Most importantly, I didn’t miss the two acts I was most excited to see: Laura Marling and Mumford & Sons.

Ms Marling was pretty electrifying as usual: her voice so pure and clear and never missing a note that the whole room seemed to hold its breath while she sang. Mumford & Sons were also feet-tappingly excellent.

Neither act won the prize, although it was interesting to hear how many of the nominees fell somewhere on the indie-folk spectrum. In contrast, the winners – the xx (which as the Guardian tells us, is strictly lower-case) – aren’t folky, but have a unique sort of spare, electronic sound.

The most exciting bits of the evening were hearing bands I didn’t know anything about and realising I liked them. One example was Foals singing Spanish Sahara, which has this insistent, growing beat and beauty that quickly becomes hypnotic.

I Am Kloot’s Northern Skies was sweet and listenable, and Becoming a Jackal by Villagers is a beguiling mix of melancholy and mischief. Corinne Bailey Rae was amazing to hear, because her voice was so malleable and she sang like a jazz queen, although when I later listened to parts of her album online, they seemed overproduced: live, her talent is far more stunning.

All in all it was a good night and I’ve since bought all the tracks above. To that extent I have fallen into the trap that is the true function of the Mercury Prize – to sell records by raising awareness – but that’s ok: my music collection is all the richer for it.

His first novel, serialised in 1912, was set on Mars. For his second, he chose another “alien” territory: the African jungle. Burroughs, who lived in Chicago, had never been to Africa. Nonetheless, one of the most enduring fictional icons of the 20th century was born.

Tarzan was a sensation, swinging effortlessly from novel to comic book to cinema screen. Since 1912, Tarzan and the Apes has been translated into 56 languages, while the character has spawned almost 15,000 comic books and 42 feature films.

A new exhibition at Paris’s Musée du quai Branly tracks Tarzan’s impact on popular culture. Curator-anthropologist Roger Boulay spent 18 months amassing hundreds of items, ranging from first editions of the novels, which he acquired on ebay, to a stuffed crocodile and a tunic made of panther fur from Mali. He is most interested in the power of association: how cultural iconography is played out in different eras and media.

One of the first objects in the display is an arrangement of glossy miniature toys: a plastic Batman, a Catwoman and a Tarzan glued together like an ultra-contemporary triptych. Boulay made this himself, and has placed it close to a painting of Hercules by Toussaint Dubreuil, dating from 1618, and some suspended Disney figurines.

Clearly, they are related, these strapping, sinewy superheroes. The overlapping genres – painting, sculpture, promotional toy – testify to the easy translation of myths across time, the appeal of an archetypal figure, in this case the superhuman navigating a hostile natural world.

The highlight of the exhibition is a treasure-trove of original comic storyboards, including those by the master illustrators Hal Foster and Burne Hogarth, alongside a room devoted to the Tarzan films. The hand of the censor is evident in both media, as the eroticism inherent in the myth became too outrageous for regulators. There is a beautiful scene censored from the 1934 film Tarzan and His Mate, in which Jane swims naked underwater, while a 1947 comic storyboard showing a topless Jane appears with the revised version, in which she is more modestly attired in a leopard-skin bikini.

Elsewhere, a huge figure of King Kong, borrowed from the promotional department of Peter Jackson’s 2005 film, signals not only our post-Darwin obsession with primates, but also the repetition of a familiar scenario played out in Tarzan and the Kong narrative: the vulnerable white woman snatched by a primitive beast. A more explicitly transgressive version is also on show, a first edition of the 1925 erotic novel Ouha King of the Monkeys, in which a millionaire’s daughter falls in love with an orangutan.

Disappointingly, Boulay does not interrogate the disturbing context of these images. As Alex Vernon points out in his book On Tarzan, they reflect a deep-seated anxiety over interracial relationships, extending from colonial times into the mid-20th century. Burroughs (pictured right) neutralised the issue by making his ape-man the descendant of British nobility, allowing Jane a relationship with a primitive “other” while protecting her from its real implications.

Raymond Corbey, an anthropologist and specialist in the ape-man phenomenon, says that if the exhibition does not unveil the “true” Tarzan, it is not necessarily Boulay’s fault. “These images of Africa as the ‘other’ are deeply ingrained in European cultural identity,” he argues. “It’s very hard for a curator to overcome that. The rhetorical force of the images is so strong it can overpower any attempt at deconstruction.”

The exhibition is in many ways fun; visually exhilarating and light-hearted. But in celebrating a western pulp version of Africa, Tarzan! seems at odds with the ethos of the Musée du quai Branly, which opened just three years ago with the express purpose of displaying non-western art. Boulay insists this is the point: his focus is the myth of Africa as perpetuated by the Tarzan stories, not the reality.

But the museum has surely missed an opportunity in bypassing Tarzan’s more troublesome elements. The ape-man character and his continued popularity is ripe for deconstruction; in 1999, Disney created a Tarzan who exists in an Africa without Africans. Black characters were entirely removed from the narrative. The studio seemingly didn’t know what to do with the deeply racist presentation of Africans in Burroughs’ novels. In itself, this cultural evasive action is fascinating, and could have been usefully explored. Instead, the exhibition ultimately schools us in nothing but the power of myth itself.

