Saturday. DJ Shadow - The Academy, Manchester.

In a way, I was kind of dreading this show. It was bound to be packed with chin-stroking wankers, right?

Wrong. Possibly due to spliffs being the preferred recreational substance instead of lager, the crowd was one of the mellowest I'd seen in some time - quite something given the size of the venue. People actually turned round to ask me if I could see!

Shadow's schtick is a little bit cheesy ("Yo Manchester, I've got some crazy shit for y'all") but when it comes to the music, it was magic. I found myself getting happily tipsy-hypnotised. The new stuff sounds really quite lovely, and I wouldn't hesitate to suggest that you buy it if you loved "...Endtroducing".

As for today, I'm off to a job interview in a couple of hours. I won't jinx myself by saying too much beforehand, but I can reveal that it is a) not a telly job; b) in the city centre and c) with what appears to be quite a cool company, so let's hope for the best and see what happens. More later!

At the moment, my new musical obsession is Maximilian Hecker. Although I've only heard one song, "Infinite Love Song", I keep playing it over. And over. Gentle piano-driven electronica with Max's choirboy vocals floating over top. It makes me feel...romantic. Sappy. I have a feeling that it's going to be The Album Of The Summer. He's super cute, too - yum!

I mentioned the other week that some friends of ours went to Japan for 2 weeks. They took loads of photos of course. Cherry blossoms, ahhh nice. Temples, lovely. But this one was my favourite:



(Thanks to R CJ for scanning it for me!)

Saturday. Day Three in Stockholm.

Thankfully free of a hangover, we meet Anna before lunch and head out to "the hood" as she calls it. We're headed for a weekly flea market in one of Stockholm's southern suburbs. Swedish suburbia is odd - everything looks like pre-fab wartime houses. It's so different from the city itself - a bit lifeless. We arrive after a long tube journey and stumble out into a precinct mall that could be... Swindon. Anywhere. The market is in the basement of the mall, and it looks promising. As I have Anna there to haggle for me in Swedish, I score some 70s retro headphones in cherry red and a Swedish white enamel breadbin for about £10 in total. Anna buys a gorgeous Eames-style serving tray that I would have wanted myself if I could get it home safely.

It strikes me that I'm going to need an extra suitcase to lug all my bounty back to the UK, so we head to meet Lars at a nearby second hand shop. 30 kroner later (about £2), I have a dusty but cool red hardshell case that was formerly used for skiing holidays. The girl ahead of me in the queue is buying two mugs from the tv show Fame - in Swedish! I love this country.

By now we're starving, so we head back to the hotel to drop off our gear and set out to Kanel (cinnamon), a cafe in a quiet part of Kungsholmen. My traditional Swedish sandwich arrives on a massive piece of fresh rye bread, topped with brie, olives, salami, pickled jalapenos, red onions, cucumber slices and tomato. The cappucino is gorgeous. Why can't food in the UK be the same? Sigh.

Afterwards, we walk off our lunch by strolling to the city hall where we lounge on the lawn and take in the stunning view across the water.

Time for a quick dollying up and we're off to Cafe Piatowska for some *real* Polish food. The interior is gothic and cavernous - all dark wood and polish folk songs on the stereo. I'm happy to see that the service is traditionally Polish (indifferent and slow) and we even have a table of bona fide macho-men Poles next to us who eye the waitress up like a pack of starving wolves. I could be in Toronto! The borscht is gorgeous, swimming with dill and sour cream. We all have the schnitzel, suitably dripping with butter and crisp sauerkraut. My stomach tries to reject all the richness, but I drink away the rumbles with Czech beer. Mmmm.

And then it was time for a traditional...Swedish house party. This involves a long-ish bus ride from Slussen out into the Middle of Nowhere - but once inside, it's a rather nice small terrace with friendly faces.

Which reminds me, can I say what I like about Swedes?

1. They listen to you very seriously and exclaim "ok!" every so often.

2. They all seem to speak English, ranging from conversational to put-me-to-shame fluent.

Anyhow, it was only then that the evening hit a slight blip. I was getting tired but was persuaded to carry on to another house party in another area we didn't know. As we walked up a hill towards the apartment building, I could hear Mano Negra blaring out the windows. Oh. So it's *that* kind of party. I must confess I pulled a bit of a sulk at this stage and insisted I wanted to go back to the hotel. We went inside the flat. Bob Marley now (eeeeek!) and drunken blokes everywhere so I ask Anna to call us a cab, assuring her I'm just really tired and it's not my kind of party (still feel guilty now!). Swedish taxis are cool - they have navigational systems built in and are sparkling clean. Our lovely taxi driver even opens the door for the bf - now when would you get that in Manchester?

