Pop Monocle

on 5 US sitcom remakes.

2010-08-01T03:29:00.001+01:00

Just to round off, here's a bit about five sitcoms that could only have worked in the UK, and what happened when the US version inevitably came out.

Red Dwarf - Now we all know how much I adored this programme once upon a time; that's why I still can't bring myself to watch much of the material rescued from the TWO pilots commissioned in America. Even the UK's eighth series was better than this shite. Lister, handsome and determined? Rimmer, charming and personable? The Cat, a woman? Holly...Daphne from hit US sitcom Frasier?
(It's obvious that the producers hadn't bothered watching/understanding the first few episodes, in which Holly looked and sounded like a man, and Rimmer generally acted like a prick because, among other things, he felt guilty about killing off the whole crew. They didn't seem to understand that the events leading up to where the sitcom begins proper are the most vital things for an audience to know.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UROGsAUGBY8 - I'm so sorry.

Coupling - Touted by NBC as 'the new Friends' (but not by its original creator, Steven Moffat, who 'begged' them not to make such strong claims), the US version of Coupling is completely watered down simply because most of its source material is flat-out dirty; the censors didn't like it, neither did viewers of the mangled-clean efforts. Coupling managed to air a full four times before being cancelled in time for Sweeps Week. On a (mostly) unrelated note, I fucking HATE Rena Sofer; unless every single director she's ever worked with told her to stick to her strengths of mumbling and pouting, she just comes off as wooden and fake as the set she's working on.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmFG8kNoY44 - This is a side-by-side comparison of scenes from each country's first episode. I barely got through the first American one alive. Again, I'm so sorry.

The Office - Once in the bluest of moons, you take an average stare-at-the-floor production like the British Office, and turn it into something that's actually as great as The Office: An American Workplace. The key to its success lies in the very mundanity of its subject matter; while gags about having no hazelnuts in your Topic bar can only work on so many levels, it's common knowledge in the Western world that working in an office is rubbish, so the translation to another audience should be easy enough.
Credit has to go to star Steve Carell, who allegedly stopped watching the British version as soon as he'd heard he landed the role of Michael Scott because he was afraid of copying the original character too much. The programme was developed for an American audience by Greg Daniels, formerly of The Simpsons and King of the Hill; thus ensuring that an adaptation was in creatively good hands.

No preview, just buy the DVDs.

Little Britain USA - Too lazy even to bother calling it something that makes sense, this programme was quite probably wankery of the highest order. (Yeah, I've never seen it, and I never intend to either.) I'm appalled that this is the programme that made Lucas and Walliams household names; their appearances in things like Shooting Stars were always more memorable to me. It's shit like this that amazes me when it gets remade for another audience; then again it's probably because it's such lowbrow comedy that so many people can relate to it. Snobby I know, but fuck you.

No preview. I just can't bring myself to look for one. You'll have seen them on ten different adverts by the time you read this.

Spaced - Didn't actually get made, thank christ. When announced by the Yanks as a Pegg & Wright-approved venture, and then immediately derided by said co-creators Pegg & Wright (though co-creator Jessica Hynes was criminally overlooked), fans breathed a huge sigh of relief. As Edgar Wright described a producer's take on Spaced US, "'Yeah, we'd have to change a few things. We'd have to take out the drugs and the swearing, and obviously, Mike can't have guns;'" making those changes would be akin to setting Porridge on the naughty step rather than a prison. It's the coming together of the little things that make any sitcom a success, not just the same title, character names and accents. The sooner the thieving Americans get that, the sooner we'll see some high-quality original output.

And who am I to say that we can do remakes better than the Americans can do originals? The Upper Hand, anyone?

“Hello, I.T. Have you tried recasting for an American audience?” (aka why are US remakes of British sitcoms so shit?)

2010-08-01T02:10:00.001+01:00

I was sent this link the other day. Have a quick look.

OK, how long did you last before clicking off in disgust? Three minutes? Two? You’re still a better man (or woman) than I. I hate when this sort of thing happens; British programme becomes successful. American producers get a whiff of it and, rather than just screen the programme as is, they “re-tool” it for their own audience. End result: unwatchable rubbish, and damage to the reputation of the creator who lets it happen in the first place.

I was also unlucky enough to read about a new sitcom airing on BBC Two later this year. Episodes was created by David Crane (Friends, obviously) and Jeffrey Klarik (Mad About You) so at this point we ought to be on pretty good ground.
Oh, wait. Further reading concludes that it’s not really a sitcom in the traditional sense (see Friends and Mad About You); rather one of these cool new post-modern ones where someone inadvertently does or says something really controversial at the end, and people stare silently at their own shoes for three full minutes afterwards (see Extras and Curb Your Enthusiasm). It’s also co-created by the Showtime Channel, which means that any actual plot will simply be replaced with swearing to save time and money.

Oh, and looking at the cast I can see that we’re really onto a winner. TV’s own Matt LeBlanc plays himself (meaning we’ll be showered with references to past success, just in case we haven’t happened to catch a repeat of Friends on E4 in the last fifteen minutes), and is unably backed by that curly-haired wanker from Green Wing (and I genuinely have to look up his name here, because that’s all I know him as), Stephen Mangan.

In an ultimate twist of post-modernism, the programme is completely focused on the subject of ‘why US producers bother to remake UK sitcoms’; a process which I find to be a fucking annoyance anyway, so why try and make a sitcom from it? It’s like sitting through a film on DVD that you absolutely hate, and then flicking over to the Making Of documentary afterwards.

The main difference that I can see between American sitcoms and their superior British counterparts is the sense of authorship: while writers like Graham Linehan and Armstrong & Bain spend upwards of six months crafting storylines, structures and characters for as few as six quality episodes, an American producer will sit down twice a week with ten or twelve different writers, who will contribute to generic set-ups in scripts, which are shot weekly between something like September and April. While Roy from (the UK’s) The IT Crowd is written by one man who knows his likes and dislikes (as, apparently, Linehan lined himself up to play the part at one point), an American character might well behave differently week by week because they’re written differently and as such, less believably. It’s a consistency that’s lacking in the US programmes because they’re reeled off the production line faster than you can say “have you tried turning it off and on again?”

The lesson? Taking only the bare essentials of a British sitcom, and leaving out all the little nuances like delivery or visual gags woven into the pace of the script, does not guarantee a successful translation to an American audience. If it really has to be done, it should be done a lot more faithfully; adhering much more closely to the original material. If an American audience doesn’t find it funny, well then I think that should be taken as a sign.

This Blog Post Is Brought To You By An Extreme Distaste For Product Placement

2010-03-05T23:49:00.000Z

It’s an extreme example, I’ll grant you, but without proper regulation and tight creative control, this sort of thing could one day happen on British television thanks to the government’s U-turn on a ‘product placement’ policy. Later this year TV chiefs will allow the usage and display of products and brands within their programming content as well as during its breaks. Admittedly it’ll be a much-needed cash injection for the commercial TV industry but I really can’t help wondering what effect it will have on the quality of the programming itself. Actually, I think I know exactly what effect it will have. My real question is how bad the effect will be.

It’s already started seeping into British programmes; I seem to recall watching Harry Hill holding a tin of ravioli up to camera just a second longer than he needed to before pouring its contents into a bowl on TV Burp a few weeks back. And on the very next episode he was parodying a docu-soap subject’s job at an ice cream factory by dropping a product’s name repeatedly throughout the item. I suppose now that the legislation is due, the producers can already try and make a cheeky few bob without pissing too many people off in the process; though as light, fluffy and throwaway as this programme is I couldn’t help but feel a little cheapened by these efforts, which makes me wonder how bad it’ll be when more heavyweight programmes try to get away with it.

One has to watch just a couple of America’s current hit shows to get a taste of things to come. Consider for example, the weekly knockout blow to international diplomacy that is 24. No matter how many cars Jack Bauer steals from dead guys, or jacks from innocent bystanders, every single one seems to be the same make and model. And just to clarify that only good guys drive Fords, whenever a van full of terrorists pulls up they don’t see the need to shove its badge in viewers’ faces. Stranger to me than what cars were driven by whom, not to mention a fuck-sight more terrifying, was from where the government and its agents got their information. Whenever an explosion or outbreak or weird Middle Eastern accent was being reported on, only one name ever flashed up – Fox News.

Other programmes like Desperate Housewives and House do the same thing, though only the latter has any real reason to; it’s much more likely that you’ll want to know who supplied the cool MRI scanner rather than who did Teri Hatcher’s hair. Each of these programmes comes with a credit ‘Promotional consideration furnished by’ which, to be fair, does sound slightly more reputable than ‘The following are companies that gave us money’. Credible credits or not, it does nothing to allay my fears of an all-out assault on viewers’ wallets come 2011.

Peter Bazalgette, the man who brought you such quality programmes as Big Brother, and such unwatchable shite as Big Brothers 2 to 10, says that this decision is "hugely overdue”. I think that what he means by that is “maybe if I change the name of ‘the Diary Room’ to ‘The Snickers Diary Room’ I’ll be allowed to do another five series.”

"But you have to trust the consumer,” he warns. “If it's overdone or tasteless, viewers will switch off.” I assume he was still talking about the ads there, and not the 473 separate boob-flashes from desperate wannabe Nuts models he recruits every summer.

"And what about those sports events where sponsors' logos are worn on shirts?” he continued, pointlessly. “Product placement won't dramatically change the way we watch TV." No, not by sticking an average-size logo on a shirt during a real-life event it won’t, but possibly by adding commentary crediting a Wayne Rooney hat-trick to “the long-lasting freshness of Orbit gum” it might sour the viewer-advertiser relationship a bit.

And that’s what the whole thing’s about, really. With the advent of digital TV recorders, some of us no longer have to sit through the ad breaks, though it’s not as if you have to remain rooted to the couch if you’re unlucky enough to own a regular old Freeview box. Advertising revenue needs to come in somehow, and it seems that outside of yet another 12 hours’ Teleshopping per week on their digital offshoot stations, the main five channels must fight to claw back what they’re losing on the salaries of wankers like Simon Cowell, Jonathan Ross and, er, Robson Green.

Luckily, and because we can’t be trusted to retain our bladder contents in the presence of shiny things during programmes, producers have suggested a small warning box to appear onscreen during their placements, as well as a spoken warning before and after every break in the occurrence of such a name-drop/shiny-thing-flash. So don’t worry Britain, the universe hasn’t gone to shit just yet; we can still be depended upon to buy what we’re told in spite of all technological and cultural advances to the contrary.

on why Vanilla Ice is a joke (aka covers v originals)

2010-02-07T02:06:00.000Z

Now I’ll be straight with you, Monocle-wearers; I could be one of those bloggers who, upon finally getting a job after a long time of sitting about playing Smackdown vs Raw in his underwear, tells you that things won’t change regarding the regularity of my posts. The truth is, they definitely won’t because they’ll be as bloody sporadic as they always were.
And so, in such a way as to reflect my new jet-setting lifestyle, I did the only thing possible to draw inspiration for a new post: a quick survey of my Facebook friends. After hearing Nine Inch Nails’ The Downward Spiral for only the third or fourth time (I quite like it, but The Fragile pisses all over it), it struck me that I preferred the Johnny Cash cover version of ‘Hurt’ over Trent Reznor’s original. I asked my online brethren of any other cover versions they preferred to their originals, and here are a few of our answers, analysed in my unique yet fucking lazy style.

The cast of Glee – Don’t Stop Believin’ (Journey)
As good a place to start as any, though as I write, the letters on my keyboard are being rapidly obscured by rivers of vomit so it’ll make the rest of this post quite tricky to write. I reckon that the resurgence of this song on both sides of the Atlantic can be blamed on Scrubs and The X Factor; and the original’s a pretty big hit on the jukebox of my pub of choice too. Cheesy as hell and therefore a natural choice for the surprise hit TV series Glee, which centres around a high school music club and its members’ struggles to fit in (I’m guessing). It’s also played on Radio One at least 750 times a day, which explains my dramatic increase in cig breaks at work.

Reel Big Fish – Take On Me (a-ha)
What is it about the genre of ska-punk that makes its artists think that it’s okay to butcher songs from the 1980s? Since when does a trumpet make a good synth substitute? You’re best off asking these wankers. I mean, they do a decent job and all that (certainly better than most half-arsed ska-punk covers I’ve ever heard, and that means YOU, Save Ferris) and you can tell that they mean well but, there’s just something so grubby about the whole operation. There’s so many of these sorts of covers out there, you’d be forgiven for thinking that the whole ska-punk scene was invented just to throw a few more royalties at starving one-hit wonders. Added bonus: a crappy video specially made on the set of Baseketball, which just about saves them by turning out to be a bloody good film (and an excellent segue from the part about Journey – “Steeeeve Perry!”)

Queens of the Stone Age - Everybody's Gonna Be Happy (The Kinks)
Apart from Don’t Stop Vomitin’, this is just about the straightest rework of the lot, which to be honest is a bit pointless for your average cover-lover. (Though luckily they don’t see the need to throw in any trumpet.) It’s fair enough though just to pay homage to The Kinks, as they did on a previous occasion with ‘Who’ll Be The Next In Line’ but it just seems to my ear like Queens just didn’t try hard enough to stamp their own watermark on it; maybe if they’d let Nick Oliveri do a bit of screaming over the chorus it’d satisfy a bit more. (They’re really missing him these days; if he were to return I’d be happy to drop my ‘No Fucking Reunions’ rule this once.)

