test

Shopping Trip

"Can you buy some salad, we've got Trish Deseine and her children *coming over tonight?"
Audible sigh. Barely intelligible mumbling along the lines of 'I'm sure her kids don't want salad.'
"What kind of salad?" heaves The Teen.
"Cos or Romain?" I suggest.
"Is that in a bag or in a big ball?" She questions.
Enjoying the mini insight into The Teen's worldview, I laugh:"It's in a long 'ball'"
"I don't understand." says The Teen.
I try to explain that it's the leaves that tend to be used for Cesar salad, her favourite.
"Wait! I've seen that. It's got a long stick on it" she exclaims.
"Er not really."
"I have to get conditioner too but nobody conditions their hair on Kilburn High Road. I've tried so many shops and they don't have it anywhere." She grumbles.
"Maybe cos you won't ask in shops if they have something?"
"They laugh at me."She says.
"What do you mean, they laugh at you?" I ask, trying to imagine shop assistants laughing at a request for conditioner.
"When I go to Way2Save they laugh at me when I don't know what 'coriander' and (said with an eye roll) 'flat leaf parsley' is?"
"They literally laugh at you"
"Yes. It's obvious I've been sent out on a shopping trip by my mum, so they laugh."
"Do you now know what 'coriander' and 'flat leaf parsley' looks like?"
She snorts: "No. And I'm not interested. When I'm older, I'm NEVER HAVING PARSLEY EVER"
She takes my card and goes off to Kilburn High Rd.

*cancelled. They probably heard about the salad.

Results Day

This morning:
"Tomorrow you will never see me again if I get a bad result" says the teen.
I say nothing.
"I mean it".
Later:
"What kind of results are you expecting?" she queries. I tread carefully, knowing the wrong answer could spark florid accusations of 'insensitivity'.
"Erm, passes?"
Even later:
"If I fail them all will you be disappointed?"
"Of course not" I lie.
Tonight, by the Aga:
"I've got to decide what to wear tomorrow" The teen declares with an air of great import.
I laugh.
"Don't laugh, everybody is discussing it. The main thing is, not to do what Sarah did last year and come fully made up, in heels, really dressed up."
"Why does anyone get dressed up?"
"You haven't seen anybody for weeks, since the end of term." She rolls her eyes. The eye equivalent of 'Der'. The teen is a specialist at eye work. 
She continues: "Anyway five minutes later Sarah got really bad results for her GCSE's and was crying her eyes out. All her make up ran down her cheeks. I don't want to make that same mistake, look wise."
"Hmm. So you are aiming for a sober but glamorous look ideally?"
"Yes. Black jeans I think. A tailored jacket. NOT heels."She draws breath, fiddles with her hair, looks serious."Glasses perhaps?"
I join in: "Quite preppy? A bit, I've already got into university?"
"Yes" she says thoughtfully.
"Will you be upset if I don't get all As?" she asks again, after a pause.
"School doesn't matter" I say. "Everybody knows you are clever. You did my accounts last year. You learnt Excel at 16". 

Update: She got 4 A's and a B.

Amy Winehouse 14 September 1983 – 23 July 2011

Amy in concert at Glastonbury 2008. Pic: Kerstin Rodgers

Infiltrators

The news about the undercover cop living for seven years as an activist was first sent out in an email by Indymedia last summer. I don't particularly remember seeing Mark Kennedy or Mark Stone as he was called on the scene, around at anti G8 camps or protests. When I first joined Rhythms of Resistance, an activist samba band, in 2003, I discounted the endless rumours of certain members being, in fact, policemen. One guy, unfortunate perhaps in having the surname 'Blue', was particularly targeted with this slur. Every week, in the pub afterwards, people would whisper about each other. I just thought it was paranoia. I also thought it was a kind of activist ego trip. As if we were so important, dangerous and destabilising that the authorities would make the effort to join the band, come to rehearsal every week, wear glittery pink clothes, go to freezing demonstrations, just to keep an eye on us. We were a public band anyway, anyone could join, we were actively recruiting members.
I got in trouble for starting up a Facebook group and Twitter account for the band, despite the fact that we already had a Myspace page and a website. 'Facebook is run by the CIA' I was told, by members that had personal Facebook accounts. "So what!" I'd counter "if they want to know about us ('they' being a nebulous undefined 'the government, MI5, the police, the army, the forces of evil') then they just have to attend rehearsal. "
I guess I was wrong. It seems incredible that Mark Kennedy was paid by the government to live as a hippy, to smoke dope (gotta be aufentic yeah?) and hang out in squats. The police suspected he'd gone native, Serpico-style, he was enjoying it all a bit too much.
Mark Stone found out that 'anarchist' activists are actually rather nice, trusting people who want to make the world a better place, who don't eat meat and worry about animals. The fact that he ate meat was one of the giveaways. In the UK, most political activists are vegan unlike the activists I met in France, who remain carnivore, whatever their politics.
And Mark was shagging around, his poor wife in the real world has discovered. Perks of the job? Lots of lovely activist totty. That's another thing, sexist behaviour is common in activist circles because 'there's no war but the class war' and feminism as an exciting cause has all but disappeared into a poorly attended separatist enclave. You won't find many women over the age of 30 in this world nor mothers.

