Singapore Garden: 7/10

Recession? What recession. When I walked into Singapore Garden the other day, I was astounded. At 9pm, on a Wednesday night, in the midst - or at the start - of the country's first recession in 17 years, the place was mobbed. We had to wait for a table. We ordered tofu+ peanut, sea bass, spring rolls, Brussels sprouts and two virgin mojitos. The bill came to £66. Hardly a cheap night out. "You should see it on weekends," the waiter told us. "You need to book."

So the world - at least in this comfy corner of NW6 - hasn't yet come to an end. But unless you live in a St John's Wood town house and have two Bentleys in the drive, this isn't the place to come for a cheap snack on a week-night.

The Mighty Boosh: 9/10

"I don't like The Mighty Boosh." That's what I'd been telling myself in the weeks leading up to last night's show at The O2. I was wrong.

They glided or, rather, floated on stage as "Future Sailors", Vince Noir (the long-haired one beloved of prebuscant girls) in a steamboat; Howard Moon (the other one) in a dinghy.

Moon complained about being made to look a fool. Vince barracked his foil for wearing a "bovril smudge" (his tache), and for being too desperate in front of unsuspecting ladies. Moon protested. He was being persistent - appearing in the girl's room in the night as the ghost of her deceased father was not in any way freaky. All Moon wanted to do was to take her to see Kenny G. Girls want "Kings of Leon", not Kenny G, said Vince. Cue disarmingly accurate impression of the Kings by Vince, which had the 10,000-plus crown in stitches.

And it just got better with Hitcher - "the green cockney nutjob" - stealing the show with his impromptu walkabout around the arena. The pre-pubescants (see above) groped him as he walked buy - "that's like reverse paedophilia"; he high-fived a few lucky campers, and even gave one girl a kiss, before hauling his creaking body on stage to praise his crow-on-a-stick for not having anally raped the whole crowd with his beak (it was funnier when The Hitcher said it) and singing a song about eels.

There were a couple of disappointments - the double-act's support hitting a bum-note with his peurile "Mad Lizzie" character - "feed those chickens"; "run those nips"; and the second-half wasn't nearly as funny as the first (prompting me to nod off during part of it). But even the bits that went wrong - Bollo the guerrilla knocking over the globe; Mr Harrison (the pink octopus) hanging onto to the leather sofa he was stuffed into with his adam's apple - were hilarious.

And so, it is with much regret, that I must admit to being a convert. I may well be buying a powerful shrub in the New Year.

Burn After Reading: 5/10

I had high hopes for the Coen Brothers latest creation. Sadly, they were dashed during the course of this nonsensical 96-minute caper. There were some humorous moments: I laughed out loud when George Clooney's character showed off his handiwork to Frances McDormand, whom he was illicitly dating. But the rest of Burn After Reading was just slapstick, masquerading as intelligent satire - and not very good slapstick at that (though Brad Pitt's turn as an idiotic, iPod-addicted personal trainer is enjoyable enough while it lasts). The violence is gratuitous and about as funny as Javier Bardem's assassinations in No Country for Old Men. And I emerged from the cinema feeling empty, disappointed and cheated by the sheep-like reviews that have followed this film ever since its debut. If only they'd burned this film before reading, then I wouldn't have lost an evening of my life.

Sigur Ros @ Alexandra Palace: 8/10

With their country melting down faster than an ice-cube in an Icelandic volcano, there was a certain poignance to Sigur Ros's appearance on stage at North London's Alexandra Palace last Thursday night.

They materialised on stage just after 9pm. Bashed out a track, before addressing the crowd in Icelandic. There were chuckles from the languid-looking, Viking-esque girls standing next to me. Perhaps Sigur Ros had just dissed the Brits for holding up their country's IMF loan? Perhaps I'll never know.

But words are kind of not the point when it comes to Iceland's aural diplomats. Their songs - mumbled to a level of incoherence that would leave Radiohead's Thom Yorke blushing - are not even sung in their native tongue. Instead, the genial foursome sing in their own-made up language, so haunting and spine-tingling, that it sounds like an extra instrument.