The Ramones - I don't wanna grow up (Tom Waits/Kathleen Brennan)
I’ve just this minute learned that Tom Waits wrote this song, and not The Ramones. You learn something new every caffeine-fuelled and nicotine-choked night, eh? Waits made his name by starting out just another above-averagely talented singer-songwriter, before throwing everyone way the hell off his trail by reinventing his sound between every release, even going so far as to invent his own instruments. On the other hand, The Ramones wrote approximately seven million songs using the same three chords. I suppose Waits had to accidentally hit those three at some point, right? But it’s the simplicity of the song that works so well for The Ramones’ version; probably the reason that I thought they wrote this song is that they never did grow up; while Waits matured and diversified at every turn, The Ramones simply jammed for twenty consecutive years with tapes rolling at various points.

Thomas Truax – Falling (Badalamenti/Lynch)
Speaking of musical mavericks (see also Nick Cave’s take on Pulp’s ‘Disco 2000’), here’s a comparatively little-known chap from a place called Wowtown. Like Tom Waits, Thomas Truax builds his own instruments and utilises them in his live shows. His most ambitious gadget is The Hornicator: a gramophone horn with added strings and kazoo, plus a natural echo effect when he sings into it.
Thomas Truax’ latest release is an album of cover versions from the works of David Lynch; the most striking of which has to be ‘Falling’ from the television series Twin Peaks. Like the original it retains a very beautiful and haunting quality, but with the extra homemade effect of a mechanical backing band it takes on an even more surreal tone. Considering it’s a song by David Lynch, that really is something special. Unfortunately there’s no clip available on Youtube; regardless you should definitely watch two of his own pieces ‘Full Moon Over Wowtown’ and ‘Why Dogs Howl’ anyway.

Blood Brothers - Under Pressure (David Bowie & Queen)
This is my personal favourite cover of the lot because it most closely satisfies my own ambiguous criteria of a good cover: it should sound simultaneously nothing and everything like the original. It’s basically a thrashspazzcore version of the 1981 original (which incidentally is one of my all-time favourite songs), performed in duet by a dog trapping its genitals in a car door alongside its frantic owner. (The dog’s or the car’s? You’ll never know; my metaphors will be forever shrouded in mystery.) The cover was recorded for a Queen tribute album, and apart from what ought to be an interesting take on ‘We Will Rock You’ by Melt Banana, this is very probably the best song on there just because it will torture your eardrums for long enough to hook you by the time it stops. I can give you my personal guarantee (or Jack Bauer strike me down) that this cover is 100,000,000,000 times better than the version by those fucking weird twins and that fucking weird rapper.

Most of these songs in both forms, plus a couple I didn’t feel compelled to write about, are at this link.

http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=51C8DB3E1588E841

Tell ‘em Pop Monocle sent you. Or...y’know...don’t. Actually, no don't, because I owe them a tenner and they seem to have forgotten.

On my favourite albums released between the years 2000 and 2009 (aka “how is it bollocks to state a preference?”)

2010-01-02T20:36:00.000Z

Disclaimer: The following is just my opinion on the things I enjoy. I’m just someone who likes music, not Vinyl Justice. Feel free to disagree with me when I put things like ‘Fact.’ and ‘Officially’.

Quite an important list to me, is this. The last decade was pretty much full of my formative years; I am now well-versed in shouting at people who inexplicably like certain things. I won’t lie to you: only one or two of these would make it into an all-time top ten so at this point I’m pretty much scraping the barrel to find ten albums I liked in the last decade. Seeing as my formative years went hand in hand with little or no money to spend on them, I’ve not consumed nearly as much music from this decade as I would’ve liked; any “glaring omissions” from this list are probably because I’ve not heard them. (Or because you have shit taste in music.) So, in order of release, here they are:

Queens of the Stone Age - Rated R (Jun 2000)
Even though Songs For The Deaf is supposedly their magnum opus, I prefer this album simply because it’s filled with beefy riffs and, well, because I’ve listened to it a lot more times. It’s more firmly drilled into my skull than anything else they’ve released and it’s just too bloody good to ignore.

Favourite songs: ‘In The Fade’, ‘Tension Head’

Rancid - Rancid (Aug 2000)
Officially the last set of Rancid songs that were any good, this is pretty much the only punk rock album I can still stand. How times have changed: time was I’d have slapped you down for even daring to suggest that there was a better band on the planet than Rancid. Nowadays it appears I’m all about the indie-rock unfortunately. I am, however, still happy to write ‘Matt Freeman’ in the Bass God box on my Rock Credentials application form.

Favourite songs: ‘Corruption’, ‘Black Derby Jacket’

At the Drive-In - Relationship of Command (Sep 2000)
Even The Hives (remember them? Christ, maybe I’ll do a Worst Of list next just for them) never got as much hype as these dudes. The poor buggers slogged away in dives for years, repeatedly splitting up and getting back together, before giving everyone a kick up the arse with this quality set. That Jools Holland appearance did them a hell of a lot of business in this country, as did their fierce live shows across the world. They were savvy enough to fall out well before anyone had the chance to get sick of them, and go on to play Diet ATDi (Sparta) and Jazz Wank Bollocks (The Mars Volta). I didn’t even mention their afros. Winner.

Favourite songs: ‘Rolodex Propaganda’, ‘Cosmonaut’

Aphex Twin - drukqs (Oct 2001)
You know that Franz Ferdinand video where an Idiot DJ drops a microphone in a blender? Meet the man behind this supposed cliché: Richard D. James, aka Aphex Twin. He’s been Moulinexing his gear since the 80s with a wonderful mix of twinkly prepared piano and gut-wrenching industrial noise. This two-disc set contains both sides of the spectrum; all I can really helpfully say is that he’s been a staple of Warp Records since their inception. You do the math(s). Aphex Twin is officially my Favourite Dance Act That You Can’t Actually Dance To.

Favourite songs: God knows what any of them are actually called, but the one where his mum and dad sing Happy Birthday over the phone is up there.

Andrew WK - I Get Wet (Nov 2001)
Stop smirking. Yes, you at the back. I actually fucking love this album. 25% of the album’s track names contain the word ‘Party’; with this in mind it’s the only CD to stick on before you go out. I’m well aware that there’s nothing I can say to logically validate the man’s existence, but we are talking about music here; there’s precious little you can realistically argue about is there? It’s all overblown stadium rock and lyrics that would make The Descendants look like Morrissey, but from the moment I was first instructed to Party Hard I’ve stomped and punched the air like a man possessed. Nobody can match this album’s passion for living the good life, so why bother trying? Stick it on and kick it off.

Favourite songs: ‘Party Hard’, ‘Ready To Die’

Taking Back Sunday - Tell All Your Friends (Mar 2002)
As a previous Pop Monocle will attest to, P-Rock saved my soul from the foulness of nu-metal tosh that was Kerrang! TV. One of the most intriguing videos of its agonisingly short history was called ‘Great Romances of the 20th Century’, and featured four rather skinny chaps (and one fat man on lead guitar) jumping about to delay their collective heartache over various lasses dumping them. This video’s success was quickly followed by the Fight Club-inspired ‘Cute Without The ‘E’’ which managed to rock fairly hard without the aid of down-tuned guitars and so caught my attention. I could easily relate, as I myself was having a shit time of it with various lasses. Since co-songwriter John Nolan left the band before Album Two (and cancelled their UK tour with Brand New, the twats) I now deny all other knowledge of this band.

Favourite songs: ‘Great Romances...’, ‘You’re So Last Summer’

Hundred Reasons - Ideas Above Our Station (May 2002)
To date the only album I ever bought on its day of release, Hundred Reasons led the wave of young British rock bands that didn’t see the need to tune their guitars down. Or to suck. When I first saw the video for ‘I’ll Find You’ on MTV2 I finally grasped the fact that not everybody was into that nu-metal bollocks, and that there were a multitude of underground bands happy to rail against said tosh. Track after track of overdrive pedals and passionate singing make this album a joy to hear; it’s so sad that they’ve got nowhere near to matching it since.

Favourite songs: ‘I’ll Find You’, ‘Silver’

Reuben - Racecar is Racecar Backwards (June 2004)
Like Hundred Reasons, Reuben was another British band fortunate enough to find just the right amount of major-league exposure and fans sick of Limp’in ParKorn wannabes. Probably the first song of theirs I heard was second single ‘Stux’, with its amusing video and catchy guitar hooks. Some time passed before they scaled the UK charts with ‘Freddy Krueger’ (number 53!) during which Reuben toured their arses off to get a solid and rabid fan base, upon which Racecar was flung like so many delicious scraps of bacon. My biggest regret is that I only saw them live once, before I’d even heard any non-singles. (They supported Hundred Reasons, and absolutely blew them away.)

Favourite songs: ‘Song For Saturday’, ‘Parties Break Hearts’

We Are Scientists - with Love And Squalor (Oct 2005)
My first memory of W.A.S. is repeated airings of ‘Nobody Move, Nobody Get Hurt’ as my old housemate constantly restarted the level of Driver 3 on which he was stuck, causing the Xbox he’d installed it on to keep restarting the album he’d picked to play over it. You’d think you’d get bored of even the best riffs during such torture, but that song managed to remain fresh and innovative for me. A few months later my lady had obtained said album, but this time was able and willing to play the whole disc over and over. What I love about this album is how different each song sounds from the last; with a record like Rancid 2000 for example you know exactly what you’re getting, but W.A.S. manage to hit a little bit of anything and everything on this album with great results.

Favourite songs: ‘The Great Escape’, ‘Textbook’

Jakobinarina - The First Crusade (Oct 2007)
There was a time when MTV2 would play ‘This Is An Advertisment’ on their 120 Minutes programme every single night, to my delight. If you were to recommend any similar artists to me, I would in all honesty probably hate them because the more usual mix of poppy keyboards and sugary guitars absolutely does my skull in. It’s certainly the reason why I love this album that nobody does it like these Icelandic youngsters. There’s just something a bit...sneaky about the way they pretend they’ve been there and done that when they’re actually so bloody young. Perhaps it’s their arrogance that appeals to me? Oh, and ‘His Lyrics Are Disastrous’ is my ringtone. If that means nothing to you then you’re obviously not taking me as the Fountain of Wisdom that I am.

Favourite songs: ‘His Lyrics Are Disastrous’, ‘17’

on happily receiving this week's chart news.

2009-12-21T10:02:00.000Z

I dunno. It doesn't exactly feel like some great editorial sacrifice. That's mainly down to the fact that I am ecstatic that Joe McSomething and his puppet master, Simon Cowell, won't be the UK's Christmas Number One this year.

True, I said "it won't fucking work", and I admit that I was wrong. But you know me; when was I ever anything but cynical? Is this blog called Sunshine & Rainbows? No. It's about pop culture, the sophistication of which has been in decline for many years now. Just because I don't expect half a million people to agree with me, that's no reason to expect any better in future is it?

I'm not trying to make excuses, either. Like I said, this is a good thing. If you bought this single, then good on you. Unless it wasn't for the first time; then you're not getting into the spirit of the charts are you? How about getting behind a new artist next year? How about not doing what you're told?

Fuck it. I'm still cynical.

on not doing what you tell me (aka the race for second place at Christmas)

2009-12-06T00:50:00.000Z

Pop Monocle's debut year, in a nutshell:
- Wake up at night, troubled by an unimportant thought
- Rage against the laptop until I run out of coffee
- Get one nice comment about the resulting blog, usually from my brother.

And so we come, full circle, to this month's storm in a thimble: The Christmas Number One. My one-sided debate concludes that it will go to the winner of this year's X-Factor. As much as I detest the idea; as much as I'd like Simon Cowell to find his own kneecaps in his stocking, it's just inevitable: an inalienable truth. Homer Simpson will say 'd'oh!', Bill Murray will be The Fucking Man, and The X-Factor will be responsible for what you're being subjected to at the top of the Christmas tree. (The tree being a metaphor for the charts, except that where there ought to be a shining star, beaming proudly, there will be a dolloped turd, steaming proudly. God, I hate toilet humour.)

Evidence? Alright, if I must. Since this legion of arseholes made the charts their bitch, bookies started taking bets on who will be their runner-up come the 25th. Last year would've granted you slim odds for Jeff Buckley's version of 'Hallelujah', when Factored in that the newer version would've beaten it. It's strange seeing bookies work with assumptions like this, but in the end Buckley was outsold seven to one; you just can't fight those odds.

Not that that will stop people trying this year; an official listing on bookies' websites for alternatives to the X-Factor includes a little ditty called 'Killing In The Name' by that feel-good funtime band Rage Against The Machine. Aside from the side swipe taken at Cowell et al by the name itself, people are jumping on the bandwagon in droves just to try and displace their eventual champion at the summit. I think it's a fantastic idea. Again, just a few little niggles with the plan:

1. It Won't Fucking Work.
Sorry. It just won't. Fair enough, 195,356 people (and counting) on the Facebook page have pledged their support to the American agit-rockers for a start, but when it comes to the crunch how many of those people will actually download it? When was the last time you actually attended a Facebook event that you didn't organise yourself? Personally speaking, I own a copy of the song already and thus see no need to spend money to replicate my collection. I'm sure others feel the same. Even if twice the amount of Facebook members buy it, I feel obliged to inform you that The Burke's version of Hallelujah sold 576,000 copies in its first week, and a million in total by week three. Them's some impressive sales figures for such a shit cover.

2. Sony Records Wins Either Way
Yeah, striking a real blow at the heart of corporate culture, aren't we? Someone didn't think this through enough. Rage Against The Machine is an apt enough name for the attempted hostile takeover of the charts, but it's worth noting that said Rage was signed to Epic Records, which is not only a subsidiary of Cowell's employers the Sony Corporation, but the very same label that Alexandra Burke is signed to now. I'm all for sticking it to The Man but even if RATM somehow make it to Number One instead of whatever dross comes off that programme, Sony will have still made a shitload of money off this litle venture.

