Eep the first time I tried to send this it was in HTML format, which makes me a VERY BAD PERSON. Just goes to show how little I post, eh? *And I find it kind of funny I find it kind of sad* Coming back to work after a holiday sucks like a Dyson, especially when you have to go home after a hard Tuesday and take the lovely twinkly fibre-optic Christmas tree (with mini mirrorball baubles) down because it's Twelfth Night. If I'd had a company of rude mechanicals handy I'd have laid seige to the fairies in pique, but luckily it turned out that there was none available, so I could veg out in front of Property Ladder instead. Still, it's not as though I've got very much work to do at the moment, which is not actually that much fun if you're a temp stuck with a Christian Finn in a boring poky room in a hospital medical secretariat. I pass some of the time reading free e-books from Project Gutenberg and have just finished Roald Amundsen's account of his journey to the South Pole today, after which I moved straight on to the Wizard of Oz. Ah, but nothing, not even ruby slippers, can compare to Sinister International Bowling Day's glory of coming second in two games to the whirlwind B!O!W!L!I!N!G! sensation that is Mr Kenneth Chu. OK, so the margin between him and the rest of us was over a hundred points in the second game, but I was still in the silver medal position, right? After that there was rubbish pool playing, DDR stardom for Lucy English Teacher and the lovely Miss Sally (soon to be drawn into our web of intrigue, hopefully) and lots more drinking and talking rubbish, hurrah. *The dreams in which I'm dying Are the best I've ever had* So the bleedin' gas people started (with the charming assistance of big loud pneumatic drills) digging up the pavement right outside my house at past midnight on Tuesday evening, shortly after I'd gone to sleep. This was pretty annoying, as you can probably imagine, and so, in a mildly sleep-deprived rage, I've written a snippy letter to the appropriate authority. It's not often that I do something quite so Disgusted Of Tunbridge Wells, but hey! Everyone needs to be small-minded and petty sometimes, and I try to make up for all the saints who are no doubt milling about the world with the rest of us. After I eventually got to sleep, however, I dreamed that the flatmate who's shortly moving to Clapham or somesuch bastion of respectability had suddenly announced that she hated me and all I stand for utterly. In the dream this didn't bother me overly, as I managed to remember in that dreamy sort of way that she's moving out soon. However, when I woke up far too soon, I became slightly perturbed in case it was an sign that I had been laughing too loud at the random Rumiko Takahashi manga I got out of the library yesterday, which had annoyed said flatmate enough to send bad vibes into my dreams. She is a lawyer, after all, and I suspect them of occult powers, what with being in league with the Dark Lord and all. My mum's chilli con carne just before Christmas gave everyone who ate it weird cheese-dreams as well. Are there any psychoactive agents in chillies or kidney beans? Biochemists in the house? *I find it hard to tell you 'Cos I find it hard to take* I really am a terrible correspondent. I should make it a New Year's Resolution to actually keep in proper contact with people I should keep in proper contact with. Of course, transferring email addresses from the accursed Hotmail to this more congenial provider has made it easier for me to look into my inbox without wincing at the horrible spam content thereof. Despite the aforementioned weeny HTML format error. But anyway, here's a half-arsed gig review. *When people run in circles It's a very, very Mad World* It was pretty strange being on stage at the Astoria, still more so doing indie karaoke to a bossa nova beat with several porn-'tached men. Still, Johnny 7 did the job, more or less, but I think Stefano fared a little better than I did, although they did start playing entirely the wrong song (i.e. not Can't Get You Out of My Head) at first for him. It would also have been better if I could have remembered all the words to Heart of Glass instead of having to refer to a sheet of paper clutched in my sweaty palm several times. Bah. But enough about me. The gig was really enjoyable after my adrenaline rush had subsided enough to allow me to enjoy my overpriced and rather warm beer. From a can: I'm a classy lady, you know. I completely fell in love with Mick when he did his shy Sinatra impression. Aw bless. Nice suit as well. Stuart did seem a little lackadaisical at first, but maybe he was merely pooped from compering the wondrous karaoke support when he would rather have been backstage snorting crack off whores. Diamond-encrusted mud-wrestling midget whores. Still, he perked up a bit for the latter portion of the show, and they played some of my bestest favourite songs, although I can't remember exactly what now. People who can reel off set lists after stepping out of the heady (sweaty) atmosphere of a venue into the cold clear night air amaze me; I couldn't tell you what a band played if they had the titles tattooed across their fetching abdomens and wore crop tops. I kind of wish they hadn't done Piazza, New York Catcher, though. It seemed a bit wrong to have something that intimate displayed with ten different coloured lighting gels on the stage and a hobnobbing London audience. Not so much chitchattery as usual from the metrosexual crowd, however, which can only be positive, although I suspect that this is a symptom of the prematurely middle-aged coming to enjoy B&S as an alternative to wearing uncomfortable footwear and going out on the razzle. For instance, I and my companions went for a nice companionable curry afterwards, rather than fighting our way through the headscarfed and bebadged masses to squeeze into a tiny club in order to appreciate Chris' doubtless flawless skills on the wheels of steel. Ack I'm such an old lady now I'm 25. I really REALLY like Dear Catastrophe Waitress (the album not the song, although that's errr OK, nor indeed the Rrrriot TweeGirl on the cover, who's a right little madam in my opinion and would be much better for a slap and a spell teaching Brownies to crochet boiled-egg cosies). Late news, I know, but it rocks so hard it inevitably makes me happy. I wish there were more hours in the day or I needed less sleep [was less lazy] so I could listen to it more often. Bless Trevor Horn for his encouragement of the shiny, sparkly bitchiness that enlivens this S Club 8 stylee New Direction of the biscuit-nibbling, cardigan-wearing aesthetic etc. that we know and love no end. Enough! Have yourself a merry little January, kids. Love, Liz :x p.s. Someone remind me to dis' Fans Only (in a thoroughly affectionate manner, understand) next time I crawl to a keyboard in Sinister composition. ________________________________________________________________________ Yahoo! Messenger - Communicate instantly..."Ping" your friends today! Download Messenger Now http://uk.messenger.yahoo.com/download/index.html +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-+ Snipp snapp snut, sa var sagan slut! +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+