This was first published in the FT arts section.

Saw the girly electro punk band The RGB’s last night at Bardens and they were pretty ace.

Here’s a typically rubbish phone photo to whet your curiosity. If you look carefully you can see the frontwoman is wearing an ingenious LEOTARD.

Although the skies had glowered on-and-off all day, there was, miraculously, no rain, and we sat in our striped deckchairs and drank in his luscious voice along with free fruit cider and a gradual music-drawn moonlight.

I’d seen him once before, but that was in front of a distracted Hyde Park festival crowd, where he was sandwiched between mediocre performers in one of those 3-songs-per-artist days; it wasn’t really his natural element.

This time the Kenwood grandeur was like a homecoming, allowing him to stretch out and bask in a committed fan-base who cheered and whooped the opening chords of every song.

At which point his natural, effortless talent as a performer was almost startling; he was so patently born to do nothing else. Chatty, totally relaxed and yet intent on getting everything right, at one point, half-way through a typically grandiose piano introduction he suddenly stopped playing -“Sorry, the mike’s too close and it’s making a weird sound,” he explained placidly, and so he started all over again, hammering out the beautifully broken chords like it was Rachmaninov.

“You’re in my living room“, he added, smiling, which was exactly how it felt, if his living-room was a massive outdoor park carpeted with grass, where you were allowed to picnic and hear him mess around and thread sweet harmonies on a grand piano.

Live, it’s striking how totally unpop-like his voice is, with its high classical power and span; trained so he can splice long notes seamlessly, sipping breaths you can’t tell where.

“Where you been Zebulon?“, about an unconsummated crush on a schoolfriend from Canada, was a gem of a song that I hadn’t heard before, including the characteristically lovely lines: “I only need your eyes/ Your nose was always too big for your face/ Still it made you look kinda sexy, more like someone who belongs in the human race”.

And he ended his three-song encore with his ever-assured, pitch-perfect version of Hallelujah. My thoughts exactly.

Dashing from work to an evening film screening, I knew I had to eat something sustaining to prevent serious tummy rumblings. But I didn’t have time for a sit-down meal. What to do? Another sandwich?

The health/taste showdown is now of course far less common than in the glory days of Ronald Macdonald and Greggs the Baker, but still, it’s easy to fall into a rut (my particular groove is Fresh‘s “Bugsy” sandwich: grated carrot, houmous, watercress and alfafa sprouts).

Cycling along Fleet Street I was sandwich-sated enough to swerve my bike off the road when I caught side of Abokado, and its enticing signage offering “SUSHI WRAPS TO GO”.

Here was the answer to my quandary.

Delicious parcels of nori (roasted seaweed) packed with sticky white sushi rice and flavoursome morsels of salmon/tuna/carrot, avocado & ginger.

Abokado helpfully list the calorie and fat content on each wrap, so you know exactly what you’re getting for your bite, and you can buy a single sushi wrap or a pair, meaning you can mix and match your fillings.

If sushi isn’t your thing, they also do tortilla wraps, pots of miso soup, teriyaki chicken udon noodles, noodle salads and fresh porridge in the morning. It’s not even that expensive. Yum-E.

Abokado have shops in Drury Lane, Fleet Street and Fitzrovia (16 Newman Street).

Ever since Grease I’ve wanted to go to a drive-thru cinema. The next best thing – actually better as it’s zero carbon – is The Scoop‘s outdoor film screenings, held in a mini Roman amphitheatre on the banks of the Thames (just in front of City Hall).

“Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again,” began Hitchcock’s Oscar-winning Rebecca, last night. With a rug to warm our chunk of wide stone step, a punnet of strawberries for snacking and a thirst for some good old-fashioned suspense, I was in cinematic bliss from the opening credits, an emotional state that snowballed with Laurence Olivier‘s all-out gorgeousness as the troubled Maxim de Winter, Joan Fontaine maintaining impeccable manners as his sweetly confused second wife, and Hitchcock’s inimitable layering of chills and thrills.

The Scoop’s free films continue with some supernaturally good movies: The Usual Suspects is on tonight, one of the best films of the decade Michael Clayton screens Friday 20th June, Withnail & I on Wednesday 25th, the terrifying Don’t Look Now on Thursday 26th and the essential Sound of Music on Friday 27th. Instructions are: turn up in time to take a seat by 9.15pm, wrap up warm or at least bring layers and maybe a cushion (though you can hire them there) and take some change to buy an ice-cream, booze or a kebab from Amano, who run a barbecue station at the back. And enjoy.

So the way the date came about was unconventional, at least in the context of my own sketchy template (meet a guy at a bar/club/through mutual friends; prolonged gestation period in which you communicate cordially but give nothing away in case he just wants to be friends; eventual date which is usually somewhat disappointing in telling you hardly anything about how he actually feels).

It had been a boiling hot day and I was cycling back from church when I stopped to buy some high SPF suncream for my white, shockingly sun-averse arms and legs.

