Ever get the feeling that you're getting old before your time? I do quite regularly now. When I look in the mirror I see a greying, fattening, tired man that, more often than not, wears dull jumpers. It's only a matter of time before my body gives up on working properly, dementia sets in and I struggle through the rest of my days and silently wishing I had left some offspring on the planet to avenge my horrible, lonely death.
As I type these here words, there are roughly ten minutes until us in Great Britain embark on the year 2012, and those of you who get all your news from the big screen will know it is the year in which we will all die. It's worth saying right now that these people are idiots. It doesn't matter if I'm wrong either, because at least then no one would be able to laugh in my face about it. It's a win win situation.
Anyway, while many of you are out partying now, I'm having a much better time than you with a can of Coke and a bag of M&M's. In a few minutes I'm probably going to pick up my Playstation controller and carry on the night. I'm not even ashamed that I'm doing this at the age of 21.
Truth be told, I've fallen out of love with New Year's Eve. This is predominantly because I live in the cultural anus of Great Britain. New year in my town consists of a few fireworks and some local radio DJs playing the usual brigade of cheesy smelling 'party classics' for the revellers. Stray away from the main event and the pubs are 4000% busier, thus making it near impossible to get a drink to help numb the pain that this has been like your standard lacklustre night out is overdosing on cheap home-made drugs and throwing up over everyone and everything.
In 2010 I stayed sober and taxied some friends in to town to see in the new year. While they may have thought that I was doing them a tremendous service and taking one for the team by not drinking, I couldn't help but snigger to myself when I drove home at 00.30, having been itching to go since about an hour previous. While being able to usher in a new year with friends in the middle of a town is a nice thought, the romance of the occasion wears off a little when you go to give your best wishes to someone they know and they respond with 'I've just thrown up...but I'm not drunk'.
As you can tell, it's probably for the best that I'm sat at home rather than facing the general public. At least this way I can get 2012 off to a good start. My first thoughts don't have to be 'Good god, this is terrible. How long before it's socially acceptable to go home?'. I can actually choose what the first songs I hear in 2012 are going to be. No more of this 'party' shit, I'm going to welcome in the new year with some music that I actually enjoy. The beginnings of January 1 are far better when they're entirely on your own terms.
While my sheer hatred for celebrating new year is unrelenting. It is worth pointing out that my feelings towards the year we've had are nowhere near similar. It's actually been quite good for me, and I hope that it was for you as well. I also hope that the next one is just as enjoyable for you all. And for those of you idiots who believe this is our last on earth, I really hope you don't do anything too illegal while thinking there will be no repercussions. Films aren't real.
Happy new year, everyone.
Sunday, 1 January 2012
Sunday, 18 December 2011
How Television Redeemed Itself
For around six months in my second year of University, I didn't watch television. The main reason for this was that myself and my two house mates had a borderline addiction to video games. There was absolutely no time for actual television programmes. We were too busy playing Call of Duty to care anyway.
Anyway, eventually we reinstated the television as a tool for watching programmes, after a gentle push from TV Licensing. Truth be told, we were a little bit excited about having access to Freeview for the first time in months, and we immediately plugged the aerial into the TV. We only had 9 channels. The heartbreak and disappointment that fell upon that cold living room in Cheltenham in 2010 will forever be instilled in my mind for years to come.
In many ways I think that's why, nearly two years later, me and television programmes rarely interact with each other. If it's not sport, or How I Met Your Mother, then I quite simply do not want to know what each channel has to offer. I used to like Top Gear, then it became a ridiculous parody of itself in an attempt to keep making people laugh. It didn't work. I used to like Friends, then it was on eight times a day for ten years. I used to watch television for more than one hour a day. Then reality programmes aimed at just about every aspect of reality came along. The bond was well and truly broken. If I'm ever to watch television now, it's only ever to be pedantic and sarcastic about almost everything that happens. I just sit in front of the box sneering 'well, that was clearly staged', or 'that wouldn't happen in real life'. No wonder I don't have any friends.
However, in the last couple of weeks the old box has been trying to redeem itself. More surprisingly, I think the attempt is working. It started a few weeks ago with Black Mirror, the mini series penned primarily by Charlie Brooker. The premise for the first episode being "a political thriller in which fictional Prime Minister Michael Callow faces a huge and shocking dilemma when Princess Susannah, a much-loved member of the Royal Family, is kidnapped." The dilemma in question was a sexual act with a pig. A sexual act with a pig. A sexual act with a pig. It doesn't matter how many times I write it, I'm still dumbfounded that such a seemingly crude and ridiculous premise can actually be one of the most gripping dramas I've seen for way to long. The second episode just as endearing. While a little more disengaged from the reality in which we live in at the moment, it served as a poignant warning of how the future will look if we stay so embroiled in the world of smart phones, reality TV and augmented reality.
Alarmingly though, Black Mirror wasn't the best thing on television in the last week or so. It wasn't even the best thing on Channel 4 in the last week or so, due entirely to the broadcasting of This Is England '88. Continuing the story of the youngsters originally from the film, the three part series was quite simply the best thing to be put on a television schedule this year. Drama doesn't get much better. I don't think an episode of a programme has ever made me well up so consistently as the final episode did on Thursday night - and I've watched the pseudo-acting in TOWIE. Furthermore, the soundtrack was brilliant, and since the series has finished, I've found myself revisiting The Smiths' back catalogue a little bit too frequently.
