The Angriest Man in Crouch End

The Importance of Proof-reading

2011-09-27T08:14:00.001+01:00

No-one should ever have to worry about giving the Cross a good bum.

Packaging

2011-04-13T21:53:00.002+01:00

I've just bought these contraceptives, I mean, lightweight bicycle innertubes. If the front of the pack isn't enough, I ask you to read the back of the pack.

Wait - what? Performing maintenance? What? This is sexually INexplicit. I'd hate to think what the Italian or French translations read like.

I'm just glad these arrived mail order, in discreet packaging and that no-one was looking over my shoulder when I opened it up.

The Baby Monitor of Fear

2011-01-05T12:01:00.002Z

Parents often tell of the fear that their baby monitor brings, as they anxiously listen for every movement or sleep-grunt their offspring makes. Well, imagine the fear that that I feel when this is accompanied by the sight of my baby monitor in the dark. To complete the terror, imagine the red eyel, imagine the fear that that I feel when this is accompanied by the sight of my baby monitor in the dark. To complete the terror, imagine the red eye flashing repeatedly while the green eye fixes you with a cold and constant stare.

The Baby Monitor of Fear

A Christmas Apologia

2010-12-22T16:35:00.002Z

Right, let's get a few apologies out of the way

I didn't get around to writing any Christmas cards - for this I am sorry. This is on account of my uselessness. Merry Xmas anyway.
I haven't done a Christmas CD this year - this is on account partly of my uselessness, but partly on the fact that I'm now a father in my thirties and consequently haven't listened to any new music at all. I could probably do you a CD containing all the new music I've listened to this year, in total, regardless of whether I liked it or not, but I suspect this would just be rubbish. By way of a replacement, I'm just going to point out that the Stooges' I Wanna Be Your Dog is chock-full of sleigh bells, but isn't in the slightest bit Christmassy. I think the fact that one of my cultural references is a song from 1969 is proof that I am now too old to listen to anything new. The other thing I was going to say was that I really liked the Dirty Projector's cover of "As I Went Out One Morning", but I don't think vicariously liking a 1967 Bob Dylan song really counts as the most 2010 thing in the world either. Ah well.

I will leave you with two seasonal thoughts:

All these strikes and the snow reminds me of 1978, The Winter of Discontent, when the binmen and gravediggers went on strike. What a sad state the country was in: we couldn't even bury our rubbish, and the dead bodies were piling up on the streets uncollected.
Why would anyone refer to "bigfoot" or "sasquatch" when you can call him the abominable snowman. Honestly people, how often do you get to say abominable, let alone in relation to a snowman? The English language, great and varied as it is, has given us no more beautiful term.

Warning

2010-11-05T22:12:00.003Z

This warning came on a bag of screws with a flat-pack table.

If, however, it's warning me of the dangers of ghostly apple-headed babies, well, I'm ahead of them there, as I suspect are you.

Tiger Woods PGA Tour 11: New Features

2010-07-15T13:24:00.005+01:00

I've been lucky enough to have had a go on the new Tiger Woods PGA 2011 game. I thought I'd run through some of the key differences between previous versions so you can see what's new:

New Contrition Mode: accurately simulates handwringing and looking rueful with new EA© Sorrowometer©
Fully Immersive Emergency Press Conference Mode featuring accurate simulations of top golf writers and seedy tabloid hacks.
15% more shots of three-time US Open©-winner Tiger Woods looking stern and sad, as though his past indescretions weigh heavily upon his broad, successful shoulders (see picture above).
Now features no women golfers, just to be on the safe side.
New voiceover of your dead dad, expressing his dissapointment in you, after every shot you play.
New unlockable feature enables you to appease both sponsors and wife with a press release through your manager
New downloadable content allows you to keep your game up-to-date with the latest leaderboards, world rankings, weather conditions and steamy sex scandals.
Balls now harder to hit, reflecting your mental anguish.

Rage, Articulated Adequately

2010-07-12T19:01:00.003+01:00

A mother who will now think twice before she insists they all go on a family visit to Grandma's again.

Reptiles!

2010-04-06T12:06:00.002+01:00

I'm not sure whether this counts as advertising, or a desperate cry for help.

Tesco the Terrifying

2010-02-20T13:06:00.002Z

Why would Tesco choose to advertise their cat litter with poorly stuffed cat? A poorly stuffed cat that died of malevolent anger? And why, for the purposes of this photoshoot, mount this insane giant of an ex-cat on a wall, looming down over you?

I honestly don't know, but when compared with this image from some Tesco dessert we ate a few weeks ago, you've got to have your suspicions about them.

Xmas Compilation CD 2009

2009-12-13T17:11:00.007Z

It's that time of year again - Compilation CDs will be out in the post just as soon as I'm able to copy the CDs, write the cards and print off some stickers. Merry Xmas everyone!

1. Andrew Bird – Fitz & Dizzyspells

Starting, as is traditional, with someone I know absolutely nothing about, I assume that Fitz and Dizzyspells is a firm of solicitors specialising in Employment Law and those cases where old ladies leave millions of pounds to their cats. It’s a good song, and I could have chosen pretty much anything from his Noble Bird album.

2. Stanley Brinks & Wave Pictures- End of the World

A lovely sweet rambling number with (oh yeah) extended solos. He’s ex- of Herman Düne, stars of last year’s Xmas CD, and Stanley Brinks may no more or less be his name than André Herman Düne, which is what he was called last time he was here.

3. God Help the Girl – God Help the Girl

Slightly uneven but still interesting album, but it works best where it’s piled on thick: strings, syrupy vocals and the preoccupations of a teenage boy (I mean girl, it's written from the point of view of a girl, and it's not like Stuart Murdoch has just written one of his standard songs and flipped all the genders. P.S. I WAS BEING SARCASTIC).

4. Bishop Allen – The Ancient Common Sense of Things

By far the best thing on their otherwise excellently titled album, ‘Grrr...’, this is pretty nice, isn’t it? Gawd knows what the name of that xylophone-type instrument is called; a xylophone, perhaps?

5. The Duckworth Lewis Method – Jiggery Pokery

OK, so to appreciate this track you do need a certain amount of cricketing knowledge, but once you know that this is a song written from the point of view of tubby England batsman Mike Gatting about the first ever ball Shane Warne bowled in the Ashes which turned impossibly and got Gatting out, you can appreciate the Noel Coward-ly wordplay of Neil Hannon from the weirdly good cricketing concept album released with Tendulkar-like timing during the Ashes this year. Whew, that was a long sentence – I fell I owe you some more punctuation for getting through it: .,.,.,..,,.,
Perhaps it’s not too much of a claim to suggest that this is the only single-delivery test cricket-based pop song to feature the words ‘contra bassoon’. I’m happy to be proved wrong.

6. Hot Chip – Take it In

After their disappointing album from last year, this bodes very well for the new one. Having not laid sight on them recently, I’m unable to let you know whether the lead singer still dresses like Brains out of Thunderbirds, but it’s hard not to like the chutzpah of a band releasing a teaser to a new album which starts like a doomy militaristic New Romantic band writing their ‘serious’ song for their album. As my music player wryly notes: “Genre: Electronic”.

7. Annie – I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me

I probably haven’t given the newish album a chance yet, given that I was so enamoured of Bubble Gum that I went out and bought (yes, bought) her debut as an import because it didn’t get properly released here for literally a billion donkey’s years. Although in fairness to me, her record company didn’t seem to be too bothered about listening to it either, given that they apparently took about two years to release this one. Poor Annie.

To further confuse matters, I’ve put I Know Ur Girlfriend Hates Me on, which was released as a teaser for the album, but didn’t even make it on. Shame! Still, what more do you want than a song that steals Prince's inability to spell and also the stop-start bit from Kiss?

8. Phil Phillips – Sea of Love

Ok, this one only gets on by virtue of being from 1959, which is 50 years ago this year. He doesn’t really make the best use of the ‘sea’ metaphor, but makes up with it in doo wap, which is a fair trade-off in my book.

9. Belle & Sebastian – The State I Am In

Last year, I put a song that didn’t make the B&S BBC sessions album on the Xmas album. This year, to atone for that contrariness, I’m putting one that was on that album. You could accuse me of liking early B&S too much, but I’d just drop my pencil case and faint in a mixture of shock and under-nourishment.

10. John Martyn – May You Never

Poor old John Martyn died at the beginning of 2009. He was brilliantly inventive with guitar delay pedals and mumbly slurry vocals that you can’t really hear. Neither of which feature on this remarkably well enunciated track from Solid Air.

11. Dirty Projectors & David Byrne – Knotty Pine

From the actually good charity album Dark Was the Night, I know little about this track as I can’t find the CD case, sorry. I believe that it’s a part of David Byrne’s ongoing project to collaborate with every living person who has ever picked up a musical instrument. I wish him well.

12. M. Ward – Let’s Dance

I was going to put something on this CD from his new (cheery) album, but I heard this on the Adam & Joe show the other day and thought I’d put this on instead. I particularly like the way he deals with the tricky ‘If you should fall...’ section of the song.

13. Shakira – She Wolf

This is the inaugural Kirsty’s Korner Khoice track – selected by my better half of the fairer sex – and she’s plumped for Shakira’s brilliantly raunchy attempt to better Werewolves of London, including at least one aa-woooooooooooooh, and some wolfy heavy breathing. Her English dictionary is once again put to excellent use – look out for the unexpected coffee machine simile, and her biologically dubious assertion that nocturnal creatures are not so prudent.

14. Bob Dylan – O’ Come All Ye Faithful (Adeste Fideles)

It’s hard to be surprising in a near fifty year career, but his Bobness manages it here, putting his own unique Bob DylAN intoNATte-e-ON on latin, killing that dead language deader than the ghost of Christmas past in a particularly wooden stage adaptation of A Christmas Carol. It sounds very much like it was recorded in one take, without having had the benefit of seeing or singing the lyrics beforehand. Merry Christmas everybody!

Highlights from the Index of 'Welwyn Garden City Past' by Tony Rook, 2001

2009-11-19T15:22:00.003Z

I've just moved to Welwyn Garden City, which is exciting. In order to learn more about my new surroundings, I googled, and found a book called 'Welwyn Garden City Past' by Tony Rook. Well, I found a copy of the index to the book. Here, mainly for my own amusement, I have provided potted highlights of the index here:

Black Death, 51
bus services, 87
cemeteries, 14-15, 18, 19, 58
chalk, 6-7, 9, 12-13
Chamber of Commerce, 95
‘Moo-cow Chapel’, 62
match manufacturers, 92
Norton Abrasives, 95
Wrestlers’ Bridge, 33, 34

This tells the story of the town I now live in pretty well, I think.

Crows Redux

2009-07-28T16:20:00.006+01:00

Yo. I just wanted to alert you to this report in The Register, which should strike fear into the hearts of, er, me.

Some additional crow facts that have recently come to light through scientific research:

A crow was originally the main character in the New Testament, until focus groups found him to be an unsympathetic character, and he was hastily replaced by Jesus.
Crows are one of the few animals alongside man and horses to be able to whistle. Most crow species choose not to, however, being the contrary beasts that they are.
Bob Crow, head of the RMT union, is actually a pseudonym, chosen to make him sound more menacing in negotiations than his given name, Bob Canada-Goose.
Crows: Bejeesus, they're scary.
Crows illegally file share more than any other genus of bird, save for the Wireless Duck.
The American crow is very susceptible to the West Nile Virus, a disease just recently introduced in North America. American crows usually die within one week of acquiring the disease with only very few surviving exposure. Crows are so affected by the disease that their deaths are now serving as an indicator of the West Nile Virus’ activity in an area.
Wikipedia is interesting, but not funny.
The common expression 'stone the crows' belies the fact that crows don't care much for getting high, preferring instead a good single malt and an episode of Inspector Morse.
Crows think they is all that.
But they ain't.
The courtship rituals of Corvus corone or the Carrion crow are so disgusting that they'd make your hair turn white, unless you're a crow, in which case they make your feathers turn black, handily.
Crows generally use second class stamps, believing that most post doesn't get there the next day anyway.
Crows.

Pretty exhaustive, eh?

[Crow photo from Kohei314 on Flickr]

Watchmen - a link

2009-03-05T15:20:00.003Z

I don't often just post links, but here's a link:

Watchmen as a Saturday morning kid's cartoon.

The only trouble is, the animation is too fluid and well drawn.

Deadpan Conversations: The Semi-International Edition

2009-02-25T13:00:00.001Z

(Scene: A bustling Post Office, in which the day before I had bought some Euros, and today was coming to buy some more)
Post Office Man: Hi.
Me: Hi.
POM: Euros?
Me: Oh. Yes please.
(We then deal with the mechanics of buying Euros, the dazzling thrills of which I will spare you.)
POM: They've gone down today. Yesterday it was 109 for £100, and today it's 110.
Me: I should have waited for tomorrow.
POM: Maybe.
Me: But that'd be gambling, right?
POM: I cannot guarantee anything.

Phone the Crows

2009-02-24T15:41:00.004Z

I've recently had the joy of talking to a lot of utilities companies, one after the other. I will share with you my experiences. You are not allowed to refuse this sharing; just take it like a man.

Thames Water had the longest wait, and worst hold music. The most Geordie voice was supplied by BT, and the most chipper was provided by Alliance & Leicester. The most surprised to be receiving a call was Hackney Council, and the most likely to be the inspiration for an Eastern European work of allegorical fiction was TV Licensing. 0844 is the area code for the moon, isn't it?

The Onion knows my fears: Crows.

(Incidentally, I love it when articles from the Onion turn up on Snopes when people have forwarded Onion articles, and they then get accepted as the truth - I believe anything I hear
about crows, so I'd swallow this wholeheartedly. Crows...)

(photo from faithfull's flicker stream.)

Traffic Warden vs. Estate Agent

2009-02-13T16:08:00.006Z

I'm flat-hunting at the moment. I'm not going to moan though. Let's just take that as read. I will, however, share with you an experience.

We were looking round a flat with Daniel, a fresh-faced estate agent. Just as we were coming out of the flat, there was a traffic warden ticketing Daniel's car. This sight almost literally blew my mind: A traffic warden ticketing an estate agent's car. In terms of moral conundrums involving stereotypes of most-reviled professions, that's like seeing a high-priced libel lawyer punching a tabloid journalist, or observing a politician receiving a telemarketing call.

(I've just googled 'most hated professions', and am disappointed to find that 'Richard Branson' doesn't feature amongst any of the top tens I could see. I assume this is some kind of statistical error.)

Postscript: With a little grovelling, Daniel got off his ticket. I'm going to apply for a slot on 'Thought for the Day' to discuss the moral meaning of this. Listen up!

Photo from Fin Fahey off Flickr.

Boro Bear! In the Flesh! Or is that in the Fur? Ha!

2009-01-13T16:27:00.005Z

Right, they said it will be a cold day in hell before I make two posts in a day, but balls to what they think - I have important news. If by 'important', you mean 'fully grown man dressed head to foot as a curious footballing bear'.

Yes, this is your chance to go to Stevenage and meet Boro Bear, the mascot of Stevenage Boro, without any of the attendant risks of being forcibly ejected from the stadium for pitch invasions and given a lifetime ban.

He will be at (gasp) Asda on Wednesday lunchtime between 11am and 1pm, (thrill) the Westgate Centre on Thursday afternoon between 1pm and 3pm and at (oh my giddy knees) Tesco in the town centre on Friday afternoon between 1pm and 3pm. If you're under 16 (and let's face it, you're not - that was such a long time ago that you can't even remember if you ever were 16),
you can get free tickets for Saturday's game off him. If not, you can just give him a big hug.

Pigeon Deaths and the Games People (Don't) Play (Any More)

2009-01-06T10:48:00.006Z

One morning recently, I came into the office, and a feather floated down past my window. I thought, ah, that's pretty. After a couple of seconds another one fell. Ah, I thought again. Then some more came down. I went over to the window and looked up; there was a crow, picking savagely at the corpse of a pigeon.

Then, later that same day, I was walking through the park, and I see one of the local schoolkids, who must have been about 13, cooing to some pigeons and throwing it some breadcrumbs. In her other hand, she held a large stick. Fortunately, the pigeon was too quick for her.

If I was living in a Shakespeare play, or was myself a pigeon, these would be OMENS.

In unrelated news (unless he's taken to slaughtering wildlife and gorging himself on their corpses), my friend Chris has set up a blog to document his attempts to give up video games for a year. While I applaud his efforts, I've a feeling that he's going to be living vicariously through me, and asking me for ever more detailed descriptions of the games I've played, while he drools and struggles to control his thumbs. He's doing it for charity to boot.

Game Over Blog

(Photo from nakolah)

Xmas Compilation CD: MP3s

2008-12-30T16:58:00.002Z

I've had a request. Apparently, they're so backwards on the other side of the globe that CDs haven't caught on yet. If, due to your being in Australia, you would prefer your Xmas compilation in one of the three following alternative formats, please drop me a line (jabber (at) theangriestman (dot) com) and I'll do my best to oblige:

Special edition heavyweight vinyl remastered by blind audiophile experts in a soundproofed former nuclear bunker

MP3s

Sheet music (arranged for trombone or zither)

Hope that keeps you all happy enough to have a happy new year.

It's the 2008 Annual Christmas Compilation CD Sleevenotes! Whoop!

2008-12-12T16:23:00.006Z

Yep, it's Christmas; yep, it's compilation time. 2008 is the year that I Right some Wrongs, and deal with Death and Dylan Covers. They'll be in the post over the next few days probably. Here's what's what:

1. Emiliana Torrini - Big Jumps

Can't beat a bit of life-affirming pop sung by someone who sounds like a five-year-old, can you? She wrote Slow for Kylie, if you can remember back that far. Yes, Kylie Minogue; she's the sister of Danni who wears make-up on X-Factor.