Unlike Radiohead, though, the Icelandic foursome isn't ashamed of its most popular tracks. They thrashed out Hoppipolla (used to death on the BBC's Planet Earth, and before that on Film4); the new album's opening track, Gobbledigook (where they brought their opening immitators on stage to bang their drums); and ending in a rousing rendition of E-Bow off the (-) almbum, bringing a tear to my eye and a feeling of such momentous joy that the come-down to reality never felt so depressing.

CNN's Hologram Reporting: 7/10

Whoever was going to win yesterday's US election, the country's Ambassador to Britain wasn't going to stick around. Robert Tuttle told me he and his wife plan to spend a few months in Paris, before heading home to his family-run car business.

Which is why it was so jolly sporting of him to throw such a lavish election night (or should that be, farewell?) party at the Embassy in Grosvenor Square.

There were celebs (real ones) aplenty, including Josh Hartnett, Neil Tennant of the Pet Shop Boys, and a phalanx of MPs from all parties. Most of the guests, though, were probably journalists who'd blagged their way in, if the number of my colleagues was anything to go by.

The highlight of the evening - for me, at least - was not the free drinks; the Burger King & Subway in the basement; or the commemorative pen (okay, pens) I acquired as a memento of the evening's festivities.

The best bit was the in-house cinema that televised live coverage of the election results as the drama unfolded.

CNN was the channel of choice. I'm no fan of the cable network, but they certainly get full marks for effort and the stunning graphics they employed on the night.

And they surely deserve a prize for pushing the boundaries of broadcasting technology to the limit with what must be the first ever Hologram Report.



Yes, showing that content doesn't matter when you have space-age gimmicks to play with, they had Wolf Blitzer in the studio interviewing a reporter in Chicago - beamed, 3-D, into the same studio as the Wolfman.

It bore an uncanny resemblance to Princess Lea's first appearance in Star Wars. You know, when she's projected holographically from R2D2's head.

It was pointless and extravagent on so many levels: why have a reporter in Chicago if all you're going to do is show her in your studio as a hologram?; why, when CNN's advertisers are presumably scaling back, would they spend a small fortune on this (oh for the days when two-camera shoots were ruled out because of costs)?; and why, when the reporter is being beamed into the studio, is it necessary to spend half the interview explaining to the audience what the hell is going on?

I have to admit, though, that an awe-inspired hush swept through the room when the Hologram made its debut. It was, indeed, oddly beguilling. I just can't remember what the reporter was talking about.

Alan Greenspan - The Age of Turbulence: 7/10

"Creative Destruction". That's the oxymoronic buzzword at the centre of Alan Greenspan's autobiography-cum-assessment of the global economy past and present. Students of financial history will find it essential reading. For the rest of us mere mortals, it's worth knowing that The Age of Turbulence: Adventures in a New World is a book of two halves.

Part I is Greenspan at his best. He charts his rise from sharing a cramped apartment with his working-class mother in Manhattan's Washington Heights to the most powerful central banker in the world.

Alan Greenspan was chairman of the US's Federal Reserve for 18 years. His gnomic utterances were surgically-dissected by journalists and traders scouring for any hints as to where interest rates might be heading. He coined the term "irrational exhuberance" when the dot-com bubble inflated. And slashed interest rates when it burst, to protect the US economy.

He had the ears of Presidents Ford, Reagen, Bush (Senior), Clinton and Bush Jr. What he said mattered. And it makes for fascinating reading. In part I.

Part II, where he muses on everything from China, to Russia to how America will pay social security for its ageing population, is the opposite. Gossip-laden anecdotes of meetings with Mikael Gorbachev aside, his thoughts on the new world economic order belies his ignorance. His musings on Medicare will be of interest to nobody outside of the Unites States.

And the one question he fails to answer - even in the Epilogue added to the paperback edition - is the role or blame he ought to assume for the current financial mess the world finds itself in.

Many analysts and commentators blame Greenspan for keeping interest rates far too low for far too long. And that the cheap money this created caused an asset-price bubble, and a borrowing binge that the world will take years to recover from.

To be fair to Greenspan, on October 23 of this year, he did admit to Congress that he'd made a mistake in thinking that the markets would be able to regulate themselves and that governemnts could leave banks and hedge funds to their own devices.