Dances

"I'm thinking of internet dating" announced The Teen this morning.
I'm still asleep but suddenly I'm wide awake.
"NO" I yell. "You are only 16!  Why don't you go out and meet someone?"
"I don't want to meet someone who goes out.  I want to meet someone like me, who doesn't concern themselves solely with drinking and laughing. I want someone who stays in and reads books and watches TV."

I recall all the dodgy internet dates that I've had. I really don't want her to be in that position. Not a 16 year old.

"Don't you have 'dances' anymore?" I splutter, knowing as it comes out of my mouth I sound archaic.
Cue derisive, loud laughter.
"DANCES? DANCES?"
"Yes, we used to have school dances at your age"
"We are not living in the Victorian age" she says.

Actually the school dances weren't exactly a picnic either. Lots of arrogant lads from University College School. I was 14 when  my mum took me out shopping for my first school dance between my school, South Hampstead and UCS. My mum convinced me that I looked good in a lime green nylon shirt from Marks and Spencer's.  In this shirt and my mum's borrowed velvet jacket, which didn't quite fit, I spent the evening shifting nervously in the dark, seemingly attached to the wall. To escape the ongoing humiliation of never being asked to dance, I escaped outside.
Some of the boys were standing there, smoking a cigarette. Trying to sound cool while talking to them, I swore. One of the boys haughtily spat he couldn't stand girls that swear and they left, leaving me alone and crushed outside.
The teen blithely continues: "I've seen this guy online. He's 38. Fit."
"What about boys of your own age?"
"No thanks. They are all clean shaven and boring."
"Watch out for stubble" I warn, "I remember having terrible red rashes from the tip of my nose to my chin from snogging unshaven men."
"Anyway I've met someone" she says "He hands out The Evening Standard outside the tube station"
"A high flyer then?" I say, unfairly.

"Look" I say "You will meet someone, I guarantee it. But no internet dating. Christ, all those perverts will be round you like white sharks drawn to raw bait."

The age of Aquarius and wikileaks

The age of Aquarius has had a good press, especially in the 1960s. The musical Hair where the song originated, seemed to herald a millennium of free love, no rules, communes and equality.
Aquarius, an air sign, in medical astrology, centres upon 'circulation' and people with strongly Aquarian charts may suffer from poor circulation; but this term also applies to communication. The internet combines almost every Aquarian attribute; citizen journalism, global conversations, technology, equality and transparency. Twitter grew exponentially in 2009 when there was an eclipse in Aquarius and several planets were transiting the sign.
But Aquarius has always had a dark side; equality can mean sameness, suppression of individuality; global means ignoring the local and allowing certain corporations rather too much power; while transparency is anathema to government and our own private data can easily be lost, stolen and distributed.
The wikileaks crisis was always going to happen. And now we are seeing the reaction of big business; Paypal, Amazon, Visa, Mastercard have frozen the wikileaks accounts. I want to express my disapproval of their actions by withdrawing my business, but in the case of credit cards, who do I go to that isn't a multi-national corporation beholden to the US government?
Options, of which the internet seems to provide plenty, are now revealed as an illusion.
A new kind of war seems to be developing: a detached, techno battle with hacktivists against the big guys, duelling each other with Denial of Service attacks. Interesting times.
I've taken a quick look at Julian Assange's chart: Sun in Cancer, moon in Scorpio. It wouldn't surprise me if he has some issues around women, most Cancerian men do, relating more to their mothers and the feminine than is usually regarded as butch. Transiting Pluto is opposing his Sun: he's up against it. Pluto is power, crushing ruthless power. Moon in Scorpio is intense, sexual, secretive and controlling. He has Mars conjunct the North node in Aquarius. Mars in Aquarius and Venus in Gemini can be a cool customer, his energies tend towards technology and revolt rather than romance. He's married to his laptop. The North node suggests a fated aspect, this is his destiny.

Another, more detailed astrological analysis of wikileaks/Julian Assange: http://astrotabletalk.blogspot.com/2010/12/wikileaks-and-uranus-pluto-americas-new.html

What to buy each sun sign as a gift

It's a bit early for Christmas but if you are very organised, a Virgo perhaps, then here are some hints:

Aries: a red rosette stating that they are 'Number One'. Tweezers for their monobrow.

Taurus: Food, blankets, singing lessons.

Gemini: anything gossipy... Katie Price's latest autobiography? Language courses. Subscription to Time Out.

Cancer: things to cook with; therapy; subscription to home improvements magazine, antiques.

Leo: wigs, a Hollywood style mirror with lots of lightbulbs around.

Virgo: sewing machine, gardening tools, anything craft.
Libra: dentistry, a session getting their colours done. 

Scorpio: cleaning products, drain cleaner, a voucher for colonic irrigation, sex.

Sagittarius: horse riding lessons, holidays, New Age books. 

Capricorn: stand up comedians course, a book to write their accounts in.

Aquarius: nothing, they don't believe in Christmas.

Pisces: alcohol. Unless they are Muslim or underage in which case, a prayer book or music.