2. Feist - My Moon, My Man

Inexplicably left off 2007's compilation, perhaps because she'd got herself on the ipod advert with '1, 2, 3, 4' and I'd had the misfortune to be stood in a PC shop where that was playing a 5-second snatch of the song, looped for eternity. Yes, that was probably why I left her off. Anyway, this is still great after a year, even though I'd like to ask her that although her man, like the moon, is changeable, is her man also changeable in a predictable 28-day pattern whilst affecting the tides of the sea?

3. Monkey Swallows the Universe - Bloodline

Well, a year ago I'd just started to get infatuated with this band, and hadn't got their second album 'The Casket Letters' yet. Well, I got it, and then went and saw their lastish gig, and bugger me if they aren't still brilliant and deserving of a place on the Xmas CD.

4. Sister Rosetta Tharpe - Down By The Riverside

Well, you can probably guess this isn't from 2008. Oh, and apologies for the shitty quality audio - I've had to rip this version off youtube, because it's a better version of the song than the one I've got. Someone recommended her, and fairly quickly I remembered her from the sequence in 'Amelie' where she has a little snippet of a performance on a video she gives to her neighbour. It was either that or it was in 'Ghost World'. Anyway, man, that's a good solo. Made me want to stop studying war.

5. Estelle ft Kanye West - American Boy

Survives the moment where Kanye says the word 'bloke', which is testament to its quality. Does include the single incidence of the word 'ribena' cropping up on a record, though. I also like that it shoehorns in trivia - I now know that Kanye West is 5'7".

6. Colin Meloy - Pregnant for the Last Time

In which I Right a Wrong: I was only alerted to the 'Colin Meloy Sings...' series of EPs because he'd got a new record out in 2008. However, sod all that, I'm putting this on, from the '... Sings Morrissey' album, where he does impassioned acoustic covers of Moz (including some pretty obscure b-sides, like this).

7. Belle & Sebastian - This is Just a Modern Rock Song

In which I Right another Wrong: a pretty good compilation of the BBC sessions of B&S has just come out, but for some completely unfuckingfathomable reason, they chose to put on just about everything they did except for this song. Apologies for the poor quality, but it's taped off a radio, then copied as extra tracks on the bootleg version of Tigermilk that I was so super-happy to find at a record fair, in the distant past before they got round to releasing the album properly. Not only am I Righting a Wrong, but I'm also getting to wallow in some nostalgia. Lovely.

8. Iron & Wine - Lovesong of the Buzzard

It was a fight between this and a song of his from the 'I'm Not There' Dylan coverfest soundtrack album. This won out, but only because I've got too many Dylan covers coming up. The lovely woozy sound of this song shouldn't disguise the fact that it's about punching kittens in the face - what a bastard. What a hairy bastard.

9. Joan as Police Woman - To Be Lonely

Somewhat against all my natural inclinations, I've included a slowy from the new JaPW album. I literally had to chew my own right hand off to prevent it from putting 'To America' which ticks many of my boxes: a great big build up of a song (tick!) with Rufus Wainwright cameo (tick!) and then they go and throw a horn section at it (tick!) as it explodes in the final half.

I'm much slower typing one-handed, I hope you realise.

10. School of Language - If There Is Something

[I'm going to do something pretty clever with this compilation soon. Just watch out for it, ok?] School of Language were great at the Green Man festival, all angular clever-rock in the rain, like Tortoise with some songs. However, I've slapped them squarely in the face, cos this isn't one of theirs from their excellent album 'Sea From Shore', but a cover of a Roxy Music song off their first album. It's not massively far off the original, but bollocks to that - I like it. It's just nice to hear someone else sing 'growing potatoes by the score' in a desperately impassioned way.

11. Bryan Ferry - A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall

Ferry, the twat, released an album of Dylan covers this year, but he should just have released a forty-track double-album where every track was this one. Trust me, it would have been better. This song is probably top of my charts when it comes to being put on repeat and listened to several times.

12. The Black Keys - The Wicked Messenger

Which brings me round to another Dylan cover off the 'I'm Not There' soundtrack. I'd ideally liked to have had Bob Dylan covering a School of Language song in the style of Bryan Ferry so that I could disappear up my own arse in a puff of smoke and self-satisfaction, but I'll settle for the Black Keys bringing out the monotone dirge off 'John Wesley Harding'.

13. Sons & Daughters - Darling

Where the ghost of Iggy Pop thrashes around in a ball pool, while the White Stripes take notes from the sidelines.

14. Bo Diddley - Bo Diddley

Included because Bo Diddley died this year. You have to respect a man who refers to himself in the third person in song.

15. Harry Nillson - Coconut

Included for no good reason other than I enjoyed this in 2008. Known to me from the Muppet Show, where Froggy bought a coconut, and needed his flipper ache relieving. I don't know of any medical trials to determine if putting de lime in the de coconut is the cure for the symptoms brought on by putting de lime in de coconut, but I'm prepared to take Harry on trust here. Curiously, this is not the maddest thing on the album 'Nilsson Schmilsson' - there's a 7-minute bass-heavy wig-out that wins that crown, although that isn't perhaps as raciaially insensitive as Nillson's 'black' voice on 'Coconut'.

16. Scout Nibblet - Dinosaur Egg

I went to see her again this year, and she looked like an angry librarian. I had to fight down the urge to put on one of the two duets with Bonnie "Prince" Billy, both of which are excellent. I just had to include this because of her pissed-off voice and the 'million people coming over on Friday'. April, you can skip this track if you like, eh?

17. The Cave Singers - Helen

These were brilliant when I saw them live - lots of nice interlocking intricate guitars. I think they were also all sat down, which was probably nice and relaxing for them. I can't remember properly, but I'm assuming they all had beards.

18. Billy Bragg - Levi Stubbs' Tears

Tangental Double Death Song - Levi Stubbs, lead singer of the Four Tops, died this year, as did Norman Whitfield, Motown songwriter. I've done a quick check, and everyone else mentioned in the song is alive, which is lucky for them. For the chorus of this song, Bragg somehow manages to make reading the production info off a record heartbreakingly bittersweet. He stopped short of reading out the copyright notice at the end - that's the sign of a classy songwriter.

19. Micky & Sylvia - Love is Strange

Those of you with a sharp ear for such things will probably guess that this wasn't recorded in 2008. I heard it on a documentary about Joe Meek, and it took me ages to track it down. Then, when I had tracked it down, I heard it on the soundtrack to 'Badlands', which would have made it considerably easier to find. Grr.

And that's it: 2008 ends with annoyance. Happy Merrymas everybody!

Previous Christmas CD compilations in this series include:
Christmas 2007 pt 1
Christmas 2007 pt 2
Christmas 2006
Christmas 2005
Christmas 2004

Swears

2008-11-14T10:15:00.002Z

[Yeah, alright, so I've not posted for a while. By way of apology, I offer this pifflingly short post.]

I've just overheard someone say 'fucking heck', which seems like the most brilliantly pointless piece of daintiness I've ever heard.

No Parkiniging

2008-07-20T19:57:00.009+01:00

I shouldn't offer too much in the way of commentary for these photos either. Taken after inadvertently venturing into an industrial estate in Bow instead of getting back on the River Lee.

Confirm This Person as Your Friend?

2008-07-16T10:01:00.008+01:00

I offer you this, from my Facebook friends request page, without further comment.

Emmanuel Add A Byelaw and CROWS!

2008-04-20T12:28:00.005+01:00

At the gym yesterday, I was watching the Arsenal v Reading game. My gym is actually within spitting distance of the new Arsenal ground (not that I'd recommend testing this out on a match day), but there I was, watching it on a tv with the sound turned down and the subtitles on. I love live subtitles, mainly for the excellent spelling mistakes. Highlights were 'Adebayor' appearing on-screen a couple of times as 'Add a byelaw', which is just poetry, and the surprising revelation that the commentator had, in his time, seen Robin Van Persie 'explode three kids into the back of the net'.

As you probably know, I'm crowphobic*. My therapist, the reassuringly expensive Dr West Coast-Mainline, suggested that to overcome my fears, I had first to confront them. So I did: the bastard crow knocked me to the floor and pecked me in the face. Well, at least I tried that before I confronted my fear of aggressive drunk rugby fans and my fear of drinking bleach.

*I just looked on the internet, and there doesn't seem to be a technical term for 'fear of crows'. I can only assume that this is because fear of crows is such a rational and universal state that it's taken as read.

[photo from Tommy Martin's Flickr page]

Glastonbury Tickets Simulator

2008-04-06T12:07:00.003+01:00

Upset that Glastonbury tickets have probably sold out? Disappointed that you won't be able to waste a whole morning trying to buy tickets? A fan of instant nostalgia? Desperate to click on anything you can find, such is your clicking frenzy?

Then you'll be glad that I've set up the Unofficial Glastonbury Tickets Pain In The Arse Simulator. Have fun. Remember, you'd have to be pretty fucking stupid to think that this will get you tickets.

Snowübermensch

2008-03-26T20:54:00.006Z

Above are photos of the snowman my brother (aged 26) made at the weekend. So terrifying, I've lost my fear of the scary, scary crows.

Crows - the Facts

2008-03-22T16:07:00.006Z

Walking through my local park, I've noticed that every time I go, there are more and more crows. Sinister, evil crows. In honour of this, here are some...

...Crow Facts:

Crows are the only species to have been inducted en masse into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame, back in 1993, along with ZZ Top and The Pretenders.
Crows are forbidden to stand for election under the Representation of the People Act (Crows in Parliament, Never Again Amendment) 1864 although they are permitted to operate as election agents.
The old nursery rhyme goes as follows: "One for sorrow/Two for joy/Three for a girl/Four for a boy/Five for a - Christ, I'm being attacked by fuckin' crows, help me, Jesus help me, they're pecking at my eyes, mercy, the pain".
Crows are incapable of feeling pity, shame or the simple joy of tickling a baby under the chin and hearing it gurgle.
Lily Allen invested the profits from her single, "LDN", in a crow farm near Haverstock. For what dark purpose, we can but speculate wildly long into the night.
Crows be whack.
Following research by Glasgow University in the late 1970s, crows were found to be intolerant to eight of the major active ingredients in Kia-Ora, leading to disclaimers to be added to all advertising materials for the soft drink.
Crows are disdainful of Mozart's later work, except for 'The Magic Flute', which they really quite like.
Crows, if left to their own devices, will eat upwards of 600 blue tits in a sitting.
Legend has it that if the crows ever leave the Tower of London, it will give the ravens a bit of bloody peace, what with all their caw! caw! noises and that.
Crows mate for life, but still advertise in the personals columns of newspapers as they are all bastards.
Crows only received two stars out of a possible six when reviewed by Time Out London recently, prompting furious debate on the letters page. An apology from the editor was printed after it was pointed out that crows weren't in fact a new French restaurant in Hampstead whose entrees left the reviewer and his dining partner wondering whether the chef could even locate France on a globe.
Shakespeare incorporated at least eight rude puns about crows in his plays.

[Crow photo by Cukimuki]

Tom the Dancing Bug

2008-02-21T11:28:00.005Z

Jim here. Just a quick recommendation - check out Tom The Dancing Bug (a comic). It's always good. As it's on Salon, you might have to watch an advert first, but it's well worth sitting through any any amount of eyefuckery to look at good comics, eh? And if you agree with me, subscribe to this feed which I've set up with just this comic on, so you'll always know when a new edition is available. Jim out.

Alan Shearer: a Joke

2008-02-01T11:42:00.000Z

Here's a joke I made up about Alan Shearer. Well, I say joke; it's more a thinly veiled outpouring of hatred. With a punchline.

Alan Shearer was tragically killed in a freak punditry accident on Match of the Day (Alan Hansen escaped with minor burn-marks to his v-neck jumper). On his way up to heaven, he meets St. Peter at the pearly gates. St Peter says, 'Alan, we've been watching your good work and sharp shooting here from heaven, and God would very much like you to sit at his right hand. What do you say?'. Shearer, though, refused to say anything, but friends of Alan Shearer later made it known that Alan would not consider being anyone's number two, and that after he'd completed his deity coaching badges, he would be in the running for the top job.

Human Rights, Human Wrongs

2008-01-31T11:43:00.001Z

At work, I've been sent a copy of the Ministry of Justice's new publication, Making Sense of Human Rights. Unsolicited. Anonymously. I've got to worry about my reputation at work if someone thinks that I'm likely to break any of the following articles: right to life, prohibition of torture, prohibition of slavery, right to marry, etc. Oh well. Probably time to disband the forced-labour factory I've got going on in the basement, producing humorous parody books based on popular bestselling books. The nation will now sadly not be receiving such satirical thought-free gifts for its birthday as My Autobiogwaffy by Russell Braahnd or the significantly less harrowing A Child Called Twit by Dave Bestselzer. It's political correctness gorn maaad.

Where's Wally, Monkey gigs and International Year of the...

2008-01-14T10:53:00.000Z

Hey hey. I went to undoubtedly my best gig of the year (so far) on Friday: Monkey Swallows the Universe at Bush Hall. They were very good. They had balloons and glockenspiels and jangle and dresses and waistcoats. At the end of the gig, Nat from the band took a photo from the stage. You can see the balloons I mentioned earlier. Your real task, though, is to spot me in the above photo (click it for bigness). I'm standing next to Chris if it helps. Think of it as Where's Wally come to life, except he's taken to visiting indie gigs rather than Middle Eastern bazaars. Possibly less of an international publishing sensation too.

The answer is here, people.

Oh, and happy new year, 2008 of course being the UN International Year of the Potato.

Deadpan Conversation at a Pub, With Fascinating Insights into the Male Psyche

2007-12-20T10:30:00.000Z

Scene: A pub.

Ian: Which is your favourite barmaid?
Chris: That one.
Jim: That one.
Ian: The one at the end.
Jim: Ian, that's a bloke.

Xmas Compilation CD: Part 2

2007-12-17T15:52:00.001Z

Well, as promised in the first part of my sleevenotes, here is the second part of my sleevenotes. Man, that was a smooth introduction. And some ugly jpg deterioration above. Oh well, it'll do for now.

12) Queens of the Stone Age - Make It Wit' Chu
Feel familiar? Well, for reasons not entirely clear, QOTSA have re-recorded the track they did with PJ Harvey on one of the Desert Sessions a few years ago. Still a good song though, and nice to hear again. Perhaps they could re-rerecord it with Peej again and rerelease it in time for my next Xmas album? Thanks guys.

13) Operator Please - Just A Song About Ping Pong (On The Prowl Version)
And here starts the Shouty Girl Vocal Section of the evening. I wasn't previously aware that beef jerky had an aftertaste, and I thank them most kindly for the information.

14) Robyn - Konichiwa Bitches
Not that it's The Single, but I like this, and it ends with a punchline and is fun.

15) Thomas Tantrum - WhyTheEnglishAreRubbish
This came to me via Marc Riley's 6music radio show, and is also great. I told you this was the Shouty Girl Vocal Section of the album, didn't I? If not, you might have guessed by now.

16) The Ting Tings - That's Not My Name
Further shouty stuff. As mobile phones have saved us the bother of remembering phone numbers, I think the next generation of mobiles will also remember people's names for us, which will come in handy, and avoid the need for songs like this to be written. Shouty segment over and out.

17) Blonde Redhead - Top Ranking
I inadvertantly saw Blonde Redhead this year, and they were great. I didn't realise they were a trio with a weird twin brothers/husband and wife dynamic. Must make intra-band squabbles fun.

18) The Killers - Tranquilize (Feat. Lou Reed)
Ooh, it starts off moody, doesn't it? Warning: Contains a creepy child chorus. Terrifying. I was going to include Digitalism's D.A.N.C.E. on here, which also has a creepy child chorus, but Winamp decided otherwise. Listen out for the bit near the end when Laughin' Uncle Lou starts to sound like a near-death Johnny Cash. Mrs Reed, take out that life insurance now.

19) Devendra Banhart - The Other Woman
Yeah, it's another track from Devandra B, this time a weird dubby little thing. If you go to his website you can play dress up with him, which is bafflingly entertaining.

20) Rufus Wainwright - Going To A Town
This was a real grower on me when it was released as a single earlier in the year. Very well-judged lyric, and the vocal is nicely resigned. If I had produced it, and I can't quite picture the Some Mothers Do Have 'Em-esque chain of events that would have led to that happening, I would have had him do an extra verse where he sighs the lyrics. I'd also put disco keyboard stabs and kick drums and cowbells and an oompah band and a choir of creepy children.

21) Joe Dassin - Les Champs Elysees
Coming in on the home straight is the song about which I know nothing but was in a film I saw (The Darjeeling Limited), and made me leave the cinema singing in an out-RAY-ge-ous Ferr-ench accent, which can only be a good thing. Unless you happened to hear it. Anyway, there it is. I imagine somewhere out there in the infinite monkey typing pool that is the internet there is a Frenchman sat with a laptop in a cafe, fag dangling precariously from his lips, writing densely intellectual criticism of a track called The Mall. Even better, I'm now going to cover this song with my newly formed Dixieland jazz trio, Jim McKenzie & the Offended Parties, changing the chorus to 'Oh, Holloway Rd/Oh, Holloway Rd', and thinking up they lyrics to the verse on the spot. Playing unappreciated at a pub near you soon.

22) The Flight of the Conchords - It's Business Time
Have I cornered you in a pub or party recently and subjected you to an intense conversation about how great Flight of the Conchords is? If not, consider yourself lucky and experience the virtual version of my drunken enthusiasm, presented here in the elegant form of one of their songs what I got off their DVD using the awsome power of technology. This song is even better in the context of the episode it's from. If you've not watched it yet, that oppressive feeling of guilt is the feeling of me judging you, quite hard.

