Deadly Dishcloth

Have you, dear reader, ever seen anyone fight off a vicious knife attack using just an old dishrag and a hardback book? And come out on top? If not, hie thee to a cinema and watch The Bourne Ultimatum. It's terrific. By that I mean it does exactly what it says on the packet. And it will change your views on using everyday cleaning materials in martial arts FOREVER (my caps). I've had a soft spot for Jason Bourne from the first movie, where I even entertained the (erroneous, in retrospect) idea that maybe Matt Damon might be hot after all. What's great about this final - at least for now - instalment is that for the first time I could see the flaws in Jason Bourne's modus operandi (Latin! Fancy!). If he'd really done his homework re: Waterloo Station, he would have known to have turned in the opposite direction by Paperchase and gone down into Bonaparte's pub next to Boots. No-one would ever follow you in there. In my experience, anyway. Mind you, the film would then have been a good twenty minutes shorter and that annoying caricature of a journalist (corduroy jacket, rubbish notebook with NO shorthand) would still be alive. There are probably loads of people who live in Tangiers (Tangerines?) tutting about those scenes too and saying things like "Everyone knows that street is one-way." Oooh, and weirdly, the CIA Deep Cover HQ is just like my office, all grey and full of scared-looking people. All this - in-depth knowledge of Waterloo Station, used to working in a climate of fear, good with a dishcloth - leads me to think I may have missed my vocation. If you don't hear from me for a while, don't worry, I'm probably on a mission....

9 Years Down the Drain Then...

A little old fashioned, and a little modern.
A little traditional, and a little bit punk rock.
A unique soul like you needs a city that offers everything.
No wonder you and London will get along so well.

You Belong in London

What City Do You Belong In?

Face of Fashion

I'm back!! The wedding was superb fun, the bride was radiant and it was a great chance to catch up with some people - Parisians and others - I haven't seen in years - and meet some new ones! Surprisingly, given the amount of champagne + wine + armagnac (oooh!) consumed, I felt positively sprightly the next morning. Who'd have thought it? Now when I lived in London and dinosaurs roamed the earth Sunday was always exhibition day, which is how I found myself at the wonderful Face of Fashion photography show at the National Portrait Gallery. Looking at this mussed up Justin, courtesy of Steven Klein. Which I LOVE. It's only on until the end of this month so I'd urge you to get down there pronto - it's even free (my italics) for card-carrying members of the showbiz fraternity like myself. The Klein stuff was, IMHO, by far the best, though maybe that's because the images were less familiar than the Corinne Day or Mario Sorrenti shots. Either way, I'd forgotten how truly excellent the NPG is. A quick sprint round Waterstone's and before I knew it , it was time to wave goodbye and get back on da Star to come home. Plus, I've just realised that Thursday's a bank holiday - again!! My cup runneth over.

Cooking by Numbers

Those of you who've been concerned about the contents of my fridge - and you are legion - will be relieved to hear I've finally found a solution. No longer do I have to worry about my rather haphazard style of food shopping - faced with the usual almost giddily eclectic selection of inredients, I now simply turn to the wonderful (my italics) Cooking by Numbers. Et voilà!! OK, it doesn't specify if those apricots are hunza or not, or if the chocolate should be Valrhona, and indeed there's no mention of champagne, but when you're lacking inspiration on a Wednesday night, it fits the bill perfectly. Try it and see... I particularly liked the description of Lemon Chicken - "Chicken partners up with its old friend lemon with crazy results" though it did come with the caveat "You are missing an essential ingredient: chicken". What a bummer! In other news, I'm off to London AGAIN this weekend, though for work this time, and will be having dinner here on Friday evening. I, of course, reveal that information in the hope that I'll be "papped" either entering or leaving the restaurant. Over to you!!

London Calling

As part of my gruelling (my italics) Eurostar-trash regime, dear reader, Friday lunchtime found me whizzing through the Channel Tunnel on my way to a date in Hammersmith with the rather gorgeous Dan Gillespie Sells. OK, there were a few thousand other people there - and, indeed, the rest of the band - but that's just details. I love him and he loves me, I can TELL. And boy did we have fun. All of us. It's a long time since I've been to a gig where not only did I know all the words and musical nuances to every single song, but so did everyone else. And where I had a big, silly grin on my face from start to finish. Yes, yes, alright, everyone else WAS 15, but that's not the point. I love him (did I already say that?). Look at him in the pic, trying to be all "rock 'n' roll," bless. Of course, if you're going to sing a lot of harmonies live, there's a danger you're going to be stuck behind your monitors most of the time. But as the evening warmed up, so did the band's stagecraft and by the encore (Queen's "Fat-Bottomed Girls") they were storming. And I don't know if I've mentioned this before but I love him. Fave moments: community singing on "Never be Lonely," a riproaring version of "Anyone" and "Sewn" (which I thought I'd heard too often, but no). And that moment when Dan looked at me and smiled. Well, he was quite far away, but I know he was looking at me. The rest of the weekend was spent eating yummy food here, buying most of Waterstone's, stuffing my face with delicious cheese and wine (thanks to Lady J. and A) and helping Matt get to grips with Argos AND Freeview (the blind leading the blind). The weather was crap, though.

Shirtless

Apparently, this photo was on the front page of the Daily Mail today (and rightly so in my opinion). What ON EARTH (my caps) is going on with Harry Potter?? And what's all this about a scene with a horse?? (Oooh, didn't I see that in Personal Trainers 4?). For the full story, do as I did and pay a visit to Aimless Ramblings of Zefrog. I DO love the theatre.

