partnered with horrible Brendan, and by having slept with George Clooney thus earning her the eternal jealousy of at least half the viewing audience (and can we imagine that relationship, people? Seriously?) - is definitely the most improved dancer overall, and did a lovely quickstep to Dancing in the Dark (to my eternal disappointment, not the Bruce Springsteen song, but some 1940s swing thing) and got four 10s, which I am not entirely sure that she deserved, but the judges are throwing tens around like sweets this series. They have to, otherwise they would not be able to keep telling us that this is the best Strictly ever, as if we have all lost our memories and can't remember last year and Alesha Dixon and the whole Matt / Flavia / Vincent love triangle. Lisa also got a 10 from Len for her distinctly less than perfect Argentine tango, but I think he had dropped the rest of his paddles.

Rachel is the best dancer left the competition and as such ought to win. Her Argentine Tango was amazing (and scored lower than Lisa'a quickstep). Her American Smooth (to "Mandy", officially the most bleurgh song ever written) was as weirdly un-American Smooth-like as her previous American Smooth, and I know you can adapt any dance to the American Smooth up to and including Breakdancing and that Robot dance that was big in the 80s, but when I know there's going to be an American Smooth I want big band music and Fred and Ginger moves, so no matter how good that alternative, I will be disappointed.

As for Tom, while putting in a worthy performance on both dances, he was the least good and deserves to go out, except that he remains as likeable as ever, and with two rather bland girls left in the competition this is proving rather more significant than a perfect fleckle or exquisitely delivered spot turn. His jive was the only dance that even approached fun - fun! remember that? you know the one I mean, it's similar to entertainment - and for that alone I am delighted that he will be in the final, which otherwise promises to be a very po-faced affair. At the end of the jive, he jumped over Camilla's head, and I can't imagine that happening with either Rachel or Lisa, who take the whole thing terribly seriously. As for his Argentine Tango, it didn't have a whole lot of tango in it, but there was lots of Argentine acting and it was to my favourite piece of tango music (from 'Scent of a Woman') and he had bicycle clips around his elbows, and that gets another bonus mark from me. Essentially I'm biased because he's hot, but I do think it would be a miserable final without Tom. Rachel for the win, though.

Before I go, two things. Firstly, a word about Tess's breasts. I wouldn't dream of speculating whether they are the ones God blessed her with or if she got a helping hand from Harley Street, but they are like two grapefruits stuck to her front, and I just don't remember them featuring so, ah, highly in previous series. Has she got some kind of new scaffolding under those dresses which is pushing them into unnatural positions? Or do they just stand to attention by themselves? These days I am spending about half of Strictly thinking about Tess's breasts, and that can't be right.

Secondly, believe it or not I will be out of the country for the Strictly final, en route for Mozambique. I won't have computer access there so I can't watch the dances or blog about them, you will have to form your own opinions and I'm sorry about that, because I know mine are better. I'll set the grumpy PVR to record it and hopefully I'll be able to watch it and the Christmas special when I get back, but I wouldn't count on it. But in the meantime, keep dancing!

Dances, as ever, here.

Hamlet is THE role for a young(ish) actor and so it is inevitable that it goes to the big stars. Next summer, Jude Law will be performing his at the Donmar, and tonight, of course, was supposed to be David Tennant's night. Now I cede to nobody in my admiration of David Tennant, but believe me when I say that I could not have enjoyed tonight's Hamlet more if his back had allowed him to take that lead. I could have enjoyed it as much, perhaps, and in a different way - but not more.

David Tennant is a brilliant, charismatic, lead actor, and his Hamlet I'm certain would have been that of a virtuoso, exceptionally performed and wonderfully entertaining. But I don't think it could possibly have been as heartbreaking as Edward Bennett's. What, for me, made Bennett's performance so magical is that he is not the star. He had not been chosen for his brilliance and charisma. He is, like Hamlet, a man trapped in a story that is much bigger than he is - the understudy thrown into the limelight. What, in sum, made Bennett's Hamlet so special for me was that in many ways he is quite ordinary.

His Hamlet is unprincely, even slightly nerdy. At the start of the play I would go so far as to describe him as goofy. He does not shine brightest on the stage - that honour goes to Patrick Stewart's masterful Claudius, whose power to inspire both love and loathing is made all the more potent by the way his stage presence outshines that of his rather more average nephew. Circumstance has thrown Bennett's Hamlet into a situation which he cannot handle, try as he might. It is too big for him. He is intelligent, he is resourceful, he becomes ruthless, but it isn't enough, because Fate has all the cards. He is a normal person woefully unprepared to do what he is called upon to do. No wonder his self-doubt rings out through all those soliloquies. How can an average bloke decide whether to be or not to be? The sight of an unremarkable man driven to the great heights - and depths - taking on such an immense force, was gripping in a way that I have never experienced Shakespeare to be.

And so, at the end, when Fate plays out its hand bringing Hamlet down and the rest of the court around him, it is heartbreaking. Great heroes are meant to die great deaths. But Bennett's Hamlet is not a great hero, he is one of us, doing his best - and it is not enough. As he dies, surrounded by destruction, he reverts to the decent, flawed person he was all along. It is devastating.

To be clear, there is nothing ordinary about Bennett's acting - he is incredibly skilled. But he is a character actor, not a star, and to see Hamlet performed as a character rather than a star turn was something special, and probably unique to these circumstances.

Praise must also go to the rest of this production, particularly Penny Downie, bringing astonishing emotional complexity to Gertrude, Oliver Ford Davies as a sweet, sad Polonius, and Patrick Stewart, aforementioned, as a surprisingly sympathetic Claudius. The directing by Gregory Doran was exceptional and the production design by Robert Jones wonderfully effective in its simplicity.

All in all, magnificent.

I can't wait to see Hamlet tonight! I love David Tennant Edward Bennett! He is so sexy mysterious! And there's nothing I love more than seeing an actor about whom I have a fully formed fantasy life in which we are married but he is away on location all the time I know absolutely nothing aside from that he can flamenco dance and play the clarinet! I can't wait to show off to all those losers who couldn't get a ticket because they didn't have a friend who was a member of the RSC be fully focused on the glories of Shakespeare's language! And isn't it exciting that I will be within grabbing distance of David Tennant without a restraining order be able to see the guy who usually plays Guildenstern playing Laertes! I am totally taking a condom in my handbag just in case interested in theatre for the sake of theatre! No! Yes! Yes! Yes!

OK, a (temporary?) hiatus on songs "entertainingly" featuring the word back, because in my pre-bed web-browsing I have just seen something that surprised me. A lot.

How many minutes of screentime would you guess that Best Lead Actor Oscar-winner Anthony Hopkins had in his role as Hannibal Lector in The Silence of the Lambs? To help you out a bit, the film is 118 minutes long.

Answer to be found in this very interesting article about award season category fraud.

But because I have been ill for the past few weeks, I have been doing all my Christmas shopping online. And because I don't usually buy so many things online, my credit card company keeps stopping my card. They stopped it yesterday; I called to ask them to start it again, and they did. And then they stopped it again this morning.

I mean, in years to come, I might be able to tell people that I was one of the lucky few who saw Edward Bennett in Hamlet, when he stepped in for David Tennant under dramatic circumstances, brought the house down with his spectacular performance, and launched his now-glittering career! Pity the poor folk who just saw boring old DT. Indeed, did I ever mention how I saw the actress who'd been the understudy in 42nd St and then took over the role, in a case of life imitating art? It was Catherine Zeta Jones. Fact. So the future me finds this totally exciting. Totally. Exciting.