Archivists amongst you may want to note the tracklistings to previous years' Xmas Compilation CDs and spot themes (like how I always put I Want To Make It Wit' Chu on all of the compilation CDs, and won't stop until it replaces our national anthem at sporting events):

Xmas 2006
Xmas 2005
Xmas 2004

Xmas Compilation CD: Part 1

2007-12-13T15:46:00.000Z

If you've been good to me this year and I've got your address, you should be getting a copy of Jim's Arrogant Summation of the Music of the Previous Twelvemonth in the post soon, along with a card wishing you a happy Christmas, and probably something positive about the new year. In order to whet your appetite, here's the first part of the tracklisting (more to follow soon):

1) Joan As Policewoman - The Ride
Here's a sentence that might baffle: Joan as Police Woman is one of Anthony and the Johnsons. Colorless green ideas sleep furiously. Anyway, she's one of the Johnsons. Like Richard Hawley, it's a surpise when people step out of a backing band and are great.

2) The Whitest Boy Alive - Inflation
I'm going to have to cut and paste this guy's name - Erlend Øye - because I don't think I can make my keyboard perform such Norwegian gymnastics. He's a King of Convenience, and this is off one of those albums that all the tracks on it are so similarly produced and instrumented that it's a bit much to listen to the whole album, even if the individual tracks are good. I've gone for this one over the single, Burning, for the simple reason that this track is named after an economic phenomenon, and there aren't enough songs named after econonic phenomena. Except for U2's touching ballad 'House Price Falls More Widespread (Credit Crunch to Blame Blues)'.

3) Decemberists - The Perfect Crime 2
This may have come out in 2006, but I think it was a single in 2007, and anyway, it's my party and I'll put slightly out of date tracks on it if I want to, OK? Unexpectedly funky, in a taught white Talking Heads way. It's the best funky assassination-pop tune since the Baader Meinhof album.

4) Rilo Kiley - The Moneymaker
You could force a point and claim that this was also named after an econonimc phenomenon, but you'd be pushing it, frankly, boyo. Also unexpectedly funky. I like it when funky comes up and surpises me. Just so long as Craig Charles doesn't creep up on me and surpise me. I wouldn't like that one bit. It's unlikely, because you'd probably hear him going 'Awoooga! Awoooga!' from quite some distance away, and then reading out emails where people tell him how great he is: "Craig, love the show, you're a legend! Cheers, Dave in Rotherham".

5) Modest Mouse - Dashboard
Hmm, it's all the usual suspects isn't it? Well, it's either me or popular music which is stagnating, and I DON'T THINK IT'S ME. I'm a fucking fountain of youthful experimentation, me. Anyway, slightly disappointing album considering Good News For People Who Like Bad News was (to use ebay terminology) an 'A+++++++ Top EBAYER!!!!1!' and also that they've got Johnny 'Johnny Marr out of the Smiths' Marr. Still, this is good, and so's some of the other stuff, and I like the imagery.

6) Laura Cantrell - When the Roses Bloom Again
One of the Great Things about 2007 has been Bob Dylan's Theme Time Radio Hour. I love it when he reads out the lyrics to the song he's just about to play. Also when he reads out a joke in that deadpan drawl of his. Also when he just reads out a list of examples of the theme of the show: 'The theme this week is letters. Here are some examples of letters: Love letters, bank letters, capital letters, letters of recommendation, letters of resignation...' Actually, that's a good theme. I'll write in and suggest it. Anyway, this was a track I heard on the 'Flowers' episode, and it's gorgeous.

7) Herman Düne - I Wish That I Could See You Soon
Also gorgeous is this. In fact, if you take one thing away with you from this CD, let it be this song. I am a huge fan of it. I love the way that singer David-Ivar Herman Düne sings exactly like Leonard Cohen only better, and how the arrangement is exactly like Leonard Cohen, and the bit where he goes 'and the angels go:' and then the backing singers kick in just melts me like butter in a frying pan. Sorry, I'm a bit hungry. It's under 3 minutes, too: perfection. Put it on repeat.

8) Robert Wyatt - A Beautiful Peace
Not really representative of the rest of the album (Comicopera), but its whimsy tickles me. Anyway, it's only short, so SHUT UP.

9) Monkey Swallows The Universe - Martin
If you've seen me recently, you'll have noticed the worried, drawn look to my face. This is because I've had the impossible task of trying to whittle down which Monkey Swallows the Universe track from their album 'The Bright Carvings' is the best. I still don't know. This is just an interim choice. Also complicating matters is the fact that this is a 2006 album and they've also got a new record just out called 'The Casket Letters', but I've not got that yet. And - Arrrk! - they've just split up. Damndamndamn. OK, well, I've just booked tickets for their gig on 11th January at the wonderful Bush Hall, so who wants to go? Really, who wants to go? It'll be great, and I promise I won't cry. Actually, I promise no such thing. Sorry for the running commentary. Anyway, my Google calendar now alarmingly says 'January 11th Monkey Swallows the Universe 7pm' which would terrify my grandparents I expect.

10) G. Love And Special Sauce - Cold Beverage
Not in any way from 2007. Nor is it anything I discovered in 2007 (my normal get-out clause). I just like it. And also cold beverages. I like those too.

11) Billy Bragg - A13 Trunk Road to the Sea
Er, and this isn't from 2007 either. It's great though. Impress me at parties by reciting the chorus word-perfectly. All togehter now: "Starts out in Wapping, it ain't a-stopping..." Ah.

Part 2 a-coming a-soon...

Triple Deapan Conversation Bonus Bundle

2007-12-12T12:48:00.000Z

Yep, it's three deadpan conversations for you, reader.

ONE

Scene: Outside my house. I am opening my bin shed to put my bike in. A father and child pass by.

Child: [Amazed voice] Do you live in there?
Me: Yes. Not in the bin shed though!
Father: He asks too many questions.

TWO

Scene: Outside work, I meet the postman. You could tell he is a postman without already knowing that he is, because he wears shorts in all weather.

Postman: Hi.
Me: Hi.
P: You're Catherine's boyfriend, right?
Me: No, I don't think so.
P: Oh.
Me: It's Chris you're thinking of.
P: Oh right. He's the big lad?
Me: Erm.
P: Wears a hat?
Me: That's Ian. Chris works upstairs. He's about my height. Dark hair.
P: Spiky hair? Cycles? Wears a green jumper?
Me: Yes, that's him.
P: Oh yes, the Geordie. I know him.
Me: No, that's not him.

THREE

Scene: A football stadium in Stevenage. Running late owing to cancelled trains and a lack of ticket machines at Finsbury Park, I hurry along towards the turnstiles, but hear a loud roar indicating that we've scored. Damn.

Me: 1 adult, please.
Turnstile Woman: That's £12 please.
Me: Thanks. I don't get a discount for missing a goal then?
TW: No. I ought to charge you more for not being here on time.

Anyone know what the best 70 minutes of music released during 2007 were? If you can compile it onto a cd and send it to me, it will save me considerable efforts. I've already wasted far too much time comparing Devandra Banhart tracks from his recent album without coming to any conclusion. Cheers.

Self-Promotion and Helping You With Your Crossword

2007-11-08T10:53:00.000Z

[As this is a blog, navel-gazing self-absorption is a given, so I'm fully justified in the following bit of self-congratulatory self-promotion.]

Want to hear my convoluted sentence-construction trip up a normally silver-tongued professional broadcaster? Want to hear the word 'thrum' said on national radio? Of course you do - you're not a complete idiot. Well, in that case, fire up the internet, and point your browsers to here, and after you've listened to XTC and the Lurkers (that's 2 songs in, counting fans) and you'll be able to hear the words 'messianic' and 'grogginess' and 'dissipated' all in the same glorious email. It's about 10 minutes in, giving you time to boil some eggs if you want. But do it before the end of next Wednesday, before it disappears forever.

Also, for those of you doing today's Guardian quick crossword, the poisonous woodland fungus is 'death cap'. No, don't all thank me at once.

Deadpan Conversations, Vol. n

2007-10-29T17:40:00.000Z

Scene: A phone call to a minicab firm.

Minicab Woman 1: Hello. Where do you want a cab from?
Me: Finsbury Park to London Fields please.
MCW 1: Could you hold on a sec. [To colleague, with hand over receiver] Could you take this one - I'm busting for a piss. I've been waiting for ages!
Minicab Woman 2: Hi, where do you want a cab from?
Me: I hope she makes it.
MCW2: Me too.

Sadly, we'll never know whether she made it or not. Well, unless you ring Bartley cars and ask them.

Hi internet, how are you doing? I've been busy battling the evil BT empire to try and get them to set us up with a phone connection. I would have been more successful if I'd got a bit of paper and written 'MAKE WIRE BE PHONE GOOD' on it, then folded up the paper into a paper aeroplane and flown it out of the window. Also it would have been cheaper.

Well, It Makes a Change from Estate Agents' Glossy Magazines...

2007-07-12T21:01:00.000+01:00

Two examples of the gold that drops through my letterbox each day. I like the idea of the man who finds the satelits - he's an alright guy. The sinister 'professor', however... I love his motto though. Must have been fun in the business card shop:

"OK, what can I put on there? Let's start off with bringing back the dead. Yeah, that's a good one. Oh yeah, and the rest. I've got a list here. I've got a bit more space you say, even with all of the many things that I can do, including careers advice, and undoing the work of my fellow charlatans (it'll get me in trouble with the United Guild of Scammers and Con People, but sod 'em, I say. When have they ever done anything for me)? Could you make the 'Your pain is my responsibility' a bit larger? And capitals? And italics? Cheers. I'll pick them up tomorrow. You don't know where I could find a satelit do you? I need a high signal good, you see. Oh well, worth a try."

Wem-Ber-Ley, Wem-Ber-Ley

2007-05-15T16:13:00.000+01:00

What have I been up to recently? Only participating in the most historic occasion ever to happen ever. Yes, that's right, I'm talking Stevenage Borough in the FA Trophy final at Wembley on Saturday. 53,261 other people were there too, most of them eager to see what kind of home £1bn gets you these days. The answer? Really powerful hand-driers (of which I am already a fan), the sort that make your skin ripple and sound like a jet engine revving up. Also, it's the one place on earth where men have to queue to get into toilets and women don't, such is the equality of provision. However, if they hold a massively female dominated event (I can't come up with any more precise description for fear of being arrested or beaten up, unfortunately, but it did involve a kitten-cooing convention as one of the elements), the rightful queue disparity will be restored.

Getting away from the toilets, what you really want to know is how did Boro do? Well, in keeping with the frustrating way they've been all season, they played like drunk clowns for periods in the first half, giving away two goals while the defenders all tried to get into a car but the doors kept falling off whilst throwing buckets of glitter over each other (I had a good view, and I'm pretty sure that's why they didn't put tackles in on the goalscorer). So Boro entered half-time two goals down, and woe was me. Oh woe. But, following a half-time talk by, I can only assume, Boro Bear (who can be seen on the above picture at the far left of the line of players) spurred the team on to score three second-half goals and win a big pot of hunny. Very exciting. Best thing to happen to Stevenage since I left, reported the local paper on Monday, somewhat vindictively.

2007-04-12T00:16:00.000+01:00

Apologies for not posting anything for ages, but I've been living in fear. Every tiny noise in the flat fills me full of dread anticipation. Any creak, bang, jangle or flapping of the wings of a pigeon in the jaws of a cat makes me start in terror. Oh, I think I may have given the game away. Damn.

Yes, the first victim of the Mog Summer of Horror has been taken. A young pigeon by the name of Flappy was bought to an untimely demise by the rampant cat-jaws of our cat earlier in the week, but I've known it was coming. There's something about the demeanour of a cat - perhaps a devillish twinkle in her eye, perhaps the extra vim she puts into chasing the toy panda - that lets you know that SHE WILL KILL AGAIN.

It's the bin-men I feel sorry for. They're the poor buggers who have to take it away.

(NB - cat-kill photo above not done by me or my cat - it's from here. Thanks, Flickr).

Why is it that the only people to wear shorts all year round are footballers and postmen? What is it that they have in common? Apart from always being down the pub (and I really can only speak for the postmen of the N5 postal district here, not to put any kind of slur upon the good name of postpeople - footballers, however, I feel free to cast aspersions about, as I've seen some right bloody rubbish football recently).

On a different, and possibly even more whimsical tack: I wonder, am I the only person who regularly sees nuns on the way to work? While I cycle by, slickly oiled machine that I am, habitted-up nuns shuffle past.

Anyone else see any nuns -or better still - monks on their way to work? (NB Buddhists DON'T count. Sorry.)

Summer Is On Its Way (By Science, Comrades, Science)

2007-03-27T16:48:00.000+01:00

It's a nice day today, everyone's smiling, the beer gardens are open, and it seems like summer's here. Well, it's not. It's not here. It's still winter. How do I know this? Well, seeing the popularity of meteorologists - they have their own programmes on the telly and everything - I decided that I'd cash in, and use hard facts to prove that it's not summer.

What I've done is decided that 4 seasons is too precise, so I've reduced it to two (summer, the hot one; and winter, the other one). I've also mapped out the number of days that I wear a summer jacket or my winter coat during each month. Therefore, the precise day when Summer! will begin is the day that summer jacket usage exceeds winter jacket wearing. The dotty line on the the not-at-all-knocked-up-in-ninety-seconds graph tells you predicted jacket-wearing days based on the bell-curve that I assume fits the data. This means that mid-April will be summer! It's not far off now people.

[Warning: All 'facts' may have been made up in a fit of whimsy, and maths and statistics sticklers may be able to prove me a fraud. However, they're all too busy dancing in the town centre fountains with their trousers rolled up to care.]

Oh Man, Look at Those Cavemen Go (and USB twigs)

2007-03-22T13:42:00.000Z

Hope you've been watching Life on Mars recently. If you haven't been, then you won't know how skilled John Simms is at acting drugs. Unless you've seen Human Traffic, which I understand also features him acting drugs. He's really good at it though. He does sweaty, confused, hyper and chewy so well.

Can anyone explain why I'd need this here item? A USB flash drive embedded in a twiggy wooden stick? Would you believe it though, it's actually the most practical thing on their website. It'd be enough to make Jesus weep (although it'd probably take a while to explain the concept of a USB flash drive to Jesus, and might not be the best use of Our Lord and Saviour's valuable time. He's got bigger fish to fry. Or turn into wine. I seem to remember this TV Show explored the concept of what would happen if Jesus was a cop and it was quite funny, although I'm sure more could have been made of the concept. Worth a look if you accidentally get locked in at work at the weekend and the only other option is to translate the Health & Safety manuals into French.)

Me vs Pigeons

2007-03-08T13:30:00.000Z

The pigeons have struck back in the ongoing battle for supremacy between featherless, hygienic me and the fearful filthwings. I arrived at work. I picked up a parcel addressed to Nicola Kirkham, c/o me. I wandered into my room thinking, not unfairly, "Who the bloody hell is Nicol Kirkham?" What I wasn't thinking was, "Hello pigeons, how have you enjoyed your time flapping round the office, you disgusting evil beasts?" That's what I should have been thinking, because there were two sickeningly fat and barely able to fly pigeons crashing about. I had to get someone with a stick to help me guide them out of the window. I'm not used to helping pigeons without using the Swift Hammer of Merciful Death, so it was a slightly strange experience for me.

In brief Evening Standard headline news, I saw one the other day that looked like it might just be a new indie band advertising their new album (available on CD and download from iTunes from Monday):

Missing Internet Girl: New Pictures

(Come to think of it, she can't actually be all that missing if they have new pictures of her. I'm not going to buy the Standard to find out though; they're not going to get me that way, oh no).

Evening Standard Headline Board Mocked

2007-03-03T12:12:00.000Z

Yes, but who did they attack?

(Cheers, Evening Standard headline poster)

New Newness and Promises That Won't Be Kept

2007-03-02T09:32:00.000Z

Hey there, little reader, you. In lieu of actually writing anything, I've instead been tinkering with the new Blogger templates (hence the shiny newness on which you read these words). In one fell swoop, they've made it both much easier and also impenetrably difficult to edit the template. Fact was, the old one was looking like a dog, and I had to take it out round the back of the internet and cave its head in with a big spade made of code. Also, I just tweaked one of the default templates slightly. Anyway, enough of that.

Actually, one more thing on the topic - you won't be able to see the comments on the main page any more. The Man can't cope with such free speech, man. You'll have to click on the comments bit at the end of each post, or you could subscribe to the comments feed (see side panel for more on this). Stupid new things that aren't as good as the old things.

Watching Man Utd v Reading earlier in the week, I was struck by John Motson's introduction to the game, which has been presented here in the form of a poem:

Outside there's a conference centre,
A luxury hotel,
An indoor training complex.
But I think what most of us appreciate,
(Those old enough to drive, anyway - heh!)
Is the location of the Madejski,
Just a mazy dribble
By Christiano Ronaldo
Over a couple of roundabouts
Would take him onto Junction 11
Of the M4,
As that westbound motorway
Roars out of London
Through the Thames Valley
And onwards to Bristol
And Cardiff,
Where the Millenuim Stadium is still on standby
Just in case the new Wembley
Is not ready to stage
The final
From which
These two
Teams tonight
Are just
Three matches
Away.

I'm in a very excitable musical mood at the moment, and am currently enthusing about:

CSS - endearingly gonzo disco-rock from the Brazilians responsible for 'Off the Hook', 'Alala' and 'Lets Make Love and Listen to Death from Above'. The squeaky 40-a-day vocals really help.

Gossip - Oh yes, I can really get into something months after everyone else is fed up of the NME hype. Sounds like a less disorientating Public Image Ltd or a better tunes Radio 4, this is nothing that hasn't been done to death in the recent punk-funk craze of about the past 5 years, but it's done very well, and (agreeing with Noel Gallagher) Beth Ditto has got a great voice.