Cote

We met at the bouledrome, open only during the season, cheapest drinks on the Cote d'Azure. As old men and young played boules, the Mistral kicked up and blew sand in our eyes. We had to hold onto our plastic cups so that the yellow aniseed liquid didn't spill. Behind the bar, shelves were crammed with trophies, enormous, some with gold figurines crouched low in a bowling stance. 'Bienvenue au bouledrome plantourienne' said the notice on the wall. Turns out Plan de la tour is one of France's top villages when it comes to boules; competitions are sometimes televised. They've even done well in the 'world cup'... 'coupe mondiale de petanque'. Plantourienne, I didn't know a village name could become an adjective. But of course: Tropezienne, Grimaldine, Maximois, Cogolais... the inhabitants of the local towns had names. 

Si had broken up with Sarah since I last saw him. I didn't much care, I didn't much like her. Typical French bird: didn't like other women, slim-hipped with a smile like a shark, a face full of European teeth and smoker's wrinkles. But she'd clearly suffered in the relationship, propping up Si. As a woman I knew.  

He told us the story: 

"I was in the middle of France, one of those nowhere towns with nothing to do. She was working in a chain hotel: Formule 1 or one of them, on an industrial estate. We worked different shifts. She worked days, I worked nights. We never saw each other except Sundays. And then she'd want to walk. I don't mind a walk. One hour, an hour and a half maybe. But she could walk all day. She loved it, had the boots and everything. One day on our day off she took me for a walk round a lake. After a couple of hours I could see we were only half way round. That was it. 

I left, I had very little money. I bunked on local trains to get back down to Provence. I progressed stop by stop. It was November, freezing. I'd arrived in Limoges. I was sitting outside a cafe having a smoke. This old woman comes up to me, hunched over, with dyed red hair, in her 70s. She asked me for a light, heard my accent and talked to me in English. After a bit she asked me where I was staying. I said 'In the station, if the police don't move me on'. 

'Why don't you stay at mine?' she said."

Si broke off for a minute to say to us 'How nice is that?' in his dry Mancunian accent. We all agreed.

'"Great I'd love to' Si replied to her.

'That'll be 150 euros for the night' the woman whipped back. 'But you must wear a condom'.

Si almost choked. 

'Yes I am a prostituée' said the woman.

'No thanks love' managed Si. The woman shrugged and went into the bar. A while later, Si saw her leaving with a man in his 50s. "

We all laughed and wondered out loud. Does she do this every night? In her 70s why does she care about condoms? Isn't she scared? Talk about entrepeneurial!

We moved up to Bar de la Poste. In the touristy world of the Cote d'Azure, Bar de la Poste stood out as the real thing, a proper neighbourhood bar. Ordinary, even though Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis live in the village. Men would enter and kiss each other. When I lived in the South, I went regularly, nursed a kir while the teen was doing her drum lesson. After a few weeks they kissed me too.

Si had got the 'copain du village' act down pat. Every few metres he'd slap someone on the back and boom 'Salut mon pote'. They'd probably discovered him in a few ditches over the years.

Si was a golden boy; tall, handsome, blond, square shouldered and jawed. He had pretensions to write.  Every so often he'd shyly pull out a few scribbled pages; mostly about waking up drunk with a mysterious girl. We rowed frequently. He didn't read women writers. So I can name him in this post in complete confidence that he will never read it. But the idea that someone apparently interested in literature would avoid the output of an entire gender shocked me. 

Si drank all the time. I accused him of drinking like Bukowski or Hemingway but not writing like them. He annoyed me. All that privilege and looks and blowing it away on drink.

 "It's not like becoming an alcoholic will automatically turn you into a talented writer you know" I'd say irritably.
He had a new girlfriend I'd heard, from the village.
'Tell me about her?'
'We've split up' he grinned.
'When?'
'Last night'
'What happened?'
'I was a naughty boy.'
'Who with?'
'Another girl from the village'
We looked at each other. The village is small.
'So you shat on your own doorstep' I said.
An older woman came up to the table then and started to shake her head and wag her finger at Si.
He ordered another pint.

On Sunday we made our way to les plages d'embarquement near La Croix Valmer. There are some beach front restaurants serving moules and frites. It being the season, loud eurodisco tumbled across the tanning bodies, tall blue africans wearing higgedly towers of pink cowboy hats loped from group to group selling beach kaftans, doughnut sellers, boys with summer jobs winked at girls and sung about hot beignets. A little further up the street a bar chugged with rock n roll music. Where do old session musicians retire? The south of France naturellement. A synth player with a long white Zappa moustache, a portly guitar player ripped licks worthy of Bowie and the Stones, no surprise, he'd played for them all. The sax player wore red sneakers and blew until his face was the same colour. A gaunt blue eyed grey-haired man twanged on the double bass player. They reminded me of The Faces live, Spinal Tap on their holidays, dirty hot bluesy rock n roll. An English guy wearing head to toe black and proper shoes, not sandals, sang Jimi Hendrix and Van Morrison. Old girls wore mini dresses with the insouciance of dolly birds from the sixties, varicose veins be damned. A man with long white hair and a red headband nodded. I remembered that the Gypsy Kings were discovered around here by Brigitte Bardot.

