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  1. Being a fat knacker

    13.Aug.08, 00:00 EDT
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    I love food. And not in a Heston Blumenthal only appreciate it when it's rarer than hen's teeth and dipped in liquid nitrogen way, I just love food. I take a similar amount of pleasure from scoffing lovely Loch Fyne oysters with Tabasco as I do Findus crispy pancakes with gravy.

    I have never had any kind of Hollyoaks-esque 'issues' with food, have never been on a diet and have never been embarrassed about eating in front of people...until now, that is. I have been brought to the realisation that I am something of a ‘fat knacker’. I feel I have now crossed the fine line from being branded as the positive 'ooh, she likes her food doesn't she?' to having more in common with some kind of freak show exhibit.

    I've always been able to pack it away: Particular highlights include a waitress in a NYC diner commenting that she had never a seen a couple finish what the Doctor and I had polished off – and she'd worked there more than 10 years. In case you missed it, this took place in NEW YORK CITY. Famous for its fat greedy population, and we out-greedied even them.

    In my defence, I don't think it’s me that has changed – it's everyone else. I have (give or take) always eaten, or at least always been able to eat in this manner, but not so long ago, my peers were doing the same. This weekend though tells a different story: No-one told me, but it would appear that to successfully make the transition from girl to woman you have to stop eating like Homer Simpson. And it would also appear that I am virtually the only woman in the world who was not aware of this fact....

    Saturday saw me attend my first ever hen-do, and much fun it was too. Sadly denied any erotic firemen, I instead set about enjoying the three-course dinner, which was fantastic. Smoked mackerel with salsa and rocket to start, followed by rare rib-eye steak with truffle butter, a mound of chips and, as a token nod to health, a wee side-salad.

    Of the 17-strong 'team-hen', at least 10 of us went for the steak option, yet only one (no prizes for guessing...) finished it. Or even came anywhere near finishing it. My plate looked like it had already been through the dishwasher, whilst my fellow cow-munching hens had all manner of food detritus left on theirs – and not just the boring bits either –they even left the meat!!

    A quick scout around the table proved that it wasn't just the meat-eaters, (or rather meat-leavers) that sent food back to the kitchen, either. Aside from yours truly, absolutely no-one in that restaurant was worthy of receiving The Little Chef lollipop. My plate and I were the recipients of some half-impressed, half-disgusted glances, and assorted mumblings along the lines ‘oh, I’m just so full’ or ‘I’m saving space for dessert’ or ‘we ate lunch really late’ but still…the crockery speaks for itself.

    I was out again on Monday evening, this time frequenting everyone’s favourite minimalist pizza chain with two very good (male) friends of mine and three complete strangers (two women and one man). The two other ladies in our party both put in spectacularly pathetic attempts. One managed to snaffle only a quarter of her Sloppy Guiseppe before spewing forth excuses along the lines of ‘I’m so tired, I’m still on US time’, while woman no. 2 managed a whopping 50% of her dinner before offering it up to the table (I was tempted…) and then just giving up. Needless to say, by this time I had almost eaten the pattern off my plate and could have done so again.

    What IS interesting here though, is that my two friends and I were all in the clean-plate club, whilst the two women I had never met AND their male companion all had shameful amounts of food left. It’s long-since been recognised as an indicator of how people were brought up, and I now like to think, the way a person eats is a solid basis on which to choose one’s friends. Those who 'eat-up' are hedonistic yet appreciate what they’ve been given, were clearly forced to eat horrible green things as children, aren't spoilt and are clearly far superior people. Fact. AND, even more importantly, don't make you feel bad for doing what is completely natural - eating!

    So you wanna be in my gang? - Get the pies in. Hurray for fat-knacker friends!

    By Gemma hughes/MOLI

  2. Depending on the kindness of strangers

    05.Aug.08, 00:00 EDT
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    Picture the scene: its Friday evening (around 7.15pm) on the Holloway Road, and a rather dressed-up version of me is waiting at the bus-stop. We're not talking ball-gown levels of dressiness, but a frock, heels, and two colours of eye-shadow are all involved, so for me, pretty top-end stuff.

