Wednesday, 13 February 2002

Saturday::: ...but never mind about all that. No, honestly, I started writing you the best thing, just before I put my makeup on to go to the Princess Superstar gig. It was one of those I'll - just - write - about - whateva kinda things. I started explaining about how I was going to get the pills out of the drawer and hide them in the lining of my purse, just in case we got hungry later and wanted to eat them. About how I never did pills very often now because my darling sister got the panic attacks and gave up, and she used to get me the best ones out of anyone: they were yummy, her pills; they were precious things, pure, like doves, posh, like Mitsubishis, powerful, like bulls.

Then I started writing unamusing jokes about how sister's panic attacks probably weren't because of the pills but something to do with said sister seeing pictures of herself all dressed up in her mid-nineties clubbing gear, all flesh-toned tights and pastel pink hotpants and long thin neck. Look, it wuz funny at the time, believe; at least, it amused me, and what is this diary but an extended extra-lovin' wank? At the time, I didn't sound like such a mean ole big sista, and more like jes' a snarling scabrous kinda sassy laydee, honest.

But as well as inter-sibling bitchery you missed a rare display of optimism and hope for the future. You've missed the textual demonstration of my firm belief that my upcoming night out, precious, pristine, Saturdayish as it was, would be as shimmering and pliable and joyous as the boys I nightly mount in my fevered dreams.

I was wrong.

Off we skipped to the Astoria, in the rain. Oh nu metal teens are haunting me these days; suffice to say, the gig was full of them. I'd assumed that Princess Superstar, amazingly not headlining over fat white-trash rapper Bubba Sparxxx, would at least be second on the bill. We got there at 8.30, having missed Princess Superstar, though we did not know this yet, just in time for Dilated Peoples or some such bollocks, fat men dressed in puffa jackets bending over and waving their arms around and huffing. Christ. I mean even people in television don't wear puffa jackets any more, but clearly someone forget to forward the fashion memo to the lardy rap contingent.

Of course boyfriend was nervy because he spent every childhood day getting beaten up for being the only white kid at his school, and this gig, being hip-hop rather than schmindie or electronic in nature, clearly evoked some kind of Pavlovian fear response in him, and this really didn't seem like the kind of place to discuss the inherent racism of such a reaction.

It wasn't really the place to discuss anything: certainly not anything I wanted to discuss, like why the fuck all the boys of whatever heritage kept their coats on despite the hideous heat, despite the fact that sweat gleamed on their brows and their sleeves were pushed as far up their sausagey forearms as possible.

Or why everyone was so damn fat, ugly whitebwoys emulating dear Durst, their hero, whose well-documented face could curdle diesel at forty paces: chunky girls displaying healthy hips in lo-slung denim, but lacking the swagger of their boy compatriots, presumably for want of similar rolemodels in their chosen genre.

We left early and angry, me yelling over my departing shoulder to anyone who would listen to tell Bubba Sparxxx that he can kiss my sweet cheeks; keen to seek out NME Carling Awards gig programmer and punch him in the cock to punish him for having the ridiculous headline over the sublime.


Sunday::: Well, we're in danger of approaching a little bit of venom here in the peaceful and perfumed world of The AMP Diary, so it's probably best to move on to other things. Besides which, when I wrote all that it was late Saturday night, with all the darkness and inky introspection that that implies, but it's Sunday morning now, which means... TEEN TORTURE! Revenge is mine!

Firstly we have the appalling 'As If', which I watch because I owe it to an earlier teenage version of AMP, who would have died with happiness to see a pretty alterna-chickie (Sooz) such as she aspired to be on primetime TV. 'As If' is just the warm-up though, becuz straight afterwards it's my offical new favourite programme in the world apart from Footballers Wives... EDEN!

Eden is teen torture galore. (Admittedly I am using the term 'teen' to refer to anybody older than a child and younger than me.) Forgetting any Big Brotherish PC aspirations to have at least one token late-twenty or thirty-something in the show, this show traps kids of between 19 and 24 on a piece of land somewhere in the Australian jungle or outback or whatever.

You play Eden like this: there are five boys and five girls stuck out in The Jungle with only a tv crew for company, and the teens have to demean themselves in front of the cameras in order to get sent food an' stuff! To earn ingredients for a full English breakfast, the girls agreed to eat said breakfast in their underwear: for a new set of strings, a boy agreed to play guitar butt-nekkid.

As I write the girls are licking chocolate off each others' stomachs, which irritates me only because I have aversions to a) food sex and b) fake lesbian action (aka F.L.A) on the grounds of the predictability and lamestain appeal of both: but I'm aware that I'm quite quite alone in the world in this respect, and I'm sure the ratings this week have hit an all-time high.

