London’s a crazy place, isn’t it? Aside from the dreadful news of young men being stabbed to death in broad daylight (Oxford Street, 5 p.m.; plenty of witnesses, right? Right?), the fictional creator of this fella got a mention in ‘The House’ yesterday by men in suits debating the second reading of the HFE Bill. Although the resort to such cheaply unoriginal tabloid-isms irks, particularly when allied with the invocation of ‘conscience’ as an excuse to avoid both thinking and offending (which it does, by the way), the reach of fictional myths always impresses. As does Alan Johnson, even though he regurgitates that ’99.9%’ figure spoon-fed by scientists who should know better. Property prices continue to rise there, even though they’re now apparently falling everywhere else. Meanwhile, four American ladies turn up, one of whom, in order not to be outshone by the red-head who always steals this particular show, distracts by wearing what appeared to be a pineapple on her head, and is seemingly necessarily skim-finished due to the ineffectuality of endorsed cosmetic products that actually do bugger-all for the aging process, as admirably exposed by last night’s Channel 4 Dispatches programme. This is the most disturbing thing about celebrity culture – the bastardisation of science, which allows big companies, and their lying marketing leeches, to get away with contravening the Trades Description Act. The stars tell us it works, so, for some unfathomable reason that leads us to think they’re qualified, we believe them. Oh, and while I was away, Londoners elected a buffoon. Dear-oh-dear.
Anyway, as I’m back, but still looking for distraction, I think it’s high-time I paid The Smoke a visit; after all, being one hour away by train is a plus of living in “the sahhff” (a factor on the decision lists). Time I hooked up with my old mate Al, he with the double-ovulating partner and, consequently, the father of two sets of non-identical twin girls (what are the odds on that?). Spinning plates. It’s a strange world.