But he's yet to accept the blame for the flood of cheap money that caused a bubble to form - perhaps because he still believes that you only know when a bubble's a bubble in hindsight.

Even so, this is a meaty book, rich with anecdote and name-dropping. And although the second half disappointed (I wish I'd skipped straight to the Epilogue), part I alone is worth the cover price.

Quantum of Solace: 6/10

When I go to the cinema and I gorge on a family-sized pack of Maltesers, I come away feeling full yet oddly empty. The same feeling came over me after sitting through Quantum of Solace, the new James Bond film, at a packed North London cinema last night - and not just because I ate too many chocs.

It's not that the action sequences weren't up to scratch (though some were clearly enhances with CGI). Or that the locations weren't glamorous (Mexico/Panama/Chile). Even the Bond girl - Olga Kurylenko - was appropriately gorgeous.

The trouble, right from the opening credits and the unBond-like song, was that this felt just like any other Hollywood action flick. Gone was the wit; absent were the gadgets; and, perhaps most worryingly of all, was the dearth of any solid plot.

So 007's nemesis this time is faux-environmentalist-cum-coup-mongerer called Mr Greene. But given that was billed as a sequel I was hoping that there would have been a deeper exploration of some of the twists and plotlines introduced in Casino Royale.

Instead, the story revolves around the dated concept of the US fomenting regime-change in its South American backyard so long as it gets a cut of the natural resources. One wonders what Bolivians will make of it when it plays in La Paz. A more believable story might have involved Congo, uranium and French complicity in a coup. But then that would mean no US-bashing for director Marc Forster.

The Russel Brand/Jonathan Ross Row: 6/10

Am I the only person in this country who doesn't give a shit about the row over lewd messages left by Jonathan Ross and Russel Brand on Andrew Sachs's answerphone?

We're on the brink of recession in Britain; hundreds of thousands of people could lose their jobs; many will lose their homes. And THIS is the top story of the day? A story about a pair of overgrown, overpaid juveniles who made obscene, prank calls, broadcasting to the world that Russell Brand had sex with Sachs's granddaughter (he did, three times, according to her).

At first I sympathised with Georgina Baillie, described, rather charitably, by The Daily Telegraph as "the leader of a dance troupe" (failing to mention said troupe is burlesque performers The Satanic Sluts). Until I read that she was represented by the arch-purveyor of celebrity scandal, Max Clifford. And until I read the piece in today's Sun.

Georgina is clearly not as disgusted or as upset as she makes out. She takes her kit off for a living. She's made a mint our of this story. And she'll be on some televisual tosh like I'm a Celebrity within a year, no doubt.

But I digress. Why should we care? And why the hell is Prime Minister Gordon Brown - who probably hasn't even heard or read the offending material - wading into the row as well? Ah, but there were almost 20,000 complaints, I hear you say - and how many of them would have complained without the media's obsessive coverage (there were just two complaints on the night).

"It's what everyone in the pub will be talking about tonight," asserted a fellow hack, in defence of his station's blanket coverage. But that's only because every paper's running with it on its front page and because supposedly serious stations like Sky News spent the entire day discussing it.

Okay, so maybe the nation is a bit sick and tired of reading or hearing about plunging stock markets, repossessions and financial meltdown. But enough is enough. I just hope and pray that Brand's resignation means that we can get back to talking about the more important things in life.

Casino Royale : 7/10

A week before Casino Royale sequel Quantum of Solace premiers in London, I thought it would be a good idea to refamiliarise myself with Daniel Craig's James Bond. After all, it begins - as critics never tire of telling us - just an hour after the Craig's debut Bond feature ended: with our emotionally-scarred hero mourning the loss of his dearly beloved Vesper.

Casino Royale was a return to form for the franchise, which woefully lost its way with the almost-satirical Die Another Day, a film so bad it featured a Pierce Brosnan baddie reminiscent of Rick Mayall's Alan B'stard, and lines cornier than a can of Green Giant's finest.



Casino Royale only falls into this trap when Vesper tells James: "If the only thing left of you was your smile and your little finger, you'd still be more of a man than anyone I've ever known."