Wallflower at the orgy

Arrived in Barons Court. Not Maida Vale, as he'd told me.

 "It's the first white house." Ben said.

 Outside security cameras tracked us. The pale thudding of generic techno music, the modern soundtrack to all recreational events, pounded through the fence.
We'd forgotten drink. Rules were you had to bring three bottles of wine or 12 bottles of beer.
The offies were closed.

 "I've got a tiny bottle of airline wine in my van." I suggested to Ben. 

"That'll have to do" he said "Look, you do it, you ask if we can come in. You are confident, good at talking your way into situations"

"No, Ben" I said firmly "You man up. Yes I can do it better than you but I'm not going to".

At the door we were inspected by a portly middle aged man with plucked eyebrows and a thinning pate. Alex. He opened the door just a little bit, we squeezed through.
The inside was suffused with blue, from ultraviolet bulbs. We faced a spiral staircase. On the left was the kitchen, on the right, where you would normally expect a living room, was a large room containing 7 or 8 beds. Dimly I could make out brown bottoms, dark against the glowing sheets, bouncing up and down.
We entered the kitchen. Alex gave us a clipboard and asked us to write down our names, emails and phone numbers.

 "What shall I call myself?" I asked Ben.

 "Well I'm known as Simon Jones. You could be Mrs Jones."

 I wrote that down on the dotted line. I let Ben put his mobile number on there. Behind me, men were walking around bare chested with their bottom halves covered with towels.
Ben handed his tan leather jacket into the cloak room. He was wearing a thin white T-shirt. On the journey here, he asked me if I'd noticed that he'd been working out.

 "How much is it?" he asked the barman.

 "Are you alone or in a couple?"the barman replied "if you are alone it's £125 but free if you are in a couple. However you know the rules don't you? You can't play until the lady plays. She has to initiate."

The penny dropped, this was why I'd been invited. Ben, the bastard, just wanted to get in free.
While this conversation was going on, I looked around the kitchen. A few white cardboard plates were on the counter: a couple of mince pies, a desultory trail of Hula Hoops, a stack of mini spring rolls. Quite plebeian snacks for an orgy, I'm sure I could cater it better: figs, grapes, chocolate dipped strawberries, maybe some eclairs...
But I guess some people weren't there for the food.
I sat on a stool next to the fridge where, attached by magnets, were notices for forthcoming events 'MILF' night and 'BLO' night (Black ladies only).

 Ben crackled into my ear "you might be interested in the MILF night?" 

An older lady came up to me and shook my hand. This made me feel slightly more relaxed. The truth was, I was terrified. I was tensed up. Going into a house with maybe 60 strange men in varying states of undress brings up all your fight or flight instincts. This is what women are afraid of, this is what women are taught to be afraid of, since birth. It goes against every instinct of self-preservation. You are amongst the big beasts, creatures who are directed by their sexual impulses, large hairy mammals with big pudgy fists. Why would any woman voluntarily put herself in that position?
Alex came up to us and suggested, through clenched and bleached teeth, that we wander around, see upstairs.
I'd only been there ten minutes. I felt pressurised. I could feel Ben's impatience next to me.
I gulped. Lets do this. We walked up the spiral staircase. There was a TV on the wall, I wondered who had been evicted from Big Brother.
Below, crowded around a sofa, were maybe 10 to 15 male hairy backs of various hues and their paler bottoms, thronged. On an adjacent sofa, a man sprawled, looking. His proprietorial gaze seemed to be that of a husband. Underneath the men, all I could see of his wife was a calf, ankle and foot clad in black stocking, her leg bent up in the air.
I stood stiffly at the other end of the room.
I wanted to move about, to look, to investigate but I was too aware of my part in this as desirable meat. I was bait. You can't be a reporter when you are bait.
I moved down the hall, I was looking for a toilet. I found a corner and pressed my back into it, against the wall. I had a view into two bedrooms. In one, there was a man, no, a woman, I could see the pendulous tear-drop of her breasts as her head rose up in the oscillation of her work on a prone body. Later, when she stopped, coming towards me, I could see she had few teeth. Darkly I wondered why.
In the other room, the bulk of the men were collected. Sometimes I caught a flickering glimpse of white female legs. A large black man came out, he introduced himself to me.

 "It's that lady's 30th birthday. this is a party for her. She wanted 30 men!" 

"I bet she's sore" I tried to quip. Thirty candles I thought. 

The black man had pale blue eyes. I clutched Ben's hand. Where I was standing it was very narrow, but no man touched me as they went past. Nole me tangere. They all had ultraviolet dandruff speckled on their bare shoulders, twinkling like stardust. A blonde woman in her twenties announced to me laughingly

 "You are going to get eaten alive!"

The black man talked to me, he was well spoken. "Your first time?"

"Yes" I squeaked. 

"I come about six times a year. This has alot of people, this party. It probably would have been better if you'd come to a smaller one."

"So many men...." I say "I know there are women but they all seem to be invisible, buried under a mound of men"

"You are always going to get lots of men where there's a possibility of women..." he says "of sex".