So, it would appear that my faith in television hasn't been shattered altogether. It's not quite fixed either though. I'm not going to quit my job just so I can watch repeats of Homes Under The Hammer, and I can't imagine anything worse than religiously watching 4 soaps on a weekday evening. For now I'll just have to make do with the final episode of Black Mirror tonight. Then I'll probably have to pick up my Playstation controller again.
Anyway, eventually we reinstated the television as a tool for watching programmes, after a gentle push from TV Licensing. Truth be told, we were a little bit excited about having access to Freeview for the first time in months, and we immediately plugged the aerial into the TV. We only had 9 channels. The heartbreak and disappointment that fell upon that cold living room in Cheltenham in 2010 will forever be instilled in my mind for years to come.
In many ways I think that's why, nearly two years later, me and television programmes rarely interact with each other. If it's not sport, or How I Met Your Mother, then I quite simply do not want to know what each channel has to offer. I used to like Top Gear, then it became a ridiculous parody of itself in an attempt to keep making people laugh. It didn't work. I used to like Friends, then it was on eight times a day for ten years. I used to watch television for more than one hour a day. Then reality programmes aimed at just about every aspect of reality came along. The bond was well and truly broken. If I'm ever to watch television now, it's only ever to be pedantic and sarcastic about almost everything that happens. I just sit in front of the box sneering 'well, that was clearly staged', or 'that wouldn't happen in real life'. No wonder I don't have any friends.
However, in the last couple of weeks the old box has been trying to redeem itself. More surprisingly, I think the attempt is working. It started a few weeks ago with Black Mirror, the mini series penned primarily by Charlie Brooker. The premise for the first episode being "a political thriller in which fictional Prime Minister Michael Callow faces a huge and shocking dilemma when Princess Susannah, a much-loved member of the Royal Family, is kidnapped." The dilemma in question was a sexual act with a pig. A sexual act with a pig. A sexual act with a pig. It doesn't matter how many times I write it, I'm still dumbfounded that such a seemingly crude and ridiculous premise can actually be one of the most gripping dramas I've seen for way to long. The second episode just as endearing. While a little more disengaged from the reality in which we live in at the moment, it served as a poignant warning of how the future will look if we stay so embroiled in the world of smart phones, reality TV and augmented reality.
Alarmingly though, Black Mirror wasn't the best thing on television in the last week or so. It wasn't even the best thing on Channel 4 in the last week or so, due entirely to the broadcasting of This Is England '88. Continuing the story of the youngsters originally from the film, the three part series was quite simply the best thing to be put on a television schedule this year. Drama doesn't get much better. I don't think an episode of a programme has ever made me well up so consistently as the final episode did on Thursday night - and I've watched the pseudo-acting in TOWIE. Furthermore, the soundtrack was brilliant, and since the series has finished, I've found myself revisiting The Smiths' back catalogue a little bit too frequently.
So, it would appear that my faith in television hasn't been shattered altogether. It's not quite fixed either though. I'm not going to quit my job just so I can watch repeats of Homes Under The Hammer, and I can't imagine anything worse than religiously watching 4 soaps on a weekday evening. For now I'll just have to make do with the final episode of Black Mirror tonight. Then I'll probably have to pick up my Playstation controller again.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Not-So-Vital Statistics
I read an interesting statistic last week. I found it in the Journal of Applied Psychology, and this journal happened to tell me that when men are with their girlfriends, they eat 20% more food than usual.
Now, at this point I must confess that the above paragraph isn't strictly accurate. Men are still gluttonous little toe-rags who like nothing more than to stuff themselves 20% closer to obesity. But I didn't read the statistic in a journal. I read it in More! magazine. I'm not even ashamed to say I enjoy looking through More! and almost any other woman's magazine. I'll happily pick one up if I see one knocking about. They're all so unsure of how they feel about the opposite sex that they change their opinion from page to page, and quite frankly, it makes for very entertaining reading.
Anyway, back to the statistic. 20% more food. Believable? Well, at the moment I'm not entirely sure. I'm very much aware that even when I'm on my own, I can wolf down food with a great deal of conviction. One shining example of my insatiable appetite and inability to say no often comes when I work on a Sunday. I will more often than not end up having two roast meals. I don't know, and I'm not sure I ever will want to know the sort of calorie count that comes from eating that much food. Today was worse, I had a large meal from McDonald's while I was out shopping, and then came home to find leftovers from yesterday's aforementioned roast sitting on the table. If I keep this lifestyle up, my stomach will stretch so much that by the time my metabolism slows down to it's inevitable snail-like pace, I won't be able to fit through the small doors in my house without some sort of struggle.
That said though, I probably do eat more food when I'm with my girlfriend. It's not helped by the fact that we both have a mutual love of food. More specifically Nando's. Vegetarian's aside, I struggle to fathom how people can't find a meal from Nando's enjoyable. Yes, it's essentially just chicken, but that's what makes it great. Not only do you get great food, you get great background music. This comes in the form of Portugese style cover versions of Indie songs. What's not to love? My girlfriend and I have visited so many times together that we got a free chicken. We're now a quarter of the way to our second.