Otherwise, it's a riot from the moment James make his first kill (played by my brother's old university flat-mate (Dr) Daud, to the heart-breaking (for James) finale.

Critics who have seen the new yarn say it lacks the humour of traditional Bond films. I'll see for myself, thank you very much.

Sindbad Hotel, Hammamet, Tunisia: 8/10

I hadn't been on a package holiday since my parents dragged me and my big brother to Kos with Cosmos 20 years ago. So when I found myself with a week to kill in October, I was sceptical. We wanted somewhere hot, comfortable and close by, with beach and culture to boot. And we didn't want to spend more than £400 a person.

Scouring through Lastminute.com, we eventually settled upon Hammamet, Tunisia at the five-star Sindbad Hotel. Reading through the conditions, we saw the holiday was offered by one Fleetway Travel, though booking direct through them would have actually cost us more. So I went through cashback site Quidco to the Lastminute website and booked it.

The scheduled flight was on Tunis Air from Heathrow and lasted just two-and-a-half hours (on both journeys the pilots performed the smoothest landings I'd ever experienced).

The trip to Hammamet from Tunis was an hour away by road. Best of all the hotel really was five star: we had a spacious suite, with air-conditioning, a patio and two flat-screen TVs. There was an infinity pool by the beach which the hotel sits adjacent to (you don't even have to cross a road). And, when we felt the urge, we could walk along the sandy shore (not a pebble to be seen) all the way into the centre of town.

It's a bit quiet this time of year, but for five days we had good sunbathing weather, with temperatures of about 25 degrees plus. It rained twice, and we were probably the only non-Germans in the resort (we have Lanzarote, quipped a colleague, the Germans have Hammamet). But I'd definitely recommend both Hammamet (for a cheap beach holiday), and the Sindbad.

Tunisia - Eyewitness Travel: 9/10

Thumbing through the thin selection of Tunisian guide books at my local Borders/Books etc. in Finchley Road I plumped for the cheapest one on the shelf: a terracota-coloured hardback from Thomas Cook weighing about 2 grams and costing £4.99. I thumbed through it in about 20 seconds, worried that my girlfriend would think me a schnorrer, and put it back.

I was loth to buy another US-twanged Lonely Planet, as they're annoying, aimed at students and generally do little to inspire me. Nestling nonchalently next to it, though, was a modest-looking, glossy, white number by EyeWitness Travel.

It looked alarmingly like something by Insight Guides, which appear to be translated from German, and not particularly proficiently.




It wasn't. I opened it up, to be dazzled by the dizzying array of pictures - so many, so beautifully-crafted - and amazingly-useful maps, the hardback-ish cover, and the elegant writing. I was astounded when I saw that these guides, though published in the UK, are actually translated from Polish (five stars to that translator!).

The only thing that put me off was that it cost £15.99 (in the shop - it's £11.99 on Amazon) and I was only going away for a week. But I'm glad I took the plunge. This guide is bloody brilliant! I feel like I'm putting away a friend I've just met but to whom I've grown inexorably attached. Perplexingly, Eyewitness Travel is so modest about its Tunisian tome (though not many of its others), that it doesn't even mention that it publishes one on its website. Bizarre.

Time for Bed: 6/10

When it comes to improvised comedy - such as Baddiel & Skinner Unplanned - there are few that can outjoke David Baddiel. When it comes to writing, though, he can be a bit of a drag.

Whatever Love Means - his second book - was given to me by friend Claire more birthdays ago than I care to remember. It was well-written, occassionally funny, and downright depressing. But now I think about it, it left me feeling full-yet-empty, as though I'd just wolfed down a pack of hob-nobs without eating any protein first.

This feeling came flooding back last week after wading through Time for Bed, Baddiel's first novel. I'd been inspired to buy it after listening to the man himself give a reading of it, as part of a one-on-one interview at Limmud in Cambridge.

He read from the "chase" scene at the old-age home housing his character's grandmother. It was very funny. And there are parts of this book that will make you laugh out loud. But it is not - and is probably not designed to be - a gagathon in the mould of my favourite comedy book, Tim Moore's French Revolutions.

