The Lodge.

The Carter memorial lecture: the Astrological Lodge in London. This is a place where you are considered a youngster at 40. 

Nick Campion started with a joke "What I like about the lodge it that it's never been fussy who it admits..." going onto more serious points about 'high' and 'low' astrology. 'Low' astrology refers to sun sign columns and prior to that, almanacs. Even in Roman times people complained about gullible women going to fortune tellers. 

Bernard Eccles talked about astrology in terms of the recent past; the 1980's were dominated by the Sun sign astrologer Patrick Walker; the 1990's there was the dispute between the Astrological Lodge and the Company of Astrologers.  He described how things have changed: astrology has become narrower, sharper but has also lost some of its warmth. Thirty years ago when Eccles first started going to the Lodge, there were still strong links to Theosophy and the belief that a higher force was at work. Old guys sat at the back, who had a lifetime of experience. There has been a shift in the flavour of the Lodge; people who attend are neophytes, people on voyages of self-discovery, and, at the top, authors, teachers, workshop leaders. Astrology has become, along with society, consumerist. Now astrology is serviced by professionals. Naturally astrology will change with each generation. It's very commercial now. You buy your expertise, through say, workshops. It favours the psychological over the spiritual. The personal over the universal. The sex life over the soul. 

It's not celestial. It's the age of the experts. The system favours certain skills: knowledge that can be quantified rather than wisdom. 

Charts that used to take days to draw up can be done in seconds, on computers. We are literally dazzled by software programmes or are we blinded? Astrology happens best in the shadows. Before the drawing of the chart was still manual. Everything is now computer driven. Astrology is now packets of information, parcels of data, the cook-book technique. However ultimately interpretation still has to be done by hand.

A Gandalf type character, complete with long white beard and ponytail, Roy Gillett got up to speak. Self-taught, he didn't learn astrology through books but through experience. He had several jobs, the RAF, teaching, prior to becoming an astrologer. For him transits and progressions are opportunities for karmic change. Astrology is really the study of karma. He harks back to the 1999 Astrological conference in Plymouth. It just happened to coincide with the much touted 'end of the world' eclipse. (I was there actually, had just got the boat from Santander. We sat on a hillside with hundreds of people and watched the eclipse. Unfortunately it was rather cloudy and therefore the eclipse was not clear.) There were 20-30 years building up to 1999, a mood of millenarianism. There were prophecies of peace between Russia and the U.S.A and war with Islam. The conference 2 days either side of the eclipse attracted 650 people, a huge success. The end of the world didn't happen...or did it? Not long afterwards we had the controversial Bush presidency and  September 11th. Now we are coming up to the Saturn/Uranus opposition (more on this here).

As the Ftse drops 5%, we are wondering how to salvage the economic system and that's even before Pluto properly enters Capricorn. We are on the edge of something very different. The last 12 years have been a false Aquarian dawn. And let's not forget the LHC...Large Hadron collider.

Mike Edwards is next to talk. "We should stick with the stars" he announces and puts up a chart on the overhead projector. The question is 'The current state of astrology' and is set for 7pm 29/9/08, the official start of the lecture. (1)

The Lodge is having an election for a new president. Mike Edwards put up a chart for the ideal candidate. He asked for guesses as to who this person might be. One guy ventured something and was quickly shamed into silence by Mike Edwards. Few other people dared after that. We all gazed at this natal chart with a Leo sun and Leo ascendant. Neil Spencer (Observer astrology columnist and ex-editor of the N.M.E) ventured finally "Is this person an Alan Leo (the father of modern astrology) type character?"

"No" replied Mike firmly "Anybody know?". Silence all round.

"It's Harry Potters' chart. He should be the next president of the Astrological Lodge." Titters. "Well actually it is J.K. Rowlings chart. Except we've spun it around and derived Harry Potter's chart from her chart. And in the books, she gave Harry her birthday. The moon in Virgo, of course, is Hermione. J.K. Rowling talks about how she was like Hermione in her childhood."

One woman remarks that the astronomy in the Potter books is inaccurate rubbish. Another says that J.K.Rowling isn't very complimentary about astrology (perhaps because she is a Christian) particularly in her portrayal of the divination teacher who says dippy things like "You have two Neptunes in your chart."

We led onto a general discussion. 

Neil Spencer, commenting on Bernard Eccles' talk said that "Results are a good thing. There are lots of books on spirituality nowadays. Whole sections of bookshops. "

"I agree. 'Cosmic ordering' for instance, it's the Argos catalogue of the higher plane" quips Bernard. 

Other observations about Pluto transits: when Pluto was in Cancer (1913-1939), the first fast food restaurant opened (transformation of attitudes to food represented by Cancer). The Pluto in Virgo generation (60's) led to the burgeoning of alternative medicine. Pluto in Libra (70's) transformation in attitude towards marriage. 

Capitalism (1722, Industrialism) itself is having a Pluto return. 