That's all very well, I hear you say. But that just means you eat more chicken than you usually would. This is again true. However, if I were on my own, I probably wouldn't buy myself another half chicken to eat the next day. I almost certainly wouldn't go straight to Krispy Kreme after and take a box of doughnuts home. No, I well and truly conform to the average male in a relationship by the sounds of it. For once I'm not that bothered either. I might be in years to come when I weigh 28 stone and can do nothing but lie in a hammock. I'm doomed.
Now, at this point I must confess that the above paragraph isn't strictly accurate. Men are still gluttonous little toe-rags who like nothing more than to stuff themselves 20% closer to obesity. But I didn't read the statistic in a journal. I read it in More! magazine. I'm not even ashamed to say I enjoy looking through More! and almost any other woman's magazine. I'll happily pick one up if I see one knocking about. They're all so unsure of how they feel about the opposite sex that they change their opinion from page to page, and quite frankly, it makes for very entertaining reading.
Anyway, back to the statistic. 20% more food. Believable? Well, at the moment I'm not entirely sure. I'm very much aware that even when I'm on my own, I can wolf down food with a great deal of conviction. One shining example of my insatiable appetite and inability to say no often comes when I work on a Sunday. I will more often than not end up having two roast meals. I don't know, and I'm not sure I ever will want to know the sort of calorie count that comes from eating that much food. Today was worse, I had a large meal from McDonald's while I was out shopping, and then came home to find leftovers from yesterday's aforementioned roast sitting on the table. If I keep this lifestyle up, my stomach will stretch so much that by the time my metabolism slows down to it's inevitable snail-like pace, I won't be able to fit through the small doors in my house without some sort of struggle.
That said though, I probably do eat more food when I'm with my girlfriend. It's not helped by the fact that we both have a mutual love of food. More specifically Nando's. Vegetarian's aside, I struggle to fathom how people can't find a meal from Nando's enjoyable. Yes, it's essentially just chicken, but that's what makes it great. Not only do you get great food, you get great background music. This comes in the form of Portugese style cover versions of Indie songs. What's not to love? My girlfriend and I have visited so many times together that we got a free chicken. We're now a quarter of the way to our second.
That's all very well, I hear you say. But that just means you eat more chicken than you usually would. This is again true. However, if I were on my own, I probably wouldn't buy myself another half chicken to eat the next day. I almost certainly wouldn't go straight to Krispy Kreme after and take a box of doughnuts home. No, I well and truly conform to the average male in a relationship by the sounds of it. For once I'm not that bothered either. I might be in years to come when I weigh 28 stone and can do nothing but lie in a hammock. I'm doomed.
Sunday, 13 November 2011
Why I Will Never Understand News
Celebrities are bloody fun aren't they? I can't get enough of celebrities. I follow them all on Twitter, then just in case I miss anything that they post either in their sleep or in the other, oh, 20 minutes of the day that I'm not checking it, I can just log onto the website of a tabloid newspaper and find out all about them. I would be inconsolable if these websites stopped letting me know when Amy Childs has gone out partying, when Lady Gaga has worn some silly clothes, when Demi Moore is looking thin and when Brooklyn Beckham is eating Sushi.
I don't understand news. I get confused about which pieces of information are allowed to be put on a website and printed in a paper to become news. The boundaries between trashy gossip magazines and tabloid newspapers have blurred so much that I think it is genuinely affecting my vision. I have a degree in print journalism for goodness sake, and yet when I pick up a newspaper I can only stare at it with an expression that floats somewhere between confusion and utter terror. I didn't realise I spent three years learning about THIS.
In the last couple of weeks I have realised that I do not fit in with the tabloid demographic any more. The first sign was the shock news that Kim Kardashian had split up with her husband after just 72 days. I have absolutely no idea who or what Kim Kardashian is. I know she has a reality TV show, and I know she has a big bum. That is all. I couldn't possibly tell you why she has her own TV show or what gives her the right to have her every move shoved in front of my face in paper form. I must have missed the memo.
Then there is the unadulterated television hurricane that is The X-Factor. Aside from having a Twitter account that I check on weekend evenings, I have had absolutely no contact with the X-Factor this year. Last year was plenty enough for me. The only thing I know about this year's competition is that there was a boy called Frankie taking part in it.
I have read two newspaper articles and seen a few headlines about Frankie and his booting from the X-Factor, and I've come to a few conclusions. HE IS OUT OF CONTROL. He's like every single bad guy in every single action film all rolled into one super-evil warlord, completely bent on ruining Saturday and Sunday nights for absolutely everyone. If Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse had ever made babies, Frankie would be the outcome. He is a monster and he must be stopped.
Basically, Frankie is a bit of a lad. I don't particularly like lads, they are the sort of people who are too loud for my fragile ears on a Saturday night. They are the sort of people who give me abuse when I play Call of Duty online - but older. However, I cannot fault the way he has made the most of his 15 minutes of fame by trying to pull anything that looks at him. Credit where credit is due.
This happens every year during the X-Factor's live show stint. Somehow out of the hundreds of thousands of acts that apply each year, one slightly turdy one manages to slip through the net and make it nearly all the way to the final. Every year there is public outrage that they haven't been kicked out of the competition sooner, and then every year people who don't usually like the show hijack the voting in order to keep the one that everybody hates in the contest and further wind the nation up. Funnier still, it becomes news every single year. I will never understand journalism.
