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.
Sunday, 18 December 2011
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.
Thursday, 14 July 2011
How I Met Your Mother And The Time I Became Obsessed With It.
Words are bloody annoying aren't they? Every now and again, I sit down at my computer and write a load of words out in a row. I only know what 83% of the words mean, I just put the rest in to sound clever and perspicacious.
Anyway, aside from having to put them together to make something entertaining, words can be downright cruel. Take the word 'obsessed' for example, like every other word in existence, it's just a few sounds that are put together to form a meaning. In this instance, the word 'obsessed' means "to dominate or preoccupy the thoughts, feelings, or desires of (a person); beset, trouble, or haunt persistently or abnormally." That sounds perfectly legitimate, doesn't it? No, it doesn't, because rather than seeing that definition when someone says to you 'oh, he is so obsessed with her,' you can't help but picture a young male sat in his bedroom rocking back and forth on his bed in front of a wall that is plastered from head to toe in various photos of the aforementioned woman. And a few candles.
Despite it's connotations though, there's nothing wrong with having a bit of an obsession over something. While you might not know it, everyone has an obsession of some sort. The Sun's obsessions are women, famous, attractive women such as Cheryl Cole. Liam Gallagher's is The Beatles, which is why he has been trying to sound like them for about 15 years. I've had many obsessions, including The Cribs, Scott Pilgrim and Pavement. However, these have all been put to one side for the last two weeks for my latest one, How I Met Your Mother.
By the time you have finished reading this, I will have watched 136 and indeed every episode to date of the American sitcom, all in the space of two weeks. That's 9.7 episodes, or about 3 hours and 20 minutes of time well spent each day, with a full time job thrown in the mix as well. It's amazing what the end of university life and the prospect of living in rural Devon for the foreseeable future can do to the human spirit.
Because this is my new obsession, I have obviously started talking about HIMYM to anyone I converse with for more than five minutes. I've heard people say that it's not that funny, and they are immediately wrong. It just takes a certain amount of getting to know the characters first. In other words, it's like real life. Of course, a show can't be consistently funny for well over 100 episodes, but it's a testament that there are that many. If there were that many episodes of a UK sitcom such as The Inbetweeners, I'm pretty sure the world we live in would be a much less happier one than it is now. And cruder. And more stupid. And Incongruous.
I could talk about the show for much, much longer, but that would be interminably boring for you. That's the thing with obsessions, you should never let anyone know too much about yours. It's one thing to know a person's interests, but to have to be told every single detail is a bit too much. In the last two weeks I've shared many laughs and some actual tears while viewing the made up lives of some fictional characters. Is that a bit sad? Yes. Do I need a life? Yes. Am I bothered? Not one bit. I can honestly say that the two weeks that I spent watching How I Met Your Mother have been two of the most fun weeks I've had in a long time.
In all seriousness though, I am going to leave the house tomorrow. I promise.
Anyway, aside from having to put them together to make something entertaining, words can be downright cruel. Take the word 'obsessed' for example, like every other word in existence, it's just a few sounds that are put together to form a meaning. In this instance, the word 'obsessed' means "to dominate or preoccupy the thoughts, feelings, or desires of (a person); beset, trouble, or haunt persistently or abnormally." That sounds perfectly legitimate, doesn't it? No, it doesn't, because rather than seeing that definition when someone says to you 'oh, he is so obsessed with her,' you can't help but picture a young male sat in his bedroom rocking back and forth on his bed in front of a wall that is plastered from head to toe in various photos of the aforementioned woman. And a few candles.
Despite it's connotations though, there's nothing wrong with having a bit of an obsession over something. While you might not know it, everyone has an obsession of some sort. The Sun's obsessions are women, famous, attractive women such as Cheryl Cole. Liam Gallagher's is The Beatles, which is why he has been trying to sound like them for about 15 years. I've had many obsessions, including The Cribs, Scott Pilgrim and Pavement. However, these have all been put to one side for the last two weeks for my latest one, How I Met Your Mother.
By the time you have finished reading this, I will have watched 136 and indeed every episode to date of the American sitcom, all in the space of two weeks. That's 9.7 episodes, or about 3 hours and 20 minutes of time well spent each day, with a full time job thrown in the mix as well. It's amazing what the end of university life and the prospect of living in rural Devon for the foreseeable future can do to the human spirit.
Because this is my new obsession, I have obviously started talking about HIMYM to anyone I converse with for more than five minutes. I've heard people say that it's not that funny, and they are immediately wrong. It just takes a certain amount of getting to know the characters first. In other words, it's like real life. Of course, a show can't be consistently funny for well over 100 episodes, but it's a testament that there are that many. If there were that many episodes of a UK sitcom such as The Inbetweeners, I'm pretty sure the world we live in would be a much less happier one than it is now. And cruder. And more stupid. And Incongruous.
I could talk about the show for much, much longer, but that would be interminably boring for you. That's the thing with obsessions, you should never let anyone know too much about yours. It's one thing to know a person's interests, but to have to be told every single detail is a bit too much. In the last two weeks I've shared many laughs and some actual tears while viewing the made up lives of some fictional characters. Is that a bit sad? Yes. Do I need a life? Yes. Am I bothered? Not one bit. I can honestly say that the two weeks that I spent watching How I Met Your Mother have been two of the most fun weeks I've had in a long time.
In all seriousness though, I am going to leave the house tomorrow. I promise.
Monday, 27 June 2011
The Problem With Wimbledon
This evening's news told me that today has, for a great portion of the UK, been the hottest day of the year. Not for the portion I'm in. While many people have been frolicking around in the sunshine, I've been sat in my room, watching it rain. Thanks, Devon.
Luckily I'm not really the type of person who wants to spend as much time as possible in the great outdoors, for one thing my eyes can't cope with it. If there's even a hint of sunshine, I have to whack some sunglasses on. If for some inexplicable reason I don't have some on me, it's all I can do to wonder around places squinting. To passers by I either look very suspicious of everything, or downright weird. So, instead of enjoying this year's slight glimmer of Summer, I've just sat in my house watching Wimbledon.
It's been a week now, and I'm still not sure how I feel about Wimbledon. Tennis is a sport that can be quite exciting to watch, but at other times it can be painful, especially if you're watching Venus Williams. How anyone can take themselves seriously making that much noise playing tennis, while wearing a hideous playsuit in the process, is completely beyond me. Of course, you can argue that Venus Williams is one of the most successful tennis players in the sport's history, she can yelp as much as she wants when she hits the ball. I would agree with you, but that still doesn't excuse her clothing.
Anyway, the tennis has been fantastic for the most part. It's not the play that bothers me though. It's Wimbledon itself. I don't often get irritated by crowds at sporting events, but Wimbledon is different. I don't like their tone. I can't stand the gasps every time a player dives about the court, I can't stand the laughter every time someone does something that doesn't make them look like a robot with nothing on their mind but playing tennis, even their clapping sounds more highbrow than mine. I'm already irritated, and that's just the noises they make.
Once you start seeing crowd cutaways, the irritable feeling dies down a bit when you realise that a lot of the people are probably just like you. Then you see a drunk middle-aged woman with Union Jack flags all over the place and it comes back, only this time a little bit more painful.
I think my reason for this general feeling of disdain towards the viewing masses at Wimbledon is Tim Henman. Henman is notoriously British, both in voice and in his profession. He was never going to be the best, but everyone gets behind him and shouts 'Come on, Tim' after every single point and all of a sudden people started to believe he might actually do something. Then they get disappointed when he goes crashing out in the quarter-finals (a bit like the football team). I'm scarred by those 'Come on, Tim' chants from middle aged women who didn't know whether they wanted to mother him or sleep with him. I don't think I'm ever going to forget them either.
However, shout 'Come on Tim' in front of Andy Murray and I will find it hilarious, even if he doesn't. That sort of humour sums Wimbledon up really, along with the strawberries, the cream, the Pimms, the rain. It's too British, and that's probably why I get so irritated by it. Having said that, I will be watching the coverage all day tomorrow, and probably every day after that until it ends on Sunday, because that's the sort of person I am.
Luckily I'm not really the type of person who wants to spend as much time as possible in the great outdoors, for one thing my eyes can't cope with it. If there's even a hint of sunshine, I have to whack some sunglasses on. If for some inexplicable reason I don't have some on me, it's all I can do to wonder around places squinting. To passers by I either look very suspicious of everything, or downright weird. So, instead of enjoying this year's slight glimmer of Summer, I've just sat in my house watching Wimbledon.
It's been a week now, and I'm still not sure how I feel about Wimbledon. Tennis is a sport that can be quite exciting to watch, but at other times it can be painful, especially if you're watching Venus Williams. How anyone can take themselves seriously making that much noise playing tennis, while wearing a hideous playsuit in the process, is completely beyond me. Of course, you can argue that Venus Williams is one of the most successful tennis players in the sport's history, she can yelp as much as she wants when she hits the ball. I would agree with you, but that still doesn't excuse her clothing.
Anyway, the tennis has been fantastic for the most part. It's not the play that bothers me though. It's Wimbledon itself. I don't often get irritated by crowds at sporting events, but Wimbledon is different. I don't like their tone. I can't stand the gasps every time a player dives about the court, I can't stand the laughter every time someone does something that doesn't make them look like a robot with nothing on their mind but playing tennis, even their clapping sounds more highbrow than mine. I'm already irritated, and that's just the noises they make.