3. Democracy (no matter how misguided) is still democracy
And unless there's some major chart-rigging scandal going on (which to be fair would explain everything, and I mean everything that's wrong with this world), the reason that this song will do so well in the charts is that enough people will want it to. True, the majority might well buy a song comprised of three minutes of farting on a snare drum (with a burp chorus) as long as it's performed by this year's winner but unfortunately that's exactly how the pop charts operate. Conversely, if enough people want Rage, or Robbie Williams, or Peter Fucking Kay to top the charts then that is what will happen. It's hard to argue with the consensus of public opinion, unfortunately; anyone who disagrees with that is a Communist.

So sit back and enjoy the show. And if you're really that upset about The X-Factor getting to Christmas Number One this year you could always...I dunno...switch the radio off at number two? Not listen to it at all? Get a fucking life instead? Merry Christmas, Pop Monoclers.

on Prime Time Racism (aka Nick Griffin on Question Time)

2009-10-23T17:46:00.001+01:00

Firstly, and at the expense of an hilarious gag I had prepared about watching Question Time at 5am as a cure for insomnia, I'd just like to point out that I think the British National Party are the biggest bunch of morally reprehensible scumbag wankers I've ever come across. I really can't stress that strongly enough, but I wanted to make it clear just in case any sentence I write is taken the wrong way.

This week the BBC has had the dubious pleasure of giving BNP leader Nick Griffin an opportunity to get his ideas across on Question Time. There's been a hell of a backlash to this decision; so much that the BBC Trust held an emergency meeting to address all ensuing complaints and, finally, to uphold the original decision to allow him on the programme.

As the Griffster made his way onstage at the start of the recording, he was made well aware of what to expect; the loud boos of the audience were matched only by the loudness of his unsightly tie. He received a constant barracking; his comments were rightly heckled at every turn, not only by the audience but by the panel and the host himself. Even his most staunch supporters became acutely aware that Griffin was completely out of his fucking depth. In the full glare of the viewing public (and his tie) he was awkward and ignorant, laughing nervously as his hateful views were exposed for all to see. (At one point he claimed that one of his policies came about as a result of something he saw 'in the papers.' That resourceful bastard.) Protesters needn't have bothered turning up to diminish his credibility because he did such a fantastic job of that every time he opened his mouth. Which brings me to ask: why were those opposed to the BNP's national platform so determined to stop it happening?

In its capacity as a news agency, the BBC chose to give coverage to what is becoming a political force to be reckoned with. Surely it would suggest a form of editorial bias if they didn’t. It simply doesn't have the choice to exclude them, or shouldn't anyway if they wish to remain 'fair and balanced' (copyright: Bill 'cut his mic' O'Reilly and FOX News). If the head of the Sports department was a Man City fan, would he be allowed to ban any on-air mention of their rivals at United? Of course I realise that politics is a much more serious matter than football (or is it?), which is precisely why every political party deserves equal mention.

In the car park, it kicked off. Six arrests were made as a 500-strong anti-fascism protest descended into chaos, when several idiots rushed the building’s security and injured three police officers. I thought these guys were all tree-huggers? Nope, seems they’re not above a bit of public disorder, as long as it stops the BNP from spreading theirs. Are these protesters so weak-willed and hypocritical that they’d rather gag Nick Griffin than let him expose himself for the ignorant twat that he is? Are they afraid that he was smuggling a mass hypnosis device or something? I’ve seen this behaviour before; five years ago there was uproar at Manchester University as a student council candidate was found to have extreme right-wing ties. Down the road at MMU, steps were being taken by hard-lefties to ensure that this candidate didn’t get a fair shake of a platform. It smacked of hypocrisy to me, as did last night’s shameful events outside QT.

Back indoors, and more thinly-veiled threats to freedom of speech. A question asked of the Daily Mail’s editorial decision to print that much-reviled article about the death of Stephen Gately, and what it must mean for the rights of gay men to officially declare their futures to each other, seemed like a swipe at the BBC’s own agenda, and was met by more verbal diarrhoea from its guest of honour. It’s most unfortunate but quite possible that the party will gain even more support after this one-sided debate; people who feel he was unfairly treated on the programme (if not already on his side) might possibly be tempted to look up the BNP’s policies, seeing as they weren’t properly and seriously discussed in the first instance. It seems that he wasn’t given enough of a chance to look like a twat on his own; perversely it’s going to need less biased media coverage and more respect for the party to make that happen.

Remember, kids: Just because he’s an ignorant arsehole doesn’t mean he shouldn’t be allowed to talk shit.

on drinking, smoking and shagging about (aka the Straight Edge movement).

2009-09-27T00:51:00.001+01:00

For a while there, I thought September would pass by relatively quietly. I've been jobseeking, putting the finishing touches to my novel (gag) and doing a couple of shows with The Skeleton Project on top of my general Playstation/Zuma/sleep routine. I certainly didn't think I'd have any reason to unleash the Monocle in these lazy sunny times. And then I saw this article in the Metro newspaper.

Month. Ruined.

If you're not familiar with the Straight Edge movement, allow me to summarise as best I can: in 1981 a Washington, DC band by the name Minor Threat released songs such as 'Straight Edge' and 'Out of Step'. These songs inadvertently kicked off a scene in which young fans shunned all forms of mind-altering substances such as drink, drugs and, well, orgasms apparently. They drew crosses proudly on their hands; a symbol previously forced on underage gig-goers so that staff would know whom not to serve with alcohol.

It all went a bit far, really. More militant Straight Edgers began causing trouble at gigs, which led to violence and gang rivalries. Ian Mackaye, Minor Threat's singer, even went so far as to insert a disclaimer into their new version of 'Out of Step' with the words 'Listen, this is no set of rules, I'm not telling you what to do...all I'm saying is I'm free of three things that are, like, so important to the whole world.' If they'd been on a major label, they'd probably have added this section on legal advice rather than a desire to set the record straight. What's funny about this is that the line 'Don't smoke/don't drink' isn't even prefaced with 'I' or 'we' because some of his own bandmates didn't agree with this philosophy. Rumours that it all kicked off when someone asked Mackaye what he was drinking were, frankly, made up at the beginning of this sentence.

And so, Straight Edge remained an (albeit popular) subculture of punk for nigh on thirty years, but now it seems that a UK revival is worth a large mention in the Metro; a baffling concept for me to grasp. It's like having an 'And Finally' item on the News at Ten where they announce that, I dunno, fucking Mime is in fashion, before going live to the Trapped in a Box '09 convention at the O2 arena.

"(Gabriel, 23)'s drinking Red Bull and wearing a T-shirt which proudly states: 'Party f****n' sober!'"declares the article. Now if I were a picky person (which I am), I'd point out that more hardline SXErs would see caffeine as 'breaking Edge', but that's not important. Read on.
"I hated going to shows and getting loaded,' he admits. 'Now I've made a commitment to the music, I don't want to be passed out somewhere, I'm fully Straight Edge."
Okay, you hated getting pissed at gigs, that's fine; I'm sure there's plenty of people who prefer to stay on the cokes when watching bands, but to actually go all the way over to bragging about not drinking? Why bother? Why wear the Xs as a badge of honour?

"TV show Skins even revealed a Straight Edge character: a teetotal, anti-smoking biker who catches the eye of one of the leading characters...at last month's Reading Festival, scores of youngsters were spotted with the mysterious X stuck to their bodies with tape."

Oh. Not a badge of honour so much as a fashion accessory, then. If you watch Skins then it's already pretty unlikely that you're someone who'd rather stay clean and sober than admire and emulate the hard-partying; look, Sid just fell in the swimming pool! If only he'd said no to that last shot of tequila, eh? This bit interested me, too:

"Outside (the venue)...an ambulance pulls up and a stretcher is wheeled out. Instead of picking up an intoxicated teenager, paramedics treat a coherent lad who has been injured while dancing."

So that's okay, is it? That these 'dancers' beat each other up in the moshpit, all flailing arms and legs lost in the hard music, as long as they've opted for the soft drinks? Yeah, I can just hear that conversation now:

"That singer's got a pretty deep cut in his head, Les; maybe we should hang around til he's finished?"
"It's alright Des, he says he's not had a drop all night."
"Fair enough, let's get this lad treated."

It's your body and, ultimately, entirely your choice what you do with it as long as you don't claim superiority over all others because of it. Like Ian says, I'm not trying to tell you what to do, but for me bragging about not drinking is like bragging about not liking football; completely your choice but ultimately irritating when I'm trying to watch the match.

on writing what I know.

2009-08-13T13:22:00.000+01:00

One of the most common pieces of advice I’ve heard about writing is to write what I know about. Many people have said that the older you are, the more you know, and therefore the more interesting and wide-reaching your work will be. Charles Bukowski was in his middle age when first published; the fact that he’d tried just about everything else to make a living only added to his sense of accomplishment and wisdom. I’m 24 years old, and so going by this theory, I don’t know shit about shit.

I’ve spent a lot of my twenties blasting myself for not getting anything done. Aside from my education to degree level (which admittedly is pretty much all you can achieve by this age), I have no achievements with which to justify my life. I remember writing in my old LJ at 22, berating myself that I hadn’t yet formed or joined a seminal post-hardcore band, like Guy Picciotto did at that age. Did I really want to spend my youth knocking alcoholic drinks out of peoples’ hands? Not really; the beatings suffered would not compare to my own potential sense of disgust that I’d probably ask my victim to get me one while he was back at the bar.

I’m working on a novel (vomit), as it goes. On writing what I know about, the novel is about a young man who drums in a punk rock band. I never even played drums, but as it’s the only thing I haven’t done in your standard four-piece rock group, anything else would have cut too close to the bone. I don’t think that any element of my male lead stems from the drummers I’ve worked with previously; one was a strict vegan (and I just love a bacon sandwich too much to suggest otherwise in ‘what I know’), one was a ginger jock (two severe psychological afflictions that I don’t feel remotely equipped to address) and the latest was straight edge (again, I can’t say I can begin to understand those motives). It turns out that what I know is how to get barred from gig venues by not attracting enough drinkers.

What else do I know? Well, none of it is universal or even particularly positive: I know how not to impress a woman with declarations of love, months after the relationship ended. I know how it feels to lose a brother, but I also know that I’m just not ready to write about that in any way, shape or form. I know how to conduct a relationship with someone as insecure as myself; the length of time would impress readers, but nothing else. While it may be the most special thing in my life right now, I’m cynical enough to realise that it’s nothing unique.

I think I’m too scared to do anything else, but at the same time I know that it’s ‘anything else’ that I need to get better at writing. How do I go about earning my stripes? Just keep having birthdays I guess. Otherwise all I’ll know is how to write about feeling like a failure.

On that weird uncle you used to like (aka Channel Four)

2009-08-05T01:24:00.000+01:00

Here’s the plan: create a daytime programme that shows off a range of easy-to-prepare recipes you can get from the website, and throw in five offbeat characters bidding to outcook each other for a cash prize. It’s simple, inexpensive and very entertaining. How can you possibly mess it up? Answer: Switch it to prime time. Sounds implausible, but by cutting five half-hours of cunning cookery and quirky comedy into one hour of absolute nutjobs bitching in the kitchen in a bid for higher ratings, Come Dine With Me is just not the same. The focus has firmly shifted from the interesting food to the absolute wankers who prepare it.

It’s a sad example of Channel Four’s new remit: out with the experi-, in with the –mental. Instead of paying anyone to think of new ideas, we’re getting more and more desperate attempts to save money by merely retooling existing ones.

After two successful series of Skins, which saw its entirely talented cast through college, does it die a dignified death? Nope, it brings on the gurning idiots, with all predictable archetypes copied and pasted in from the last series. Result: the second lot were left to sweat it out a hell of a lot longer than their predecessors to hear about a return to half the TV audience they inherited.

Once upon a time I’d have verbally lamped anyone who had a bad word to say about my then-favourite channel, but it’s become more and more obvious that Channel Four just plain doesn’t like having a decent audience share. Check out 4OD online and you’ll find so many amazing programmes lying in state while their descendants spit on the graves. Five good shows off the top of my head? Okay, if I must: The Adam and Joe Show, Teachers, Black Books, Grand Designs and that episode of Brookside where Anna Friel kisses another girl. Out of those genuine four, only Kevin McCloud’s Grand Designs still gets a regular run-out on any of Channel Four’s three entertainment channels.

The flagship channel has almost given up entirely on its own new content, preferring instead to show bollocks like The Man Whose Hair and Skin and Arse Fell Off, lowering it within earshot of Five’s most sophisticated output.

More4 is the nearest they get to decent programming these days, with regular repeats of excellent comedy like The IT Crowd, most of which I own anyway, and quality American drama like The West Wing. They also do the odd interesting documentary on bears and shit like that.

At completely the opposite end of the quality spectrum sits E4, scratching its arse and belching out the likes of first-look Hollyoaks and 90210. If you miss them then don’t worry, you’ll have a further seven opportunities to catch each episode in all their painful glory at the weekend. (Quick tip for the bad people at E4: if nobody’s watching it, it’s NOT because you’re not showing it enough. Also, advertising it with Ruddy Heck Man is not doing anyone any favours; this the man who was genuinely funny for the first five minutes he was in your employ, and not ripping off someone else’s act.)

Of course, I generalise. All three channels, even E4, have their good and bad points. But my point is that Channel Four is no longer doing the job that it received airtime to do. It was legislated and instructed to inform and entertain; now it’s just annoying and unwanted; like that weird uncle you invite round sometimes out of pity. By the time it’s back on its financial feet, it may have transformed beyond recognition; again like that weird uncle who emptied your bank account to have a sex change. I don’t have the answers, but I’d say that cutting back on the ad breaks would be nice either way.

on your right to make art, and my right to hate it.

