Wanna Laugh?
There's a frankly ridiculous piece about the Madonna shtick on the MSNC website, which I've cut-n-pasted below.


Swept away by a new controversy
MSNBC : Oct. 30 — Madonna may be a 44-year-old mother of two, but it looks like she still has what it takes to cause a religious controversy.

IN HER NEW video for the Bond theme song “Die Another Day,” Madonna appears with Hebrew words written on her and wearing a sacred Jewish prayer item, says a source.
The singer has become deeply involved in Kaballah, a Jewish form of mysticism, but the use of the sacred images is said to be “offending” and “outraging” Jewish leaders, according to various reports.

“The Hebrew tattoo she has means fight your pridefulness, your ego,” one source said. But apparently one of the items she wears, a tefillin, is only worn by men.

The source says Madonna might be trying to have an encore of her “Like A Prayer” controversy that outraged some Catholic leaders.

Madonna’s spokeswoman says that’s not the case. She says that Madonna had everything in the video approved in advance by Kaballah leaders.

“She feels there is nothing offensive” in the video, the spokeswoman tells The Scoop.


Spot the mistakes:
1 Don't know who the Source is, but I don't think the tattoo means "fight your pridefulness/ego"
2 I have no idea who "Kaballah leaders" are
3 She wears tefillin - phylacteries - plural. It's just not a singular noun

Who writes this stuff? Don't they have fact checkers?

Cue Song...
I heard it on the grapevine - because I haven't read a paper today yet - that this site was mentioned in passing today in an article my friend Julian wrote in the Jewish Chronicle about the whole Madonna thing I've been rabbiting on about for weeks. And I'm still in the top ten on google for any combination of Madonna/hebrew/tattoo.


So if you're here from the JC, welcome. This is the Madonna stuff you might want to read.

And while you're here, check out this - a piece I wrote once about the ultimate Jewish question: Is She or Isn't She?

Don't you hate it when you call someone (a business call, obviously), and their secretary/receptionist asks "will they know what it's regarding?". Answer: I don't know. They may be psychic, or they may not. How should I know?

Possession: Two Love Stories for the Price of One
Was utterly possessed by this for 102 minutes at the Tricycle last night with S. Tricycle still empty - twelve people in a three hundred seat cinema: I just don't get it. I'm sure Staples Corner and the 02 centre were heaving, and this is a nicer cinema, with famous people hanging about in the bar.

I've never read an AS Byatt novel - nor, for that matter, a Margaret Drabble (her feuding half-sister) either - and I really want to now. It's a girl movie, for sure, and although P informs me that Neil LaBute is interested in misogyny - which is certainly a themette to the movie - it has a balanced approach to representing gender and exploring human relationships. It's the tale of two contemporary literary academics sleuthing their way into a long lost love affair, and is utterly laden with coincidence. Which I guess has to happen, otherwise, stories go on forever, right?

Anyway, I'd certainly recommend it, if you want a double love story, sharp script and beautiful English countryside. Although the contemporary couple get really, really angst ridden, and there's not enough backstory to make it believable, and even though Gwyneth is an academic on a presumably meagre salary, she manages to have an amazingly stylish flat, with a Victorian roll-top bath, and expensive bathroom-bubbly stuff. As well as only one set of pyjamas. And while we're at it, I don't think she would drive an old Saab, I think she's more beaten up mini or MGB. And whilst we're picking holes, Aaron goes up north for an afternoon with a small book bag, ends up going on like a weeklong trip, without even taking a toothbrush or change of clothes. And then when Gwynnie drops him at the station, he's "grown" an overnight bag. Also, when Jeremy and Jennifer are having very stylish Victorian sex, her nightgown is arranged in such a way that he couldn't possibly get his bits, er, in. I know, I should be in continuity.

IMDB ephemera: the music is by Gabriel Yared, who did the mesmerising score to Betty Blue in 1986. So there.

Just got rather disturbed that my Christmas Cactus is flowering in November, but have discovered that apparently you're not supposed to water them at all in October. Starvation diets have never been my style.

