Russia's Greatest Love Machine

Busy, busy times have been afoot, the highlights of which include -

• Winning champagne... okay, I lie - sparkly Jacob's Creek- at a murder mystery evening (it was advertised as champagne though), then like some sort of wine Midas, I managed to accumulate more booze during a successful foray to a pub quiz. Alas the pub wine was an utterly undrinkable Liebfraumilch, labouring under the name of 'Blue Max', which I think is also the title of a WWII centred film starring George Peppard.

• VIP seats to Muse in the NIA (private bar, private barman, Muse... I accidentally stumbled onto a little bit of heaven there and I still haven't stopped smiling).

• Trips all over the place; London, Birmingham, Leeds, York - no wonder I now have swine flu and I'm totally shot.

I've also been catching up with:

• The new Cerys Matthews album 'Don't Look Down', which is really rather good.

• Likewise Julian Casablancas' solo effort.

• I've been absolutely appalled by Bob Dylan's 'Christmas in the Heart', which is just so terrible that words cannot begin to describe it. Imagine a creaky door; imagine that creaky door trying to lecture you on the spirit of Christmas - it's wearing some sort of holly wreath say, but all the while it's chuckling to itself about how much money it earns with every squeak and grooooooaaan. Not my strongest metaphor there, I know, but imagine all that, add on top the smell of rotting fish, and maybe, just maybe you are half way to understanding just how terrible a monstrosity it is that Bob Dylan has produced.

• Telstar, starring Con O'Neill, who is acting his socks off, with a sprinkling of Kevin Spacey, and James Corden (don't let that put you off). It's adapted and directed by Nick Moran of all people, who provides a tender look at the flaws and foibles of Joe Meek, presenting him not as another demented producer, but lauding his talents as a groundbreaking individual albeit one who is beset by demons, fame, and his sexuality.

On top of all that I've been indulging my Rusophillic side, culminating in the reading of what I suspect will be the first of many Ra-Ra-Rasputin biographies. Rasputin, The Final Word is by one Edvard Radzinsky, a historian who sounds like a character from an Ann Rice novel. It's an interesting and detailed history portraying the Mad Monk as a relapsed drunken peasant, easily cowed, eager to please, whirling around in a charitable haze, whilst flagellating himself nightly, smiling at the sky, and of course benignly caring for 'Mama' and 'Papa' Rus and their children.

So what if he occasionally had a bath with the odd lady?

Radzinsky's style leads to some quite superstitious conclusions and doesn't quite gel with the balanced view he purports to give, but for all its faults there is drama a-plenty. There are controversial, and never before aired, pro-Rasputin statements drawn from the findings of the wonderfully titled Extraordinary Commission of Inquiry for the Investigation of Illegal Acts by Ministers and Other Responsible Persons of the Tsarist Regime, and the unveiling of a cunning femme fetal and éminence grise in the form of the the Tsariana's former maid.

So, how does it compare to the Bony-M tune? Was Ra-Ra-Rasputin the lover of the Russian Queen? It's all Edvard can do to shake his head, look stern and sigh about ridiculous questions. I quite like the song though... it's a bit of a guilty pleasure. I hang my head in shame.

Happy Halloween

The puppy ate my witch hat, and I got a crick in my neck carving my pumpkin. Super-duper.

Be impressed. It took hours. Hours.

On the plus side there was also a wee trip up North. This meant that I spent about as much time on the woeful rolling hell of a Megabus as I did in the company of friends old and new, but I'm not complaining. I could. I could go on for hours about second hand music, gruff bus drivers (I know it's a low cost mode of transport but manners don't cost anything), traffic, the new shape my spine has been forced to take... but I won't. I'm trying to be a better person.

The delays, the rain in Newcastle (bitter, bone-chilling and relentless), a closed transporter bridge and a mixed performance from Eddie Izzard, was nicely juxtaposed with sightseeing around North Yorkshire (Rievaulx, Helmsley and Bywater), a rather fun Hallowe'en party in Durham, and most important of all, the onslaught of mixed emotions that only a chicken parmo can provoke.

Yes, that's right a chicken parmo. This strange addition to late-night culinary lexicon can only be found in Teeside. According to BBC Tees a parmo is...

A chicken or pork fillet that is beaten until it is flat and roughly the size of half a pizza box, covered in breadcrumbs, then fried. Then béchamel sauce and a layer of cheese (strangely not parmesan) is added and it’s grilled.It's usually served with chips and salad (that’s the healthy part) and some people swear that a layer of garlic sauce (another Teesside delicacy) needs to be poured on top.

Yes, a beaten, folded, cheese covered, water-filled piece of poor quality meat, served with limp salad in a little plastic baggie. I bet you're salivating.

It's pretty strange that something I've never eaten (and never would) is a little time capsule; their very existence became a reassuring presence during my time squatting in my boyfriend's dorm St 'Ockton (home of the friction match). It's the fast food equivalent of a Munchin in Oz; you may not be in Kansas, but it's strangely comforting to have them about. Unlike that boyfriend, I can uncharitably add.

I'd bottle that kind of wistfulness and sell it if I could.

As for the main event of the weekend, well, no, the main event was going back up North and seeing friends who have long been neglected (some of whom read this, and yes you're all more important than a chickeny comestible, honest). Ostensibly we were all going to watch Eddie Izzard. During our early days in Durham- we'd bonded over a mutual appreciation of poking badgers with spoons.

Alas the glory days have come and gone for all of us, but especially Eddie's stand-up. 'Stripped' was notable for glimmers of form, however the overall performance was a little flabby, weighed down perhaps by a focus on atheism that is neither radical, original or witty enough. Whilst there were inovative uses of twitter, lots of reference to wikipedia and a bizzare advert for Apple, the whole perfomance seemed diminished and lacking in zest - heavily reliant on affection for old material.

It didn't live up the legacy of Glorious or Definite Article, nor could Eddie match the works of some the fresher names on the circuit, many of whom have taken his best qualities and run with them. I'd like to single out Tim Minchin, who not only put on a sparkling performance in Brizzle the other week, but has also ruined my life with the bloody catchy 'Canvas Bags'; a song that just won't leave my poor mind alone. Given the option of spending £17.50 to see Tim, or £30 plus for Eddie... well, the choice is clear. And you've change for a parmo.

Listen and be damned.