2009-07-27T01:16:00.000+01:00

To make the beginning of my post a bit more interesting rather than just a statement of fact, we’ll have a quote from my new favourite band, The Lonely Island:

“Last week I saw a film/As I recall it was a horror film.”

Yep. A full week before its UK release, I watched the new Lars von Trier film, Antichrist. The local magazine at which I interned asked me to review it, so it was with a heavy heart and negative preconceptions that I boarded a coach to Sheffield on a rainy Friday morning, to see the film.

(What I thought of the film, whilst not the subject of this blog, is sort of incidental: I thought it was Bad. Really Bad.)

On the way back to Leeds, with the film fresh in my mind (and me trying to force it out with Microserfs and Franz Ferdinand) I wondered what snappy words and phrases I would be able to come up with, to describe my thoughts on it. It only occurred to me as I entered the office and spouted my negative opinions to colleagues, that what I thought of the film might actually influence their seeing it in the near future, as well as the many readers of the magazine.

Critics exist because their employers believe that we, as an audience, are hesitant to spend time and money on something that might not satisfy our tastes. Before Joe Public parts with his six quid to see a film, he wants to be assured of its quality beforehand, by someone he’s never met. I repeat: someone Joe Public has never met is paid to dictate to him whether or not he’ll enjoy a film instead of just watching the damn thing and deciding afterwards. Is that not the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever heard? How many conversations have you had that go like this?

“I quite fancy going to see the new Kevin Smith.”

“Really? Only it’s shit, apparently.”

Note the key use of the word apparently there. “It can’t be any good, because someone who has a newspaper column has a low opinion of it.” It’s the Milgram Effect: self-proclaimed authorities on these topics are actually dictating the trends to the general population.

Critics are basically there to say “I saw/read/heard the new Lars von Trier/David Peace/Green Day, so I’ve saved you the time and effort.” It is a shame that critics hold so much sway these days just because nobody has the time to sit and relax with said film/book/CD any more: there’s far too much importance placed on these opinions. Why can’t we just try and enjoy the art ourselves? Just because a critic didn’t take kindly to it doesn’t mean you’ll automatically hate it; how else do you explain those films that got slated by critics but still developed massive followings? I’m sure Antichrist will develop a similar following (of people who’d kiss von Trier’s arse if his next film was 90 minutes of Jack Nicholson sneezing into a fish tank) but it’s not for me to judge. Don’t close your mind off to things you’re interested in just because you read bad things about them in the paper. And if you disagree with a reviewer in future, don’t make it your personal goal to kneecap him/her. Respect your differences and move on.

On nostalgia, part 4: nostalgia itself, being 'on the pulse' and evidently REALLY hating Hollyoaks.

2009-07-07T01:31:00.000+01:00

I was listening to Radio Leeds the other day (cos like Henry Rollins sarcastically says, that’s where I go for the truth), when I heard the DJ mention a survey someone had recently conducted. The survey contains only three questions, designed to find out how in touch you are with younger generations, and their ways. The questions are:

1. How much does a download single cost?

2. Can you name three social networking websites?

3. Name three characters from Hollyoaks.

Seems easy enough yeah? If it’s what you’re into. If not then you might as well give up now and start listening to Classic FM, like some kind of, well…me. I certainly don’t need anyone to come up with questions for me to tell me I’m not in touch with what’s hip and cool. Partly because we all know full well that these questions will not be relevant months from now, such is the cycle of feeling relevant as an exclusive club, but also partly because I know for a fact that I’m not down with the kids. Again, I’m okay with that, especially if it means I have to subject myself to things considered cool at the moment. Lady Gaga, Pot Noodle, whatever. (I plead ignorance to hide the pain.)

Going back some years now, I actually knew what was what. My brother and I used to laugh knowingly when an ‘And Finally’ report on the local news declared Pogs or yo-yos to be the new craze ‘sweeping schools up and down the nation’ because they were actually no longer the ‘in’ thing, at least not to the Pontefract Swish Elite. A full three months after I completed and stored away my own random collection of milkcaps, long past their lame-by-date, we saw them on the news and had ourselves a mini-nostalgia trip. That’s the thing about nostalgia: at a young age when you were automatically trendy (or so far consciously removed from trends that you didn’t worry about them), the gap between past and present seemed like years, but in fact could’ve been as recent as a week before. When you get older you don’t get nostalgic for trends, you get nostalgic for who you were while that trend was taking hold. Many’s the time you hear of someone digging out their flared trousers and recalling The Glory Days. Do you honestly think they’re calling for a return to Disco? No, they’re calling for a return to being seventeen again. The difference is, when you remembered that epic game of Pogs from two weeks previous, that precise point got stored away as a reminder of what used to be. That point or similar is the same one being recalled ten years later when you find your old Shredder and remember exactly how many games it won you. Perspective is the key to nostalgia; it may have felt like a great day when you won, but as soon as you remember your sore opponent threatening to smash your face in unless you returned your prize, perspective sours the memory, and nostalgia scurries away back under the bed.

The more nostalgia (latin: memory ache) you acquire, the less of a pulse you can feel in the present. The more readily you accept that, the less you’ll care when you eventually find yourself walking into a room and having no idea what music is playing.

Incidentally:

1. I have no idea how much a download single costs because I still buy CDs. It’s all well and good having a computer full of music but I prefer to still collect physical, hard evidence of it. And besides, downloading it was only fun while it was (wink wink) free.

2. I can name three social networking websites. If you’re reading this, you probably can too. Well done, now go outside: there’s a three percent chance it’s not raining right now.

3. Unfortunately and due to an ongoing relationship with Hollyoaks’ one fan, I can name three characters from that particular “teen” “drama” “serial”. My three favourite Hollyoaks characters are the next three who die; it’s a travesty of television, comically scripted, badly acted and, ironically enough, embarrassingly un-cool. It’s difficult to be hip and with it when you’re on a three-month delay from script to screen.

Warren Fox just did his actor’s career a favour and died, didn’t he? I’ll start with him, then add Newt (character’s real name: Barry) and Lauren: he’s so Goth he’s shagging a blonde bimbo, and she’s so depressed she’s about to burst out laughing in every scene. Honestly, it’s no wonder Channel Four’s going down the shitter, putting so much effort into impressing the most fickle of all demographics with this utter wank.

According to this quiz, I am 66.6% cool. I’ll dine out on this fact for months. Tune in next time when, in a return to a less-hip state, I’ll be snorting crushed-up Werther’s Originals like cocaine and listening to Max Bygraves on a gramophone.

on the franchise of being aware of your movements last summer

2009-06-30T07:17:00.000+01:00

I Know What You Did Last Summer

I Still Know What You Did Last Summer

I'll Always Know What You Did Last Summer

Shit, I Forgot What You Did Last Summer

I Have Been Reminded of What You Did Last Summer, Bloody Hell

I Have Had What You Did Last Summer Tattooed Onto My Person, To Always Remind Me of Said Summer

I Made A Film About What You Did Last Summer, Such Is My Keenness To Remember Said Doings

I Have Informed The Authorities Of What You Did Last Summer, And They Were Appalled

My Mate Knows What You Did Last Summer But He’s Chosen To Keep Quiet About It

I Know What You Did Last Summer, And It Was Based On A Book

I Know What You Did Last Summer, Now Forward This Onto Ten Friends Or You’ll Have Bad Luck Until Next Summer

I Know What You Did Last Summer, Because You Wrote An Essay About It When You Returned To School Last September

I’m Pretty Sure That What You Did Last Summer Is Related To This Hook I’ve Got Instead Of A Hand, But Please Refresh My Memory All The Same

Surely By Now, The Film-Going Public Is Aware Of What You Did Last Summer

Appendix C: My top 5 chick-lit books

2009-06-24T17:13:00.001+01:00

Mr Commitment by Mike Gayle – Still one of my favourite ever books, because it’s written plainly and clearly, and speaks to everyone. It also doesn’t hurt that it’s written from a man’s perspective and yet is so sensitively played.

Bridget Jones Diary/The Edge of Reason by Helen Fielding. Bridget Jones is the mother of all chick-lit characters. Absolutely vital in my quest for knowledge, as the diary entry-like style of the book offers great insight into the mind of a female woman.

Dreaming of Strangers by Matt Thorne

Come Together by Josie Lloyd & Emlyn Rees – Written from both sides of the love story, man and woman, each in the first person. Cool book, but not very helpful to me as I already knew how not to be a complete bastard to women like Jack started off being.

Ralph’s Party by Lisa Jewell – Enjoyable story about a semi-love triangle, one of those where everyone ends up coming together in weird circumstances and all learn their own weird lessons.

Have you read any of these? What did you think of them?

On nostalgia, part 3: chick-lit and other valuable research.

2009-06-24T17:11:00.000+01:00

It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that college students know fuck all about the opposite sex. They think they know everything, of course; that’s why your mates made up such ridiculous things to impress each other back then, about how good they were with women. I struggle to remember actually having a girlfriend during my A-levels. I could lie and say I was focusing on my studies, but all I was focusing on was playing American football at lunch and getting drunk illegally.

By the time my ill-advised gap year came around, I’d realised I’d fallen behind in the game. At this point the Government was paying my bar tab, on the proviso that I turned up to an office every two weeks with a list of jobs I’d applied for. I met girls at gigs, and impressed them with my inability to sing and play bass simultaneously. I did and said very silly things, depending on both my alcohol intake and how tongue-tied a girl made me. I then realised, too late, that college had been the time to interact with women and, ruing my liver and superior throwing arm, realised it was time to play catch-up.

Around that time a genre of book had started to take off, aimed at young women who sought escapist fantasy and found it in fictional romance. Chick-lit (short for chicken litmus) was big business, and the promise of answers between its covers lured me into its saccharine world.

My mistake? In true geek style, I devoured pages of the stuff to learn how to interact with girls, instead of simply interacting with them. Why the reluctance? The drinks were on Tony Blair, for god’s sake; I could’ve easily got hammered on a Tuesday night (students, eh?) and told any number of girls how much I liked their backpacks. Instead I stayed in, watched CSI repeats and read up on how to Know Your Enemy.

I got a girlfriend, in unimportant circumstances, and lent her one of my Bibles to read on her bus home. The book was Dreaming of Strangers by Matt Thorne; a tale of dreamers who thought life was a film and treated it as such: in the way she sneakily pursued him without his knowledge; in his routine- and care-free life, and in how they come together, all frank discussion and Woody Allen-esque neuroses. My girlfriend at the time hated it. She said it was “shit”, and implied bad things about me for liking it. I’ve read the book a lot of times and she’s right, it’s not a very good book. Yet for some reason in my nostalgic top five it’s in at a solid three, perhaps more due to her reaction to it than the book itself. Her reaction taught me not to take the genre so seriously as a mouthpiece for the female race; look at my top five and you’ll see that just as many men contributed to it, as women.

I like to think that all my crazy ideas about love at that age came mainly from music and television; truth is the bands I listened to were more interested in making fart jokes, and the TV I watched was mostly Jerry Bruckheimer-helmed crime drama. It’s obvious to me now though that the books I’d read were my main source of inspiration. When I got to university I resolved to do two things: talk to more women, and read less. Which explains the grade I got.

on geeks versus nerds part one: The Big Bang Theory

2009-06-12T17:06:00.000+01:00

Paraphrased from the Jargon File, a lexicon maintained worldwide by various students and scholars of computing:

Geek – n.

"A person who has chosen concentration rather than conformity; one who pursues skill (especially technical skill) and imagination, not mainstream social acceptance. Geeks usually have a strong case of neophilia."

Nerd – n.

"Pejorative applied to anyone with an above-average IQ and few gifts at small talk and ordinary social rituals."

It’s true, and I have no problem admitting it; I am a geek. People who maintain blogs and own more CDs than befits the occasional dinner party are definitely in the Geek Region. I rarely refer to myself as a geek, but only because it’s obvious enough in everything I say and do; an unspoken truth. It’s like telling Niles Crane that he’s a bit up himself, or asking Joey Tribbiani if he pulled last night. (And again, only a geek would provide examples using sitcom characters.)

It’s possible that I may take offence at being called a nerd. Not that there’s anything inherently wrong with it, but simply because it isn’t true (did I mention my mile-wide pedantic streak?) My very ability to hold a conversation where I object to being called a nerd should prove that I am not. A nerd would probably shrug and go back to coding or some other all-consuming pursuit of knowledge.

Only from within either of these two domains can people really distinguish between the two terms; ‘outsiders’ tend to bandy about either label without realizing the seemingly subtle and yet enormous gap between them. I am assuming here that Hollywood types, for example, are too busy being rich, successful and pretty damn handsome to distinguish between the two.

And so to what TV execs think is an accurate portrayal of geeks and/or nerds: The Big Bang Theory. I am, of course, referring to the painfully unfunny American sitcom as opposed to the cosmological model of how life began. Bear with me while I try and remember the main characters’ names as something other than Him Off Roseanne (Leonard), The Annoying One (Sheldon), The Quiet One (Rajesh) and The Really Fucking Annoying One (Howard). Then there’s The Annoying Woman (Penny) next door, whose influence on the guys is obviously the friction from whence the humour (supposedly) springs.

By Coupland’s (1995) definition alone, the four main characters are geeks rather than nerds. “Geek implies hireability, whereas nerd doesn’t necessarily mean your skills are 100% sellable. Geek implies wealth.” All four hold down prestigious jobs at the cutting edge of modern science; physics and engineering and whatnot. (I’m not being deliberately vague; I just haven’t watched enough episodes to know what they do exactly.) To my mind, two of the four male characters show nerdish qualities: Rajesh being the prime example. He cannot talk to women. He literally clams up in female company. He’s not exactly verbal in an all-male environment, but when Penny gets involved (with yawn-out-loud conseq…alright, you get it), he is completely silent. Sheldon too is about as sociable as herpes. He is capable of conversation but with no grasp of small talk, dialogue, back and forth exchanges. All he tries to do is get across how everyone is merely wasting his time, better spent theorising or mastering Guitar Hero.