    Now, on the grey, kebabery-lined streets of North London's main strip, a girl wearing a bright green prom dress in broad daylight stands out as much as a vegetarian in France. To be honest, anyone not wearing weirdly big sweat-pants stands out, so I was (as ever) completely prepared for the obligatory stares and sniggers of the sports-clad youth of today.

    What I was not prepared for was what happened next....

    Whilst waiting for the number 43 bus, a slightly drunk, slightly overweight Ray Winstone look-alike in a shiny grey tracksuit started walking towards me doing what all Londoners dread – making eye contact. Ever the optimist (!), the first thing that goes through my head is that he's going to a) talk to me, or b) knife me, and I'm not sure which one scares me most.

    What actually happens is this: when he gets about two metres away from me, he shouts in one of the campest voices I've ever heard: “Darrrling! Fabulous dress! Absolutely fabulous sweetie. You look amazing.” I feel guilty, and happy, and embarrassed, and completely thrown, and all I can get out is a rather shy “oh, err, thanks”.

    He smiles as he walks past (now with the swaying gait of a female stripper) and I don't feel embarrassed or guilty any more, I just feel really good about myself (and a little bit like I'm in a movie).

    Just as he passes the bus shelter, and as if he can read my thoughts, Gay Winstone then turns around and says: “You do, you look fantastic darling – but how many people tell you that?” A beaming me replied “not enough”, and it's true. I, like most people in this world, am neither munter nor model, but from time to time, I look pretty good – so why don't I, or anyone else for that matter, ever hear it?

    We were all taught as children the rule of 'if you can't say anything nice then don't say anything at all’, and this is still a pretty good maxim to stick to, but what I'd like to drag into common parlance is 'if you can say something nice, then do’.

    There are many times when I will either say aloud to a friend or say silently to myself 'I love her top/shoes/haircut/legs’, but under no circumstances would I ever say that to her. That would be utter madness. But why?! We seem pretty good at being mean to people - just look at the press - but for some reason saying the nice stuff just doesn't seem to come as easy.

    A recent statistic showed that more than 73 per cent of people in the UK find it hard to say 'I love you' to the person they love. Madness. With that in mind though, it’s quite easy to see why people don't - or perhaps can't - pay complete strangers any kind of compliment at all.

    It’s not like this everywhere though. Last summer the Doctor and I were in New York for a week, to attend a friend's Buddhist, vegan, wheat-free, teetotal wedding in Brooklyn. Fun times. On the day of the wedding we travelled from our hotel in mid-town Manhattan to the church in Brooklyn Heights using the subway. I was, of course, dressed up in proper wedding attire: frock and hat/head-dress thingy, but sporting flat sandals instead of killer heels as I broke my toe in a rather horrible shower incident that morning.

    Anyway, on the journey to the ceremony, which took in total about 50 minutes, FOUR separate people stopped to tell me they liked my outfit/dress/hat/innate and original sense of style. And FIVE more strangers did so at the wedding.

    I have worn this dress before and since in and around London and in Yorkshire and have sadly had no such response.

    So, for first and (probably the last) time, my message is thus: be more like the Americans. Go forth and give compliments in the canteen or brighten up someone's day at the bus-stop. And spread the gospel: If you can say something nice, then do.

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI

  3. Wondering what's in a name

    28.Jul.08, 10:00 EDT
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    Would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? How about if the rose was called Number 16 Bus Stop, Sex Fruit or Benson & Hedges? Maybe not. But as a story of a landmark case last week from New Zealand showed, it doesn't stop people from trying.

    The case in question was all about a little nine-year-old girl called (wait for it) Talula Does the Hula from Hawaii who wanted the power to change her name. No shit. The presiding judge, Judge Rob Murfitt, concluded that 'the name embarrassed the nine-year-old and could expose her to teasing', and thus gave her a ward of court so she could officially change her name.

    In his closing statement he went on to attack what he called 'the poor judgement of parents' in choosing names that 'make a fool of the child and set them up with an unnecessary social handicap'. And to prove his point (and give us all a good laugh at some bonkers Kiwis) he cited a few examples of monikers he has recently quashed. These included: Keenan Got Lucy, the fore-mentioned Sex Fruit, Yeah Detroit, Fat Boy, Cinderella Beauty Blossom and a pair of twins that were to be named Fish n Chips. However, recent 'creative' names that he did allow include Midnight Chardonnay, Benson & Hedges (twins, naturally) and Violence. Nice.