"N.S.A" I say, thinking of the singles night I held at The Underground Restaurant around Valentines Day. How only three men came compared to 18 women. Strings attached.

"Yeah" he agreed "No strings attached. There are different sorts of parties...I went to one called 'fat munters', it was held in a car park. Loads of men there. I've been to one called 'fat and ugly' ...still loads of men".

A small man, not much bigger than me, with closely cropped hair, joined in:

"I thought it was bi night tonight? The girls having fun with each other?"

Me: "Bi night is only women?"

The small guy snorted:"Oh yeah, we don't want bi men!" 

The black guy agreed "Oh no, none of that!"

Lesbianism and bisexuality was not, in this world, a sexual choice but a spectacle for the titillation of men.

The black guy seemed kind. "Don't worry, no one will force you into anything you don't want to do here. People will protect you"

I trusted him more than I did my companion.

Ben: "Lets go into the bedroom" 

I stood stock still, a mess of nerves. I'd worn pearls, a black dress, black heels. I was wearing the most clothes in the whole party.

"Lets go downstairs then" 

We went to the bedroom with all the beds.

"These are pros" explained Ben. "As you can see, they are rather better looking than the other women."

A young mixed race girl, very pretty, with slim hips trimmed by lacy knickers, strolled gracefully past.

"Can we go?" I asked Ben.

His face fell. He put on his best Oxbridge accent, trying to gain control "We've only been here ten minutes. Lets go upstairs"

"You said we can go anytime" I insisted

I could see he was worried about Alex. About his reputation in the sex party world.
I walked to the bar, one guy muttered something to me.

Ben smiled "That guy likes your bum".

The black guy was standing at the bar.

"You going?" He asked me.

"Yes. I'm sorry. It's not for me"

He looked at Ben dismissively.

"When you get home you should give this guy a slap. I'm proud of you." he said to me.

"I'm not judging anyone" I said. "It's not for me"

"I brought a friend along, she had the same reaction. She is profoundly deaf and finds it hard to meet anyone. But she couldn't handle it. " He shrugged.

"I hope you gentleman have a good evening" I say with exaggerated politesse, departing.

Ben and I row all the way home. He seems anxious. But then it emerges that he is angry, that I should have known what it was like, that he explained it all clearly. I counter that I couldn't account for my own reactions, it was physical, visceral.

He admits: "Well that was probably the sleaziest place I could have taken you to even in that genre of party: pure conveyor belt sex."

I remain interested by the male gaze, how men think, how they compartmentalise women, whether they feel, if they are just like us. I don't think most women know.


A link: The truth about the porn industry in the Guardian

Football astrology part 2

I wrote a piece on Bethea Jenner's football astrology talk a few weeks ago. Yesterday Bethea and I, after a quick lunch gathered from Monday night's leftovers, staggered down to the North London Tavern to watch the game. Bethea was wearing red and was skittishly nervous about the game.
The North London Tavern, surprisingly, was not too crowded and we managed to secure a table right in front of a screen. Last Friday, I watched England play Algeria and was shocked, for I seldom watch football, at the slow and sluggish lack of energy. The England team footballers didn't seem to care and criticisms about 'eleven millionaires on a pitch' not having any motivation rang true. Wayne Rooney was upset that the fans booed them, but it wasn't surprising. Imagine paying out all that money on a flight, hotel, tickets to watch your country play in South Africa and getting that performance.
Even yesterday, we managed a goal, but England weren't exactly playing 'the beautiful game', there was no flow, no grace, no natural talent on display except for a couple of youngsters. England make it look like hard work. As a non-football expert, I struggle to understand how we can have the best league in the world, so many famous footballers and yet be so underwhelming as a side at the World Cup. Is it all about the money?
Bethea explained to me that some footballers retire from playing with England early so that they can concentrate on their last few years with their clubs, earning a few extra bucks. The F.A, whose initial meeting chart forms, she believes, the chart for Football itself, are no help as an organisation, being run by a bunch of stuck in the mud old fogeys who stymie talent and creativity.
We looked at the chart for the match: I can't remember the details due to drinking two pints of lager (I'm a cheap date and I was trying to get into the swing of things) and hopefully Bethea will post more on her blog (Sybil's Boudoir) about it. My first impression of the chart is that England's main opponent was not so much Slovenia, but the expectations and hopes of people back in England.
But expect upsets: Uranus, having spent seven years in Pisces has just moved into Aries. Uranus which equals rebellion, shocks, innovation, the unexpected in the sign of youth, aggression, energy and enthusiasm. England are Aries, and should always play in red, the Arian colour. Capello should pick young players. I remember Michael Owen and Rooney as youngsters in the World Cup, it's shocking that Owen, at 30, is no longer playing for his country, and Rooney, well, if you told me he was 42 rather than 22 I wouldn't be surprised. He looked ancient, bald, puffy, tired. Maybe they are pushed too hard, too young.
Rooney, astrologically, is having a tough time. Saturn, the planet of age, time, depression and wisdom is transiting his natal Mars, aggression, competitiveness, drive, energy; he probably feels as ancient as he looks. Not a good transit for a sportsman. This transit won't last long but it's timing is unfortunate for this World Cup.
The French manager, Domenech, uses astrology to pick his team: he dislikes Scorpios and won't play Leos in defence. As astrology deals with 12 signs and football has a team of 11 men, possibly this could explain why France are out of the World Cup.
You can read more about astrology and football in this book: Football aims for the Stars: How the Constellations Can Affect Planet Football 

Runaway

My teenage years were pretty vile. I was always either running away from home or being chucked out. I was the oldest and therefore my behaviour, no longer a compliant child, was a shock to my parents. By the time it came to my brother and sister, they were worn out and had given up on rules.