I have three days to get as excited about seeing him as Hamlet as I was about seeing David Tennant. I have been a fan of David Tennant ever since Casanova, which was three years ago, so it's three years per day. It's a big ask but I reckon I can manage it. Otherwise, and I know it's an ensemble production etc etc, but it is a bit like going to see Aretha Franklin and finding out that she's lost her voice but they are going to do the gig anyway, with one of the backing singers on lead vocals. I mean, I'm sure the backing singer has a terrific voice. But she aint Aretha.

So, anyway, there is stuff to get excited about here. Ed has great eyebrows and nice lips. He probably kisses like a dream. Also, according to his Rada page, he can do the Lindy Hop and play the bongos. He has a clean driving license, which is important, because I don't have a car, and he likes swimming, and so do I. He likes swimming so much he has mentioned it twice. And he has played Hamlet at university, which is handy. We are totally overlooking the fact that not only does he hunt on horseback but he has put it on his CV. Because if not, that is going to fully interfere with the crush I have to develop by 7.30pm on Friday.

Mrs Edward Bennett. Mrs Marie Bennett. Mr and Mrs Phillips-Bennett.

I can probably wean him off the hunting.

So it turns out that I picked up an infection in Uganda - henceforth, "trip of doom" - and have been ill ever since, only I didn't notice, because given everything that happened there I expected to come back feeling exhausted and depressed, and the five days of stomach upset that followed were just par for the course, and I was stuck on the book before I left, so no wonder I was feeling despondent and uncreative when I got back, and it's winter, so you'd expect to get laryngitis, and a chest infection, and a cold, and the headaches and dizziness were probably just signs of stress, and the weird-smelling pee was probably just the malaria pills, and -

Well, I'm on antibiotics now. I should be better by the end of the week.

Pity me.

I have decided that the new mix tape should go in a poppier direction, to please my nephew's sisters (it is a family gift after all). Eldest niece has recently taken to playing Singstar and is particularly proficient at 'Push the Button'. So pop suggestions, please; but - and here's the tricky part - they should not be rubbish.

Remember The Ultimate Mix Tape which I made for my nephew when he turned eleven? Made with much input from you lovely souls, as I recall.

Well, I have just spoken to my sister who tells me that it is the only CD that they listen to in the car and now the family at large (Mum, Dad, two boys, two girls, ranging in age from 11 to 3) (not including parents: they're in their forties) have asked for a sequel. Which is where you come in. What seminal tunes have I left out? How can I progress from these basics - some new musical styles, perhaps?

That original tracklisting once again:

1. Space Oddity - David Bowie
2. Tell Me Why I Don't Like Mondays - Boomtown Rats
3. Alright - Supergrass
4. Park Life - Blur
5. Brown Sugar - The Rolling Stones
6. Common People - Pulp
7. Hanging on the Telephone - Blondie
8. Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nirvana
9. Psycho Killer - Talking Heads
10. The Lovecats - The Cure
11. Take Me Out - Franz Ferdinand
12. I Fought The Law - The Clash
13. Baggy Trousers - Madness
14. Signed, Sealed, Delivered - Stevie Wonder
15. Surfin' USA - The Beach Boys
16. Subterranean Homesick Blues - Bob Dylan
17. The Boxer - Simon & Garfunkel
18. I'm Only Sleeping - The Beatles
19. Me and Bobby McGee - Janis Joplin
20. Teenage Kicks - The Undertones
21. Another Brick In The Wall - Pink Floyd

My nephew's favourite was Space Oddity, so we should build on that. Funnily enough it was my favourite song when I was his age as well.

I think that my creative cup has run (temporarily) dry. It has been a tough couple of months. I have been very blog slack.

If you are missing me, there is a 40-minute radio interview with me here. I actually sound remarkably perky given that I was suffering from laryngitis at the time (and still am, or rather it has now mutated into a nasty chest infection.)

At some point in the future I am fully intending to have interesting thoughts again, and when I do, you will be the first to hear about them.

This is due to blogger laryngitis which has left me muted in every way. Austin's Paso was the best though, even if I could only whisper Ole.

I have just seen the most extraordinary advert. It's for some kind of antibacterial spray or something, I don't know what, I was laughing too hard to notice. In the ad, there's the usual voiceover about how bacteria from food is transmitted on chopping surfaces. Then a mother hands her baby a carrot baton that has been chopped on the same surface as some raw chicken. In the baby's hand, the carrot stick turns into a raw chicken leg. What I totally love about the ad is that in the corner, in small letters, you are assured that this is a "dramatisation". You read it here first: there are no germs fearsome enough to turn a carrot into a chicken. Yet. But until they develop that power, just in case, use Dettol.

Remember this? Yes, only a fortnight ago the Gender Analyzer was convinced to the tune of 76% that I was a bloke. Today, it is 95% sure that I am a woman.

Can it be coincidence that for the last few days I have blogged exclusively about bad sex, X Factor and Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage?

Word reaches me that the X Factor winner will be recording a cover of Leonard Cohen's 'Hallelujah' for their debut single. Putting aside that being a bit like the Strictly winner doing a showdance to Wagner, it does help one massively in the dilemma of who to vote for. The choice of 'Hallelujah' does point heavily towards an anticipated Diana win. Here she is mutilating 'Yellow'. She could do that to 'Hallelujah' too - "Remember h'when I moved in yeeew..."



But wouldn't it be much more fun to hand 'Hallelujah' over to softcore R'n'B (rhythm n boredom) quartet JLS (or as I always think of them, John Lewis Partnership)? Here they are paying homage to the Fab 4:



Or, my own particular favourite choice in this context, Eoghan Quigg. According to the X Factor website, Eoghan "grew up in Derry, Northern Ireland and is currently studying for his GCSEs... Singing since the age of two along to Disney cartoons, Eoghan would love to be the male equivalent of an Irish Leona Lewis. He found his voice whilst singing with the school choir and from then on, sang all the lead roles in the school musicals. Justin Timberlake is Eoghan’s idol and he got to the finals of Irish School Stars in their Eyes two years ago."

Ignoring the startling news that Justin Timberlake got to the finals of Irish Schools Stars In Their Eyes two years ago, Eoghan would seem to be the perfect choice to carry off the depth of Leonard Cohen's lyrics. Here he is with the equally profound Never Forget by Take That:



GCSEs? 11 plus, surely. Anyway, game over, he has my vote. I cannot wait to see him sing 'Hallelujah'.

And finally, a reminder of how it should be done:

Panorama: Addicted to Aid, November 24th 2008. You can probably only watch in the UK, and only for up to a week from transmission, ie until Sunday November 30th. It's about aid in Africa, and from my (albeit limited) experience it is bang on the money, as it were. The last few seconds are particularly thought-provoking.

I have been blogging, on various sites, for five and a half years. That's a lot of blogging. (Although, if I believe Malcolm Gladwell, it is slowly turning me into a genius, so I can't complain.) People often ask me why I blog, and I tell them: for fun. To practise writing. To feel part of the world when in reality I am sitting alone at home all day. To build up a lovely community of readers, who I can then flog books to. What I rarely say is: so that people will give me stuff. This is because people don't give me stuff, though I sweat blood and get blisters on my fingers to entertain them day in day out for five and a half years (see above) completely voluntarily and unpaid, and I will totally accept gifts and cash sent via my agent David Godwin at David Godwin Associates as a token of your appreciation, though please also send the receipt so I can swap it for something I actually want.

