Diary

Of course, since I first wrote the previous post and put it to one one side for later revision, I have decided to bring the diary after all, especially since my life seems to be hotting up in proportion to the weather.

The fun started two weeks ago, with the monthly BFI film quiz. Inevitably, my team won again, but the prizes were so uninteresting I preferred to leave empty-handed. The quizmaster has an odd habit of rambling off the point at great length. At a previous quiz, he threw in the unplanned question of how to attract more visitors to BFI Southbank, and in lieu of actually awarding any points, decided to read out each and every suggestion.

For some reason, he had started talking about how doctors have a tendency to cup your testicles and ask you to cough, and he was incredulous that this has any medical benefit. In fact, it can act as an early signal of hiatus hernia, and I shouted this out when he opened the floor to ideas. When he asked me, yelling across the floor, how I knew, I said I was a doctor. It seemed to be the simplest way out of the conversation.

Then he leaped over and thrust his microphone into my face, asking me to explain further. I leaned into the mike and said, "I'm a doctor, not a public speaker", then sat back. Yeah, that showed him.

The following night was my book group meet. Discussion was lively and enjoyable, but most notable for the book in question - "Gun, with Occasional Music" by Jonathan Lethem - being universally disliked, except by our chief, who was away attending a project management course, and delivered her thoughts by text message.

I thought I might indulge myself in having a pint of beer when I got to the pub, before switching to mineral water for the rest of the evening. However, I was starting on the way home to not feel myself, and by the time I woke for work the following morning I was pretty sure that I was medically ill. I phoned in sick, attempted to watch the previous night's episode of Rubicon - a new US drama about intelligence analysts that has an obvious le Carre debt to pay - but by brain couldn't cope. I retired to bed, and woke again at around 3pm, feeling better.

After an afternoon loafing about in my "study", I thought I'd go out and get some fresh air. A trip to the cinema seemed like a good idea, so off I popped to Canary Wharf. I picked up something to smuggle in for my tea, went to the cinema - and found both films I wanted to see sold out.

This is where my magical new phone came in handy. With only a few squiggles of my index finger, I found out where the film were showing nearby and when, leaped onto another tube and emerged at the GiganticaEnormoDome. The O2 is almost unbelievably vast, so much so that it contains an 11-screen cinema and that is the fourth-largest entertainment venue under its canopy. There are bars and restaurants, poorly-signposted stairwells to get lost in and underground car parks where sinister men unload cardboard boxes from Transit vans at the dead of 10.30pm. I have witnessed this, and I shudder to think what their intentions were.

The 8pm showing of Scream 4 was busy, and I should have learned my lesson from the last time I went to the Dome to see a horror picture on a Friday night. The youths in the audience couldn't stop themselves from talking, screaming at the slightest whiff of tension and generally behaving as though I had paid to see them perform as well. I ate my tea with a scowl, but enjoyed the film.

Continuing my quest for the outside, I decided that I'd take a walk instead of going back to the tube station. This walk, ultimately, lasted five miles and covered the route from the Dome to my front door, via downtown Greenwich - surprisingly quiet for a Friday night - and Tesco, where I bought a packet of hot cross buns which I consumed when I got in. Poor impulse control, there.

The weekend brought the first specks of summer over the horizon, and a friend of mine was in town for the day. Still owing her a decent Christmas present, since I felt that the six-pack of beer I won at a previous BFI quiz was a barely sufficient stopgap, I made a few visits on my way into town to buy some nice soaps, a plush rabbit and some unpasteurised cheese. Mark my words, gentlemen. The way to a woman's heart is not with poetry, or flowers, or chocolates. The simple gift of high-grade cheese is enough to make her heart melt to a spreadable consistency, and for her to be Dolcelatte in your hands.

In the meantime, I was still stocking up on gifts for my mother's birthday. As has become tradition, I help Dad with buying and wrapping the presents from him, as his physical condition prevents him from taking care of it himself. I searched Oxford Street in vain for small gardening tools, but then received a call from Visiting Friend. She was out of her martial arts club, and was at the pub with some of her fellow pugilists. The catch was that she was five miles across town. Challenge accepted.

