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.

A call to arms?

Don't let the flames die.

Yeah, that's what I thought. The Professor, again - pompous ass. 

After much ado about not very much at all, two weeks ago, he resurfaces with this. Writing about the Shard and all, and that the laser show was only a well-planned, badly-executed distraction from the Dilluminati, to lure all Londoners into their leeching ban.

I still don't buy into it. Into him, I mean, WHO says he's not one of them? Ay? (this is what Shakespeare would have added for a bit of dramaturgical effect. Doesn't really hit the spot on a blog, ay?) As much as I would like to believe that the Professor is genuinely interested in the well-being of London's population (the world's??), I cannot help but suspect him to work for the Enemy. Like that Dalek in that one episode of Dr. Who, where that one bloke thought he'd invented that one Dalek, but in reality that one bloke was constructed by the Daleks and was actually working for, like, the enemy, or whatever. That's, like, totally potentiable. 

However, I do believe that the Dilluminati are coming, and they're coming fast. I don't think they're using Boris Bikes - no, in order to beat the jams during the Games ('please use alternative methods of transport' - Fuck you very much TFL), I guess they go back to good old teleportation, or maybe de- and re-materialisation. Anyway, all the signs and signals throughout the city: pyramids, triangles, circles, dead animals, announce the biggest battle of all: Dilluminati - Call of Tutee.

Whereas the Professor still holds on to the 'beacon of light that brings about the dark' or something like that, I believe firmly that the light is but a symptom of the Dilluminati's presence, and that they have long invaded society to triumph in the moment of ... errr, triumph. My neighbour, goes by the name of JJ, is a suspiciously small, and suspiciously malicious creature, whom I do not for one second believe that he is not able to speak. I suspect that his refusal to do anything but yelling and crying for a person with the pseudonym of 'Mother', is part of an elaborate plan to cover up his manipulating ways. The Dilluminati, dear friends, are among us, and they have adapted well. I have observed that the creature JJ and his 'sister' Rihanna, feed on KFC, McDo and Chicken Hut, which resembles very closely human nutrition. I say, fear the impostors; fear the Dilluminati amongst us; fear the hidden danger that resides in the streets of E2.

The final battle is coming, and it will be carnage. Note, dear friends, August 4th shall bring immense bloodshed and misery to the world. And few will be prepared. Once more unto the breach, dear friends.

The end is nigh, chocolate is out and the Dilluminati are coming

Rumours in the wider web of the world are circulating that the Dilluminati, Shadow Lords of the Deepest Darkest Blackest Hole, are planning an invasion. Although I am always a bit sceptical when it comes to world invasions and evil plans etc. etc., I am afraid that this might be the real deal. Partly because they have uploaded a trailer on Youtube, partly because they give us a month's notice. 

I like well organised villains: it's a lot more fun if you don't have to fight them in your knickers because you were surprised to see them on a Sunday morning. Also, they come in August - a good month for an invasion - night falls late and the temperatures are usually high, so you can stay out for a bit longer to fight Evil, whereas in December, you have tea at 4.30pm and that's that. Hooray for Summer invasions.  #sothatisallgood

Furthermore, I haven't seen the Dilluminati for a long time. Like, a very long time. Neither have I seen the Daleks, for that matter. It would be great to get all the folks together again and have some massive reunion fight-do, like in the good old times when your spaceship ran on Alkaseltzer, filmed the other way round. I admit, my current office job is not the most challenging position I have ever held, but the real compromise is my outfit: I was used to wear a long cape, a head piece, make-up, and all that, but at work they require me to wear 'decent' clothing. Mind you, apparently, horns are not decent. And they weren't that happy about my lunch box either (what's wrong with living goats????).

So, hooray for the Dilluminati, looking forward to see them again - I'll keep you posted non-existent reader.

Michael Caine is speaking, talking Italian

If there was any doubt that my brain just can't focus, not for two seconds, it was eradicated today. While I was meant to write, or at least meditate on the subject of rather dull questions, my brain was occupied trying to make my inner voice sound like Michael Caine ('Hello, my name is Michael Caine. Not a lot of people know that'. Try it, it's excellent fun). In case you were wondering - no - it is not very helpful in an exam. Having said that, there is something that's been nagging on me for a while and relates to an earlier post here (that you won't have read). I was thinking about being a grown up and how that is meant to change you. Now, I do not want to relate to myself as a grown up, but I have crossed the line, I think of grown-up behaviour, never to come back again. I have bought a gift and a card for a newborn, which means that 1. I know somebody with a baby and 2. I sort of care, and 3. I no longer belong to the entity that is my parents, who will send a separate gift and card (that is if my mother is bothered enough).

