x-rated factor total smackdown: rihanna vs christina aguilera

Ah, another year, another X Factor winner. But am I the only one still reeling from the complete flesh fest that was Saturday's semi-finals? May not have been the only semi in evidence given all the brazen nakedness and blatant bum wiggling on show.

The fun and games began with Matt's celebrity duet. I was snorting into my G&T as he resorted to gnawing off his own hand when Rihanna came on stage. I don't blame him though, poor chap, he was probably ruminating on how terribly embarassing it would be to get too visibly excited on live television in front of 15 million people.

I don't think it's possible for a slit to get any higher, is it?

And then Christina Aguilera and Rebecca's duet... bloody hell. Poor, poor Rebecca. Throughout, Christina's round face exhibited little more than bored disdain. She warbled and showboated her way through it with all the grace and enthusiasm of... hmm... my parents, back in the day, when I insisted they dragged themselves out of bed at 7am on a Saturday morning to take me to a hockey match in the freezing cold. A sort of stony-faced martyrdom, punctuated by the weary sigh of obligation.

If a thought bubble were to have somehow magically appeared over her head as she stalked her way unsmiling off the stage, it may have said something like this: "Oh God, look at what my life has become. I used to be big, man, so big. I was bigger than Britney! Now I just have a big face, and even bigger boobs. And here I am singing with this provincial, unintelligible nobody on some crappy reality TV show. I better start taking some more clothes off, eh."

That she did, but not before Rihanna, who cast aside a slinky floor-length dressing gown to reveal an outift consisting solely of a strapless bra and a pair of pants:



My eyes! Nice booty though, Rihanna, I ain't gonna argue with that.

Not to be outdone by any young upstart, however, Christina returned to stake her claim on the realm of unashamed sluttiness with this number from her new film Burlesque:



Bloody 'ell. Those dancers didn't leave much to the imagination, and what is it with all the mad hair flinging?? I'm not a prude, but it did all seem a bit unneccessary for Saturday night pre-watershed telly. It's also a sad state of affairs that someone with such a stonking vocal talent as Christina Aguilera feels like she has to resort to getting her jubblies out on national television to justify her ongoing career. And is that tactic really working anyway? I don't really remember her latest album, Bionic, ever being released... do you? Here's one of the two singles, 'Not Myself Tonight', which features Xtina in skintight PVC, complete with weaponised stiletto heels and whip:



Hmm. Anyways, I guess, if nothing else, Saturday's skin spectacle may have given all those dutiful, self-sacrificing boyfriends and husbands (and mebbe some girlfriends and wives) a little something to enjoy.

The Event: a bit of a non event?

Did anyone else watch "The Event" last week on Channel 4? It's a "new high-octane US thriller" which is being advertised as a cross between 24 and Lost. You can tell it's high-octane by the promotional pictures:

The cast's constipated, industrial-fan-blown faces and their weird faux running man arms clearly indicate that there is something of Great Import occuring. (And possibly in more than one direction given the way everyone is looking.)

But I couldn't help but feel massively underwhelmed by the whole thing. For one, it's not helped by its slightly wanky, nondescript title. Yes, I know its meant to inspire curiosity and an avid episode-devouring desire to find out just what the hell is going on, but it's difficult to dredge up enough energy to care when everything feels so reminiscent of its predecessors that there is precious little that is new or original to grab onto.

Let's see. We have the strong, honest, black president who's desperate to blow a Conspiracy wide open and generally Do The Right Thing; he in turn is antagonised by beady-eyed shifty-looking bald men in his office who are equally keen to keep things from him (hello 24). Then there's a plane full of people which is about to crash but then disappears and ends up crashing into a location quite different to and a ways away from where it was meant to. There is also a focus on introducing individual characters and filling in their backstory bit by bit with disjointed flashback sequences (hello Lost).

You have this man who looks disconcertingly like Ethan Hawke:

This woman (she was in E.R.), the leader of a group of people locked away in a Guantanamo-Bay-like secret facility in Alaska, who reminds me of Battlestar Galactica's Laura Roslin:

And Ethan Hawke's girlfriend, who sort of reminds me of the pregnant Australian girl in Lost:

The font used to introduce said characters and flashbacks looks extremely like the 24 font. It may even be the same one. The intros float up and out towards the viewer with intention. But 24 had cinematic visual flair, a breakneck pace and Kiefer fucking Sutherland. I'll always remember how my heart used to go at the split screens, Jack Bauer growling 'dammit!' and the infernal CLOCK! As for Lost, I never really got into it, but from what little I've seen the characters seemed to be one of the biggest draws, and of course that, intertwined with the mysteries of The Island made for one compelling little package.