Leonard’s romantic interest in Penny is what brings him nearest to the Dark Side of Normality; he has a small but significant understanding of what it means to Have A Life, and so tries to make connections with those he meets in the hope that they can show him more. Hatred prevents me from saying much about Howard, except that his haircut makes me want to retch and his pathetic exchanges with women illustrate just how badly wrong the TV people have it. If he’s so smart, he’d just need to Google ‘how to pull women’. (And if there’s any justice in the world, the first hit would read “CUT YOUR FUCKING HAIR”.) It’s hard to imagine how Leonard and Sheldon could’ve struck up a friendship in the first place, aside perhaps from out of a mutual pity for each other. Harder still to imagine Raj joining the group, and letting Howard come near them. Speaking as a pedantic geek, I just don’t think a group dynamic like theirs could possibly exist. If you want an example of how well a diverse group dynamic can work, even when throwing (gasp) a jock into the mix, check out MTV’s short-lived but amazing animated series Undergrads.

I think I’d like to return to geeks and nerds in the near future; after all, with one or the other being responsible for the Internet, scientifically and socially the most amazing thing to happen in our lifetime, there must be more to be said.

On knowing your role, surviving high school and exploring the path less travelled.

2009-06-11T18:28:00.000+01:00

The choices you make at high school determine everything: your future friends, your future job, even where you might end up living. If only they’d mentioned this to you at some stage, eh?

Knowing what I know now, and doing what I do now (unemployed with a side order of dark poet and unpopular blog), I wish I’d taken my studies more seriously. Not that I tossed them off completely; I went on to college, picked four A-Levels and tossed them off completely before graduating from Manchester Met with a 2:1 in Film & Media and a first in Watching TV Instead. I wish I’d known at school how much I would enjoy writing now. It’s quite possible that studying an English A-Level would have put me off the idea, and a degree even more so, but like the poem, the path less travelled is taunting me from afar while I lie in my ditch of French New Wave.

I’ve been having all these odd dreams lately about being back at school, sitting with people from my English class and watching films. They’re all talking about books and I’m trying to shush them with a film reel placed to my mouth. (Okay, maybe not, but pretty damn symbolic if I were.) Do I regret the choices I made? Some of them, yes, but it’s much too late to do anything about it I guess; much easier and a hell of a lot more entertaining to tell you about what I got right.

Before I had finally integrated myself into a small group of friends at school after three hard years of trying, I spent many a dinner break in the library with Rufus, who I tried hard to emulate. In order to achieve this I cut down on bad habits such as swearing, procrastinating and having fun. I saw the way he was treated by the other pupils, but to me it was simple: they were afraid of his staggering intellect. It was only once he had finally accepted me as a friend, and invited me to various boring get-togethers with his group of friends, all of who were disturbingly younger than Rufus, that I discovered what I had become. A loser. Now, you must understand that in my 14 year-old mind (and don’t ask what else was in there: it would only disappoint you), I found that I was something below what I wanted to be, and not just in the social hierarchy that is Big School. I felt suppressed and trapped because I had restricted my social exchanges to pleasantries with the teachers (which is social suicide in itself) and homework/study with Rufus. I knew that I needed to do something to feel like myself again and so, possibly subconsciously, I ended up embarrassing him on a remarkable scale. How? I invited him to the pictures along with some kids from my street. We watched Spawn, which was shit (and I remember paying £1.85 to get in. Have some of that, Cineworld), and on Monday morning, he refused to speak to me. It felt amazing. Rufus and I went our separate ways, both out of shame and regret, like a third date gone awry.

I joined a band, as it happened. That’s how I got out of my lonesome funk. Some guys from the posh end of town asked if I played anything; I said no. They said I should sing, then. I said I couldn’t sing. They said who gives a shit? I agreed, and still have some amazing memories of that band. I’m still in touch with all those guys; a couple of them went on to be my best friends though a couple more musical line-ups and many days idled away in beer gardens and bowling alleys. The one main thing I learned at high school was just to be myself, and you know what? It still works. And Rufus? He took on too many A-levels and dropped out after one year. I’m glad I had my priorities right.

on trying to sleep.

2009-05-28T13:09:00.000+01:00

It starts with a tug on your eyelids, checking if you’re awake. You try to ignore it, and pass it off as that weird evolutionary thing we were programmed with so as not to fall asleep in a wooded area full of bears. Having just about dismissed it, you’re ready to drift off back into that dream about Louise Wener from Sleeper at the press conference, saying she’ll shag the next bloke who writes her a riff. (Handy then, that you’ve got guitar in hand, are the closest person to the stage, and know kung fu in case it kicks off with the other jealous men.) Then it nudges you gently awake, the git.

“Alright,” you think, with eyes still closed. “What do you want?”

“I want you to get up and write down that idea I just gave you,” it says.

You sit up and check the alarm clock, sigh, and flop back down.

“Fuck off,” you think. “It’s four in the morning.”

“Yeah, but you’ll forget the idea,” it says. “And you forgot to put that notepad next to the bed.”

“Shit,” you realise. “You made me forget that on purpose, didn’t you?”

“Of course not!” it insists. “Though, it is funny.”

“I’m not getting up,” you think. “Fuck off. Mental note: when you get up, write about…”

“Polar bears?” It suggests, helpfully. “Eric Cantona? Diagnosis: Murder?”

“No, no!” You try and shake off these unhelpful intrusions into your subconscious mind, though the act of shaking it off actually wakes you up a little. Sighing deeply, you decide that maybe you should get the idea down, cos it’s actually a really good idea.

Meanwhile, your girlfriend might have been subconsciously made aware of your internal struggle as she slept, so after it woke her, she decided to watch you sleep cos she thinks you’re cute. So when your eyes flick open, idea burning within them like the reds of the Terminator’s visual inputs, you scare her half to death.

“God, sorry, I’m really sorry,” you say, still half-asleep and mumbling.

“You had an idea?” she says eventually, knowingly.

“Yeah, it’s okay. Don’t move, I’ll get around you.”

Your half of the bed is pushed up almost fully against the wall, so to get up and leave her there, you have to go down the bed. You can just about plant your right foot on the floor at the side, but you need to stretch that big left bugger awkwardly over the rail at the foot of the bed. In its semi-awake state, or maybe just for a joke, your left foot doesn’t get the full extent of the brain’s signals to it. Instead of lifting over the rail, it simply kicks it. In pain but not wishing to give volume to it, you suck in air through gritted teeth, and hop a couple more times while you work out what to do. Your left foot is dead, limp and hanging over the rail. Your right leg is getting tired, and is possibly in shock at how hard it’s working considering the time of day.

And through all this, your brain is still saying “don’t forget to write that idea down about cucumbers. And Halls Soothers. And Cillit Bang.”

“Those are not the ideas!” you curse, your brain steadily coming to life and throwing shit around as is its wont of a Thursday. In desperation you throw yourself at the rail, hook your left foot over it, and plant your left hand on it, so as to pivot you off the bed and onto the floor. Again, your body is a couple of steps behind your brain, so you land in a heap at the foot of the bed.

“Are you okay?” you hear her ask, almost asleep again, from her safe and warm position. It’s not too late to go back.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you moan. “Don’t get up.” Tired now, and in considerable physical pain, you throw on your dressing gown and make it, alive, into the living room.

You boot up the Mac, but it takes thirty seconds, during which time you might forget that idea about…shit, what was it?

COFFEE! Coffee might help! No time for hot water, just eat it!

Luckily, before you’ve had time to reach into the coffee jar, the Mac is ready to go.

Open New Document.

And…yep, it’s gone. So write about how you came to be sitting here instead.

"Tony, Tony Yeboah. Tony Yeboah. Toh-nee Yeboooooyah HEY"

2009-04-23T04:52:00.000+01:00

I don't have anything to write, even though I feel like I should be updating this a hell of a lot more.
You can only be so creative, right? Wrong. Everything you do should be an art form. You could probably eat spaghetti in a really cool and imaginative way if you only put your mind to it. Maybe you're more of a football fan than a spaghetti fan, in which case you should be making up football chants. Right now. On the spot. Go on. And don't try rhyming 'Becchio' with 'Neck-ee-oh' cos that was my idea first.

You don't wake up with a set amount of creativity to spend, do you? It's not a finite thing that you need to get rid of. You get the urge to create, so you create. You can't control where or when or for how long. Many's the time I've got into bed, closed my eyes and had a sudden explosion of ideas in my head. That's fairly annoying, especially in the dead of winter when you're just trying to keep warm under the duvet.

Next month, at my brother's behest, I'm going to try and convince a panel of my peers that football is an art form. My brother hates football. I need to try and turn him around on this, like that BBC Four programme, I've Never Seen Star Wars. I'm going to find my favourite goals on Youtube, and provide an enthralling argument for their aesthetical appeal. The one goal that has stuck in my mind forever was Tony Yeboah's wrong-foot volley against Liverpool back in 199whatever. I'm pretty sure I was eleven years old at the time but it's been indelibly printed on my memory, burned into my retinas and I wouldn't have it any other way. That goal alone should be enough to get my point across; if not, then he's just a bloody philistine.

And this is exactly the sort of thing you should be getting creative about: your passions. Don't waste all that energy on making up excuses for turning up at work late. The more it exhausts you, the more you'll be proud of what you've done. Trust me. It's five in the morning.

on mumblecore.

2009-04-19T05:47:00.001+01:00

I've decided I'm going to make a film. I'm skint, so it's not going to have any fancy production values such as special effects or a decent camera. I can't afford to pay any actors so I'm going to get my mates to do it, some of whom wouldn't know what a good film was if Mcfuckin'G directed its remake, which he inevitably will. Crucially I'm only going to write the film about what I know, which means that my semi-improvised script will contain five minutes of a band playing to an empty pub, twenty minutes of boys sitting about moaning about girls, and an hour of the protagonist alone, surfing the internet and looking for a job.

I think I'm onto a winner here; or at least I would be if it were my idea in the first place. Mumblecore is a genre of Indie film pioneered in North America at the turn of the century that is said to principally contain all the above ingredients. At first glance it seems a bit like the Dogme '95 movement, only with less sex and more beer. Andrew Bujalski is credited with the first Mumblecore film, 2002's Funny Ha Ha, which follows Marnie as she turns 24 and gives it a bit of 'what's life all about?' while chatting up her mate Alex, who looks disturbingly like one of the singers from the Blood Brothers. Thanks to Film4's remit of screening films that absolutely nobody wants to see since becoming free-to-air, I was able to catch this film on a Saturday night/Sunday morning, along with a separate double-bill of the Duplass brothers' The Puffy Chair and Aaron Katz' Dance Party USA.

The primary theme running through all three films, the common strand which holds them together; the very crux of each piece, is that nothing happens. Nothing at all. If you thought Lost in Translation was a bit aimless, you'd cry out of sheer boredom from watching these films.
In spite of this fundamental flaw, the films all appealed to me without exception, and I'd recommend each of them to anyone. Maybe that's only because I'm the target audience (like Marnie I am 24 years of age and completely hopeless when it comes to having a plan) but maybe it's because the filmmakers aren't trying to take the piss out of you like most mainstream films are. Come to think of it, most Indie films are too. Remember in every single Jarmusch film where it drags on for an hour, and then finishes before you know it? Or in Late Night Shopping, where that character with my name acts as if he actually knows anything about women? My Mumblecore film will be different; my Vincent will be…well, probably played by me to be honest. I'm the one who's barely paying for it after all.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mumblecore
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dance_Party_USA_(film)
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Funny_Ha_Ha
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Puffy_Chair

Appendix B - My all-time top 5 Red Dwarf episodes

2009-04-15T12:08:00.000+01:00

1. Polymorph (series III - where the alien takes all their emotions, and Lister has Rimmer's 'mum'.)

2. Gunmen of the Apocalypse (series VI - the one where Kryten gets the virus and they have to go into his head as VR cowboys.)

3. Marooned - (series III - where Lister eats dog food and Rimmer claims to have lived a past life as Alexander the Great's chief eunuch.)

4. Me2 (series I - where Rimmer makes a copy of himself, and they argue all the time.)

5. DNA (series IV - where Kryten becomes human and can't tune his nipples to receive FM radio like he used to)

On nostalgia part 2: Red Dwarf.

2009-04-14T02:44:00.000+01:00

(WARNING: CONTAINS NEW ‘RED DWARF’ SPOILERS ABOUT HALFWAY DOWN. THOUGH IF YOU ASK ME THEY SPOILED ‘RED DWARF’ THEMSELVES BY MAKING THESE NEW EPISODES IN THE FIRST PLACE.)

This post should be a glowing tribute to the programme I literally grew up with; it’s one of the first non-kids’ programmes I ever remember watching. Instead, with the 20^th anniversary programmes being completely lacking in any substance (not to mention laughs), the real reason why I’ve had a pretty crappy Easter lies in the hands of the boys from the Dwarf.

You wouldn’t have thought that a great sitcom could be made out of science fiction; Rob Grant and Doug Naylor thankfully proved us all wrong in the late eighties. Science fiction is basically a morality tale; we’ve got all this cool technology, shall we use it for good or evil? Thinking about it this way, it’s easy to weave in comedic plotlines and impressive visual gags to suit the format perfectly.