Sunday. Day Four in Stockholm.

Somehow, I manage to pack all my stuff. And somehow, Anna manages to meet us by 11:30 despite a blinding hangover. We've got just enough time for breakfast, so she takes us to Sirap, the only place in Stockholm if you want real diner-style pancakes. Unfortunately it suffers slightly from overpopularity (an American who trods on my toes apologizes in Swedish, which makes me laugh) but we find a table eventually. Heaven. Cinnamon-apple pancakes, cooked on a griddle as they should be to ensure crispy edges.

On the way back to the hotel to get our luggage and head for Arlanda, Anna mentions there's a store on the way that I might like. It's called "American Food Store". Why didn't she mention this sooner??? I run around inside with no dignity, drooling over all the terrible junk food. Eventually I settle for some Jell-O pistachio instant pudding and some Miracle Whip. Once again, Stockholm manages to surprise me.

It's quite sad to say good-bye to Anna at the station - I could have happily stayed another week. Turns out we needn't have rushed either - our plane is delayed and we have nothing to do but wait in the ghost town that is the new wing where Skyways departure lounge is.

When we finally get back to Manchester, it's cloudy, grey and chilly. Home sweet home.

Thursday. Day One in Stockholm.

We fly with Skyways (budget division of SAS) direct from Manchester to Stockholm Arlanda. A smooth journey with surprisingly decent food for a low-cost airline! Unfortunately we find out upon arrival that the bf's bag has been left behind in Manchester and won't arrive until the middle of the night via Copenhagen. Bah. Anyhow it's Manchester Airport's fault, not SAS. Oh well. Our hotel, the Rica City Stockholm, is at least right by the train station and tube T-Centralen. On the way there I can't help but notice it's completely deadsville. We needn't have worried - it's a bank holiday!

We freshen up and head over to our friend Anna's flat in Karlaplan. Although we expected to see a fair amount of her, we're really touched to find out she's made plans for our entire stay.

On to Södermalm. First stop is dinner. She takes us to a retro cafe that serves Italian food. It's fantastic and I'm desperately envious of all their collectable decorative touches. We then head to a bar (apparently run by socialists!) where the bf once DJd. Next stop Chutney, a vegetarian/vegan cafe where her friend works. More wine. It's no smoking there until the chef calls it a night and lights up himself. Oh what the hell, I'm on vacation! Uh oh. Last stop of the evening is a hopping pub where we have to fight for a table. A man grabs my shoulder and starts nattering at me in Swedish. Anna tells me afterwards that he thought I looked like someone from his hometown of Gävle (I discover that I'm taken for Swedish for the whole trip, actually...) Oh heaven, are we pissed. Anna sneaks us onto the tube with her pass, something I would never do when sober. We stumble back to the hotel and crash out...

Friday. Day Two in Stockholm.

I wake up with a walloping hangover and swear never to drink again. The bf thinks it's hilarious as I barely manage to keep some breakfast down. Luckily Swedish sunshine is the new hangover cure and I'm feeling much better by the time we head out. This is Shopping Day. After a quick tourist visit to Gamla Stan for some Moomin goodies, my first stop is 10 Swedish Designers in Götgatan. They've been selling items made up from their fantastic prints since 1970. I may have too many bags already, but I just can't say no and snap up a few more for "presents". Nearby is a dusty shop called Curiositat, I think, where I find a 70s gingerbread tin adorned with Swedish ski stars and a cool 50s print for my kitchen.

We head back to T-Centralen to meet Anna and her friend for lunch. They take us to the top of the Centre for Culture, which has a little-publicised terrassen where you can eat on the rooftop. What a view!

After lunch Anna takes us to Marimekko where I splurge on a new duvet set. Their eye catching 60s style designs are just impossible to resist.

We drop off our finds and head back to Anna's flat, where we meet her bro Lars before walking to the amusement park Gröna Lund in Djurgården to see the Hives. New bit: While Anna is getting ready, we watch a Norwegian programme about dog shows. Our jaws hit the floor in disbelief as a woman w@nks her dog to keep him calm before the show. They show *everything*. In another scene, we're treated to a graphic footage of a vet performing a caesarian birth on a giant bulldog. Lars is a bit embarrassed, but eventually he just shrugs and says "That's Norwegians for you."

