ELO

I've had ELO in the car all week. 

Yes, Jeff Lynn, Bev Bevan, the whole lot of dem proggy faux-classical popsters filling up the Focus with their beardy, knob-fiddling sounds.

Thing is when they're not fiddling their knobs and twiddling with their dongles they make the most sublime, extraordinary music. Each of the songs is in equal parts uplifting and beautiful and annoying and irritating.

And, predictably, like the curate's egg, the bad bits make the rest of it entirely unpalatable.

Damn shame.

Snow Patrol

Panic over. Maconie has Snow Patrol as his album of the week.

And he just played Beyonce.

He's standing in on a Radio 2 morning show. He has to play soft-headed music. It's in the contract.

Phew!

Spider in the Bath

I've been living alone all week in a big, spooky, old house. It's kind of spooky when it's dark anyway.

But not quite alone. A spider has been living in the bath, you see.

What's he building in there?

He's moved very little. I've never actually witnessed him moving but I have clues. The fact that he's in a different spot each time I see him being the major one.

You may ask.

But how do I remember where he was last time? 

Well ...

I wondered the same thing myself. If a spider moves in the bath and no-one sees him does he really move at all? 

Well (again) ...

Last night I drew a circle round him with some lipstick ("Sassy" Sexy Deep Plum #60) that I found in the cabinet. When I came back the circle was there but there was no spider within. The spider (Charlotte I call him) had indeed moved.

I had my proof.

He's still there today but the children arrive back tomorrow and no way will they tolerate a bath spider. So tonight Charlotte will have to go.

He has served his purpose.

Coldplay

Is it time for a critical re-appraisal of these turgid sap-rockers?

God I do hope not. 

Otherwise what do we have to believe in?

But I just heard their latest song. It's produced by the great Brian Eno and endorsed by no less an authority than Stuart Maconie who described it as proper lovely. 

And I have to agree,  it was proper lovely. I even thought so and now I want to cry.

Joycean text message

On the late bus home last week, I sent this text to my mate Andy: 

(".g'm giaf mud vulne longt too aides cheese and still jon heroin plot

He considers the above to be a work of Joycean genius and it's vexing him greatly as he says it's "outwith my usual ambit". 

(Read : he wishes he'd thought it up)

He's an idiot. I was merely pissed.

Fever Tree

Sometimes, even though it's only Tuesday and even though it's after dinner and even though it's flippin' freezin' outside, it's nice to treat yourself to a tall, cold glass of Gin and Tonic.

After dinner on a cold Tuesday?

Why the devil not!

If you're gonna do this I'd recommend you don't just use any old brand of gin. You might use Bombay Sapphire gin. 

And certainly don't use cheap tonic water. You might use Fever Tree premium tonic water. 

It's blend of subtle botanical flavours are the very tonic after the malarial warbling of Messiaen.

Messiaen

I'm being battered relentlessly by Messiaen this afternoon. These torturous Radio 3 bastards simply won't leave me alone.

It's really and truly getting to me now. I have a thundering Messiaen headache. 

A Messiaen-ache.

Here's what is going down...

Saint Francis of Assisi (pictured holding bird) has apparently just asked God if he may meet a leper and be capable of loving her. God seems quite keen on the idea.

No clue beyond this except I now feel physically sick and wouldn't mind loving one myself for some light relief.

Still, at least I'm not here to enjoy myself.

Stevie Dunton

Here's ten things about Stevie you might not know:

1. Stevie is pretty young. He's about fifty give or take. More likely take.
   
2. He used to vote for Thatcher but he's the exact opposite of vile and hateful. He voted Thatcher for analytical reasons.
   
3. He's sometimes known as Armstrong. After Neil, not Louis.
   
4. He's not a rocket scientist although he looks like he might be. Neither was Neil, of course.
   
5. He goes on Mr Benn style holidays to places which don't exist. Those places are never quite the same afterwards.
6. Everywhere he goes he's considered very odd but accepted anyway. He's chameleon-like, like a chameleon.
   
7. He's retired now and plays golf every day. Stevie is the best bunker to bunker golfer in East Lothian.
   
8. His record is 94 and he scored that the day he met me fifteen years ago. I'd met him several years previously.
   
9. Every four years Stevie gets the same leaflets about voluntary work.
   
10. Stevie tells the most complicated joke in world. It's about Danny McGrain but could equally be about Lester Piggott.

 

Celtic Pub

Astonishing incident happened in Glasgow on Saturday which, if it weren't for the fact that I'm relating it to you personally, I'd hardly believe myself. It's true though!