When Pluto was last in Aquarius, we had the causes (Stamp Act) of the United States War of Independence. (Of course, this was prior to Pluto's discovery in 1930. Some astrologers were muttering that it's demotion to dwarf planet, in 2006, was a plot to diminish its important influence on generational astrology).

There was also talk of the future of astrology in Higher Education which at the moment consists of the Sophia centre, and the University of Chichester programme. One woman says that there is interest in astrology at the Medieval Hispanic Seminar at Queens university, London. The students need to know about astrology in order to adequately analyse the texts. 

(1) Part of Fortune and Uranus in the 12th house. Part of Spirit at 25 ° Aries. Hermes (Mercury) the ruler of astrology is retrograde. Jupiter/Mars imprisoned. Venus/Mars in mutual reception. Saturn in the 6th, exalted by mutual reception. Mike Edwards uses no outer planets except for Uranus which he explains, is Lord of the whole sky. 

Playing Ftse

http://planetwaves.net/pagetwo/2008/09/27/protest-on-wall-street-no-bailout-for-billionaires/

Loving this story. People are waking up.

Last night at the Carter Memorial lecture on The State of Astrology Today at the Astrological Lodge, a roomful of astrologers (is there a better collective noun? a degree of astrologers? a wheel of astrologers?) discussed the future while watching the FTSE/New York stock exchange descend. "They've just voted no to the bail out" someone reported. Thank God. No hasty decisions on a Mercury retrograde.

Full report on the Carter lecture in the next post.

Figging

Bill Drummond

Bill Drummond pictured last night at the Big Green Bookshop, Turnpike Lane.

A tall Scottish man with a Billy Connolly delivery, Bill Drummond firstly announced his age, 55, and that he believed in the death of recorded music. Launching his latest book,  The 17, based on the number of performers he needed to recreate the engine noise of his battered landrover, Drummond refused to talk about some of the more colourful aspects of his past. These include managing Echo and the Bunnymen and the Teardrop Explodes (with the wonderful Julian Cope), starting the K Foundation and giving the Turner prize winner Rachel Whiteread, £40,000 (double the Turner prize winnings) for being the "worst artist of the year", and most notably burning a million pounds in cash.

Bill introduced his new book with two anecdotes which explain how he has got to this point. The first was a reminiscence about buying his first single 'Penny Lane' by The Beatles. However it was the 'b' side 'Strawberry Fields' that "opened a door" for him. 

"Let me take you down... because I'm going to..."

He then jumped forward to London year 2000 and browsing through HMV, one of the biggest music shops, which has about 300,000 titles for sale. He only felt a sense of ennui, not the excitement he used to feel when going to his local record shop as a youngster in Scotland. He returned home and attempted to cut up a CD with a pair of pinking shears. After a restless night, he woke with a revelation: from now on he would only listen to new music. Music by people who had never released a CD before. Drummond went to his local independent record shop and bought 5 or 6 Cd's of this ilk. He kept up this routine, buying between 1 - 6 Cd's a week, for 10 months.

Then he realised it wasn't working. He said:

"All the stuff was old. All of the new stuff was old stuff. None of it opened a door..."

Drummond went down to the bottom of his garden, where, in the time-honoured tradition of British men, he had a shed, locked the shed door and got out 'Pet Sounds' by the Beach Boys. By the last track, 'Good Vibrations' he was weeping. He even played air guitar. He made a new decision:

" for the next 12 months I will only listen to artists whose names begin with 'B'."

This included all genres of music...Beethoven, Bartok, Count Basie, Burt Bacharach, Back St. Boys. And he thought:

"For the next 26 years I've got it all worked out. I assumed that in 26 years time, I'd be listening to the 'A's'."

This worked pretty well for a couple of years. His family were happy. They always knew what to get him for Christmas and birthday presents. His kids would ask "What letter are you on now dad?". Then he made a couple of adjustments to this system; he would change the start date to January 1st and he would choose a letter at random from a bag. So he skipped forward and started on 'P'. 

But then he realised it wasn't working. It wasn't opening a door. 

Around this time Drummond took a trip in his Landrover; he loved the sound of the diesel engine, the different rumbles, the different frequencies. Deep within, it sounded like a choir:

"It sounded like 100 Vikings in my head. For 20 minutes, it was totally intense. This opened a door."

For the next 6 or 7 years he tried to make those noises into a reality. 

He also noticed that when listening to music on his iPod that he was skipping over his favourite tracks. Many other people were too. (I completely understand what he means). Another revelation: recorded music was the problem. Every medium has its era. Recorded music was a 20th century phenomenon. No more consumption. No more recorded music. Only participation.

By this time the hundred vikings had turned into seventeen. 17 builders or 17 electricians or 17 housewives it didn't matter. It didn't matter if they could sing or had any musical experience. He took different groups of 17 to New Music festivals all over Europe. There were some contradictions he admitted. Sometimes he used recordings to help create the sound. But he always deleted them afterwards. It is rumoured that Bill Drummond has also erased his entire back catalogue (of the KLF). 

In response to questions from the audience, Bill talked about the bagpipe bands that paraded around the town where he grew up.