Regina Spektor - I meant to put 'On The Radio' on the Xmas CD, but forgot, like a durrbrain. Other opinion in my house holds that 'Fidelity' is better, but you don't want to trust the musical opinion of a cat, do you? The whole album is great too, and it gets my Well-Written Lyrics Award for having well-written lyrics that are written well.

My words don't make the music come alive in your brain LIKE YOU ACTUALLY WERE LISTENING TO IT? Well, there's something wrong with your CRITICAL FACULTIES, but I won't hold it against you - low-rate previews of these people follow: CSS, Gossip, Regina Spektor - click click click.

Excuses, Cat Drugs, Debates and Fiscal Tiger

2007-02-16T10:44:00.000Z

Yeah, so it's been over a month since I last posted. My excuse is: I had a cold. One of those cold that affects your typing and mouse skills. Such a debilitating kind of cold, that. On behalf of the Guild of Internet Artisans, I offer my most humble and profuse apologies, and lay myself at your mercy.

Going to buy cat drugs from the vet's, I had to show the nurse the previous packet of cat drugs so she knew what cat drugs the cat wanted. The packet had Mog's old name on, the one that the cat home had given her, so I said to the nurse, 'Catrina was her old name.'

'We changed it to Mog,' I then said.

Then, adopting a conspiratorial whisper, I added, 'because Catrina is a shit name.'

There was then an awkward pause as I weighed up the odds that the nurse's name was Catrina. She looked like she might be Spanish, and everyone in Spain who isn't called Maria is called Catrina, so I thought it probably quite likely that she was called Catrina. Damn. I meant to say, 'Catrina is a shit name for a cat'. But I didn't, because that would just lead to me blathering on with things like, 'but it's not a shit name for a person. It's actually a good name for a person. I like you. Give me cat drugs.'

I got the cat drugs, but the cat scratched me to buggery when I gave them to her. I think the nurse switched the worming tablets for some kind of cat psychotic.

For reasons best left obscure, the other night I went to a debate (the kind where statements like 'The House considers flip-flops to be a modern blessing of convenience upon our benighted land and thinks that their invention should all be honoured with big cash rewards and sloppy kisses' are bandied about) that some schoolkids were having. In a debate about the merits of learning a foreign language, one of the kids came up with

'if it wasn't for languages, we wouldn't be able to use semi-colons. You know, the things you use when writing letters.'

Needless to say, he won his debate.

I've just found some drawings I did of Fiscal Tiger, of whom I had great hopes once. Fiscal Tiger (FT) is a cartoon tiger I wanted to make a cartoon strip about. He was going to represent rapacious capital in its rampant 1980s throwback form, while also being a tiger. The plan floundered on twofold reasons: I know nothing about finance and I can't draw. However, before plans were shelved, he was given a copyright-infringing catchphrase:

'Greed is grrrrrrrrrrrrreat!'

which he would use at the end of each cartoon, in the absence of a punchline (oh, did I mention the third reason: no punchlines? I couldn't think up any funny stories or punchlines. That was the third reason).

Is this post long enough now? I've got absolutely priceless thoughts about the merits of gatefold dining tables, but perhaps I'll save them for another occasion.

Happy New Year, Happy New Cakes

2007-01-09T14:47:00.000Z

Hi, happy new year and all that. Last year I was limping and being grumpy about having to wish everyone happy new year. This year, I'm giving up on trying to keep track of who I've wished a happy new year so far, so I'm just going to be saying happy new year to everyone at every occasion, regardless of how may times I've wished them it so far, until about mid-February. That solves that problem. Who says you don't get more cleverer when you get old?

I was just in the local corner shop, when something on the edge of my vision caused me to do a proper comedy double-take complete with spin-around while I loudly went 'Ehrrrr?'. What had so ghast my flabber was a cake. A Manor House cake. It's the second North London district to be honoured with a cake, to the best of my confectionery knowledge (the other being a Tottenham cake, which I'm sure I've made mention of in the past). Has anyone ever had a Manor House cake? Was it created in Manor House? Or was the result it a council-funded project to sum up the area around the Picadilly Line station in cake? Given that all Wikipedia can come up with on Manor House is connections to Goths and pornographers, I don't think I'm going to risk tasting the cake soon.

Anyone know of any other North London-related cakes, and the history thereof? Does the Finsbury Park cake exist? What would it taste like? Actually, I think I'm going to use this methodology in meetings when someone raises a bright idea:
- "I think we could rationalise the delivery through structured e-learning technology"
- "Yes, but if it were a cake, what would it taste like?"

(NB the Manor House cake may simply be a name coincidence, but don't spoil my fun. The truth always has to spoil my fun, the bastard.)

Xmas CD 2006: The Wait is Over

2006-12-20T11:13:00.000Z

Well, in the words of Slade, Mama, weer all Crazee now. Or did I mean, Eeeeeeet's Chreeeeeeeesmessssssss? Actually, that's probably what I meant. However, I think using the backspace key shows a lack of spine, so I'll just have to leave it up there. Below is My Opinion on the tracks that I put on your Christmas CD. (The reviews start off a bit weakly, I think, but they get better as it goes on. I'll give myself 7/10. Mainly on the strength of this brilliant introduction though, which were it not dragged down by this sentence, would get 9/10 alone.)

The Knife - Like a Pen
Er, they're Swedish. That's all I know. Nice bassline. Er, I think they lyrics might be rude. Damn, I should have started with a track that I can write about, shouldn't I. Oh sod.

Beck - Cellphone's Dead
Beckity Beck-Beck makes it to his second Xmas compilation in a row, an honour unique in history, which surely will please the little lad. Here, he merrily rips off Herbie Hancock's Chameleon (off the 'Head Hunters' album). Cheeky. I think he started shaving this year. Huzzah.

Devendra Banhart - I Feel Just Like a Child
Singer/Songwriter and leader of the hairiest backing band around, Banhart wears his weirdness like a big hat. This is the obvious cross-over hit to get the radio dancing, but the album it's off, Cripple Crow, is well worth a delve.

The Long Blondes - Once and Never Again
Winners of the Most Anticipated Album That Disappointed Slightly On First Hearing But Subsequent Listens Proved It To Be Quite The Grower award this year, it was difficult to decide which track would end up on here. In the end I've plumped for this, mainly because it's got a catchy chorus that, try as you might, is impossible to sing without getting it wrong (unless you can sing better than I can, which [contemptuous snort] I hardly think is likely]. The Female Franz Ferdinand comparisons are a little unfair, considering the wealth of people FF are borrowing from. I unfortunately missed seeing them live in the summer, so will have to make amends.

The Pippettes - Your Kisses Are Wasted On Me
Beloved of the media for the good photograph opportunities they present, The Pippettes have had a good year. It was between this and 'Pull Shapes' for inclusion on your CD. Was I right? From what I've seen, they're good live, and I think they are the sort of band who would do a service to the world by recording a Christmas single. Do it!

Charlotte Gainsbourg - The Operation
The daughter of loyal John Major Cabinet minister David Hunt (Secretary of State for Wales 1990–1993, Secretary of State for Employment 1993–1994, Chancellor of the Duchy of Lancaster 1994–1995, and then finally back to the job he did so well the first time that he did it again for two more weeks in 1995 as Secretary of State for Wales) and his lovely wife, Mrs David Hunt, it's obvious where Charlotte Gainsbourg got her talent from. Oh, hold on, I've just looked at the wrong page; that was the John Major Christmas Annual 1996 rather than my Compendium of Facts About Things. Now, let me see... Ah yes, Charlotte Gainsbourg does have a father, you'll be pleased to know, and I'm sure you'll be able to work out who that is without me patronising you. She also has a mother what's famous - I again refer you to the internet for information. She's an actress too, and was bloody fantastic in Lemming, a taught psychological thriller featuring as a central motif a half-dead lemming stuck in the plumbing. The film is mainly brilliant for the way that French people (and yes, I'm not giving too much away to say that she's French) say 'Leh-MEEENG'. In my opinion she could do with eating some more sticky buns, as she's very theeeeen. Anyway, back to music: she manages to sound aloof, much in the style of Sarah Nixey from Black Box Recorder, which to those of you who knows your stuff about cold, distant and dismissive pop music is very definitely a compliment. I wanted to put 'Jamais' on this CD from the same album, because it's funky, but I was outvoted. I never should have given the cat casting vote in domestic disputes.

Fujiya & Miyagi – Cassettesingle
I think this one goes quite well with the previous track, doesn't it? It's like I've gone through and tried to create a seamless whole out of the disparate shattered music of 2006, JUST FOR YOU. And what thanks do I get? Some, that's what. Fujiya and Miyagi are practitioners of the Tepid Funk music school, which is no bad thing. People get hurt dancing, and that opens you up to all sorts of class action suits in the States. Best turn it down to 6, I think, just in case.

Thom Yorke - Harrowdown Hill
In which Thom accuses Tony Blair of actually and not metaphorically murdering David Kelly with his cold bony fingers. This song moves the Xmas 2006 CD into Jitter-funk, which shouldn't be listened to if you have consumed caffeine recently. It won't be good for you. I'd like to think this song is one that could get people swaying in time at his gigs, lighters out, as they croon along: 'Don't ask me/ask the Ministreeeeeeeeeeeeee'. I imagine Thom would scowl at that, and that would put a stop to it.

Hot Chip - Boys From School
OK, so they dress a bit archly/smackably, esp. the singer in his Buggles spectacles, but this song nudges the funk up to 8 on the dial, so hold on to your hats. Don't say I didn't warn you: hats could come off unexpectedly during this song unless you take adequate precautions. The harmony is nice on this song, don't you think? This helps the genre of indie-dance recover from the yoke of the Soup Dragons that it's been carrying all these years. The whole album's good, and they're good live. I just hope they get some nice smart clothes for Christmas.

King Creosote - Jump At The Cats
To save my poor, poor fingers, a biog can be found within clicking distance. They're good live, too, but sadly come second to Devendra Banhart's lot in the beard stakes. This song can be filed under the Jaunty/Twee section of your thematic filing system.

Guillemots - Made Up Lovesong #43
Stupid Guillemots. You'd've thought they would have been a definite article band, wouldn't you? But, according to the exhaustive research I've done, they don't. Well, here's on of their songs. We're moving away from funky and into noodly here, aren't we?

Jarvis Cocker - From A To I
He's great isn't he? I was going to have Running the World on this compilation, but I didn't want to cause trouble for you at home with your Great Aunt at the family Christmas Meal. On this track, he hectors you to take moral responsibility, which were it anyone other than Jarvis, would merit a smack. Ipswich reference not included for topicality's sake, please note. Oh, and the CD buggers about a bit here, doesn't it? Don't blame me, blame Nero.

Silver Jews - Sometimes A Pony Gets Depressed
You know, I think this song is just about what it says it is. I hope there's no arch references that you'll point out to me so as to show me up as the uncultured thicko that I am. Keep your metatextual analyses to yourselves.

Bob Dylan - Thunder On The Mountain
I'm not going to make any pretence that the new album of BER-LUES is up there with Blood on the Tracks, but this chugs along pretty nicely, and his rasp suits it well. It's the one that references Alicia Keys. I'm hungry. Maybe I should have a biscuit?

Cat Power - The Greatest
Ah yes, a biscuit would be nice. My definition of biscuit greatness is the dark Choco Leibniz, which is the perfect amalgam of firm dark chocolate and buttery crunchy rich-tea-esque biscuit. Can't seem to get one for love nor money round here. Oh well, here's Cat Power. She's probably featured on a past Xmas compilation, hasn't she? You know here by now. If I've got a complaint, the album's a little bit samey, but that's a minor complaint. Sometimes they have those biscuits on two-for-the-price-of-one deals in Tescos. Those are my best days, those days. I wish today was one of those days. I don't think it is though. Fuck you Tescos. Fuck you.

The Last Town Chorus - Modern Love
Which leads me seamlessly into my you-probably-saw-it-coming 2006 cover of an old pop track done in a downbeat slow country style. I'm a sucker for these. Just highlights how great David Bowie was. I'm a bit disappointed that Bowie did that great turn on the second series of Extras, as it was the one high point, and people will now look back on the series with fond affection just because of that brief beacon of greatness, rather than thinking, oh Christ, what did we do to deserve this aimless shambling point-free collection of knowing cameos and feeling-awkward-in-the-presence-of-the-disabled jokes. Actually, there were a few good segments, but it was still shit.

Sufjan Stevens - Star Of Wonder
Ah, and following on from the traditional cover, we have a Christmas Song. This actually gives me a shiver down my spine when I listen to the intro. I haven't actually given his Illinoise album a proper chance yet, as I was wrapped up in the Decemberists when it came out, and there's only so much understated acoustic American whimsy a boy needs, but I'm going to go away and give it both ears at once.

Wii (No Puns Please)

2006-12-05T16:59:00.000Z

I'm getting me a Wii. You know, the world's most embarassingly named console. Ah Nintendo. The Gamecube was a cube that played games. Logical. Simple. Accurate. Although to the best of my recollection, this logic did not apply to the Gameboy. The N64 was a shorthand for its real name, the 'Nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn', named after the emotion you feel when wandering around the boring landscapes of Mario 64. And the NES did provide systematic entertainment (superbly, in the case of the SNES).

Nomenclature aside, its control system - a wireless motion-sensitive controller that is wafted about to control the games - will probably look acceptable in multiplayer, but I've a feeling I'm going to be self-conscious waving the wii-mote around the flat on my own. There have been cartoons about it. As ever, Wondermark (you know, the one about the smoothies, yeah?) does it best.

I'm excited in a way that can only lead to bitter disappointment. (Update: a woman from Game, the single-worded shop that sells, er, yes, I'll remember it in a minute, have just called me up to tell me that I am guaran-buggering-teed to get the console that I've pre-ordered, and then was slightly mocking when I said that I didn't want to order any games with it. Hmpff. I think a pre-requisite of working in a video games shop is a sneering disregard for your customers, most of whom are grubby-palmed twelve-year-olds. I guess I got off lightly. They're opening at 7am. 7am! I think you're duty bound to go dressed up as Mario if you turn up at 7. I'm going later than that, probably about 10. And dressed as Princess Daisy.)

I'll see you all next Spring, I reckon.

Brian Eno and Damien Rice - Together At Last

2006-11-29T22:51:00.000Z

Yes, it's been a long time. What can I say? I've been up late watching the cricket, which doesn't leave time for the important things in life like posting to blogs and sleeping. Stupid cricket.

This morning, I've become mildly obsessed by the fact that Brian Eno wrote the startup jingle to Windows 95. That's Brian Eno as in ex-Roxy Music, creator of strange pop music and a man utterly unafraid of pretentious twittering. Anyway, he wrote the start-up sound to Windows 95, which is fair enough. However, I think we've all overlooked the fact that it's possibly the worst piece of music ever written, with the exception of the Intel dur-der-duh-dah! sound that produces a Pavlovian desire in me to go out and strangle people whenver I hear it. You can reminisce about the fun of the Windows 95 start-up sound by clicking here, and remember that this noise indicated that you had a twenty-minute window in which to work before your computer would crash horifically. Ah, them was the days.

Attribution alert: I'm grateful to my better half for drawing attention to the truly nosebleedingly bad lyrics of Damien Rice. It's possible to get away with bad lyrics if you bury them down in the mix with a good dose of rock and/or roll, but if you're a heart on the sleeve singer-songwriter, then frankly, you're setting yourself up for a whole heap of mockery. Take, for instance, "The Animals Were Gone":

Woke up and for the first time the animals were gone
It's left this house empty now, not sure if I belong
Yesterday you asked me to write you a pleasant song
I'll do my best now, but you've been gone for so long

The window's open now and the winter settles in
We'll call it Christmas when the adverts begin
I love your depression and I love your double chin
I love 'most everything that you bring to this offering

and it continues, much in the same vein (that is, badly).

It remains to be seen, however, if the promising inverse talent that he is can ever top "Older Chests" from the first album:

Older gents sit on the fence
With their cap in hand
Looking grand
They watch their city change
Children scream, or so it seems,
Louder than before
Out of doors, and into stores with bigger names
Mama tried to wash their faces
But these kids they lost their graces
And daddy lost at the races too many times

He is aware that you're allowed to rewrite and edit lyrics before recording them, isn't he?

Anyway, that's it from me, because I'm covered in paint. Sorry!

Shoesy-Shoesy

2006-10-18T21:31:00.000+01:00

After buying some new shoes, my anticipation heightens until I can get them home, open up the box, take the shoes out, put them to one side, root around in the box until finally I come across the small packet labelled 'Silica Gel'. Every time, though, I am thwarted and disappointingly have to put it to one side and start lacing up the shoes, because, every time I get the silica gel packet, I'm confronted with the spoilsport words, 'Do Not Eat', ruining my fun. Bah.

Even worse is the only instruction: 'Throw Away'. So blunt that you daren't disobey it. It's the only thing standing between me and a cupboard full of hoarded silica gels that I'm not allowed to eat.

Each time I get new shoes, I also get to remember with fondness how lacing up your shoes in a non-approved fashion-failing way would be merely the prelude to ridicule and abuse as a child. If you were looking for a positive thing to say about bullying, you can definitely say that it instills a sense of correctness and attention to detail in the victim.

Ah, shoes. They sure are evocative things. Just be glad I haven't gone on about shoe boxes yet.

Box Stupid 2

2006-10-11T23:12:00.000+01:00

While casually destroying the planet by using paper tissues, I noticed that Kleenex have chosen to mark their fiftieth anniversary of destroying the planet by having a big swirly badge that says "50 Years of MANSIZE STRENGTH".This is the sort of thing that my email spam filter would make short work of. It'll only be a matter of time before we're fitted with eye-spam filters that just leave a fuzzy indistinct patch where otherwise would be "50 Years of MANSIZE STRENGTH".