Anyway: enter Arthur Leone PR. A few weeks ago I happened to mention Dirty Dancing: The Musical on my blog, and to say thank you, they were kind enough to offer me two tickets to go and see it, though this did come with a veiled rebuke for not having given it its proper name: Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage. Just for having mentioned it! (And can I just say: Jimmy Choo, Tiffany, Apple (that's computers, not fruit, though I will accept fruit, I am not fussy), Porsche, Prada...)

So anyway, last night, off I went with a dear friend to see Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage. From here on in, dear reader, there will be spoilers. However, I am not too worried about this, as I am fairly sure that you divide neatly into two camps: people who have seen Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Screen, and therefore already know everything that happens in Dirty Dancing: the Classic Story On Stage, and those of you who have never seen Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Screen, have no intention of ever seeing Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Screen Or Stage, and therefore couldn't give a monkey's nut about spoilers.

And to be fair to those folk at Arthur Leone PR, Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage is not really a musical in the purest sense. This is to say that nobody breaks into song to describe the innermost feelings in their hearts. This is slightly disappointing: it does mean that there is no "I Carried A Watermelon" tango, no "Nobody Puts Baby In A Corner" Cha Cha Cha. On the other hand, this decision does save Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage from being really, really crap. You still get some on-stage singing, mainly set up as 'performance' at Kellermen's (the holiday camp where the play is set), and the rest of it is off-stage, either recorded or with the cast doing creditable impersonations of the original songs off the soundtrack. The choice to go au naturel with the music does mean that the eighties stuff off the soundtrack (She's Like The Wind, Hungry Eyes and of course I've Had The Time Of My life) sticks out miles, just like it did in the movie, and as with the movie I was left wondering why the hell Johnny Castle sets his final valedictory performance to a style of music that will not be invented until at least twenty years after the story is set. On the other hand, he does keep banging on about his exciting new ideas, so maybe that explains it. Me, I'd have been happy with a pachanga.

Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage is in the main a faithful representation of the original Dirty Dancing, as you would expect. It is, after all, The Classic Story On Stage. The cast have been chosen and made up to look like the original characters (Baby's wig is particularly brilliant), key scenes from the movie are acted out almost precisely as they are in the film, key dance routines also. And this is all to the good. There would have been rioting and people ripping out the seats had Baby carried a cantaloupe, sat in a circle, and if *that* lift had been omitted. In fact where the production starts to go wrong is where it decides to veer away from the movie, in, for example, the alarming "Civil Rights" sequence where a black cast member unaccountably sings in front of a rear projection of Martin Luther King for no reason whatsoever. Did Dr King dance? Did he dance dirtily? He was a church man. I think not. Also, upon consultation with my dear friend and companion, we are both convinced that nowhere in the original movie are the words "there's a lot of power in these wrists" uttered by Johnny Castle during the lift practice sequence. Because if they were, I would have been sure to respond, as I did audibly on the night, "I'm sure there are, mate." Also, in the movie, I am pretty certain that Johnny and Baby kiss at some point, probably prior to them having sex. (As an aside, the sex in Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage is kind of gross and projected onto screens at the rear so that you can have a really good look at it. Do not take your young kids.) There is no kissing in Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage. Why? Halitosis? Cold Sores? Incurable phobia of lip contact?

So you don't go to Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage for fresh interpretation, surprises, or snogging (though it might be worth a visit if you are a die-hard Martin Luther King fan.) So why do you go? Well, for the dancing. The dancing is spectacular. I have never seen anything like it in any musical I have seen, and believe me I have seen a lot of musicals. Like Sarah Palin, I may even be able to claim to have seen "all of them". The cast are incredible - special mention has to go to the girl playing Penny (the one who gets "knocked up" by "Robbie the creep" and thus precipitates the collapse of Baby's relationship with her father, leading Baby to be seated in a corner) who is about seven feet tall, one inch wide, and can insouciantly kick her ankles behind her head. The routines are fabulously choreographed, and intelligently too, allowing for contextual variation between people who "can dance" or "can't dance" while still making all the dancing enjoyable to watch. My only criticism of the dancing was that there was not enough of it. Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story on Stage, is pretty average in every respect except the dancing, but when it comes to the dancing, it is exceptional. Therefore it would seem like a good idea to topload the dancing, especially in the second half where the plot gets murky and a bit dull. Incidentally, Strictly fans, there is a lot of recognisable Latin dancing in this, and so you are primed to particularly enjoy it. I would go so far as to say that if you love Strictly you're in with a good chance of loving Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story on Stage, so run, don't walk etc.

On the other hand, if you love convincing American accents or for that matter convincing acting of any variety, if indeed actors being able to act is a bit of a deal breaker for you, you might want to consider staying away. The cast have been chosen for their dancing, and it shows in the best and worst possible way. Allow me to be blunt about this: a hell of a lot (though not all) of people on that stage can in no way act, and sadly amongst their number is lead male, Johnny Castle. Johnny Castle - whose dancing is undeniably brilliant - may be one of the worst actors I have ever seen. Every line he speaks goes beyond unconvincing into a whole new realm. Lovely companion and I got to the point where we wept tears of laughter every time he opened his mouth. As did the people in the row in front. Not only was it impossible to believe that he and Baby were in love, it was impossible to believe that Baby could even tolerate being in the same room with him, in fact I would go so far to say that it was impossible to believe that he was an actual human being, let alone a would-be gigolo trying to escape from a humdrum life as a house-painter through the medium of dance. (To be fair, anybody would have to be a pretty impressive actor to convince on that score.) The moment when Johnny Castle appears for his final dance - just before rescuing Baby from that corner - may be the most unintentionally hilarious stage moment I have ever witnessed, and I will not elaborate, so that you can appreciate it in all its glory.

So the obvious question remains: did I have the time of my life? Hell yes. Just not entirely in the way that the show's producers (or indeed Arthur Leone PR) might have wished. If you are the kind of person who loves reveling in so-bad-it's-good, and who will appreciate some extraordinary dancing on the side, I urge you to go right away to Dirty Dancing: The Classic Story On Stage. If, on the other hand, you veer towards the ept rather than inept in your performance standards, and are apt to tut and roll your eyes when Baby's Father changes accent for the thirtieth time of the night (though to be fair, we got the understudy), perhaps just stick to the original movie, as acted by actors, not dancers.

Finally! The Guardian has published extracts from all this year's shortlisted contenders for the Literary Review Bad Sex Award. Always my favourite award of the year, the chance to revel in some prose that's purple in every respect, often from some of the world's greatest writers (John Updike won a lifetime achievement award this year) which makes us hacks feel so much better. I have to say, though, that the quality over the last few years has been going up, which is to say down, which is to say that the bad sex really does not hit the embarrassment G spot in the way it used to. In fact some of this year's extracts (notably Simon Sebag Montefiore's) barely qualify as "unconvincing, perfunctory, embarrassing or redundant" in the words of the prize's founder, Auberon Waugh. Could it be that the Bad Sex Award has actually worked and made people write sex that is actually good? I do sincerely hope not.