It is remarkable how easily one can divide a route across a familiar city without the benefit of maps, and less than half-an-hour later, I arrived at the pub near Stepney Green. Another pint of beer was sunk, very kind and wholly exaggerated words regarding my celestial provenance were bestowed upon receipt of my gifts, and recent news was caught up upon. The route home managed to be considerable quickly than expected, thanks to a split second decision to take the Rotherhithe tunnel home, rather than traversing the Isle of Dogs and the Greenwich pedestrian tunnel. I even surprised myself in being able to cycle up the steep slope at the far end, and in top gear no less.

The week after was a little quieter, with one evening spent wrapping presents, another visiting a comedy night founded by a close relative, which boasted several new and entertaining acts, and one for whom I tried to formulate a strategy in order to approach her, engage her in conversation, possibly buy her a drink and then ask her out. It ought to go without saying that I didn't actually do any of those things, but I couldn't come up with a workable plan either so I didn't feel as pathetic as I might otherwise. Heigh-ho.

I did, however, manage to surprise myself with a run on Monday evening. Having already spent a solid half-hour in the weights room of the gym, attempting to fashion my bulbous frame into something less offensive, I started on the treadmill, decided to keep going until I had to stop - while walking briskly for a minute in every five - and managed to cover three-and-a-quarter miles in less than 29 minutes. That's the furthest I've ever run, and I haven't even nearly managed to replicate the feat since then. Could I have dreamed it?

The Easter weekend was spent with the parents, celebrating Mum's birthday, enjoying the coastal sunshine. A trip to the funfair on Sunday was a bad idea, infested as it was with ugly day-trippers, while the main amusement arcade seems to have turned into an indifferently-run deathtrap in the last five weeks. The milkshake from the in-house Wimpy franchise was refreshing though, more so than the frappaccino I tried in Portsmouth the previous afternoon. It definitely put the turd in Saturday.

Easter Monday was spent back in town, with a trip to see Thor - very disappointing - and a frightening visit to the bathroom scales. I'm now up to 85kg. I appreciate that it is scientifically impossible to get more out than you put in, but this is getting depressing. Any suggestions on how I can curb my appetite? Those who suggest I eat less will get a bullet in the throat.

Something else that I noted was that someone has unfriended me from Facebook. This has happened before, of course - even I have enemies, oh yes - but I can't for the life of me work out what I did that made this person want to do such a thing. Was it something I said? Possibly, albeit inadvertently. I made a jocular comment on my wall to those who did not attend my birthday party, and it may have been taken to heart. Bigmouth strikes again. It isn't as though I will never see this person, as I do encounter them regularly, or at least expect to do so. Maybe I won't anymore? Or maybe I'm just being paranoid and it was an error on their part, or one of the snowballing number of glitches added by Zuckerberg's development, so they have an excuse to continually tinker with the site. I've stopped fretting about it now, but I'm still curious..

That seems to be it for now, but if something else should happen, I'll be sure to keep you posted.

Best wishes,

the Phantom of the Opera.

Looks Like that Maths Degree is Paying Off After All

This is pretty much a companion piece to my rambling last week about my pile of unread books. I also happen to have a MOUNTAIN of unwatched DVDs and recordings.

Despite having a minimum social life and few enriching hobbies, I seem to acquire DVDs at a much faster rate than I am capable of watching them. Like the books, I still have presents from the last Christmas but one that I haven't watched, not to mention stuff that I've bought on a whim.

On top of that, the stuff I've been recording onto my lovely hard-disc recorder (with built-in Freeview turner and multiregion DVD player-recorder - wave goodbye to your friends upon purchase) has been accumulating since I bought it three years ago. It has a capacity of 160GB, and I have to watch almost everything I record as I record it to avoid running out of space. My long-term plan is to replace all that is on there with lovely DVDs, but I still have to get through the pile that I have now. You can imagine how this might vex me.