Project: Do you know someone who is or is about to become a 50 year-old? Why not print out the second photo, and cut it into a badge for them. (Note: Please ensure that the recipent has achieved fifty years of MANSIZE STRENGTH before giving this gift, as the incongruity of a badge saying "50 Years of MANSIZE STRENGTH" on a woman or weedy man will cause laughter and may spoil their otherwise special day).

Yep, I've not been up to much recently. Except for dressing up as a pirate, but that's nothing unusual when you frequent Dressing-Up-As-A-Pirate parties, is it? (Photos in comments to previous post. I'm feeling too too exhausted to cut and paste the addresses again).

Bouba Diop and Knots

2006-10-04T00:27:00.000+01:00

Can't really explain adequately, but I've developed a mild obsession with Bouba Diop from Fulham, the Premiership also-rans. Why Papa Bouba Diop? Is it his giant loping gait as he surges forward from defence? Or is it the fact that his name sounds like the noise you get in arcade machines when you get an extra life? (Clue: it's the second one.) Apparantly his nickname, according to the official website is the frankly unlikely 'Wardrobe'. I fear the explanation of this, frankly, and will not be delving any deeper.

Also on a football bent, mainly just to piss off those of you who dislike football (most people I know), Roy Keane, currently Sunderland manager, is busy practising tieing the world's largest tie knot. For Roy to stand out amonsgt the already noted for their large-knottedness breed of footballers, it's clear testimony to his fearless professionalism that he has to be the best at what he does, even if this is just tieing his tie. What a pro.

Sorry, that's a lot of football, really. Pretend they're pirates if that helps.

Conversations I Didn't Have With Shop Assistants vol n+1

2006-09-13T21:20:00.000+01:00

Scene: At the desk at an electronics shop, waiting for the Chip and PIN machine to confirm my credit-worthiness.

Electronics Shop Assistant One: Well, I ain't being discriminatory or anything, but you won't know what it is...
Electronics Shop Assistant Two: I might.
ESA1: Alright then. It's like a cross between a lychee...
ESA2: Right...
ESA1: ...and an apple.
ESA2: An apple?
ESA1: An apple.
ESA2: Oh.
ESA1: See what I mean? Knew you wouldn't've heard of it.
ESA2: What does it taste like?
ESA1: Oh man...
ESA2: Hmm?
ESA1: It tastes like a cross between...
ESA2: Yes?
ESA1: ...a cross between an apple and a lychee.
ESA2: Oh.

There's probably a word out there for the feeling that you get when you wish you had asked someone what the name of the fruit they were describing was but didn't. However, I don't care what that word was. I just want to know what the name of the fruit was. What was it? WHAT?

Tony Blair and the Flight of Fancy

2006-09-05T15:23:00.000+01:00

You know when you half pick up on something, and then don't want to know any more because it will inevitably spoil the magic as you learn more and find out that it's not actually as interesting as you first thought? Well, probably not, because that's quite a badly written sentence, but I am currently amusing myself with the news that there's a memo been leaked that supposedly planned for Tony Blair to make appearances on Blue Peter and Songs of Praise. Unfortunately, I already sort of know that this is to 'secure his legacy' and ease transition for the next leader of the party, but I'd love it if this were the contingency plan for all national emergencies. Say there were a chemical leak in the North Sea that threatened coastal communities and devastated fishing stocks? Get Tony on telly quick! He can be squeezed into the Blue Peter, between a segment on the Romans and the putting of the tortoise into the cardboard box of hibernation. Perhaps he could get into a centurion costume? Great. Were there to be mass rioting gutting Birmingham and spreading to other cities, perhaps he could pop into Songs of Praise, and, on acoustic guitar, belt out some rousing hymns to steel the reserve of the terrified populace?

Stupid truth. Always getting in the way of my whimsical fun.

On the Perils of Being a Stevenage Borough Fan; Dancing

2006-08-29T14:38:00.000+01:00

Right, you work-shy fops, everyone have a good bank holiday weekend? I watched the increasingly infuriating Stevenage Boro valiantly fight their way from being 2-0 up after 12 minutes to draw 3-all for the second time in three days. It's these kind of things that make people go all crazy. If you hear of anyone embarking on a rampage through Stevenage town centre hurling heavy blunt objects from a vintage French bicyle, don't report me to the police. I've had a hard time of it, and I'm too beautiful for prison.

Watch this, it's a good representation of how I think I dance:

Raisin Wheats, My New Breakfast Fear-eal

2006-08-16T21:44:00.000+01:00

My breakfasts just got a whole lot more soul-curdlingly terrifying. I decided to switch from Special K (which features aspirational air-brush renderings of the womanly curves I could hope to achieve if I chomp my own weight in the stuff) to Kellog's Raisin Wheats. I didn't look closely enough when picking it off the shelf and now I have to look at this every morning. The anthropomorphic embodiment of the cereal is known as Mr Wheat ("May I call you Wheaty?" "NO! I AM MR WHEAT! ADDRESS ME AS SUCH!") and looks like the trunk of a particularly knarled ancient oak. He appears, sad mismatched eyes imploring, on the back of the box pleading with you to eat what can only be his children.

I think I'll have some toast.

Inexplicably Funny Cartoon and My Rendezvous in Birmingham

2006-08-11T22:09:00.000+01:00

OK, this cartoon is the FUNNIEST THING EVER. Seriously. EVER. If anyone could actually explain it to me, I'd find it even funnier.

Tomorrow I have arranged to meet a man that I do not know at Birmingham Moor Street station. I will only be able to work out if it is him or not because he will be in the possession of an antique French bicycle. He may even be riding the antique French bicycle, but that would be a bit rude of him, frankly, and I don't think we'd get on.

As you can probably guess, I've purchased a sexy old-fashioned racer on e-bay, and am going to pick it up tomorrow. I am even more excited about this than when the 256MB of laptop memory that I use even now to write these words arrived.

I will easily be able to recognise him because of his antique French bicycle, but how will he be able to recognise me? I was thinking about this, and have decided that the best thing to do will be to jump up and down like an exited child shouting "Bike! Bike! Bike!" until he comes over and hands over my antique French bicycle.

Zidanimation; The Day of the Flying Ants

2006-07-13T15:04:00.000+01:00

I'm just being lazy here, as I could download the best ones and put them on this page, but instead, I'm going to direct you to SomethingAwful.com, which if you scroll through to look at the pretty pictures, you will see that lots of nerd hours have been spent creating the next AYBABTU with what I'm sure everyone's calling Zidanimations. Sadly, few of them focus on the nipple-tweak, but you can't have everything. There's a good one of a cat assassin and another good one embedding Zizou's victim in a Japanese Anime cartoon. [Edit: Actually, I've put some of the best ones up here, but still go to SomethingAwful.com because there's loads more]

Yesterday, in my neck of the woods, was the Day of the Flying Ants. Have you had yours yet? They'll rise up against us one day, mark my words.

In Defence of Zidane

2006-07-10T17:28:00.000+01:00

I'm sure in the fullness of time (i.e. tomorrow's back pages) the full story of what actually happened will come out, but in the absence of all the facts, I'm sticking firmly to a defence of Zizou and his rush of butt to the head. It was almost certainly in the face of extreme provocation (with at the very least a nipple-tweak, which I'd love to have seen a freekick given for, just because I've never seen a nipple-tweak free kick, and I'd love to hear John Motson say 'nipple-tweak' in a surprised voice and then do that self-satisfied 'huh' laugh of his), and at least it was a good honest bit of rage, that had no slight-of-hand, subterfuge or devious cheating skullduggery behind it, just plain simple violence, which is refreshing to see. Then again, I'm all for flogging divers, not just giving them a yellow card. Also, I'm trying to justify Wayne Rooney, and violent but honest football the world over.

If it was something racist that was said by Materazzi, I'd like to see him severely punished, because I hate Italians (note the layers of irony I work with there. Please only use such heavy handed irony under the instruction of a trained professional.).

Radio Four lived up to all I love and hate it for this morning when a listener pointed out that technically, it wasn't a head-butt, as all butts are by definition with the head, and the 'head' of head-butt refers to the butt making contact with another head. Give the Director General another hundred grand!

Sun vs Football, the World Vs Voicemail, Me vs Meringue, the World vs Andy Murray

2006-06-30T14:06:00.000+01:00

I now face the eternal dilemma: to watch the Germany vs Argentina game, or sit in the sun? I can't help but feel I've stretched the definition of eternal a little, but I'm still in a slight quandry.

I'm not the only one who hates voicemail more than the Pope hates the devil. And also contraception. And Muslims. Put together. (Warning - people provide very geeky, very techy solutions here. My alternative (delete them) has the edge in the elegance stakes, I like to think.)

Does anyone what a meringue? A student's just given me one, and I want to get it out of the way before I eat it and feel the emptiness inside that eating meringues brings. Help!

I assume you've been following the Andy Murray Shitstorm of Scottishness controversy. English fans will presumably be supporting anybody but Andy Murray. I can see the love/hate thing continuing with this curly haired wee radge.

Why I Hate Nikki from Big Brother; Art Brut Appreciation Update; Why I Hate Voicemail More Than The Guy at the Guardian Who Hates Voicemail

2006-06-22T13:30:00.000+01:00

I shouldn't be allowed to watch Big Brother. My hatred for Nikki turns me into a one-man angry mob, baying for blood and picking up rhetorical pitchforks and burning torches. Grr.

It's Thursday. My infatuation with Art Brut (see below) is now over. Oh well. It was fun while it lasted.

Coincidentally, this Grauniad opinion piece about the evil of voicemails echoes a rant I made down the pub last night. I say coincidentally, but it's entirely possible that I was overheard by a feverishly short-hand writing journo and turned unwittingly into an Opinion Holder. However, his rant misses out on some of the key elements of Why I Hate Voicemail:

Voicemail Takes Too Long. Firstly, you've got to listen to the jabber. You can't just phone them back because they don't leave their number until the end, and my sodding voicemail doesn't automatically record their number, and people always leave their number at the end of the message. I could dedicate an hour a day to going through and just noting my voicemails, without actually getting round to doing anything about them.

Names and Numbers. People quite often don't leave these. What the blue blazing hell am I supposed to do with their message if I don't know who they are or how to contact them, I ask rhetorically, my arms milling around wildly to illustrate my oh-so-valid point.

Clunkmail, More Like. Voicemails can't be printed out, filed, saved for posterity or anything remotely useful. They can be listened to, and then deleted. If someone gives me something useful by voicemail, I then have to write a note of it. It's like if instead of sending me emails, people wheeled their computer into my office, plugged it in and booted up, allowed me to read their message, then wheeled their computer away when I'd read it.

Idiots Leave Voicemail. By and large, people who leave voicemails on my phone are stupid. I can attest to their stupidity primarily because my voicemail message asks them to send me an email and not leave a voicemail message. The onesimply expressed instruction I leave, and what do they do? Ignore it. Then leave a message where I can hear the drool of their stupidity drip down on to the mouthpiece as they leave messages of such monumental stupidity that I begin to question whether the human race has any kind of future without a serious cull taking place.

When will this madness end? When?

Still, it's not all bad. I've got an official Panini World Cup sticker of Shaun Wright-Phillips in the pack I bought today. Actually, that's not true. I swapped it. Anyway, I assume this means he can play in the World Cup now, as I can't think of anything more legally binding than a sticker album, so Sven has got another attacking option. Could someone pass this information onto him? Probably the best way to reach him is to send it in a letter stapled to a leggy blonde.

Token World Cup Mention; My New Giddy Teenage Romance

2006-06-16T10:35:00.000+01:00

Ah the World Cup. The convenient source of all my man-chitchat at the moment. Whereas before awkward talk about the weather would have filled the time between the guy in the cafe starting up his coffee machine and me leaving, now we can chat in relaxed style about the weakness in Germany's defence, the psychological state of blubbery Brazilian forwards and whether Argentina look dangerous in spite of the haircuts.

My current short-lived enthusiastic teenage musical infatuation is, perhaps a year or so late, Art Brut who are punky, fizzy and endearingly amusing. Who could resist the couplet 'We're gonna be the band that writes the song/That makes Israel and Palestine get along'. I'd imagine they won't be overly flattered when I compare them to Sultans of Ping, and I'm not sure it's possible to sound like Sultans of Ping in a good way, but they do. I'm going to work out what the modern-day equivalent of wearing a hole through an LP, and then do it to their album 'Bang Bang Rock & Roll'.

What's Parked Outside My Work; The Robot Bill

2006-06-02T13:14:00.000+01:00

There is a black Ford Capri parked outside my building with the engine running and a guy with shoulder-length curly blond hair, sovereign ring glistening on the steering wheel. I now know the feeling a minor character in The Sweeny must have (For reference, this feeling is: gnawing doubts to the core of my being with traces of mania in the corners, like a vicar presiding over a funeral who has secretly taken a pill.)

By way of a Friday Frippery, I offer you a link to The Robot Bill, worth watching for the title sequence, general concept and the fact that the episode seems to be about the misappropriation of lamps.

Peter Crouch; English Language Why You Confuse Me So; Bloody Acoustic Singer Slash Songwriters

2006-05-31T10:55:00.000+01:00

Peter Crouch. Not only does he have the misfortune of looking like a gawkier Gareth from the Office, but when he does score goals, he chooses to celebrate them with robot dancing. Here's hoping for lots of goals from him at the World Cup; perhaps he breakdances and does headspins when he gets a hat-trick. Poor misshapen freakboy.

A woman behind me on the bus answered her phone (her ringtone was Chewbacca roaring) and then said, in a loud foreign mocking of the English language, 'I'm in the bus'. Now, leaving aside for the moment the calls to have her deported (and to a country she's not even from, that's how deported she'd be), why do we say 'on' rather than 'in'? We say 'on' when talking about public transport, but 'in' when talking about cars. Why? Five seconds on Google has failed to answer this question.

At an acoustic night I was at yesterday, there was a guy up on stage, and in keeping with the general tone of today's post, he was From Overseas. He did an entertaining romp through Ace of Spaces, and then announced that he was doing one of his own songs. His girlfriend jiggled excitedly in her seat, chain-smoking. This song, he said, is about my ex-girlfriend. She, he said, had such a moody face in the mornings. A moody face like you haven't seen. She was, and he shrugged and paused here to suggest that mere words couldn't begin to describe how moody her face was in the mornings, very moody in the mornings. Then, with only a bit of further ado, he launched into a lacklustre acoustic number where he complained about her moody face. Including lines like 'you've got such a moody face'. I wanted to take him to one side and say, look, you've got guitar skills and a nice singing voice. But can I introduce you to a little thing I like to call 'metaphor'. It will allow you to say that things are other things, by which you can compare them and draw out analogies. Er, analogies? That's where - oh, forget it. The rich world of imagery and imagination might be a little too much to embark on all at once. Oh, and Squealingly Excited Girlfriend? You do realise that when he's broken up with you, he's going to be singing songs on stage called things like My Ex-Girlfriend Smoked Too Much and Also Had a Moody Face Like That Other Girlfriend To Whom I Referred in an Earlier Song (Not That I Said As Much To Her at the Time, Oh No - Do I Look Stupid?).

On Wirelessness and Greggs

2006-05-25T16:45:00.000+01:00

I haven't been posting very much recently, mainly because all of my waking hours not spent blinking in baffled amazement have been spent setting up a Wi-Fi network at home. I understand that the term 'Wi-Fi' comes from the widiculously fiddly setting up that you have to do.

Anyway, it's all up and running and I can have as many computers as I've got limbs sharing the internet. More, even. I'm not quite sure why I've done it, other than because it feels futuristic. I have to wear a jumpsuit round the house now. That's how futuristic it is.

I'm just going to sing the praises of Greggs the Bakers. I'm sure there's a dedicated team of Eurocrats ready to ban it lurking somwhere in Brussels. When it goes, I'll miss the sight of hardened bruisers wearing t-shirts in February and being led by a pitbull with balls the size of tangerines coming in and ordering 'two yum-yums please'. All also miss the woman wearing an Arsenal shirt, carrying a bag from the Arsenal shop with a child no doubt named Tony Adam Charlie George Smith buying Tottenham cakes.

Ah, nostalgia. And it was only yesterday it happened.

Mog is Murder

2006-05-15T17:13:00.000+01:00

I get home from work and find a trail of feathers in the hall. Bloody feathers. And a pleased looking cat. And where the recycling box lives, a dead pigeon. A bloody huge bloody pigeon. It was about the size of Mog, the murdering cat. Given that she has trouble getting herself through the catflap minus a pigeon, I can only speculate, but given the blood smeared around the catflap, it must have taken a while, and involved a good degree of force. You'd have to admire her dedication if you didn't have to clean up all the blood and feathers and dispose of the corpse.

I'm no fan of pigeons (Carrier pigeons? Yeah, as in carrier of disease. Arf.), but being confronted with the logical result of my hatred humbled me. My murdering cat has proved the error of my hatred, and I now love pigeons and do not wish them even the slightest harm, even if they are useless, ugly, disease-splattered, noisy shit-fer-brains who are so fat, deformed and lazy that they scarcely ever bother to fly, and when they do it's with the least amount of hight possible, so you always have to end up ducking otherwise you get a face full of pigeon beak, which is an experience I never want to have. So, yes, I'm over my pigeon hatred, thanks to the wise example of my murdering cat.

And now she's chasing a fly round the flat with the intention of killing it to death, like the poor unmourned pigeon.