I was in a pub near Celtic Park before the game against Hibs. The pub was filled with Celtic fans who were drinking heavily and supporting Hamilton Academicals on the telly.

Despite the fact that Rangers were beating the Accies the mood was good and the beer and (non-secretarial) songs were flowing. Not quite sure if songs can flow but you get my drift.

Anyway, the door flies open and this character, weighing about 18 stone and wearing a string vest á la Rab C Nesbitt enters and somehow - perhaps magnetically, more likely he was well known - commands everyone's immediate attention. 

He brilliantly feigns a double-take before making the following statement:

Sorry lads, I didnae realise this wiz a Paddy's pub.

Before anyone responds he follows up with:

Actually I wiz looking for the Mason's Arms?

As one, the entire pub burst into laughter and when I looked back at the door he had gone (like a Rangers fan in the wrong pub). I can only imagine he was popping into every pub in the neighbourhood to perform his party piece.

It was truly one of the funniest things I've ever experienced and proof, if proof be need be, that there is hope for that great city.

Punk IPA

Is, according to it's makers, Brewdog, a post-modern classic pale ale.

It's tricky to know what they mean by post-modern in the context of a beer. I doubt if they know themselves. 

They might mean:

1. This beer is more modern than other beers. It's moderner.
   
2. This beer is characterized by a return to traditional materials and forms.
   
3. This beer is an ironic self-reference and an absurdity.
   
4. This beer will force a radical reappraisal of modern assumptions about culture, identity, history, or language.
   

But, of course, it doesn't mean any of that. They simply saw an angle, came up with a marketing hook ... cool, punk, kidz, post-modern, beer, money, money, money, money, money, money, ching-ching.

They also, unbelievably, say:

We don't care if you don't like it. 

They is down wid the kidz, see. They don't give a shit 'bout nothin'. The don't give a shit 'bout nothin' dollar is a good dollar. 

Then they kind of blow it and get all sensitive. They say:

The light fruity aroma dominates the initial confrontation; lychee, kiwi and passionfruit all prevail with subtle nuances of cherry and strawberry.

Not very punk is it? Apart from the confrontation part. But these guys must know what they're doing. The sensitive/expensive fruit dollar must be a big dollar these days too.

Other marketing wheezes (aka beers) from Brewdog include:

Hop Rocker - the statuesque lager. 

(Like a lager statue?)

The Physics - laid back amber beer.

(For when you've had a hard day arsing about in the lab?)

Hardcore IPA - explicit imperial ale.

(Dunno, a sex toy. Didn't they ever hear about Fatty Arbuckle?)

Rip Tide - twisted merciless stout.

(For surfer-dude serial killers?)

Paradox - whisky cask aged imperial stout

(Oh do fuck off!)

Brewdog Punk IPA. For the way we live today.

Divine Spark of Music

Currently battling with the workmen over music.

They're outside in the freezing cold and I'm inside where, if anything, it's even colder. 

I won't allow heating on until November. It's my brother's house but still standards must apply. As Eric Morcombe used to say "It's not the principle it's the money".

Anyway, they are playing some shite local radio station, Forth FM, perhaps. The DJ is veering wildly between mid-Atlantic and Edinburgh cooncil-estate twangs and playing music by artists of no fixed ability. Last heard were Westlife and Dani Minogue. Gay music actually.

In here we have proper man's [1] music - Shostakovitch and Rachmaninoff. But they have a big yellow ghetto blaster and drills so I'm having to turn the radio right up. I can see them looking in at me and sharing a laugh. One even pointed at me. 

I think they think I'm gay.

[1] Not suggesting for a minute that gay men are not proper men. I only mean gay as in, like, poofy.

Poppy Man

Y'know I think Remembrance Sunday is a very important day. And the poppy is a potent symbol of how great things can bloom from the most horrible bloodshed and terror.

Further, I'm very grateful to the soldiers who laid down their lives so that my own life and that of my children can be better. I might not agree with the reasons for going to war but I think the remembrance of those who died and were injured is an important principle.

But this Poppy Man idea is just fucking stupid. The poppy is the symbol. We don't need a man covered in fucking poppies as a symbol on top of another symbol. 

Look at him. He's just weird looking. 

And as for the picture where Poppy Man is, presumably, supposed to represent the father killed in action well have you ever seen anything quite so cack-handed and ill thought out in all your days?

  

Sir Alex Ferguson

Manchester United manager and Knight of The Realm, Sir Alex Ferguson showed his extraordinary adaptability during a press conference yesterday by affecting a very convincing Scottish accent.

