How do?

I find myself on this on this Friday morning quite utterly horrified at the state of Amy Winehouse. Why the fuck isn’t this woman in rehab? Or indeed, dead, because it can’t have escaped the nation’s notice that she is sporting the look of a cadaverous twig. Just look at the pontoon eyes, for a start.

I hold my hands up and admit that I harbour a salacious streak when it comes to celebsville. Guilty as charged, m’Lud. My friend George is of the opinion that ingesting this pig swill will rot my soul, but I don’t care: the more spotlight-hungry fools willing to make utter twunts of themselves (yes, you Jodie Marsh, I mean you), the better as far as I’m concerned. I love this shit so much I’ve even started moonlighting at Holy Moly.

But on a personal level, when I see photos of the drug ravaged mess that used to be Amy Winehouse (and in spite of what I enjoy doing in a professional mud-slinging capacity) it makes me uneasy. Deeply so.

I’m well aware that I’m just as bad as the next person. I read the websites, I buy the newspapers, hell I’m the bitch writing about it. And enjoying it too. But it doesn’t mean the irony is lost on me. There comes a point when even the most cynical of us begin to think it’s time to switch off the idiot box and amuse ourselves elsewhere.

Profound eh? Might have to lay off the 11am gins…

Musicals make me cringe with embarrassment. On the odd occasion I have been forced into a theatre to watch one, I’m literally climbing the walls after 15 minutes.

It’s a phobia. I just can’t bear the forced exuberance and endless supplies of ballet-trained women trooping their turned-out duck feet across the stage.

To add to this cornucopia of wretchedness, I have also been known to cry quite freely at sad bits. I’m already on the edge emotionally, then fricking Billy Elliot starts dancing for his dead Mam and The German has to escort me from the dress circle.

So it was with this in mind, that I spotted a poster for the new Brief Encounter musical on an underground poster this morning.

I love that film. Black and white magic, it is. But do I dare ruin it all by going to see the musical? It’s advertised as buy-one-get-one-free tickets… will the inner gypo win out?

Who has been watching the Olympics? I have and I’m loving every minute of it.

My favourite events are the rowing, swimming and diving, gymnastics and the horsey stuff. I also find the female weight lifting highly amusing. All those popping neck veins and thighs like too much sausage meat stuffed into a pop sock. Endlessly entertaining.

So there I am, sat on the sofa, eating last night’s leftovers and chuffing on a ciggie, and I’ve begun to question my lazy knacker ways. There’s nowt like a wake-up call than all those Olympians hurling and flinging themselves around and showing off miles of muscle definition.

So later, I am going to go for a run.

Probably.

I have an objection.

This is to being called ‘babe’ by the man in the newsagents when I enter his premises to purchase fags and soya sauce. (Staples of a freelance life, you know. Along with Diagnosis Murder and Haribo.)

I am no one’s ‘babe’. Not even The German’s. Being given such a moniker is an unsavoury reminder of a vile ex boyfriend and the fact that when it comes to the endless battle to enforce appropriate behaviour, some men clearly need their trenches redigging.

Apparently this overfamiliarity is a sign of the times. More a folded down corner on the cultural page than a direct attempt to piss me off.

But just because someone else is jumping of a cliff into an abyss of social incongruity, does not mean I have to as well.

Eyes front and hands where I can see ‘em, boys.

Hmmmm. Interesting goings on in the Ladyshambles bathroom this morning.

Last night, I and a group of fabulously talented ex-colleagues and dear friends, known collectively for the sake of this blog as The Lab Rats, visited vegetarian gastric outpost Manna Restaurant.

You see, one of our party is a vegetarian. He is a bilker of burgers; he cold shoulders the cutlets. Steaks? Eschewed and unchewed. But since the last venue for our soiree was one of London’s finest meat emporiums, we thought it only fair to sample the delights of all things herbivore.

While the food was surprisingly good - the kitchen positively excelled itself with the organic fruit crumble - this morning it appears we’re all suffering from a force eight gale in the bowel and more burn than even Jane Fonda would recommend.