"Nobody in their right mind would listen to bagpipe music on a CD. But, live, we would have followed that music anywhere. Church bells have the same effect.

This is Year Zero for music. There is very little difference musically between the music of 1977 (punk) and the music of 1964. Pop music doesn't change, just the technology."

Croydonistan

Miss Brodie is on the phone. She can't cope anymore. Three teachers were attacked last week. It's like working in a war zone. She needs a flak jacket to go to work. "I don't think I'm cut out for teaching", she says. 

'Every child counts' is the government slogan. 

"What about every adult counts?" says my sister. 

I'm trying to encourage her.

"If you can do this you can do anything. After this, working in Afghanistan would be a piece of piss" I say. 

This week Miss Brodie has been asked to mentor a 'gifted and talented' student. But she was warned not to be alone with her.

 "She can twist things" hinted another teacher. 

This student comes from a difficult background. One of four children, all who have different fathers, the mum has already sent a solicitor's letter to the school and the student has only been at the school 2 weeks. The family is notorious in the area and have been given some sort of family ASBO for starting a local riot.

I'm trying to get Miss Brodie to enable comments on her blog. She needs support.

About a boi

Avant-garde music

The hostess, Chiara Williams, wore something flowing...

Born to lose, a knife installation by Eva Lis.

Last night, an art vernissage in darkest Clapton; I've heard about these events many times, but have never before been to an art gallery in somebodies house. The entire house was painted a blinding white. There was no furniture. In one room an arty looking woman with geeky glasses and unsexy bob made strange music into a microphone connected to a laptop. Little squeaks and moans. Projected onto the white wall in front of her, were monochrome messages "Stop" "Go". 

Knives engraved with intricate designs and slogans stuck out of a doorway, a piece by Eva Lis called 'Born to lose'.

A tall graceful woman wearing a cat suit and chase me, fuck me heels was hosting. 

"Where is all your furniture? Where do you sleep?" I exclaimed, gesturing at the empty rooms. 

Sighing she said "In storage and at Debbie's house. I sleep in a little room near the garden. Debbie is my partner." 

I looked around. Much of the work was by female artists. Many of the guests were, on closer inspection, lesbians.

Watching an atmospheric black and white film 'Transit' by Anita Makris, I sat next to two women. One of the women was wearing a sexy pair of high heels. "Love your shoes" I said "and your nails, your jewellery...it's all been noted." 

We got chatting. She was an actor. Not an actress. She doesn't like tights, only stockings. Next to her sat her 'husband', Crin, dressed in a man's suit, shirt and tie. Crin had short hair and no makeup. She writes a blog column. 

"What's that?" I enquired.

She explained: "Well, blogs are not edited. They are just stream of consciousness. People's lives. I write a blog column. Do you edit your blog?"

"Of course. But I didn't realise that there was this distinction. Between blog and blog column." 

Her blog column "Butch about town" explains that she is a 'boi', as opposed to a 'bio', a man who was born biologically male. 

As we move inexorably into the Aquarian age, gender becomes fluid. Transsexuals regard biological women and men as Cisgender opposing cis (Latin for on the same side) with trans (crossing).

I shop therefore I am

The beautiful Lucy Wills

Equador the magician

CND necklace

Mini fish n chips

The British Library held an event last night as part of London Fashion Week to explore the links between ecology, fair trade, sustainability and fashion. I'm sure it was very interesting. I missed it. Turned up in time for the mini fish and chips in a tiny newspaper cone and the drinks.

My friend Lucy Wills was showing her recycled jewellery designs particularly a beautiful 'CND' necklace. Lucy is trying to encourage people to create rather than consume. Fashion regards itself as a creative industry after all, but so much of it concentrates on a) trying to get people to look the same and b) buy things.

As Vivienne Westwood said:

"People are being trained by the media to be perfect consumers of mass manufactured rubbish".

I wore a vintage Victorian black lace and jet cape which I picked up at a flea market in France this summer for 20 euros. Wearing vintage is one way of recycling. Some anti-fur types for instance, justify wearing fur if it is vintage. 

Clothing is getting cheaper all the time. I admit to liking Primarché (Primark to you darling) just as much as the next girl, but of course to be that price one assumes it is produced by underpaid, underage workers. (However, Primark has a code of conduct regarding these issues.) 

There have been concerns that London Fashion Week will be reduced to 4 days to accommodate the schedules of American Vogue. London is a fashion centre. Trends start on London streets, led by our vibrant tribal youth culture and British tolerance of eccentricity.You can literally wear what you like here and no one bats an eyelid.(1) Many of the Paris fashion houses are headed by English designers. Our fashion colleges are the best in the world... for instance St. Martins where John Galliano, Stella McCartney, Alexander McQueen trained. 

"Because fashion is so indicative of the political and social climate in which we live, what we wear will always be a symptom of our environment." Alexander McQueen.

The close-up magician Equador was there looking exotic and showing off his tricks to 'modules' (models), tall thin women who are no better looking than you or I except for the fact that they are tall and thin. 