I don't understand news. I get confused about which pieces of information are allowed to be put on a website and printed in a paper to become news. The boundaries between trashy gossip magazines and tabloid newspapers have blurred so much that I think it is genuinely affecting my vision. I have a degree in print journalism for goodness sake, and yet when I pick up a newspaper I can only stare at it with an expression that floats somewhere between confusion and utter terror. I didn't realise I spent three years learning about THIS.
In the last couple of weeks I have realised that I do not fit in with the tabloid demographic any more. The first sign was the shock news that Kim Kardashian had split up with her husband after just 72 days. I have absolutely no idea who or what Kim Kardashian is. I know she has a reality TV show, and I know she has a big bum. That is all. I couldn't possibly tell you why she has her own TV show or what gives her the right to have her every move shoved in front of my face in paper form. I must have missed the memo.
Then there is the unadulterated television hurricane that is The X-Factor. Aside from having a Twitter account that I check on weekend evenings, I have had absolutely no contact with the X-Factor this year. Last year was plenty enough for me. The only thing I know about this year's competition is that there was a boy called Frankie taking part in it.
I have read two newspaper articles and seen a few headlines about Frankie and his booting from the X-Factor, and I've come to a few conclusions. HE IS OUT OF CONTROL. He's like every single bad guy in every single action film all rolled into one super-evil warlord, completely bent on ruining Saturday and Sunday nights for absolutely everyone. If Pete Doherty and Amy Winehouse had ever made babies, Frankie would be the outcome. He is a monster and he must be stopped.
Basically, Frankie is a bit of a lad. I don't particularly like lads, they are the sort of people who are too loud for my fragile ears on a Saturday night. They are the sort of people who give me abuse when I play Call of Duty online - but older. However, I cannot fault the way he has made the most of his 15 minutes of fame by trying to pull anything that looks at him. Credit where credit is due.
This happens every year during the X-Factor's live show stint. Somehow out of the hundreds of thousands of acts that apply each year, one slightly turdy one manages to slip through the net and make it nearly all the way to the final. Every year there is public outrage that they haven't been kicked out of the competition sooner, and then every year people who don't usually like the show hijack the voting in order to keep the one that everybody hates in the contest and further wind the nation up. Funnier still, it becomes news every single year. I will never understand journalism.
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
The Winter Depression
I know quite a few people who get quite uptight when weather doesn't correlate with the current season. For the last 17 summers I've listened to people moan about the 'Great British Summer', and all it's rain, and it's only 17 because I have no consciousness of those before. I've always been pretty passive about the weather. I don't mind the showers in the middle of July. It's funny to watch tourists look up at the sky and curse as their beige cargo shorts get drenched in the freak rainfall.
In the middle of Summer, I'm quite happy to stay indoors and admire the amazing weather from a safe place, such as my bed. Sunshine is over rated anyway. At least rain doesn't burn your skin, sting your eyes and feel like it's melting your legs. If anything it cleans you (unless of course it rains continuously and the resulting downpour culminates in sea levels rising so high that they will wipe out our tiny little existence. It's not so good then). Well done rain.
In the height of those heat-waves, I always find that it's much easier to be too cold as opposed to being too hot. It's far easier to light a wood burner than sit in a fridge. It's also much easier to keep putting clothes on, on the other hand, if you're still hot when you get down to your bare skin, you're pretty darn stuck.
Throughout all of summer, I will happily stand by the opinions featured in the above paragraphs. At least until we reach the end of British Summer Time - then everything changes.
Whoever came up with the idea of Daylight Saving Time was a lazy little bell-end. It only feels like a good idea when you emerge from your sleep feeling like you've cheated time itself by getting an extra hour in bed. For me, that hour was pointless, mainly because when I know the clocks are going back, I feel justified to stay up an hour later than I usually would. But if you have had your little lie in, Daylight Saving Time ceases to be a good idea as soon as your feet touch the ground in the morning.
For me, the sheer gravity of the situation, like many others, hits me when I get in the shower and actually wake up a bit. I think to myself "It's quite bright this morning actually...oh yeah...that means it's going to be dark by 5.30 though. That is early." That initial thought snowballed in my head until this evening, when I drove home from work to find it was dark. I thought I didn't like the sunlight glaring in my eyes through the summer, but car lights coming towards you on country roads in the dark are infinitely worse.
At least the extremely heavy blow of the prospect of another Winter is softened by the thoughts of Christmas. Maybe the entire reason Christmas adverts appear so early is to remind us that we don't need to spend our evenings curled up in duvets, crying until our tear drops freeze. No, we can spend them feeling merry and giving each other presents, that is until January, at which point we are all very much on our own until that heroic weekend in March, and from then I will never moan about sunshine ever again. Promise.
In the middle of Summer, I'm quite happy to stay indoors and admire the amazing weather from a safe place, such as my bed. Sunshine is over rated anyway. At least rain doesn't burn your skin, sting your eyes and feel like it's melting your legs. If anything it cleans you (unless of course it rains continuously and the resulting downpour culminates in sea levels rising so high that they will wipe out our tiny little existence. It's not so good then). Well done rain.
In the height of those heat-waves, I always find that it's much easier to be too cold as opposed to being too hot. It's far easier to light a wood burner than sit in a fridge. It's also much easier to keep putting clothes on, on the other hand, if you're still hot when you get down to your bare skin, you're pretty darn stuck.