Dave Lister is the last human, your average Scouser with no real ambitions; all he wants is to be sitting at home with a takeaway and the girl he loves. Unfortunately his attempts to achieve these things have flown him three million years into deep space with only his (dead) bitter superior officer, a mechanoid with dodgy mind wiring and a vain humanoid evolved from cats as company. Throw in a senile ship’s computer and various alien visitors and you have the basis for what turned out to be one of the funniest British sitcoms of all time. The original writing ‘gestalt entity’ of Grant and Naylor produced the programme together for seven years before Grant left out of a desire to “have more than Red Dwarf on (his) tombstone.” Series six ended on a “TO BE CONTINUED” following a fantastic action sequence in which Arnold Rimmer, professional coward, changed the course of time itself to bring his crewmates back from the dead. At the age of eleven it never even occurred to me that Red Dwarf had writers; writers who may or may not split up following what was one of my favourite moments in the programme’s rich history.

I remember seeing trailers for the long-awaited series seven and feeling a general sense of ambivalence; it seemed as funny as it had ever been, but the switch from previous series’ standard three-camera setup to a shinier film-esque look really threw me. The first episode of series seven was ‘Tikka to Ride’, an episode that I revisited on Good Friday night. It begins with Lister explaining directly to camera how the last series’ cliffhanger resolved itself quite reasonably, thereby eliminating any possibility of a proper ending to that storyline strand. Bit of a cop-out, really. Kryten then pops up to take Lister and the audience on a guided tour of the new and improved Starbug craft; an excuse for Red Dwarf’s co-creator and now sole show-runner to brag about how much money the BBC pumped into the programme since its return to the airwaves. It’s all very nice and swish, but was there really any point? One of the programme’s biggest appeals was precisely how cheap everything looked, so brilliantly mirrored in most episodes by a character’s throwaway gag about how shoddy the whole operation was. (Rimmer: Take us up to red alert. Kryten: Are you sure, sir? It does mean changing the bulb.)

As the credits rolled on ‘Tikka’ way back when, I distinctly remember thinking is it just me, or was that not very funny? The general consensus at school the next day was that new Dwarf had under-performed. Regardless, I still came back every week for more. It may have been crap, but it was still Red Dwarf. (An opinion I still reserve for any programme I love that has ‘jumped the shark’ except The Simpsons. That shit is just unforgivable.)

I have watched series eight precisely once because I thought every episode, without exception, was awful. I just don’t know how it happened, but it did. By series seven’s end Naylor saw fit to return to life the entire crew of the mining ship Red Dwarf. In terms of the rigidity and structure of the sitcom format, this is akin to Alf Garnett ending up with the black unwed teenage mother across the road, or Frasier Crane eating at McDonalds and buying Bon Jovi albums. Not to mention the twin burdens of human responsibility and loneliness on Lister’s shoulders, the accident that wiped out all life on the ship is a cross that Rimmer bears in everything he says and does. By resurrecting the crew, the very fundamentals of their personalities are immeasurably altered.

That’s sci-fi for you, though; a liberty that Naylor took every advantage of when writing a laugh-free hour of new Red Dwarf for digital channel Dave, home of witty banter and constant fucking repeats of the same three episodes of QI and Mock the Week. If the plot’s not making sense, then just throw in a swirly thing or a time-hole and call it sci-fi, instead of writing a decent storyline in the first instance. Following on from an alleged ninth and tenth series (possibly referenced in the hope that they’ll get to make them), the crew of Red Dwarf jump to another dimension (Earth, 2009AD) to discover that they are fictional characters in a programme called Red Dwarf. All notions of clever self-reflexivity and post-modernity aside, this was a serious cop out. As I understood it, the crew would arrive on Earth and bump into Craig Charles on the set of Coronation Street. Maybe he’s just a bloke who looks a hell of a lot like Lister or something. It doesn’t sound like the worst idea in the world when put like that. But no, it falls to Steve Fucking McDonald of all people to let us in on the act. What really got me was how quickly they seemed fine with this devastating truth. “Oh, we’re fictional characters and our lives to date have been nothing but entertainment for the masses. Fair enough. Now where’s that script?”

It’s not only a cop out; it’s shameless. Now that it’s all a TV show, it’s okay to shoot a scene in a comic book/collectables shop where a bloke tells them about how he loves it when Rimmer quotes the wrong Space Corps directive code (and thereby ruining that joke forever in my head, like when Ricky Gervais…well, does anything to camera to show what a big joke it is), while they peruse through the Red Dwarf: Back to Earth OFFICIAL MERCHANDISE. It’s just not right is it? How would you like it if Arnie had put down that chain gun in T2 to sip from the Official Coffee Mug? He can’t even drink fluids! Yet it’s now apparently just as logical to find The Last Human and his cronies down Forbidden Planet, flicking through an issue of SFX with them on the cover.

After ten years off our screens (and thirteen years since it was funny), I really needed this new story to show me why I still love Red Dwarf, and to right the wrongs of latter-day series. It’s not about nostalgia, and it’s not about anniversaries, it’s about vindication. All I got was the horrible feeling that they should’ve left it alone. It needed more jokes. It needed a decent plot. Sod it, eh? It needed Rob Grant.

on being quirky.

2009-03-31T03:47:00.000+01:00

I was just looking at my Damned United ticket stub (I liked it but felt that some of the stuff they left out from the book made it all a bit plot-holey) and made to put it in my wallet when I realised: I've kept nearly every ticket stub from the pictures since American Pie 2 came out. Why did I not realise earlier? I'm a weirdo. It's hard to read most of them now cos they've faded but my collection comprises: (in alphabetical order, and with my own rating out of 5)

American Pie 2 (2)
Austin Powers in Goldmember (0)
Coffee and Cigarettes (4)
Damned United (3)
Dawn of the Dead remake (2)
Die Hard 4 (4)
Halloween remake (1)
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy (2)
I Heart Huckabee's (2)
Ju-on: The Grudge (3)
Lost in Translation (4)
Mike Bassett: Football Manager (3)
Ocean's Eleven remake (2)
Rat Race (2)
Serenity (5)
Shaun of the Dead (3)
Sin City (3)
Spider Man 2 (3)
Unleashed (2)
Wedding Crashers (1)

Shame, I thought there'd be more in there than that. I did also see a fair few films for free (ie ticketless) cos a mate works at Cineworld. I definitely remember seeing Clerks 2 at the Cornerhouse, but I must've thrown that ticket away for some reason, and I probably didn't keep some just cos I forgot.
There's also a gig ticket stub from seeing yourcodenameis:milo in Manchester. How 'quirky' is this habit exactly, that I just do it without thinking? Should I be worried?

On having friends.

2009-03-27T23:36:00.001Z

Face it: the Internet has changed everything. Instead of seeing your friends in real life for a pint, you can drag them all into the same chat window and pretend it’s not your round. You can listen to your own music, safe in the knowledge that it’s a fuck sight better than whatever shit the jukebox in real life pubs will be playing. You can eat crisps from a multi-pack and remark on how much cheaper it is.
But let’s go the other way, shall we? Simply because it’s half past one in the morning and I’m bored. Instead of wasting your time and broadband allowance going on FaceSpace, you can simply carry around a scrapbook which contains photographs of you making silly faces, along with a list of your likes and dislikes, and messages that your friends wrote down which say things like ‘long time no see’ and ‘still not staying in much, are we?’ You can show it to strangers on the bus, and pass them a little piece of paper that says ‘Vincent would like to be your friend. Accept or Deny?’ (And watch those Denys roll in. Not that I’ve tried it or anything.)
Crucially, instead of going on Twitter, you could just stand out in the street, cup your hands to your mouth and shout things like ‘just watched Swingers on Film4, that film is so money.’ It’s okay; nobody’s listening anyway. As much as any of this technology claims to be a vital communications tool, all you have to do is try and visualise a real-life analogy and realise how pointless it is. Nobody makes friends any more because this way is much easier. You don’t even have to leave your house. There’s no chance of hurt or disappointment. The only way it’s possible to befriend complete strangers is to start smoking and forget your lighter when you go outside by law to enjoy it.
I don’t believe I’ve made a new friend in two years now, since I graduated from university. I’ve thought really hard about it, and I’m sorry if you’re reading this as a new friend and I’ve forgot you, but no; I don’t think I have. How depressing is that? I really should be comforted by my old friends, because at least I have those. The variety’s the thing, though, and if you’ve got one set of mates who talk about nothing but Leeds United’s current form and whether or not Peter Crouch invented the Robot Dance (which he didn’t, and I’ll stab anyone who says he did, in a jokey matey way you understand), then it’s easy to fall back on another set of mates who like the same bands you do, to give you something to listen to while you while the night away smoking weed and eating pizza. And if you’ve put on too much weight hanging about with those guys and girls, then there should be yet another group for you to see. Most people I know do have that third option. As of late, though, I don’t feel like I do.
David Gedge once sang that You Should Always Keep In Touch With Your Friends. (I love that song, and have recorded said fact in my scrapbook’s Profile Page.) I always try my very hardest to follow that lyrical suggestion, but one way or another I’m still left finding out about their lives by clicking on their Facebook profile; something that stifles and saddens me beyond belief. Remember back in the day when your social life was the same as all your friends’? That is how you made it work back then, when all of you had some overlapping common ground. Stuck in lectures til four? So’s he; after which you can go for a game of pool. Got a couple of hours free between revision sessions? They’re both in town for an exam; go have a coffee and a catch-up. Maybe Twitter should include some kind of function that frees anyone’s busy schedule in order to make it out for a pint. As you begin to go your separate ways, not only do conflicts arise in schedules, but it gets harder to pin down actual times to meet and plan. You drift apart, and try your best to meet up but it just gets awkward. Sure, you still try to do things out of an ongoing ritual and sense of loyalty, but year by year the attendance dwindles, and you end up alone, wonder whether or not anyone really gave a damn in the first place.
And back to the consolation prize. If these websites were to disappear one day (and I know a guy who knows a guy), we’d all be completely fucked wouldn’t we? I suppose you could always fall back on the mates who avoided these things entirely. What’s that? You ditched those people long ago because they’re too afraid to try new things like the ‘net?
Yeah, me too.

Appendix A: My Top 10 P-Rock Songs

2009-03-22T20:26:00.000Z

1. Hot Water Music - Paper Thin
2. Taking Back Sunday - Great Romances of the 20th Century
3. Beatsteaks - Summer
4. Lightyear - A Pack of Dogs
5. Millencolin - Fox
6. Home Grown - Kiss Me, Diss Me
7. Brand New - Jude Law & A Semester Abroad
8. Avail - West Wye
9. Public Enemy - He Got Game
10.Rancid - Ruby Soho

on nostalgia, part one: P-Rock.

2009-03-22T20:14:00.000Z

Recently I found a VHS tape that a mate recorded for me, three hours of a digital music channel called Kerrang! TV, as I remember requesting. From what songs are on there I will hazard a guess that the tape is from September or October 2001 (Andrew WK, anyone? No?) I struggle though to remember an appearance on that tape by any British band; something that didn’t concern me at the time but which I now see as pretty disappointing. While Kerrang looked over the Atlantic to fill its playlists, they ignored what was growing to be a burgeoning underground in the UK. In November 2002 a new channel launched on Sky Digital which helped to bring some of Britain’s rising bands to the forefront. The channel was called P-Rock, and I can honestly say it changed my life.
One night, as I switched on this new music channel (461 on the Sky EPG if I remember correctly) I watched a low-budget video of a band performing, and its singer screaming passionately the words of the song he was singing. Helpfully, this new channel was so cheap-looking that they didn’t even seem able to cough up for the band name and song title displays, and so I Googled the lyrics I could pick out: ‘white white walls and hospitals/all of us feel trivial’. This new band was called Hot Water Music; the song was called ‘Paper Thin’. And I sat glued to the screen for the rest of that evening, memorising lyrics from all these songs that I found I liked so I could find the bands online and, ahem, pay good money to download each of these songs from reputable websites such as Napster and Audiogalaxy.
As well as the more obscure American bands that P-Rock brought to our screens thanks to distribution deals with labels like Epitaph and Fat Wreck Chords, there were also a great many British bands featured. With the distinct lack of a major label to throw money at these bands, the production values of each promo remained at ‘media student’ level. Search Youtube for ‘Whitmore – On The Ceiling’ and be amazed at the wacky special effects. There’s a bulk bag of pasta twirls in my cupboard that cost more money than this video. Is he using a weed-whacker as a bass? He is! And the other one’s strumming a tennis racket! There they are again, miming away in the car while the drummer uses the driver’s headrest as a substitute kit! Crazy!
A five-second sample of On The Ceiling also served as the channel’s ident theme tune, showing just how heavily invested P-Rock was in these British bands, running alongside advertisements for albums and tours involving a core group of bands who belonged to the Moon Ska Europe label. To be honest, I thought the majority of these British bands, such as the afore-mentioned Whitmore, Graveltrap and Mixtwitch were all utter rubbish, but I respected them all the same for heading up the British side of punk rock. During this time I played bass in a three-piece punk band, and often compared notes with my bandmates as to what new videos we’d enjoyed recently. As we joked about how we could make a better video for a better song than they were currently managing to play at P-Rock, we also admired them for narrowing the gap between band and audience to such an extent that it seemed plausible, even possible to make it on there someday.
The channel lasted less than a year (because British bands don't pull in the advertisers), but it opened my eyes to what could be done for lesser-known bands, in a time before you could chuck songs online for consumption as easily as can now be done. I will always remember P-Rock for introducing me to more of the music that I still love to this day.