    Few people would argue that little Talula Does the Hula from Hawaii wouldn't get some stick at school, that's a given, but what about when she was older – would it do her some good? Would she end up being a burlesque dancer purely because her name makes her sound like one? It is hard to imagine her working in a biscuit factory or in insurance; just as much as it is Peaches Geldof doing anything other than...what is it she actually does again..? But really, the glamorous people we see splashed all over the press everyday virtually all have glam names to match. Coincidence? Or something more sinister...

    When I was still in my Mummy's tummy there was talk of naming me Sadie. But in the end, after discussions about how it was maybe a bit too different and that I may be bullied at school, my Mum & Dad settled on Gemma. As did a million other parents at the time. It is very difficult indeed to find Gemma's in this country that pre-date 1982, but then there is a wave of us the size of a tsunami.

    In my GCSE Drama group alone (which consisted of about 40 people) there were seven Gemma's. And on top of that, two of those were Gemma Hughes's. Incidentally, a teacher told me years later that to distinguish between us in staff-room conversations we were labelled 'Good Gemma Hughes' and 'Bad Gemma Hughes' - I'll let you make your own minds up as to which was which...but I digress. The point is, there were no Sadies. Not in my drama group, my year, or even my school.

    So, if I were writing this as Sadie Hughes instead of Gemma Hughes would it make a difference? I don't know, to be honest, probably not, but it might well do if I was called Sex Fruit. And I guess that's the point really: no-one wants to be 'Gemma number eight', but nor, as has been proved this week, do they want to called Talula Does the Hula from Hawaii. It's a fine line between original and idiotic in the name stakes, and not that many people seem to get it right.

    Personally, I reckon the ideal is to experiment a bit with girls names, but just don't mess with boys names. Ladies with more 'exotic' names often do very well for themselves, but in general, the men that get to the top of most fields have strong, simple, often biblical names. But that said, a lot of the men runnin' the world aren't doing the best job at the moment perhaps it would be better if Liam-Kyle Nike Reebok was in charge.

    Oh, and before I close, an article about ludicrous names just wouldn't be complete without a mention of Brangelina's spectacularly short-sighted choice of Shiloh Pitt. Or is it Pile o' shit? However beautiful that child may grow up to be, my God it's gonna take some flack.

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI

  4. Crying my eyes out at Hollyoaks

    16.Jul.08, 00:12 EDT
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    I am not the best at being a proper girl. I am rubbish with fake tan, I don't like teen movies, or things about animals, and I have used the same shade of grey eye shadow since I was 15. But when it comes to TV soaps, and more specifically, beefing my eyes out to ridiculous pathos-ridden storylines, I more than make up for it.

    And as a lifelong EastEnders fan, there have been more than ample opportunities for me to shed a tear. My Dad used to say it was the reason the UK had such a problem with depression (though he always taped it – allegedly for me my Mum....) and to my brother, ever one to embrace the culture of another part of England, it is simply 'winging cockneys'.

    Now, much like Peggy and her beloved “faaaaamily”, I will not hear a bad word said about the UK's finest Walford-based soap opera, but will concede that the men of my family do kind of have a point, which is where Hollyoaks comes in.

    Knowing full well that EastEnders can be a little bleak (and, at the time, populated with a whole lot of ugly), I was excited when in 1995 Hollyoaks first hit our tea-time screens. It was all perky and young, full of models-turned-actors wearing fruit of the loom, and the soap antidote to EastEnders’ unrelenting misery.

    For around a year Hollyoaks stayed true to creator Phil Redmond's initial ethos: that soaps don't need to be all about sex and death (yeah, right). The story lines were (at least compared to the Holy Trinity of the time – Enders, Corrie and Brookie), rather light-hearted and often even silly. As it only aired once a week in those days, the story lines were often just one episode long, and involved some kind of cheeky mix up with 'hilarious' consequences.