Once you start seeing crowd cutaways, the irritable feeling dies down a bit when you realise that a lot of the people are probably just like you. Then you see a drunk middle-aged woman with Union Jack flags all over the place and it comes back, only this time a little bit more painful.
I think my reason for this general feeling of disdain towards the viewing masses at Wimbledon is Tim Henman. Henman is notoriously British, both in voice and in his profession. He was never going to be the best, but everyone gets behind him and shouts 'Come on, Tim' after every single point and all of a sudden people started to believe he might actually do something. Then they get disappointed when he goes crashing out in the quarter-finals (a bit like the football team). I'm scarred by those 'Come on, Tim' chants from middle aged women who didn't know whether they wanted to mother him or sleep with him. I don't think I'm ever going to forget them either.
However, shout 'Come on Tim' in front of Andy Murray and I will find it hilarious, even if he doesn't. That sort of humour sums Wimbledon up really, along with the strawberries, the cream, the Pimms, the rain. It's too British, and that's probably why I get so irritated by it. Having said that, I will be watching the coverage all day tomorrow, and probably every day after that until it ends on Sunday, because that's the sort of person I am.
Monday, 20 June 2011
The Quarter-Life Crisis
A few weeks ago I wrote a half-baked, half-serious idea for a short film. It was all about Dominic, a man struggling to accept that he was growing into a monotonous, fun-sapped, 9-5 working adult. For Dominic, the penny dropped as he went to choose which cereal he was going to eat one morning.
Inspiration is more often than not drawn from your personal experiences. I'm not dissimilar to Dominic. For me, the penny dropped after moving back home after three years of being a student. I had been putting it off for as long as possible, spending the last seven weeks after finishing my studies living with absolutely no purpose. In that seven weeks I have become a 1940's Los Angeles detective, become a woman trying to escape from a diabolical set of test chambers, and become player-manager of Juventus, where I won the league and cup double. Better yet, I did all of this sat in front of my television, with a PS3 controller in my hand.
However, after seven weeks, even the Playstation loses its appeal, and before I knew it I was waving goodbye to student life about two stone heavier, two inches wider and with a beard. I'm a 21-year-old University graduate. Christ, I'm an adult.
It doesn't feel good either. At the moment there is a hollowness, knowing that the easy life is behind me for good. I liked the easy life, for the most part it treated me well. I've sorted myself out a job, and unlike summers gone, I can't run away again after a few months. This time it's a much longer commitment, in a few short weeks I may have earned some money, but will I be happy? I'll be like Mark Renton, when he moves to London and becomes an estate agent in Trainspotting, only I'll be in North Devon and not an estate agent (and not recovering from a chronic Heroin addiction), I'll be Matt Renton.
We've all heard of the phrase mid-life crisis. I've not experienced one, but my readings from the television, the general public and the film American Beauty have given me some opinions. It's when things stop working and you can't do anything about it. It's when you realise you've probably wasted the best years of your life. It's when you buy a sports car in a shallow attempt to make yourself appear young and cool. Right now the only thing stopping me from having a mid-life crisis is my age, and the lack of sports car.
However, while I may be having a quarter-life crisis about moving back to Devon and settling down, it can only be a testament as to how much I enjoyed university life. Sure, if the hangovers are anything to go by, I've probably shaved a few years off my life. Sure, I've endured an incredible amount of shit from people ignorant towards the idea of higher education, and sure, studying at an arts campus has meant I've met an incredible amount of hipsters. But overall, I have had an amazing time studying a fascinating subject around some incredible people.
And on that rare positive note, I should probably end this piece. I don't start work for another two weeks, so in the mean time there's nothing left for me to do but pick up a PS3 controller and brutally kill a space city of hideous aliens. Why let student life end if you're not ready for what's after it?
Inspiration is more often than not drawn from your personal experiences. I'm not dissimilar to Dominic. For me, the penny dropped after moving back home after three years of being a student. I had been putting it off for as long as possible, spending the last seven weeks after finishing my studies living with absolutely no purpose. In that seven weeks I have become a 1940's Los Angeles detective, become a woman trying to escape from a diabolical set of test chambers, and become player-manager of Juventus, where I won the league and cup double. Better yet, I did all of this sat in front of my television, with a PS3 controller in my hand.
However, after seven weeks, even the Playstation loses its appeal, and before I knew it I was waving goodbye to student life about two stone heavier, two inches wider and with a beard. I'm a 21-year-old University graduate. Christ, I'm an adult.
It doesn't feel good either. At the moment there is a hollowness, knowing that the easy life is behind me for good. I liked the easy life, for the most part it treated me well. I've sorted myself out a job, and unlike summers gone, I can't run away again after a few months. This time it's a much longer commitment, in a few short weeks I may have earned some money, but will I be happy? I'll be like Mark Renton, when he moves to London and becomes an estate agent in Trainspotting, only I'll be in North Devon and not an estate agent (and not recovering from a chronic Heroin addiction), I'll be Matt Renton.
We've all heard of the phrase mid-life crisis. I've not experienced one, but my readings from the television, the general public and the film American Beauty have given me some opinions. It's when things stop working and you can't do anything about it. It's when you realise you've probably wasted the best years of your life. It's when you buy a sports car in a shallow attempt to make yourself appear young and cool. Right now the only thing stopping me from having a mid-life crisis is my age, and the lack of sports car.
However, while I may be having a quarter-life crisis about moving back to Devon and settling down, it can only be a testament as to how much I enjoyed university life. Sure, if the hangovers are anything to go by, I've probably shaved a few years off my life. Sure, I've endured an incredible amount of shit from people ignorant towards the idea of higher education, and sure, studying at an arts campus has meant I've met an incredible amount of hipsters. But overall, I have had an amazing time studying a fascinating subject around some incredible people.
And on that rare positive note, I should probably end this piece. I don't start work for another two weeks, so in the mean time there's nothing left for me to do but pick up a PS3 controller and brutally kill a space city of hideous aliens. Why let student life end if you're not ready for what's after it?
Sunday, 12 June 2011
Some Superpowers You Might Actually Want
Comic book heroes are bloody everywhere these days aren't they? In the last few years we've seen Iron Man, Spiderman, Superman and Batman. This year the amount of movies based on superheroes seems to have spiked, with Thor, Green Lantern and Captain America all getting outings at the big screen.
I was watching the latest one a few nights ago, X-Men: First Class, which tells the story of how the group of mutants first came about. The film itself was quite impressive, unlike many other action films, this film actually had a story line and explored the friendship between Charles Xavier and Eric Lehnsherr, who of course will later come to be arch enemies.
But it wasn't that which I enjoyed. It was thinking how amazing it would be to have a superpower. Whether it was seeing Xavier use his telepathy to chat up women, or seeing Lehnsherr just completely kick ass throughout most of the film. It made me think it must be awesome to have a superpower. In fact, we've all thought it, because having one means you can automatically have the upper hand over everyone else in life (unless you have one like the man in the Skittles advert, in which case your life is barely worth living). It would be bloody fantastic wouldn't it?
It wouldn't. It might seem awesome to be able to read people's minds, but only when they're saying good things. For someone with such fragile self esteem as myself, all it would take is for you to overhear someone thinking 'cor, he's piling it on nowadays, and did he dress and do his hair in the dark or something?' and I would be running home in a flood of tears and wails of 'WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE TO HURT?' Where Professor Xavier stands out is that he can influence people's actions. So if someone does think something bad about him, he can make them punch themselves in the face, or get someone else to punch them in the face. Although I didn't see this in the film, I'm almost certain that it's being considered should there be a sequel. Anyway, he may be able to stop people thinking bad things, but I probably wouldn't. I'm not clever enough.
I have thought of a few powers that I would like though. These don't break any laws, and (as far as I'm aware) they don't impinge on anyone's human rights, or dignity. After all, if I could stop time or something I would only end up with a number of restraining orders and/or criminal charges against me.
1) The Changingman
I'm rubbish with money. Not because I waste it on junk, I only do that when it comes to food and drink. I'm rubbish because I'm not good with change. I pay for a few items and before I know it my wallet is overwhelmed with coins, and not nice £2 or £1 coins, we're talking small change. The worst type of change. If I buy something else, do I get rid of my change? No, because I don't want to hold anyone up, and I'm always well aware that the person at the till is losing the will to live, so I pay with a note and get more change. It's a vicious circle.
My superpower would see me have the correct change at all times. "That's £3.78 please," a shopkeeper says. That's not a problem for me. All I have to do is dip into my wallet and out comes the exact amount. I would be happy, the shopkeeper would be happy, the people queuing would be happy. No bad could possibly come from having that as a superpower.
2) Burglar sense
This one allows me to detect when someone is breaking into my house, and only my house. I don't want to be some sort of vigilante like Batman. I could never live up to Batman. No, this one simply wakes me up and lets me know when someone is breaking into my house. Not only can I take the correct steps to apprehending the burglar once my power has been put to use, but when I wake up at 2am hearing an unfamiliar noise I will be safe in the knowledge that whatever it was, it was nothing to worry about. Unless it was actually the house burning down, in which case I would die in my ignorant slumber.
3) The Sandwich Maker
Hungry, but can't be bothered to lift your fat arse off the sofa and do something about it? In a rush, with no time to make anything to eat? I've experienced both of these problems before, and this power solves both of them. Instant sandwiches. Obviously the ingredients are needed before clicking my fingers, I can't just make stuff appear out of thin air. Provided I have everything though, all it takes is some simple finger clicking. One for bread, one for butter, one for fillings, one for sauce, one for cutting. It's simple. Of course, problems may occur when you click your fingers for something else and you walk into the kitchen to find bread everywhere. But that's a small price to pay for instant happiness.