Having a mobile phone with internet access is dangerous, especially if you're bored. After a heated discussion (a mass debate, if you will) over the weekend about whether Islam frowned on masturbation (and most thought it probably would), I was emailed the definitive answer, which is how I came to be sat in a meeting with, in large bold letters, the words 'Masturbation in Islam' sat on my phone. And I'd've had a job explaining them, as I said I was just going to check on the cricket score.

Fortunately, I currently remain unsacked.

Deadpan Conversations With Taxi Firms, Vol n

2006-05-09T17:20:00.000+01:00

Scene: a telephone line over which is being booked a minicab to take
me, L and a computer I've just picked up for a friend back home. We
have a crisp clean line, in a quiet flat which is also expensively
crisp and clean.
Minicab Telephone Woman: So, what's the road name again?
Me: Pall Mall
MTW: Can you spell that?
Me: Pee-ay-ell-ell em-ay-ell-ell.
MTW: What's the postcode? [I give the postcode] And is there a 'Road'
after that?
Me: No, it's just Pall Mall. The Queen lives there if that helps.

This continues for some time. Quite why I thought that bringing the
Queen into it would help I don't know. I can't imagine she books
minicabs that often, and I'm sure she pronounces things very
differently, having only one vowel sound at her disposal (a sort of
strangled 'urgh' noise acting in place of the many varied sounds we
might use).

David Blaine Due to Drown in a Giant Bowl Filled Only With His Own Sense of Self-Importance; Morrissey

2006-05-02T13:18:00.000+01:00

So, David Blaine, noted 'illusionist', has got a new 'illusion' which involves him being put in a bowl of water. I think it's about time for him to move on from all the death-defying tricks he's being doing, and start a new line of death-embracing stunts.

At the Morrissey gig at Ally Pally yesterday (review: Pretty good, although he played too much off the new album) the King Bouncer came out to tell the assembled queue for the doors that in addition to the usual litany of drinks, cameras, etc. that aren't allowed into the venue, anyone found bringing burgers or other meat into the venue would be ejected, which was quite funny. I suspect it's his party piece, and a welcome break from beating people up and drinking Strongbow. We were also stood behind someone who had the great misfortune to look exactly like Wayne Rooney. I think he'd been a test subject on the ugly drugs trial, and there weren't no way he got the placebo. Yuk, he was U.G.L.Y and he didn't appear to have an alibi.

On Throwing Around Accusations of Marathon Running; Worrying About Absconding Cats; Coat Commemorations

2006-04-27T09:58:00.000+01:00

A blind student at work just ran the London Marathon (in five hours!) and I was just looking him up on the website when it occurred to me that with all the thousands of runners, there may well be someone with my name running, and therefore I could claim to have run the marathon, in order to gain some much needed respect from my peers. Possibly also a bit of awe at the dedication I put in with my training, and the selfless way I didn't brag about how hard it was: "He didn't bang on about it; that was typical of Jim". I think I'd stop short of claiming to have raised massive amounts of money for charity, as I don't want to get too Jeffrey Archer, but I'd probably get carried away in the deception. Anyway, there wasn't anyone with my name, but the idea of running the marathon for zero effort was just too attractive to me, so I started looking up other people to see if they could start to live a life of exciting misrepresentation of the facts. I then stumbled across the names of one of my friends' fathers, and it's not like their name is David, Steven or Christopher. No, it's a name with no vowels in it - that's obscure. They did it in 7 hours, which is a bit slow, but they finished at exactly the same time as someone with the name of their daughter. Too coincidental, I thought, so I sent a text accusing them of having a father and sister run the marathon.

Got an email back, and turned out it wasn't them, but a curiously fluky couple of people with exactly the same names. They even had good alibis.

Don't let my disappointment stop you though; accuse someone you know of having run the marathon today.

I let the cat out into the garden yesterday, and she immediately went into next door's garden to hiss at the other neighbourhood cats, both of whom are about twice the size of her. She then disappeared into another garden, and all I could hear was the sort of noises that they have as sound effects in cartoons illustrated by a big ball of dust moving along with occasional fists and legs coming out. Fortunately, she stopped fighting other cats and came back, minutes before L came home and I'd have got in trouble for losing our cat. Not that this was my primary worry, oh no.

Mog's main fighting technique, from what I can tell when she squares up to the cat that sits on the other side of the glass outside our bedroom window, is to hiss, which unleashes her terrible breath. Man, it's bad.

In order to screw up our collective chances of a good summer, I've started wearing my summer jacket. And bought some garden furniture. To counter this bad karma, I've just bought two wooly hats. Come on then, weather, what do you think of that?

On the subject of my summer jacket: I've had it for 9 years. Next year will be it's 10th birthday. What can I do to celebrate this fact. I could give it a badge saying 'I am 10', but it would be quite hard for the ordinary nerk on the street to distinguish this being my coat's 10th birthday, not mine. Any ideas? I could take it away somewhere nice for a weekend, I suppose.

Oh, and I'm sorry to those who's bosses are so full of humbuggery that they block access here. I'd get myself worked up about freedom of speech, censorship and so forth if I didn't agree with them. Get back to work!

Whimsy; My Fear of Retribution from Hackney Council's Hired Goons;Mog, the Cat

2006-04-10T12:37:00.000+01:00

Quick dose of whimsy: This from McSweeny's tickled me for it's none-more-whimsical whimsy.

I'm posting this because I'm worried that I may 'disappear' shortly. Hackney Council have recently made recycling compulsory for residents, backed up by £1000 fines. Committed recycler that I am, I make sure that the green box is out on the doorstep every Monday morning, so I was perturbed to find a threatening note shoved through the letter box last Thursday saying that they hadn't found our recycling box outside, and making various threats about what they could do to me. It's true: I hadn't put the box outside last Thursday. In my defence, they don't actually collect the recycling on Thursdays, but I'm worried that residents may now be expected to make a conspicuous display of loyalty to the concept of recycling by leaving your recycling box with a token sacrificial wine bottle and shiny tin can outside every day.

I also don't like the way that the system is policed by the waste industry, which Ask Yahoo tells me is always run by the Mafia. I may end up sleeping with the fish-heads if I don't. If you don't hear from me for a couple of weeks, check the bottle banks of N4 for my many and various body parts.

I'm very excited because tomorrow I'm going to to gouge a hole in our back door to fit a cat flap. I'll have to use a jigsaw to do it, and if it all goes wrong I may just end up with a cat hole, rather than a cat flap. Or no back door. We'll see.

Also, the cat's name is Mog, and she's settling down very well. She's fond of:

a good meow
Whiskas
running about
hiding in bags
not answering her name
being scared of Guy moving about upstairs
running at full pelt the length of our flat, pulling up with millimetres to spare before crashing into the all-too-solid kitchen units, then mooching around nonchalantly as though she hadn't done anything crazy just then.

Enough cat for the moment. Be warned of more soon, though.

Attempting To Convey My Getting a Cat in an Extremely Forced Sporting Metaphor; More on the Cat; Further Cat News; Cat Obsession Takes Full Hold

2006-03-29T23:27:00.000+01:00

My nil-nil draw of a pet life is about to be shattered, as the referee (the Mayhew Animal Home, dressed in black and blowing a whistle) has awarded me a penalty kick in the shape of a two-year-old moggy (pictured left). We're collecting the penalty kick, er, cat on Saturday.

Ok, I give up on the laboured metaphor. We're getting a cat. Whoop. A big prize to anyone who can come up with a good name for the cat. Although be warned: the prize is one of those intagibles like the satisfaction of a job well done or the feeling of contentment on having named a cat. Sorry. All my money's going on litter and gonks for cats to play with from now on.

I'll probably write this blog from the point of view of the cat from now on. But not in a good way. No. In a way that lists what I did all day. And be assured that if my understanding of cats gleaned from the book on cats I've just read is any any way accurate, cats do not spend much time writing about the virtues of WD40.

Yeah, I thought that'd get you.

Anyway, all I have to do now is worry about the perceptions of men who own cats. Yes, those perceptions. I'll compensate by calling the cat Killer or Fang and taking up a manly hobby like carpentry or violence. And then posting pictures of myself on the Men With Cats page (Warning: will confirm your opinions of men who like cats and then some).

In order to pass the Herculean cat adoption tests the Mayhew Animal Home has put in our way, I had to get a letter confirming that our landlord both allowed us to have cats and wouldn't use their spare keys to sneak in and put sellotape on cats while they slept. In my conversation with my landlord, I was saying that she lived close to the gigant-o-normous Colney Hatch Lane Tescos, and that I could pick up the letter and go food shopping and thereby 'kill two babies with one stone'. I didn't dwell on it, but I'm not sure that it's the sort of thing you want to hear from someone who's about to become the guardian of a cat life. Come to think of it, it's definitely not the sort of thing you want to hear from someone who's going to come round to your house to pick up the letter. She did appear a bit nervous while writing the letter, but I think that was Microsoft Word's fault. I really have no idea why I said it, but now that I've devoted so much time to it, it's all the more likely to come out again.

WD40; Who I've Nearly Killed; and The Guardian Recognises That I'm Right

2006-03-21T14:17:00.000Z

I have spent the last few days feverishly spraying just about everything in sight with WD40. It somehow brings me immense satisfaction to have doors glide open and shut with the effortless ease of a Jesus in ballet shoes tip-toeing on a calm pond. Every day I think of more things that would be improved with just a little squirt of WD40 on them. However, I'm not nearly obsessed enough to join the WD40 Fan Club. It is taking all the willpower I possess not so sign up, especially when there's apparently two thousand uses for WD40 listed on the site. That's

Lubricate front door

Lubricate living room door

Lubricate kitchen door

Lubricate back door

Lubricate Shed door...

Would someone who isn't me please sign up and tell me what it's like inside? I don't trust myself not to become completely obsessed and spend the rest of my life posting poetry about the amazing properties of WD40 on WD40 chatrooms.

Similar to the Crouch End blog I See Famous People, I could set up a blog detailing all the celebrities I've nearly harmed. I nearly killed Francis Wheen today. He was trying to cross Upper St while I was cycling down it, and my precise series of thoughts were 'Oh, that's Francis Wheen. Or is it spelt Ween? He's looking a bit jowlier and greyer than when I last saw a picture of him. I should stop and tell him that I really enjoyed his book. Now, what was it called? How Gibberish Conquered the World? Was that it? No, it wasn't, was it? Oops, just sped past him at great speed, narrowly avoiding him. Oh, yes, it was How Mumbo-Jumbo Conquered the World. That was it. Ah, now I'm about half a mile away from him."

I also may or may not have seen Zane Lowe, but as I couldn't be sure it was Zane Lowe, I couldn't be absolutely certain whether to harm him or not.

At last the leading left-leaning broadloid newspaper gives me my due. A search of The Guardian's website for the phrase "Jim McKenzie is right" (
http://browse.guardian.co.uk/search?search=%22jim+mckenzie+is+right%22) does indeed bring up a page with the unarguable statement "Jim McKenzie is right" on it. Unfortunately, what I'm right about is specifically that the horrendous Roxy's nightclub in Sheffield became an evangelical church, and it's in the over-by-over live cricket commentary on the India v England Test, rather than, say, an comment piece by Polly Toynbee on Why Jim McKenzie is Right About Everything. It's a start though. Get writing, Polly.

On Accusing My Girlfriend of Being Rude About Other People on the Internet

2006-03-10T17:19:00.000Z

When seeing a post on chortle.co.uk that said about Stewart Lee:

He's not funny, or pushing any boundaries. He's just dull. Laura 05.10.05

I thought, aha! I bet I know which Stewart-Lee-disliking-Laura who saw him on his Autumn 2006 90s Comedian tour this was. And I sent my girlfriend an email in no uncertain terms accusing her of writing this and what had she got to say for herself, eh?

Of course, she denies it. But what are the chances of there being two Lauras (a name ranked 92nd most popular for girls born in 2001) who saw Stewart Lee around this time? Eh? OK, probably quite high. Let's say about 1000 people saw him at his Soho Theatre shows then, and probably about 650 of these were boys, because, let's face it, nerdy deadpan scatalogical highbrow humour is something that appeals to boys more. Let's say that 3 or the 350 women were called Laura. This leads me to believe (based on a statistically insignificant base, with numbers made up off the top of my head, on a Friday afternoon when I've had quite a tiring day at work) that a shocking 2/3 or more of Lauras actively dislike Stewart Lee, with some even going to the lengths of posting things on the internet about it, which I believe is some kind of difficult and technical thing involving computers and code and hacking. If I were Stewart Lee (and the chances are that I aren't), I would be less worried about Christians hating him than Lauras hating him.

Or Christian Lauras. I'm going to sit and make up statistics about Christians now. I'll probably be some time...

Expect there to be a rash of articles on Monday morning proclaiming '96% of All
Church-Going Christians Are Called Laura (and That's Just the Boys!!!)'.

Enjoy your respective weekends, freeeeks.

Postcards to Dead Bands. Wooooo.

2006-03-02T23:37:00.000Z

A curious fringe benefit of me getting rid of all my CD cases (I can see you already reeling off the obvious ones. Stop it. You're embarrassing me. Let's just say there's lots of benefits, and you can stop your whirring brain whirring) is that I found lots of those little postcards that you can complete and send back and the record company will then send you lots of information about that artist. Now, I've saved all the ones that have got postage paid, so if you want me to start receiving junk mail on any of the following artists, or just cost the record company some money, let me know and I'll fill in the card and send it off. What really intrigues me is what will happen when I write in requesting information on bands that no longer exist. Will the helpless record company stooge (or person working at 3 Alveston Place in Leamingon Spa, which is the epicentre of this particular niche marketing area) look at the poor scruff requesting information about the still very listenable to in parts Ultrasound who folded after their endearingly overblown debut failed to see millions and see Tiny, their not-a-supermodel-by-any-stretch-of-the-imagination singer, become a jet set rock 'n' roll star, and take pity, and write back a note saying that sadly, owing to the vagaries of this damn industry, they were cruelly neglected, damn it all to hell. Or perhaps it will be the secret password to an alternative music industry that has been kept hidden in a flotilla of large ships of the Kent coast, where Ultrasound are recording their 3rd album, and they'll be doing a well-advertised tour of medium-large venues throughout the UK in the Spring. Or perhaps it'll just get thrown in the bin. It's a risk I take on your behalf.

Belle & Sebastian (who have moved to a bigger record label since this card was produced, which will no doubt cause a sucking of teeth when they receive this card, a-ha!)
Another Jeepster card for Belle & Sebastian
Bernard Butler
Billy Bragg
Finley Quaye (sorry. Maybe you could write insults about me on the card. After all, I was fool enough to buy this album. And later buy his second album for £1.99)
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
Placebo (I once served a big burly bloke when I worked in Our Price who came in asking for the place-bo single. I couldn't work out whether to laugh at the idea of this hairy-knuckled hulk boogieing away to the oh-so-forced gender confusion of Brian Molko and co, or to snigger at his mispronunciation. Instead I just told him the release date. Perhaps he became a goth. I've seen it happen. They're not born that way; it's a choice.There was a regular customer who, one Saturday was a nerd, in glasses and a buttoned-up shirt, and the next Saturday had all these piercings and neck-rings and black clothes and make-up. He was into Depeche Mode, which should have made it a less alarming change than it was.)
Porcupine Tree (Embarrassing Prog. Oh, deary me. I'm a closet Pink Floyd fan. Boo me.)
Radar Records (Who I presume don't exist any more, but who knows?)
Radiohead
Sparklehorse
Supergrass
The Auteurs (disbanded! And Luke Haines solo stuff is shit! This card is the last link to when he was good!)
Two for the Chemical Brothers. (Presumably one for Tom, and one for the other one, who, for these purposes we'll assume is called Colin)
Ultrasound (like what I said before)

George Michael: So the Man Needed A Snooze; What's Wrong With That?

2006-02-27T10:03:00.000Z

I'm not sure, but I suspect, based on evidence from this article on George Michael's arrest, that the New York Daily News may not be quite the respected bastion of news values I first thought. It's the line "Wake me up before I go, go - to jail" that makes me think that.

Pop stars must now realise that they have to choose their song titles very carefully, lest they come back to haunt them as punning references in news articles reporting the celebrity's implication in a horrific quintuple homicide.

Deadpan Conversations: The Shop Comes To Me

2006-02-09T22:36:00.000Z

Scene: My front door, being answered by me wearing, for reasons that are too convoluted to go into at the present time, a shirt and a pair of shorts, with a knee. that is bleeding down my leg. There stands before me a man holding my delivery takeaway.

Man Holding My Takeaway: Here you go.
Me: Thank you. How much was it?
MHMT: You should have told me that Wilberforce Rd is blocked from one end. Â£6.75 please.
Me: Oh. I'm sorry. Here you go.
MHMT: You should have told me. I've a lot of deliveries to make; it's a busy night.
Me: I'm sorry.
MHMT: You should have told me.
Me: I'm sorry. I don't drive, y'see.
MHMT: [backing away towards his car] You should have told me...

Nice food though. Curry Club. Tottenham Rd. Crouch End. Just make sure your directions are up to scratch, y'hear?

An excitable tutor came in today, and told me that they had a student on one of the undergraduate courses called 'Bugs Bunny'. I took this in my stride, as I am a keen idle tapper-into-databases of rude/funny words to see what comes up. My own personal favourites have been a student whose surname was 'Moneybum' and a student whose middle name was 'Muvvafuk'. And there it was, on the computer screen in front of me. The student, if student it really is, is apparently due to be on the undergraduate Media Studies course. Ah, 'Mickey Mouse' course. I geddit. Someone's still going to be sacked for inventing students, though.

There are two students called 'Wankey', though. Ah, databases. You satisfy my basest desires. If only you could be taught to love.