    However, in 1996, things changed. It started being broadcast twice a week and tackling important and relevant 'issues', the first example of which was Natasha's drug overdose as supplied by original Hollyoaks baddy, Rob Hawthorne. This did the trick, and the misfortune of its characters and the frequency of broadcast became directly proportional to its share of the ratings. It has since gone from strength to strength and now has a rap sheet to rival a Jeremy Kyle guest. 'Issues' dealt with include:

    Self-harm, serial murder, arson, abortion, drug addiction, gambling addiction, alcohol addiction, suicide, street crime, gangsters, mental health (schizophrenia, OCD, depression), domestic abuse (men and women), cults, credit card fraud, bankruptcy, incest, perjury, false imprisonment, kidnap, male rape, date rape, miscarriage, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, surrogacy, infertility, gay priests and death, death, and more death.

    After missing Chester's finest for a couple of weeks, I made the very foolish mistake of watching an entire week's worth on Saturday afternoon. Oh. My. God. There is a reason the episodes are 25 minutes long - you just can't take any more than that in one go.

    Now, if I was in charge, instead of constantly banging on about how many units of alcohol are safe per person per day, I'd stick a warning on soaps. One half-hour episode after work to unwind in a social situation is acceptable, but watching alone, especially solo weekend binge-watching of omnibuses is a very dangerous pursuit.

    My Saturday Hollyoaksathon far exceeded any recommended daily allowance and in one sitting I managed to consume at least eight of the ‘issues’ listed above. Eight! This is one of the reasons I suffered such adverse side-effects - I ignored cardinal rule number one; if you have to consume them, don't mix your issues. Similarly, I didn't intersperse each unit of highly potent soap with the TV equivalent of a glass of water - anything with Ant n Dec in it, Friends, Sex and the City - leaving me with no-one to blame but myself for the gibbering wreck I became.

    So don't do it kids – just say no. Its too late for me, much like the inhabitants of Hollyoaks village, I'm a full blown addict, but you, you can save yourselves....

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI

  5. Enjoying the credit crunch

    09.Jul.08, 05:00 EDT
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    I am not a 'crunch' denier. I am not the David Irving of the economics world. I am fully aware that a recession is well and truly under way and now know (courtesy of a work sponsored 'coping with the crunch' course) that it will probably be another eight months until things are back to normal.

    But in the mean time, for people like me that don't earn much, don't rely on borrowing much, and don't own any property – it's great news. Companies everywhere are offering better and better deals in an attempt to up waning custom, meaning that normally overpriced stuff is actually now affordable. Hurrah!

    The major supermarkets are all clambering to offer their customers more reasons to shop where they do or to remind them that every little helps. Morrisons has recently launched it's very own 'Price Crunch' promotion where each week eight reasonably desirable products (i.e. not just scurvy-inducing items, but proper food stuffs) are all sold for a mere 50p a pop. Meanwhile Sainsbury's and the chorizo-loving Jamie Oliver continue their crusade to educate the scoffing masses with their 'feed a family for a fiver' drive.

    The summer sales currently all over the High Street seem to be better than they have been in years, with clothes you would actually wear bearing genuine discounts. And restaurants? Well, this is the best news of the lot. Restaurants throughout the land are now serving food at a price-point somewhere near to what it should have been in the first place. Some of the most notable being Yo Sushi's current 50 per cent off all food and Loch Fyne's incredible £11.00 offer which includes starter, main, side dish and a glass of wine – good times. Details on how to claim later...

    There are also couple of less obvious (but almost as lovely as the cheapo restaurant result) side effects of The Crunch. Firstly, TV channels have been under pressure to cut down the number of 'buying houses and doing them up is good and is an easy way to get rich' programmes. Sadly, it has taken a recession for someone to notice that this is not a particularly responsible idea to plug, but the result is still the same – less insipid house programmes on the box.

    Secondly, whether it's necessary or not, people have come over all thrifty. I am thrifty. I had it drummed into me by my Mother as did she and her Mother before her. And I am sure that any child of mine will equally be taught the importance of re-using wrapping paper (and string), keeping hold of stamps that haven't been properly franked and never, ever, under any circumstances, buying treats from a cinema foyer.

    All these things were previously seen as being either a bit batty, a bit tight or just a bit Yorkshire. But now, like some ugly white jeans in Scope, I have suddenly made the leap from slightly wrong to thrifty chic.