Factor 50 in hand, I was about to pedal home when I felt something trickle from my nose. Due to some bizarre body temperature malfunction, extreme climates give me nosebleeds. I’ve had them when skiing (resulting in dramatic snow art) and on beaches. Now here I was on the Holloway Road in a summery skirt and vest top, blood dripping through my fingers; totally ill-equipped to stem the flow as I had zero handkerchiefs anywhere on my person.

“Do you have any tissues?” I managed to gasp to a friendly-looking girl walking past. “No,” she said and walked on. Right. As the nose showed no signs of letting up I strode purposefully into Argos, ignoring the disgusted looks of pensioners and toddlers as the blood ran in rivulets across my lower face.

“Excuse me, can you help?” The girl at the counter was thankfully more compassionate than the one on the street, and immediately dashed off for some toilet roll. I stood contemplating Argos’ remarkable selection of disney watches and tried to bleed quietly into my sleeve.

“Are you alright? I’m a doctor,” said a voice.

Good start.

From there, it was a hop skip and a jump to the boy suggesting we swap numbers. Leave aside the possible weirdness of said boy finding me even remotely attractive with rapidly-drying blood adorning my face and hands. I like to think it showed an ability to see past first appearances (rather than, say, an epistaxis fetish). The next day a distinctly flirtatious text arrives, followed by a facebook message, followed by a suggestion for a date. Fast work. A week later we go for cocktails.

In the first instance, I thought the boy’s efficiency was a lesson to others: he who dares wins. Girls love being asked out, and someone who has the confidence to put himself on the line and suggest a date wins instant gold stars.

However on more consideration, I decided the episode probably wouldn’t teach men anything they didn’t already know. It was more useful for women. What it showed is that when a guy’s interested, he doesn’t hold back. He’s not scared or hesitant and he doesn’t wait around for you to show your cards. He just goes for it. This should teach us something about those times when boys are less pro-active. If they wait ages before texting/emailing you back; if they email but never ask you out; if they are happy to see you with a group of friends but don’t invite you to do something just the two of you, then it’s basically game over. The best thing you can do is walk away (or accept that he just wants to be friends). Too often, we project our own ability to dawdle onto men, attributing all sorts of good reasons for hesitation into the silence of their non-communication. But it’s much simpler than that. As the enlightening (if crushing) book says, he’s just not that into you. If he was, he’d be asking you out even with a nosebleed.

(Smarties heart photo courtesy Alexandre Duret-Lutz; Holloway Road photo courtesy Kake Pugh).

Quite apart from a reassuringly nongimmicky though still fun menu (e.g. grilled leg of lamb with salsa verde; duck confit with smashed parsnips and caramelised pear; spaghetti of sustainable prawns with fennel, tomato and chilli) the best thing about this place is its eco-credentials. From the same guys who built Acorn House on Gray’s Inn Road, The Waterhouse is a paragon of sustainability; fuelled by hydroelectricity and solar roof panels, with drinking water filtered on site, plus they’ve got a vegetable garden and a wormery out back. And just like Acorn House, the restaurant is pledged to train young adults from the local area with help from The Shoreditch Trust.

Think I might be biased by my love of all things green? Read Jay Rayner.

The Waterhouse, 10 Orsman Road, London, N1 5QJ

Tel: 0207 033 0123

Ruled over by an irascible judge who is himself waiting with ever-decreasing hope for a ticket to the pearly gates, the court calls a number of bizarre witnesses, including, at one point, Satan, who rises dramatically out of the floor in a white suit and open-necked black silk shirt.

Written by Stephen Adly Guirgis, (the New York-based actor/writer who also created the runaway hit ‘Jesus Hopped the A-Train‘) ‘The Last Days…’ is a loud, angry, intelligent howl at the contradictions inherent in much established church theology, but also simply a brilliant and bracing piece of theatre.

The play examines whether God’s mercy can be truly universal and still allow for a place called hell, taking the example of Jesus’ most infamous betrayer to grapple with the very foundations of Christian belief. It is in no way a straightforward condemnation of faith, nor its unquestioning advocate.

Rather it collects a huge diversity of philosophical thought, argument and common sense and throws them onto the stage in quick-fire, non-stop, hip-hopped dialogue, packaging its theological debate into utterly compelling drama. The language is laden with the coarsest of swear-words; the mental violence imposed on the play’s namesake by his own conscience is at times almost unwatchable (Joseph Mawle as Judas deserves a medal); yet the humour and sharp profundity of Guirgis’ script made the play one of the most engaging experiences I’ve had in the theatre for a long time.

Michael Billington called the production “gloriously intoxicating” in The Guardian, while the Telegraph’s Charles Spencer said it makes “most contemporary plays seem safe, timid and dull“. For me, it was a treat to see questions of heaven and earth thrown around so intelligently on the popular stage; to be at once challenged and entertained; and to watch Mother Teresa, Freud, St Monica and Satan argue about the nature of God, and our tragic willingness to embrace guilt over the terrifying derangement of redemption.