Having said that, Rachel Johnson is arguably a worthy winner for sentences such as Almost screaming after five agonizingly pleasurable minutes, I make a grab, to put him, now angrily slapping against both our bellies, inside, but he holds both by arms down, and puts his tongue to my core, like a cat lapping up a dish of cream so as not to miss a single drop. Ugh. Do people really think of cats when having sex? But I do think that Ann Allestree has the right to feel robbed when she made such a sterling effort with 'Open your thighs,' he urged as he parted the folds of her vulva. 'You are so moist down there.' He stroked and probed her with two fingers as she felt her blood waken. He raised himself to his knees and bent to roll his tongue around her weeping orifice. Male readers: do not be fooled into thinking that words such as vulva, moist or (dear god no) "weeping orifice" are going to get many women's blood to waken. And Kathy Lette deserves a shout for He broke free with muscular ease, unhooked my bra with composed expertise, found my nipple and flicked his tongue back and forth until it went hard. His towel fell away. Sebastian's erect member was so big I mistook it for some sort of monument in the centre of a town. I almost started directing traffic around it. He rolled me sideways on to my back and, in one flowing motion, my tracksuit and panties were down, lassoing one ankle. His fingers edged up my thigh and then plunged inside me. All sounds a bit painful to me.

Congratulations to all involved, anyhow. I am weirdly jealous, there is some pretty grim sex in Gods Behaving Badly after all. As it happens, I met the Bed Sex Award organisers at a party a couple of years ago and begged to be on the jury one year, and they said they would consider it, as they backed, white-faced, from the room. Perhaps I will jog their memories. Or flick my tongue back and forth across their memories like a hungry cat...

You see, the purpose of watching the results show is not to find out who went off, the internet will tell you that. (It was Jodie and Ian, losing out to Lisa and Brendan.) It's to discover that Rachel's brothers are dead ringers for Phil and Grant Mitchell. No wonder she always gets the best dresses, the choice order in the show, the top marks. She's obviously threatened to send the heavies round. As the Mitchells would put it, it's FAM'lee, INnit.

So I couldn't be bothered to write separate posts about all of last night's TV. So sue me.

Strictly up first, chronologically speaking. Of course, I mooted a boycott due to Sergeantgate, but it's hard to maintain a boycott when you're alone at home of a cold Saturday evening and it's just there. Strictly this week seemed to have been designed with the intent of distracting truculent bloggers from writing about John Sergeant. By which I mean that you might switch on with the full intent of writing about John Sergeant, but it's bloody hard to stay focused when Tess Daly is wearing a black bondage boob tube with a tablecloth tucked in the front. (Later in the evening, Simon Amstell on Never Mind the Buzzcocks quizzed guest Alesha Dixon (still Britain's most perfect female) on her views about Tess being "dead behind the eyes", to which I would reply: so would you be if forced to dress as Undertaker Barbie.) Within two dances, the judges had nearly drawn blood in an argument over Christine and Matthew's unremarkable [insert whatever dance they were doing here; cannot be bothered to look it up.] Overmarking Rachel Steven's Foxtrot with four perfect tens was a late salvo to encourage viewer outrage away from the JS target, but none of this was ever going to work against Kristina Rihanoff's tears of farewell. "I admire you, I respect you, I adore you," she told John. Angry viewer from London allowed herself a little snivel.

But no time for mawkishness, because it was straight over to ITV for X Factor: the Take That special.

First question: am I the only person to have noticed that Take That's new single sounds exactly like Coldplay? Consider the evidence:



Also, that Mark can't stop wearing hats: which is celebrity shorthand for being bald.

Unexpectedly I totally loved the X Factor Take That special, mainly because it turns out that Take That songs are versatile / bland enough (delete according to inclination) to be adapted to any number of different styles, so everyone put in good performances, rather than the uncomfortable constipated karaoke that so often results. The other reasons were that they just seem so damn happy to be there, that I unexpectedly have a crush on Howard (I think: possibly Jason, one of ones who doesn't sing, anyway, and didn't take part in the rehearsal process because they have nothing to contribute), and also, after all the John Sergeant bitching, that it is quite refreshing to have a programme where all the contestants are fresh-faced ingenues that it is impossible to be horrible about, and the nastiness is mostly contained in the endless Simon-Louis war (Team Simon!). Oh, and in the results show, they had both Same Difference, recast as Sandy and Danny do High School Musical with BIG EXPRESSIVE FACES, *and* the singing albino robot butler Rhydian, performing their new singles.

Finally I watched Never Mind the Buzzcocks, in the course of which I discovered that Kelly Jones from the Stereophonics is a tosser (which I already knew) but knows it and doesn't care (which I didn't know, and makes me like him a whole lot better.)

At some point today I will blog about last night's television (Strictly! X Factor! Eddington and Einstein! Buzzcocks! Not all of which I will necessarily elaborate on, but talk about a top-class route to midnight.) But before I do, a preview: one of my favourite films of the last few years, Venus, is on Channel 4 tonight at 10.05. Although scripted by Hanif Kureishi and starring Peter O'Toole, this was largely overlooked on release, probably because it is about old people (boring / gross). Please don't let this put you off.

The main thrust of the story is the infatuation that ageing thesp Peter O'Toole develops for an unremarkable young girl, Jodie Whittaker. It's her very unremarkableness which is so seductive to O'Toole, who is mesmerised by her insouciant youth, a quality that he once had but can never get back as he passes his days trapped in his stubbornly decaying body, reading obituaries of his former friends and colleagues. His sensual lust for her is our pathway into understanding how vibrant O'Toole's inner life still is despite all outward appearances. His spirit is willing, but his flesh is weak.

What for me provides the beauty of this film are O'Toole's friendships, with Whittaker's uncle (Leslie Phillips) - a fellow thesp - and with his ex-wife, Vanessa Redgrave, with whom his relationship has passed beyond love, beyond bitterness, and into a sort of unquestioning interreliance which can only come from a lifetime of shared history. These characters may be old but they are not dead yet, and their emotional complexity, the depth which comes from their long life experience, their insistence on living every last ounce of life whilst facing death, makes you wonder why we spend all our filmic energy examining the comparatively shallow lives of the young and naive.

The film is incredibly moving and extremely funny and beautifully performed, as you'd expect from the likes of O'Toole, Phillips and Redgrave, though newcomer Whittaker doesn't let the side down either. Very highly recommended for a wintry night in.

From the letters page of today's Guardian:

The Strictly Come Dancing affair (Quick, quick, slow - and stop, as Sergeant quits Strictly, November 20) throws up some interesting issues with regard to the evaluation of culture - should its public value be assessed by a group of experts or more democratically? Experts often find accommodation of Joe (or Jo) Public and the democratisation of decision-making processes problematic as they reckon that there are important educational and aesthetic meanings underpinning worthwhile art which can be learned, a legitimate culture that they represent which reflects their expertise and understanding, hence they literally know best.

Firstly, this fails to accommodate how culture changes and how meaning cannot be controlled by experts. Secondly, although traditionally art has been seen as in opposition to entertainment, it has always appropriated aspects (from Niccolò Paganini's virtuoso displays on the violin in the early 19th century to Carsten Höller's slide installation in the Tate Modern in 2006) muddying differentiation and clarity. Thirdly, to assume that entertainment is not serious art and therefore of lesser importance fails to appreciate its subversive and humbling qualities, which can be likened to carnivalesque parody, which in this particular instance may be Jo Public's understanding of its role. And who is to say that this is not legitimate use of public money?