I was watching the latest one a few nights ago, X-Men: First Class, which tells the story of how the group of mutants first came about. The film itself was quite impressive, unlike many other action films, this film actually had a story line and explored the friendship between Charles Xavier and Eric Lehnsherr, who of course will later come to be arch enemies.
But it wasn't that which I enjoyed. It was thinking how amazing it would be to have a superpower. Whether it was seeing Xavier use his telepathy to chat up women, or seeing Lehnsherr just completely kick ass throughout most of the film. It made me think it must be awesome to have a superpower. In fact, we've all thought it, because having one means you can automatically have the upper hand over everyone else in life (unless you have one like the man in the Skittles advert, in which case your life is barely worth living). It would be bloody fantastic wouldn't it?
It wouldn't. It might seem awesome to be able to read people's minds, but only when they're saying good things. For someone with such fragile self esteem as myself, all it would take is for you to overhear someone thinking 'cor, he's piling it on nowadays, and did he dress and do his hair in the dark or something?' and I would be running home in a flood of tears and wails of 'WHY DO PEOPLE HAVE TO HURT?' Where Professor Xavier stands out is that he can influence people's actions. So if someone does think something bad about him, he can make them punch themselves in the face, or get someone else to punch them in the face. Although I didn't see this in the film, I'm almost certain that it's being considered should there be a sequel. Anyway, he may be able to stop people thinking bad things, but I probably wouldn't. I'm not clever enough.
I have thought of a few powers that I would like though. These don't break any laws, and (as far as I'm aware) they don't impinge on anyone's human rights, or dignity. After all, if I could stop time or something I would only end up with a number of restraining orders and/or criminal charges against me.
1) The Changingman
I'm rubbish with money. Not because I waste it on junk, I only do that when it comes to food and drink. I'm rubbish because I'm not good with change. I pay for a few items and before I know it my wallet is overwhelmed with coins, and not nice £2 or £1 coins, we're talking small change. The worst type of change. If I buy something else, do I get rid of my change? No, because I don't want to hold anyone up, and I'm always well aware that the person at the till is losing the will to live, so I pay with a note and get more change. It's a vicious circle.
My superpower would see me have the correct change at all times. "That's £3.78 please," a shopkeeper says. That's not a problem for me. All I have to do is dip into my wallet and out comes the exact amount. I would be happy, the shopkeeper would be happy, the people queuing would be happy. No bad could possibly come from having that as a superpower.
2) Burglar sense
This one allows me to detect when someone is breaking into my house, and only my house. I don't want to be some sort of vigilante like Batman. I could never live up to Batman. No, this one simply wakes me up and lets me know when someone is breaking into my house. Not only can I take the correct steps to apprehending the burglar once my power has been put to use, but when I wake up at 2am hearing an unfamiliar noise I will be safe in the knowledge that whatever it was, it was nothing to worry about. Unless it was actually the house burning down, in which case I would die in my ignorant slumber.
3) The Sandwich Maker
Hungry, but can't be bothered to lift your fat arse off the sofa and do something about it? In a rush, with no time to make anything to eat? I've experienced both of these problems before, and this power solves both of them. Instant sandwiches. Obviously the ingredients are needed before clicking my fingers, I can't just make stuff appear out of thin air. Provided I have everything though, all it takes is some simple finger clicking. One for bread, one for butter, one for fillings, one for sauce, one for cutting. It's simple. Of course, problems may occur when you click your fingers for something else and you walk into the kitchen to find bread everywhere. But that's a small price to pay for instant happiness.
Tuesday, 31 May 2011
Film Festivals And The Lifestyle Choices of Dominic
Last week I decided to take some time out from my post-uni routine of sleeping, playing various games on the Playstation and eating out at McDonald's to go to an awards ceremony. That's right, an awards ceremony, with a red carpet and everything. At least I think the carpet was red, the reality was that I went to a Digital Film Production end of year show at Cineworld in Cheltenham. Was I invited because I'm a renowned journalist, who could cast a critical but witty eye over proceedings? No, I was invited by two of my house-mates who are on the course. Still though, that's more that you've done isn't it? ISN'T IT?
Despite it being an evening of entertainment shared with a few friends, and an excuse to look a little more important than I actually am, I was sceptical about going. This was mainly due to the fact that I would have to sit through three hours of short films. It would be fair to say that I have a short attention span. If I watch a short film on youtube, I'm usually twitching to see how long it's got left, or how long I've spent watching it. The thought of doing this for three hours was enough for me to break out in a sweat, which wasn't ideal, because I had only just put on the shirt that I had to spend the rest of the evening wearing. I felt sorry for the people sat around me.
My scepticism was unfounded. By the time I sat down and cracked open a bag of M&Ms, the evening sailed by. The films were a mixture of Drama, Horror, Romantic Comedy and Documentaries. Some of the films were genuinely exceptional, some were less exceptional, and I'm afraid to say that at times the thought of 'I could make something as good as this' entered my mind.
That's the thing with films though, someone's favourite film of all time can so easily be one that someone else will despise up to the point where they start spitting out blood, such is their rage. Some of the films I watched were completely lost on me. While some looked beautiful and professional, I couldn't help but wonder where the story was. With this in mind, I've come up with an idea for a short film of my own. It is obviously all style over substance, but it is very much like modern art, in that there is some sort of plot and context beneath the superficial tosh you are seeing with those fickle little things you call your eyes.
The Lifestyle Choices of Dominic
Synopsis: Dominic is a quiet young man in his late 20s. He leads a typical life in that he works hard, has a close network of friends and socialises whenever he can, often accompanied by Emma, his girlfriend of three years. However, Dominic is heading upon tough times, and today he must make the decision whether to hold on to the inner child who has been part of him since his birth, or let go of it and conquer the world.
This of course means that Dominic wakes up at 7am, gets showered and goes downstairs to the kitchen to make some breakfast. It is at this point when he is hit with the hardest decision of his life - Coco Pops or Corn Flakes? From here the film comprises of 3 and a half minutes of tense close ups, with Dominic's eyes shifting across from one box of cereal to the other. Occasionally you may see his hand reach for one of the boxes only to quickly retract it back to it's original place. Then comes the three minutes of unadulterated weeping, crying, bawling, screaming until Dominic's face is red, his veins are throbbing and his voice is going hoarse. He has collapsed on the floor, and Emma is absolutely powerless to stop him. I don't want to spoil the ending, but lets just say that with Emma's help, Dominic manages to find a happy medium between the full grown adult and his inner child. This will probably come in the form of a box of Frosties or Coco Shreddies, or any sort of other cereal for grown men who can't really face reality.
If anyone would like to make this happen for me, please feel free to contact me. I may even post some more ideas in the next few weeks. I don't want to blow your mind all at once though.
Despite it being an evening of entertainment shared with a few friends, and an excuse to look a little more important than I actually am, I was sceptical about going. This was mainly due to the fact that I would have to sit through three hours of short films. It would be fair to say that I have a short attention span. If I watch a short film on youtube, I'm usually twitching to see how long it's got left, or how long I've spent watching it. The thought of doing this for three hours was enough for me to break out in a sweat, which wasn't ideal, because I had only just put on the shirt that I had to spend the rest of the evening wearing. I felt sorry for the people sat around me.
My scepticism was unfounded. By the time I sat down and cracked open a bag of M&Ms, the evening sailed by. The films were a mixture of Drama, Horror, Romantic Comedy and Documentaries. Some of the films were genuinely exceptional, some were less exceptional, and I'm afraid to say that at times the thought of 'I could make something as good as this' entered my mind.
That's the thing with films though, someone's favourite film of all time can so easily be one that someone else will despise up to the point where they start spitting out blood, such is their rage. Some of the films I watched were completely lost on me. While some looked beautiful and professional, I couldn't help but wonder where the story was. With this in mind, I've come up with an idea for a short film of my own. It is obviously all style over substance, but it is very much like modern art, in that there is some sort of plot and context beneath the superficial tosh you are seeing with those fickle little things you call your eyes.
The Lifestyle Choices of Dominic
Synopsis: Dominic is a quiet young man in his late 20s. He leads a typical life in that he works hard, has a close network of friends and socialises whenever he can, often accompanied by Emma, his girlfriend of three years. However, Dominic is heading upon tough times, and today he must make the decision whether to hold on to the inner child who has been part of him since his birth, or let go of it and conquer the world.
This of course means that Dominic wakes up at 7am, gets showered and goes downstairs to the kitchen to make some breakfast. It is at this point when he is hit with the hardest decision of his life - Coco Pops or Corn Flakes? From here the film comprises of 3 and a half minutes of tense close ups, with Dominic's eyes shifting across from one box of cereal to the other. Occasionally you may see his hand reach for one of the boxes only to quickly retract it back to it's original place. Then comes the three minutes of unadulterated weeping, crying, bawling, screaming until Dominic's face is red, his veins are throbbing and his voice is going hoarse. He has collapsed on the floor, and Emma is absolutely powerless to stop him. I don't want to spoil the ending, but lets just say that with Emma's help, Dominic manages to find a happy medium between the full grown adult and his inner child. This will probably come in the form of a box of Frosties or Coco Shreddies, or any sort of other cereal for grown men who can't really face reality.
If anyone would like to make this happen for me, please feel free to contact me. I may even post some more ideas in the next few weeks. I don't want to blow your mind all at once though.