I ran away and stayed out all night when I was 14, sheltering in a church from a thunderstorm. Another time, I stayed the night in Muswell Hill ladies loo. One day, after I refused to clean the bath tub while my brother was lounging about: "Sexists!", my parents kicked me out. I moved to a squat in Camden Town, Royal College Street, just up the road from where Rimbaud and Verlaine lived.

Jesse Birdsall the actor shared the place with me, along with the sometime drummer/manager/mate of Madness, John Hasler. The place was very basic and had no heating. I lugged a bag of coal from the corner shop to light a fire in the tiny fireplace and lived off kebabs from the shop opposite. It was winter.

A few days later my parents put all of my belongings into black plastic rubbish bags: "Take these or lose them to the rubbish collectors!". Such fury on their part, they acted like they hated me.

I was at art college, flunking badly. I wanted to be a fashion designer and would make poorly constructed items on my mother's sewing machine such as vertically striped black and white trousers in satin (doh!) which I teamed with a pale pink angora sweater from Sex at World's end. I had a boyfriend who told me, on the first date, that he was going to be famous. And he was.

My parents were so strict, so threatened by my independence. I had to do whatever they told me to do. They constantly emphasised that it was their house, not mine. I felt insecure for years, until I finally bought my own place. I swore that if I ever made proper money that I would help homeless teenagers.

Teenagers get a bad rap in society; all those hormones, all that energy and curiosity. The boys are stabbing each other and the girls are trying to get boys to like them.

Many teenagers are homeless, because they were in care, because they don't get on with their parents, because they were abused, because the parents don't know how to parent. And sometimes the parents and the teens just need a break from each other.

This initiative seeks to help by getting teenagers on the street back into education.

Campaign to get half a million teenagers worldwide off the street and into school:

Tell Us Your Story is giving people the opportunity to recognise and reward others who have made a positive impact on their lives or in their community over the past year. Entries are submitted online at http://www.avivatellusyourstory.co.uk/
Launched by Aviva, for every entry they will donate £1 to the Street to School Programme - a global initiative with the aim of reaching 500,000 children worldwide, helping them get off the streets and back into education.

A weekly prize of £1000 will also be awarded to the local hero that captures the hearts of visitors to the site and receives the most votes.  One overall winner will be chosen by a celebrity judging panel for a prize worth £10,000.

About Street to School:
Railway Children is the UK charity partner for the Street to School programme.
Railway Children is the only charity working across the UK with vulnerable children.
Every year in the UK, 100,000 children run away because they’re unwanted, unloved or abused and many are never reported missing. 

Revision

It's midnight, I go into the teen's bedroom. Her laptop is propped up in front of her. All I can see is the glow of her face in the laptop light. She hasn't left her bedroom all day except to make a bowl of pasta.

"Eventually you are going to lose the use of your legs" I snark.

"You've let a moth in"

I turn the light on, see it land on a poster of Kurt Cobain. Smack! I lift my hand and there is a smear of ex moth on Kurt's jumper.

"How dare you do that to Kurt!" the teen yelps.

"I think Kurt would have appreciated it" I retort

I look on her windowsill, she's growing something in a pot.

"What's that?" I ask

"Not telling you"

"Is it marijuana?"

She rolls her eyes. "No, like I'd do that here"

I wait.

"It's basil"

I see the packet now. How sweet.

You see, when kids aren't at school they do all sorts of creative things they don't normally do. She's also started mowing the lawn on a regular basis.

"Um, have you got any exams coming up?"

"Tomorrow" she says casually, not moving a muscle.

"Tomorrow!!" I exclaim."When's the exam after that?"

"I've got exams all this week, every day" she replies.

"Aren't you supposed to be revising or something?"

She takes a deep philosophical breath..."Well, I feel, at this stage, whatever happens, will happen..."

"Que sera, sera?" I paraphrase, an eyebrow raised.

"Yeah, that sort of thing. By the way, don't wake me up in the morning, it's an afternoon exam"

I close the door. I hope she knows what she's doing. Watching David Mitchell panel show re-runs will not get her into university and watching Black Adder does not count as history revision.

The Boy and me

I first met George in the bogs at the Vortex. Screwdriver were playing and the atmosphere was thick with violence which jarred amongst the glitter and gladrags of the camper prettier punks. One Skin had gathered his own large turd in a pint glass and was threatening to throw it at people.

George was 15 and reapplying his makeup in the ladies. He loved my vintage lipstick, so matte it practically tattooed your lips and lasted almost a week. George wanted to borrow it. His friend 'Mickey', with a ginger mop and svelte body minced even more loudly, their quickfire repartée crackled arcs of lightning-fast bitchery into the Soho night air.