This is where my logician's training kick in. I have to approach this problem with an organisational mind, and start drawing up a plan. No, better yet - an algorithm.

First, divide everything into separate groups. OK, done. Now criteria for what goes when. OK, that's done too. Let's start with the hard drive.

Everything on there divides into two categories: stuff to watch and stuff to keep. To make sure there's a minimum of space, make sure that there's enough room for all recordings up to the end of tomorrow. That's the priority. Now we've got our first line.

1 Is there enough space on the hard drive for everything up to the end of tomorrow? If no, watch until there is. If yes, go to 2.

This bit's a bit trickier (nice broad vocabulary there). The majority of DVDs split into two piles. One is for replacements of recordings or completion of series I've started, and the other is for other gifts and things I've bought on the spur of the moment. At the top of the first pile are Doctor Who DVDs, because obviously they have priority. My idea was to watch an episodes every day over breakfast, but I'm a bit behind. This goes next.

2 Are you behind with the Doctor Who Original Series DVDs? If yes, watch until you aren't. If no, go to 3.

The other stuff from the first pile I save for non-work nights - Friday and Saturday, unless there's a bank holiday. I'll watch films in one go, but if it's a series I might break off. So this should come next.

3. Are you partway through something from the rest of the pile? If yes, finish that. If no, go to 4.

Next the stuff I record to keep. But this is dependent on the day of the week.

4. Is it a work night? If yes, go to 5. If no, go to 6.

5. Is there anything recorded to keep and unwatched? If yes, watch that. If no, go to 7.

Now, here's the part where I start to get really arbitrary. My main pile of discs is stacked next to my stereo, and it's an age-old rule that I'm only allowed to buy new discs from the "replacing stuff" list when the top of pile is lower than the top of the tape deck. But there's also the question of the New Series Doctor Who stuff - which for the sake of convenience includes Torchwood and The Sarah Jane Adventures, and which I'm also behind with. Let's have that on weeknights.

Then there's the question of the other pile. That divides rather neatly into films and TV series. Let's have the TV series on weeknights and the films at weekends. There's also the limit of one film a night at weekends. I need my sleep in order to dream up bizarre choose-your-own-adventure algorithms.

6. Is the top of the pile below the level of the tape deck? If no, watch the next disc on that pile. If yes, watch the next disc from the other pile. Then go to 8.

7. Are there any New Series Doctor Who DVDs on the main pile? If yes, watch the next episodes. If no, watch the next episodes of the series on the other pile. Then go to 8.

I remember this... It's called...
something like... "outdoors".

Of course, I like to pay full attention to what I'm watching if it's a proper release, so if I've got all the way through that and it still isn't bedtime or I'm off sick or just plain lonely, there's a small pile of "other" discs, either freebies or odd, unsolicited gifts - including an Austrian coming-of-age film sent to by my mother's Bavarian penpal. So those come last.

8. Anything in the slush pile? If yes, watch that. If no, go outside and get some fresh air for Christ's sake.

Hmm, I really need a girlfriend, don't I?

Diary

The last week has been surprisingly uneventful. Most of my evenings have been taken up with going to the gym, rewriting a script and watching TV - Five USA is finally repeating season 2 of Breaking Bad, hooray - along with a trip to the parents' homestead at the weekend. I rented Sherlock Holmes for us to watch on Saturday night. Dad was a little nonplussed by Robert Downey Jr., but they both seemed to enjoy it. The week before, however...

Being stopped by the police is one of those rare occurrences that may have happened to someone you know. It happened to me as I was cycling through the City on Thursday night. Yes, cycling. Apparently, laddo decided that my lights weren't bright enough, but he'd let me off the £30 fine if I didn't go out with them after I'd reached my destination. A later discussion birthed the knowledge that he was talking through his helmet, that brightness would be entirely subjective, and that he'd probably tried arresting Mervyn King for not having a tax disc, hence being put on traffic duty in a cabin on Fenchurch Street in rush hour.