Ahead of the Champions League tie tonight against Glasgow Celtic, Ferguson, a working class hero,  faltered hilariously when trying to pronounce the name of Celtic's injured Dutch striker, Jan Vennegoor of Hesselink,  before eventually giving up and retorting:

He's no fi CastleMuwk onywey...

The assembled Scottish media pack laughed uproariously and some were forced to retire completely from the press conference unable to ask any further questions.

Betting without Stephen Fry, Fergie would surely be a contender for GLE.

Jock Tamson's Bairns

The Scottish expression We're a' Jock Tamson's Bairns can be translated into English as :

We're all God's Children.

The expression is thought to have been coined in honour of an early nineteenth-century Scottish preacher called John Thomson.

John, or Jock, would apparently refer to his congregation gently as ma bairns before, presumably, enveloping them with fire and brimstone in order to convey the wrath of the Lord on their pathetic, ill-deserving souls. 

Presumably.

Spelling

To those of you who have wrotten in commentating on my spelling mistakes let me say this:

Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae. The rset can be a toatl mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.

Read it and weep, pedants.

Skype

I also don't quite get why Skypers feel the need to tell me where they are. I don't really care. 

With Skype, because it's passed over our intanets, I would contend that it doesn't matter a whit where your intanet (i.e. you) actually are.

Clearly this wasn't the intention of the good people at Skype because there are little think bubbles leading to the comment box.

So unless my good friend here is thinking In Edinburgh (an odd thought!) then why does he have it in there?

Some people, however, know exactly how to use Skype properly. They put what they are thinking in the box. 

Proper thoughts like:

Winner is not one who never fails but one who never quits. 

or 

Save the big old trees for future generations

Proper thoughts.

Lambchop

I love Lambchop. They are my favourite American band.

On my mp3 player (iRiver aka OldManRiver aka OldMan) I have them filed under Rock/Americana. This implies a country influence (yes it does!), and there's one there all right, but equally there's a soul and lounge vibe running through their music. 

Their new album OH (ohio) is a thing of beauty. It may even be their best. 

The artwork on the new album, however, is NOT a thing of beauty and I've helpfully touched it up to make it less séxy for you.

I think I've applied a subtle touch, though, and I doubt whether this will detract from the representational aspect of the piece. You probably hadn't even noticed anything.

Telephone Numbers

People of a certain vintage will, to this very day, answer the telephone thusly:

Town, number (excluding STD) [1][2]

Of course they will say their town and their number. 

I'm unable to clarify this further by giving you an actual example without actually giving away someones number. And intanet rules, quite rightly, prohibit me from doing so. 

With power comes responsibility, my friends. 

I'm not sure why they do this but I imagine it goes back to the days when 95% of calls were routed incorrectly due to one of these implausibly attractive ladies at the exchange plugging the thing into the wrong thing.

One the rare occasions when I personally answer the phone I simply employ the salutation Hullo and make the assumption that the caller already knows the number they just dialled.

I mean they just dialled it.

[1] Subscriber Trunk Dialling

[2] Not, Sexually Transmitted Diseases!

Claudio Monteverdi

I went to Mass today. Or, rather, Mass came to me.

Let me explain...

I listened to a Monteverdi Mass, some of his Vespers and, as if it were necessary, some Madrigals.

Quite extraordinary pieces of work they are too. I was overcome by the spirit of the ... something and was well and truly healed of any spiritual ailments which may have been loitering around.

I'm no expert on this but I'm given to believe that when you go to an actual Mass (one which doesn't come to you) there is no singing. 

Listening to Monteverdi's extraordinary choral settings you begin to wonder where it all went wrong.

Centrifugal Force

Took two kids to the play park today. 

A boy and a girl. I own the girl and the boy was somebody else's boy. 

We had such fun!

First we went on the roundabout and the boy fell off and banged his head but it wasn't my fault. He seemed to be ok so we went on the swings next and went really high. That was ace and nobody even fell off! After that we went on the slide and then we messed up some leaves that somebody (the parkie?) had neatly piled up.

Lastly (but certainly not leastly) we went on the basket swing and went really, really high and I taught the boy and the girl all I knew about centrifugal force.

To wit:  the words centrifugal and force.  Ace!

Ringo

Can we all stop bothering Ringo Starr please? 

Peace and Love and all that but would you just fuck off you pest!

Apparently the great man (sic) is far, far too busy to be dealing with your fawning requests and soon he's gonna stop all together. He's gonna chuck you pathetic letters in the bin. Simple as that.

The deadline is 20 October. Monday. So probably too late to post stuff now...

Only option really at this stage is to pitch up at the cantankerous old misanthrope's gaff over the weekend and get him to deal with your paperwork there and then. 

