This is the end: now show me the way to the next Whiskey bar

Byzantine Cat-Mouse-War. A reading staple.
With lots of hyphenation.

Oh Black Betty, no time to bam ba lam, it's the end of the world and you got a ticket to ride.

It is very comforting to know that I, and you, and everyone else is now sitting in one big imaginary boat. Arch-styly, they better have had a second thought about the facilities on board - portaloos are just not very cool. Regardless of the way you choose to spend your last days (see the Big WD, cake, and burgers), the end of the world may be slightly tinted by the other big event in London: the Games. (unlike ordinary football or a darts in the pub, these games are so huge that they are capitalised all the time. I personally prefer to capitalise Pub at all times, but that is, like I say, a personal choice)

With all the tourists in the Capital (let's capitalise Capital - it's the end of the world after all), the experience of the final moment - judgement day - could be lost in a queue to the loos, or in trying to navigate around the crowds in the centre. You might be so busy trying to ignore the barking Americans that you fail to notice the last, wailing, praying sounds of the earth. The last cries of an already dying planet that faces its death, facing white socks and beige trousers. The last breath of a planet that has done so much for us in the past (sunshine, rain, rain, rain, rain), and will now wheeze to the smell of moth balls and hair pomade. Could I be overly dramatic? No. I never am. And I never complain. About anything. Ever.

I made this pre-Jubilee. Beetroot cake with cream cheese icing.
 I mentioned cake.

I say this because I am on a mission: part of a select few (who selected to come), I will fight the impending doom and make sure that those white-sock-wearing, heavy-breathed strangers will keep a place to parade bad taste and smelly armpits. I, like my politically correct persons in arms, have signed up to fight the Dilluminati, and Good Lord, it will be epic. What will descend upon us on Saturday remains unknown, and perhaps for the better. I am not really all that good at facing dangers I have known about for some time - I keep avoiding that sort of thing - but I am really rather good at facing chaotic situations on the day, as long as I've had breakfast. No breakfast - no fighting. (apparently, so I've been told/I've seen on the telly, Templar Knights fasted before the big battle. How stupid of them)

A well-groomed beantache is essential for all
fighters. Note the Dali influence.

So, it is now Thursday night, about 36 hours before the beginning of the end, and I'm wearing a face mask, knowing that well-groomed fighters make better fighters. And maybe there is one or the other cute Dilluminatus around. Stockholm syndrome, just saying. All girls like bad boys. (I'm not really sure whether Dilluminati are gendered/have genders/do genders, but you never know) Very importantly, a well-groomed fighter is aware of their own well-groomedness and marches into battle, knowing that perfect skin and sharp eyebrows are killer attributes. As is a good soundtrack: Vangelis is played up and down on the iPod, and where would I be without Europe and the soundtrack to all but the last one of the Rocky films. In your face, Evil, we've survived 80s perms and we will survive further attacks on humanity. (However, if you could get rid of the Olympic uniforms, that would be amazeballs)

In a last attempt to expand my scientific potential, I signed up for a screening of Weird Science tomorrow night - al fresco - for those last blasts of health and knowledge. Subsequently, I realised that the film is another one of those 80s comedies that feature men in their thirties pretending to be 18, and that it does not actually boost my knowledge (like that science show on the Beebs), but rather, should boost my inclination to get hilariously drunk and pass out before the end of the film. You just can't have everything. It is time now to get that mud out of my face, and see the immediate improvement (from mud-face to non-mud-face). Goodnight, and may the farce be with you.

(I have also just accidentally labelled this post with Tom Hiddleston, so I think I should at least give him a mention. Tom Hiddleston.)

The final days are upon us: Earth is selling out

Oh dear. 11 days to the end of the world. #theDilluminati

This is part of the world. A very small part, although it does not look like a very small part.
It is where I come from. In the left hand corner you can just about spot my parents' house. Should I
tell them about the Dilluminati?

Right, so bucket listing is top priority. Was there ever something that I really, really wanted to do, and could now not accomplish due to the pending invasion of the Dilluminati, who do that very Batmanish thing of switching the light off in London. Who knows, maybe they blow all the bridges, so that South Londoners can no longer go to Hackney on a Saturday morning to buy overpriced but very yummy bread and olives. Following the latest blogpost of the Professor, I am mildly concerned that, unlike any other invasion in the past (Daleks, Silence, etc.), I could not make it through this one. Yes, yes, yes, I have the constituency of a cockroach, but still, like the Silence, I fear that the Dilluminati are already everywhere, and the guy sitting opposite me in the coffee shop, in a leather trench (it’s 30°C today) looks suspiciously suspicious. Just saying.