Nostalgia: A Brief Introduction

2009-03-22T01:00:00.000Z

I've been thinking about the past. My past, that is, not wars or JFK or anything like that. When I'm sitting on my stoop at 3am smoking tabs and wondering how I got here, it's nice to try and compose a mental list of the pop culture I consumed to get to that point, because it's much easier than wondering about the friends I made, relationships I forged, or if sitting next to a different kid on the first day of high school would've led to drug addiction, or whatever. Point is, video games and music had more of an effect on me than I'd ever care to realise, and it's about time I stopped to have a jolly good think about all that. Consequently, I'm hoping to write a series of gushing essays on the stuff that shaped my heady descent into adulthood: songs I liked, books I discovered, shit like that yeah?

who'll be watching the Watchmen? And why didn't they get it right with Dredd?

2009-03-06T14:23:00.000Z

Yesterday I worked out why I'm nervous about seeing Watchmen.

I was telling my lady how much I used to love Judge Dredd back in the day (and how we got onto the subject? I'd just picked up a volume of the Complete Case Files from the library booksale, 25p mate), and then the sky seemed to darken as I remembered how disappointed I was with the film they made in the mid-90s. I mean, Sylvester Stallone? Rob fucking Schneider? (coming to a cinema near you as...The Stapler) And didn't Dredd kiss Hershey in the film as well? Christ, they were well off the mark.
The truth is, if they'd just made a straight film of his exploits, the plot would still have been boring as hell. Joe Dredd is a very boring man, when you think about it. His one love is for the law (which is why I found the idea of him fancying women ridiculous), he spends routine days chaining perps to posts for jaywalking and other minor crimes, and he never takes the day off. 'Judge Dredd's Day Off', that'll bloody work! Get me Hollywood on the phone!
I was only about nine years old when the film came out. I remember my teacher lending me it on video (with written permission from my parents of course), and then gluing myself to the screen while it played. And even at the tender age of nine, I remember thinking 'well, this is not as good as the comics. His chin's too small for a start.'I caught it again on the off-chance a couple of years ago, and like choosing not to watch your favourite films from when you were a child to retain the magic, I should've stayed well away from it years later.
The point is, it really hurt that they didn't do a good job of it. It really deserved a better go of it than they managed. Yes, the effects were amazing, and yes, visually, it sort of did the job (though the guns looked awful). It was a Hollywood film, though; if they didn't even get the effects right then they're a more incompetent bunch than I suspected.My disappointment with the Dredd film was more to do with a lifelong love and upbringing on the comics, and all the film's subsequent shortcomings. It's got to be pretty bloody hard to impress a nine-year-old kid these days, hasn't it?
And so, fourteen years on, and with more of an appreciation of Watchmen's technicalities and style rather than any kind of deep-seated loyalty to it, I still fear the worst for it. Obviously, the effects will be even more awesome and the story more complex. I just hope it doesn't send me running for the exits early, like Dredd did.

"classical music?"

2009-03-05T14:59:00.000Z

Classical music? Just a bunch of cover versions, innit.

on where NOT to look for the answers.

2009-03-02T12:54:00.000Z

And off I went into the Sunday evening mildness, in search of some energy drink and ten Marlboro, when a song played on my MP3 player. I stopped for a second as I strained to hear the lyrics, and found that some of them actually made sense to me, like I could learn something.

The song? Fucking 'Al's War'.

To paraphrase the late, great Tony Wilson; if you know what I'm talking about, then good on you. If not, you should probably listen to more Gainesville, Florida-based ska-punk.

on having a hobby. (or needing a different one just to stop slagging people off so much.)

2009-02-27T04:13:00.000Z

To my great anger and subsequent internal bleeding, I was just reminded of that old BT advert, where the young girl goes on the computer all the time and the mum worries that "she's...turning into a geek."
Fuck you. And your agent. If you are interested in ANYTHING to such a degree that you've been known to prattle on and ruddy on about it all the time, then you're a geek. You like surfing the net? You're a geek. You like football to such an extent that you can name the entire '92 title-winning team? You're still a geek. It doesn't matter whether or not your hobby is more popular and mainstream, you're a geek either way. In the mum's case, her hobby is being patronised by that twat from My Family in a series of shite adverts.
I didn't explain that very well. Never mind. I knew what I meant, and that's all that matters.

on not believing the hype.

2009-02-23T21:28:00.000Z

True story: I once got out of a moving car to avoid having to listen to the Kaiser Chiefs. Of course there were extenuating circumstances: my mates knew of my then-hatred of them and decided to play Leeds' purveyors of snorecore very loudly on the stereo just to irritate me. And of course, the car wasn't moving very fast; any faster than three miles an hour and it would've been beyond tuck 'n' roll time. The fact remains, however, that I was once their biggest hater. (Another example being the time I shoved people out of the way in a Lincoln nightclub to hasten my exit from the dancefloor, just as the afore-mentioned "mates" pointed at me while the first chords of 'I Predict A Boredom' chimed in.)

I'm not plugged into what 'the kids' like these days, but I put that down to my own unwillingness to find these things out. (Apart from anything else, it would mean tuning my radio to something other than Classic FM, and frankly that shit just won't fly.) Over the last few years, and especially more and more recently though, I've been victim of a cruel conspiracy; designed to point out losers like me to the general population.

It runs thusly; in a news report, or a music programme, newspaper or website, I come across a name of a band or singer. The first example I remember of this was a young man called James Blunt. Before I'd heard note one of his music through my usual channels, I find his name plastered all over the press, his music used in adverts and on adverts for his album. After a couple of weeks wondering just who the hell this clown is and why everyone finds him so studly and appealing, I finally catch a bit of his debut video on MTV.

And lo and behold, I hate it.

But this doesn't stop his name and music being hammered into my skull for the next six months, wherever I look or whatever shop I'm in. Then I find myself wondering 'well, maybe it's just me'. But then, the backlash begins, and as soon as he fails to win a single award that not one month ago seemed to be his fucking birth-right, he's being slagged off by various 'comedy' 'quiz-show' 'hosts' and I end up feeling sorry for the guy. Then, (in this instance anyway) my girlfriend plays me his album, and I still hate it but can sort of see the appeal, a bit. Another couple of weeks, and he's off the radar entirely, doomed to pub quiz questions and their ensuing arguments. A punchline.

Let's do the list: Lady Gaga (who I admit I still haven't heard anything by). The Ting-Tings. The Arctic Monkeys. The Kaiser Chiefs. Franz Ferdinand (fuck, when I heard that Take Me Out for the first time I wanted to slap somebody). The Streets. The Strokes. I'm sure there's more.

My point? Well, as I type this I'm listening to Take Me Out. On my graph of hype vs enjoyment, there are two main factors. Of course, there's nothing so subjective as a band's music, so I'm trying to avoid that potential minefield. There's always a chance that a poor, deluded bastard such as yourself couldn't get into Original Pirate Material.

The first is the volume of hype, and resulting sales. It worked for the Arctic Monkeys. I've got to give the Monkeys credit; the first words out of the singer's mouth on their debut video are "We're the Arctic Monkeys. Don't believe the hype." A few weeks later they achieved the fastest selling debut album in UK chart history. Was nobody listening?
It didn't work so well for the Futureheads. I admit, I loved them as soon as I heard them. I played the CD to anyone who'd listen, and a few who wouldn't. (That was a fun A-level exam.) I'd heard the name a fair bit before I'd actually heard the band, and to this day is a rare example of someone telling me I'd want to have a band's children, and being correct. I really didn't like the Arctic Monkeys to begin with, simply because the amount of hype flew far above my level of enjoyment. I'd had all these people telling me that they'd be my new favourite band (fuck, that reminds me, The Hives really sucked didn't they?) but upon giving them a listen, they just weren't. It was in no way their fault, but I took it upon myself to hate them just for being lied to.

Which leads me to the other factor; time. Ignore the hype, let it die down, give it a few months or years, then come back and give them a spin if you're still intrigued. And yeah, I own the first two Franz Ferdinand albums as a result. Once I'd stopped wishing murder on them for putting out that song which really wasn't as good as I'd been led to believe, I heard Darts of Pleasure (the previous and also next single) and loved it. Damn my fickle nature.

The real question is, how would you rather make it as a rock star? Build a massive underground fan base like the Monkeys, sign your own deal on your own terms, spread out the releases a bit? Or get a single recommendation from Zane Lowe, because you paid him enough? You tell me.

Temp Rules.

2009-01-27T17:46:00.000Z

I will do the job that I am paid for, and nobody else’s.

I will not make you a cup of tea unless you’ve already made me one, or as a favour to you. It is not in my job description to bring you a coffee, nor should it be expected of me. If you’re already in the fucking break room showing me where everything is, then you can easily take a further minute and a half to wait for the kettle to boil yourself. If you don’t like the brew I have made you, don’t walk all the way back into the break room just to tell me what I did wrong.

I will not do the shitty jobs that nobody else can be arsed to do, especially when I have proper tasks that I should be doing instead.

I am suspicious of the assumptions that you have already made about me from my accent and mannerisms.

My jacket may be too small and my shirt too big, but it’s none of your fucking business whether or not I can afford new ones.

Being a temporary worker is my own choice, not my only choice.

I do not give one single solitary shit about how special your child or grand-child is. If I did, I would ask.

I am not interested in being your friend.

I did more work during my lunch break than you did all day, and yet you’re the one who complained all bloody morning about how busy you were. Talking about tennis and The X Factor is only actually work if you’re Andy Murray or Simon Cowell.

It’s fairly safe to assume that I do not share any of your other interests, nor you any of mine. If you insist on singing crappy manufactured pop rubbish all day, then please don’t ask me why I’m humming underneath my breath. (Though if you really must know, it’s to drown out the sound of your voice.)

You don’t know anything about my generation, but sadly I know all too much about yours because I read books for pleasure, not because my MP3 player is broken.

Liking that song about kissing a girl is not as big a deal as you think it is. The more you lecture your kid about it, the more your kid will like it, just to annoy you. See? I do know more about you, than you know about me.

I have had some crap jobs in my time, and clearly you have too.

If I’m doing something wrong, please tell me immediately instead of letting me make the same mistakes for five hours straight, and bitching about it behind my back after work.

Please tell me if there’s anything I’ve missed out. I’m not looking forward to working with you, but I’m here now so let’s try and make the best of it.

The Restaurant.

2009-01-27T17:40:00.000Z

Again, this was written a while back, so sorry if it's not topical enough for you.

“Just because you’re the best doesn’t necessarily make you good.“
- Doug Stanhope

Now if there’s one person I wouldn’t want to go into business with, Enron executives aside, it’s Raymond Blanc. He has one fucked-up head for business. Would you have wanted to open a restaurant with any of those idiots? Kudos to the eventual winners, Michelle and Russell, for the hell they had to go through to achieve their dream, but surely The Blancster knows better than this?
All the contestants, and I mean all of them, made colossal blunders at one point or another. Examples that spring to mind include the Father-Daughter team of uselessness, with their wacky flyering skills and their general lack of competence in running even the emptiest of restaurants, as well as Alistair and James, best friends who can’t even organise a piss in a toilet. How they got to the final is way beyond any realm of comprehension, as is the fact that Raymond reckoned any of them could be not only redeemed, but also capable of becoming ninja restaurateurs.
That’s the trouble with elimination game shows, though. Rather than making an actual effort to scour the country’s eateries and simply offer to buy stakes in those who excel, the producers of The Restaurant would rather just ask any old bunch of well-meaning buffoons if they fancy coming down for a chance to part-own a new place with Raymond “Eyebrows” Blanc, just to be able to make a 12-week show instead of a six-week show. Think of the entertainment value; week after week, some berk drops something, or someone forgets to scrape the cream off the vegan choice. Raymond’s elite inspectors, masters of the Frown, bring back these glad tidings to Monsieur Blanc in order that he can collate a series of sarcastic putdowns for each of the contestants. After a few weeks of dumping the worst three teams into a weekly challenge, in which both sets of finalists appeared more than once, Raymond awarded the Cryers (not their surname, their distinguishing feature) with 66% of a new business. It’s easy to see the programme’s appeal as is; who’d want to watch a well-run restaurant on television? Would Ramsay’s Kitchen Dreams really be worth a watch? Of course not, and so for Raymond’s part, it’s dropping and swearing all over the joint, and joyous ratings which will more than likely see at least one more set of no-hopers vying to con the judges into deeming them restaurant-quality material, twice a week for the rest of all our lives.

Blogging for a better universe.

2009-01-27T17:35:00.000Z

This was written quite a while ago before I was able to upload it, so apologies for mixing up times/dates and not appearing current.