Perhaps I'm being unfair to The Event by continually comparing it to other things, but when it so noticeably invites the comparisons its hard not to. I just wish it did a bit more to differentiate itself.

A new blog for November!

Dear readers (all 4 or 5 of you... :P), next month I will be embarking upon a South American adventure. No doubt I shall be drinking, eating, and indeed roistering all day there too, but I have begun a new journal specifically to document the trip in all its meaty glory. You can find it here.

Captain Northern Quarter

Last week I spent a few days visiting my good friend Paula, who lives in central Manchester. We were both a little bemused to come back to her flat to find that various men, besuited in bright yellow jackets, were busily attaching shopfronts onto the disused warehouse building opposite. Turns out she's currently living on a film set, because Hollywood has descended upon the Northern Quarter. The film in question: Captain America: the First Avenger, starring Chris Evans, Samuel L Jackson, Tommy Lee Jones and Hugo Weaving. Marvel-lous!

Apparently the Northern Quarter was chosen because "its wide streets, towering buildings and pre-war architecture make the perfect backdrop for 1940s New York." As of today, filming has begun, and there will be a carchase sequence plus explosions. The film crew will be in town for about three weeks before moving on to shoot some more scenes in the Liverpool docks. Obviously, this being me, I took some photos innit:

For rent: LES. Ooh-er. I hope Les knows what he's in for.

A lot les(s) saucy. You got off this time, Les.

I'd be a bit miffed if I were Paula though, cos they just started building this set on her road without really telling anyone, which seems a little unfair. There are at least 2 big blocks of flats on that road, which are not being New Yorkified in any way, and which are full of non-fictional 2010 Manchester folk, and now they're closing off the road, so she and everyone else will probably have to be relegated to entering and leaving through the basement car park via some longwinded circuitous route, like shady criminals. Bit of an arse. Least they could have done was give some advance notice, rather than be like, oh by the way, you can't come into your flat today, we're exploding things. Pfft. Hollywood. Oh well. I hope she gets an autograph at least! :D

[edit: more photos here -->

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2399058&id=36801521&l=dc12935f4a]

Marc Jacobs Bang @ Harvey Nicks

Whilst out and about in London a week last Friday night, I came across one of the coolest shop displays I've ever seen. In fact, to call it merely a 'shop display' seems not only inaccurate, but almost disrespectful. This stuff was frickin' awesome, and more like a full on art installation.

This 'car' was pure horsepower:

Clothes-peg dress!

Cassette piano:

 

 I love the stool!

Time to get down to the nuts and bolts...

This one was tree-lly good:

Far, far better than that excruciatingly bad pun I just made (sorry!):

Ooooh. And finally, a spot of light reading:

You can read this man's face like a book:

AWESOME.

All the way along, I was so perplexed, thinking, what is this, what is it FOR? Answer:

All of this, for a fragrance? Wow.

If you're ever in Knighstbridge, check it out, it's definitely worth a gander.

Ode to Byron

From the outside, Byron looks, by all accounts, like somewhere or something I ought to hate. Painstakingly shabbified, it looks like it would be much more at home in Shoreditch than Angel, and cuts a slightly incongruous figure amidst the chains, boutique shops and cosmopolitan eateries of Angel's Upper Street. It also wasn't immediately obvious to me what it was... a new contemporary art gallery, perhaps? An opium den? Somewhere where all the cool cats congregate, dressed in, God I dunno, pyjamas and bowler hats? (I'm so not down with the kids....)

But no! Byron is, in fact, a restaurant dedicated to the art of hamburgery. It is also a chain, with ten restaurants around London, each with its own distinct flavour and decor. And I'm glad I overcame my initial prejudice because beneath the unvarnished, untreated veneer of pretentiousness is actually a bloody good restaurant, with lovely, friendly staff and possibly one of the best burgers in town.