(1) So unlike the years I spent in Paris, cowering under the judgmental stares of the French. I almost ended up wearing padded velvet hairbands, fake Hermés scarves and faux Chanel cardigans like the rest of them.

Skeptics: Ben Goldacre

Dr Ben Goldacre

A typical skeptic.

Dr Ben  Goldacre (admittedly looking quite cute here)

Father and son skeptics (they were rather sweet actually).

More skeptics.

The evening didn't start well. My friend bought me a glass of red wine. It was placed on the bar. It had a frothy top, thick sediment and was cloudy.

"I'm not drinking that" I said to the barman.

"That's the house red. It'll settle." he said airily.

"I'm not drinking that" I repeated.

Bristling slightly, the barman said: "It's the house red. I asked you if you wanted the house red."

"No you didn't" I replied "You asked me if I wanted large or small. I said large."

Caught out, the barman poured out a fresh glass from a new bottle. The house red was probably from a plastic barrel.

We were at "Skeptics in the pub" a monthly talk which critically examines anything 'New Age'. The place was packed and I unfavourably compared the poor seating and sound to the comfortable private room where The Moot with No Name takes place. 

The speaker was Dr Ben Goldacre, an Oxford graduate(1) who has written a column for The Guardian. Promoting his new book, Bad Science, he can be described as pale with small blue eyes and frizzy hair. His talk was ill prepared and he obviously decided to wing it. Dr Goldacre was under the mistaken impression that he is a stand-up comedian, but this was partly due to the craven reaction of the audience who chortled uproariously to every unwitty remark. 

Skeptics are, I must say, a rather unprepossessing bunch physically, consisting mostly of middle-aged men with beards. 

Goldacre's main point seemed to be that science as a subject is under-represented in the media which is fair enough. Unfortunately he also felt the necessity to pick on easy targets, say nasty sexist things and generally be arrogant and unpleasant. He slagged off Dr Gillian McKeith, Patrick Holford, homeopathy, healers, humanities graduates, the idea that women might have sexual dysfunctions. 

The latter particularly annoyed me; he believes that female sexual dysfunction is a myth. It's more likely down to the fact that the woman sufferer is no longer "a vixen" ie; sexy and attractive. Come again? So women cannot orgasm because they don't fancy themselves? Is that what he was saying? Surely if this argument is to hold any water it's more likely to be the fact that their men are no longer sexy and attractive.

He was unpleasantly bitchy about Dr Gillian McKeith saying that she lived in a "witchy" mansion in Hampstead (a bit of envy there methinks). Now it's true that she doesn't have a proper Phd, her science may be dodgy and she is obsessed with people's poo. But does Dr Goldacre believe that encouraging people to eat more vegetables is a bad thing? That having a quick look in the toilet bowl after you go is not a good idea? The message she delivers is a good one ultimately.

Ben Goldacre compares the fuss about 'big pharma' (the commercialism of the legal drugs industry) with 'big quacka' (the commercialism of selling unnecessary health supplements).

Judging from Ben Goldacre's unhealthy pallor perhaps he doesn't eat many vegetables, nuts and seeds. I do agree that Patrick Holford (of Optimum Nutrition) et al's emphasis on taking dietary supplements and vitamins is ridiculous. If you have a balanced nutritious diet, you shouldn't need vitamins. 

However I have read Patrick Holford's books on Optimum Nutrition and in many ways they make alot of sense. Equally Linus Pauling's research (another of Goldacre's victims) of Vitamin C is of interest. 

As for homeopathy,  Lynne McTaggart of What the Doctors don't tell you likens homeopathy to quantum physics in her book The Field. She is also cautious about vaccinations. Ben Goldacre denounced the MMR scare as the biggest scam of the last 100 years. 

I confronted Ben Goldacre in the interval. To be honest I was fuming. He said that he used to live in a council flat in Kentish Town with his girlfriend who had just left him. He said that most people in Kentish Town were white and working class and had a short life expectancy. I lived in Kentish Town for 15 years. Most of the houses there are worth well over a million pounds. Kentish Town is full of middle class professionals with the odd council estate. 

I said to him bitchily: "No wonder your girlfriend left you, you are so horribly sexist. Plus, just because you lived in a council flat doesn't mean that everybody does."

I also asked if he had children which of course he didn't. Because that would change everything. He might actually become a fully rounded human being. 

It's amazing that when you have a child with a health problem and G.P's (who are not terribly bright or imaginative for the most part) keep giving you the same allopathic drugs which don't work, you find yourself turning to homeopathy. Which does work. Especially on children and animals. I don't know how, but it does.

Also when I came back from Malawi with a tropical disease, no one at Guys hospital could diagnose it. My homeopath diagnosed it within seconds as Bilharzia. Which was eventually confirmed, weeks later, by tests. My homeopath, the brilliant and sensible Carole Ingram, will tell me when I need normal allopathic medecine.(2) 

Then, losing it slightly, I told him he was a wanker and that all of his audience were idiots with beards.

Just then a voice piped up:" You mean us?".

I turned around and saw a row of bearded men of varying heights (like something out of Snow White and the 7 dwarves) lining up to get a signed copy of Ben's book. 

