A Major Contribution to French Cinema

I'm showing you this now, dear reader, so you'll have time to grasp the finer (my italics) points before voting for me over at FWaB Academy in the next few days. I know I can count on your support, even though the singing's flat and the sound's tinny, because a) Kitty's in it, and we love her, don't we? b) because it's made with love, just for you. Personally, I feel there's more than a touch of Godard about it all, but I could be too close to the glue pot the concept. Anyway, by the time you read this I shall be putting Captain J through his paces (lyrically) over a cocktail or eight in preparation for this tonight (now where DID I put those tickets?). Ronan Keating was right when he said that "Life is a Rollercoaster" - who would have thought it?

P.S. If you can't see the YouTube clip in your browser, here's the URL.

My Night With Jamel

Last night, I was in a bar just round the corner from Rhino Towers with three (count 'em) French comics. Jamel Debbouze, Omar and Fred. What are the odds of that happening? They were still there when we left at 2 a.m. Some of them were drinking champagne, we were drinking vodka. But we were laughing more. Am I or am I not a celebrity magnet? QED.

Morning After

We were only meeting up for "a quiet drink and a chat," really. OK, maybe the choice of bar was instrumental in our downfall. The next happy coincidence was bumping into David and Carlos - who'd already got a bit of a thirst going. And then, suddenly (my italics), it was 2 a.m., the bar was closing and - through a vodka haze - it just seemed like a FANTASTIC idea and the most natural thing in the world to keep going. And going. On a school night. Which may be why this morning I wasn't the least bit surprised to be approached by this large pink rabbit on my way to work. Happens all the time. Honest. ;)

Self-Portrait With Pug Dog

What a fantastic title for a pic, dontcha think? Why, I like it so much that I'm recreating this tableau as I write (my italics), with the lovely Miss Kitty standing in - grudgingly - as a fatter, more whiskery version of a pug dog. It is of course, dear reader, none other than William Hogarth (1697-1764) - you have to do that dates thing with important historical figures, I think. Who just happens to be the subject of a rather fine exhibition at the Louvre. Which I urge you to go and see. The exhilarating thing about Hogarth's work is the sheer heartiness and good cheer of it all. He's like a favourite uncle who always has a funny story to tell. Not all of the paintings are that great but they're BRIMMING OVER with life. And when you look at some of the series of engravings - I'm thinking particularly of "Industry and Idleness" and "Beer Street and Gin Lane" - there's so much humour in there, so much detail in the images. It's been a long time since I've seen people smile so much at an exhibition. Personally, I loved the portraits. The formal portrait is a medium that's always fascinated me and - and don't worry, I do know this is pretentious but it's also true - I would LOVE to sit for an artist myself someday. Weird, isn't it? I'm just really interested in the idea of someone else "interpreting" me, because it's one of those things that always differs slightly from person to person. Derr. Readers, to your brushes!! (and BTW I see myself as more of an oils man, rather than acrylics - DON'T EVEN THINK about watercolours). Anyway, Hogarth's portraits are super-accessible - none of that "the golden skull that you can barely see on top of the map on the table at the back signifies his deep-seated fear of travel and death" rubbish. You feel you know these - very English-looking - people just from their pictures. I thoroughly enjoyed it and it was a very fitting follow-up to "Vodka Alley" the night before, where I found myself dancing to the Eurythmics with a very cute, very drunk political aide. Talk about the dangers of drink magic of vodka.

Friday the 13th

...and I've gone all quiet, haven't I? Don't worry, I've not been chopped into pieces by an axe-wielding psycho just as I was about to have sex with a slutty school chum in an abandoned cabin by a lake. During a power cut. No sireee. That's NEXT week. If I play my cards right. This week, Rhino75 has instead been floored by a combination of a couple of very late work nights (eeeww) and an absolute humdinger of a night out/in as a send-off for my favourite socialite, who's gone to Brittany to make a film. Even this evening, I settled down on the sofa with "The Time-Traveler's Wife" and some cranberry juice and LOOK AT THE TIME NOW. Aaaargh. Oh well, we're almost at the weekend. What are you up to?

Owwww....

...my head. Went to a fabulously fun party last night at EMI, mingling with the likes of Lily Allen, Benjamin Biolay, Stanislas Merhar, Sid 'n' Nancy. Yet again, that winning combination of celebs and open bar worked its magic and I feel rough as an old dog after crawling home at 3:30 a.m. Stand by for the pics. Among the highlights were Hans Henrick and his parrot Lord B (we all had our photo taken with Lord B), two funny guys I met in the loo who have a band and gave me their cd, a strange man dressed as a rabbit and someone who works for smoothie company Innocent. To read the lovely Nardac's account of the evening, click here. And at some point, you should be able to see pics of the party here too. Pass the aspirin, I'm late for work. (P.S. oooh watching Le Grand Journal on TV this evening, they did a little feature on this party: also present were French minstrel Raphael, Badly Drawn Boy, and the Divine Comedy. And some bloke in a red shirt that I gave a hard time to. I am on the cutting room floor - again.)

A Kamel for Christmas!!

Dear readers, working in *showbiz* as I do, one regularly bumps into other celebrities, sometimes at star-studded premieres and parties, sometimes in slightly less glamorous surroundings (see here). OK, most of the time, these encounters are either slightly weird (i.e. skulking behind supermarket shelves) or just plain embarrassing (getting tangled up in Kate Moss's daughter's pushchair). But sometimes, the magic kicks in and there's a real connection. Last night was one such occasion. It was about 1:30 a.m. and we were just leaving the bar when Noodle (whose celebrity antennae are as finely tuned as my own) turned round and hissed "Kamel Ouali!!" I realise that some of my *international* readers may not be completely familiar with Mr. Ouali's (that's pronounced "Wally") oeuvre. Those of you already in the know can skip the next bit:

For the last five years, he has been the resident choreographer/dance coach/all round good egg on "StarAcademy" - a *talent* show in which a group of more-or-less photogenic adolescents are locked up in a château (this being France and all) and subjected to regular helicopter visits by people such as Lionel Ritchie (?!) and Mariah Carey who tell them to "Hold on to your dreams!!" and "Never stop believing in yourself!!" Then after about 10 weeks or so, they whack up the reverb on the contestants' mics, so everyone says "My, haven't they improved? They must be following Lionel/Mariah's advice" and pretend that the candidate chosen by the record company has actually been voted the winner via premium-rate phone calls from viewers. Or something like that. Here's this year's winner. And every week, Kamel devises increasingly preposterous routines and removes more and more of his dancers' clothing in a bid to keep the ratings up. Recently though, he's been branching out into musicals, directing a French-language version of "Gone with The Wind" and now "Le Roi Soleil"

Anyway, overcome with vodka emotion, I screamed "You're Kamel Ouali and I claim my five pounds!!" Perhaps understandably, he seemed a little nonplussed by this, so I grabbed his hand and started pumping it up and down, saying "I really like what you do - keep it up!" before stumbling outside and spending the next five minutes squeaking "Kamel Ouali, Kamel Ouali" with Noodle, and having to explain to Mark who he was. What a great pre-Christmas present!! (What do you mean, is that it?)