Dr Paul Clements

London

So we're all clear now? Excellent. Let that be the final word on the subject.

I haven't said anything on this blog so far about the Jonathan Ross / Russell Brand debacle. It all kicked off when I was in Uganda, on a trip where I spent much of the time talking to pubescent girls, living in extreme poverty, about their daily fears of rape, both on their walks to and from school and from their own teachers, and how they feel forced into de facto prostitution when their own families can't or won't give them food, soap or other essential needs, and the only way they can get them is by having sex with older, richer men. Perhaps understandably, I felt that the British public and media could really do with opening their eyes and looking around if they wanted to find something to get offended about.

All of that said, I can't help but be amused by reading in today's Guardian that following Jonathan Ross's standing down from the British Comedy Awards, Angus Deayton would be taking over presenting duties. That's Angus "cocaine and prostitutes" Deayton. Three cheers for cleaning up television!

That's Philip Rhys, standing with an empty bag, shouting "Pussy".

Found via MediumRob.

Alastair Campbell has been nominated for this year's Bax Sex in Fiction award.

Do you think he might resign because there is a serious possibility he could win it?

John Sergeant is leaving Strictly Come Dancing.

To say I am cross about this would be an understatement. I'm genuinely upset and quite disgusted. This is a case of bullying pure and simple, and it doesn't matter that it's on a kitsch sequinny TV dance show, bullying is bullying and I hate it wherever it is. I was bullied myself and it doesn't matter if you're a 12 year old girl or a broadcaster in your 60s, it's incredibly cruel.

All the fuss over whether John Sergeant should go has revealed what was always implicit in the show but that I chose to ignore: that the producers deliberately invite certain people on to be fall guys, stooges who they know will never be able to dance, who the judges can be rude to and who we can mock at home before self-righteously voting them out.

Obviously, we are not supposed to like the fall guy and vote to keep him in. That's when all the hysteria kicks in about "proper dancers" not being able to go through and it not being "fair". Well if that's the case, why not pre-decide an order of who goes out when so that we can be assured of an Austin - Tom - Rachel final regardless of who the viewers - for whom the programme is made - want to watch.

Yes, *want to watch*. That is the whole point. It is just a game. Its only purpose is to entertain viewers. It is not a political election. Nothing rides on it. Every week there are fewer dancers, so you can vote, if you want to, for who you want to stay in. You can vote on the basis of who's got the best fleckle if you like, or you can vote for who you *want to watch* dancing regardless of ability, or you can vote because you like the number 6 so whoever is dancer number 6 gets your vote every week. That's your business and it *doesn't matter*. It is *not important*.

What is important is when the message goes out loud and clear that a contestant is too old, ugly and talentless to be on the show - though not too old, ugly and talentless to have been invited to be on the show in the first place - and now he is no longer welcome. Even though the viewers - *for whom the show is made* - want him to stay in.

Shall we now look forward to a time when every contestant on Strictly can already dance and is young and beautiful to boot? Is that not, as Craig would say, D - U - L - L dull?

John wasn't my favourite and I wasn't voting for him but other people were and given that I have spent the last 32 years in a democracy I have figured out how that works by now. It's what most people want, so the rest of us go along with it.

Now I don't feel inclined to vote for any of the remaining dancers or, for that matter, to watch. The fun has completely gone out of it. I feel like I have just watched someone be kicked out of a party I was at for being too old. Now I want to go home too.

Here's a last question: so what if John had won Strictly? Why would it have mattered? Because someone young and pretty couldn't have the prize? Oh boo hoo.

I think Strictlywatch 2008 may have just reached the end of the road.

I have just received an e-mail from Lastminute.com saying that as I loved 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf', I should also enjoy 'The Sound of Music', 'Phantom of the Opera' and eating pizza.

Recently I went to lunch with another author friend and I mentioned I'd been having a lot of trouble with the story for my next book. She said, "Have you resorted to reading The Seven Basic Plots yet?"

Why yes, as it happened, I had started it that very morning. The basic premise is this: every story that has ever been written - or written successfully - can be boiled down to fitting in with one of the Seven Basic Plots. (One or more, that is. Lord of the Rings is all seven.) The plots are: Overcoming the Monster, Rags to Riches, The Quest, Voyage and Return, Comedy, Tragedy and Rebirth.

[Aside that few will get: turns out I don't favour the Oxford comma after all, Persephone. But then again I am a Cambridge girl.]

To get detail on how those plots work, you'll have to read the book - which is 700 pages long, so you'll need some spare time - but you can get the gist just by looking at their names. They're archetypes which provide satisfying arcs for stories, without which you can be left feeling that something is wrong, that your plot's not "happening", not moving. They can be perverted and inverted but ultimately, if what you're working on doesn't even almost cosy up to one of these plots, it is worth giving some thought to why not. I am sure that you can get away from them and write other types of stories (stream of consciousness poeticism or whatever - definitely not my style) but you will need something damn impressive to replace them with. Ultimately, these arcs are satisfying, and there's a reason we have been using them over and over again for thousands of years.

I am only halfway through Tragedy with Rebirth yet to go, and then hundreds of pages of explanation of archetypes within archetypes, but already I'd say it's proving enormously useful in terms of how I think about story, and spotting where things that I have written have got wrong - and right. Gods Behaving Badly is a Quest with a Voyage and Return in it, possibly a touch of Overcoming the Monster, and the whole thing plays out as a Comedy. Not bad for 80,000 words.

I'll report back when I've finished it (if indeed I do finish it - book is *long*) but so far so useful. Highly recommended to other authors, struggling or not.

According to GenderAnalyzer, found by way of Oye Billy, there is a 76% likelihood that The Woman Who Talked Too Much is written by a man. It does slightly make you wonder which tools they are using to perform the analysis. According to the site, it uses "artificial intelligence", which is not quite the same as real intelligence, which might have focused on (a) the name of the blog, (b) the content, or (c) the tendency to post pictures of David Tennant looking sultry.

I am a boy. The reason my new novel hasn't come out yet is that I am too busy having slow, painful electrolysis of my entire body, hair by sizzling hair.

Here, if you missed it:



Warning to the impressionable: it features an entire minute (I timed it) of David Tennant walking around in circles with his mouth slightly open. I'd quite like to see this in soft-focus slow-motion rescored with "The Windmills Of Your Mind". It doesn't feature a whole lot else, except enough David Morrissey as "The Doctor [2]" to convince me that he is not, after all, our new Doctor. For a start, he'd have recognised David Tennant as himself. For a second start, he didn't seem to know what a cyberman was (or a cyber head anyway.) Plus he was overacting like crazy. David Morrissey doesn't overact unless he is playing someone who is overacting.

And anyway, I want Philip Glenister to be the new Doctor.

Nine weeks into Strictly and I have realised my problem with this series: I basically don't like any of the dancers much aside from Ian and Jodie, and I don't want them to win because they are a bit rubbish. I'm not sure that anybody else is mad keen on anyone either, so in the absence of an obvious standout like Alesha or Mark Ramprakash, why not vote for John, seeing as he's at least someone you can look forward to watching dance? Yes, it's not a popularity contest, but who wants to watch someone that they don't like dancing? I'm already looking forward to 2009.