That's your only real hope. Godspeed minions. 

Travis Review

Now I'm no fan of Travis but I do hear their latest album is alright. Not according to this review from my local paper:

Travis - Ode to J Smith

After a duller than usual 'performance' (her quotes, not mine) at Cois Fharrige I decided that my life would not be any better off by listening to their latest offering. 

Have you ever heard such cheek and nonsense in all your life?

This reminds me of the time football analyst Ian Wright claimed to be "too gutted" by England's latest defeat to do any football analysis.

This reviewer - a Maria Daly - seems to be labouring under the impression that doing her job - reviewing new music - is supposed to be about making her life better.

What a frightful oink of a woman. I mean really...

Sugar

I do know one so-called IT Professional (Him!!!) who takes sugar in his tea.  He must have missed his calling as a plumber or thief.

Back in the days when people used to make tea for each other in the office (the good old days) I'd indulge his sugar affectation but only to a point. I'd put the sugar in his tea but never stir it. That used to teach him!

He's back working with me again but it's no longer the good old days any more nowadays. He doesn't drink tea with sugar. He drinks double-tall skinny-mochas which he buys from a fancy café. 

He's still adorable though!

Emoticons

I suppose emoticons are a necessary evil. I use them myself very infrequently and always punish myself slightly afterwards.

For example, If I'm drinking some hot tea I might hold it til it burns a little. Or I might add a little bit of salt to make the tea slightly salty-ish. This can be offset by sugar but (not being in the building trade) I don't take sugar either. So unless I get the salt-sugar balance exactly right (to delete each other) I just end up with salty-ish/sugary-ish tea. And that can be excessive punishment, really, for a relatively minor emoticon offence.

I only use emoticons when I'm absolutely sure the person I'm talking to won't understand my meaning. For example, if I you asked me if I wanted to go on holiday with you, I would probably say:

Yes ok that's sounds great

You might, incorrectly, think I meant:

Yes ok that's sounds great

(You idiot!)

But to confer my real meaning I might say,

Yes ok that's sounds great

(Not sure why I've gone all blue about it)

Then you'd know I didn't want to go on holiday with you at all.

So they can be useful on occasions when you want to say something but mean something entirely different. Otherwise I don't use them at all. And I certainly never say the word emoticon out loud. I heard someone doing that the other day and, frankly, it chilled me to the bone.

Just one man's opinion of course. If you want to use them, fine go ahead. They're just not my cup of tea. That's my cup of tea up there .

Flight of the Conchords

Interesting question posed on the utterly shooperb Flight of the Conchords last night. Surely the best comedy since Curb Your Enthusiasm (Curb to us tv insiders) last aired.

Jemaine (right) writes a song to cheer Bret (left) up. Bret's been having some size issues after appearing small during a photo-shoot. 

By way of a compliment the song concludes with:

Sometimes when we're on tour, I put a wig on you and spoon you

Bret reckons this is a bit gay. Jemaine counters:

It wouldn't be gay to put a wig on a man and pretend he were a woman.  How could that be gay?  You're pretending you're a woman.

Before adding:

Not that I did it.

I can see both sides of the debate.

1. Is it gay?
   
2. Or just plain weird?
   
3. Or both?

(Three sides)

It's a conundrum all right. 

Pansy Corner

My friend Bob suggested I look at adding some chicken livers to my bolognese sauce. 

According to him they make a difference. I find it hard to imagine chicken livers not making a difference to anything. Except perhaps to a dead chicken.

Here's my spagbol (as the kidz call it!) recipe - one of the few in our house - to recieve equal admiration from both adults and kids.

Take these ingredients, 

• 1 large onion
  
• 3 garlic cloves
  
• olive oil
  
• 1/2 kilo minced beef
  
• 1/2 kilo minced pork
  
• some sun dried tomatoes
  
• 3 tins of chopped tomatoes
  
• good glug of white wine
  
• oregano (dried or fresh)
  
• salt/pepper
  
• nothing else
  

Here's what to do,

Open the wine, pour yourself a glass and start drinking. Put "Earth Wind and Fire" on the stereogramme.

Now Begin.