I’m afraid as lovely as this carnivore’s jaunt down the tofu track was, I’m heading back to commune with the cows.

It might take up to three days for a juicy slab of sirloin to wend its way through my colon, but quite frankly, when it comes to digestion, I’ll eat the hare and hitch a ride with the tortoise.

All you trend-setter types simply must check out BITE.

It’s the all-singing, all-dancing, internet-only show from Channel 4. It showcases the cream of the crop for music, trends, fashion and generally cool stuff to get your teeth into.

And the best bit is my mate Laura is in it. How fucking good is that? Back in the day we did voice overs together. Look how far she’s come… sniff.

You can also see her doing her music thang here.

Casio keyboard-tastic.

The Pinter double bill The Lover The Collection at the Comedy Theatre last night was decidedly less than enthralling. Harold Pinter’s sharp eye for comic satire was drawn to the fore by director Jameie Lloyd, but it wasn’t handled subtly enough for me. What I like about Pinter’s work is his ability to weave such wonderful tales of mystery and repressed middle class carnality, but honestly, you’d find more sexual menace in an episode of Rainbow.

I blame Gina McKee’s femme fatale mostly. Her lascivious sliding across floors on all fours made me feel decidedly off kilter. I thought she was going to tip over at one point and she sounded like Mary Poppins on 60 a day. Not sexy.

The homoerotic posturing in The Collection was well intentioned, but looked over-egged. Too much obvious staring at groins. It was as if the director was standing in the wings stage whispering to the audience, “Psssst! Look! They’re doing alpha male macho posturing, with an undercurrent of sleaze! Do you seeeeeee?”

Still, you can’t help but admire the work of a great playwright, even if you don’t like the interpretation put before you.

So in future, I think I’ll stick to my usual Monday night routine: sharpening the kitchen knives and ironing my suspender belts.

I have just been choking on a French Fancy. It didn’t kill me though, which is good because I’m going to see the Harold Pinter play ‘The Lover The Collection‘ tonight and I do rather think that’s something you should try to do before you pop off.

It’s ironic that I choked while preparing an article brief on the perils of e numbers for my freelancer. Perhaps fate contrived to administer a sharp lesson on abusing said e numbers, while priming someone else to preach about them.

Never let it be said I’m not averse to exercising a smattering of hypocrisy. The lure of an almond slice is just too much to maintain moral high ground…

This post about freeloading visitors from Greta She Elephant merely confirms what my Mother always told me.

“If one must allow the guests in, get rid of them after three days. For like fish, they will have gone off.”

Wise words indeed.

They are particularly prudent in these modern times, where social graces have been somewhat eroded. Apparently people who are vaguely beyond ‘hello, my name’s blah’ believe it’s absolutely fine to land on the doorstep and fester up the sofa for the next three weeks.

I fear if manners were a slab of Edam, we would be grated down to the rind.

You see that blank bit of wall staring reproachfully at you right now? Yes, don’t squirm. That one. The bit above the sofa. The vast expanse of Dulux job-lot that you’ve been meaning to stick a mirror on ‘to open the space out’ but never quite found the time. Well, ditch the crap mirror idea, because the alternative I have for you is far more inventive than anything Ikea has to offer you.

Make like a culture vulture and head down to the laDanza Studio on London’s Holloway Road for the latest Wallspace exhibition. Such a spectacle of photographic and avant garde genius this enclave of northern Londinium has rarely seen.

Feast your eyes on the work of Charlotte Campbell and Denise Hickey - photographer and artist respectively. Drink in the fruits of their labour; savour it; gargle it; floss with it; allow crumbs of it to catch in your beard to nibble on later. Tear off a hunka chunka of medium rare postmodern perspective. Chew that creative cud, art gluttons. (Toothpicks not provided.)

And once you’ve ruminated and you’re satisfied you’re satiated, you can whip out your cheque book and make one of those fine works your own.

Your wall will thank you.

Exhibition running Jan 12th - 28th @ laDanza, 89 Holloway Road, N7 8LT. All enquiries to wallspace@hotmail.co.uk or 020 7700 3770.