Chris Martin, the man who makes music that glum men drive to. He has spoken again: "I feel like you’ve got to write as many songs as you can between the ages of 28 and 33 because those are your last few years before you get a belly. I couldn’t possibly write a hit record when I’ve got a beer belly." [Digital Spy]
What a dismal, cheerless fool. I mean, yes, clearly the macrobiotic vegan is pretending to be "one of the lads". But, if the spatula he's married to allows him beer, then it's probably from some organic microbrewery and tastes of pond.
It must be terribly depressing being him. He ditched a vocal from Kylie cos it sounded like she was having too much fun, and this week he walked out of a Radio Four interview, sulking: "I always say stupid things and I think Radio 4 is the place that will most remind me of that."
I've been reading an extraordinary amount of murder in the bath the last few days. I haven't reached any startling critical conclusions - beyond
1) Margery Allingham always remarkable. 2) Edmund Crispin brilliant, but sometimes pointless 3) Dorothy L Sayers very literary, but not that interested in variety of suspects 4) When Agatha Christie is good, she's unbeatable. When she's bad, she's puzzling.
Also read "Who Killed Roger Ackroyd?" a remarkable French critical text that argues convincingly that it wasn't who you'd think.
I tried reading Anthony Trollope, but 75 pages into Phineas Finn and no corpse. Fail.
I have actually managed to leave the flat and go to two parties.
1) My Twinkie Ex's Brighton Eurovision Housewarming Packed full of young gays with Effort Hair and not much else going for them. I go with my friend Tim, who has the advantage of being my age and sane. Rather than 19 and full of issues.
My Twink Ex sidles up to me. "Is Tim your boyfriend?" No. "Your shag?" Oh no. "You not even done it once?" No. Twink nods, intrigued. On my way to the kitchen minutes later I overhear him announcing "No, no they're not together. You can have either of them. Yes. Tim is single."
Soon Tim is surrounded by young gay things who keep accidentally bending over. I sit in the corner, watching Eurovision, and drinking.
Eventually Tim comes over. "Shall I take you home?" "I think we came last," I say. Apparently, as we leave, I turn to the room and announce "Good night! Your hair is perfect!" and then Tim has to help me walk home.
1) The Nurse's 21st Birthday
It's nice that I keep in touch with The Nurse. Realising he's just turned 21 is making me do worried maths (it's fine, I've only known him three years). Getting to the party involves traveling to East London, which takes hours.
When I get there, the Nurse is in drag. It's not a flattering look. "I'm pretending that I'm from Kettering" the Nurse explains. Drag's fascinating. But what is the drive that makes handsome young men dress up as ugly older women?
Anyway, I've been in the pub for less than a minute before I pull someone called Stuart. He is a stubbly ferret, has a proper East End accent, and tattoos that look home made. I am smitten. Sadly, however, the reason he's all over me is that he is Very Very Drunk. I suspect he is not discriminating and gently leave him. A few minutes later he is kissing a man with a combover. They leave together.
I stand watching the Nurse do karaoke. I am chatting to his sisters. They are brilliant. We are getting on like a house on fire.
Well, until the main drag act asks the Nurse, "So, what kind of men do you like?"
"Burly blokes with big cocks!" screams the Nurse.
His sisters and I look at each other. None of us wanted to hear that.