But anyway, to the dances. Ian and Jodie did a servicable quickstep, which got overmarked, possibly in an attempt to ward off sympathy votes and drive them into the bottom two; Lisa and Brendan did a samba that was lousy in the contest and significantly better in the dance off, but she still makes me think of those bitchy popular girls at school; Christine and Matthew did another boring dance, waltz this time; Cherie and James did a Cha Cha Cha that was decent on the night and worse in the dance off, so they were rightly sent home, and anyway I've gone right off her since I read someone describe her as "haughty" and now it's all I can think every time I see her do anything; Austin and Erin did a good tango, and I do like a tango, but he reminds me of a best man who can't stop smirking to himself because he thinks he's written the funniest speech EVER; Rachel and Vincent's rumba was excellent and - well, actually I am warming to Rachel now but I still think she's a tad bland, plus I can't help but be suspicious of anyone who can dance a good rumba - suggests fatal lack of sense of humour; John and Kristina were relatively highly marked for a passable American Smooth, which I thought was the nuclear option from the judges - "Look, we aren't bullying him, we like him too, you don't have to teach us a lesson, everything's OK, now just VOTE HIM OFF"; and Tom and Camilla did a lithe salsa which just reinforced all my worst fears about Tom being a bit of a sleaze.

I don't know, they are probably all lovely people if I met them - I mean, it's highly unlikely that they are all ghastly, as random selections of human beings are usually skewed towards niceness, and I'm sure it can't be that different for celebrities. But for some reason this is how they are coming across to me. So I don't have a favourite really and I'm not voting for anybody. But I am starting to wonder if John could actually win this thing...

Dances here.

UPDATE: I posted all of that without even mentioning the worst thing of all: Brucie in the results show. That painfully unfunny dance with Anton! That freakish interview with Tom Jones ("Do you still like braised tarts?" - er what? Not a double entendre apparently, not even a single entendre.) I'd say it was time for him to retire but as they're clearly lining up Anton as a successor I'm not sure there's going to be much improvement. Oh no - is my love affair with Strictly coming to an end? Or am I just in a particularly grumpy mood?

I know. I can't bear it either.

I have just used the last of last Christmas's stamps.

A friend of mine just sent me this - the Cat Concerto - my favourite Tom and Jerry cartoon (of those I can remember, anyway) so I thought I'd share it with you.



Which in turn reminded me of that great episode of Black Books where Bernard "plays" the piano to impress a girl... I can't embed the clip but you can watch it here.

I like stories. And I like dance. So you'd think I'd be all over narrative ballet. It's storytelling in dance form! All boxes ticked, right? But watching Mark Morris's Romeo & Juliet at the Barbican over the weekend I felt a stealthy malaise come over me. What on earth, I kept thinking, is the point of this?

To rewind a little, I don't know much about ballet, though I've seen three or four, and I do enjoy contemporary dance. Mark Morris is a key contemporary choreographer - one I've never seen before - and I was excited to read he's be staging Prokoviev's R&J, as I love the score. To add to my interest, Morris had chosen to direct Prokoviev's never-heard original version of the score, in which the friar does reach Romeo in time and saves the day, and the lovers don't die. This radical version was instantly suppressed by Stalin who took a dim view of pro-Christian propaganda (either that or he had surprisingly purist feelings about Shakespeare.) So I thought it would be eclectic and unusual and quite different from traditional classical ballet. And entertaining, naturally.

Well, to begin with I have to say that I didn't notice anything particularly different in Mark Morris's choreography than I would expect from any classical ballet. There was some nudity and a bit of simulated sex at the opening of the third act (big disappointment for the people in front of us who went home after the first two), and two of the main male roles (Mercutio and Tybalt) were played by women - an inspired decision which allowed for an excess of swagger and playfulness around sexuality which wouldn't have been possible with male dancers - think the exaggerated femininity of a drag queen in reverse.

But aside from that it was disappointingly predictable. I'd even go so far as to say that it was a distressingly literal reading of the work, with lots of crowd scenes where people come in and mime saying oh hello, nice to see you, is that the time and so on. It actually reminded me of watching Playschool. The bits with the Friar were particularly cringe-inducing, poor chap - lots of miming around the poison "if you DRINK this you will SLEEP and then you'll appear DEAD but when the SUN COMES UP you will WAKE" - imagine miming that, and you're pretty much there. Maybe it's not Morris's fault - there is a lot of story in Romeo and Juliet, and I suppose you've got to make sure the audience is following the drift. But it was the very adherence to narrative that I found so off-putting. I was hoping for something oblique, an emotional reading, deboned of story, but suffused with a deeper truth. They call Mark Morris an iconoclast after all. What I got was exposition through gesture, and lots of it.

Thankfully there was a saving grace - quite literally - in the form of Rita Donahue as Juliet. It was as if she was in a completely different ballet. Every time she appeared on stage everything changed, the entire work lifted, and suddenly I felt as if I were seeing into someone's soul. I forgot all the intellectual buzzing in my head (I'm sure you're not actually supposed to be sitting there silently debating with yourself whether ballet is a dated art form or whether it has always looked this bloody stupid) and became lost in the elegance and dramatic subtleties of her performance. Suddenly it all made sense, she was the embodiment of all the narrative potential of dance, the way in which, like music, it can give you insights into the personal, emotional spaces which ordinary words and gesture can't. She was glorious, she was beautiful. And then her scene would be over and off she'd go, and on would gallumph a bunch of Renaissance peasants doing a drama school version of "now we are brawling in the streets!"

File under disappointing work by allegedly great masters that I have wasted time and money on at the Barbican.

Total purchases of the man in front of me in the queue at the supermarket today:

- Champagne
- Condoms
- Baby oil

Give Americans the vote and they choose Barack Obama. Give the British the vote and they put Heather and Rachel in the bottom two of Strictly, and Ruth and Laura in the bottom two of X Factor. Dismal. Depressing. Democracy.

...in bizarro colour, due to funny picture on my computer screen. So spent an entertaining amount of the programme trying to figure out whether the dresses really were that ugly or I was having picture-balance based hallucinations.

Competition hotting up now, as almost all the duff dancers are out of the race. This is when I really start enjoying things, when you can actually start being amazed by how well the celebrities are dancing. Unlike other years when someone has really captured my heart, there are lots of dancers I am enjoying but none I am truly loving - although my nearest to a favourite would have to be -

Tom and Camilla, who danced first. Absolutely loved this quickstep, especially all the bonkers leaping around stuff that Tom did at the beginning and the end. He looked like some kind of brilliantly possessed penguin. He must get into the final and dance this dance again. Maybe wearing a fake beak. Also, they were dancing to 'A Town Called Malice', and there's a special place in my heart for song choices which make the singers have to put on terrible fake cockernee accents. If I went on Strictly I would dance to an exclusive melange of Blur, Ian Drury, and The Streets, for this very reason.

Next up Jodie and Ian, dancing a samba. I love Jodie and Ian but this was pretty bad. In fact it so bad that I fear this may be their last dance. Of course, it wasn't the worst - John was the worst - but I'm not sure the public's love affair with John has ended yet, so if Ian and Jodie end up in the bottom two with anyone else (and really they should) I fear that they are gone. It does make me sad that my last memory of Jodie will be playing fake maracas.