The fun part was when I was on my way home, and my brakes felt a little spongy. Once I got in, I got out my tools to tighten them up when - TWANG - the cable snapped. I found a little old man who fixed it in a couple of hours on Saturday, but also imagined what might have happened had they gone while I was descending the steep hill past London Bridge station, which has a pedestrian crossing at the bottom. Carnage.

Having got the bike fixed on Saturday, I embarked on a round London trip, heading from my corner of SE16 across Lambeth and Kensington to Notting Hill, then down Oxford Street and along the embankment for home. I had resolved to make a healthy dinner of my own Prawn Green Curry when I got home, but decided, upon entering the supermarket after 8pm, that I simply couldn't be arsed. I had Chicken Kiev, and am still paying for it.

The reason for the Notting Hill trip was to cash in some old book I had stacking up, mostly of book groups past, and see what the second-hand bookshop there would give me. The answer was, "not much", but my eye was drawn by two things. Firstly, a cut-out of a Cyberman in the window. Secondly, a display case containing some rare Doctor Who novels missing from my collection, with the promise of more in the back.

It's quite hard to describe the feeling of looking through seemingly endless shelves of desirable sci-fi novels. You could call it a mixture of child-like awe and wonderment, with some excitement mixed in. Although I had almost all of them anyway, the urge to grab an armful and take them to the till was hard to resist. Instead, I sauntered up to the cashier bloke and politely asked for the copies of Lungbarrow and Cold Fusion behind him. Those of you in the know, or willing to check on eBay, will realise the improbability of being able to buy both in the same transaction. Suffice to say the price was substantial, but far from unaffordable. I didn't really need those extra teeth anyway.

Friday night was the night of excitement, as far as I was concerned, since this meant the long-awaited release of The Ward. I settled down into my seat at the Empire Leicester Square, having bought a £13 ticket and stocked up on snacks from the tube station, even though I supposed to be losing weight. It was especially nice of the lady at the box office to seat me almost directly in front on someone else, even though the cinema was nearly deserted. As for the film itself, I need only copy my comments from Facebook:

"The film, incidentally, is pretty good. A return to form after the dire Masters of Horror episodes, and with a screenplay that is a lot more sophisticated than it appears. It's still some distance from the glory days of Halloween and The Fog, but it stands comfortably along his later second-string efforts such as In the Mouth of Madness and Prince of Darkness. Recommended."

I also dozed off part of the way through, possibly a symptom of treating sleep as a luxury to be rationed, and often not putting out the light until 3am. An awful habit, I know. There was another trip to the pictures on Saturday while my bike was being fixed. This time: Black Swan. Again, cross-posting:

"It states the obvious at great length ("Did you know that ballerinas have a tough time and are worried about getting old?" Yes, I did, thanks) and mercilessly rips off The Red Shoes and Polanski's Repulsion, adding nothing original. That it has received more BAFTA nominations that The Social Network and Four Lions put together is an embarrassment."

I seem to be in a minority of the sane for calling it "bloody awful". People will be saying Dario Argento is a decent director next.

There's also been a new article for a friend's Doctor Who-based fanzine, which I shall plug when I get confident that people reading this haven't seen me do so elsewhere. I don't want to spoil it, but it mentions dragons, the Foreign Legion and heroin. Combined with a ludicrous workload in the office, where my potential productivity has been catastrophically overestimated, that is largely it.

Except for one thing. My weight.

I've been trying to lose weight for around a year, having rejoined a gym, gone for a run most days, hired a personal trainer and changed my eating habits. But it's very hard. My willpower is pathetic, virtually nil. Last night, the night before I start a new food diary, I had the following for dinner:

Two cheese and onion rolls (like sausage rolls).
Sausage and egg sandwich.
Four rolls with extra light cheese spread.
Two pieces of breaded cod.
A tin of sweetcorn.
Mullerrice.
Two large bottles of beer.