Take the onion and cut it with a knife into small pieces 
(Arrange the chopped onion in a horseshoe shape)
Peel and chop 2 cloves of garlic 
(Place the garlic in the centre of the horse shoe maintaining the equine theme)
Add oil to large pot and heat over moderate heat
Carefully throw horseshoe shaped onion and garlic arrangement into the oil
(Try to maintain an abstract representation of the horseshoe shape until you start to feel slightly sorrowful)
Add a pinch of sea salt to pot to avoid the dreaded burning garlic
Take the remaining garlic clove and furtively bury it in the garden
(If the neighbours see you I'm afraid all is lost, dear reader)
Fry the onions and garlic until the onions are soft and lovely 
Add the beef, then add the pork
Do not - under any circumstances - allow any lumps to form
(Lumpy bits will not be tolerated)
Brown the meat, add some salt and pepper
Chuck the wine in
After a few minutes add the other ingedients
Stir well ensuring that the mixture has a smooth, silky consistancy
(Reminiscent of a young Johan Cruyff)
Cook on the hob for at least 2 hours, more is better
Stir frequently
Serve with good quality spaghetti cooked al dente, of course

Efterklang

Parades by Efterklang, on the other hand, despite being named after the Danish word for reverberation, offers a much mellower aural experience.

This is a lovely album. And it has a lovely cover. Look!

It's a soothing, symphonic balm which washes away the dank, fetid seaweed and mysteriously shaped pebbles [1] left by my ears previous incumbent. 

To wit: Mr Arthur Blinking Russell.

[1] Using beach metaphors here. My ears are actually relatively clean.

 

World of Echo

If it's an exploration of echo, a dissolution of dissonance, a renaissance of reverberation, a declaration of dub you want then I'd point you, with no hesitation whatsoever, towards Arthur Russell's strange and, to some, beautiful album World of Echo.

Is that what you want?

Nope.

If you'd rather have some Abba or Fleetwood Mac then simply nod politely towards Arthur (for he was a nice man, alas dead now) and his crazy World of Echo and walk on.

I wish I blinkin' well had.

Strictly

Strictly Come Dancing has become so popular, so embedded in the national psyche, so manifestly important to the Saturday night tv dead zone (when decent people go to the pub) that we may happily dispense with the patently unnecessary bit about Coming Dancing. 

We may blithey, archly refer to the programme using it's insider tv name. Strictly.

(See, don't you feel like an important tv exec., now!) 

The great thing about Strictly is it's simplicity.  There's nothing fancy-dan or clever-clog about it. It harks back to a golden age when we were awed and enchanted, happy to sit back, suck boiled sweets and be entertained by any old rubbish.   

Before internet recorders and mobular telephones ruined us and made us all smart-arse-alecs.  

   

MA(us)LE

A startling thing happened on Stephen Fry's rather disappointing American travelogue series last night.

Fry, the Greatest Living Englishman (GLE), was driving Sting, the Most Annoying (unfortunately still) Living Englishman (MA(us)LE), round New York City (NYC) in a black cab.

Words cannot describe my speechlessnessness.

Sketches of Dublin Zoo (in Blue)

Looking at animals. The stop-start (or start-stop) nature of which is really tiring.

Like walking round an art gallery. Without any of the interest.

Hippos stink like billy-o.

Tigers. Scardey-cats hiding in the shrubbery.

Parents. Who let their kids walk up the slide (or only make a half-hearted effort to stop them). Should be shot. At birth.

Seals. Hats off to seals!!! At least they make an effort.

iPod

On the way to Dublin Zoo yesterday I asked my daughter where her iPod was. She told me it was in her pocket.

It is actually an iPod. She got it for her birthday. 

I'm not using iPod as a generic term for an mp3 player.

In case you thought I was.

Hometown Blues

As I say adieu once again to my trusty old hometown a reminder, unfortunately in the style of That's Life circa 19-canteen, that the place is being overrun by illiterate foreign taxi drivers.

Alas, if only that were true!

In the words of Steve Earle:

Won't nothing bring you down like your hometown.

Einojuhani Rautavaara

I'd always imagined that composers, like good writers, know exactly how a piece will end as they work on it. 

Unlike me, they don't just ramble along in the hope of saying something profound (or vaguely interesting) (ok, not overly boring) before, by sheer luck, finding a neat line to exit on.

Surely the best composers have the thing fully formed in their head before they put pen to paper. Gershwin claimed to have achieved that with the astonishing Rhapsody in Blue during a train journey between New York and Boston. The tune was right there in the clickety-clack and rattle-ty bang of the engine and track, he claimed. All he had to do was jot it down. But I think he was fibbing.

One of my favourite composers is Rautavaara who was born in Finland and lives there still. He told me (via the medium of BBC Radio 3) that he has no idea how a piece will end when he begins it. He also has no idea how it will middle. Worse, he has no idea how it will start. 

He just starts writing and hopes for inspiration. And because he's a genius the inspiration always arrives like the proverbial feather on the breath of God. And the music is beautiful and fully formed. 