My personal favourite (although, admittedly, it's the only one I've tried) is the Blue Cheese burger; the only word I can think of to describe it is: FIT. This, plus fries, plus Oreo milkshake (oh yes) = perfection. All the burgers at Byron are cooked medium unless specified otherwise. They come pink in the middle but not bleeding, juicy, and enveloped in a soft, white bun; a warning though, if you attack it with as much gusto as I usually do you may end up with an unattractive flour beard. Not a good look. I don't particularly care for the odd and rather sad looking gherkin garnish, but that's inconsequential. Best thing of all, it's possible to eat here for under a tenner. I've yet to try the desserts, but only because everytime I've been in I've been too full/satiated, but I bet they're delicious. Byron, I salute you!

mmmm

shabby chic

Sex and the City 2: a rant

Mark Kermode recently named Sex and the City 2 as the number 1 worst film he's seen so far this year. Whilst I struggle to understand how Twilight: Eclipse features as number 5 on his top 5 best films of the year (he's seen it 3 times...?!), I find it difficult to disagree with him on this one.

Sex and the City 2 is, unfortunately, a steaming turd of a movie. I say 'unfortunately' because I am a big fan of the series. I also did not hate the first film. In fact, having rewatched it fairly recently I quite enjoyed it. But this one... jeez Louise.

For a start, it's proof, if ever any more proof is needed, that simply throwing shitloads of money at a film and hoping for the best is not a recipe for success. It falls foul to sequelitis, an endemic problem in Hollywood, whereby 'bigger' does not translate into better, just ... dumber.

It's also overlong and pointless. The running time surpasses the 2 hour mark, and yet nothing really happens. If this was Beckett I might not mind, but it's not. The plot is paper-thin, if not non-existent, and the entire film consists mainly of the following: a ridiculously OTT gay wedding, complete with swans and Liza Minnelli gyrating through an ill-advised rendition of Beyoncé's "Single Ladies", a whole lot of interior porn, and a bit of a jolly in Abu Dhabi (actually a dressed up Marrakech). The film was marketed as the fun, light-hearted romp in contrast to its more serious and emotionally heavy predecessor, but laughs are few and far between, and you get the distinct impression that the cast and crew probably had a lot more fun making it than we do watching it.

For me, given that I have such fondness for the series, this is bad enough - better make no film at all than sully the original by making something dull and mediocre - but there are two particular scenes in the film where my mild boredom and disappointment turned into distaste. Both appear towards the end.

So, to the first. Disgraced by Samantha's sexual indiscretions on the beach (though she insists they were 'only kissing'), the girls race through the souk, at risk of missing their flight. Samantha, struggling with menopausal hot flashes, strips down to a strappy top and short skirt. Miranda implores her to cover up, as they start to attract unwanted attention; men nearby become incensed at this show of public indecency. A kerfuffle ensues. Samantha falls down, and her bag falls open, spewing its contents out onto the floor. Shock horror, amongst the make-up and other lady accoutrements is... a string of condoms. Of course, this being Samantha, it's not just one or two; closer to twelve maybe. The fervour of the mob increases. Samantha, in defiance, holds the condoms aloft, like a cockerel puffing out its chest feathers, shouting, "YES. I HAVE SEX. SEX!" and with every utterance of the 's' word, waggles them boorishly in the faces of the nearest male bystander.

Samantha in New York is all about pushing the bounds of propriety, and I am all for that. Her antics are frequently outrageous and hilarious. She has balls. She does whatever the hell she likes, and she doesn't give a fuck what anyone else thinks. Most of all, she gets away with it. We love her because she says and does things many of us would never even dream of. But this Samantha, in Abu Dhabi? It's not funny, it's just sad! It's positively tragic. Though it sounds like a bit of an oxymoron, even when pushing the bounds of propriety, there's a time and a place and this clearly isn't it. And so in under a minute, one of my favourite characters crosses the line of good taste and transforms into a loud, brash American, inappropriate, insensitive and in-your-face. In short, a bit of a dick. A little part of me died of embarrassment.