Then came Heather and Brian, dancing a tango. I am biased because the tango is one of my favourite dances (though I don't love it as much as the Argentine Tango) and also because I think I could watch alien-faced Brian take the bins out with joy in my heart, but this was a big step up for Heather - probably the best she will manage all season - and it should be good enough for her to avoid yet another dance off. Also they played the wild card of having her mother turn up to training in a Hurricane Heather t-shirt, and surely you can't go out the week your mother turns up to training in a Hurricane Heather t-shirt.

After that was Austin and Erin, getting down and slightly disgusting in a rumba. I have every sympathy for Austin when he said in training that the rumba is a stupid dance, because it is. He looked very stupid dancing it. Moving swiftly on.

Cherie and James followed them with a lovely waltz. Of course, if they hadn't managed a lovely waltz I'd have pickled Len's walnuts for him. It was beautiful, but an easy choice for Cherie, and not quite enough for me to banish memories of the horror of her terrible salsa which gets worse the more I think about it (I actually didn't think her paso was that bad.) Despite the fact that I picked her (maybe rashly) for a finalist, Cherie needs another good week to convince me, preferably in a Latin dance. I think she would do and incredible Argentine Tango so I hope she stays in long enough to perform one of those.

Then Christine and Matthew, with a jive, the only thing about which I can remember is that much was made of Christine's newfound ability to point her toes. Vote for Christine! She can point her toes! I wonder if she could be a surprise addition to the bottom two this week.

Then Rachel and Vincent. If Rachel and Vincent ever danced at the start of the show the world would end. I think they have friends on the production staff, because Rachel tends to get the best dresses as well. Rachel and Vincent were dancing the American Smooth, which confused everyone by being unlike any other American Smooth we have ever seen - ie based on a quickstep rather than a foxtrot. Given that I, like everyone else who is not a judge on Strictly Come Dancing, thought I knew what an American Smooth should look like and this wasn't it, I spent the whole dance thinking "this isn't an American Smooth" only to be told that it was, and then I couldn't remember if I liked it or not. As an Aside, in training, Rachel went to the set of Dirty Dancing the Musical, and I can't help but think that the announcement of her joining the cast as Baby is only weeks away.

John and Kristina danced a Cha Cha Cha next. They were as bad as you'd expect, and my personal tide has turned against John at this precise moment because I have realised that if he doesn't go out, Jodie and Ian will. Kristina's choreography continues to be excellent and I hope they give her a good dancer next year because I want to see what she can really do.

Lastly, Lisa and Brendan with a Viennese Waltz. As with all Viennese Waltzes, I was distracted by trying to figure out what a Viennese Waltz is and why it is different from a bog standard waltz. As with all Viennese Waltzes, I got to the end none the wiser. Another one that I forgot to check whether I liked it or not, but the judges certainly got all excited.

And there we have it. Dances can all be seen here. And as a special treat, the boogie penguin:

The PVR had a sulk and didn't record it. That's a serious magnitude of sulking. I will have to watch online and get back to you. But it isn't the same.

(Ironically, I missed watching it live because I was at the... ballet.)

Just passing on my personal congratulations...

Anyway, as well as voting for President this week, some states were voting on issues that also take the temperature of current American thinking.

California, Arizona and Florida voted to ban gay marriage in their states. (Boo! Also, Obama spoke out against gay marriage, which makes me feel a little depressed.)

Michigan voted to allow medical use of marijuana. (Yay!)

Nebraska voted to ban affirmative action based on gender or race. (Um, well, there are arguments either way...)

Washington State voted to allow doctor-assisted suicide for terminally ill patients. (I am in favour, but "yay" seems a callous way of putting it.)

It'll be interesting to see how these pan out and if they catch on nationally / internationally.

Barack Obama's wonderful acceptance speech is both on video and transcribed here. Seriously, the man can talk. It actually made me a bit tearful, which isn't something I say about political speeches every day. And not only in a good way. I'm with John Cleese in Clockwise on this: it's not the despair, it's the hope, the terrible hope. It's hard not to see Obama as some kind of magic wand that will heal the whole world. He's so attractive and so charismatic and says all the right things. (I've learned to be wary of men like that.) And then there is the glorious optimism of all the people who voted for him, and in particular the culmination of the dreams of the civil rights movement and of black America. (Damn, am going to have to type fast, I am getting teary again.) But in the end he is just some bloke. And the USA and the world are in such a lousy state. The reason hope is so awful is that it's so high risk. The fear of disappointment is so great. Will we look back in four or eight years' time, disillusioned, wondering what all the fuss was about? I sincerely hope not.

And while we're on the subject of disappointment, can we just discuss this?

Oh Michelle, what were you thinking? The greatest moment of your husband's life and you choose a dress that combines to make you look pregnant and funereal and covered in blood all at once? I hate to say it but this looks as if you chose it just in case your husband was assassinated at the critical moment, so that it wouldn't show the stains.

Last time I was this excited about an election was when Tony Blair got in in 1997! Yay! Tony Blair! Remember how great he was and how we totally still love him and get all excited about him now?

Oh.

Anyway, go Obama.

If you can stand it, there's a half hour long interview with me here. The interview was done for German TV so you will have to negotiate a German website and guess some of the things to click on. Also, you'll need pop ups enabled. And the first minute is in German before it goes into English. But if you get through that you can enjoy two girls in short skirts on a sofa, one of whom is me, one of whom should really have brushed her hair first, one of whom is me.

Andrew is gone. Praise be. I couldn't handle another dance from him and I certainly couldn't handle seeing more of his horrible "trendy dad" leather jacket in the practice footage.

Also, this was the first results show that I have watched in full without fastforwarding everything. I don't know if it's because I was too ill to press FF or because Bruce has got so doddery (doddery he is) that they no longer give him anything much to say but just hurry along to the pro dances, which is all I really want to see. They were top notch this week, and a special shout out to Lilia's bum in the Proud Mary dance. It is a force of nature. I also particularly appreciated how pissed off Kelly "Take Me Seriously" Jones from the Stereophonics looked performing with a bunch of sequined dancers, obviously forced into it by his record company desperately trying to raise his solo profile.

Lilalia has asked me to review my choices for the final. I reckon Austin and Tom, with Cherie if she can pull herself together. My previous girl choice was Rachel but I'm not sure if she's connecting with the public. It's quite an open thing, Rachel could easily still make it, as could Lisa if she continues to improve and people can get over the fact that she is dancing with Brendan. Which is a big ask...

The briefest of reviews today because aside from everything else, I appear to have picked up a bug in Uganda so I am now addressing you between meals of dry crackers and plain boiled rice. It is really not my week.

Anyway, last week's Strictly was a little disappointing mainly because of the lack of capes in the Paso Doble, so I was delighted to see Tom rectify that this week, even if it did send Len into apoplexy. This week I enjoyed much more. Now that Mark's gone (in last night's traditional Saturday night Strictly dream, he was having an affair with Camilla, in case you're interested) there are very few really duff dancers left, and one of them is John, who doesn't count because he's so great to watch anyway. Some of the dancers I didn't warm to much at the beginning (eg Austin, and Lisa who did a terrific tango) are really growing on me, and previously guaranteed yawnfests such as Christina are turning out lovely dances. Cherie was weak this week, and I hope she picks up, because she is probably my favourite when she is on form. Ian and Jodie on the other hand were excellent, and very poorly marked for what I thought was a beautiful waltz.

This week I'd like to see Heather (forgettable) and Andrew (embarrassing) in the bottom two, with Andrew to go. I really hope he isn't saved by a sympathy vote for his knee injury. His knee certainly had nothing to do with those awful arm thrusty things.