Feeling angry and frustrated, I stole a copy of his book.

Next it was the Q & A session. One woman put her hand up: "Ben, you don't like humanities students. But we aren't all idiots."

Ben Goldacre replied: "Humanities students, sorry let me rephrase that, fuckwit humanities students....(pause for massive laugh, oh what a wag!) are fine unless they start writing about scientific or medical subjects which they know absolutely nothing about."

Afterwards I went up to him and again asked why were you so rude to that woman. He said that she was a friend of his and that she didn't mind. He then turned his back on me. I confessed guiltily to a friend that I had stolen the book. The friend said "Hmm, bad karma"

I immediately returned it to Ben Goldacre. After all, I wouldn't want that would I?

(1) What is it about Oxbridge types? They really do think they are God's gift don't they? Just because they are good at sums or whatever. 

(2) Ben Goldacre also attacked homeopaths for giving homeopathic remedies as opposed to anti-malarial drugs, saying that they put people's lives at risk. The homeopaths I have seen have all been cautious about homeopathic remedies for this purpose. However anti-malarials can often mask symptoms, delaying diagnosis. I know one woman that has had long term health problems from taking Larium (similar to Gulf war syndrome). I never took anti-malarials; chloroquine interferes with my eyesight. I packed a supply of chloroquine in case of infection (the treatment they give you anyway). Old Africa hands don't take anti-malarials either, they recommend covering up, using nets, prevention rather than cure.

Thames Festival '08

Boris holding the dog on a string.

This dog can drink out of a sports bottle.

Most years I go and help out homeless people's samba band Cardboard Citizens to play in the Thames Festival Parade. Some of them are good drummers but have lost the plot due to various reasons, generally alcoholism, drug addiction or mental health problems. Or all three. Most of the drummers however are beginners, and need a bit of support.

The parade itself starts on the northern side of Waterloo bridge, goes alongside the Thames, crosses Blackfriars bridge and ends up at the National Theatre. It's a pretty good hike, especially with a large drum. Cardboard citizens colours are black and orange. This year they had made costumes for all of us, with orange day-glo sticks sewn in and a giant puppet. We even had the pre-requisite dog on a string in band colours.

Every year the Mayor of London comes to have his picture taken with the homeless band. Up to now it's been Ken Livingstone of course. This year it was Bojo...Boris Johnson, London's very own pin-up blonde.

Now this guys a Tory and although we were expecting his visit, people were muttering that they wouldn't want to have their picture taken with him because of his right wing politics. That is, until he turned up. Suddenly everybody was crowded around him and my flirtatious friend L (who I have to confess I encouraged to have a snog with Boris) couldn't resist planting a juicy kiss on his cheek.

Anyway it's provided a great deal of entertainment on Facebook with L having to justify herself to all her right-on mates. Sometimes activists can be sooo humourless. Boris looks a bit grin and bear it though, doesn't he?

L was quite restrained. One woman started to leg-hump him. I wonder if he knew that becoming Mayor would involve this kind of thing? I wonder also if it's worse for him than Ken because of his randy reputation?
On this march the surdo section started out quite ropey but by the second half they'd got it, they were in the groove. Doing a march like this is like doing a 4 hour practice session. You make so much progress.

How to lose friends...

Years ago I was hired to photograph an opening at the Photographer's Gallery for the Observer newspaper. Several celebrities were there. Normally I don't do that kind of photography 'papping', but I was trying to get a foot in the door at the Observer. 

The journalist on the story was Toby Young, author of forthcoming film How to lose friends and alienate people. He was rather self-important and unfriendly towards me. The fashion editor at the Observer, Sally Brampton (1)(now an author) was outraged by his behaviour. Referring to me, he kept saying "Where's my monkey?"(photographers are sometimes known as 'monkeys' in Fleet St. slang), which admittedly is not very polite and you certainly would not say it about a woman photographer. Sally said that Toby Young was arrogant because he was a lord's son. 

During the evening I was the only photographer to have spotted the writer Julie Burchill (known for being acerbic and controversial). I started to take a picture of her. Peter York, editor of Harpers & Queen, came up to me and pleaded with me not to take a picture of her "She's pregnant you know". Despite the fact that photographs of her were rare, I complied(idiot!). Julie Burchill thanked me though, which was sweet. 

I met Toby on a few occasions after that. Once I saw him at the Café de Paris, a fashionable nightclub at the time, in Leicester Square. I was sitting down feeling alienated as I always did. Despite spending the 1980's going to fashionable parties and clubs I often felt miserable and uncomfortable, mainly, I now realise, because I was the only person not on drugs. Toby Young sat next to me and chatted. I was a little drunk and asked him:

 "Aren't you a member of the aristocracy or something? Is that how you got work at the Observer?" 

He replied, with an arched brow: "Why, aren't you a believer in our great meritocracy?"(2)

"No, I'm not" I snorted.

The next time I saw him was at Groucho's, a private members club in Soho for the literary elite. I apologised for having been rude. He was quite affable and offered me a drink. I did think, actually he's a good sort really.