Things swiftly go from bad to worse. With Samantha's outburst, the girls find themselves in a real pickle, but they are rescued by the furtive glances and gestures of a handful of mysterious figures, bedecked in burkhas. These women take pity on the four hapless Westerners, sympathising with their plight from patriarchal censure and oppression. The next five minutes are even more excruciating than the last, as these Abu Dhabi women, excited to hear that their newfound friends hail from New York City, doff their burkhas to reveal flashy outfits underneath, from a wide variety of famous Western designers. Female solidarity. Yay. Prompted by this impromptu fashion show, Carrie reflects on how, though she and her friends are a thousand miles away in a strange and foreign land, these women are really, underneath, Just Like Us. *vomits* WHYYYYY. WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT. It felt like being patted on the head. With a hammer. Incredibly patronising, incredibly annoying, and also quite painful. Cookie-cutter feminism at its most offensive.

So there we have it. This film is about as subtle and as funny as my dad. I.e. not very. It's also about as respectful to the memory of the series as turning up to its funeral in a bikini and pissing on the casket. I think the worst thing about it though is that, for any newcomers to the series, naysayers or skeptics, it will probably confirm their worst suspicions about why they shouldn't bother. Which is a real shame.

Ad watch: Old Spice

A friend recently introduced me to this stroke of advertising genius. Considering Old Spice is like the quintessentially uncool Dad/Granddad aftershave from yesteryear, engineering this complete turnaround is mightily impressive. And hilarious. I'm now trawling my way through the twitter response vids and pissing myself. SWAN DIVE!

Ad Watch: Madeira? More like Oh-dear-a!

If you're living in London and are a regular Tube goer, look out for this ad:

Whilst travelling up or down an escalator, you may come across 3 or 4, (or if you're in Angel going up the reaaaally long escalator, it's more like 5 or 6) which will give you plenty of opportunity to look, look again, and maybe think to yourself as I did: WTF??

I think this might be the worst advert I have ever seen. It looks like something my 9 year old self might've bashed out in Word at 11 o'clock at night for a piece of IT homework. All that's missing is a shitty 3D WordArt title, some clipart of a kooky little stick man enjoying a cocktail, and a gradient. And maybe some Comic Sans, just for good measure.

I'm not sure what upsets me more. Perhaps the photographs themselves - a series of uninspiring cut-and-paste jobbies of semi-unattractive people looking happy doing random 'fun stuff' (e.g. the smiling bride and the man in a chef's hat - what is this meant to imply exactly? Come to Madeira, where people sometimes get married, and, erm, eat food that someone else has cooked?) - or the fact that whoever pooed this out in 5 minutes seems to have purposely chosen not to align the 2 photos at the bottom, in order to create a 'jaunty' but visually chaotic little step effect for the sub header to sit on.

I don't know why this ad offends me so much, but it does. :P I think what adds to my bafflement is that there are SO MANY of them dotted around the London Underground - the Madeira tourist board clearly have the money to place these ads, so why didn't they pay someone to actually do a decent job? I half think it'd be better to just have a big headline against a plain background saying something like: "Madeira....it's where the cake's at." It'd certainly be less, shall I say.... half-baked??

The thing is, I was so bugged that I actually google-searched Madeira to see if I could find a version of the ad online so that I could share my pain with others. Turns out I didn't find anything, hence having to resort to photographic evidence, but you know what I did find out instead? That Madeira actually looks really nice. And full of tropical flowers, dramatic landscapes, crystal blue sea, and posh marinas:
http://www.madeira-web.com/PagesUK/index.html

So, this got me thinking. Is this the worst ad ever, or is it in fact a cunning stroke of genius? I'm starting to lean towards the latter, cos the irony is, I knew nothing about Madeira before, but now it's established itself in my brain as a potential holiday destination, and not an unappealing one either. Ooh, Tourist Board, you little scamps.

St Pancras Grand: champagne and afternoon tea

In general, I would say that 'train station' is not usually synonymous with chic, gourmet dining. Most train stations have nothing more than a little booth selling Kit Kats and crisps and offensively overpriced chewing gum (50p?? really???); if you're lucky they might have an AMT (try the Chai steamer, it's delish). And then the bigger stations may have a Burger King, or a Harry Ramsden's, or some generic Wetherspoon's type pub. But on the whole, convenience is the defining factor - style and quality are usually sorely lacking.

Not so with St Pancras, but then this isn't any station. Now I'm not, like, some anorak-donning train station enthusiast, but it's hard not to be impressed by the grandeur and elegance of St Pancras station.

On the first floor of the station, brushing shoulders with the Eurostar, is the St Pancras Grand Restaurant, Oyster and Champagne Bar.