Totalisers and the Gnawing Agony They Create

2006-02-07T18:43:00.000Z

There must be a word in the English language to describe the sudden and unprompted realisation that the totalisers on Blue Peter used to chart the progress of their annual charity appeal were set at a pathetically attainably low level in order to give the children watching a sense of awe and collective achievement as they saw the appeal total soar past the original target on to several new totalisers lined up alongside the original totaliser while the over-enthusiastic saucer-eyed presenters gibbered on about how well the appeal was doing. It's a feeling akin the the recognition that your entire childhood is naught but a tissue of lies, but this as-yet-unnamed Blue Peter feeling is all the more spirit-crushing in its specificity.

Not sure what a totaliser is, and confused by my insistent use of the word totaliser? An example is visible at Rotherham United Football Club's site where you can see how much money they've raised for no stated purpose. I like to think it's a fund to allow the good people of Rotherham to disband Rotherham United Football Club. Over half way there!

The Unexpected Benefits of Buying a Magazine You've Already Read

2006-01-31T11:50:00.000Z

I bought the current issue of Private Eye (20th Jan - 2nd Feb), despite already having read it at my parents' house. Yes, it was a foolish mistake; a mistake, furthermore, that has cost me £1.40. However, this £1.40 was worthwhile in order to demonstrate the old 'a week is a long time in politics' truism. On page 8, following a long series of allegations about the drinking, lying, and sexual habits of leading Lib Dems comes the following:

"There are no drinking and shagging stories about Mark Oaten, MP for Winchester and one of the serious candidates for the leadership of the Lib-Dems (if that's not a contradiction in terms)."

Ha!

Unless I'm being incredibly naive, and this is the Eye being knowing and suggestive, and using innuendo to such a high degree that it's all but invisible, but that's hardly their style. They normally just publish it, with as much detail, hearsay and cruelty as they can squeeze in.

Armando Iannucci; Time Out Rate-Hate System

2006-01-30T11:04:00.000Z

I bring exciting news for those of you who have been ignoring the back page of the new smaller-but-fatter The Observer recently. I accidently caught sight of the back page of the news section in a mirror yesterday, and discovered to my great joy that it had on it a column by Armando Iannucci, about whom the internet will probably tell you a lot. They've been very funny, and if like me you have a mortal fear of the back page of a newspaper that doesn't contain either pictures of Sven or adverts, then you can avoid confronting your fears by looking here, here, here, and also here. Great.

Now, those of you who live in London will no doubt be aware that Time Out hates everything. Be it plays, art, books, music (in single, album or live format) or films, they think it's beneath them to show any sign of enjoyment. They've even invented a ratings scheme specially to systematise their disdain. They mark everything out of stars, which is conventional enough, but not five stars, oh no, they mark things out of six stars. This allows them to have the unattainable sixth star sitting there blankly at the end of the row, its very existance mocking all forms of artistic endeavour. Honestly, they had a meeting about this; just look at the minutes below:

1 Apologies (none given)
2 Belittling the Arts (6-star rating system to be implemented, mwhahahaha)
3 Wasting Perfectly Good Ink on that Knobshine Christian Subnormal with the Megaphone at Oxford Circus (motion passed: full steam ahead, cap'n)
4 Off down the pub then everyone? (motion pashed)

However, they've only gone and given a film six stars in the last issue, haven't they? You'd think this would undermine my argument, wouldn't you? It doesn't, because they felt that they had to point out the rarity of the award by putting '(six stars)' in words after the six stars themselves. It was probably not an event for which they'd planned.

My Knee and a Chilling Encounter with a German

2006-01-20T12:58:00.000Z

I've just got back from the doctor's after going to get my knee checked out. This gave me the dilemma of what to call the thing that I have. It's not really a cut. But then again it's not really a graze. I'd like to call it an abrasion, but I suspect that's just a term I've made up, so I'd feel embarassed saying it to someone who spent seven years learning terms for injuries. The best I could come up with is 'wound', but it sounds so grand and imposing I'd feel like I was cheating by using it. I guess I associate wounds with swordfights and gunshots and knifefights and the First World War. My tactic therefore, in order to determine what to call it, was to go in to the doctor and show them, and let them call it what they will. This involved mumbling when it came to the mentioning the cut/wound/abrasion/whatever and talking loosely about 'infections' and 'pus'. 'Shall I show you?', I asked, dropping my trousers. To cut a long story short, the doctor, without prompting, referred to it as a wound, as later did the nurse. Result!

They've put me on some antibiotics, which is embarassing to have shouted by the pharmacist in front of the whole shop. It's not for the clap, people, it's for my knee. My wound. Do you want to see it? Eh?

Just had a student come in, and after a brief discussion about a topic of little interest to even the two people in the discussion, let alone you at home, she said, in her strong German accent, "Now that you are here, you will have to suffer". Hmm, it's looks sinister written down, and now, thinking back, it sounded just as sinister when it was said. Brr. I'm not even sure it was down to the common view that everything sounds more menacing when issued in a German accent. I'm sure that the phrase, "Now that you are here, you will have to suffer", would sound just as blood-curdling if it were in a comic Mexican accent by a short fellow in a sombrero sitting the wrong way round on a donkey.

Sir, would You Mind Telling Me What You Were Doing Between the Hours of 12 and 6pm on Tuesday 14th March, 1972?

2006-01-19T15:08:00.000Z

Just in case you need an alibi to cover you for a particularly grisly murder committed between the hours of 12 and 6pm on Tuesday 14th March, 1972 and the police have just caught up with you, tell them that you were present at the recording of 'Would You Believe' from Roxy Music's debut album, helping Bryan Ferry in the studio, setting the mic levels and so forth, and bringing cups of tea (Brian Eno took his like a bloody builder, and wouldn't touch it until it had stewed for a good 10 minutes). This will get you off the crime. It was a long time ago; I'll let you off. Just make sure not to kill anyone again, and for god's sake if you have to: don't take their feet as trophies. The police only had to look on your mantelpiece.

This is the kind of drivel you think about when the last two pages you looked at on the internet were an absurdly detailed history of Roxy Music by the guitarist with too much time on his hands Phil Manznera and the Hansard reporting of a debate in the House of Lords about whether there should be a statue of limitations on genocide when considering the International Criminal Court Bill back in April 2001, prior to ratifying the statute of the International Criminal Court. Stupid internet, thinks it knows everything.

Pictures of Prostitutes, the Golden Globes and Odd Newsagents

2006-01-17T14:23:00.000Z

Interesting to see various news sites' use of stock photos to illustrate the government's about-face on legalised red light districts. Prostitutes' legs are a big favourite amongst e-Fleet Street picture editors. Bonus points for the Times for their almost arty photo of a handwritten sign saying 'model'. Question marks awarded to the Mirror (last photo) for what appears to be a picture of a woman getting into her car. Whore!

The story is either reported as a 'Crackdown on Kerb-Crawlers' or 'Mini Brothels Made Legal', depending on whether you're a glass half-full sort of person or not.

What the hell, exactly, is a Golden Globe? Why are we being told about them? Are they like a pre-season friendly match before the Oscars? The equivalent of an ITV awards ceremony where Emmerdale actually wins awards? Gah.

While thinking about newspaper headlines, there's a shop near where I work that has a local paper headline board outside the shop. It's carefully put outside every day, but the headline hasn't changed in months. I must go in and ask them whether there's any personal reason the shopkeeper wants everyone to see the headline 'Love Rat Strangles Girlfriend With Flex' at the expense of all newer news. Is it the extraneous detail in the headline he so loves? I'm surprised he hasn't added his own punctuation - 'Love Rat Strangles Girlfriend (With Flex!)'. Weirdo. That's the last time I buy a Kit Kat Chunky in there, I'm telling you.

Happy New Year

2006-01-09T10:04:00.000Z

Yes, happy new year. Sorry to come across like a rejected Seinfeld episode idea, but I'm fed up of saying 'happy new year' to people. It's not so much the enforced conviviality as that you have to remember whether or not you've seen that particular person since December 31st 2005. It's considered, for some reason, terribly bad form to wish someone a happy new year twice. What I want to know is: what is the statute of limitations on wishing people happy new year? At what point is it socially acceptable to not wish someone a new year? Surely there can't be too many people unaware that it's now 2006? Me pointing it out would surely be unnecessary, wouldn't it?

I've still got my limp, but it's on the way out. I don't think I got enough respect for my limp. They don't come naturally. You've got work out exactly how best to limp in order to fulfil the triplet aims of minimising pain, maximising mobility and looking cool. It's a real shame more people didn't stop me in the street and say, cool limp - would you mind showing me how you do it? I'd've obliged.

Just been to a clothes shop, bought some trainers in the sale (inevitably brown), and noted that they had lots and lots of bizarrely oversized watches on sale. Huge. Far too big for the average wrist. Faces about 8cm across. It's like Flavor Flav designed them. I wanted to ask them in the shop, but felt it would open me up to accusations of uncool, so I left it hanging. Boo.

ITV's Cash Cab, A Moral Lesson on Greed. Here Beginneth the Lecture...

2005-12-28T01:28:00.000Z

Being sat at home for Xmas, slumped on a sofa a good amount of the time, it provides the perfect opportunity to sample such television as ITV's 'Cash Cab'. The concept, for those of you who've eaten fewer boxes of biscuits this week than me (and therefore are able to escape the sofa more readily), is that an unsuspecting punter or punters flags down a black London taxi, and on getting in are confronted bythe cabbie/compere, who says he'll take them where they want to go or...

Or they can opt to embark on a low-budget mobile Millionaire, where they answer a series of progressively harder questions for increasing payouts. It even has lifelines and everything. I like to take it at face value and believe that it's all above board, legit and on the level, and in no way staged, fixed or otherwise interfered with, purely because I love the concept.

I would love to see someone turn down the offer of the competition and see ITV devoted 15 minutes of airtime to showing a woman with some heavy shopping's ride from Covent Garden to Muswell Hill, with occasional breaks in the silence while the cabbie swears at the otherdrivers he's in the process of cutting up.

In fact, the whole thing just by its very nature necessitates an horiffic car accident caused by a driver distracted by flashing lights as the happy passengers answer a £1000 question by using their third lifeline. Grim, but it's going to happen if this tragic, yet diverting, programme continues. Still, it'll make them a few bob in selling it to It'll Be Alright on the Night XXXIV.

Deadpan Conversations With Shop Assistants. Vol n

2005-12-23T14:24:00.000Z

Scene: A hardware shop. The air is alive with Christmas spirit.

Shopkeeper: Hi.
Me: Hi. Have you got any mousetraps?
SK: (Points in the direction of the mousetraps and comes over to talk me through the purchase)
Me: Ah, 'The Little Nipper'. I'll take three of these, please. Hang on, what are these?
SK: Plastic ones; they don't kill 'em, see?
Me: No, I want them to die.
SK: (Shouting to teenage daughter who is chatting away on her mobile) Come and do the till!
Me: (To the shopkeeper's teenage daughter) That'll be 2.97.
SKTD: Aw, you've done the maths for me!

On Getting Hit By A Motorbike; and Why That Isn't an Advisable Thing to Do

2005-12-22T12:52:00.000Z

In a round-up of the most exciting things to happen to me over the last week, getting hit by a motorbike probably comes top. It views closely with receiving in the post an entirely unsolicited copy of the New Scientist's 'Does Anything Eat Wasps?' book, with no note in the handwritten envelope. It was postmarked 'Croydon' (I don't know anyone in Croydon). Getting hit by the motorbike is, however, probably more noteworthy and interesting than receiving a mysterious book. Both these things, were you a more suspensful and less cyncial and sarcastic writer than I, would make good starts to spooky-ooky ghost stories.

Anyway, I got hit by a motorbike last week. Fortunately, for me at least, not seriously. I've been left with a couple of cut up knees and a dodgy limp. It was on Seven Sisters Rd, the lights were red, I was crossing a few cars down from the crossing itself, failed to see the motorbike filtering down the middle of the road, and got hit. There was quite an interesting moment where time stretched out and everything went veeeerrrryyyyy sloooooowwwww, and I think i said 'fuck', which wouldn't quite have been the best last words. I must be more prepared. Anyway, once time had caught up with itself, I was on the floor, quite shaken, checking what was wrong with me. I'd got up, and then a tramp came and gave me a hug. This wasn't entirely appreciated, and added considerably to the unreality of the situation. Some kind Samaritan came and removed the tramp, and checked that I was ok. My main emotion at this time was embarassment, and as everything appeared to be in place, I limped slowly back home to check my bits. Fortunately, photos don't exist of the wound on my knee, but suffice to say: 'ugh'. On the phone to NHS direct, the nurse, trying to see how deep it was, asked if I could see white bits that looked like worms. Maybe? Ugh, my insides are disgusting.

I was eventually badgered by my long-suffering other half to go to the Walk-In Clinic at the Homerton, missing none of the irony that my walking wasn't my strong point. However, the surly receptionist said it was shut, which meant I had to go to A&E. I hate A&E. It's all people with pint glasses embedded in their heads and kids with their eyes superglued shut and waiting for ever and oh-god-the-boredom-amid-the-agony. My beligerent side was disappointed not to have to wait very long, and then I was whisked off, told to get into a gown (the sort of backless/bottomless number that I leant a certain effortless sexiness to, even under the less than ideal circumstances of bleeding everywhere), while a succession of good-natured doctors and nurses took turns to go 'ugh' at my knee, embark on a lengthy discussion about whether the inside of my knee should be quite that colour, jab me with a tetanus shot when I wasn't looking, and then when finished cleaning and poking me, let me hobble off to get a taxi.

The taxi driver, however, was rubbish. Good-naturedly rubbish, but rubbish all the same. He kept asking us for directions, which given that Homerton Hospital is hidden away in the most confusing part of Hackney possible, didn't inspire confidence in getting home ok. Fortunately we did, and the driver tried to haggle himself out of a fare, while we haggled him up.

Anyhow, the moral of this story is: don't get hit by motorbikes.

Hope you all have nice Christmasses or whatever, and hope you have a humbuggery-free time.

Shoes and the Drummer from Pink Floyd

2005-12-15T15:15:00.000Z

I've just had a nasty shock. I've just been given back these trainers back. They're mine. I'd forgotten about them. The were a TK Maxx purchase, where glittering discounts distracted me from the trainers themselves. They're now only used when one of us goes to a fancy dress party as Jerry Seinfeld, which happens more regularly than you might think. I'm all sad now. I think I'll have to put these shoes away. I was in the Wood Green branch of TK Maxx last week though, and I avoided buying any ill-fitting and/or ill-looking clothes simply on the basis that they'd been on sale at a higher price somewhere else, so I think I'm learning.

I've managed to misplace the book I was reading, so I've started on the not-so-promising-sounding Inside Out: A Personal History of Pink Floyd by Nick Mason. The Drummer. Anyway, it's actually quite good, and he seems to have quite a good memory, especially for technical details. A typical sentance runs 'the studios boasted the then state-of-the-art Tannoy Red speakers, the definitive speaker of the era'. A caption for a photo reads 'I had a brief flirtation with a perspex drum-kit made by the American company Fibes. I was captivated by the idea of an 'invisible' kit, but in fact they were very difficult to record successfully'. Phew. Bet there was a bidding war about the tabloid serialisation.

Xmas CD

2005-12-12T17:46:00.000Z

December, eh? Well, without further ado, it's time to get on with the tracklisting for what the chosen amongst you will be receiving over the next couple of days. It's my way of saying Merry Xmas and enforcing my musical tastes on you like a Führer Christmas.

Track One: Gwen Stefani - Hollaback Girl

Yay - pop! In which Ms Gwendoline denies that she is a girl who hollas back, and who, dear listener, are you to disbelieve her? Features some of the most breathtaking spelling of the word 'banana' in a pop record. Well, mis-spelling. It's best not to dwell on the line 'my shit is bananas', really. In fact, I think this may contain the most swearing of any record I've ever heard. Amazing.

Track Two: Beck - Go It Alone

Beck back with actually quite a good album - his best since his Prince-Shoulda-Sued-Like-A-Mad-Midget-With-Badass-Lawyers album, Midnite Vultures. Good dooting (as the noise is technically known).

Track Three: The White Stripes - Blue Orchid

Looking back, I'd forgotten that this was the taster for their new album. An important moral to the song too: don't go painting flowers colours that they aren't, or else you'll have pasty hat-wearer Jack White to answer to. This issue has previously only been dealt with in adverts for Simple soap, and never before in stomp-rock.

Track Four: Queens of the Stone Age - Little Sister

My one forray into Kerrang territory is testament to my high regard for the awkwardly shortened QOTSA. I don't often say this, but: nice solo.

Track Five: The Brakes - Ring A Ding Ding

A Brighton supergroup (featuring a man who once went to a British Sea Power gig, Electralaine's postman, and a man who's role in the band is to loudly declaim on the topic of why there's too many people down from London this weekend), which is utterly derivative. Utterly. There's no excuse. It's Roxy Music's debut single, Virginia Plain. They throw in the start from the Sex Pistol's Anarchy in the UK to try and put you and your copyright lawyer off the scent, but all the same. And it only lasts ninety seconds too. Refreshing.

Track Six: Goldfrapp - Lovely 2 C U

Characteristically good track from the woman/band described by me and my mate Tim when they were supporting some indie band somewhere in the late-Nineties as looking like the band formed by the science teachers of a secondary school in order to impress the sexy trainee art teacher who was with the school. While this remains one of the best pieces of description in music criticism, it needs to be noted that since then, the science teachers haven't got anywhere with the Miss Goldfrapp, who now has Qualified Teacher Status, although the Head has some concerns about the clothes she wears to school. And her spelling. It takes some gumption to out-Prince Prince with that title.