About a year ago, going through some old photo's from my archive, I looked him up on Facebook. I messaged him and received a friendly reply. We communicated a few times since. 

Through Facebook Toby invited me to his Q & A session at Harrods, to mark the launch of the film "How to lose friends and alienate people". He was witty and self-deprecating during the interview and pretty good at accents and mimicry. He also gave the impression of vulnerability. When the audience were invited to question him, nobody put up their hand, so in the interests of helping him out, I intervened. 

"Do you think you lose friends because you are blunt and say what you think?" I began.

"Well, like many men, I have difficulty distinguishing between appropriate and non-appropriate behaviour. Fortunately I'm now married, and my wife gives me good advice, telling me "NO, you can't say that"."

I continued: "Well I've noticed on Facebook you have tons of friends. In fact, one could say that you are a bit of a Facebook slut." (At this the interviewer and the audience titter).

Toby:"Well, it's the only circle that I'm accepted into. Actually Watchdog have done a report on this. They created a fake profile and asked to be my friend. I accepted. Then Watchdog called me saying that anyone could have found out all kinds of details about my private life and then committed financial fraud using those details. I pointed out that as I've written two volumes of autobiography that my private life isn't exactly a secret." 

Afterwards Toby passed me by as if he didn't recognise me. I went up to him and introduced myself, repeating that we worked together many years ago and that we communicate on Facebook.

"Oh, er, how are you?" he said politely. But he looked flustered and tried to avoid my gaze. I then said, thinking that perhaps he was a bit freaked out by the interview:

 "You did really well up there. Great interview. Well done". 

"Er yes" he said a bit oddly.

By now a queue had started to form of people wanting him to sign books, so I backed off, perusing the Food Hall on the way. The rest of Harrods is so tacky.

Despite all social networking sites, where adding people becomes an addiction for some in a bid to look popular, research indicates that nobody has more than 5 close friends and 150 acquaintance-type friends. 

(1) I had a bit of a history with Sally Brampton too. I had to shoot the London Fashion Week for the now defunct Honey magazine. It's probably one of the toughest assignments in photography. Believe me. Don McCullin, the war photographer, (who also shot the 'park' photographs for Antonioni's seminal 60's film 'Blow up') did the Paris shows once and was shocked by the ruthless behaviour of the fashion world.

Shows never start on time and photographers aren't given seats. You have to wait for hours on bended knee, holding heavy equipment, in the tiny space between the catwalk and the front row seats. All the most important fashion editors are in the front row and photographers have to work hard not to sit on their knees. The Vogue editor is naturally the most eminent and you daren't go near her. Surrounding her would be all her young haughty assistants. Once while waiting for a show to start, a light on the catwalk blew up and smoke came out. I watched in amazement as the entire Vogue posse literally trampled on people in a panic attempt to leave the marquee rapidly. They looked pretty sheepish when they had to return 10 minutes later because there wasn't a fire and it was a false alarm.

 At one particularly late show, I was crouching in front of Sally Brampton and she kept kicking me in the back. Eventually I kicked back, unheard of in those circles. Later when I was given this job by the Observer and introduced to Sally, I felt a bit abashed.

"Hmm" she said regarding me with a wry smile "I think I kicked you at the shows".

Relieved that she hadn't fired me on the spot, I replied: "and I think I kicked you back."

(2) I just found out, from Wikipedia, that it was Toby Young's father, who was indeed a lord, that originally coined this expression 'meritocracy'.

What were you doing when...

A few other blogs have done this so I'm going to join in:

Attack on the Twin Towers - 11 September 2001
I was outside up a ladder painting window frames around my flat. I was listening to Terry Wogan on Radio 2, soothing listening when you have a mindless task, when the first news came in. I continued to paint and listen to the updates on the radio. One thing I remember was that the presenter said that there was another plane (not the ones we've heard about) gone missing. We never heard any more about that plane.
At 4 p.m the school bus dropped off my daughter and the lady driver said "Have you heard what's happening?".

"Yes" I said "It's the beginning of World War 3".
A French guy, a trained engineer, was staying with me at the time. When we turned on the TV that evening and watched the footage for the first time he instantly said: "The building wouldn't collapse like that from a plane. That's dynamite. That's a demolition."
I was naive then and thought he was talking rubbish.

Princess Diana’s death - 31st August 1997
I'd just come out of Eurodisney outside of Paris. Around 6 a.m. I pulled into a petrol station and the assistant said to me, excitably pointing to the TV behind him: Vous avez vu? Lady Di s'est tuée!
For a minute I thought he meant that she'd killed herself. Then I thought it was a sick joke because he knew I was British. But he didn't as my car had French number plates. I said something, clearly shocked and he heard my accent. He immediately apologized.
I drove into Paris, to the Pont d'Alma where she was killed. I entered the tunnel with my, then, 3 year old in her buggy. The Mercedes car had gone but the black skid marks were still evident. An elderly black lady came and put down flowers at the post where Princess Diana's car had crashed. She was the first one.