Rest assured tho', menz fans, that the boys featured on this show really are quite sweet too: increasingly these days, femz are getting catered for in the eye-candy department, and thank fuck - took 'em long enough. Finally TV producers are getting more of an eye for the pretty skinny teenboy over the lantern-jawed older male-model-a-like. (I am aware that the existence of dumb-as-a-bag-of-milk-chews ex-model Vernon as T4 presenter rather negates everything I've just said about changing stereotypes, but, phooey, I'm going to ignore that, because this is my diary, and I can.)

Anyway, it has been raining on the teens monsoon-stylee, and they are all cut off from the world, and are going a bit mad, and darling curvy Lily who is my absolute favourite one has gone quite bonkers and has taken off all her clothes and is running screaming through the jungle dressed in only her wellies, giggling and screeching. It's entirely possible that in real life this is super-annoying, but onscreen, her pixillated bitz jiggling in all directions at once, it's a winner!

This being the moderne world, the show is of course interactive: visit to vote for some more teen torture! I'm going to vote for Lily to leave all that boring jungle shit behind and get flown back here to drink cocktails and stalk skateboys with me, so please help me with this. I need a new girl friend to alleviate the boredom of having a Proper Job, the thrill of which lasted approximately three weeks and is now WAY OVER.

Actually I think this diary should be interactive too: Gentle reader: failing Lily's immediate arrival, are *you* up to the task of being the nu AMP compatriate? Please send polariods and begging letters to PO Box 30639, London, E1 6HR, where your application will be posted online for all the other readers to gawp at and vote for. You will win freebie recordz and endless guest-list places to the hottest indie gigz in town (providing the Official AMP Honey declines the plus one, natch), the chance to be just as bored by Amp's chatter in real life as you are online; and the inside gen on the capital's hottest charity shopz, thrift stores and illegal drinking denz. How could any extremely nasty girl with an unhealthy attachment to black eyeliner refuse! Imma get me a nu P.O Box just to cope with the flood of applications, boyee!

NUZFLASH Er, anywayz, so here's the thing. I've been doing 1200 words-worth of wittering about teenagers and television just to avoid discussing this, just to hide it down the bottom here, but here is the actual nitty-gritty of my existence over the last few days, not that it's any of your business, etc etc etc.

This week I have mostly been having lunches with menz. I wanted to write 'important' menz, but IÕm scared they may find their way here and become disgustingly flattered, and IÕm not in the business of flattering menz, as you may have noticed. So should you be either of the menz, look away now, or your honour is besmirched, and you are a bad man, and your soul is stained.

Right, now we've got rid of them. Basically the menz (Menz A: started Loaded magazine, edited Arena or GQ or some other tit-fest ladmag; Menz B: meeyosic journo of legend, claimed to have introduced Kurt 'n' Courtney, etc) have been saying nice things about my writing. I realise that anyone who's just waded through the entire 12 hundred words of drivel above will find this hard to believe, but yes, 'tis true, the menz like me. And the menz have the power to give me work on an actual print-based magazine in exchange for genuine cash-flavoured money. And while the image of the lonely writer struggling with headset jockeying or website admin desperately gagging to get out and doing reams of free writing to do so is amusing and romantic, for the actual writer-girl involved, it is bollocks, big pendulous unshaven perspiring itchy swaying ones, and I for one am keen to see a change. Keep your fingers crossed for me, bitchez: I may soon be even more in yo' faces than ever!


And now back to the programme. What we got is: no corpses. Minimum blood, though I'd be interested to see what forfeits the girls would have to perform to get some tampons flown over. Two breasts, pixellated. No vehicle chases. Clothes made from bin-liners. Tears from uber-annoying resident bitch-not-in-a-good-way Beckie. No gratuitous group hugging. Demeaning forfeits: two. No heads roll. Copious F.L.A. Lily and Chris get nekkid. Cute boy John promises to do 'anything' to get his girlfriend flown out, so torture him next, please. Four stars. Miss Amp sez: CHECK IT OUT!*

Eden: C4, Tuesdays, Thursdays and Fridays at 6pm; omnibus edition 1.10pm, Sunday.

Incidentally, who do I have to blow around here to get to be copywriter on the Eden website? Call me!

*N.B. I nicked this summation-type thing from Joe Bob Briggs. Other writers I admire and frequently attempt to emulate include Lisa Carver, Cookie Mueller, Michael Bywater, Hunter S. Thompson, P.J O'Rourke, Lee Tulloch, Jay MacInerney, Tama Janovitz, Bruce LaBruce, Diane Brill and the entire staff of The Onion. Go on, try and see the joins! I dare you!

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