Anyhow, onto the Hives. You may remember I've seen them before and was less than impressed, but tonight is unique and much much better. Surrounded by gaudy rides and eating my Fisk Meny (chips and fishfingers smothered in curried mayo), I'm quite blissfully happy. Afterwards, we take the ferry back to Slussen and have a drink in a mad Czech bar where gorgeous, unflustered nordic barmen pull dozens of pints. Although we find a seat in another bar shortly afterwards, last night's escapades are catching up with me and we make our excuses after midnight.

More tomorrow...

Very quick, boring post I'm afraid. I'm off to Stockholm in the morning and running around like a silly thing packing! Our flight is much earlier than I remembered so no lie-in, sigh...

Anyhow I'm thinking about doing a spot of blogging while I'm there - depends on how many internet cafes I find and how much time I have...but we'll see! It would be a cool way to document my trip.

Back on Sunday - have a great weekend!

You know that scene in Spaced where Tim is jubilantly walking down the street because Sara has dumped Dwayne Benzies? Fantastic Plastic Machine in the background, Tim does a cartwheel and bops a football off his head? (later, Brian replays the same scene when Twist accepts a date - but the football knocks him out.) Anyhow, that pretty much sums up how I've been feeling since Thursday. Why, you ask? Because...

I. Handed. In. My. NOTICE!!!

Yes, that's right. On Thursday something snapped. I'd gone beyond being able to put up with everything and marched into HR.

I'm kind of lucky, really. Despite a somewhat argumentative meeting with my boss on Friday, things smoothed out in the end (you could call it Tongue Biting) so I'll have a good reference.

And what a buzz! I have more energy today than I did for six months. Even the evil producer doesn't bother me as much because I know I have exactly 17 working days left. Ner ner ner ner ner.

Of course no one at the office can believe that I'm actually leaving with No Job To Go To. But I've always been this way - once I've made my mind up, there's no turning back, for better or for worse. When I was younger, this often meant 'for worse'. But I'm quietly optimistic - 3 jobs applied for, all of which I more than qualify for - so there's no reason why I shouldn't at least get an interview or two. I've got more in the bank account than I did when I moved here, so even a couple of weeks off won't tighten the belt much.

But for now, I'm going to:

a) enjoy Royksopp tonight at the Hop & Grape, and

b) enjoy our trip to Stockholm as of Thursday.

p.s. Go and see Italian for Beginners. Feel-good Dogme, we like!

From my fellow telly working friend today:

Folks. I have an atrocious request.


I am looking for a couple or a single person prepared to apply stinging nettles to their testicles / special parts for an item about the pain and pleasure aspects of nettles. The person can be anonymous if they like with a hood or such like.


Well, I'm not sure her circle of friends is the best place to start, but if anyone out there in the North West fancies showing off their bits on TV...(cue ghost town sound effects...)


And hey, is it my imagination or are No Doubt climbing on the electroclash bandwagon? Judge for yourself...

I'd also like to say how much I love the C*nt ads in the TV Go Home book, a fake show about the escapades of 20 something noomeejahoor Nathan Barley. It makes very good before bed reading and I was in fits of giggles. Excerpt:

Nathan sculpts his hair into a messy peak, dons some pedal pushers, and visits a loud, overpriced South London bar to share woodfired pizza and smug conversation with an equally vile companion.

TV Go Home's website appears to be down at the moment, so if you fancy reading some more go here.

Wahey! I managed to 'sneak' away for lunch for once and caught up with some friends in town, including my old workmates. They told me that Jarvis Cocker is at Granada today, filming for Celebrity Stars In Their Eyes. And guess who he is tonight Matthew? Rolf Harris! How brilliant. To give you an idea....:

Now that the weather is better ('in Manchester?' I hear you ask!) I've been walking to work. It takes me 30 minutes, exactly as long as the tram journey. Unfortunately the last 2/3 of the walk is through an industrial park and motorways, probably negating the exercise with car fumes. It's pretty grim - garbage and weeds everywhere, the odd pile of burning tires.... I keep expecting to see a body floating in the canal and having to call 999.

The view from my office, however, is much better. In fact on a warm summer day, it's just about the only perk of being here. Looking out across the office, I can see the mohawk of the Lowry and a burnished copper skyscraper across the quay. To the right, the unfortunate designer outlet which at least is nice architecturally. They've had the wit to design a tree-lined avenue along the mall, dotted with benches that are usually occupied by beer-belly builders having a snooze.