I walked out of the tunnel and an English woman was artfully crying. She had full makeup on (it was now about 6.30 a.m.) and was wearing a flattering black dress. She had a child on each hip and an enormous bunch of white lillies. News camera crews rushed towards her and started to interview her about her feelings. She was milking it for all she was worth.
I stood back stunned.

On my return to London I went with my mother to visit Kensington Palace. As soon as we exited the tube station at Knightsbridge you could smell the flowers. At Kensington Palace we placed our own flowers. There still weren't that many yet. Wandering around the park was an experience. Each tree had a little shrine...candles, teddy bears, photographs of Diana sometimes with Dodi, poems, incense, balloons, angry letters to the Royal family.

We went again the night before the funeral. Now the flowers extended a good 500 yards before the gates to Kensington Palace. The stench was overpowering. The candles were lit and the whole park looked like fairy land. People were in sleeping bags waiting behind barriers along the funeral route. I was choked up.

The next day I prepared to cycle to Regents Park, a royal park where a giant TV screen was set up to show the funeral. At the newspaper shop opposite me (at the time I lived in Kentish Town) I saw Diana's hairdresser Nicky Clarke get out of his 4 wheel drive to buy a newspaper. (I recognised him partly because he did my hair a few times when I was a young successful photographer).

It was a sunny day. In front of the screen was a large crowd, many on deckchairs. When Earl Spencer gave his historic speech the entire crowd burst into applause. As the hearse set off I cycled to Baker Street to bid goodbye to Diana. With my daughter on the back of the bike, we watched the hearse go by. People were throwing flowers, the windscreen was covered. The driver, from a funeral parlour in Kentish Town, could barely see so he stopped, as he did on numerous occasions on the route to Avalon where Diana would be buried, and respectfully placed the flowers on the ground.

Margaret Thatcher’s Resignation - 22nd November 1990
I was living in Paris but had returned to Britain to get stuff done. I was wandering around Hampstead Heath looking for a printers to print up my photographic calling card. I saw the Evening Standard newspaper booth at Hampstead Heath station. The seller was shouting out the headline "Thatcher resigned". 

My sister called and laughingly said:"Ding dong the witch is dead."

England’s World Cup Semi-Final against Germany - 4 July 1990
I was travelling in South America for a year. I arrived in Argentina for the World Cup. It was quite difficult to find bars that were willing to switch on the TV to watch England play. Nobody cared when England lost. A Bolivian man started up a conversation while I was watching; "Everybody criticizes Hitler but I think he had alot of good ideas. You in England have la dama de hierra, the iron lady. You are very lucky."

This wasn't long after the Falklands war.

The other semi-final was Argentina versus Italy. I was in Mendoza when Argentina won it's semi-final, and the town exploded with joy. When Argentina lost the final a few days later, the mood was sombre and the streets were empty as I walked towards the train station to leave.

President Kennedy’s Assassination - 22 November 1963
I expect I was in my cot. But I clearly remember his brother's assassination. I was in Ireland on a horse-drawn gypsy caravan holiday with my parents. We were in a pub and the news came through. The adults were very upset. More Guinness was required. A flickering black and white television broadcast the news.

If you are thinking of sending your kid to a French school...

My teenager has been educated in the French system most of her life. Now she is in the British section of her French school. Things are very different. At the end of each class the teachers says stuff like "Well done. You all did very well today"to a bemused class. This is unheard of in the French system for they do not believe in encouraging pupils with positive praise.

Her friend, who is still in the French section, has already written 30 pages in her folder and they have only been back a week. My daughter has written a mere 3 pages. She says that her hand used to ache at the end of the day. 

Other differences: in the French system, History and Geography are combined, as are Chemistry and Physics. 

In the British system Maths is applied. In the French system, every rule is justified with written sentences whereas British Maths is explained via mathematics itself. You use a sum to explain a sum.

Equally, in Chemistry, just like in Maths, it's more applied, with less recalling of facts. You are encouraged to use your knowledge to explain a theory. Tell us a fact, then use that fact to explain.

e.g. Rate of reaction in Chemistry, the pupils will do a practical experiment and then use that to account for the results. Nor is the explanation set in stone.

This difference in teaching technique has a huge influence on how the French and the British approach life. The French come up with a theory, a priori, and then prove it on a practical level. The Anglo-Saxon way is empirical; form your theory based on practical experience.

In History and Geography, the British teach in terms of topics, for instance: coastal management. The French, on the other hand, spend several weeks on a particular part of the world, covering all aspects of it's geography and history.(Personally I prefer this, it becomes more of a story and easier to remember).  

In the French system, pupils are regularly expected to do 'exposés', that is, speaking aloud to the class on a subject for at least ten minutes. (I think this is a great idea).

Handwriting and presentation is very important in the French system. Every pupil has the same handwriting. Essays have a strict format: pupil's name, class, date, number of the question in brackets, recopying the question in it's entirety, then precisely 4 lines below one may begin the answer. Margin size, ink colour are all prescribed. It's not like the British system in which you get brownie points just for writing your name correctly.