Now I’m not someone who easily believes in fate, karma, kismet and all that codswallop, but just lately I’ve been more than ready to accept that there is a higher power that’s guiding me.
I currently work in a call centre doing market research. Basically I’m paid to disturb people during their evening meals and ask them if they’re happy with their TV reception or their insurance provider. To be perfectly honest, it’s not something I’m happy to do. For one thing there seems to be a level of morality in operation there that I can’t bring myself down to. These people have no problem with lying to customers, misleading them and generally being dodgy. Bill Hicks once said, “If you work in advertising or marketing…kill yourself.” Not to say that I’ve had suicidal thoughts on the job, but the work is certainly something I’ve not been willing to commit myself to. Yet somehow, today marks only the second time in six months that I’ve left my flat, headed for the bus stop in extreme weather conditions, stopped midway and walked home to my cold living room and my girlfriend’s laptop. I will accept any old excuse to miss work (as will my boss, apparently) but I simply don’t feel like it’s in my best interests to continue there. One day I realised, after six or so months of absolute pain and misery on the job, that I hadn’t had the worst day ever, simply because of a few names I’d been asked to call.
You see, my brother died just after Christmas, in 2007. I’ve always done my best to make him proud, and even more so since he passed away. When I’m unhappy about something, I often ask myself ‘what would Marc do?’ And just lately, it feels like he’s been telling me the answers. No answer comes so clearly as ‘have the bacon for tea, it goes off tomorrow’ but y’know. It’s up to me to make my own connections to what he’d want, and I guess it’s all open to interpretation, but I feel how I feel about these things for a reason.
When I make a call at work, I get a name onscreen to go with the number to dial. One day I noticed a pattern amongst some of the surnames. The first three I’d noticed, if I remember correctly, were Butler, Kelly and Gregan. These three, along with several others I had that day, did or do play for Leeds United. My brother and I shared a passion for that team, and the two of us share this bond with our dad, who often chatted to us about the way we’re playing. After spending my entire shift jotting down some of the names I’d come across and trying to make them into a full side, with goalkeeper, defence, midfield and attack, I realised I was looking forward to making more phone calls, just so I could get onto the next name and see if it fitted into my grand waste of time. As a result, the shift passed a lot less painfully than in previous months, and I took away my list, pleased with what I’d dug up. To me, and probably to no one else, it seemed like Marc was challenging me to a little game, and I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Now, every time I find one of these names I add it to a list. My record for a six-hour shift is nineteen. (Instead of ‘shift’ there I accidentally typed ‘shit’. What do you call a Freudian slip when the inference you make isn’t limited to your subconscious?) Unfortunately this is not the only way that I feel Marc and I have communicated during my time at the research company.
In a period of five days, I was shocked to make no less than nine calls whereupon I was informed that the person I was to speak to had passed away. That includes six in a single day’s work. The feeling that struck me most, and only increased each time I spoke to a bereaved family member, was the insignificance of my job. Here was a person who was probably feeling the same intense pain of loss that I had only months earlier, being reminded of his or her loss not by a kind word of a friend or relative, or even from an acquaintance that hadn’t yet heard the news. Instead he was being hit by the fact that he won’t ever see his father again by some fuckhead with a Yorkshire accent who wants to know if he received a satisfactory level of service the last time he was at the bank. I’ve tried to infer a message from Marc on this matter. The sheer volume of dead guys I had to phone upset me greatly, as did losing my brother in the first place. I tried to talk to my boss about it but I couldn’t find the words. She shrugged off whatever I had to say about the small matter of all the deceased respondents as ‘part of the job’. If I feel that my job is so insignificant, I think Marc thinks, why not give it up?
I must confess that I’m disappointed that the people who picked up the phone on behalf of the ex-living were too shocked to be angry with me, such was the impact they must have felt upon hearing the name of the deceased. I expected, even sort of hoped that they might have given me a bollocking, just so that I might have felt something more negative towards what I was being asked to do. Instead, and ever since I started there, I’ve just been numb towards the whole thing. At least if I hated the job enough I might be motivated to try and move on from it, with all the early rising and public transport hell it brings. Instead I dumbly accept the total of 90 minutes between leaving home and arriving at work, like the pensioners on the bus who won’t ask the mean-looking kid to turn his bloody music down.
And just in case my brother thinks I’m getting too cosy in the role, he throws me a curveball. The surnames shared by current or former Leeds players start up with a vengeance, or in the case of the one and only time I’ve accepted an offer of working overtime, I am asked to call (absolutely no kidding) a Mr Deadman. I sigh, roll my eyes and think to myself “alright, you’ve made your point”.
And so I finally feel like my time in market research is coming to an end. I’ve updated my CV, made a few enquiries; I’m even trying to think of anyone I know whose job is cool, and asking them if they’ve got anything else going there. I’ve done my bit, and by my missing work today, Marc has done his. This morning I received a phone call from an agency asking me if I’d be interested in putting my CV forward for a new job. If I’d been at work today, it’s uncertain whether or not I would’ve even received the call. To top it all off, when I returned into the living room I heard the last chorus of the song “Career Opportunities” by The Clash playing on TV. Now that’s what I call a sign.

on the supermarket war.

2009-01-25T15:07:00.000Z

Have you seen the new Tesco TV ads? It comes up with the Tesco logo, and then Jane Horrocks, Martin Clunes et al simply say:

"Tesco. Fuck Asda."

Finally, an ad campaign I can get behind!

Put the sunglasses on, say something stupid, and walk away!

2009-01-18T18:38:00.001Z

Spotted on a CSI: Miami fan site:

"LOL. What would CSI: Miami be without Horatio Caine?"

Good?

Top Ten Film Quotes I Use Waaaaay Too Much In Real Life

2009-01-13T14:18:00.000Z

"Bueller? Bueller?"

"You're so money and you don't even know it."

"A coward you are, Withnail. An expert on bulls, you are not!"

"$9,104. I counted it. Twice."

"Sean, if that's a bar of soap, there's gonna be trouble."

"It is a race! I am winning!"

"I said, NICE ONE BRUVVA!"

"I aim to misbehave."

"For relaxing times, make it Santori time."

"You must chill! I have hidden your keys!"

And now, a word from our sponsors.

2009-01-10T05:21:00.000Z

"Here's the deal, folks. You do a commercial - you're off the artistic roll call, forever. End of story. Okay? You're another whore at the captialist gang bang and if you do a commercial, there's a price on your head. Everything you say is suspect and every word that comes out of your mouth is now like a turd falling into my drink."
- Bill Hicks

Seems you can’t switch on your television these days without coming in halfway through a commercial break. In the run-up to Christmas we had ourselves a bonanza of stars attaching themselves to products and brands to make a quick bob or two. WH Smiths was besieged by the likes of Dawn French and Alan Carr, lending their voices to adverts which featured desperate plugs for their biographies. And you couldn’t go three ruddy seconds without that Scottish bloke off that football programme telling you how much whisky you could buy for a tenner at Morrisons. Is it just me, or would celebrity endorsements work just a little bit better if the Head Plugger-In-Charge was actually an authority in their field to begin with?

According to research by the Pew Centre prior to the 2008 election, 69% of Americans say “if they heard (Oprah) Winfrey was endorsing a presidential candidate, it would not affect their vote." The remainder of those polled is split right down the middle, between those who said they would vote for her choice, and those who would be put off by her recommendation. Winfrey's good name has worked wonders for the many books she's endorsed in her Book Club segments, with one example, Mitch Alborn's Tuesdays With Morrie, having spent 205 consecutive weeks on the NY Times Bestsellers list. She obviously seems to have the populist taste in books, but this study is hard proof that she can't be credited with Barack Obama's victory (as much as she wanted to be).

It all started off so well, too. Trying to quit smoking? Here's the late Yul Brynner. "Now that I'm gone, I tell you: Don't smoke, whatever you do, just don't smoke." The man knows his stuff; he sounds like a cross between Tom Waits and Microsoft Sam, something that can only be achieved with forty a day. And could you really go wrong with anything that Queen Victoria put her name to? Vin Mariani was an early prototype of a certain popular soft drink, Apparently her royal highness couldn't get enough of it, though I'm sure she stopped short of appearing on the billboards, standing under the logo with a double thumbs-up and a testimony: "Vin Mariani: I'm so proud of it, I put Vin's name on it!"

But then, disaster. It turns out that you don't need to be an authority on any subject, you just have to have a recognisable face or voice. Witness Gary Lineker's now fifteen years as the face of Walkers. Is his surname Walker? Evidently not. Does he eat many crisps? Probably only when contractually obliged. No, Lineker's main tie to the brand seems to be the fact that they both hail from Leicester, that giant of industry. In fact, he'll have made so much money out of the deal that it's now in his contract to be able to tell the government to fuck off whenever they complain about athletes plugging junk food. Possibly.
Back to his mate off that football programme, Alan Hansen. How exactly is he qualified to instruct viewers as to which supermarket they should frequent? Where exactly do his skills and experience in the football world tie in here? In my opinion, he's not even a figurehead in his own field, so quite where he gets off telling others how to spend their money is beyond me.

In other cases, this trend of celebrity endorsement defies all reason and logic. Did you know Norwich Union is changing it's name? No? Well, here's Bruce Fucking Willis of all people to tell you about it. Not content with being one of the most famous people in the world, he's okay with putting his face on an advert for a building society. Does he really think he's so unpopular in the UK that he'd do an advert just to get on television? His agent must be fucking useless. And think of the money! Just think how much money the Union will have paid him for this. Does he really need it? Does he knackers. For Die Hard 4 this man earned $25 million dollars and a quarter of all box office and DVD sales! And he's still okay with "Hi, I'm Walter, and I love whoring myself out" ? This man is no longer an artist. (An artist? You say. Really? And hey, maybe I'm a philestine, but I fucking love those Die Hard films.)

So, moral of the story. If you've got something worth saying, you should still keep it to yourself. Much like me and this blog.

Nuts On The Road 2009

2009-01-01T18:04:00.000Z

So. You're at a party, or outside the house anyway, pacing up and down. And oh yeah, it's New Year's Eve. And you've had just that bit too much to drink where you're quite happy to talk to yourself aloud. So you're pacing up and down, smoking the last cigarette of 2008, and somebody bangs on the window, let's say it's your girlfriend's dad, and he points at his watch, and you tell him "two minutes" while you finish the tab. So yeah, you're pacing, pacing and smoking, and you decide to run off a quick list of New Year's Revolutions while you're finishing the cigarette. So you stop and put a finger in the air, and remember, there's nobody else there, but you say out loud anyway:

"One. Get a new job. Any job."

Then you nod, satisfied, and have another drag on the smoke. You pace back up to the patio doors, and back down to the bottom of the garden. Then you look at your cigarette and say:

"Two. Smoke more."

Though you're silently making the concession that no, you don't particularly want to smoke more, but you're not quitting, and you're certainly not making it a New Year's Revolution to quit because that is such a cliche. So yeah, you take a drag, and then a sip of your Fruit-based drink for the lady, and look at the bottle and say:

"Three. Drink more."

Even though you still feel like hell from the last session you attempted on Christmas Eve, where you had to go home early because you upset your girlfriend by being worried about her. And you're making that concession again that no, you won't necessarily be drinking more, but you're not yet at that age where you decide to only drink three times a year; Christmas, New Year and birthday. And besides, you can't afford to go out very often because you can only stand the sight of your workplace for 12 hours a week. So with that settled in your mind, you take another drink and say:

"Four. Go out with my brother more often."

Because he's your brother and you like hanging out with him, and you just know that he's having a legen-dairy evening tonight because the grass is always greener on the other brother. Plus, this lot are a bunch of stiffs, that's not to say I don't like them, but I'm really not in the mood to hear about snowboarding holidays or why Bo! Selecta wasn't funny.

So, you make this list, out loud, to yourself. You make this list to determine that when you find a better job, you'll use the money you earn to buy tabs, beer and the first round on your brother's birthday. Oh, and obviously on Bo! Selecta box sets and a trip to Chamonix. So you put out that cigarette, you take your drink back inside and the people you were standing with are now talking about interest rates.

Happy New Year.

“But you don’t really care for music, do ya…”

2008-12-27T22:49:00.000Z

First things first, I hope this first entry finds you well, post-festivities. Christmas has been and gone, I’ve drunk enough cider to decide that I don’t really like cider, and big celebrity names have (hopefully) realised that nobody really wants to read about their lives.
It is, as ever, important to remember the true meaning of Christmas. It isn’t about the presents you loved or hated, or the family getting together to watch On The Buses. It isn’t even about some bloke who may or may not have been born in a stable to a loving mother and an omnipotent father. When Jesus is blowing out the candles., everyone wants to know who’s top of the pops.
The Christmas Number One used to be such a grand old tradition. Bands would attempt to channel some sort of seasonal goodwill by writing and releasing festive songs; let’s not forget Cliff Richard’s hat-trick of solo songs, or the admittedly decent efforts of Bob Geldof, Midge Ure and Band Aid. The point was, Christmas was a time for songs worthy of being remembered for years to come. Tune in to any commercial radio station at any time from the 1st of December and you’ll likely be bombarded by glad tidings from Slade, Wizzard, The Pogues and their ilk.
Things have soured in the last few years though, as someone tries to use The Christmas Number One as a marketing tool. That tool’s name is Simon Cowell, and unfortunately his last four victims have all gone to number one with not a single mention of Christmas between them.
And so with all their previous success, this year’s Christmas Number One battle was shaping up to be a two-horse race between whoever’s name was read out at the end of the X-Factor final and Peter Kay, keeper of the Garlic Bread. Since his X-factor spoof show aired (and its spinoff single beat the then-winner’s latest single in the charts) there were thoughts that he could get top spot at Christmas as Geraldine McQueen, the Pop Factor‘s winner. Unfortunately for all concerned, her Christmas song was fucking awful.
Then, trimuph! As Alexandra Burke was ordered to cover Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah in an effort to make it four X-Mas number ones in a row, someone decides they preferred Jeff Buckley’s version and tells all their friends on Facebook to spend time and money downloading his instead. Suddenly the long-dead Buckley is shooting up the charts like, well, a dead musician with a song on an advert, and it’s gonna be the closest race to Christmas number one ever!
Only, it isn’t really is it? Alexandra could’ve spent three and a half minutes burping into a microphone for this release, and even then the race could’ve only been perceived as any tighter if Noddy Holder had claimed to have recorded a superior version thirty years ago as the B-side to Merry Christmas Everyone. She was always going to be number one at Christmas. The song she sang had nothing to do with where it charted; only the fact that it was her, X-Factor Winner 2008 and as such, darling of our times. D’you really think Buckley had a chance? Really? Because some students rebelled against The New Tradition? Just think about the demographics. Who are there more of: X-Factor-Viewing Sheep, or Individuals? Sadly, it ain’t the latter.
Next year, let’s hope that some wide boy from London gets a crack at Simon Cowell’s version of the big time. That way, we might get a Madness cover at the top of the charts in time for turkey. Or better yet, a Suggs solo single. Yeah!