Hi Edd fans. It’s Edd here. This is a slightly later edition of the Editors’ Blog, coming out to you on a very sleepy Sunday. There is definitely an air of lethargy in the media office today. Coffee is up, but eyelid’s are definitely on their way down. But don’t worry blogophiles, this edition will endeavour to maintain, if not raise, the so-far Pulitzer-high level of journalism already pioneered. If you doubt this, just wait until the section on my ukulele-driven existential crisis.

Touched on by Jim yesterday, but definitely worth re-mentioning; our media table was stolen yesterday! Apparently The Big Scream and nappy-changing trumps Take One journalism … probably fair. I think I speak for all when I say we were very reluctant to receive the table back. The media office already smells (largely due to my diet of thai curries, burritos and the lack of a proper bin). The idea of adding infant faeces, to our already pungent atmosphere, was not entirely appetising. However, being the hardy souls we are, we duly took the nasal blow. It’s not really that bad, especially since we have finally managed to coax the fan into action… but this blog has to be filled somehow.

In other news, has anyone noticed the strange selection of cookies offered at the Picturehouse bar? On Friday the special flavour was ‘Bacon and Treacle’…? I mean, treacle, fair enough. But bacon? In a cookie? I can’t think of any form of biscuit or cake that has meat in it (cue the numerous (well, two) comments listing flavours of cake that have meat). I know I’ve grown up in boring Cambridge, but it just seems unnatural to me. This was followed up today by ‘Mint and Caraway’. Yes, that’s right, peppermint and the fictional narrator/author of The Great Gatsby. The more literate readers are doubtless screaming at their computers, ‘It’s Carraway, not Caraway’. I know this. I just like the idea of Toby Maguire being forced into a dough mixer. So, having just googled caraway, I can now tell you that caraway is a form of ‘meridian fennel, or Persian cumin’ … which actually sounds quite nice. But why does it have to be so complicated? Why so pretentious? What’s even more suspicious is that all these cookies look the same – a white choc-chip doppelgänger. I’m seriously contemplating that all these cookies are in fact white choc-chip, and that this is a big Arts Picturehouse joke to which I’ve fallen fowl… If so Picturehouse cookie makers, you are cruel, cruel people.

So, as promised, my ukulele existential crisis story. As the truer Edd fans among you may have noticed, I appeared on the ever-excellent radio show Bums On Seats yesterday to review I BELIEVE IN UNICORNS, ATTILA MARCEL and the new Woody Allen picture, MAGIC IN THE MOONLIGHT. The first was fine; the second, great; and the third, abominable. However, it was noticed in the review of ATTILA MARCEL that both it and MAGIC IN THE MOONLIGHT featured ukuleles as prominent plot points. In the former, the ukulele is a sign of the adoption of a free-spirited and happy-go-lucky lifestyle. In the latter, the instrument denotes the annoying, mawkish qualities of a hideously posh and wet young suitor, called Brice, to the beautiful mystic, around whom the plot centres. Now, I, myself, play ukulele — badly, but I still play it. Following the radio show, I wondered to myself, which of these two ukulele personalities I embodied. Was I the wild Madame Proust? Or was I the pompous Brice? (Obviously these are the only two personalities that a ukulele player can occupy.) I like art-house film, have a small collection of classic horror film posters, and am completely broke … so maybe Mme Proust. But, then again, I also own a white-tie suit and have a history of yacht sailing in my family … so maybe Brice. In the end, I concluded that it wasn’t worth my time worrying – especially when there was a missing table to get angry about!