He talked about having trouble finding an ending to one piece in particular. At the time he had a close friend, a painter, who was dying. When Rautavaara looked at the painting his friend was working on - his final piece - he was overcome by how bright and colourful the paintings' perspective was. His friend wanted a happy ending. Inspired by this he ended his own piece in a similarly uplifting way.

I just visited a friend and he told me he was dying. He said he wanted to make his last days on earth as joyful was possible. He's 57 next week and he wants a happy ending as well.  

ThrappleDouser

35.4 percent!!!

What?

Well...

Deuchars IPA, 3.8

Orkney Dark Island, 4.6

Caledonian 80, 4.1

Valhalla Auld Rock, 4.5

Houston Peters Well, 4.2

Houston Peters Well, 4.2

Fyne Ales Vital Spark, 4.4

Inveralmond Thrappledouser 5.6

Do the math!

Thrappledouser. Oh sooth...

Rhapsody in Blue

This tune was originally called American Rhapsody but Gershwin changed the name to Rhapsody in Blue so that it would sound more like a painting.

It was written in 1923 and was first performed in New York the following year. It became clear to the audience very quickly that this was no ordinary painting. Indeed, it was no painting at all. 

It was a tune.

Gershwin had fooled everyone. The blue did not refer directly to the colour blue as one would apply to a painting. Gershwin's idea was to use the colour "blue" in the metaphorical sense to "paint" the mood of the tune. It was an astonishing success and there is no record whatsoever of anyone being in the least annoyed by Gershwin's little trick.

However, Gershwin died in 1937 when PG Wodehouse hit him with a golf ball. Accidentally, apparently, whilst playing golf.

Costello Music

I used to be a big Elvis Costello fan. Not so much any more.

I just listened to his duet on the new Jenny Lewis album. The album ain't half bad but this track is abysmal largely due to his over-bearing vocals. I wish he'd hold back a little. All this classical training seems to have ruined the boy.

There was a time I'd have listened to Elvis singing the Yellow Pages. Nowadays, he'd be luckly get beyond Alcoholics Anonymous before getting the hook.

Sunshine

I had the misfortune to watch this new BBC comedy-drama last night. Difficult to know what to say about it. Undoubtedly it would have worked better as just a comedy. 

I expected big things. I was told to expect big things. Why not? It starred Steve Coogan and Bernard Hill and was co-written and directed by Craig Cash and Phil Mealey. The team who brought us Early Doors and The Royle Family. So what's not to like? 

Loads, I'm afraid.

It was just so predictable. Predictably predictable. Every single scene plodded inexorably towards the next and we, the viewer, had already trotted on a few extra scenes.  

Coogan plays, Bing, a gambling addict who likes a bevvy. His long suffereing wife, played by Lisa Millet, is, er, long suffering. Bing and his mates work on the bins. And like a bevvy.  Bing gambles most of his wages on the gee-gees. And bevvies the rest away.

To be honest, I only have myself to blame, I didn't do the required "due diligence" on this one. If I'd only read the press release I would have known.

Suffused with warmth and laughter, Sunshine is above all a heart-warming story about how when you reach rock bottom the only thing that matters are the people you love.

How crap does that sound! Obviously they weren't aiming this at fans of Early Doors or The Royle Family. I suspect they knew it wasn't up to scratch. The clue is right here:

...above all a heart-warming story...

But the real problem with Sunshine is that it was a series of set-pieces patched together and therefore lacked any cogency. Some of these set-pieces were quite amusing and certainly had an aspect of truth in them. But the programme as a whole had no truth in it. I simply didn't believe in it. 

I don't think this overly bothers [1] programme makers these days. They'll say:

You don't have to believe it, it's entertainment, escapism. Sit back, be enchanted...

Ok, I don't mind a bit of escapism any more than the next man. But you have to be careful what you escape into. I don't want to escape into a pile of old crap. My life isn't that bad! I demand truth in my escapism.

Note to BBC fiction controller, Jane Tranter: 

Can you please keep more control over your fiction. Make it a tad less fictional perhaps?

[1] as opposed to Everly Brothers

Erik Satie

Satie was a pianist but he truly hated being referred to as that. It just sounded too much like "penis" to his sensitive ears.

Instead he preferred,

pianoer or gymnopedist.  

And later, 

phonometrograph or phonometrician.

And then finally,

onomatopoedist

Anything, in fact, but penis. I mean pianist.

Satie even hated being called Satie. He made up other names to call himself. 

Like Virginie Lebeau.  

When his friends would start to call him Virginie he would pretend he didn't know they were talking to him. Don't call me that, he would complain. It sounds too much like vagina.