Toptable is currently running several different offers at St Pancras Grand, one of which is "2 for 1: champagne afternoon tea". Last Saturday, my good friend Helen was visiting for the day; we're both big fans of afternoon tea and the station was a convenient link for both of our homeward journeys, so we decided it'd be a perfect opportunity to check it out.

Inside, the decor is all leather and mahogany, clean lines and art deco flourishes. However, when we arrived, at about 5pm on a Saturday, the restaurant was pretty empty, aside from a group of merry, well-to-do looking women in front of us who clearly had a similar brainwave.

After traipsing round Hampton Court Palace all afternoon in the sunshine on an empty stomach, our hunger and excitement were palpable. We wasted no time ordering our tea. The champagne came first. It was pink and very drinkable. I felt tipsy after one sip, but then I am a ridiculous lightweight.

Soon after came our 'tea' (for the uninitiated, traditional afternoon tea usually takes the form of finger sandwiches + cakes + scones accompanied by tea, so not really tea at all!). My first impression, I have to admit, was not great. I've only ever had champagne afternoon tea once before, so admittedly I don't have much precedent for what to expect, but in my mind, afternoon tea embodies a concept of quaint 'Englishness'. I think of dainty blue and white china tea cups, and Jane Austen.

There was nothing quaint about this afternoon tea. It was served on a three-tiered stand - pretty standard - but the stand itself seemed freakishly big. It took quite a lot of rearranging of side plates, glasses and cutlery to fit both of the stands on our table. To go with the giant stands were giant white plates, on which sat our sandwiches, scones, and three cakes, looking tiny and forlorn in comparison.

'Is that it?' I said to Helen, with a rude, champagne-fuelled grimace. I eyed the scones with particular skepticism - firstly there were only two, which seemed a bit stingy to me, and secondly they were quite flat and had a suspicious, oily sheen to them.

But then any skepticism gave way to sheer hunger, and we tucked in, working our way down from the top (however, the size of the stands meant that we had to actually get up from our seats to reach the sandwiches).

Things vastly improved once the actual eating began. Even the scones, though they appeared slightly unappetising on first appearance, were warm and soft and delicious.

Ironically, in the end, neither of us could finish, each conceding defeat to one last cake, so any doubts I had as to the size of the portions were ill-founded. I blame the plates!

Afterwards we went outside to have a couple of glasses of bubbly at the Champagne Bar. The majority of the seating in the bar takes the form of comfy little booths which run alongside the length of the Eurostar platform, and from here you can look out onto the concourse below. I quite liked the buzz of travellers milling about beneath us, and the station hustle and bustle formed a pleasant backdrop to our evening drinks. However the Eurostar trains are pretty loud as they pull into the station, so the Tardis-like grinding and whirring every half hour or so was less ambient.

My sister mentioned that she had been to St Pancras Grand once before with clients, and her verdict was something along the lines of: "Yeah, it's nice, and great if you're on your way to or from somewhere, but I'm not sure I'd go out of my way to go there specifically."

I can see what she means. But I'd definitely recommend the St Pancras Grand. It offers a stylish little respite from the madness that can be travelling through London, in beautiful surroundings, and if you take advantage of the offers it's really good value.

supperclub: near miss or missed opportunity?

Yesterday, the sun did something funny to my brain. After so many months of wet, grey, dreary weather, the sudden appearance of sunshine, warm and golden, was like being hit by a big (squishy) bat of hope and optimism. I was suddenly seized by the desire to do...something! One of my madcap ideas was to hop on a train and get out of the city for the day, to Bath, or Brighton, or somewhere (crazy, I know :P), but unfortunately I couldn't recruit someone to go with me at such sort notice.

Eventually, I settled on West London as my destination of choice, seduced by the idea of drinking Pimm's in a pub somewhere and wandering down Portobello Road, happy-snapping blossom trees and multi-coloured Georgian terraced houses.

However at the time I made this decision, it was lunchtime and I was hungry. So off to Toptable I went, looking for somewhere nice to go for lunch or dinner. Along my travels, I came across a very intriguing looking place called 'supperclub'. At this stage I should have realised something was potentially iffy - after all, any eating or drinking establishment which insists on putting its name in lowercase usually has something to hide. If it were a person it would probably be stroking its beard and peering ponderously at me over thick, oversized black frames muttering something about Sartre.

