Fifteen Storeys High and Swearing: Both Big and Clever

Now, I'm sure most of you are still reeling from the news that the Crazy Frog beat Coldplay in the already irrelevent contest of the Top 40. This is either the death of serious music, a great victory over self-important music, or a piece of news ranked somewhere in the grand scheme of importance between John Inman's autobiography and a list of the hors d'oeuvres available at Prince Charles' wedding (which is quite a way down the grand scheme of importance).

The Coldplay thing made me laugh a little bit as I read it in the paper, but the thing that made me laugh the most spittle-slutteringly embarassingly recently was when G played me the unbelivably NSFW Explicit Content Only remix of NWA's Straight Outta Compton, where some clever bugger has gone through and in the opposite to a radio-friendly edit where one edits out all the profanities, this guy has edited out everything but the profanities, which goes to show how much swearing there is on the one-time controversial album. It works surprisingly well. If you're as puerile as me and believe that swearing is big and clever, you can click here to go to the homepage.

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In more public spririted enterprise, I hereby announce, simply because the BBC haven't done, that the second series of the inestimably fine Fifteen Storeys High is being reshown on BBC3. I'd advise you to catch it at the brainscramblingly infuriating time of 2.35am on Sunday morning, mainly because that's the time they're showing it. Actually, I'm going to change my advice and tell you to set your videos to do it, because that's a stupid time to put something on, isn't it?

I seem to remember they didn't do a brilliant job of promoting it the first time round either, which is the eternal complaint levelled at the BBC's scheduling of comedy programmes (cf The Great Seinfeld Scandal), but if you're just really confused about what I'm talking about (and it's unlikely to be the first time, is it?), then I've ranted about how great it was before. Needless to say, it's one of the funniest things to have been hidden away on digital-only channels at Jesus-Christ-what-time-is-it hours in recent years.

Best Name

Occasionally some things should be presented as simply as possible, so that their beauty can't be sullied by me talking - here's the name of an actor who's in Millions, Danny Boyle's new kids movie:

Pearce Quigley

Maltesers Ice Cream

I've just bought myself an ice cream in a nod to the nice weather. Actually, I'm wearing sandals, sunglasses and a t-shirt and spent the lunch-hour sunbathing, so I'm doing as much nodding as that dog in the adverts that used to have the voice of Vic Reeves but stopped having his voice when Vic Reeves was found guilty of killing a bulldog and then leaving the scene of the crime. It's a Maltesers-based ice cream, but rather than go for the brave step of a giant spherical lump of honeycomb covered in rapidly melting icecream that you have no means of holding without getting covered in ice cream, instead they've gone for what amounts to a choc-ice on a stick. I'm disappointed, to be frank, but impotent in my rage. I'm not going to complain to Masterfoods, because their name intimidates me, so I'll rage impotently here, thank you very much.

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In contrast to me, the man in front of me in Londis was buying ten loaves of white bread and ten packets of sausages. I wanted to ask him whether he was hosting a sausage sandwich party, or whether he was buying his week's ration of food, but then the thought that this man might only ever eat sausage sandwiches made me feel sad, and I didn't. Also I'd just got Axel F stuck in my head thanks to that stupid frog, which was quite distracting.

Quite Interesting

Hey, I'm giving something back to you today. If your appetite for smugitude was whetted by my reference to Just a Minute earlier this week, then prepare for your lucky day, because it's coming up soon. There's tickets to filmings of QI, the Stephen Fry-helmed quiz, at here. Anyone fancies it, I'm giving consideration to the 9th.

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[Adopts excited tone] I saw a cyclist crash into the back of a car today! He was embarassed, but ok. And you'll be pleased to know that the BMW escaped without injury.

Business As Usual & Deadpan Conversations With Shop Staff vol 12

Well, the Today programme was back on the air this morning, the only difference being instead of shouting at politicians they were shouting at the bosses and trade union representatives in the BBC dispute.

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This morning, Greggs, getting breakfast.

Me: Pain au chocolat, please.
Woman: [Confused look] Pardon?
Me: Pain au chocolat, please.
Woman: Oh, ok.

I was wearing my v-neck jumper back to front, which I hope accounts for the slightly startled look on her face. Not a great start to the day, but it was only fifteen minutes of wandering around idiot-style.

Just a Minute

This morning I woke up, as usual, to my radio alarm. Radio Four though, instead of John Humphreys and co verbally duffing up politicians, was playing an episode of Just a Minute, the oh-so-clever panel-show of smugitude. Several thoughts went through my head: one, that I'd made a mistake and should just stay in bed and see how things pan out (my favourite course of action in such situations); two, that it was actually Sunday again, and should just stay in bed; three, that there was something terribly, terribly wrong. I mean, really wrong. Like a nuclear strike, or the Houses of Parliament being on fire, or David Jason being ill. The more I thought about it, fearfully staring at the ceiling, the more I thought it was this last one. What other possible reason would they be playing such a warm reassuring cardigan of a show as Just a Minute, when really James Naughtie ought to be savaging a spin doctor? If this really is the apocalypse, I thought, well, at least it's going to be quite witty. I've had a good innings. Life's been good to me. And I've got a good excuse for not going to work. Louis Armstrong struck up inside my head with What a Wonderful World - "I see trees of green, red roses too..."

It was all spoiled by the scab continuity announcer badly reading the headlines, and telling us that there was a one day strike by BBC journalists and technicians. Damn. Bugger. I was so looking forward to the end of the world too.

Science, comrades

Finally, conclusive scientific (well, social scienceproof of why Chelsea won the league, Brazil won the World Cup, England won a rugby game, Carlisle beat Stevenage Boro, and why all tennis players and cricket teams down the ages won. I mainly like the name of the quoted academic - he sounds like he's got a never-say-die attitude to his work.

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Has anyone bought (or borrowed, or stolen or stood outside a record shop looking at the cover of) the new Ryan Adams album Cold Roses yet? It's brilliant.

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That is all. Do some work.

Clubs

I drowned my sorrows from Saturday by going out in the evening and drinking lots of cheap vodka and dancing. This compounded my sorrows on Sunday morning. We went to Blow Up at the Metro on Saturday, the rarest of things - a club that actually plays the sort of music listed on the flyers, rather than just treating them as a series of aspirations to be acheived in the fullness of time, parliamentary majority allowing.

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And talking of music, Coldplay-disdaining comment-leaver and fellow blogger Trixie DJs at this club with this playlist (my linking arm is hurting and turning blue) which looks just brilliant, as any night that allows me to dance to Annie's Chewing Gum while drinking cut-price vodka must be. The only trouble is the club has a 'gay and lesbian majority door policy', which I like to imagine has Peter Snow, desperate to avoid the post-election depression he normally succumbs to, lurking outside the club with his swingometer, estimating what the queue outside will do to the sexuality configuration inside. Sounds like good fun though.