Part of the Guardian's solution for future graduates.

Now a month has passed and I spent that month trying not to freak out over too much work and not enough sleep. My chronic lack of ambition and stoic mind help, but mornings like today's do not. Why are some lectures boring? Why was I tired despite 10 hours sleep? Why does my tea no longer remain hot in my thermos? All in all, not a good day for reflection, fashion, nail polish, hair and certainly not a good day for productive ideas towards a dissertation. AND, it's Valentine's Day, another perfectly ordinary day highjacked by commerce and transformed into a Disney production of love and affection. Yes - this is a single speaking, and yes - I had a lot of cake during the last couple of days. I mean a lot. 

My weekend was spent with cake, beans and a treasure hunt - possibly the best hunt I've ever done. Beans included. And at the risk of blowing my own trumpet, dear non-existent reader, I summed it all up on Saturday night: 'if this is what being an adult is like, I want more of it'. True. It was a genuinely great day, spent in the glorious cold London sun, with people I like, doing crazy things of our own and others' design.  And lots and lots of rhyming, photographing, laughing and random silliness. I secretly wish never to look back onto my teens again, where everything was tense and not so very cool, despite my very hard attempts.  Have we reached the summit of coolness without trying? Or have we reached a state of coolness through a reversal of all that is classified as cool, de-accelerating to the point of total acceleration? Paul Virilio would be very proud indeed of me now. Reaching the level of complete acceleration where the only possible way is regression, the return to what has already been. What is coolness in the first place? Is it a virtue? An accomplishment? Is it natural? Can it be learned. As an outsider, a non-cool person, I have only ever had the possibility to observe coolness from the outside, i.e. with the longing to become or be cool, or cooler. Interestingly, it manifests itself in a variety of ways, which only have the ideological notion of coolness in common - it translates into so many visual, physical and metaphysical details that the only valid comparison I find is the universe, a an indefinitely large mass or un-mass, hosting galaxies and planets and and and... The question whether coolness is experienced by the bearer of cool him- or herself is an interesting layering of the idea that coolness may be only experienced by the outsider, and that 'a' cool person is not capable of grasping their own coolness. 

'Hello, my Name is Michael Caine'

Coolness as a distorted mirror image of the self that does not allow for a coherent evaluation. Which implies that anybody thinking of themselves as cool, could not possibly be cool, for cool cannot be self-experienced. This would explain why coolness seems effortless - because it is.

Any conscious effort must result in the individual's fail to be cool. Michael Caine is a prime example (notice how I make a suave link to an earlier bit): he spent the 60s and early 70s being cool. Nerdy glasses, mod-cut suits, unruly curls, Cockney accent, a good choice of movies, and the best spy movie scene in human history in The Ipcress File; two agents with trolleys in a supermarket. Coolness was a byproduct of good British acting. He did so well: and this is where it all went wrong. Michael Caine realised that he did well. So he made the effort to continue doing well, and did not so well in consequence. And what's worse: he lost his cool. I am particularly referring to the actors' workshops (1987) and a range of 'straight-to-video' films he made in the late 70s and 80s. In trying to replicate earlier coolness, Michael Caine created a caricature version of himself; a sort of postmodern pastiche of the actor he once was. Michael Caine in the 80s was a construct, designed after a bad description of Michael Caine in the 60s: an overemphasised Cockney accent, weird glasses, set hair (like his own grandmother) and bad 80s fashion. He might not have been responsible for the fashion, but it articulated well what had become of the 60s icon. It was the attempt to continue being the same character 20 years into his career - it was bound to fail.

Luckily, Caine grew up. There was a transition period where he had to age and mature to distance himself from Alfie, and where he became a sleek, witty, short-breathed grandfather. It took nearly 40 years, but Michael Caine is cool again, because he doesn't give a toss about it.