I recently watched The Inbetweeners for the first time. It follows the lives of four teenage boys at sixth form and it is VERY FUNNY. Described as an anti-Skins – i.e. these kids are normal – it follows Jay, Simon, Will and Neil as they embark on the final years of their school life and a desperate bid to lose their virginity.
Like I said, it is VERY FUNNY and I fully recommend it. I’m writing though because it has one of those theme tunes that I stirs my emotions when I hear it. It’s by a band called MorningRunner – they are now defunct – and is little more than a guitar tune with three notes on a piano thrown in. It got me thinking; does a theme tune only become emotional if the programme it’s on means something to you? Or can you vehemently hate a show and still find yourself balling your eyes out during the opening credits?
Anyway, here’s the song. (It’s instrumental on the show – I’m not sure it’s so good with lyrics.)
I’ve not seen campaigning like I saw in Ireland over the controversial Lisbon Treaty for a long time. In fact, I’m not sure I remember ever seeing so many lampposts decorated with political propaganda and so many members of the public being fed information by various campaign groups.
So what is the Lisbon Treaty? Well that appears to be the question on the lips of most Irish citizens who have spent today voting on it. In short, it’s designed to bring the members of Europe closer together, and therefore allowing newly inducted Eastern European countries to integrate with their new western neighbors more easily. Of course, however, it’s not that easy. Much of the Treaty, which is widely regarded as complicated and unreadable, says that to achieve this countries would have to surrender many of their veto powers.
It’s this not so small print that has parts of Ireland shouting ‘Yes!’ and an increasing number shouting ‘No!!’
When I was in Dublin last weekend, the ‘no’ campaign was gaining moment – the people of Ireland, it seems, were awakening to the fact that surrendering power is not always a good thing. The ‘yes’ campaign, which is supported by the countries government, were on the back foot. But that looks set to change by tomorrow, early Exit polls are predicting a win for the ‘yes’ folks – as long as turnout is high. If it’s low then Europe faces the grave reality that one of its members, once a passionate supporter of its cause, may have a population that doesn’t want to be there. I’m sure I’ll blog on this when the result comes in tomorrow.
Whoever wins, from what I saw campaign democracy is alive and kicking in Ireland, which is more than can be said for the UK.
So Lee has won The Apprentice. As expected, the man who lied on his CV and spent the interview process erupting like a Dinosaur on heat, took the glory.
Claire, my tip, was second. She looks sad as a type but somewhat resplendent and ablaze with curls on the ‘You’re Hired’ show. It must be the BBC make-up department.
Apparently, Lee is going to spend his £100,000 a year salary leasing a Porsche, paying his mother’s gas bills and, if Sir Alan lets him, a two week holiday in South Africa. I don’t know, already asking for time off.
Anyway, it’s over – for another year at least. And that certainly is as kosher as Christmas.
The live final of The Apprentice is on in a minute.
Prediction for the win?
Sir Alan – he’s come out of every series as the real winner.
If we're talking real contestant, however, I think he'll go for Claire. She's shown herself to be a tenacious, gritty businesswoman. Even if, at times, her personality is unbearable.
I’m standing so close to a woman I don’t know that if I were anywhere else, and in any country, I’d probably be being read my rights now. Where am I? I’m on Dublin’s Dart, a cross-link over-ground railway that cuts through the Irish capital, on my way to a Radiohead gig and this, apparently, is an eco-friendly way of getting there.
If I’m honest, I wouldn’t normally think about the most environmentally friendly way of getting to a gig – it’s normally just a car, train or foot journey to a venue and back. For this concert, however, I feel compelled to. Why?
Well, ahead of Radiohead’s current world tour the band issued a very thorough set of eco-friendly guidelines that people going to one of their gigs should follow in order to minimise their carbon footprint. They said, for example, that, where possible, fans should consider public transport or increased car sharing. As if this wasn’t enough, the day before I left for Dublin an email arrived to remind me in even more detail. It read like the Ten Commandments, only written by Thom Yorke and not Moses.
1. Thou shall ride a bicycle and take advantage of the big bicycle park. 2. Thou shall take advantage of the extra trains. 3. Thou shall use a shuttle bus. 4. Thou shall kill anyone seen getting into a car…and so on.
OK, so I made the last one up, but this was still a very comprehensive list.
Consequently, I set off to the concert last Saturday with some trepidation, with only my friend, who lives in the city, for company. We arrived at Killester station, a quaint little place where I imagine that the electronic ticket machine is still a novelty, to see one of the “extra trains” pull into the platform. We froze. “Is it normally like this?” I ask, as I look at a woman’s face creased against one of the train’s windows. My friend doesn’t reply vocally – words aren’t needed at moments like this.
Suffice to say, the next 20 minutes are spent in the bosom of an Irish woman I’ve never met, glancing to my left only to see what the chance of Malahide being the next station is – which, for seven stops, it isn’t.