Wednesday, 18 May 2011
Aspirational Television
There are certain programmes that manage to capture the attention of the public so well that people talk about it incessantly. In the weeks since I last posted, a show which can only be described as spectacular has been airing twice a week. Every time an episode is shown, social network feeds get smeared with updates all related to the show.
I am, of course, talking about The Only Way is Essex (or TOWIE if you're into initialising things). Like the common cold, McDonald's and Crocs, it's everywhere. For weeks I went by, blissfully unaware of what the programme was, who was in it or the sort of things that go on in Essex, and I was happy.
At least I was until a few days ago, when at a family wedding I witnessed two near middle-aged women talking about the show. I made a mental note to myself to watch an episode, just in case it turned out I was missing out on some of the most classic television since the days of Del Boy and Rodney.
I wasn't. After an hour long episode, I wasn't left feeling content, entertained or even slightly warm inside. In fact, my insides were as cold as the time I realised the Playstation Network was down. Not unlike the first time I watched Inception, I have questions. Feel free to answer them if you want, but I've made up my own mind on the right answer in quite a few instances.
1) Is it actually real?
I was reminded both at the beginning and end of the show that 'the people are all real although some of what they do has been set up for your entertainment'. I'm still not entirely sure what this means. After watching an episode, I can only assume that it's just a group of people who can't really act like some of the people on our television sets can. They get told where to go and what to talk about, but not specific lines. As a result, we get pool parties and girls trying on bikinis, because a group of clever producers decided that people will still watch it without having to pay too much attention to what is being said.
2) Why?
Why make a programme about these people in particular? Why does their culture deserve to be celebrated? They do exactly the same things as we all do, the only difference is that they do it in a more ridiculous way, saying things that we probably wouldn't with a camera in front of us because we didn't want to look like an utter cock. This may be entertaining, but surely the point of any show like this is to empathise or feel something for at least a few of the characters.
3) Again, why?
Why do these people have a show? I watch someone like 'Joey Essex' and I imagine that watching a wheelbarrow is more entertaining. At least the wheelbarrow wouldn't say things like 'Reem', which without going on urban dicitionary, I can only assume is slang for 'remedial'. After all, when he said his hair was 'looking reem', the sentence made perfect sense.
I can understand why the show entertains people. After all, these people manage to look like they have quite a lot of money and live glamorous lives, but at the same time the audience can comfort themselves with the fact that they are nowhere near as idiotic. It's aspirational television. It can also be funny on a laugh out loud scale. I chortled my little heart out when I saw a girl start crying because a man she 'obviously has feelings for' walked straight past her at a party and started talking to another woman. That and the toothy one hurting her hand on a park bench and being confused by it. Other than that, to me it was nothing more than dull, uninteresting trash television that requires no thought whatsoever, which is probably why everyone enjoys it.
I am, of course, talking about The Only Way is Essex (or TOWIE if you're into initialising things). Like the common cold, McDonald's and Crocs, it's everywhere. For weeks I went by, blissfully unaware of what the programme was, who was in it or the sort of things that go on in Essex, and I was happy.
At least I was until a few days ago, when at a family wedding I witnessed two near middle-aged women talking about the show. I made a mental note to myself to watch an episode, just in case it turned out I was missing out on some of the most classic television since the days of Del Boy and Rodney.
I wasn't. After an hour long episode, I wasn't left feeling content, entertained or even slightly warm inside. In fact, my insides were as cold as the time I realised the Playstation Network was down. Not unlike the first time I watched Inception, I have questions. Feel free to answer them if you want, but I've made up my own mind on the right answer in quite a few instances.
1) Is it actually real?
I was reminded both at the beginning and end of the show that 'the people are all real although some of what they do has been set up for your entertainment'. I'm still not entirely sure what this means. After watching an episode, I can only assume that it's just a group of people who can't really act like some of the people on our television sets can. They get told where to go and what to talk about, but not specific lines. As a result, we get pool parties and girls trying on bikinis, because a group of clever producers decided that people will still watch it without having to pay too much attention to what is being said.
2) Why?
Why make a programme about these people in particular? Why does their culture deserve to be celebrated? They do exactly the same things as we all do, the only difference is that they do it in a more ridiculous way, saying things that we probably wouldn't with a camera in front of us because we didn't want to look like an utter cock. This may be entertaining, but surely the point of any show like this is to empathise or feel something for at least a few of the characters.
3) Again, why?
Why do these people have a show? I watch someone like 'Joey Essex' and I imagine that watching a wheelbarrow is more entertaining. At least the wheelbarrow wouldn't say things like 'Reem', which without going on urban dicitionary, I can only assume is slang for 'remedial'. After all, when he said his hair was 'looking reem', the sentence made perfect sense.
I can understand why the show entertains people. After all, these people manage to look like they have quite a lot of money and live glamorous lives, but at the same time the audience can comfort themselves with the fact that they are nowhere near as idiotic. It's aspirational television. It can also be funny on a laugh out loud scale. I chortled my little heart out when I saw a girl start crying because a man she 'obviously has feelings for' walked straight past her at a party and started talking to another woman. That and the toothy one hurting her hand on a park bench and being confused by it. Other than that, to me it was nothing more than dull, uninteresting trash television that requires no thought whatsoever, which is probably why everyone enjoys it.
Sunday, 20 March 2011
Internet Premium: Invite Only, £50 A Month, But Minimal Shit Guaranteed.
Do you ever just sit at your computer and just think 'why'? I definitely have, I think it was at the point during the early hours of a Sunday morning a few weeks ago, when I found myself looking through uses of the Wilhelm Scream in various films, while watching a video of a tiny monkey riding backwards on a pig.
I think the underlying problem with the internet is that too many people are allowed to use it. Sure, the video of the baby monkey riding backwards on the pig was funny, but when you see twelve variations on the same theme the whole thing becomes a bit tedious. It's one thing being able to use the internet to find an answer to a problem, but not 42 billion answers to it. How are you supposed to know what's right?
The best solution for everyone would be to make the internet a little bit like Spotify, i.e. to get the full benefits, you have to be invited and/or pay a subscription fee. Obviously people already have to pay to use the internet, so we would need to hike up the price a little. Something like £50 a month would probably do the trick. It might sound expensive, but it would be worth it.
It would be worth it because when logging on to Facebook, we wouldn't see overly melodramatic or way too personal status updates such as 'OMG. I js gt sum durt on ma Shoo. FML :(' or something from Jane, who lives two doors down saying 'I was making Breakfast earlier, and at some point when I was buttering my toast, I think the menopause kicked in. LOL'. No, instead you could just see holiday photos of those gorgeous people you really fancy but don't actually know. After all, people are only on Facebook to stalk other people.
And Twitter would no longer be awash with trending topics that make you question the sanity of the human race such as 'Thingsyoudon'tsayaftersex' or 'dancewank' or Rebecca Black. No, instead we can just carry on pretending we're all intellects with lots of interesting and witty things to say without degrading ourselves by taking song titles with the word 'dance' in and replacing it with the word 'wank' for fun.
It would also be easier to find get yourself a decent username. How many times have you wanted something simple to remember when signing up for something- something like 'thewatchtrick' for example - and been told that it's taken, but why not try 'thewatchtrickyeahcool' or 'the8watch49trick2011boom!'. It's utterly infuriating. I wanted to have some consistency between this blog and my twitter. Unfortunately, my desired URL was taken. Out of a mixture of curiosity and pain-inducing boredom, I typed in the URL I wanted to see what form of high brow entertainment stood in my way. The result was this:
I think the underlying problem with the internet is that too many people are allowed to use it. Sure, the video of the baby monkey riding backwards on the pig was funny, but when you see twelve variations on the same theme the whole thing becomes a bit tedious. It's one thing being able to use the internet to find an answer to a problem, but not 42 billion answers to it. How are you supposed to know what's right?
The best solution for everyone would be to make the internet a little bit like Spotify, i.e. to get the full benefits, you have to be invited and/or pay a subscription fee. Obviously people already have to pay to use the internet, so we would need to hike up the price a little. Something like £50 a month would probably do the trick. It might sound expensive, but it would be worth it.
It would be worth it because when logging on to Facebook, we wouldn't see overly melodramatic or way too personal status updates such as 'OMG. I js gt sum durt on ma Shoo. FML :(' or something from Jane, who lives two doors down saying 'I was making Breakfast earlier, and at some point when I was buttering my toast, I think the menopause kicked in. LOL'. No, instead you could just see holiday photos of those gorgeous people you really fancy but don't actually know. After all, people are only on Facebook to stalk other people.
And Twitter would no longer be awash with trending topics that make you question the sanity of the human race such as 'Thingsyoudon'tsayaftersex' or 'dancewank' or Rebecca Black. No, instead we can just carry on pretending we're all intellects with lots of interesting and witty things to say without degrading ourselves by taking song titles with the word 'dance' in and replacing it with the word 'wank' for fun.