In parts, I found it voicing my deeply-hidden feelings about life - such as love being a process, and how men don't always feel it constantly but in moments. But about halfway through, I grew tired of his inner-psyche musings - I just wanted him to get on with the story about the emotionally-stunted Gabriel and his yearning for love and an end to his insomnia. Had he been reading this book, no doubt Gabriel would have had far less trouble sleeping.

The Earl of Petticoat Lane: 6.5/10

"When Henry Freedman met Miriam Claret in February 1929, he was a barrow boy, she a milliner's apprentice. In 1953, they were presented to the Queen..."

That sounds exciting, I thought, after reading both the the blurb on the back of The Earl of Petticoat Lane and a gushing review in Time Out.

What's more, author Andrew Miller was in the year above me at school. My own father's family had began its rise up the British social scale in the same East End depicted so vividly in this book. And I'd lapped up the author's dispatches from Russia in The Economist, which he still writes for. But when when finishing the book, it was more relief at having come through some gruelling challenge, rather than delight at having read a literary masterpiece.

That's not to say that it doesn't mesmerise in parts. Miller's investigative verve has pieced together his grandparents' life history. He brings to life - and brings together - the Jewish, the historical and the geographical elements of his family's past. His late grandmother's journey back to Eastern Europe to prove her Jewishness ranks as a highlight.

But the central thrust of the book is that his grandparents not only started off poor (like most Jewish immigrants of the time), but that they ascended the heights of the British aristocracy. Sadly, Miller has been unable to unearth how Henry earned his money, at one point owning one of the multi-million pound Nash flats that lines London's Regents Park.

In fairness, Miller admits as much. But this book could have done with harsher editing because at times, it's just too indulgent, particularly when it comes to the page-numbing missives his grandparents sent to each other and their friends. "I know this is his personal history," I told my girlfriend, "but why do I have to read about it?"

No doubt Miller will learn from this first novel and go on to bigger and better things. He can certainly write - school friends tell me even as a teenager he was heralded as a genius-in-the-making. I'm sure he one day will be.

I updated this post after the author pointed out a couple of errors - please see comments for more details.

Linha de Passe: 7.5/10

Life is lived on the edge in Walter Salles's gritty take on the realities of life for Brazil's down-at-heel. Linha de Passe tells the story of Cleuza, a poor-but-proud working class woman with four children from different fathers. One dreams of playing for Corinthians, Carlos Tevez's old club. Another is a motorcycle courier. The third has found Jesus. And the little one hopes to find his dad.

The film draws you into the lives of the four. The gulf between the haves and the never-will-haves. And how each member of the family is just an argument, a sacking or a pregnancy away from falling into the abyss of crime and poverty even more grinding than the one they're already stuck in.

Perhaps surprisingly the violence portrayed so vividly in City of god is only glossed over here. This is not a tale of drugs and Uzis in Rio's favelas. These are normal Brazilians just trying to make their way in the world, and earn an honest wage. It's not easy. Brazil may finally be realising its potential on the economic stage. But not everyone is feeling it.

in-i - Juliette Binoche & Akram Khan: 8/10

When my girlfriend told me she'd bought tickets to this dance production at the Nation Theatre, I didn't know what to expect. I know nothing about dance; seldom go to the theatre; and hadn't even heard of Akram Khan, even though he is one of the world's leading choreographers. All I knew about Juliette Binoche was that she was a moustachiod French actress who'd appeared in the mind-numbingly dull English Patient.

But I was amazed. By the movements, both of Khan and the 44-year old Binoche; by the narrative, the lighting, the humour, the tenderness. I loved it. And despite my sleep-deprivation of the night before, I stayed alert and awake. Now, I feel smugly cultured, like I'm in on a secret that no-one else knows about. If you get a chance to see in-i, do.

The Jewish Princess Cookbook: 4/10

It was a joke, I think. My friends Sam & Abigail came round for Shabbat dinner on Friday night, and they brought me a gift: The Jewish Princess Cookbook. How thoughtful, I thought.

Dinner, of course, was already done-and-dusted. My girlfriend's spaghetti-squash soup for starters; my patented honey-mustard chicken, accompanied by roast potatoes and sweet potatoes, as the main. My other friends' gorgeous baby, Luna - who loves me more than you, Sam - provided the entertainment.