Track Seven: Gorillaz - Dare

It is hard to add anything to the simple joy of being able to go, 'It's coming up, it's coming up, it's coming up - it's DARE!'. The video gave me nightmares, and I'm surprised one or more government ministries weren't mobilised to the threat of giant pock-marked Shaun Ryder heads lurking in houses, taking up entire rooms, connected to all manner of gadgetry and barking away. Ugh.

Track Eight: Le Tigre - Nanny Nanny Boo Boo

Features mannered rapping, synth stabs and general greatness.

Track Nine: LCD Soundsystem - Tribulations

Continuing the 'get up and dance' section of the evening, we have this track, that fair motors along, while telling you to cheer up and stop moaning. It's over three times as long as The Brakes' track, for those who want quantitative comparisons instead of flimsy floaty whimsy.

Track Ten: Clor - Love+Pain

I have to confess that I don't know what a clor is, but this should be a track that sets indie disco floors alight, if such things exist any more. 2005 was the year of jerky angular music, wasn't it? I think 2006 will be feature more orchestras, and will have less skinny boys in shirts.

Track Eleven: The Kills - No Wow

What I was going to do here was have a track by The Black Keys as well, and make some clever point about bluesy two-person bands. It would have been brilliant. However, CDs are only 80 mins, so you can't have that. You'll just have to wait for the director's cut in 2015. On that topic, are there no directors who, on reflection, think their film should have been shorter? Christ knows I've sat through some three-hour piece of shit often enough, the only thing keeping me conscious being the hope that someday, a Director's Cut DVD would be released transforming the bloated gut monster of a movie I was sitting through into a lean punchy thrill-a-minute wonder. Yes, Lord of the Rings, I'm talking about you. Don't slouch at the back there - get on with some bloody work.

Track Twelve: Antony & The Johnsons - Fistful Of Love

Ah, I couldn't have undermined my point much better if I'd tried. This is the most overblown-with-knobs-on kind of tripe that normally falls heavily on its velvet-trousered arse, but seeing as it's here on this CD, you know it's actually as if the Memphis Horns were reformed by a group of talented mediums with ouiji-trumpets. I've saved you from having to go into a record shop and ask for a Fistful of Love, which is likely to put an end to your pleasant retail experience. I've also prevented you from needing to type 'fistful love' into a search engine, which I guess won't help your job security any, unless you're currently working for a gay porn mag. If so, what's the holiday entitlement like?

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Track Thirteen: Ryan Adams - Easy Plateau

Right, Adams, I've got a bone to pick with you. Stop releasing albums. Yes. Just stop. I've bloody got enough on my plate, without having to listen to another one of your bloody records. Just go on holiday. Go and work in an office. Give me a break. The bugger has released three albums this year that I know of. There's no feeling of anticipation with a Ryan Adams album, because you've already got a backlog, which grows larger all the time. I think he receives massive EU subsidies through the Common Agricultural Policy to overproduce his country-inflected songs, while in the Third World there are families who don't have enough pedal steel guitars to feed their children. His record company even tried to help the situation, with a creditable attempt to supress the release of the Love is Hell album, but the best they could manage was to slow the tide while the album trickled out as two mini-albums. Many good record company men were lost in this battle, and it is in their memory that this compilation is dedicated.

Track Fourteen: Richard Hawley - The Ocean

Ah, now here's the lush smoky-voiced late night lushness I've been hankering after. He comes close to sounding like a British Johnny Cash or Scott Walker on the album, which is much less laughable than it sounds.

Track Fifteen: Madeleine Peyroux - You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go

My mum says, and always has, that Bob Dylan was a great songwriter, and a rubbish singer. With this borne in mind, lots of people have covered Crouch End Bob's work, often passing over the option to include the sneering and screeching that Zimmerman favours. This, from the excellent Blood on the Tracks, is one of my favourites, and benefits from the slightly maudlin tone that only a breathy jazz cover can give it.

Track Sixteen: Lord Kitchener - London is The Place For Me

Erm, this was recorded in 2005, ok? You'll just have to take my word for it. It's great though.

Track Seventeen: The Decemberists - The Sporting Life

These, from Portland, Oregon, America, are a wordy bunch of buggers, and currently holders of my Album of the Year (although by the time I've closed these parentheses, this may well have changed several times and settled on being something else entirely). I've selected this track above others mainly because it effortlessly plagiarises Iggy Pop's Lust For Life, but with a little tale about sporting ineptitude. 'They condescend to fix on me a frown' is a great turn of phrase.

Track Eighteen: The Dresden Dolls - The Jeep Song

I've previously raved about this track. it's still great. And it's still 2005. So listen up, punks, and get an earful of when overly theatrical goths make brilliant music. Their live version of Black Sabbath's War Pigs is very good too.

Track Nineteen: Johnny Boy - You Are The Generation Who Bought More Shoes And You Get What You Deserve

OK, I'll freely admit that this was released in 2004. However, for sounding like a fight between the Supremes, the Manics many years before they went shit, Fireworks Night and Christmas, with a title that even the Manics would have rejected as too much like tubthumping, I let them slip into my 2005 cd, and we'll have nothing more said on the matter, eh? At least we will if you know what's good for you.

Track Twenty: Low - Just like christmas

As though the last few songs with their increasing use of sleighbells hadn't signposted where we're going, here's a proper Xmas song. Except it might well be about being disappointed by a lack of Xmas feeling. But what do lyrics mean, anyway? Stupid songwriting. More sleighbells, I say.

Well, that's that all wrapped up. Have good xmases!

Mmm, Pasties

2005-12-09T10:11:00.000Z

I am finally the picture of ruddy faced health that I've always longed to be. Now, I'm not sure what the RDA (as defined by the EC Nutrition Labelling Directive 90/496/EEC) for pasties is, but I can be fairly sure that in the last 24 hours I've exceeded the level of pasties necessary for general health purposes, having eaten the best part of 3 (three) pasties. Yes, I'm sure I've derived all of the important P vitamins a healthy body needs for a long, successful and tasty life. Mmm. I'm not averse to commercial sponsorship deals, Greggs and The Cornwall Pasty Co., you hear?

Hangover, Posters from the Past and Hand-driers of the Future

2005-12-08T16:43:00.000Z

Hangover Cure of the Year: Greggs Vegetable Pasty (85p). All the greasy stodge you need, and none of that pesky cutlery to faff about with. A winner.

While idly buggering about on the web while waiting for someone on the end of the phone line to look something up, I came across this site, which displays frankly alarming propaganda posters. Well worth a quick flick. However, Queen Mary's Army Auxillary Corps (slogan: 'The GIRL behind the man behind the gun') features a rather loutish young thing on the recruitment poster, who appears to be giving the 'wan-kah!' salute. Not quite sure what their role in the war was, exactly. I'm not going to dwell on it.

There is a trend for increasingly powerful handdriers in toilets. Really powerful. So powerful that they flatten and contort your skin while you hold them under the drier. I'm not sure they're entirely safe, but they are a minor thrill in my small, small world. Should you wish your life to reach the soaring peaks of mine, the ones I've used are at the fun factory otherwise known as Stansted Airport, and at Gordon's Wine Bar by Embankment. Run quickly!

Money-Saving Tips, Or; It Could Be You

2005-12-02T12:35:00.000Z

As people who have noticed the shortening days and increasing levels of sparkly spangle in advertising, you can't but be aware that Christmas looms like the final roast potato that you are compelled to force down your gullet, despite being full already, you fat pig. Christmas, along with all that, is associate with the Traditional Seasonal Overdraft, and being short of money, because you're out being sociable.

Well, I can offer you a partial solution to this. It will save you upwards of the Â£1 a week you spend on the national lottery. It simulates precisely the feeling of the lottery, but with none of the cost. There are several steps:

Go to The National Lottery's website.

Choose your numbers and enter them (choose carefully - numbers that are imbued with personal meaning are sci-en-tif-ic-ally proven to be luckier than those chosen by an infinite number of monkeys).

Extend the time to 180 days to maximise your fun!

Click 'check results'.

a) weep because you didn't win OR
b) weep because you won, but failed to have the foresight to put those numbers on on Saturday, 20th August 2005, like an idiot

There you go. A quid saved, but with all the misery and let-down of the real lottery. You could even imagine Philip Scofield if you like. Laughing at you. All grey-haired and supercilious. Ugh.

When the Entire Metropolitan Police Force Interupted My Flossing

2005-11-25T09:50:00.000Z

At about quarter-to-twelve last night I was disturbed from my flossing (yes. Flossing. Dental hygiene is important people. Be the best you can be.) by a ringing at the door. On answering it, there were four or so policemen standing outside. The confused converstation ran something like (surnames have been changed to protect the clearly innocent):

Massed Policemen: Do you live here?
Me (holding some flossing tape, with a towel slung over my shoulder): Er, yes.
MP: This is 52, yes?
Me: Yes.
MP: Do you live in flat A?
Me: I live on the ground floor; I don't think they're called flat A and B.
MP (more assertively): So that's flat A is it?
Me: Maybe?
MP (shifting tack): So who lives upstairs? Is he a black man?
Me: No. He's a white guy.
MP: What's his name?
Me: Er. Guy.
MP (unconvinced): What's his surname?
Me (names have been changed, but he does have a similarly implausible name): Snow. Dog. Guy Snowdog.
MP: How long has he lived here?
Me: Er, years.
MP: Mind if we ask him?
Me: Er, no.

The police file in up to the upstairs door, revealing that there's now about nine of them; the uglier, larger members of which had been hiding (actually, when they're that large, it's impossible to hide. They can only lurk being that size). When they've established that Guy The Improbably Named is actually caucasian, and has lived here for er, years, they troop off, disappointedly promising to update their computers.

It was very odd.

It is a month till Christmas. Just thought you should know.

Binge, Berlin, Binge

2005-11-21T16:51:00.000Z

According to a report by the London Assembly, art galleries in the capital should open until 10pm at weekends, in order to provide an alternative form of nightlife to binge drinking. Doesn't prevent binge pretension, with police desperate for new legislation to help them deal with the predicted chaos when hordes of art-lovers spill out onto the streets at 10.15pm, full of loud opinions and looking for fights. Doesn't bear thinking about.

In happier news, I've just got back from Berlin, where I cycled round looking cool and went to a bar where a fire-breathing metal dragon looks down on you, breathing fire, and a Brazillian funk band, featuring at least one Mafia boss (on sax and 2nd percussion), played Brazillian funk. Also it was cold.

Wouldn't it be nice just to get through one day without someone talking about binge drinking? When they stop talking about it, I'll stop doing it.

A Headline What I Seed

2005-11-11T16:54:00.000Z

The Islington Gazette at the moment has the faintly horrible headline on its boards:

Why I Killed Hooker

on lurid flourescent paper. Mmm. Nice.

The best one of those I've seen (headlines, that is, not dead hookers - I don't keep some kind of all-time mental top ten of murdered prostitutes - what kind of man do you think I am?) was one in Crouch End:

Crouch Enders Oppose Concrete Plans

"Let's go to the King's Head tonight, and we can watch the comedy. Meet you in the pub, table by the door at quarter past seven, no, tell you what, make it eight-ish, or should we meet earlier, perhaps at the clock tower? Tell you what, I'll give you a call, maybe." There's a possibility the headline was about a concrete factory and locals' response to it, but it doesn't seem very likely now, does it?

Surprising TV, Warband and Boxer Shorts

2005-11-10T10:49:00.000Z

Now, it comes as much as a surprise to me as it does to you that the best comedy series I've seen recently was a) on ITV and b) Mike Bassett: Manager.

However, it was. Great performance from Ricky Tomlinson and supporting cast, very well produced with great attention to detail (Wirral County are a very believable team, their main sponsor being Wirral Rubbish), and a very sharp script (the scary Serbian war-criminal who is the team's goalkeeper being one highlight). All that, and it proved to be the one ITV programme this century not featuring Ant and/or Dec.

If you're in the general area of Brighton (that's the South East, you ignorant nerks) tonight, you may wish to go and see the peerless Warband who playing at the Pressure Point this eve, with a promised start time of 8.30pm. I, sadly, am double-booked to go to a drinks thing at the LSE, where I will cement my future in the upper firmament of Higher Education by sharing jokes and flirtatious banter with Sir Howard Davies, Director of the LSE . Why, Howard, you're looking particularly ravishing tonight...

The other day, I was woken by the barking of my neighbour, followed quickly by a ring at the doorbell. Not having time to dress, I answered in my vest and boxers, to find a postwoman with a parcel for next door. She then had to go back next door to leave them a note, but was chased there by the menacing wheelchair-bound neighbour, angry that she had parked in the sacred zone between the tree and the lamp-post. So, were you down my road at 8.30 on Tuesday morning, you'd have been confronted by the sight of a postwoman being chased by a barking (in both senses) man in a wheelchair, followed closely by a barefooted me in boxers and vest attempting to calm him down and assure him that the van would be gone from the precious, precious realm of no parking. I actually had the Benny Hill chase music going through my head, and were you recording it on a camcorder, you could speed it up and overdub it. I tried to choreograph a segment where we'd all be chasing each other round a big tree, and emerge in the wrong order, but I couldn't get all parties to agree to this. Shame.

We Value Your Call and Will Answer As Soon As Possible

2005-11-09T09:40:00.000Z

I write this entry while I am on hold. This in itself is bad enough. However, the song was some horribly icky bit of what we used to call swingbeat. Worse even than this, the song mocked me by having some tight-trousered man straining his vocal chords (and possibly his cords to, although he's more likely to be wearing a pair of leather trousers, isn't he) singing the main lyrical refrain of 'I'm waiting, I'm waiting, I'm wa-ai-ai-ting for YOU. FOR you. For yoo. I'm waiting. (Etc.)'

Oh, they've answered now. Hello? Hello? Oops, I should be speaking now, not writing. Sorry.

Chores of a Domestic God

2005-11-07T18:16:00.000Z

Hello internet. My main preoccupation at the moment is the Wahsing Mountain which has recently formed following the moving in together of two people who don't do their washing often enough, but still have the dignity to insist on fresh underwear every single day. Going through the various strata, I have found socks I had thought gone forever, which was a teary and emotional moment.

May just have been the smell though, ho ho ho.

A Series of Poor Excuses for My Neglect of You, the Internet

2005-11-04T16:01:00.000Z

This will come as no surprise to any of you who have ever taken any of the responsibilities thrust on you as an adult, but it really needs stating again: British Telecommunications PLC are exceedingly shit. They excel in the field of being crap. Their heavily paid directors are given bonuses based on the number of fuck-ups in the previous quarter. Bastards all, to a man. And I speak as the son of a (now-retired) BT worker of 30 years.

Attempting to pay the final bill from my previous flat, I was on the phone for half an hour, and my final words to the supervisor (who sounded no more in a position of power than a teeny kitten in a sack weighted with stones plummeting towards the canal-bed) were 'can you note that I will never, as long as I have breath left in my body, use BT again? And can you add swear-words to that as you see fit. I am very angry. Yes, thank you, goodbye.'

I think I'll punch my dad next time I see him.

Woo. I've just moved house. This explains the lack of posts recently. I now live in Brownswood Park, which is an area that exists only in the quasi-reality of the A-Z. It's actually Finsbury Park. There have been many things over the last couple of weeks, involving, in no particular order of precedence:

Estate agents. Hundreds of 'em. Each more cockroachesque than the last. There was one who was possibly redeemably human, but she had an unnerving ability to misnavigate any given route by heading, moth-to-a-flame, to the site of whatever traffic jam, roadworks, paperclip factory fire, serious road traffic accident, protest march of militant antidecimalisationalists or any other time-consuming road event happened to be in the vicinity.

A landlord who could out-fussy the princess in the story of the princess and the pea, even if the mattress were a thousand feet of lead and the pea were an atom's weedy cousin who can't catch a ball and bleeds too easily. This wouldn't normally be a problem, but we had to clean the house to his exacting standards. I can imagine him dressed in formal eveningwear and a monocle, running his begloved hand along a skirting board and tutting to himself while horribly tiny dogs yap at his ankles.

The tenants of the flat we were about to move into not - actually - moving - out. Argh.

Getting boxes. This is far more difficult than it sounds, and even now when I catch sight of something even slightly cardboard-coloured, my heartrate quickens and I look round furtively to see if anyone will notice me sneak off with it so that I can fill it with books/clothes/issues 1-724 of 'Build Yourself a Matchstick Galleon in only 725 issues (Issue one comes at a special price and includes a FREE matchbox)'

The ceiling in our new flat falling in shortly before we were about to move in.

Me almost getting into a fist-fight with a mentally ill man in a wheelchair. Really. Less fun than it sounds. I have a feeling that this is the sort of thing that Ricky Gervais has in mind for every episode of 'Extras'. Or Larry David in 'Curb Your Enthusiasm'. It doesn't reflect well on me.

God himself peeking out from between the clouds to mock me, in a deeply personal way.

Reading a lot about Hitler. That puts you in a bad mood. Stupid Hitler.

The futon smelling funny in the new house. Now we have nothing to sit on. Additionally, the whole house smelling a bit. Doesn't smell so bad now, I think.

British Telecom somehow being responsible for everything bad that has ever happened to me

All this, and I have to worry about the fact that I can no longer really be the angriest man in Crouch End any more. Hence the shamefaced slight change of title. Ah well. Such is life.

Cameron Jogs to Victory

2005-10-21T09:55:00.000+01:00

One of the papers this morning, I forget which, had the headline

Cameron Jogs to Victory

on the board outside. When I got inside the newsagents, there it was, a picture of David Cameron, jogging. Really, the headline should have been

Cameron Jogs

or at the very most

Cameron Jogs to to the Shops

I don't know the intimate regulations surrounding the election of the new Tory leader, but I can be fairly confident that it doesn't involve a running race between the two leading contenders. This would, however, be preferable to the current system of Who's Taken the Least Cocaine?