It would also be easier to find get yourself a decent username. How many times have you wanted something simple to remember when signing up for something- something like 'thewatchtrick' for example - and been told that it's taken, but why not try 'thewatchtrickyeahcool' or 'the8watch49trick2011boom!'. It's utterly infuriating. I wanted to have some consistency between this blog and my twitter. Unfortunately, my desired URL was taken. Out of a mixture of curiosity and pain-inducing boredom, I typed in the URL I wanted to see what form of high brow entertainment stood in my way. The result was this:
TUESDAY, AUGUST 16, 2005
planning cocktail night...
yesterday was a reall good day, i went to stu's and we played snakes and ladders before going out for tea at franky n benny's then watching charlie n the chocolate factory and "cineworld" as its now called! lol, and just to say that johnny depp is bloody freaky n that film! scared me a little.. anyways, when we got back we randomly decided to go for a walk round keyingham.. ended up at the park (if u can call it that.. more like a sing n a climbing frame) but anyways it was really nice.. just talked in the dark whist swinging for about half an hour had a little kiss on the tunnel thing. it was just a really nice little walk. and during swinging we planned out "cocktail night" (tomorrow) im gonna stay at stu's as he'll be too drunk to drive me home lol, im gna make him loadsa cocktails n we'll play games and watch video's... gona be a lot of fun! but ill let u know how it goes later..
results day on thursday.. i can honestly say i dnt really care about my grades much becasue they dont actually matter, ofcourse i wanna know what i got a bit but its not gna break my heart if i fail em all! lol but lets just wait n see ay? ill be getting the bus from stus with a hangover which should be fun.. then ice skating after results for a laugh.. havnt skated in years so itll be fun!
been spending a lot f time with stu lately, nicknamed him willy wilson lol, which he's not too overly impressed with..... we tend to watch a differnt film every night and its anyways nice to relax.. he actually fell esleep on me the other night during the killbillathon lol, it was nice, he finally shut up hehe lol
been paiting the ceiling of the utility room today, which is always fun, my arms ache and it looks like ive got dandruff from the paint sprays lol but o well.
by for now
At first, the only thing I could think about was how angry I was that my own hopes and dreams had been shattered six years ago, before I even had the idea, in some Doctor Who style twist of fate, by the trials and tribulations of Jen and her completely see-through tactics of getting Stu drunk and having desperate, pale sex with him.
Then my anger subsided though, and I wondered what Jen might be doing now. Still working in an 'old man pub'? Still marvelling at how 'swarve' Stu is when he's got straightened hair and pink toenails? Or did Stu just dump her a few days later, and for the last six years she's been crying into pillows, listening to Stu's beloved Radiohead and weighing up the pros and cons of suicide. On this note, it's fair to say the anger came back.
That blog is imprinted on humanity for the rest of it's existence now. Lurking quietly, a fad that is now festering not unlike six year old milk. If aliens ever land on Earth, let's all pray that they don't find that and assume we're all complete morons.
So, why not just destroy everything and start again? We can rebuild Wikipedia and IMDB. At the very least we can just copy and paste everything into a rather large Word document and deal with it later. Then we can have Internet Premium: Invite only, £50 a month, but minimal shit guaranteed.
(Sorry, Jen. I'm sure you're lovely, please write your ramblings somewhere less public next time, though. I really wanted that URL)
Then my anger subsided though, and I wondered what Jen might be doing now. Still working in an 'old man pub'? Still marvelling at how 'swarve' Stu is when he's got straightened hair and pink toenails? Or did Stu just dump her a few days later, and for the last six years she's been crying into pillows, listening to Stu's beloved Radiohead and weighing up the pros and cons of suicide. On this note, it's fair to say the anger came back.
That blog is imprinted on humanity for the rest of it's existence now. Lurking quietly, a fad that is now festering not unlike six year old milk. If aliens ever land on Earth, let's all pray that they don't find that and assume we're all complete morons.
So, why not just destroy everything and start again? We can rebuild Wikipedia and IMDB. At the very least we can just copy and paste everything into a rather large Word document and deal with it later. Then we can have Internet Premium: Invite only, £50 a month, but minimal shit guaranteed.
(Sorry, Jen. I'm sure you're lovely, please write your ramblings somewhere less public next time, though. I really wanted that URL)
Sunday, 6 March 2011
ITV Football: Making Football Less Exciting For As Long As I Care To Remember
Have you ever watched something and felt as if you are helplessly witnessing a car crash of the most horrific proportions? For example, you may have read about or watched the coverage about Charlie Sheen recently, there are car crashes slowing down to watch him. It’s just something that you know full well is going wrong right in front of your very eyes.
I feel like that every time I watch football on ITV. I curse the fact that most football on terrestrial television that isn’t Match of the Day belongs to a bunch of morons that can’t help but make coverage of a football match tragic.
The whole package is just wrong. Using the FA Cup coverage as an example, we start with our sponsors Keith, Ian and Andy (they represent KIA, it’s funny because their names make up the initials of the firm), three people who in no way represent the archetypal football fan. At least I hope not, if they do then we are all doomed. From here we have the titles, put together in horrendous comic book style with a musical backdrop of The Enemy, who specialise in making music for beer-swilling, loud idiots.
Once the titles end we are greeted by Adrian Chiles, who seems more determined to be my friend than someone who introduces an important game of football. He’s patronising and he tries too hard to be funny, which was acceptable when he was presenting Match of the Day 2 or The One Show, but not, for example, if Tottenham want to beat AC Milan to make it into the Champions League quarter-finals on Wednesday Night.
Credit where credit is due though, most of the time there is at least one pundit that seems to know what he is talking about. This usually comes in the form of Andy Townsend, and in the past we’ve had the likes of Allardyce and Strachan to retain an ounce of credibility.
By now, I’m fully aware that I just sound like a grumpy young man that despises football, and that couldn’t be further from the truth. I love football. Obviously there are aspects of the game that make my blood boil with rage, but that is true of everyone. I’m just fed up of having my enjoyment of a game ruined by the poor quality package put together by its broadcasters.
The BBC have got their coverage spot on. They have the perfect presenter in Gary Lineker, a model professional both in his playing and presenting careers. He knows what it’s like to be on that field, so he knows how to address his audience. The only time Adrian Chiles will make it onto a football pitch is if there’s charity involved. Lineker also knows about tactics, and he’s backed up by good pundits in Alan Hansen and Alan Shearer, which makes for excellent analysis in the breaks.
In fact, the BBC is so superior; I would pay extra for the license fee if it meant having more football on there. It would be more than worth it, simply because I’d be safe in the knowledge that a game of football wasn’t going to be brought to me by Peter, Richard, Ian, Colin, Kevin and Simon.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Valentine's Day: Not Necessarily Depressing
February is an odd month. For one thing it's shorter than all the others. Don't ask me why, because I'm not entirely sure. However, I can hazard a guess that the calendar's creator, Mike Calendar, named the month after his wife's secret lover, Danny February, in an attempt to belittle him. Unfortunately, Mike didn't know his idea would take off in the way that it did, and centuries later February is a household name, and Mike doesn't get any recognition because everyone thinks it's something to do with Pope Gregory XIII.
Anyway, I have digressed, February is also an odd month because it has a special day that marks it's mid-point. That hateful little, vomit-inducing, eye-stabbing day is known to you and I as Valentine's Day. In 2011, Valentine's Day is essentially a day in which males buy pointless little things for their other half in an attempt to either avoid hatred being directed their way, or to maybe have sex by the time the night is out.
As you may be able to tell, I'm not a massive fan of February 14th, and no, it's not because I'm a hapless, lonely singleton with the most basic grasp of how romance works. I mean, I am all of those things, but I have other reasons. Firstly, my love for everything has disappeared since I watched Black Eyed Peas doing the Super Bowl half-time show. I can't work out if I was more angry at the band, the organisers, or the other people involved, such as the dancers wearing fluorescent boxes on their heads. I cannot love anything while the memory of that performance is still in my head.
Secondly, it's because Valentine's day is ultimately only worthwhile for couples who have been married more than 10 years, who have forgotten why exactly why they were joined in holy matrimony. They can give each other gifts, and try and be romantic in a half-arsed attempt to reignite their failing, loveless marriage. What's the point in being extra romantic if you're already a good boyfriend or girlfriend to your other half? You're only ever going to have to better yourself. Say you buy your other half some chocolates this year. Next year, you won't be able to do that, because it shows you haven't put any thought into the present, so you will have to go out for a meal. In twenty years time you will have to try and cajole Elton John into singing 'Your Song' to your other half over a candlelit meal on a beach in Barbados, and I'm pretty sure that won't be worth the money.
Anyway, rather than be completely bitter about the whole thing. I'm going to offer advice to people who are a little bit stuck about what to do. If you're in a relationship, well, I can't do anything to help you. You got yourself into this mess. You can get yourself out.
1. Karaoke
As you may be able to tell, I'm not a massive fan of February 14th, and no, it's not because I'm a hapless, lonely singleton with the most basic grasp of how romance works. I mean, I am all of those things, but I have other reasons. Firstly, my love for everything has disappeared since I watched Black Eyed Peas doing the Super Bowl half-time show. I can't work out if I was more angry at the band, the organisers, or the other people involved, such as the dancers wearing fluorescent boxes on their heads. I cannot love anything while the memory of that performance is still in my head.
Secondly, it's because Valentine's day is ultimately only worthwhile for couples who have been married more than 10 years, who have forgotten why exactly why they were joined in holy matrimony. They can give each other gifts, and try and be romantic in a half-arsed attempt to reignite their failing, loveless marriage. What's the point in being extra romantic if you're already a good boyfriend or girlfriend to your other half? You're only ever going to have to better yourself. Say you buy your other half some chocolates this year. Next year, you won't be able to do that, because it shows you haven't put any thought into the present, so you will have to go out for a meal. In twenty years time you will have to try and cajole Elton John into singing 'Your Song' to your other half over a candlelit meal on a beach in Barbados, and I'm pretty sure that won't be worth the money.