    The Credit Crunch makes me feel normal – it's no longer embarrassing to say 'sorry, I can't afford it' to social invitations, as even the rich people are now saying this. In fact, it's the rich people who are saying it all the more as for the property-less paupers, going out has never been so cheap.

    Long Live the Credit Crunch!

    The 50 per cent off YoSushi Offer is available on Mondays and Tuesdays only until 19 August. Visit http://www.yosushi.com/summer_passport_offer.php  to sign up

    The Loch Fyne £11.00 deal is available every day until 7pm, and ends September 30. To claim, print this voucher http://www.lochfyne.com/getdoc/06418d1a-e20b-4d67-a94f-9668669709cd/summerpromo08a5.aspx

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI

  6. Considering the Jay-Z backlash

    30.Jun.08, 05:00 EDT
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    So this weekend saw plaster-loving rap icon Jay-Z headline the main stage at Glastonbury amid something of a furore.

    When this was initially announced in April, many were quietly dubious and some (particularly Mancunian gobshite Noel Gallagher)were so incensed they could no longer hold their guitar-loving tongues.

    “Hip hop is wrong for Glastonbury,” the aged indie icon claimed, “I'm sorry, but Jay-Z?No chance.”

    Instead of these comments, and others like them, sparking some vaguely interesting debate on the nature of popular and alternative cultures, and just exactly where Glastonbury fits in these days, there was the slightly predictable and very boring response of “Gallagher's a racist, then”. A badge which seems to have been pinned on anyone white who doesn't think Jay-Z is the best choice to headline Europe's biggest festival. Jay-Z even made this accusation himself, referring to his 'haters' as 'musical racists'.

    I don't think it's anything to do with race, little to do with hip hop per se, but quite a lot to do with Jay-Z himself.

    When the festival first began in 1970, entrance was £1.00, including free milk from everyone's favourite upside-down headed hippy-farmer, Michael Eavis. Headlining what was then called The Glastonbury Fayre, was Marc Bolan and T-Rex, who famously arrived in a velvet-clad car and of course, stayed the entire weekend, as opposed to flying in on a helicopter, doing their set, and getting the hell out again before the mud even had time to dry.

    I think that's one of the reasons Noel et al got so upset about Mr Z heading up the Pyramid stage this year: From the first festival, Glastonbury was all about like-minded people having a place to enjoy 'their music'. The acts that on the bill were the kind of people that would have gone there anyway, and I seriously doubt that could be said about Jay-Z.

    Glastonbury is timed to fit in with the summer solstice. The location of the Pyramid stage is as it is so that it can be as close as possible to a ley line: It's a hippy-fest.

    It's about treating people how you'd like to be treated, being considerate and loving thy neighbour – partly because in a field of 150,000 people temporarily living in tents and crapping in communal toilets, an 'every man for himself' philosophy would not make for a pleasant four days. It's about creativity, community spirit and, is a perfect microcosm example of how looking out for each other (not just number one) genuinely makes life nicer, and everyone feel better.

    From what I know of Jay-Z, he doesn't seem to subscribe to any form of socialism, not even Coldplay-esque Guardian reading, tofu-munching champagne socialism. He likes to buy expensive stuff, wear that expensive stuff to gain status, and then rap about how much better his life is now he has the stuff, and inform you how your miserable life could be better if you too acquire more stuff. Not very Glastonbury is it?

    Noel claims that hip hop shouldn't be at Glastonbury at all, that it has no place and the line-up should be solely guitar-based. Perhaps, just perhaps he might be slightly biased on this front....

    I don't think Glastonbury should be devoid of hip hop at all, and, it would seem, neither do the organisers or festival-goers: Happier, hippier rap outfits like De La Soul (who headlined in 1990) have been playing there for years.

    The fundamental problem is not the booking of commercial acts – that's happened for ages. It has nothing to do with racism, or a vendetta against any form of music that isn't guitar-led. And it's something that's much larger than Jay-Z himself, he was just unfortunate enough to get caught up in it all. The problem is that Glastonbury is having an identity crisis.

    Is it supposed to be a solstice celebration with undeniable hippy overtones? Is it supposed to be a celebration of alternative cultures and arts with undeniable socialist overtones? Or is it now an occasion where the highest grossing acts of the past year turn up and play so that people with a spare £150.00 can make Glastonbury the highest-grossing festival in Europe?