I really shouldn't have been surprised when I tipped the scales at 84.2 kilos this morning, a full kilo off Monday and some margin from my target of 75. Superhuman effort in resistance and a hard 20 minute run has managed to cut it back to 83.2 kilos as of after dinner this evening, but if I'm going to get this weight thing licked, I'm going to need help.

Which is where you come in. All I ask is for a bit of encouragement. A kind word when the number goes down. A mean one - but not too mean, I bruise easily - when it goes up. No cash, no sponsorship, just a few keystrokes when you can spare the time.

Thanks in advance, so you'll feel guilty if you next see me wearing a smock like Dom DeLuise.

My plan is to get the weight off by my 30th birthday - late next month - and reward myself with a HTC Desire, my first posh phone. If you see me still using my ancient slip-top one, remember to ask me what the scales said that morning.

"No coach parties, please."

Anyway, that's enough misery. Let's finish with a song.

Christmas in a Parallel Universe

This was labelled "Phil Collins".

I'm currently polishing off the last of the Christmas booze - a bottle of Martini Rosato - and listening to one of my presents, Peter Gabriel's covers album Scratch My Back. It's very good, but that's not what I want to talk about.

While making suggestions of things to my mum of things that I might like for Christmas, I mentioned the above. Mum didn't asked who Peter Gabriel was, and this has since struck me as fortunate. How does one describe who Peter Gabriel is? More to the point, how does one describe anything in modern pop culture to people whose touchstone in such matters is Law & Order: Criminal Intent?

On Boxing Day, while Mum was arranging prawns on a plate, Dad and I got into a discussion about the state of television comedy. He quite likes Mock the Week, and had decided to try to Frankie Boyle's Tramadol Nights. Bad mistake. A conservative 70-year-man is unlikely to be amused by something his liberal-minded youngest offspring - that's me, by the way - found depressingly childish and mean-spirited. He questioned whether there was any good comedy still being produced. Yes, I piped up, citing the first example that sprung to mind. There's a programme on Channel 4 called Peep Show. The face he pulled at mention of the title was a picture.

Would you allow this man
near your parents?

I described the premise of the show and its POV gimmick, and he seemed genuinely interested. Then I remembered watching the Christmas Special the previous night. I wasn't concerned so much by the identical discussion Mum and I had in the kitchen about cauliflower being a traditional festive vegetable, or that Mark had been presented with a cross-cut shredder as his big present, something Dad has requested and received several years earlier. No, it was the fearsome spectre of "coarse language" raising its head.

Adult children squirm when their parents are presented with material they are perfectly old enough to experience. Our parents have been around a bit. They've seen things you people wouldn't believe. But that doesn't mean that we want them to hear Isy Suttie using the word "strap-on". Because then we'll have to explain what that means, and that's not a conversation anyone wants to have.

Over the past year, I've taken to combing through the Radio Times each week, looking for film the parents might enjoy. This has yielded some interesting results. Mum liked The Red Balloon, as anyone would, but was also impressed by Slumdog Millionaire - and took some convincing when I told her the director was a white Manc - and Batman Begins, which I suggested she think of as a crime thriller rather than a superhero movie. Anyway, Batman has no superpowers other than the power of being incredibly neurotic. Tim Burton's version should have been played by Woody Allen.

Dad, meanwhile, expressed an improbable enjoyment of Serenity. This news came to me second-hand, unfortunately, so I have no idea what he liked about it. The backstory to the Reavers, I expect. Everyone likes that bit.

In any case. I've started going through the BBFC website, looking for any recommendations I'm not sure about, since I often can't remember whether or not that terrific comedy has an explicit sex scene, or someone having their head blown off in close-up, or someone calling Bruce Willis a cunt, even if he is.

Not Suitable for Parents.

I'm not sure it's supposed to be used for that, but it has been a bit of a life-saver already.
"GoodFellas is a really great film, I think you'd really like it."
"OK. Does it have much swearing?"
"Um... hang on a mo."

Shallow Grave is on later this week. It's a tough call.

Tomorrow, if I remember, I'll put up the TRON Legacy review I've been threatening. Yeah, I thought you'd be looking forward to that.