Anyway, rather than be completely bitter about the whole thing. I'm going to offer advice to people who are a little bit stuck about what to do. If you're in a relationship, well, I can't do anything to help you. You got yourself into this mess. You can get yourself out.
1. Karaoke
Karaoke is so fun isn't it? Having a few drinks and howling your way through songs you like in the company of others. Well, why not do it on Valentine's day? All you need to do is head to a restaurant (it may be difficult to get a table, but perseverance is essential). Once you are seated, get your iPod out and sing as loudly as you can. You could sing something like 'How Soon Is Now?' by The Smiths to sap the mood a little bit more. Heck, you can even turn it into a competition, by going to different restaurants and seeing how long it takes you to get kicked out.
2. The Leech
2. The Leech
Got some friends who are hideously sucked in by the whole romance thing? Well why not try and spoil all of their plans by spending every second of the day with them. If they're watching a film, it doesn't matter, you'd love to see what happens in the latest romantic comedy. If they're going out to dinner, that doesn't matter either, how hard can it be to pull up an extra chair? They say that two is company, and three's a crowd, but that doesn't matter, because you won't be spending Valentine's Day on your own, and that's the important thing.
3. The Sensible Option
Run out of outlandish ideas? I have. Why not just buy yourself a few DVDs and spend your day watching them in bed? After all, buy a few Anne Hathaway films and after 5 hours of watching her, you can pretty much pretend you're going out with her. Then if she gets a bit boring, you can just find yourself someone else. Anne won't mind, in fact, I doubt she will even notice. No one will get hurt. If you're not into picturing yourself with someone else, you can just watch Scott Pilgrim vs The World, and remind yourself that relationships are nothing more than one long fight (or at least six relatively short ones).
Have a great Valentine's Day.
Monday, 7 February 2011
Pretentiously Indie As It May Sound...
This week, I said I was going to write about the Andy Gray/Sky/Sexism fiasco. However, two weeks have passed since the actual event, and I've realised that by now, people care about it as little as I want to write another blatantly obvious post about how Andy Gray was wrong but Sky went too far in sacking him, and add it to a mountain of articles that all say the exact same thing (unless you read The Sun, who hate sexism even though when you scroll down the page a little further on a Friday afternoon, you get treated to their 'hottest women of the week' section, which doesn't objectify the fairer sex at all).
Anyway, in the last week or so, many things have happened that have pushed the Sky fiasco out of the limelight, which is probably for the best, as it was all a bit of a storm, no, an asteroid collision in a teacup. We've had civil unrest in Egypt, as a president who has been in charge for 30 years has seemingly reached the end of his reign. We've had Top Gear presenters insulting the population of Mexico (Andy Gray got sacked for less) and our own Prime Minister has told us all that our multicultural society has failed.
Worse still, Jordan's single again, which inevitably means yet another increase in the already overly fucking generous amount of column inches she gets; I can't get a Jessie J ticket without paying double the face value, and on Wednesday, The White Stripes announced they were splitting up. Where's the good news? Well? ANSWER ME!
Truth be told, my heart sank a little when I read that nothing fresh was going to come from the Detroit Duo. Pretentiously Indie as it may sound, but The White Stripes, along with American counterparts The Strokes, made sure we didn't spend the whole of the naughties listening to Christina Aguilera, or worse still, Limp Bizkit. Whereas The Strokes were the archetypal rock and roll band - slick, partying hard and generally looking cool as fuck - The White Stripes were different. They were quirky (a colour scheme of nothing but red, white and black was assumed throughout their time together), there was always an element of mystery about them. For one thing, people genuinely thought they were siblings for a couple of years, until it emerged they used to be married.
Musically, The White Stripes primarily kept things as simplistic as their colour scheme. A lot has been made of Meg White's drumming capabilities, but in all honesty it serves the music's purpose down to a tee. Songs such as 'Seven Nation Army' wouldn't work with complex drum beats and exuberant fills. Of course, the music does have complexities within it, but these always came from Jack White, either with his guitar (see 'Little Cream Soda') or his vocal delivery (see 'Blue Orchid').
Of course, we might have seen this split coming. We haven't heard any new material from The White Stripes in four years, and we haven't seen them live either. In that time, we've seen multiple releases from Jack under different guises, be it The Raconteurs, The Dead Weather or as a solo venture. He may have been distancing himself from his original band for some time.
That doesn't really matter now though, the harsh truth is, we'll never get to hear the likes of 'Fell In Love With A Girl', or 'Icky Thump' live again, and that in itself is a massive shame. Jack White will continue to be a guitar virtuoso, and will continue to release music. However, knowing that none of that is going to come from The White Stripes is quite saddening.
Anyway, in the last week or so, many things have happened that have pushed the Sky fiasco out of the limelight, which is probably for the best, as it was all a bit of a storm, no, an asteroid collision in a teacup. We've had civil unrest in Egypt, as a president who has been in charge for 30 years has seemingly reached the end of his reign. We've had Top Gear presenters insulting the population of Mexico (Andy Gray got sacked for less) and our own Prime Minister has told us all that our multicultural society has failed.
Worse still, Jordan's single again, which inevitably means yet another increase in the already overly fucking generous amount of column inches she gets; I can't get a Jessie J ticket without paying double the face value, and on Wednesday, The White Stripes announced they were splitting up. Where's the good news? Well? ANSWER ME!
Truth be told, my heart sank a little when I read that nothing fresh was going to come from the Detroit Duo. Pretentiously Indie as it may sound, but The White Stripes, along with American counterparts The Strokes, made sure we didn't spend the whole of the naughties listening to Christina Aguilera, or worse still, Limp Bizkit. Whereas The Strokes were the archetypal rock and roll band - slick, partying hard and generally looking cool as fuck - The White Stripes were different. They were quirky (a colour scheme of nothing but red, white and black was assumed throughout their time together), there was always an element of mystery about them. For one thing, people genuinely thought they were siblings for a couple of years, until it emerged they used to be married.
Musically, The White Stripes primarily kept things as simplistic as their colour scheme. A lot has been made of Meg White's drumming capabilities, but in all honesty it serves the music's purpose down to a tee. Songs such as 'Seven Nation Army' wouldn't work with complex drum beats and exuberant fills. Of course, the music does have complexities within it, but these always came from Jack White, either with his guitar (see 'Little Cream Soda') or his vocal delivery (see 'Blue Orchid').
Of course, we might have seen this split coming. We haven't heard any new material from The White Stripes in four years, and we haven't seen them live either. In that time, we've seen multiple releases from Jack under different guises, be it The Raconteurs, The Dead Weather or as a solo venture. He may have been distancing himself from his original band for some time.
That doesn't really matter now though, the harsh truth is, we'll never get to hear the likes of 'Fell In Love With A Girl', or 'Icky Thump' live again, and that in itself is a massive shame. Jack White will continue to be a guitar virtuoso, and will continue to release music. However, knowing that none of that is going to come from The White Stripes is quite saddening.
Sunday, 30 January 2011
The Rebirth of The Rom-Com
In the week that has passed since my last blog post, I've noticed romance everywhere. There are cute couples walking around the supermarket together, eating out at restaurants and making out relentlessly in McDonald's. This week we found out that even Andy Gray has been whispering sweet nothings into the ears of women he used to be able to call co-workers (more on that later in the week). This may be due to the impending ball ache that is Valentine's Day, and the fact that every outlet that can make some sort of money from it are not so subliminally punching romantic gestures towards my face.
It's not that I don't like romance, it's just that like most sensible people, I don't feel the need to set aside a day where I have to be more loving than usual. In fact, in the last couple of weeks I've watched three romantic comedy films, which brings my lifetime rom-com viewings to four. I've seen so many romantic gestures that if someone were to cut me open right now, cute little squirrels would climb out of my body clutching bouquets of roses. This by no means makes me a fan of the genre though.
For example, I watched Love and Other Drugs on Monday night, a film in which Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhall play two 'fun-loving' (i.e. sex crazed), but ultimately unlikeable characters who spent the first half of the film having sex. Then in the second half they stopped, and decided to have a relationship which was so terribly alien to both of them because they both really just liked having meaningless sex with people before. Pricks.
In fact, I'm so disillusioned by the whole genre, I'm going to take a step towards revolutionising it. So here are some of my ideas for romantic comedy films.
It's not that I don't like romance, it's just that like most sensible people, I don't feel the need to set aside a day where I have to be more loving than usual. In fact, in the last couple of weeks I've watched three romantic comedy films, which brings my lifetime rom-com viewings to four. I've seen so many romantic gestures that if someone were to cut me open right now, cute little squirrels would climb out of my body clutching bouquets of roses. This by no means makes me a fan of the genre though.
For example, I watched Love and Other Drugs on Monday night, a film in which Anne Hathaway and Jake Gyllenhall play two 'fun-loving' (i.e. sex crazed), but ultimately unlikeable characters who spent the first half of the film having sex. Then in the second half they stopped, and decided to have a relationship which was so terribly alien to both of them because they both really just liked having meaningless sex with people before. Pricks.
In fact, I'm so disillusioned by the whole genre, I'm going to take a step towards revolutionising it. So here are some of my ideas for romantic comedy films.