But maybe that's a bit unfair, so I'm going to let the blurb from Toptable do the talking:

Step inside Notting Hill’s supperclub and you will feel like Alice in Wonderland tumbling down the rabbit hole. All white inside, the supperclub is an extension of a worldwide brand of restaurant which was originally launched by a group of Amsterdam artists. Instead of being seated at tables, diners lounge around on oversized white mattresses while being fed kooky four-course meals by waiters in conceptual fancy dress that would put Lady Gaga to shame. Despite the overly avant garde approach – supperclub is actually a lot of fun and plays a great mix of electronica, camp disco and 80s tunes throughout the night. Fussy eaters beware – there is no menu to choose from – you simply eat what you are served.

Interesting eh? It sounds quite good on paper, but the phrases 'originally launched by a group of Amsterdam artists' and 'overly avant garde approach' rang more alarm balls in my head. Only a few weeks ago I suffered the crushing disappointment of a night out at Shunt, where I was served four courses of 'pretentious wank' with a side of 'attitude', and where 'tunes' were, sadly, strictly off the menu.

Anyway, the google reviews finally clinched it for me - an average rating of 3 stars out of 5, and the 3 most recent reviews all gave supperclub a measly, damning 1 star. Suddenly the prospect of spending £45 at a place described by Fluid Foundation as "not cool, chic or classy in any way what so ever" became very unappealing.

Here is the official website:
http://www.supperclub.com/

What do you reckon? Should I have gone? Should I maybe try it on a Wednesday or a Thursday when there's 40% off? I'd be really interested to hear from anyone who's been before.

Luckily, though, the day was not a waste. I did have Pimm's, and I did happy-snap a blossom tree! :)

Ad Watch

Sometimes I watch TV. It's not often, but it's usually on a Friday evening while I'm slumped on the sofa, after a week's worth of work has rendered me into a slathering, monosyllabic husk, yearning for the sweet, welcome embrace of oblivion. In short: thinking bad, TV good.

And sometimes, in the 5 minutes or so between Friends or whatever it is I have on whilst I wait for the oven to heat up, an advert will catch my eye.

Or, in this particular case, quite literally, it is the eyes which will catch me. Confused? You will be.

The latest Vision Express ads are, frankly, terrifying. Maybe this is just me, but personally I find suddenly being confronted by a mass of people with GIANT EYES FOR HEADS somewhat unsettling. What is even more unsettling is how they move, creating a weird, almost hypnotic undulating motion as they turn their heads - I'm sorry I mean GIANT EYES, did I mention that already? - one way, then the other, with sharp, military-like precision.

As if this isn't surreal enough, the movements of the giant eye head people are accompanied by what sounds like marching, which suggests that this crazed brutal eye army, which looks like it is made up of Lord Sauron's satanic underlings, is coming for you, yes YOU, and there will be nowhere to hide because their GIANT EYES see everything!

To top it all off, there is a voiceover of a woman, plain and unremarkable enough, but it is free of any emotional inflection. No hint of nudge-wink jollity or reassurance to entice the customer, no no, that would be too boring, too conventional. 'Visit Vision Express today, or book an eye test online at VisionExpress.com,' she says in that expressionless monotone, but as I cower and sink further down into the depths of the sofa, I find myself thinking, '...or what???'

See for yourself, and tell me if you think I'm being an absolute fruitloop:

Eye Swiveling
Watch the ad...

http://www.visit4info.com/advert/Eye-Swiveling-Vision-Express-Opticians/83525

Hello

Um, yeah, so hi! I'm Alaka and I thought I'd start one of these blog thingimajigs because, well, why not? But if you're reading this you will probably know who I am. :)

I've been in London now for nearly two years and a lot of my time is spent trawling through Top Table, Time Out and LastMinute.com, looking for the next best restaurant, or bar, or picturesque spot, or show, or general Cool Thing To Do. I'm part hedonist, part cheapskate - if you can find me a reservation at a delectable and swanky fine-dining establishment, then brilliant, but if you can find me the same reservation with 50% off, even better!!

I've already mentioned on my profile certain things that make me happy - food, fun, beautiful things - and hopefully some of these will be cropping up on this blog.

And maybe, finally, I can be vindicated for all those times when I have shamelessly taken photographs of my food in restaurants, much to my company's dismay. :p