I liked George straight away. I'd never really met a gay man before who was so open. A week later he turned up at my parent's house in Highgate

"you coming down the Vortex?"

On the top deck of the number 43 bus he explained gay sex in detail: that they took it up the arse, although some men preferred to be the fucker. He told me about some posh party where an older man locked and mounted him in the loo. I lapped it up. George told me that he was gay but that he expected to get married and have children later. That seems kind of poignant now.

Every Thursday night for a few weeks, George and Mickey (feather boa, piping voice) would come round on the way to the club. We'd perform last minute adornment on my parent's enormous Heal's zebra print sofa.

I was into a 'mod' look at that time, even though I was a punk. Sixties Twiggy-style dresses were cheap and plentiful in the charity shops: painted eyelashes, pale lipstick, white tights and I was set. Every Saturday I'd go down to Camden market, before it became a money laundering joint for Israeli mafia, and create my look for that week.

My friendship with George cooled when I threw my 18th birthday party during my parent's holiday abroad. In those days you had to deal with tribes, as neatly delineated, warring viciously in the high streets of Britain, as any civil war. You had your Punks, your Teds and your Skins. I spent hours taping a party cassette, alternating all three genres of music. Ever the cook and hostess, I made tons of food. A harbinger of the future, I spent almost all my party budget on food: cheeses, baguettes, salads. People laughed. It wasn't very rock n roll. But I was glad of it, people vomit less when they've had something to eat. For my hostess outfit, I ran myself up a pink tutu, badly, it kept unravelling throughout the night.

I'd invited a few people from the pubs where I lurked every opening hour in Highgate, some mates from the Roxy and the Vortex. I had a boyfriend: Tone, to whom I'd recently lost my virginity in the back of my mother's Honda. It was cramped but surprisingly pleasurable. I was dating outside of my caste: Tony was a Ted. He had a solid laquered quiff and jeans so tight that he sewed himself into them every night. He smelt of Paco Rabanne, hairspray and fags. To this day that smell turns me on. I wasn't allowed to touch his hair

"I love you babes but don't touch the barnet".

He only ate cheese sandwiches. His sister was in jail. In his fonzyesque leather jacket, rough but rule-bound like so many working class men, his 'otherness' and his talent as a cartoonist enamoured me. Like most men, he was prepared to spend any amount of money on me for drink, but food was something else: once, after a drinking sesh at the Duke of Hamilton pub in Hampstead where he and his crew, who were later to become the band Madness, hung out, I said I was hungry.

As we walked down Hampstead High street in the rain from the chip shop, sharing the damp vinegar soaked bag, he said

"'Course I love you, I bought you chips".

I looked at him: he was serious. Buying me food, even a take-away, showed commitment of a different order.

I was in the papers with Tone, front page of the News of The World 'Punk and Ted in love'. Going to clubs together was difficult: if I went to a rockabilly club, I needed a set of bodyguarding girl-Teds, all clad in gingham blouses and hoop skirts, picked out by Tony, to accompany me to the loo otherwise I'd get beaten up. When I took Tony to punk clubs, it was easier: punks were more liberal, allowing Skins and Rastas into their clubs. In fact all the girls fancied him; my good friend Simone, ha! briefly ended up with Tony when we split. Ah the heartbreak and betrayals you learn growing up.

So my 18th birthday party was all prepared. My brother and I had moved all the furniture upstairs.

Later, when 300 people were crammed on the dancefloor (punks were pogo-ing to the Clash, then the teds would take over for Sha Na Na, it was a dance off!), fights were breaking out all over, my boyfriend was nowhere to be seen, the food had gone, the police had turned up and people wouldn't go home, I was very glad we'd taken that precaution.

About 50 people stayed the night, including Melissa Caplan, shortly afterwards a famous fashion designer for New Romantics, and Boy George.

"I had to stop George from spray painting your parent's living room with graffitti" Melissa told me.

I was shocked that a friend would consider such a thing. I still got in a heap of trouble with the parents, even though my brother and I had spent a week clearing up. We weren't sure how to repair the fixtures and fittings though, such as the wood surrounds of the doors which had been ripped off. For a week or so afterwards whenever I went out to a club, I was famous as the girl that had 'that party'.

A couple of years previously I hosted a dinner party for a guy I thought fancied me. My menu was laughably seventies: grilled grapefruit halves with glacé cherries, spaghetti bolognese, and baked apples with custard. I had 12 or maybe it was 15 people over, a ridiculously large amount for a 15 year old. Grilling the grapefruits took forever and the main course didn't get served till 11pm. By which time I was exhausted and drunk. Then my good friend Clare Bennett got off with the object, a preening cock whose millionaire father owned a plastic bag factory, of my affection. Bitch. Story of my life: I'm in the kitchen, thinking bizarrely that my beautiful food would pull in the love while my mates are outside, wearing platforms, face glitter and flicked up fringes, actually getting some.

One of the guests was a pixieish young man, black hair, tiny features and periwinkle blue eyes, named Jon Moss. He had access to a car and would sometimes whisk me off to Maxwell's Hamburger joint in Hampstead after the pub. He seemed interested in me.

