SPOTIFY-ED BUT NOT ON GOOGLE EARTH!

Otherwise unavailable in Spain except by invitation, Spotify has been offered to me personally by the Head of Spotify Spain (many thanks, Señor HOSS, if you’re reading) and I've thus regained a bit of paradise lost (not so sure about sanity). So in love with it, in fact, it’s shunted the Beloved Blackberry and Magnificent Manolos into reserve spots on my Desert Island Discs essential luxuries list waiting for that elusive call from Kirsty ...

Result: can now work and listen to those two great musical icons Berlioz and Bob sans interruption ('cos no commercial interruptions).

Berlioz and Dylan in the same breath?, I hear some shout. A musical heresy, I hear others scream. Berlioz, 19th century master showman that he was, would have been hugely flattered; not so sure about Bob…

Interesting that so many 19th century composers’ surnames begin with "B": from Beethoven, Bellini, Berlioz, Borodin, Brahms and Bruckner to Bliszt, Baganini, Bendelssohn etc etc. Surely the sine qua non for appearing on that well-known 19th century show, Europe’s Got Talent, hosted by Amandeus Humperdinckholden, Johann Simbastian Corellicowell and Piergolesi Mendelssohnmorgan (above)?

P.S. Hopefully will be back in the blogosphere (who wouldn’t?!) just as soon as get out of the way big current assignments which have been holding things up a lot. Something of an occupational hazard…

HAVE YOU BEEN CAUGHT ON GOOGLE EARTH STREET VIEW TOO?

… Or merely Spotify-ed like me?

From the comfort of my chair, was idly google-earth-street-viewing old haunts in the UK, making lacklustre comments to P along the lines of: Oh, they’ve finally finished that bit of motorway here and that eyesore there. That sort of thing.

Then I swing over to our former home of twenty years which we sold to a couple with two small boys. Oh, look, I continue, they’ve taken down my beautiful shutters (so difficult to fit), painted the front door black (was pristine white) and installed window boxes (definitely out of proportion).

Zooming in, I can detect the gleam of a silver vase in the living room window. Scroll up, and I can see one bedroom window wide open and the other half closed (and that the marigolds badly need watering).

Zooming in further, you can easily make out each side of the rear garden - the house is set in a largish plot. Take a look, P, I call out again. They’ve pulled down the old conservatory and put in what looks like one of those flash Amegda jobbies. And some god-ugly goalposts for the kids…

By now, I’m almost pulling my hair out. P can’t understand the fuss. What does it matter what they’ve done? he replies with a withering look. We don’t live there any more, for pity’s sake!

But you don’t understand, I cry. They’ve ditched all my beautiful new curtains too…!

Finally tearing myself away from No. 22, I turn my attention to No. 24 to check if that’s also turned into an Iraqi reconstruction project. New windows, new coat of paint, new driveway I note absentmindedly. About to turn away - already getting a bit bored by this Google-thingie - when something in No. 24’s rear garden catches my eye.

I zoom in closer. What’s that palid, lumpy mass beside one of the high walls dividing the properties? I zoom in even closer. And all is revealed.

Taking advantage of the unexpectedly bright, sunny day of filming and unknowingly caught in its unforgiving glare are our neighbours, Joanna and Jeremy. Lying protected by high walls from neighbours’ prying eyes but not the camera’s - stark naked!

Well, J & J, it could have been worse. Pity that poor bloke caught on camera being arrested, another coming out of a sex shop, the yobbo vomiting while his mate’s relieving himself on a hedge and the couple caught …well, you know.

Street View maps reveal all sorts of scenes of ordinary daily life depicting all sorts of people caught in all sorts of places they are not meant to be – images available to anyone, remember.

There but for the grace of God, I later say to P who has totally forgotten the earlier conversation. I get another pitying, withering look.

In high dudgeon, I turn for relief to my latest source of soul balm and brain porn. For, in a word, I’ve been spotify-ed! More in next post.

FOOTNOTE: Don’t worry, J & J, you know your secret’s safe with me. Now, where the hell did I put Max Clifford’s phone number?