I picked up the cookbook yesterday. I began to read. But the more I did, the more I winced: at the poor prose, the squirm-inducing tone, and jokes so bad they could grace any barmitzvah-boy's speech. Here's an example of their brilliance:

"It really is true that the way to a Jewish man's heart is through his stomach. If you asked Jewish men whether they would prefer a nice bowl of chicken soup or a romp upstairs, I'll bet eight out of ten of them would go for the chicken soup - especially if it contained matzo balls."

Scientific studies aside, there are some decent recipes in there. And the pictures are pretty. But Georgie Tarn and Tracey Fine - the self-confessed JPs behind the book - are not talented writers. If you do buy this lightweight tome, do yourself a favour and ignore everything but the dishes. Georgie and Tracey should stick to shopping.

Man on Wire: 7/10

His name was small. His ambitions limited only by the height of the building he set his sights upon.

Man on Wire tells the story of one Philippe Petit, a self-taught high-wire walker enchanted by the seemingly insane dream of shimmying between the Twin Towers of the World Trade Centre on a piece of metal wire.

The man himself - together with his partners in crime (and he was arrested for the dare-devil act) - explains on film, in great detail, how he conceived the hair-brained scheme (he saw a magazine picture in a dental surgery); how it almost never happened; and how he coped with his new-found fame.

But nothing, neither the emotions of his friends, the archive footage of Petit practising in his back yard, nor the absence of an explanation as to how he financed his escapades, compares with the stills that catch Petit in the act.

I got vertigo just looking at them. My jaw dropped, mesmerised at the incredible audacity of the man. My girlfriend was a little frustrated by the detailed explanations of the logistics involved in the operation. And I did nod off a couple of times, mainly because of exhaustion.

But this documentary is as thrilling and as raw as any I've seen. "You have to live your life on a tightrope," concludes Petit. If you don't push yourself to the limit, you're wasting your time. A fine philosophy indeed, even if it does come from an obviously arrogant, and selfish, Frenchman. You can't help but like him.

Moscow State Circus: 2/10

I've just returned from the Moscow State Circus. It was performing at Alexandra Palace in North London. I had front-row seats, and was joined for the early evening entertainment by my girlfriend, and my eldest niece, aged 5, and nephew, 7, who were visiting from Israel.

We were one of the few. At least two-thirds of the £25-a-pop seats were empty. Maybe they were scared off by the price of sitting in an old-style big top; perhaps it was the Bank Holiday weather; maybe the prospect of a circus without animals or the inhuman contortions of Cirque-du-Soleil was just not a big enough pull.

I quite enjoyed it at first. The clown was amusing, skillful (and, most importantly, when you have kids in toe, unscary). The performers - aside from one hairy, pot-bellied chap - appeared able, their acrobatics impressive, and the petite, sequined blond alluring.

My niece and nephew were wowed by the magic - the old slice-the-woman-in-half-and-have-her-head-appear-in-another-box-trick - and the trapeze artists.

I was left a little perplexed by the use of Hava Nagila during one act, which reminded me a little of my bar mitzva. And the man who - wait for it - bounced balls to dazzle the crowed (up to, oh yes, five at a time!), reminded me of some kind of circus satire.

The piece-de-resistance was supposed to be the human canon. Cue a disembodied voice relating the history of the art-form, and extolling the virtues of Andrei something or other: "The last remaining human cannonball in Russia". The lights dimmed; the net laid out. And then.....nothing. He wasn't fired. The net disappeared. And he was never mentioned again. The finale ended with a bow and a scowl from the clearly-unhappy cast. There was no encore.

After the two hour show (minus a 20 minute intermission), I made the mistake of approaching the petite blond, who by now had changed into a sandwich-board bedecked in Russian dolls and other "authentic" knickknacks. I asked her what happened to the human cannonball. She shrugged desultorily: "I don't know," she said, her eyes narrowing in scorn.

We left the Big Top. My niece and nephew went to the toilets. Just as well they did there and then. Five minutes later, the portaloos were attached to a tractor heading for the main exit. Strange given that they're supposed to be performing in the same spot for the next five days. You have been warned.