Throughout all of summer, I will happily stand by the opinions featured in the above paragraphs. At least until we reach the end of British Summer Time - then everything changes.
Whoever came up with the idea of Daylight Saving Time was a lazy little bell-end. It only feels like a good idea when you emerge from your sleep feeling like you've cheated time itself by getting an extra hour in bed. For me, that hour was pointless, mainly because when I know the clocks are going back, I feel justified to stay up an hour later than I usually would. But if you have had your little lie in, Daylight Saving Time ceases to be a good idea as soon as your feet touch the ground in the morning.
For me, the sheer gravity of the situation, like many others, hits me when I get in the shower and actually wake up a bit. I think to myself "It's quite bright this morning actually...oh yeah...that means it's going to be dark by 5.30 though. That is early." That initial thought snowballed in my head until this evening, when I drove home from work to find it was dark. I thought I didn't like the sunlight glaring in my eyes through the summer, but car lights coming towards you on country roads in the dark are infinitely worse.
At least the extremely heavy blow of the prospect of another Winter is softened by the thoughts of Christmas. Maybe the entire reason Christmas adverts appear so early is to remind us that we don't need to spend our evenings curled up in duvets, crying until our tear drops freeze. No, we can spend them feeling merry and giving each other presents, that is until January, at which point we are all very much on our own until that heroic weekend in March, and from then I will never moan about sunshine ever again. Promise.
Saturday, 3 September 2011
Reading 2011: Mud, Noodles & Not Watching Muse
At the turn of 2011, I wrote a post about New Years Resolutions. The premise of the piece was basically me saying that too many people make resolutions that they will never keep, and as a result I came up with some attainable ones. These included things such as getting a degree, going abroad and going to a music festival.
I still haven't been abroad going into the final third of the year, and it's fair to say I probably won't make it across the channel before New Years Eve 2011. This is a result of me being too lazy for my own good, being too indecisive to pick a place to go, and being so lonely that I have nobody to go with. Serves me right for trying to be clever. However, the other resolutions have been completed. I came out of University this year with a degree, and last weekend I finally made it to a music festival after years of looking at festival line-ups and thinking 'meh, maybe next year it will have a better line up. I'll grace it with my presence then.'
The main reason for my festival abstinence is mainly due to an inherent intolerance of camping. I cannot fathom for the life of me how people can camp as some sort of leisure activity. It's uncomfortable and it's annoying, and if you're surrounded by other campers, then more often than not it's noisy, which leads to me being tired, which leads to me being grumpy, which leads to everyone hating me as I moan about every aspect of the experience bit by bit. So when my girlfriend text messaged me a couple of weeks ago saying she had won a pair of weekend guest tickets to Reading Festival with NME, I knew I was going to have to try and conquer my hatred for experiencing the great outdoors.
The first thing that struck me was panic. It was three days before we had to leave and I didn't have the slightest clue what I needed to take with me. I spent hours consulting the internet to find festival itineraries that I could use. This made me panic more, as I had hardly any of the items that were being suggested by people. My head was being dominated by a mental picture of me on my knees in a field in the middle of Reading, crying in the pouring rain, with nothing but a toilet roll and the memory of how comfortable it was at home in my own bed.
Eventually I got my act together, and by Thursday evening, my girlfriend and I had arrived at Reading in glorious sunshine, pitched our tent in the guest camping area and started to explore the festival. I had made it. Rather than give you a blow by blow account of everything I did at the festival, I'll break down what I learned at Reading into something far more enjoyable and hopefully less boring.
1. Mud can do oneAfter three days of walking around in mud, it doesn't matter how comfortable your Wellies are, your feet and legs will be ready to give up completely. Unfortunately, my Wellies didn't really fit in the first place, so after a few short hours I was on the brink of tears. I always thought the August Bank Holiday was supposed to be scorching every year without fail. Imagine how disappointed I was when after about 12 hours of rain, I emerged from my tent on Friday to discover the site had become a mud bath. It was fine to walk around in at first, but once the sun finally came out it got stodgy underfoot, the result was me almost getting stuck with every footstep. On top of this, I would get anxious about walking back to the tent for a while, because I knew it would mean struggling to get my boots off for what felt like an age. If I go to another festival next year, it might have to be Benicassim, then I'll almost be guaranteed a bit of sunshine at least.
2. Bombay Bicycle Club are very nice guysAs part of NME's prize, my girlfriend and I were given the opportunity to meet Bombay Bicycle Club before they went on stage in the NME/Radio 1 Tent on Saturday evening. While the opportunity to meet a well-known band was an experience that I couldn't possibly turn down, my excitement was hampered by the fact that I had only heard one and a half songs of theirs in my life. Again, the panic struck me. I listened to their début album in a desperate attempt to familiarise myself with their music. It didn't work.
Luckily, it turned out that Bombay Bicycle Club were not at all egotistical and didn't ask us anything about their music at all. In fact, they were sound guys. Since then I've listened to a lot more of the band, and while I'm years behind, I sincerely recommend them. An extra positive about the meeting was that we caught Jamie Hince from The Kills walking around backstage. The downside is that Alison Mosshart was not with him.