1. Tom's Untimely Discovery
Tom is a loving husband and father of two children in their early teens. His life is average, he earns a living and on some months he has some disposable income, depending on if he has worked any overtime. He sits down to dinner that his wife, Elaine has put together, as she made it home first. Tom takes four bites of his chicken and pasta dish and all of a sudden he drops his cutlery. After 12 years of marriage, Tom has just realised he is gay. From here, Tom can do nothing but leave his wife and kids, and he embarks on a courageous journey to find his male soul mate.
2. Andrew
Andrew is a well known broadcaster, he has been married in the past, but now he is happily single. All of a sudden his world is rocked when his eye is caught by Charlotte, an attractive young woman who is relatively new at his place of work. Unfortunately, it is from here that Andrew's life falls apart, when he is fired from his job after chatting up Charlotte with a line that would have worked in 1992. But despite this drawback, Andrew, with a little help from some friends, does all he can to win back the woman he quite fancies.
3. Left Hook Lisa (working title)
Lisa works behind a bar in a nightclub, she is very attractive, and quite often gets lewd offers from rowdy drunks. During one exasperatingly busy night, she snaps, and viciously assaults a man who says she looks pretty. Feeling slightly guilty, and at the same time trying to extinguish the possibility of a GBH charge, Lisa visits her poor victim in hospital. The victim is a gorgeous man, or at least he would be if it wasn't for the heavy bruising. Lisa instantly falls in love, but can Rafael, the man in hospital, ever forgive her for hurting both his physical appearance and his pride.
Tom is a loving husband and father of two children in their early teens. His life is average, he earns a living and on some months he has some disposable income, depending on if he has worked any overtime. He sits down to dinner that his wife, Elaine has put together, as she made it home first. Tom takes four bites of his chicken and pasta dish and all of a sudden he drops his cutlery. After 12 years of marriage, Tom has just realised he is gay. From here, Tom can do nothing but leave his wife and kids, and he embarks on a courageous journey to find his male soul mate.
2. Andrew
Andrew is a well known broadcaster, he has been married in the past, but now he is happily single. All of a sudden his world is rocked when his eye is caught by Charlotte, an attractive young woman who is relatively new at his place of work. Unfortunately, it is from here that Andrew's life falls apart, when he is fired from his job after chatting up Charlotte with a line that would have worked in 1992. But despite this drawback, Andrew, with a little help from some friends, does all he can to win back the woman he quite fancies.
3. Left Hook Lisa (working title)
Lisa works behind a bar in a nightclub, she is very attractive, and quite often gets lewd offers from rowdy drunks. During one exasperatingly busy night, she snaps, and viciously assaults a man who says she looks pretty. Feeling slightly guilty, and at the same time trying to extinguish the possibility of a GBH charge, Lisa visits her poor victim in hospital. The victim is a gorgeous man, or at least he would be if it wasn't for the heavy bruising. Lisa instantly falls in love, but can Rafael, the man in hospital, ever forgive her for hurting both his physical appearance and his pride.
With any luck these films will be in theatres by Valentine's day 2013.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
30 Single (and possibly mentally unhinged) Ladies.
A public display of affection. Is there anything worse? I don't mean a cheeky little peck on the lips every now and again as you go round the supermarket, that's no problem at all, if anything it's a little bit cute. I can't stand people who seem to have absolutely no social boundaries whatsoever, and proceed to get as close as they can to mating their other half without being arrested.
I walked in to McDonald's the other day to pick up some food, and on my way to the counter, I couldn't help but be appalled by a couple in their 30s exploring each other's throats with their tongues. I didn't really feel hungry after that, so maybe the government could use that information to combat obesity.
Anyway, worse still than public displays of affection are people who are desperately single. If you are lucky enough to have never encountered one of these types, just watch Take Me Out on ITV1 next Saturday night.
If you haven't seen Take Me Out, think of it is as a 21st century re-imagining of Blind Date in which single men come out and try to win a date with one of a panel of 30 single (and possibly mentally unhinged) single ladies. All this is overseen by Paddy McGuiness, who has a seemingly endless list of metaphors to make the whole thing a little bit entertaining.
As well as entertaining though, the process is infuriating. It would seem that if a boy wants to land a date on Take Me Out, they have to be an over-masculine jock with a chin that could smash through a plank of wood, or rich. You can't live with your parents, you can't have any quirky hobbies that give you any sort of extra dimension to your personality, and you definitely can't have any bad habits. Unless you're Irish. For women who are so desperately single that they have to go on a TV show to find a date, they are unbelievably picky. That is except for Jo Jo, who would probably go on a date with a gorilla as long as it was wearing a mask of a human face, and even then the Gorilla would come to his senses and switch off her light.
Take Natalie for example, she's beautiful. Unfortunately for her, she thinks her height is a bit of an issue because she stands at around 6'8". As a result, she immediately turns down every man who isn't taller than her, and if he is of a similar height, then she will wait until the next round when she realises he has some interests that are slightly different to hers. There are just no guys out there for you are their Natalie? You poor, poor thing.
Then there's Peggy. Peggy could definitely have got herself a date with a nice man last night, unfortunately she started talking. She had already decided that he was perfect for her, he looked exactly like her ex, who for some reason decided to cheat on her, and oh my god, he was just perfect. Like...his body, his hair, his face, there was nothing bad about him. Oh my god, he was perfect. Shortly after all this, he switched her light off. Can't begin to think why.
I walked in to McDonald's the other day to pick up some food, and on my way to the counter, I couldn't help but be appalled by a couple in their 30s exploring each other's throats with their tongues. I didn't really feel hungry after that, so maybe the government could use that information to combat obesity.
Anyway, worse still than public displays of affection are people who are desperately single. If you are lucky enough to have never encountered one of these types, just watch Take Me Out on ITV1 next Saturday night.
If you haven't seen Take Me Out, think of it is as a 21st century re-imagining of Blind Date in which single men come out and try to win a date with one of a panel of 30 single (and possibly mentally unhinged) single ladies. All this is overseen by Paddy McGuiness, who has a seemingly endless list of metaphors to make the whole thing a little bit entertaining.
As well as entertaining though, the process is infuriating. It would seem that if a boy wants to land a date on Take Me Out, they have to be an over-masculine jock with a chin that could smash through a plank of wood, or rich. You can't live with your parents, you can't have any quirky hobbies that give you any sort of extra dimension to your personality, and you definitely can't have any bad habits. Unless you're Irish. For women who are so desperately single that they have to go on a TV show to find a date, they are unbelievably picky. That is except for Jo Jo, who would probably go on a date with a gorilla as long as it was wearing a mask of a human face, and even then the Gorilla would come to his senses and switch off her light.
Take Natalie for example, she's beautiful. Unfortunately for her, she thinks her height is a bit of an issue because she stands at around 6'8". As a result, she immediately turns down every man who isn't taller than her, and if he is of a similar height, then she will wait until the next round when she realises he has some interests that are slightly different to hers. There are just no guys out there for you are their Natalie? You poor, poor thing.
Then there's Peggy. Peggy could definitely have got herself a date with a nice man last night, unfortunately she started talking. She had already decided that he was perfect for her, he looked exactly like her ex, who for some reason decided to cheat on her, and oh my god, he was just perfect. Like...his body, his hair, his face, there was nothing bad about him. Oh my god, he was perfect. Shortly after all this, he switched her light off. Can't begin to think why.
Perhaps, the reason for my underlying rage is due to some sort of jealousy. If I'm honest, I would love to go on Take Me Out. However, I am convinced that as soon as I told the girls my name and where I'm from, they would all switch their lights off, apart from Jo Jo, who would be foaming at the mouth at the prospect of an actual date. At this point I would cry, and possibly rip some of my hair out. Then Jo Jo would turn her light off. Then I'd go back to the green room and cry while the jocks laugh at me, shortly before going out and getting dates. The pricks.
While Take Me Out is one of the trashiest, most ridiculous things on TV, it definitely serves a purpose. At least, no matter how single you are, you will never, ever want to go on such a show. So you can just laugh at everyone who appears on it and pretend you're better than them. If that's not Saturday night entertainment, then I have no idea what is.
While Take Me Out is one of the trashiest, most ridiculous things on TV, it definitely serves a purpose. At least, no matter how single you are, you will never, ever want to go on such a show. So you can just laugh at everyone who appears on it and pretend you're better than them. If that's not Saturday night entertainment, then I have no idea what is.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
77 Days
Almost as soon as I wrote last week's post about rock and roll not being dead, I received some news that completely backed up the drivel I had already typed. Now, being right about things is something that I quite enjoy, so to bask in that extra bit of glory, I'm going to tell you why rock and roll is awesome. The Kills are releasing a new album.
I'm excited beyond comprehension, which is both a rare feeling and an annoying one. As the link tells you, Blood Pressures is going to be released on 4 April in the UK. That's 77 days, or 1851 hours, or 111076 minutes depending on which way you want to look at it. That's going to feel like an aeon for me.
The roller-coaster of emotions that comes with having to wait for something is very similar to really needing to go to the toilet. There's the fear of survival, or social embarrassment, when you don't think you'll be able to wait any longer and might be about to do something catastrophically stupid in front of groups of people because of it. More often than not it dies down for a short period of time, you feel like you can manage the problem which is a great relief, 'it's not that long before I can buy it/go to the toilet' you say to yourself. Well it is. Within minutes it all comes flooding back and you've got the fear again. Then, after all the waiting, you can finally get excited about the impending release (whichever way you want to look at it).