And so it would go on like this.

Satie was a contrary old git to be sure. He was absurd. In fact, he was an absurdist before any such term even existed. 

He twice entered the Paris Conservatoire and was thrown out a side entrance on the same number of occasions. His teachers considered him merde and would be frustrated by the slow tempo of his play. Satie would often leave the piano entirely after a note to take some tea before, eventually, returning to play the next one. 

This absurdist minimalism was too much even for the musically liberal Paris Conservatoire.

So he joined the army. With predictably disasterous results by all accounts. All we really know is that Satie left "through deceptive means". Knowing Satie, he probably snuck out through a toilet window carrying a dead halibut down his pants.

Turning his back on the Parisian music establishment, Satie set about forming his own church of which he was the only member. He'd become deeply religious but, of course, absurdly so. 

The church he formed was called The Metropolitan Church of Art of the Leading Christ and he immediately promoted himself to Purcer and Master of Chapel.

This role seems to have consisted of producing religious pamphlets which he dispatched to Saint-Saens and other leading composers of the day. Apart from that he dressed in a sack, grew a beard and composed melodies lasting several hours.

Then he inherited some money, ditched his pious ways, and became a dandy about town. Within a few months he was known as "The Velvet Gentleman". 

That's what he called himself anyway. Everyone else just called him an absurd old penis. 

I mean pianist.

Predictive text

Does it really believe I'd be suggesting a few quiet 'riots' with my mate on Thursday? 

Doomed

I just received intelligence, from a very informed source, who just walked into the dining room in which I'm working, and then out again, that we're all doomed. 

Doomed I tells yi. 

Apparently a large acorn has just alighted in the city.

The economy is on the verge of a complete meltdown and the whole country is likely to be bankrupt by lunchtime.  The whole world will soon follow. I believe Iceland [1] has already gone.

The banks are all phoning the chancellor saying:

Darling, we need your help.

It sounds very serious. I think I'll have another cup of tea.

[1] the country, not the supermarket

6 Music

Oasis week this week. On the much vaunted BBC 6 Music. I can hardly contain my excitement.

 

They've been playing tracks from their new album and it's a pile of old plodding poo. It really is. Every single aspect of. Don't even bother doubting my word on this. You may doubt my word on all other matters.

 

They've also played tracks by Ash, Coldplay, Keane, Kaisers Chiefs, Snow Patrol and Cake. This is Steve "Lammers" Lamacq I'm talking about. I thought this station was supposed to be, at least a bit, cutting edge. This kind of pathetic sap-rock would be lucky to cut the edge off a hanging chad.

 

I've just emailed Lammers to this effect. This is not the first time I've emailed him. I've done it a few times now. Once he removes his head from Noel Gallacher's freshly irrigated colon he'll probably read it.  And weep.

 

Dostoevsky and the Bish

In response to Christopher Hitchen's book: 

God is not Great 

The Archbishop of Canterbury has written a book called:

God is so Great 

So that's one-all. We're no closer to knowing the truth.

Perhaps a famous agnostic will soon publish:

God might be Great

And then we'll be even more no closer to knowing the truth.

The Bish bases his argument on Dostoevsky, whose work runs rich on religious themes and ideas. The key ideas that Dostoevsky advanced were: 

The necessity of faith as our only salvation in a non-rational world

The futility of basing our deepest convictions on anything else

Which I understand as:

Faith gives us something collectively to believe in and this allows us to endure when strange things happen.

What we needn't do, he seems to be saying, is actually believe in God. For therein lies madness. We must be content to believe in belief. Collective delusion for the greater good.

Rowen Williams seems like a decent, intelligent bloke. Is this really what he's saying?

  

Safe landing

Had quite a flight yesterday. A bumpy descent through the low clouds which had my palms quite sweaty. It felt like we were simply hurtling towards the ground. I even put down the paper so I could concentrate fully on proceedings. 

It seems much more likely to me that a crash would occur if I were blithely reading a paper rather than staring out the window waiting for a crash to occur. Thus I influenced the matter and we appeared from the black clouds worryingly close to the ground.

Then we landed gently,  like a feather on the breath of God. 

Joke In Ear

Enjoyed reading the transcript of Joe Kinnear's most recent press-conference. 

Hilarious stuff. It opens:

JK: Which one is Simon Bird (from The Daily Mirror)?

SB: Me.

JK: You're a cunt.

SB: Thank you.

I always thought of Kinnear as a bullying, old-fashioned style of football manager. An anachronism. I still think that. But now I'd add comic genius to the list. 