Dances from week 7 here.

On Tuesday morning - the day after her 91st birthday - my wonderful grandmother died. My sister has written a lovely post about her over here which says everything that I could hope to say, aside from that I'd also add about her fixation with the British Royal Family, leading to a serious Hello magazine / Point de Vue addiction and a habit of naming her budgies after ill-fated royal couples (Charles and Diana, Andrew and Fergie.) She was a fabulous woman who seems to be laughing in all of my memories, and will be very sadly missed by my family.

Please excuse a bit of silence from me while I try to adjust after a difficult stretch in Uganda, as well as this time of grieving. It is all a bit much and I can't seem to find the creative energy to be writing about it. Back to normal as soon as I can.

Last night I dreamt about Strictly Come Dancing. Well, it was Saturday after all. And then woke up under mosquito netting with the sound of Gandalady's kids playing in the next room. Yes, I am still in Uganda.

What hits you first about Uganda is the colours. Bright red earth, lush dark green vegetation and on a day like today a bold blue sky too (it is rainy season, so there has been a lot of cloud.) The dark black skin of the people. The jewel colours of school uniforms. And every shop that you pass - and almost every building you pass is a shop, even if a tiny bedraggled one the size of the cupboard under the stairs - is painted the bright colours of a company's brand, the hot yellows and pinks of the local mobile phone suppliers, the blood red of Coke, royal blue of Pepsi, and slogans, slogans everywhere: "Live on the Coke side of life!" "Cadbury's tastes as chocolatey as it looks!" "Africa's official drink of having a drink!"

And then the movement. People everywhere. Lorries, minibuses, cars, motorbikes, bicycles all weaving in and out of each other's dust. Nominally you drive on the left here. In fact it is survival of the fittest, or at least the biggest wheels. And anyway, the "left" might just be a great big hole. Cows, goats and chickens share the road with you, somehow managing to avoid getting hit. Ugandan cows have huge, long, curling horns that you really don't want wrapped around your fender. They move at a leisurely pace, unshockable. I suspect they are all deaf.

Oh yes, the noise! From those lorries, minibuses, cars and motorbikes, all hooting as loud as they can... And from the ubiquitous radio. The local stations are called Radio One and Capital FM. Sounds familiar? There is one English man who does all the jingles for every station before handing over to the Ugandan accented DJs. I imagine him as a young, blond dude hanging out at Kampala's swimming pools drinking cold beers and waiting for another radio station to start up. Ugandan taste in muic is broad. Sometimes a little too broad. If Phil Collins is tired of England he could start a new life here no problem. My personal preference is for the Dolly Parton that I hear everywhere, in cars, in hotels, on ths stereo in bars. "Coat of Many Colours" seems too appropriate here.

Everyone is warm and friendly. Elaborate greetings and even more elaborate handshakes from each person that you meet. The trick is to hold out your hand as limp as you can and let it be manipulated until the other person feels like stopping. Some handshakes defy even this manoeuvre. An elderly man holds out his arm, hand facing down. A village woman kneels at your feet.

People dress as smartly as they possibly can. Immaculately dressed women, every garment meticulously ironed, not a speck of dust on them despite the ankle-deep red mud, must look at me - creased and crumpled clothes from the bottom of the suitcase, Crocs on my feet (what looks ludicrous in London is perfect for rainy season Uganda) - and wonder what on earth I am playing at. Or perhaps they don't. A Ugandan woman speaks admiringly of the simplicity of European life. Even our politicians ride bicycles. (David Cameron's face is the first that I see stepping into my hotel, on a screen showing Sky News on the wall above check in.)

In the heart of this embracing, enveloping, charming culture is a hard stone. The people are poor. Poverty is boring to write about. What is there to say? We have money, they don't have money. We have stuff, they don't have stuff. I drive for three hours out of Kampala. Every single person I pass is poor. In the villages, you are wealthy if you have a second room to your mud hut, if you can eat more often than once a day. A family proudly display a clock, their only luxury. It doesn't tell the time. We ask whether a local school needs books. They reply that first of all they need a classroom.

Another stone: the threat to girls of enforced sex. From anyone, everyone. Primarily their teachers. How else to get good grades? Girls are sometimes pushed into sex with older men by their own families. It is a useful way to get them out of the house. After a while they get desensitised and then the borders between the exploited and the exploiter are more confusing. Girls will offer sex for university entrance, for one chapati. What does informed consent mean now? There are signs everywhere promoting abstinence. Posters in school read: "Young people refuse gifts for sex", "virginity is heathly for boys and girls", "sex does not make breasts grow" (It doesn't? Damn it). Huge billboards show a large, middle-aged African man: "Would you let this man have sex with your teenage daughter? Then why are you with his? Cross generational sex stops with you." I feel sorry for the model who has posed for the photograph. I visit a project for sex workers in Kampala. They sit guardedly, arms folded across their fronts, no elaborate handshakes from them. There are 3000 prostitues in just this one suburb. They tell stories of underage rape, unwanted pregnancy, being thrown out of home, that the sex trade is the only way they can make money. They are raped by their clients, they are raped by the police. The project promotes condom use. "We can make men wear condoms, but we are still sex workers", points out one woman: in other words, what is the point? They all want other jobs. But there are no other jobs. And for each one that leavs - or more likely, dies - there is another to take her place.

I say good bye, step back to the car. Dolly Parton on the stereo again: "Working nine to five". Did she mean nine at night until five in the morning? We drive off into the city. Everywhere, people smiling, working hard, making things, buying, selling, struggling to make a living, doing the best that they can. Children see our car passing and wave with excitement at the white people inside. It's a beautiful country.

Yes Uganda! I am heading there today for the charity Plan International as part of their Because I Am A Girl campaign. I'll be writing about the lives of Ugandan girls for an anthology published by Vintage which is due out in January 2010 - put the date in your diary now! I won't remind you! Well maybe I might.

The other authors taking part are Irvine Welsh, Joanne Harris, Kathy Lette, Deborah Moggach, Henning Mankell, Tim Butcher and Xiaolu Guo. And maybe Jeanette Winterson. In fact I should probably say that the whole list is subject to change, I don't want to get into trouble... But yeah, good company huh? Mainly it's a reminder that I really need to get a website that I didn't just throw together myself one afternoon, and that I update more often than once every six months. Praise be for Tim Butcher who doesn't seem to have a website at all.

So, what will I be doing in Uganda? Visiting some of Plan's projects and the people that they help. I'll be spending about four days in a village around three hours drive from the capital Kampala, as well as meeting some girls who are sex workers in Kampala itself. I will also be finding time to drop in on Gandalady. I'm hoping to be able to blog about my experiences while I'm there, but obviously not with the kind of regularity to which you have almost become accustomed except that every so often I skip a day without warning. However, allowing for power cuts, computer stubbornness and dysentery, I might not blog until I get back at the beginning of November, so please don't assume that no news is bad news (except perhaps for my guts).

Meanwhile enjoy the end of the month, and just in case you were tempted to get all jealous about my departure for warmer climes, don't forget that it's rainy season...

UPDATE: From an e-mail I just got, I realised I should have made clear: we authors are all going to different countries, so I am off to Uganda by myself! (With Plan representatives.) Not sure whether I'll ever get a chance to meet the other authors...