    Jay-Z was really, really good on Saturday night, but should he have been there? I really don't know.

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI.

  7. Wondering why on earth I live in London

    23.Jun.08, 00:00 EDT
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    As a northerner in London-based exile for over five years now, I have often tried to pin-point what the differences between the North and South actually are. And, work out once and for all, who is the bestest.

    The North would blatantly win in a fight, but would probably lose on Masterchef. The South would probably do better in the style and culture stakes, but lose miserably when it came to knowledge of bizarre Olde-Worlde sayings. And that's important, is that.

    The months of May and June are packed with the birthdays of my nearest and dearest (and my own), which means various trips around England (and Scotland), and the annual chance to make them all come down here for mine.Which they do, and after a few years of practice, no-one even moans about the price of a round any more. Amazing. I have them well-trained.

    All of them seem to have a great time in London (largely something to do with me being such a good host, I reckon...) but tend to view it as some kind of upmarket Butlins – somewhere to play, spend a weekend, a week tops, but no longer – and certainly not to live.

    And who could blame them?

    I genuinely do not know of anyone living up north who does not own their own home. Or car. And they all have a garden. And generally live how normal people live. And what do I get in London? None of the above.

    Oh – but it's worth it, isn't it?

    I do have The Tate Modern and the theatre; gigs, exhibitions and plays coming out of my ears. And that's what we do with all our spare time, isn't it? Well, when people are actually honest about it – no, it's not. As we all work an average of eight hours more per week than the rest of the country, and spend God knows how many hours more a week travelling to and from work, we're knackered. The reality is that the majority of a Londoner's free time seems to be split between sleeping in an over-priced flat and drinking in an over-priced pub.

    Northerners, on the other hand, have hobbies. Real ones, not just the generic answer of 'The Arts' that you get so often in London, which in reality means going to the cinema on ‘2for1’ day, and to the theatre a couple of times a year when tickets are at an affordable price on lastminute.com.

    But the northern folk, they do stuff. And I think it's this, not the endless tea-versus-dinner debate*, that really is the difference. Some of the boys play golf, some of the boys play cricket, and virtually all the boys play football. People go fishing, horse-riding, learn to drive trucks or captain a crown-green bowling team. They walk dogs, follow gymnastics, take part in amateur dramatics or have dance lessons. And that's just my lot...

    But knowing all this, and a million other reasons why London is ultimately really quite a crap place to live, I've done it (and loved most of it) for the past five years, and will probably still be here (and still moaning) in another five. Long live London.

    I would absolutely love to learn to drive a truck, though...


    *The answer is definitely tea

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI

  8. Proper record shopping

    16.Jun.08, 05:00 EDT
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    Vinyl sniffing, crate digging, call it what you will, it may be a wee bit geeky, but I had my first taste at 16, and thanks to the recent opening of a fantastic store in Farringdon, I've fallen in love with proper record shopping all over again.

    As a teen most of my Saturday afternoons were spent this way, trawling Sheffield's many record shops with a leather-clad boy who played bass in the most ‘90s indie band you could imagine.

    He used to work every Tuesday afternoon in one of Sheffield's coolest (!) second-hand record stores, in exchange for a fiver and a record of his choice. The shop - in keeping with the fact that independent record shops are a magnet for the truly bonkers - was run by a man who thought he was a pirate. No, really....

    Later, during my time at University in Leeds, the record shopping dwindled a bit. This was partly because I only ever found one record shop I really loved (sadly devoid of pirates, cowboys, or any other madness, really…) and largely because I just couldn't afford it.

    After graduating and moving to London, my first job was slap bang in the middle of Camden town, where you couldn't move for crates of Bowie albums in near-mint condition and seven inches by the next lot of Camden-dwelling Strokes-loving converse-wearing boys with guitars. It was ace, and I caught the record-shopping bug yet again.

    But, like many others,I soon fell into 'the Amazon/eBay trap': Life speeds up, there doesn't seem to be the time for proper record shopping, and let's face it; getting musical 'presents' through the post really is quite exciting. By the time they arrive you've forgotten about the paying for them bit, and it seems like free music. Add to this the fact that you can buy them via your office PC at lunchtime (or even during work hours if you're proper naughty…) and it's easy to see why 30 per cent of people now buy all their music online.