3. The Strokes and Pulp completely killed it
As soon as the meeting with Bombay Bicycle Club had finished, my attention and all my nervous excitement became focused on seeing Pulp and The Strokes perform on the main stage. The latter have been a favourite band of mine for some time, and the prospect of watching them live for the first time was almost enough to make me wet myself. I wasn't disappointed at all. The 18 song set was filled with hit after hit, and to top everything there was a collaboration with Jarvis Cocker (aka 'The Jarv'). Just before that, Cocker et al. pulled out the second best performance of the festival, with a set that included much of 1995 album Different Class. It was off the chain, and hearing 'Disco 2000' live was nearly enough to induce tears of joy.
4. The Vaccines are awesome live
6. I have no time for Muse
I still haven't been abroad going into the final third of the year, and it's fair to say I probably won't make it across the channel before New Years Eve 2011. This is a result of me being too lazy for my own good, being too indecisive to pick a place to go, and being so lonely that I have nobody to go with. Serves me right for trying to be clever. However, the other resolutions have been completed. I came out of University this year with a degree, and last weekend I finally made it to a music festival after years of looking at festival line-ups and thinking 'meh, maybe next year it will have a better line up. I'll grace it with my presence then.'
The main reason for my festival abstinence is mainly due to an inherent intolerance of camping. I cannot fathom for the life of me how people can camp as some sort of leisure activity. It's uncomfortable and it's annoying, and if you're surrounded by other campers, then more often than not it's noisy, which leads to me being tired, which leads to me being grumpy, which leads to everyone hating me as I moan about every aspect of the experience bit by bit. So when my girlfriend text messaged me a couple of weeks ago saying she had won a pair of weekend guest tickets to Reading Festival with NME, I knew I was going to have to try and conquer my hatred for experiencing the great outdoors.
The first thing that struck me was panic. It was three days before we had to leave and I didn't have the slightest clue what I needed to take with me. I spent hours consulting the internet to find festival itineraries that I could use. This made me panic more, as I had hardly any of the items that were being suggested by people. My head was being dominated by a mental picture of me on my knees in a field in the middle of Reading, crying in the pouring rain, with nothing but a toilet roll and the memory of how comfortable it was at home in my own bed.
Eventually I got my act together, and by Thursday evening, my girlfriend and I had arrived at Reading in glorious sunshine, pitched our tent in the guest camping area and started to explore the festival. I had made it. Rather than give you a blow by blow account of everything I did at the festival, I'll break down what I learned at Reading into something far more enjoyable and hopefully less boring.
1. Mud can do oneAfter three days of walking around in mud, it doesn't matter how comfortable your Wellies are, your feet and legs will be ready to give up completely. Unfortunately, my Wellies didn't really fit in the first place, so after a few short hours I was on the brink of tears. I always thought the August Bank Holiday was supposed to be scorching every year without fail. Imagine how disappointed I was when after about 12 hours of rain, I emerged from my tent on Friday to discover the site had become a mud bath. It was fine to walk around in at first, but once the sun finally came out it got stodgy underfoot, the result was me almost getting stuck with every footstep. On top of this, I would get anxious about walking back to the tent for a while, because I knew it would mean struggling to get my boots off for what felt like an age. If I go to another festival next year, it might have to be Benicassim, then I'll almost be guaranteed a bit of sunshine at least.
2. Bombay Bicycle Club are very nice guysAs part of NME's prize, my girlfriend and I were given the opportunity to meet Bombay Bicycle Club before they went on stage in the NME/Radio 1 Tent on Saturday evening. While the opportunity to meet a well-known band was an experience that I couldn't possibly turn down, my excitement was hampered by the fact that I had only heard one and a half songs of theirs in my life. Again, the panic struck me. I listened to their début album in a desperate attempt to familiarise myself with their music. It didn't work.
Luckily, it turned out that Bombay Bicycle Club were not at all egotistical and didn't ask us anything about their music at all. In fact, they were sound guys. Since then I've listened to a lot more of the band, and while I'm years behind, I sincerely recommend them. An extra positive about the meeting was that we caught Jamie Hince from The Kills walking around backstage. The downside is that Alison Mosshart was not with him.
3. The Strokes and Pulp completely killed it
As soon as the meeting with Bombay Bicycle Club had finished, my attention and all my nervous excitement became focused on seeing Pulp and The Strokes perform on the main stage. The latter have been a favourite band of mine for some time, and the prospect of watching them live for the first time was almost enough to make me wet myself. I wasn't disappointed at all. The 18 song set was filled with hit after hit, and to top everything there was a collaboration with Jarvis Cocker (aka 'The Jarv'). Just before that, Cocker et al. pulled out the second best performance of the festival, with a set that included much of 1995 album Different Class. It was off the chain, and hearing 'Disco 2000' live was nearly enough to induce tears of joy.
4. The Vaccines are awesome live
I actually can't put into words how much they have gone up in my estimations after their performance in the NME/Radio 1 Tent on Friday evening. They were off the chain. I've even revisited their album as a result.
6. I have no time for Muse
We left Reading early on Sunday for a number of reasons. The main one being that neither of us were that bothered about seeing Muse perform Origin of Symmetry. I've never been that much of a Muse fan, and I'm not really sure why they have so many fans. I don't even slightly regret the decision. Despite being asked for my wristband on numerous occasions by crack-heads while on the way back to the train station, the quiet train journey, the decent and free food and the good night's sleep were well worth the minor hassle.