Despite the journey, which improved a little on the way back, I can’t complain about my first eco-friendly gig. I’ve never walked into a concert so swiftly; been treated with such warmth; or, seen better use of recyclable paper cups at any other outdoor European event. And Radiohead weren’t bad either. Blimey, I guess this means I’m an eco-friendly gig goer now, which, by all accounts, brings everyone just a little closer together.
I don’t normally fall for TV programmes that are cunningly disguised as an extended advert for a new product. I say normally because recently I did. The programme in question was Willie’s Wonky Chocolate Factory. Over four weeks, it followed the trials and tribulations of Willie Harcourt-Cooze, whose ambition in life is to establish a genuine independent chocolate factory in Britain that sells 100% bars of cacao – which are, essentially, chocolate in its purest form, according to Mr Harcourt-Cooze.
From Venezuela (where he owns a farm that grows the beans) to Devon (where he owns the factory that makes the bars), the show followed Harcourt-Cooze and his wife and children every step of the way. Like all reality TV shows, it was nail-biting stuff. Would the banks lend him enough money? Would he get the antique 20th century machines up and running in time? Would he get to the end of episode two without a request for a divorce from his wife? The drama, as expected, was relentless.
As with all these shows, however, the real cliffhanger – and in a sense the reality – is whether the public will go and buy the product afterwards.
Unsurprisingly, in Harcourt-Cooze’s case, they did. He’s blessed with the kind of infectious, lively and often infuriating personality that would enable him to sell you your own left arm. For those who didn’t watch the show, his product, Venezuelan Black, went on sale in Selfridges shortly after the series ended – a handy coincidence giving that most episodes saw him plead with the London store’s buyer in a sort of inverted Oliver Twist way: “Please sir, can I give you some more.”
Initial runs, made by Harcourt-Cooze and co (his family) at his Devon factory, were snapped up like hot chocolate cakes. It seemed that people couldn’t get enough of his infectious, lively and…well, you get the picture. I found this out when I went down to the store myself to purchase a bar only to have an ashen-faced assistant tell me that, “We’re all out at the minute.”
“When will you be getting some more?” I asked. “In about two weeks,” she replied, the pound signs with little images of Willie on scrolling in her eyes.
Over the following four weeks, I returned to Selfridges most Sundays. In fact, I became such a regular that either the same assistant was waiting for me next to the empty shelf or the same security guard was waiting to usher me out. Thankfully, with legal prosecution and a restraining order looming, last Sunday I got lucky.
I’m now looking at the bars as I write. They’re cylindrical, immaculately wrapped with shiny black paper and gold foil but, worryingly, are still unopened. The closest I’ve come to sampling the product was when I peeled back some of the foil for a sniff. It smelt funny though. Quite pure – he did say it would – and a bit pungent – I don’t remember him saying that. I wrapped it back up, neatly trying to retrace the faultless folds.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased I got my chocolate – all fourteen pounds of it - the only problem is, I don’t know what to do with it. I certainly remember seeing the fantastic recipes that were so cleverly embedded in the documentary about Willie’s chocolate dream, but I don’t know whether I can be bothered to actually make one. And his website might tell me that “Venezuelan Black can be used in a multitude of ways, enriching anything from aromatic truffles, cakes and creamy hot chocolate to dark savoury sauces, gravy and casseroles,” just to entice me a little bit more, but coupling chocolate up with most of those products just sounds wrong.
The latest on Willie Harcourt-Cooze's Venezuelan Black is that his product line is now available in 120 Waitrose stores across the UK. I can’t help thinking, however, that, like me, a lot of other people will get no further than sniffing their purchase. Either that, or a lot of mothers will find themselves adding 100% cacao to the gravy at Christmas. I know mine will.
Arriving back in London at London Bridge underground station last night (May 31st) was a bizarre feeling. I’d been gone just 24 hours, yet in that time the tube seemed to have become a mini-underground drinking den.
Why? Well it was the last night before the consumption of alcohol on the London underground network became illegal. Consequently, everyone was having a party. Pausing songs on my iPod in between choruses so that I could hear people’s drunken conversations was a rather bizarre feeling – like most Friday or Saturday nights on the tube, only this time everyone was drunk.
Nothing compared to the drinking games in my carriage, however, which involved one group of friends playing chicken with the tube doors at each stop. “Let’s get off here,” shouted the floppy haired leader. The six friends then scuttled onto the platform only to hop back on just as the bleeping began to signify that the doors were closing. They chuckled loudly – the alcohol clearly adding an element of danger to the whole game.
This is arguably mayor Boris Johnson’s biggest decision since being elected last month; yet, you can’t help but think just how hard it will be to police. Having lived in London for over a year, I’ve spent many hours on the tube late at night and have on many occasions got from A to B without seeing a single police officer. And now we’re expected to believe that no one will enter the network and consume a single drop of Strongbow (the preferred drink of choice last night)?
I’ve just found a video of last nights ‘celebrations’. Clearly Edgware road is the new Wetherspoons.
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