"It's so funny..."

"...how we don't talk anymore," sang Sir Cliff Richard, Britain's self-styled Peter Pan of Pop (see left). I don't know to whom he was referring but it could easily have been us, dear reader. For which apologies, but the problem with this New Year's resolutions business is that it's just so time- consuming getting them all going. I'm exhausted already and I still have to sort out my two main ones. However, if all goes to plan I shall be over-achieving on such a MASSIVE (my caps) scale, international fame and fortune can surely not be far behind. Fingers crossed. But I digress. What on earth is a big poster of Sir Cliff doing in my local metro station? By that I mean, why is he doing a concert in Paris? In all the years I've lived here, never once has a French person asked me about, or indeed made any reference to "zis Cleef Reeechard." I've never heard any of his music on the radio. So who's gonna go?? The Palais des Congrès is pretty big, after all. I'm worried. Given that he's now Sir Cliff, will they round up all the British people in Paris and force them to buy a ticket? Will we all have to do the Shadows guitar-walk? Actually, the Cliffsta, as I call him, and I go back a long way (doesn't everyone in **showbiz**?). In my London days, I'd just popped into Fortnums to pick up a few bits, as you do. I remember I was rooting through the wine bins looking for a choice bottle of claret when, all of a sudden, I noticed that everyone was looking at me. I put it down to the old Rhino75 charisma and tried to continue my search. But now I'd noticed them, I could sense that they weren't just looking, they were staring - and when I looked up then I saw they weren't actually staring at me (hah!) but just to my left. At Sir Cliff. Looking very unlike the Peter Pan of Pop and more like an old turkey. And why was he in the wine section? I thought he was teetotal. True story. Oh alright, I KNOW that anecdote had a slightly less satisfactory ending than Abba The Movie, (i.e. we didn't shoot off into space in an elevator to the strains of "Bachelor Boy") but it still counts as a Rhino75 celebrity encounter (just like here, here and here). Still to come: how I once had Jeanne Moreau nestled in my armpit and discussed accountancy with Kristin Scott-Thomas in a lift (not at the same time though, I hasten to point out - otherwise it sounds like some bizarre gender-reversal version of "Jules et Jim"). Peter Ustinov eat your heart out.

The Vegas Experience: Left Luggage

It's official, I am every travel company's worst nightmare. The very first post ever on this blog was about me missing a flight. Not to be outdone, my latest exploits stretched Eurostar customer service to breaking point but the good news is that they came through with flying colours. First of all, I turned up late for my train - with a non-exchangeable non-refundable ticket. Now I say late, but they've let me through later than that before, although 10 minutes before departure is probably cutting it a little fine. Anyway, they very kindly agreed to exchange my ticket at no extra cost. Of course, I get a little lecture, but I do my best wounded Rhino75 look (butch but vulnerable - patent pending) and all goes smoothly. Wonderful. So I check in again, go through passport control, customs, the baggage scans etc. Then - aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrggggggghhhhh. I'm JUST about to go through and get on the train when I realise I've left the Barbra tickets at HOME. Aaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrgggggghhhhh. What a palaver. But they were troopers. Assured me that (other very stupid) people did this all the time. And took me back through immigration and exchanged my ticket for the second time in an hour in order to give me enough time to go home, pick up tickets while the taxi waited downstairs, and get back to the station. If that isn't service, I don't know what is. The good thing is that it happened on the leg when I was travelling alone. I know only too well from past experience that this kind of thing sends other people's stress levels through the roof, whereas I find it perfectly normal. Pray (I'm not joking!) that we make it to Gatwick on time tomorrow. Bons baisers de Londres.

Pants on Tour

Has the world gone completely mad?? At the same time I am, of course, horribly excited at the thought. This is, without a doubt, 2007's gay pilgrimage. This year, Barbra in Vegas (three weeks and counting), next year The Pants. I remember going to see a similar exhibition about Abba in Stockholm and there you could buy a t-shirt version of the famous cat dress. Which I did. Guess what I'll be buying in London. "I'm spinning around, get out of my way... I know you feel it because you like it like this (repeat until somebody shoots me)"

"Cry God for Harry, England and St. George"

...because today, dear reader, is not only St. George's Day (England's national day, though scandalously NOT a bank holiday) but also William Shakespeare's birthday. AND it's only two days since Her Majesty (no, not that one) celebrated her 80th. So is it any wonder (my italics) that I've been far too busy to post during my London trip? The good thing is that I've managed to see lots of people this time round and fit in some shopping too. I had lunch at the Globe Theatre (Shakespeare's theatre) with Sophie and Dan, and took Flo for drinks and a heart-to-heart at "The French House" in Soho - the unofficial HQ of Charles de Gaulle and the French resistance during World War II, I'll have you know and an old fave of mine 'cos there are always quirky people in there. I also had far too many cocktails with the lovely Betty Ive in Covent Garden, dragged Mark to G.A.Y., and finished up last night with a delicious dinner at The Anglesea Arms with Amaya. Am getting the train back "sous la Manche" in a couple of hours, and as if to encourage me, the weather is dreadful and I'm hiding in Starbucks. But I've had a brilliant time. Hurrah!!
P.S. According to The Sunday Times: "The Queen likes musicals and light entertainment. She is said to relax on occasion by putting on the music of ABBA in her private apartments and dancing to it." So it's not just me, you see. The dancing to ABBA and musicals, rather than the stilted writing, I meant, obviously.