    For a while, though, it was only the more popular releases that could be found online, making a trip to a real-life store still a necessity for a lot of people. But as internet shopping continues to grow, virtually every record shop worth its salt now has an online store, meaning you really can get everything via the internet – not just mainstream stuff.

    This inevitable switch to online shopping means even iconic London stores like Reckless Records and Mister CD have had to shut-up shop. But, as with many modern 'improvements', after some time the novelty starts to wear off and people remember why they liked the original in the first place. Granted, there are some people for whom record shopping is purely about buying a (new) release and taking it home as quickly as possible, but for those who like to browse, sniff, and enjoy record shops in themselves – there is good news.

    Last year saw Rough Trade move into its immense new premises off Brick Lane, complete with meeting area, café, performance area, and rack upon rack of quality music.

    And now Puregroove, an independent, poky little place in Archway beloved by bonkers Gallic songsmith Sebastien Tellier (and me), is following suit and could quite easily become one of the hippest joints in London town.

    A few weeks ago I tried to call them to check they had something in stock, but there was no answer. A few days later I tried again and the line was dead. I was starting to panic, thinking it had gone the way of so many others before it, but no – although the north London venue that I knew and loved had indeed closed down, this was only because a shiny, new and improved version had opened in Smithfield.

    Capitalising on all that an internet store can never be, Puregroove is hosting more, free in-store gigs than ever, is now putting on club nights around East London, hosting its own pub quiz and is genuinely creating a focus point for a musical community. As well as a bloody good shop to browse and buy music in, of course.

    For those purists who loved the old N19 location and fear this move to trendy-wendy Farringdon is going to produce a watered-down, more commercial or pretentious version of Puregroove, it really hasn't. Honest. And for those who never made it as far up the northern line as Archway, this really is the place to make you ditch the online stuff and start vinyl sniffing all over again.

    To get an idea of what Puregroove is all about, and to check out its superb list of upcoming in-store gigs, see http://www.puregroove.co.uk/  

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI

  9. Breakfast Dating

    06.Jun.08, 10:00 EDT
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    There are few upsides to having a boyfriend who works what can only be described as ridiculous hours, but after two years, I have finally found one.

    Thanks to an increasingly anti-social A&E rota, I have, of late, become aware of the glorious world of breakfast dating. And it is proper ace. There are many reasons for its greatness, and although novelty value is one, it is by no means the be all and end all.

    Firstly, you are able to look like the 'mirror version' of you – you know what I mean; you have a self-image in your head based on how you look when staring in the mirror with newly applied make-up and perfectly coiffed hair. You then see photos of yourself looking slightly more dishevelled on a night-out plastered all over Facebook and think 'what an awful picture – I don't look like that!'. Well…you do. But, fear not - breakfast dating is here and it is the nearest you will ever get to presenting the mirror version of you to your date. Shower-fresh and with crumple-free clothes.

    Secondly, if you are blind-dating, or hooking up with someone you're none-to-sure about, breakfast dating can yet again come to the rescue: It is, even on the weekend, quite hard to spin out a breakfast into anything longer than an hour, making a swift exit nice 'n' easy. Add to that the fact that virtually everyone has some kind of job to go to in the morning and you don't even have to make crap excuses or get your mate to make the emergency call. Result.

    Reason number three – it's cheap. This is partly to do with the food on offer, often to do with the kind of venues open so early, and largely because in general, there is no booze, shaving pounds off the bill. Now, although this could be classed as a massive plus (you don't end up going home with a troll because you snaffled a litre of gin) it can also, quite justifiably and perhaps more realistically, be breakfast dating's one and only con. That and the meat-sweats, of course.

    So perhaps the lack of lubrication means the chat won't flow so well with a new date, but if this is the case, as I said earlier, it's bloody easy to leave sharpish whilst keeping ego damage to a minimum at the same time.