Anyway, toilet talk over and done with, I might as well give you a bit of background on The Kills. They're a duo, consisting of Alison Mosshart, a woman who is very much after my heart, with her uber-coolness and her punky fashion sense and her long black hair (photo attached if you don't believe me); and Jamie Hince, who is better-known for being Kate Moss's boyfriend, so I don't need to tell you how cool he is. They both play guitar and sing, the drums for their songs are programmed by Hince for studio recordings and live performances, a pain staking process which is presumably why we have to wait so long for a new album.
If you're intrigued, I would suggest listening to Tape Song, Last Day of Magic, No Wow and Superpowerless. In fact, even if you're not intrigued I suggest you do. If you like what you hear, then you can have a listen to my Spotify playlist of some of their best songs. But while you sit there and enjoy it, spare a thought for me, agonising over the 111076 minutes that have got to elapse before I can feel right again.
The roller-coaster of emotions that comes with having to wait for something is very similar to really needing to go to the toilet. There's the fear of survival, or social embarrassment, when you don't think you'll be able to wait any longer and might be about to do something catastrophically stupid in front of groups of people because of it. More often than not it dies down for a short period of time, you feel like you can manage the problem which is a great relief, 'it's not that long before I can buy it/go to the toilet' you say to yourself. Well it is. Within minutes it all comes flooding back and you've got the fear again. Then, after all the waiting, you can finally get excited about the impending release (whichever way you want to look at it).
Anyway, toilet talk over and done with, I might as well give you a bit of background on The Kills. They're a duo, consisting of Alison Mosshart, a woman who is very much after my heart, with her uber-coolness and her punky fashion sense and her long black hair (photo attached if you don't believe me); and Jamie Hince, who is better-known for being Kate Moss's boyfriend, so I don't need to tell you how cool he is. They both play guitar and sing, the drums for their songs are programmed by Hince for studio recordings and live performances, a pain staking process which is presumably why we have to wait so long for a new album.If you're intrigued, I would suggest listening to Tape Song, Last Day of Magic, No Wow and Superpowerless. In fact, even if you're not intrigued I suggest you do. If you like what you hear, then you can have a listen to my Spotify playlist of some of their best songs. But while you sit there and enjoy it, spare a thought for me, agonising over the 111076 minutes that have got to elapse before I can feel right again.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Rock And Roll Is Not Dead
ROCK AND ROLL IS DEAD. At least that's what everyone has been saying over the last few days. According to an article from Music Week, Rock singles sales have fallen to their lowest tally in 50 years, with only three tracks making it into the top 100 singles of 2010. One of those singles was Journey's 'Don't Stop Believing', which was recorded in 1978, and another was 'Dog Days Are Over' by Florence + The Machine, which isn't rock at all. It might not be shiny, auto-tuned, electro-tinged pop, but it isn't rock.
Realistically though, all this means is that rock music isn't being bought in massive numbers. There are a number of reasons why this doesn't matter though. Firstly, selling units is not what rock and roll is about (at least I hope it isn't, otherwise it may destroy most of the morals and ethics that I possess), it's about an artist making something that they want to make, something that will make them proud of what they've done. It's certainly not about taking orders from a producer or record company about how they should sound.
The second reason for the low sales in 2010 is quite simply because 2010 was quite a quiet year. Sure, we had Kings of Leon, who are a shadow of the band they were five years ago, we had The Courteeners, who couldn't make an album as good as their first, and we had Gorillaz. Damon Albarn is still just as handsome as he was in 1997, but Justin Bieber just seems like a better option for youngsters now. That's about the best Rock and Roll could muster for singles sales last year.
2011 already looks like a better year. In terms of bands who have the potential to impact on the charts, we can expect new albums from Coldplay, U2, Arctic Monkeys, Kasabian and The Strokes. As well as these legends, there will be an album for hotly-tipped four-piece The Vaccines. If you can't look forward to any of those then you have no soul. Rock and Roll? Dead? You must be having a laugh.
Realistically though, all this means is that rock music isn't being bought in massive numbers. There are a number of reasons why this doesn't matter though. Firstly, selling units is not what rock and roll is about (at least I hope it isn't, otherwise it may destroy most of the morals and ethics that I possess), it's about an artist making something that they want to make, something that will make them proud of what they've done. It's certainly not about taking orders from a producer or record company about how they should sound.
The second reason for the low sales in 2010 is quite simply because 2010 was quite a quiet year. Sure, we had Kings of Leon, who are a shadow of the band they were five years ago, we had The Courteeners, who couldn't make an album as good as their first, and we had Gorillaz. Damon Albarn is still just as handsome as he was in 1997, but Justin Bieber just seems like a better option for youngsters now. That's about the best Rock and Roll could muster for singles sales last year.
2011 already looks like a better year. In terms of bands who have the potential to impact on the charts, we can expect new albums from Coldplay, U2, Arctic Monkeys, Kasabian and The Strokes. As well as these legends, there will be an album for hotly-tipped four-piece The Vaccines. If you can't look forward to any of those then you have no soul. Rock and Roll? Dead? You must be having a laugh.
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
2011: Resolutions
As inevitable as the regret that comes to you on New Years Day, as you realise you've spent £100 on an incredibly lacklustre, overly busy, overly expensive night out that has given you the biggest hangover of the year, come new year's resolutions.
2011 will be the 21st year of my life, and I still don't really get the big deal with resolutions, or more to the point, I don't understand people who come up with outlandish ones. For example, 2 years ago I decided I was going to learn Italian. Why? Well, I still don't really know. I wasn't going to visit Italy, I had absolutely no need to learn a new language, but deep down I think it was because I've watched too many films where the handsome leading character can talk to anyone in a foreign tongue with ease.
Anyway, rather than learn 10 musical instruments, or work out to the point where I look like Sylvester Stallone, this year I've decided to keep things simple. I want to get a degree, I want to go abroad, and I want to preserve as of my dignity as I possibly can. That way I think it's possible to get much more done.
But this is a music blog, so obviously I've got to come up with some music-based resolutions. So here are a few things that I have promised myself to do or not do in 2011:
2011 will be the 21st year of my life, and I still don't really get the big deal with resolutions, or more to the point, I don't understand people who come up with outlandish ones. For example, 2 years ago I decided I was going to learn Italian. Why? Well, I still don't really know. I wasn't going to visit Italy, I had absolutely no need to learn a new language, but deep down I think it was because I've watched too many films where the handsome leading character can talk to anyone in a foreign tongue with ease.
Anyway, rather than learn 10 musical instruments, or work out to the point where I look like Sylvester Stallone, this year I've decided to keep things simple. I want to get a degree, I want to go abroad, and I want to preserve as of my dignity as I possibly can. That way I think it's possible to get much more done.
But this is a music blog, so obviously I've got to come up with some music-based resolutions. So here are a few things that I have promised myself to do or not do in 2011:
1. I will not get too excited over Beady Eye
Because it will only result in disappointment. Oasis were a great band, and although they probably should have split up in 1997, they have an excellent back catalogue. Beady Eye scare me a little bit, Liam did write some good songs for Oasis ('Songbird', 'I'm Outta Time' etc.), but a whole album is another matter entirely. I won't mind if I grow to love the album, but I'm not going to let myself be disappointed if it's the audio equivalent of milk that's been left out for three months.
2. I will make it to a festival
A good one as well, not one of those crappy ones in North Devon that makes you question your very existence for a whole rainy weekend in June while you watch a middle-aged band play 'Sweet Child O'Mine' and many other uninteresting songs. No, this year I want to go to a big one, which may be a problem seeing as camping fills me with unadultered rage. But you have to suffer for your art, right? Anyway, Bennicassim looks amazing this year, with The Strokes, Arctic Monkeys, Primal Scream and Arcade Fire all set to play. Plus it would tick off the 'go abroad' resolution.
3. I will never buy a Glee CD
2. I will make it to a festival
A good one as well, not one of those crappy ones in North Devon that makes you question your very existence for a whole rainy weekend in June while you watch a middle-aged band play 'Sweet Child O'Mine' and many other uninteresting songs. No, this year I want to go to a big one, which may be a problem seeing as camping fills me with unadultered rage. But you have to suffer for your art, right? Anyway, Bennicassim looks amazing this year, with The Strokes, Arctic Monkeys, Primal Scream and Arcade Fire all set to play. Plus it would tick off the 'go abroad' resolution.
3. I will never buy a Glee CD
This resolution may as well stay with me for the rest of my life. The fact that heavily auto-tuned cover versions on a TV show will be compiled into an album that will make it to number one in the charts makes me utterly irate. I hope 2011 will become the year that popular culture implodes and everyone in Britain wakes up and starts listening to music again. I'm not holding out much hope though, so I'm just going to leave it at not buying a Glee CD, and my next resolution, which is:
4. I'm might hibernate when Lady GaGa's next album comes out
4. I'm might hibernate when Lady GaGa's next album comes out
Because it is heavily likely to destroy my soul. She gets coverage in the tabloids every day when she hasn't released a single for nearly 8 months. I dread to think how many column inches she'll get by the time Born This Way gets released in May. Either way, I want to take as little involvement in the whole charade as I possibly can.
I think it's best to make a small amount of attainable resolutions, which is why I'm going to stop now. I can't see any of them falling down, but I'll let you know if they do (unless I'm too utterly, utterly ashamed to admit I've got Glee: The Music on repeat). Happy new year!
I think it's best to make a small amount of attainable resolutions, which is why I'm going to stop now. I can't see any of them falling down, but I'll let you know if they do (unless I'm too utterly, utterly ashamed to admit I've got Glee: The Music on repeat). Happy new year!
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