Maxwell's was a very exciting place: you wouldn't believe how novel burgers appeared in the 70s. Mostly I couldn't afford to eat there: I'd go with someone else and pick at the free tray of sauces.* There were four sauces I seem to recall: 1) ketchup, proper Heinz, not the watery vinegared red stuff they served at Wimpey 2) a lurid green relish, which may have had pickled cucumbers in it 3) a nuclear yellow relish, perhaps made of corn 4) thick Helman's style mayonnaise, not 'salad dressing'.

Jon Moss represented glamour and money, he was also exotic because, it was whispered, he was adopted. I'd never met anyone adopted before.

One weekend he invited me to Liverpool. My nan was babysitting as my parents were away. I was almost 16 and determined to lose my virginity. So I persuaded my nan to let me go. We drove up in a tiny car, disappointingly I was in the back seat, Jon had a friend with him in the front seat. We stopped at a motorway cafe (something I'd never been to before, as my family never holidayed in Britain) and irritatingly Jon decided to pick up a hitchhiker. It meant I had even less room in the car and the prospect of a romantic hymen-busting weekend with Jon dimmed further. I felt sidelined especially as Jon was noticeably friendlier and chattier to this Hitcher than me. They jabbered away, ignoring me, obviously considering me too young to understand their lofty talk.

Suddenly I heard them talking about prophesies, I jerked into action:

"Are you talking about Nostradamus?" I interjected.

A moment's silence followed in which I could almost physically hear their minds reappraising me as perhaps not the bimbo they had thought. They had no idea of course that I'd been brought up in a family immersed in mysticism such as Arthurian tales and astrology.

In Liverpool the party was in a barely decorated house. I was hungry. The party dragged on. I kept wondering when Jon was going to have his way with me. After all why else did he invite me? Jon was upstairs, busy, talking to others I guess. I was alone on the sofa with his mate, front-seat guy. At about 4am in the morning, front-seat guy did that creeping his hand along the back of the sofa thing, trying to put his arm around me. Ugh! No way! I thought. Just then Jon came down and saw. He smiled. He was fine with it!

The next morning we drove back to London. I was perplexed. I didn't understand what had gone wrong. I'd returned virgo intacta, what humiliation. I didn't see Jon for a few years after that.

Can you imagine my surprise when Culture Club burst on the scene?

*I'd recently been to America on holiday with my parents. American restaurants were a revelation after years driving through France going to Relais Routiers. They had 'help yourself' salad bars, blue cheese dressing, huge glasses of iced water which were brought to your table even when you didn't order it. The service was friendly. Friendly!! They told you their names and everything! They said 'you are welcome' and 'hi' like they knew you!

The astrology of football

Can astrology help predict England’s success in this year’s World Cup?

Housed in a grand and elegant room at the Theosophical Society premises near Baker Street, the Astrological Lodge of Great Britain hosts talks on Monday nights, the most recent being on the the astrology of football. It specifically looked into what our chances will be for the World Cup 2010, held in South Africa this summer.

While the idea of using astrology might seem ridiculous, footballers themselves are actually remarkably superstitious. Top clubs have had feng shui (the astrology of space) performed on their stadiums and pitches. At the famous Maracana stadium in Rio de Janeiro, witch doctors do hypnotic drumming rituals at the pitch before every game. Brazil has won the World Cup more times than any other nation; so could voodoo be the key to their success?

Despite football’s tendency towards more alternative ways to improve performance, attendance at the talk was rather low. Most astrologers tend to be women of a certain age wearing purple, not known for their enthusiasm about football.

So, how do you do an astrology chart for football?

First off – as astrologer Bethea Jenner demonstrated – you set the time for the inaugural meeting of the Football Association (26/10/1863, 19.00hrs, London). Football is therefore a Scorpio.

Bethea then put up the England chart (yes countries have charts, as do cities and businesses), the 1966 winning chart and the chart of the FA for comparison. England itself is Aries and the England team always play better in red, the Arian colour.

We then looked at the chart of England manager, and Gemini, Fabio Capello. Bethea was optimistic. Compared to Sven’s chart – where his Neptunian philandering (secrecy, fantasy) coincided with the relaxation on wives’ and girlfriends’ attendance and the whole WAG phenomenon – Fabio will get us a long way. ‘He’s tactical,’ says Bethea.

She thought Beckham should play. As a Taurus he’s not a speedy player, but typical for his sign, has longevity. ‘He won’t last 90 minutes but he’s important symbolically,’ she says. Sadly she was more right than she realised, and it looks set that he won’t be playing any minutes at all.

Looking at Wayne Rooney’s tense chart, Bethea and fellow astrologer Neil Spencer clash. Bethea thinks Rooney will do ’something awesome’ whereas Neil believes he will injure himself.

The chart for the first England match in South Africa is spectacularly good. We may not win the entire competition but we will go far. In the past, Germany, with its Neptune on the FA’s ascendant at 24 degrees of Gemini, has ’shattered all our dreams’. But this year, Bethea doesn’t believe that Germany or England nemesis Argentina will win.

Astrological Lodge of London
50 Gloucester Place
Marylebone
W1U 8AE