I regret a bit that I did not pre-order this. I have since
acquired this piece of magnificence.

Bucket listing then. August 4^th is a bit tight to make a film, and my acting is not that brilliant. Founding my own company and making shit loads of money off it doesn’t really work either, does it? Sleeping my way up could be a pretty restless and knackering experience, although maybe not the worst. Just, where to start?

Eating in all of London’s best cake shops is something I have already accomplished, my thighs and waist are happy to witness, and I have seen all the new releases. I have always wanted to be famous, but, unless I burn myself on Leicester Square, 11 days are really, really short, despite and perhaps because of the age of the Internet. Anybody can be famous, so everybody is trying. Publishing a book is rather ambitious too in 11 days, considering that I haven’t written one, and considering that nobody is going to read it anyway, it would be a futile effort. I’ve always wanted to roast a whole pig, or at least a very large part of one, and have so far been kept from the enterprise due to a lack of eaters. And the lack of a spit roast big enough to roast a whole pig. Tesco doesn’t stock any disposable ones.

I can’t help but thinking about a song (German as it were), by a guy called Peter Fox – the one from Seeed, yes. ‘Der Letzte Tag’ is perfect for these last days of the earth, because, let’s face it, nobody wants to spend their last days alive with The Smiths and The Cure. You want to party like there is no tomorrow, because, errr, there really is no tomorrow. Fact.

I did not buy it, should I have?

‘Süsse mach’ dich schick, Ich hol’ dich in fünf Minuten ab, das Beste ist heut’ gut genug, denn heute ist der letzte Tag’. Suit up, is what Mr Fox is telling us here. And He’s bloody right. Ok, so dear non-existent readers, it’s time for the big WD. Wedding Dress that is. You want to spend your last day(s) wearing a meringue of a dress, who is going to judge you anyway? Your rioting ex-teacher? All the crying bodybuilders from the gym around the corner? Maybe your pizza-eating flatmate, who thinks that his Sonic Screwdriver from the Doctor Who Experience-gift shop will save him from the coming invasion? I don’t think so. So why not go for it? Face the Dilluminati in your best frock, and in those shoes you never wear because a. you can’t walk in them and b. they don’t ‘go with anything. You bought them for this occasion, only you didn’t know it.

‘Wolln’ wir Betten rocken im Ritz, die Präsidenten Suite nehmen, bis es qualmt und die Bett Pfosten in die Knie gehen’, yes, you want to get the President’s Suite at the Ritz, because your bank account will be reduced to ash after the Dilluminati have been here. (or maybe sink into eternal darkness – it’s rather unclear what is going to happen once they invade; there are voices that they don’t really know themselves, sort of ‘just winging it, mate’) So, if the Suite is still available (remember there might be a queue of bucket listers), have it, and order some fancy Champagne Afternoon Tea from downstairs, I can fairly recommend it. Their Cucumber Sandwiches are from another planet.

Furthermore, Mr. Fox sings about ‘Letzte Chance für einen Sprung in Acapulco, Ich schreib’ noch schnell ‘ne Oper, Babe, und stell’ mich ans Pult, ho.’ Here, I think, he’s a bit over-ambitious, as I have mentioned above, writing anything really is a waste of time, if you’re not quick enough. However, if you have an opera or two lying around, or an incredible talent, say, like Mozart, then feel free to knock out an opera, or two. And a play, and then fly to Acapulco, if you can get on a flight (again, bucket listers will be queuing), if you fancy. I personally do not like living through my last days with a sunburn, thus I just stay in the shadow.

‘Bald is alles egal, können die Sorgen vergessen, lass’ uns tonnenweise Torte fressen … und versuchen die Sterne mit Sektkorken zu treffen’. So Mr. Fox suggests to his Beloved to eat tons of pie (Torte is sort of between cake and pie, the German stuff with lots of cream filling – I don’t really like it, but if it gets him going, why not?), and forget all the worries. It is sort of what I am planning to do, but all the while, not trying to overeat – just imagine, spending your last day on earth feeling sick because you’ve had a whole chocolate cake. No, start with a nice bagel, and work from there. I also recommend Lucky Chip’s burgers on Netil Market, or at their residency at the Seebright Arms. Then you should also think about a Pizza at Pizza East, and maybe some of the Sourdough toast from the E5 Bakehouse. Plain, no butter. I guess then you would want to include the peanut butter chocolate cheesecake from Bea’s of Bloomsbury, and the scones from Albion Caff. And then you can go on to shoot Champagne corks at the stars, as Mr. Fox suggests. (you need a lot of Champagne for the end of the world, shooting at stars in more complicated than it sounds)

It is now time to go to that new coffee shop on Brick Lane where they serve cake the size of a toddler. It is an appropriate lunch, 11 days before the end of the world. There is just one more thing I need to say before it all ends. 