While I checked twitter on Sunday night, I noticed it was full of angry Muse fans who were disappointed that the BBC had only shown three songs from Origin of Symmetry. As an avid armchair viewer of festivals, I don't understand how people can be so incensed by it. If they really wanted to see the album being performed, they probably should have got a ticket. Then I remembered that I had a ticket to see them and chose to go home instead, and felt extremely smug. I still do.
7. I still hate camping
While I checked twitter on Sunday night, I noticed it was full of angry Muse fans who were disappointed that the BBC had only shown three songs from Origin of Symmetry. As an avid armchair viewer of festivals, I don't understand how people can be so incensed by it. If they really wanted to see the album being performed, they probably should have got a ticket. Then I remembered that I had a ticket to see them and chose to go home instead, and felt extremely smug. I still do.
7. I still hate camping
There wasn't a morning where I didn't wake up to find a part of my body aching. There wasn't a night I didn't get woken up by the rowdy campers behind our tent. It sounded like they were actually in our tent. Upon disassembling on Sunday evening, it turned out they pretty much were, as they had pitched up on top of our pegs. Some of the activity to come from them at 3.30am was to find out if noodles would set alight on their camp fire. "THE NOODLES ARE FLAME RETARDENT" was the cry heard just a few seconds later. These men were 28 years old.
The camping experience was sweetened by the fact that I hadn't paid anything for my ticket. I also realised it wasn't so bad for me in the guest area when I visited the other camp sites, which looked a little bit like the leftovers of a nuclear fallout.
At the end of it all, I can finally say that I have been to a festival. I wouldn't say that I enjoyed every minute, because I would be telling fibs. However, the band points were heavily outweighed by the good ones. Heck, maybe my New Years Resolution for 2012 will be to get over my intolerance of camping so I can go to Reading again next year.
The camping experience was sweetened by the fact that I hadn't paid anything for my ticket. I also realised it wasn't so bad for me in the guest area when I visited the other camp sites, which looked a little bit like the leftovers of a nuclear fallout.
At the end of it all, I can finally say that I have been to a festival. I wouldn't say that I enjoyed every minute, because I would be telling fibs. However, the band points were heavily outweighed by the good ones. Heck, maybe my New Years Resolution for 2012 will be to get over my intolerance of camping so I can go to Reading again next year.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
I Cannot Hear That 'Boom Ba Da Boom Bass'
I am an idiot. You already know it, I already know it, everybody knows it. Anyway, last week I consolidated my own opinion of myself by crashing my car. It's the first time I've had an accident in my four years of driving, and I felt like a moron as the figurative car crash that is my life became a literal one.
Anyway, while I have a nervous wait to determine whether my warhorse of a Vauxhall Corsa is going to battle through to drive me around once more, I have the company of my Dad's car to see me to work what feels like every day of the week. While it is a more than adequate replacement for my humble steed, there is one problem - the lack of CD player.
My CD collection makes car journey's infinitely more tolerable. It's much more fun driving for hours at a time when you get to choose what you listen to, especially when your music taste doesn't reflect the taste of the majority of radio stations. So to have to listen to Radio 1 - or anything else for that matter - isn't my idea of fun. In fact, now I've been familiarising myself with the Radio 1 playlist for a week or so now, I thought I would give you my opinion on the acts and songs that are heavily represented on the airwaves.
Obviously a station like Radio 1 plays music that the young British public will enjoy. Apparently at the moment, the young British public enjoy quirky female artists (Lady GaGa, Rihanna, Katy Perry, Nicki Minaj), plainer female artists (Beyoncé, Adele) and generic boybands (JLS, The Wanted). Outside of these main characteristics, you can find a few other songs that stray away from the cut and paste, cross-genre music of 2011. I honestly couldn't tell you who is singing what until a DJ tells me, everything sounds that similar.
The Wanted - Glad You Came
You wouldn't believe me if I told you that The Wanted are just five young men who really wanted to start a boy band, would you? Well, good, because they formed through a mass audition. The song's main melody sounds like it belongs in Ibiza, which is no bad thing. Unfortunately it's ruined a little bit someone saying that he's glad you came and his universe will never be the same. It's all very touching, but it detracts from what could be an absolutely massive dance track.
JLS - She Makes Me Wanna (featuring Dev)
This track is hilarious because the 'Oh's' that back the chorus and bits of the verses sounds like someone is just pressing a button with it on over and over again. I genuinely chuckled to myself on the way home from work when I heard it first. That may have been the sleep deprivation though. It sounds like a part time DJ has got at it somewhere between the mastering and the release of the track and sabotaged it, and that thought pleases me.
Nicki Minaj - Super Bass
I'll level with you. Nicki Minaj scares the shit out of me. I'm not sure what it is, but seeing photos like this one does nothing to banish the fear I have. My opinion of the song itself is one of indecision. The verses make me angry and I think it's a mixture of the lyrics and their delivery. Then I make it to the chorus and I almost believe that I should like this song, because the melodies and vocals all seem to come together. Unfortunately I cannot hear that 'boom ba da boom bass' at all, and as a result I am hesitant in committing myself to having any positive feelings for the song.
David Guetta - Little Bad Girl (featuring Taio Cruz & Ludacris)
I am failing to understand why David Guetta has re-released his two year old album with a few extra songs on it, with this one being one of them. Move on, it's not 2009 any more.