    Reason four - it's exciting. If you are anything like me, getting out of bed is not something to relish. Getting out of bed for the promise of ham, cheese, and eggs in various combinations is better. Getting out of bed for the promise of ham, cheese, eggs, and a bit of breakfast banter with your beloved almost makes it okay.
    And lastly, although not par for the course, there are a few select breakfasterias in London that will you serve you a Bloody Mary (or four…) at 7am. Sensible? Absolutely not. Fun? Hell yes

    For more inspiration on breakfast destinations, visit The London Review of Breakfasts at: http://londonreviewofbreakfasts.blogspot.com

    My personal recommendations are:

    The Bleeding Heart Tavern
    Bleeding Heart Yard (off Greville Street)
    EC1N 8SJ
    Breakfast served 7.30-10.30am, Monday to Friday
    http://www.bleedingheart.co.uk/tavern

    The Breakfast Club, Islington
    Camden Passage
    N1 8EA
    Breakfast served all day
    Tel: 020 7226 5454

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI

  10. Despairing of human nature

    28.May.08, 10:00 EDT
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    Last Wednesday evening, if you are a boy or like being with boys, if you were anywhere near a pub, if you are an avid football fan, or even if you're not actually that arsed, you will probably have watched The Champions League final between Chelsea and Manchester United on ITV. And very exciting it was too. Not the outcome I personally would have wanted, but watching Ronaldo make a complete hash of his penalty almost made it all okay.

    Now normally, when one terrestrial channel has a ratings coup of such strength, the other channels do one of two things: Show something good, that demographic research shows will attract the opposite 'type' of viewer – in this case, perhaps Sex and the City or something about kittens, or alternatively they can cut their losses and just air something a bit crap.

    In actuality, at the same time as ITV beamed England's finest footballers to millions of TV sets around the UK, Channel 4 chose to broadcast a 'documentary' about Josef Fritzl called Secrets of The Austrian Cellar. I was hoping that this particular programme and the thought process behind its scheduling meant that it was, and would be, recognised by TV bosses and viewers alike as something no one really wanted to watch. It would seem, however, that I was quite wrong.

    The next day at work I overheard a conversation that started as a 'what a good match, eh?' type of exchange, but one of the two men involved soon admitted that he had in fact missed many vital points in the game as he had been ‘flicking between the match and that thing on Channel 4 about the cellar bloke. It's mad isn't it? Fucking weirdo, but it was a well good programme”.

    Which leads one to the ultimately rather sad conclusion that people aren’t watching this programme as a serious piece of journalism - wanting to understand, or perhaps get some kind of closure on the horrific incident - but rather that it is interchangeable with football: it is for entertainment and titillation purposes only.

    Don't get me wrong, I do not think TV should solely be the domain of entertainment, nor do I in any way, shape, or form think the most challenging thing on our screens should be the number bit on Countdown.

    Television has huge educational powers; it can, and has brought life-changing news, images, and information to people for decades, but something about the way this programme was both billed by TV execs and received by its audience does not sit right with me.

    If you log onto www.channel4.com now and search for the programme, there is a link, I shit you not, entitled 'All the best bits from The Secrets of the Austrian Cellar, which, perhaps not surprisingly, includes the 'highlight': a tour of the bunker.

    Since when was human suffering a spectator sport? And one large enough to rival top-notch football? Perhaps since Channel 4 started making films under the banner of documentary that are, essentially, little more than voyeuristic suffering-porn, you may answer.

    But by no means is it just them.

    After leaving the office on Thursday, I wandered up to the Oxford Street branch of Waterstones to have a look for a birthday present for my brother. I found what I was after pretty quickly, but had a good old browse around while I was in there and came across a whole section that I have genuinely never seen (or at least never noticed) before - the section headed Painful Lives.

    Located in its own bookcase next-door to 'Biographies', it is home to books I have often seen people reading on the tube – you know the ones - sparse pastel covers with titles like Don't Ever Tell and A Child Called It. Apparent autobiographies by abused children, rape victims, battered wives, and a whole host of others that are bought and taken to the beach as that year's holiday-read, or read on public transport to pass the time during the daily commute.

    In keeping with the Football Vs Fritzl analogy, this new-to-me genre occupied as much space on the shop floor as the entire football section. Football was, and often still is, heralded as our national pass-time, or even obsession, but it would seem that hot on its heels is ‘other people's pain’.

    By Gemma Hughes/MOLI