Is It Me, Or...
... is the Paul Burrell case a right royal waste of time and money? So it's Regina v Burrell and it's all over the media and it costs millions of pounds of taxpayers' money, and then the day is saved at the nth hour, by... regina? Just doesn't really make sense, does it?

And the the uber-loyal royal servant, whose committment to the memory of Diana was such that he wouldn't even press the point until it looked like he'd be incacerated for something he hasn't done, has a personality transplant.

I mean, the bloke who wouldn't even speak after the trial was adjourned, had a statement read by his counsel, to which he wisely, silently, loyally nodded, that's the bloke who has sold his story to the Mirror. What is the world comming to?

I caught the tail-end of a Radio 4 programme on my way out last night, where a panel of talking heads were discussing the "ulrika-isation" of the media world, and the prevailing view seemed to be that obviously people - celebrities - shouldn't overshare, but obviously if there's money involved, needs must. I mean. Duh?

Oh, I've got to go out in a minute, and I've got so much to say. Late night Tuedsay night, as drove up to Birmingham with P and the nameless one for A's inaugaural lecture (Making Judges Accountable), and we didn't get back till about 1am. We hired a Vauxhall Astra as P's car was in the shop (I am so transatlantic) and P (bloke) was mightily impressed that I knew the Astra had won the British Touring Car Championships three times since 1989 (I just wrote an Astra ad; am thus replete with Top Gear type information. I also happen to know that the M25 is 117 miles long.)

It was such a great evening; we were all dead proud of A, even though we're not related, and it was great to meet his extended family, and even his English teacher from school, who shlepped a lot of naches even though she doesn't, probably, speak Yiddish, and all his former and current colleagues. Fab little reception after the lecture, lots of smart people talking about the law, and then of to A's for what was billed as a buffet, but was a wonderful home-cooked style meal, with wine and conversation flowing like the proverbial.

A is evidently a bright young thing whose star is on the ascendent and all that, and it made me think of this.

I Have A (Transport Infrastructure) Dream
I had a dream where I imagined the corporate advertising on my own personal bus shelter changed every day, and then yesterday I discovered it has changed for the third time, and still no bus stop.

Because I've done a huge amount of reading/research on Ken's BusPlus strategy, which is a £200m "flagship" (their quotes, not mine: I suspect it means "not really flagship") project in the Mayor's Transport Strategy, which aims to deliver fast, reliable and comfortable bus services, making bus travel an attractive option for Londoners.

I'd like that, too.

Part of the strategy is apparently to put bus stops closer together, so it's always a shorter walk to one. Sounds like a good idea. Except that, with more bus stops, and more people using the enhanced services, journeys take longer. So there are now five bus stops between my house and Kilburn tube, instead of the former two, and it now takes longer to travel there on the bus than it does to walk.

In town yesterday, I saw a Transport for London sticker on a bus that said something like "faster journeys, quicker at every stop" ( I knew should have written the exact wording down), and I though, "that's marketing bollocks". It sounds fabulous, but it's patently undeliverable, unless you get rid of the passengers. Now that would make it faster at every stop.

This, coupled with having to travel through London like I'm an extra in some proto-Orwellian film, replete with all those stupid "Secure Beneath The Watchful Eyes" posters, makes me feel that Big Brother is watching me, just not in a good way. I live in a city that purports to consult with me as a citizen, but then clearly states that my views will not be taken into account (more whingeing about the bus shelter, must stop, sorry), and where millions is spent on what appear to be faux-joke posters, marketing a service that doesn't work and is badly thought out.

Perhaps I'll leave the country.

And I may have a dream, but it's evidently a fantasy.

Just what I've always wanted: a doll dressed as an orthodox Jew/Polish nobleman, that dances an annoying Jewish dance when you wind it up. Least with this one, you can take the batteries out. Thanks to Luke for keeping me informed.

Hello, Ms Frizz
So this afternoon, I'm in the West End, having been treated to lunch at Arthur's restaurant in Liberty's by R (wonderful ambience, but the slowest service I've seen in a while), rushing off to a meeting/interview type thing.