Beyoncé - Best Thing I Never Had
I am of the opinion that Beyoncé is at her best when performing faster paced, upbeat and quite frankly massive tunes (see Crazy in Love, Single Ladies and Glastonbury 2011). This song does nothing but reaffirm my opinion. While her voice cannot be denied, this song is a bit flat and I'm still baffled by the lyrics 'You showed your ass and I saw the real you'. I had no idea she had been to Barnstaple on a Saturday night.
The Strokes - Machu Picchu
This is the diamond in the rough. It's easy for me to say that, what with me being the skinny jeans wearing, guitar playing indie boy, but it is refreshing to hear something this good on the radio. I can guarantee that the guitar riffs will be stuck in your head for a few days, and you won't be able to stop yourself from doing renditions of Julian Casablancas's vocal during the middle part of the song.
So, what have I learned from nearly two weeks of Radio 1? Well, it could be a mixture of things. It's probably a mixture of me getting old, being out of touch and being stuck somewhere between the years of 1977 and 2005. It's either that or Radio 1 is getting a bit rubbish. I'm prepared to stick my neck out and say it's the latter, but I would cheating myself in many ways. Whichever way you look at it, I want my CD player back, and I won't stop using it until I hear Sonic Youth on the radio.
Anyway, while I have a nervous wait to determine whether my warhorse of a Vauxhall Corsa is going to battle through to drive me around once more, I have the company of my Dad's car to see me to work what feels like every day of the week. While it is a more than adequate replacement for my humble steed, there is one problem - the lack of CD player.
My CD collection makes car journey's infinitely more tolerable. It's much more fun driving for hours at a time when you get to choose what you listen to, especially when your music taste doesn't reflect the taste of the majority of radio stations. So to have to listen to Radio 1 - or anything else for that matter - isn't my idea of fun. In fact, now I've been familiarising myself with the Radio 1 playlist for a week or so now, I thought I would give you my opinion on the acts and songs that are heavily represented on the airwaves.
Obviously a station like Radio 1 plays music that the young British public will enjoy. Apparently at the moment, the young British public enjoy quirky female artists (Lady GaGa, Rihanna, Katy Perry, Nicki Minaj), plainer female artists (Beyoncé, Adele) and generic boybands (JLS, The Wanted). Outside of these main characteristics, you can find a few other songs that stray away from the cut and paste, cross-genre music of 2011. I honestly couldn't tell you who is singing what until a DJ tells me, everything sounds that similar.
The Wanted - Glad You Came
You wouldn't believe me if I told you that The Wanted are just five young men who really wanted to start a boy band, would you? Well, good, because they formed through a mass audition. The song's main melody sounds like it belongs in Ibiza, which is no bad thing. Unfortunately it's ruined a little bit someone saying that he's glad you came and his universe will never be the same. It's all very touching, but it detracts from what could be an absolutely massive dance track.
JLS - She Makes Me Wanna (featuring Dev)
This track is hilarious because the 'Oh's' that back the chorus and bits of the verses sounds like someone is just pressing a button with it on over and over again. I genuinely chuckled to myself on the way home from work when I heard it first. That may have been the sleep deprivation though. It sounds like a part time DJ has got at it somewhere between the mastering and the release of the track and sabotaged it, and that thought pleases me.
Nicki Minaj - Super Bass
I'll level with you. Nicki Minaj scares the shit out of me. I'm not sure what it is, but seeing photos like this one does nothing to banish the fear I have. My opinion of the song itself is one of indecision. The verses make me angry and I think it's a mixture of the lyrics and their delivery. Then I make it to the chorus and I almost believe that I should like this song, because the melodies and vocals all seem to come together. Unfortunately I cannot hear that 'boom ba da boom bass' at all, and as a result I am hesitant in committing myself to having any positive feelings for the song.
David Guetta - Little Bad Girl (featuring Taio Cruz & Ludacris)
I am failing to understand why David Guetta has re-released his two year old album with a few extra songs on it, with this one being one of them. Move on, it's not 2009 any more.
Beyoncé - Best Thing I Never Had
I am of the opinion that Beyoncé is at her best when performing faster paced, upbeat and quite frankly massive tunes (see Crazy in Love, Single Ladies and Glastonbury 2011). This song does nothing but reaffirm my opinion. While her voice cannot be denied, this song is a bit flat and I'm still baffled by the lyrics 'You showed your ass and I saw the real you'. I had no idea she had been to Barnstaple on a Saturday night.
The Strokes - Machu Picchu
This is the diamond in the rough. It's easy for me to say that, what with me being the skinny jeans wearing, guitar playing indie boy, but it is refreshing to hear something this good on the radio. I can guarantee that the guitar riffs will be stuck in your head for a few days, and you won't be able to stop yourself from doing renditions of Julian Casablancas's vocal during the middle part of the song.
So, what have I learned from nearly two weeks of Radio 1? Well, it could be a mixture of things. It's probably a mixture of me getting old, being out of touch and being stuck somewhere between the years of 1977 and 2005. It's either that or Radio 1 is getting a bit rubbish. I'm prepared to stick my neck out and say it's the latter, but I would cheating myself in many ways. Whichever way you look at it, I want my CD player back, and I won't stop using it until I hear Sonic Youth on the radio.
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