Another big difference: in the French system there is no pastoral care. The teachers consider that they are there to teach a subject academically and that's it. Teachers are civil servants. They are not there to deal with or even recognize that a pupil might have personal problems or difficult circumstances at home.

Renounce him and all his works...

Satan is on o2 (the British branch of AT&T). 

Engaged in an extended row on the o2 forums regarding charges for the iphone. Whilst in France this summer, I looked at my emails on a handful of occasions (after all that is the point of the iphone is it not?). Just to do that cost me £90. Phone calls, texts, roaming etc cost more. And of course I'm still paying the contract, none of which is used while I am abroad. 

Another mother I know, to whom I recommended the iphone, got a £900 bill from o2 for internet services abroad while she was in France for a month. 900 quid!!! She rang, pleaded and they refunded her. 

I called o2 asking for a reduction in these unreasonable charges and they were unhelpful. So it seems pretty random as to who they help. They said: 

• I was supposed to call them before going away.
•  I was supposed to be able to predict how much my bill would be (when safari is downloading stuff in the background which I could not know about).
•  I was supposed to have read their website in full prior to leaving the country.
  

I'm already pretty hacked off with the whole iphone thing. Bought it in March, paid top whack. By May it wasn't working anymore. o2 shop said you have to send it away for several weeks during which time you will not have use of an iphone but some cheapo little phone we will lend you. Went to Apple mac shop and they replaced it.

Then Mac brought out the new 3g version. Great, I've got the old slow 4 month old (which in computer terms is practically pre-historic) version. Then o2/Mac made it free to whoever got a £45 monthly contract. (I had to take out an 18 month contract and could only afford the bottom tariff of £35 monthly.) 

As for the actual phone, well it's lighter than a laptop but half the time, you don't have reception. The camera is rubbish, no flash, no video, no zoom, very fuzzy picture quality. The sound isn't great. 

There are clearly problems here: does anyone but a tecchie know how many Mb's it takes to look at an email? I certainly don't. So information like it costs £3 per Mb are meaningless. 

I've written an email. I'm in conversation about it on their forum which is pretty funny. All these so-called members of the public sticking up for poor little ole multi-national o2. Ha! I don't think so. Sock puppets working for o2...working for The Man. Dobbies of the corporate world....free yourselves!

Everyman

Well folks I won a little competition with my post "We've gone on holiday by mistake" which is an account of a quest to visit Uncle Monty's cottage from Withnail and I. The prize was champagne and canapés and a screening of Annie Hall at The Everyman cinema in Hampstead. Despite it's geographical proximity to me, I haven't been to The Everyman since it was refurbished, mainly because the price of entry.
No wonder it's so expensive...it's so luxurious. Armchairs and sofa's, cushions, little cocktail tables. Wonderful place for a date, should I ever be asked out on one, rather than humped, dumped and ponced off, which is what usually happens. (Really quite dismaying the extent to which men are willing to sponge off a soft-hearted single mum).
I invited my fellow (?) single mum, Y, who drank quite a few of the cocktails very quickly and then proceeded to sob through most of the evening. Her daughter is now 16, Y is nearing the end of the long lonely haul of bringing up a child by yourself in poverty. Two things; empty nest syndrome and grief. Grief for her daughters missed idyllic childhood, Waltons stylee, with two parents and siblings.
We all have that Waltons family fantasy at the back of our minds when we have children, however urban and independant we may appear. Which brings to mind that 'retarded cowboy' quote:

"We're going to keep trying to strengthen the American family. To make them more like the Waltons and less like the Simpsons"

It was interesting to see Annie Hall again, on the big screen. For a romantic comedy, it was modern and experimental. It hasn't dated much. Woody Allen frequently addresses the audience directly, tearing down the fourth wall between the audience and the action. Diane Keaton looks so young and pretty, such a natural beauty with all the little imperfections, compared to the plastic hyper-real Hollywood stars of today (Angelina Jolie anyone? She doesn't even look human, more like a android). It was good also to revisit the Annie Hall style, the layered retro unisex look pioneered by Diane Keaton.

How to pack for a festival

Toiletries:

Babywipes

Flip-flops if you decide to shower (I never do)

Dry shampoo

Plastic bag to put wellies in at the end.

Dental floss (to get the food bits out in case you get a snog).

Glitter.

 

Clothes: 

Think layers.

Mini dress (in funky Kate Moss style)

Over the knee socks that you can roll up/down depending on weather.

More socks

Wellies (buy 2 sizes too big in order not to get trench foot also for ease of getting on/off before getting in tent)

Jeans bad idea. Too heavy if they get wet.

Warm but mad looking jacket/coat for evenings. 

Pashmina or poncho. Can be used as pillow too.

Ball gown. 

Hat.

Umbrella, cool accessory plus you can remain dry and still look good.

Cotton knickers (to reduce probability of nappy rash/thrush/mould after thigh chafing walks with soggy gussets due to no toilet paper)

Swimming costume (for showers or hot weather)

This list is good for both men and women.