As you know, I've been having a week long good-hair-day, and it's been fabulous. All down to my new product. As I'm rushing down Oxford Street, a youngish, hippish guy stops me, "hey, darling, where d'you get your hair cut?" I'm so shocked I answer. We fall into an easy, scripted conversation about haircare. He's an Aussie hairdresser, Alex, just arrived five days ago, they're opening a new salon round the corner in Poland Street, would I like a year's worth of haircuts for £50? He's doing really well, until he says, "I know it's raining, so your hair's frizzy, but tell me, what products do you usually use?"

I don't want to punch him in the face, but I just don't like being told I've got frizzy hair. Even by hairdressers. Even cool Aussie ones. I smile and say I'm (a) in a hurry, (b) committed to my current hairdresser, and (c) can I think about it? He says no, it's a sign-up now deal. He starts rabbiting on about the salon and how he can show it to me, and it's a handover-the-money-now deal. Do I really look like someone who'd do that? Maybe I do. He starts talking about how hard it is to handle curly hair, and how often do I straighten it? (never) and do I want to feel his arm muscles to show how good he is at straightening hair? Then he starts telling me he's gay so.... I stop listening. He acknowledges that he's rabitting, lost me, and should move on. We part. I look in a shop window and really don't think my hair looks frizzy. Men, huh? Even gay-hairdresser-ones.

It's Off To Work We Go
First, you've got to understand that I've had a lot of experience in the conference business. It's one of the few things where I really understand everything about how it works. Last week, I was in a meeting where a guy said, "the first most important thing is the database. And the second most important thing is the database." Which is kinda true, except that it's also a people business: I'd say 50/50 people and database: no database, no marketing. No people, no ideas.

Today, I was in a meeting where the guy said, "the most important thing is the people.". I said "what about about the database?" He said, "I'm happy to go into markets where we have no market-share, presence or product knowledge."

I can't help wondering if everyone else is marching out of step (as my brother is so fond of telling me), or whether it's a guy thing.

For those of you that asked, my washer/dryer is a Zanussi 1250 Jetstream. My old one was a 1050 or possibly an 1150.

Remember, Remember The Fifth of November...
Oh, but I do.

Three years ago today, I was lying in bed, late at night. You know that wintry weather that smells cold? I could hear fireworks, and smell the smoke from bonfires, and I fell asleep.

Suddenly, I woke up to the sharp piercing noise of the smoke alarm in the living room. Half-asleep, I open my bedroom door, and the whole hall is filled with a kind of dirty brown smoke that chokes me. Panicking, I run and wake up my flatmate. I open the flat's front door and my downstairs neighbour is there (she sleeps just below my smoke alarm) - everything OK? This all happens in about one millisecond. We go to the kitchen, and through the smoke can see that the washing machine is on fire. Actually, it's not even a very big fire, it's just the plastic burning creates an evil smoke that feels like it'll kill you.

Now, of course, I know about electrical fires, but I don't at 1am in the morning in a panic, so I filled a bucket of water, and threw it on the fire. Never do that, kiddies. The fire seemed to go out, and so did everything in the whole house, as I'd fused all the electrics. I was calm-and-panicky at the same time, and didn't really know what to do. I decided to call the fire brigade because I didn't know if the fire was out: they arrived in about two minutes (but then the fire station is at the end of Mill Lane, but still, it was bonfire night). They made sure the fire was out, gave us oxygen, and said "another one of those Zanussi washer-dryers bursting into flame?" They also told me never to throw water on an electric fire.

I told them that my favourite piece of no-longer-in-production SecretSupportTM underwear was locked in the mangled remains of the washer, and they extracted it for me. I had a half awareness that I used to work with someone who had a real thing about firemen and I had like four in my house. If you're wondering where my flatmate was, she'd gone round to her boyfriends (previous flatmate, I should say), so there I was, in my still semi-smoke-filled house, no electricity, lights &c, wondering what to do. The damage was minimal: couple of burned cupboards, but the granite work tops seemed to have stopped the fire spreading too far.

In the end, at around 2am I called an electrician, who fixed everyything for some huge middle-of-the-night call-out charge. As I was writing him a cheque he said to me, "ever wanted to change your life? I'm involved in a slef-improvement scheme that - ". I stopped him there: I don't want to be sold into a pyramid selling scheme at the best of times, but never when my house has narrowly escaped from burning down.