Today though, rain batters the windows and we have to lock the back entrance because otherwise the wind will rip the doors off. Totally depressing.

My weekend so far:

9 PM, Friday. Knackered from insane day - week! - at work. One beer and one delicious Turkish Delight chicken sis later, I am looking forward to watching Father Ted and The Book Club. The telephone rings. This telephone call ruins the rest of my evening and part of Saturday morning as well.

Basically the producer we have at the moment (let's call her Adrenalin Junkie) informs me that it's only just occurred to her that the car I hired for her on *Wednesday* is not big enough. She wants me to phone Avis in the morning to arrange an exchange. If they can't provide the bigger car, she wants me to ring round all the other companies to get her a deal. Does she ask nicely or even apologize for ringing me so late and on the weekend? What do you think?

I, the big softie that I am, am extremely upset afterwards. I don't like this whole snap-my-fingers-and-you-jump stuff. The poor bf has to watch me while I wail "Idiot motherf*&ckers!" Even Father Ted can't console me and I don't sleep very well that night.

In the morning, I drag myself out of bed and start making calls. Of course it gets complicated instantly. Pissed off, I call my boss at home and leave a polite but firm message that her plan isn't going to fly. To his credit, he calls back and says that's fine; he's thought of a way to work around it. I call Adrenalin Junkie to tell her the deal and say I'll be round shortly to drop off some stuff for her trip (I don't mind this, as it was pre-arranged and she lives on the way into town anyhow. See? A little notice goes a long way!)

Her house is gorgeous. One of those huge rambling houses in a slightly dodgy area that you could have snapped up for £50,000 ten years ago and quadrupled your investment by now. Is she inside, enjoying her garden and having a Saturday morning coffee? No, she's on TWO mobiles at once, shouting frantically between both of them. She spies me and also starts shouting questions at me. I frantically inch away, mouthing "I'VE GOT TO GO" and make my escape.

Help!!!

Bleary eyed, crumpled heap on the sofa after work. That's been me this week. I even slept through my alarm this morning, something I never do. And the damage it does to your creative abilities is unbelieveable. Even if I had had the energy to blog, there wasn't anything up in the old noodle to divulge. Not a sausage, as they say around here.

I'm now sat at my desk, staring at a huge pile of papers. Where to start? I fantasize about someone snapping at me, giving me an excuse to storm out in a huff. Why am I here? Why am I working 10 hour days with no lunch and draining myself, all for a project I'm not particularly interested in? Why I am putting up snappy people asking me to do ridiculous things at the last minute all the time?

I don't have an answer. But I am glad it's Friday!

Blimey. Christopher Price of BBC Liquid News fame was found dead in his London flat yesterday, age 34. No news on the cause of death - the BBC segment this morning didn't even address the issue, while the Media Guardian only reports him to have been ill last week. Very sad. Nor will Eurovision coverage be the same without him.

OK, more on Jason Beck a.k.a. Chilly Gonazales...

Some of you may have read the article on him in the Guardian's TV guide two weeks ago. It mentioned his previous band, Son, as a prominent indie band in Toronto back in 1993. It's a sad but common story really, where Canadian bands get signed up pretty much as major label tax write-offs and are ignored and then dropped after the initial hoo-ha to get them on board.

Anyhow! 1993 is when my own band A Tuesday Weld was around, so I was curious if we ever crossed paths. My trusty Lexis Nexis told me we didn't - the earliest Son article I could dig out was from 1996, and we broke up in 1994 (I think?) - although I'm sure they were slogging it out like we were at around the same time. All the articles are, of course, written in that annoying Canuck journo style. However, here are some interesting facts:

1. Son once played a gig that included a marathon version of "Purple Rain" featuring the very annoying Tyler Stewart of Barenaked Ladies on drums. Then Son actually *toured* with Barenaked Ladies. Sweet jesus. I hope he's lost *his* number.

2. Peaches was then billed as one Merrill Nisker, who also had a project called The Shit - Chilly played drums for her.

3. In a Billboard article, Chilly snarls about Son having to open for "jangly Canadian 'don't talk' rock bands". :-)

4. A review of Son's album 'Thriller' in the Ottawa Citizen draws comparisons to Nine Inch Nails. Eeeep!

Let us all give thanks that they escaped to Germany to become cool and real. Because as Peaches was later quoted, "you have to leave Canada to become somebody." Amen.