london fields

On London Fields they still play cricket. With some ferocity. Towards sunset swarms of cyclists arrive like a benevolent, fluorescent plague. This being London (and a field) you can bid farewell to 20 years of your life, mas o menos, without any great drama. Without any overarching sense of theatre. With an understated, barely acknowledged theatre. On a green, latterly fluorescent stage. With that graciousness which goes with London at its best, and fields, at their best. The act can be executed discreetly, even enjoyably, with random conversation and obscure cheese. For this reason, if no other, the city retains the charm it has spent millennia cultivating. As does the field.

courtesy of monsieur kabal in guardian comments

A familiar anecdote, but it bears repeating: Frank Capra's regular screenwriter Robert Riskind was so incensed by the number of times he heard people refer to "the Capra touch" as though Capra was the sole creative person working on the film that he sent Capra a sheaf of 100 blank pages with the note "Give that the fucking Capra touch!".

Elbow Licking

The target is Omar al-Bashir. Youth organisations have named tomorrow "elbow-licking Friday" in a reference to Bashir's habit of calling opponents wishing to overthrow him elbow-lickers, people who attempt the impossible.