Sarah Palin

Sarah Palin is hilarious. Or she would be if she weren't so tragic.

She's female you know and that's why she's running for vice president. 

Isn't she adorable? She's such a cutey-cutey. And bright as a shiny little button. She can memorise and regurgitate facts with a mere 14 hours of coaching every day. Leaving loads of time for being folksy and cutesy and just plain old lovable.

But she doesn't really need all those boring old facts. When backed into a corner she can always fall back on her feminine cooky charm. 

This clip is hilarious(ly tragic).

Word Verification

I understand the point of word verification. It's to stop pesky machines from posting comments on world wide web logs [1] such as this one here. You might think this is a tad paranoid but believe me these non-humans are desparate to join the pointless chit-chat. They're dying for it.

But they can't break the code. They just can't. It's beyond the daft ciphers.

And you know what. I know how they feel. I can't make head nor tail of them myself.

[1] yes, blogs.

Decorum

Was out drinking last night. Catching up with an old mate who is forty-six. 

But I think I should just stay in from now on though. The whole going out business isn't working out for me.

Nothing was right. I complained about everything. The choice of beer. I was forced to drink guinness which fucks up my system due to the chemicals. That creamy-foamy head is not naturally occurring, my friends. 

But now I'm even complaining about unexpected stuff:

• The stools were too uncomfortable. 
  
• The light was too dim. 
  
• The tables too tabley.

Comme d'habitude I snuck off early. I jumped into a cab and apologised for my boozy breath. My driver congratulated me on my sense of decorum and then tried to heal me with some God. I told him that I had not been blessed with faith and that I envied him. He seemed satisfied with that so we listened to some Curtis Mayfield and got healed that way instead.

Tattie-heids

The Irish government have introduced a radical new plan to guarantee bank deposits up to 200 thousand euro.

The British government are not happy about this accusing the Irish of economic nationalism and, worse, simply not being British. 

This led to frantic phone calls from the British chancellor, Alistair Darling, to his Irish counterpart, Brian Lenahan.

Like this one I intercepted last night:

Brian, you can't do this, it's ... it's ... it's just not fair...

Darling, we have to do something, it's just not working out...

But, look, Gordon asked me to call he's really, really quite cross...

Darling, I wish it had worked out differently

Bloody, bloody ... bog-trotting ... tattie-heids!

I'm so sorry, Darling.

Solar Panels

Was toying with the idea of getting solar panels fitted. They look really cool don't they.

But my house is north facing. So unless I had it turned round [1] the solar panels would be at the back. Where the sun lives.  And nobody would see them except the cows who live in the field at the back. 

What would be the point in having cool solar panels that only cows can see?

[1] this is a non-starter apparently.

In Darkness Let Me Dwell

John Downland was born in England or Ireland, fucking ages ago. Apart from this fact, not much else is known about him.

Dowland's music is often regarded as melancholic and lachrymose but that was just the fashion back then. If the plague didn't get you a big septic sword would likely lob your head off. The average life expectancy, fucking ages ago, was only six. Dowland exceeded this by a whopping four years and was brutally poisoned by a tree shrew at Epping Forest at the ripe old age of ten. By the age of ten a man was expected to have achieved much. Dowland achieved much more than that.

My favourite Dowland album is "In Darkness Let Me Dwell". On it's release this album was banned by the Cathoic Church for being "extremus upbeayte" (extremely upbeat) and "ungodley" (ungodly). The ban on this album was not lifted by the Vatican until 1983.

Listening to the album today you can still see what the fuss was all about. This, remember, was during the dark ages where subservience to God was the pinnacle of man's existance. But Dowland believed in much more than this. He believed in fun. He believed that God had placed him on earth to make people happy. To sing and dance.

When you listen to the opening songs:

Lachrimae Verae

Weep You No More, Sad Fountains

...

It's impossible not to smile. You'll move on through:

Flow My Tears

I saw my Lady weepe

...

By then, believe me, you'll be dancing as if listening to Earth Wind and Fire before heading out to paint the town red.

After the title track:

In Darkness Let Me Dwell

...

You will be as far into the depths of pure unadulterated joy as any human being should rightly go.

But this was not an age for joy. Aged eight, Dowland was chastised and brutalised for having the audacity to include a pun on his own name in one of his songs. The consort piece:

Semper Dowlands, Semper Dolens (Always Dowlands, always doleful)

...

Was considered inappropriately jolly and deleted with all due haste.

Like, Liszt, Dowland was a man out of time. His music stands as a testimony to unbridled joy in a time of religious intolerance. 

In these days of recession and hardship, I think we're due a run on Dowland.