Went back to bed. Couldn't sleep. All the might-haves floating through my mind: what if I didn't have a smoke alarm? What if I didn't wake up? What if -

My insurance company insisted that they replace the machine with the exact same one. Zanussi refused to admit any kind of responsibility. For a few days, no-one would take away the old machine. The insurance company sent professional cleaners in, but for months later, everytime I opened a cupboard bits of black smoke-stuff fell out.

The moral of the story? (1) Avoid buying a Zanussi washer-dryer at all costs (a few months later, I met a bloke at a party whose whole house had burned down. Same model). (2) Never leave the dryer on when you go to bed/go out. (3) Always check the batteries in your smoke alarm.

Can't believe that I just updated my anti-virus software, and now this happens. I just want there to be one, fixed, reliable thing in the world that I can trust. Please.

Have I Got Tickets For You
I don't think Angus Deayton is any kind of virtuous paragon, but I really don't want to see Anne Robinson treat everyone like shit. Apparently 6.6 million people tunedin on Friday, for Paul Merton's stand-in show, highest ever and all that.

I don't really understand. During Angus' first set of "misdemeanours" in the summer, it was all a bit of a laugh, no crime implied, but now suddenly Hat Trick are moral arbiters who say and nay-say what's allowed. He's probably not doing anything different than most men in the country, just that he happens to have enough of a degree of celebrity for it to make the papers. When a bloke from my parents' community set up another household, with another wife and children, it wasn't exactly all over the front of the Sun. See.

The question is, does fame mean you have to be more virtuous? There may be an argument that you're an example to the kids and all that, but so was John Major. There are no virtuous people left, that's the truth. Just people who haven't been found out yet.

Side-issue: I have four tickets to see HIGNFY recorded (as it's abbreviated to - pronounced higg-nuf-fie - I once read a whole interview with Paul Merton without realising that HIGNFY stood for something) on Thursday 19 December. I'll probably use two of them... I'm considering throwing the other two open to whoever x2 writes what I deem to be the most entertaining comment here.

Or I may not.

Off to stay with my cousins in the holy N2 postcode for Shabbat. Now the hour's changed, it gets dark really early. Back tomorrow afternoonish, but I've promised myself that I will go to the gym on the way back. And then I'm out on the town. I may be gone for some time, as they say.

Just glanced at the class timetable at my gym, and squeezed between iyengar yoga and cardio kickbox, was this one: MARITAL ARTS. Of course, it doesn't really say that. Just a frame of mind, I guess.

Last night, went out with F for my favourite dinner-in-London experience - Lebanese at the bottom of the Edgware Road. My birthday seems to be going on forever, which is cool, and we went to the Maroush on Seymour Street.

My optimal meal always includes humous, and ocassionally includes felafel, and we had a veritable feast of middle-eastern dippy things; baba ganoush, fouls medames, tabbouleh. Fabulous. And of course, mint tea and sticky cakey things.

I used to have a job round there, in a truly English place where they thought I was ethnic because of my curly hair. Which I guess I was. And also because of my pushy personality. I mean friendly. So because Lebanese restaurants are full of the kind of people you see in Israel: overweight men and shouty people, I always feel very at home, and the menu is food I understand. When I used to take my work colleagues there, they were terribly impressed that (a) I knew enough arabic to order (and that's only because it's pretty much like Ivrit), (b) I wasn't fazed by the shoutiness, and (c) the bottom of the Edgware Road is a parallel universe where women like me - zaftig, buxom, womanly - are looked upon adoringly. So I always get fabulous service, baklawa on the house, and lots of admiring looks.

Was weird being back there: the whole area has a feel of being on holiday somewhere Mediterraneanish. And also reminded me never to talk myself into a job that requires me to straighten my hair. Which I did, but that's another story.

Tech Question
Anyone know why my clients don't seem to be able to open my word attachments in my Outlook (not express) email?

I know, it sounds like that horrid faux-dotcom TV show, Attachments. Sorry.