Just so you know. Not that it makes any sense after the end of the world.

My neighbour's head and other egg-shaped jokes

Where is the fun gone? Jokes used to be funnier, laughing was laughier (yes, autocorrect, I want to write laughier!) and situations not this tense. Tense as in, interviewing strangers to come and live with me (ok, us) and trying not to kill myself for asking about hobbies and interests - under these labels. No, no, no, no. (hitting knee on desk, howling with pain, stumping - sprained foot, howling some more) Now that I have left a rather prestigious (blah) British university behind me, life is so infinitely beige. Beiger than beige, sand-coloured at best, maybe even nude, as in Kate Middleton's nude platform heels that have been much discussed in the Daily Mail and that are even more boring, now that they have been properly exposed.

Mincemeating shoes has never been fun.

Neither has googeling cooker lights. (Yes autocorrect, googeling is a word)

So this is my spare time occupation. Sigh

Somewhere between the last couple of Tschardonnéis (as opposed to Chardonnays served elsewhere) and the mini organic baked potatoes, it went horribly wrong. Life in its beignets (I keep this, it was meant to be 'beigeness' but obviously autocorrect has other things in mind #fatwriter) has no highlights, no chocolate chips, no glazing. It's plain beige. To the extend that I am watching Alan Titchmarch on 'Elizabeth: Queen, Wife, Mohter' (ay autocorrect! you correct me everywhere else, and then leave this?????) while I am writing this to balance out the creative input. To keep me awake too, painkillers for the afore mentioned sprained foot are taking their toll. And no, NHS tyrant, I will NOT keep my foot quiet for the next 6 weeks. I. Have. A. Life. Albeit beige.

Yesterday Once upon a time that happens to be just yesterday (that is today; tomorrow of course, it will no longer be yesterday #beige #petty) I went to the British Museum (I limped from Holborn and let myself fall down the stairs to the Lecture Theatre) for a bit of culture that I'd almost forgotten about. I booked the tickets in early April, not knowing that I would fancy some Shakespearian drama in June, just sort of hoping I'd not been run over by a bus by that time. And surprise, Henry V The Hollow Crown is a rather good play adaptation with Tom Hiddleston as King Hal. The man himself was there too, for a bit of fan-bathing, as well as some other British film royalty. And there was lots of wine, which was more important than Hiddleston in a suit. Representing our local monarchy, another citizen from the land of the 'I've never met anyone from there' accompanied me to savour the fruits of my early booking. #drunkandgreedy

We both agreed that it was worth not watching ITV's Friday night program in our pjs, to go to the BM.

Today The following day, in the land of the sleeping prince from downstairs, my hunter and gatherer instincts called me to the City Centre. Nature's signs and sounds announced the quarterly shedding of the shop floor-skins with brightly coloured signs ('SALE') and the sound of a new beginning (walking past McDo I heard Peer Gynt, I kid you not). My natural instinct tells me that I need more footwear to get me through the summer into fall, as well as some overpriced carrying devices for the incredible amount of things that I .... carry around with me. Thus I ventured into a tourist-infested centre, where, upon arrival, I regretted with immediate immediacy to ever have set a foot on the pavement outside Oxford Circus Station. #cringe 

However, I had not yet seen the full extend of the situation. When I'd fought my way out of the masses (limping like a shot bambi) I spotted Tom Hiddleston, lurking around - stalking me, no doubt. Again, careful to be careful, I tried to walk past, not letting him spot that I'd spotted him. Dear inexistent reader, stalkers, so I thought, were only stalking people less famous than myself. Never, so I believed, would anybody dare following me, the highest of all higher profiles, to the effect that I made my way, hasting hastily, to the nearest Underground. I had to leave multiple pairs of foot protectors and several carrying devices on the shop floors, returning empty-handed and scared. I have decided not to leave the house again until I know with certain certainty that my stalker has left the country. I may have to put him under surveillance.

Thus I remain here, in the outskirts of E2, with nothing but my books (which, surprisingly, are very beige) and the notes in my books. #smartass

Some books are real gems when it come to the notes. 

Until life is again filled with free wine and fountains of Italian Prosecco.