Archive for March, 2007
Everyone should be allowed to wear what they like, so long as you don’t scare the children. I myself used to own a day-glo pink anarok, which was a must for any occasion where I might be required to bring the party in the fog. However, when men dress themselves in pink, without any trace of irony or glo-sticks, i do wonder if something has happened to the price of mirrors. I think I find it particularly bothering because it is now a colour usually worn by the type of people who, five to ten years ago, would have had difficulty not yelling “FAGGOT” at so much as a pink tie. So, if asked, I would usually advise against wearing a pastel pink jumper if the request was made by a fellow male. However, if the request is from a male whilst his wife is wearing leggings in the same shade of pink, they deserve to look stupid.
i made the papers! props to them! they stuck me under one of my favourite headings, “apocalyptic fears”:
Sir: Mr Weaver (”We will need Trident one day”, Letters, 20 March) paints a vivid picture of future conflicts over increasingly scarce resources. If the predictions he cites are to be proved accurate, perhaps there is a better way to spend £25bn than on adding nuclear war to the list of calamities we may face.
ahh.. fame at last. and for anyone wondering why i don’t use such long words when writing on the internet, it’s because I was so annoyed by the twisted logic of the following letter that I felt “nyer nyer nyer-nyer nyer” wouldn’t have had the desired effect, even if it was the appropriate level of response:
Sir: The decision to replace Trident is wise and timely. I do not understand why many letter writers to The Independent growl about the cost and the prospect that millions may be vaporised. They seem to forget that some fifty years on from now global warming will create changes which will exceed biblical proportions.
I am confident that the predictions of eminent scientists will be proved right and we can expect sea levels rise to at least seven metres. The ten-year-olds of today will see it. This will turn the world upside down, and the effect it will have on the Middle East countries and the oil producers will be beyond comprehension. Fights will occur for arable land, fresh water, high ground, and there will be unimaginable migration and conflicts. This is why we need a replacement for Trident. I am inclined to think we will use it one day.
I myself am inclined to hope we will never use Trident. The realisation that there are those who can foresee it’s use and still support it’s purchase is terrifying.
It’s always great to hear from Nick Cave, even if he’s just discussing wysteria. But it was a particular delight to find this interview with Grinderman, in which he not only promises to record a new Bad Seeds record in June or July, and doesn’t just announce that the only place to see the new band play is gonna be ATP, but he nods thoughtfully along to at least three half-baked theories from a jumped-up CBBC presenter and decimates each one with a polite “fuck you” hidden in the word “NO”.
Zaney-boy, Grinderman just jacked your mum and took you to school in the car of pain. Take an extended playtime.
I’ve so far refrained from commenting on the current Trident renewal debacle mainly because, to me, the issue is so clearcut and obvious that I find it difficult to express my opinion without resorting to words like “DUH!”, “forchrissakes..” etc. So I was delighted to read this eloquent, original and profane summary of this horrific, ridiculous issue in The Friday Thing:
‘Come in and sit down, Mr Britain,’ the doctor said sympathetically. ‘What can I do for you today?’
‘Well…’ Mr Britain began and proceeded to list his ailments.
It’s true what they say, the doctor thought as he listened, getting old is a cruel and miserable business. He had many
elderly patients, but whenever one of them sadly admonished him with ‘don’t ever get old, doctor’, it would never fail to chill his heart by another degree of disquiet.
Just look at old Mr Britain, for example. He was a small, still dapper man, despite the air of a slight threadbareness about him. He’d been a prize fighter in his day, punching above his weight, and there was hardly anywhere in the world he hadn’t visited. He’d done it all. But now the trophies were long dusty and the memories sepia.
‘…and then there’s sex, doctor,’ said the old man.
‘I’m sorry?’ said the doctor, startled from his thoughts.
‘You know,’ said Mr Britain, without a hint of embarrassment. ‘Fucking.’
Here we go again, the doctor thought. The only way to deal with Mr Britain when he was in this mood was to be as equally brazen.
‘Fucking,’ replied the doctor, evenly. ‘We’ve been through this before, haven’t we, Mr Britain. You might have given that German woman a good seeing to but that was a long time ago now, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, yes…’ said the old man, his voice trailing off. He knew what was coming next.
‘The only other woman I can recall you expressing an interest in fucking was that Russian lady and the last time you mentioned her was in about 1989. And then it was all about some bizarre threesome with your American friend. I seem to recall the poor Russian woman had some kind of breakdown. Fell to pieces, you could say.’
‘But this Trident you have me on,’ said Britain, ‘it’s helped my performance up until now but I’m not sure it’s working any more. Haven’t you got anything else?’
‘Well, there is a new version in development. Mr Britain. But to be frank with you, if I were to prescribe it to you, who do you have to fuck with? And please don’t say those Middle Eastern ladies you say you’ve been chasing all over the place.’
‘Well, you never know when you might meet somebody,’ Mr Britain said hopefully.
‘I’m very sorry, Mr Britain.’ said the doctor, ‘Don’t you think your Casanova days are behind you? And you have other conditions that require more urgent treatment. What about your violent mood swings and your terrible diet?’
Mr Britain clenched his fists and closed his eyes.
Elsewhere, the sun was setting.
So in just week 2 of the ambitious project to scientifically extract the sound of summer from decidedly (though not deliberately) lo-fi recordings of me playing music in a tree, the weather made sides. It cosied up to me all morning and lured me outside with brilliant blue skies and no indication that it was the kind of day where sitting in a tree for an hour is going to irritate your leg muscles so severely that they will refuse to return to their normal selves until they recieve a large bowl of hot soup. Do not misunderestimate me, i had a swell time in the tree. It is just that when I tried to move my legs, it was apparent they were very cold, and when i listened to the recordings of the five ukelele-based masterpieces of indie-folk I’d been thundering through, it turned out that I’d laid the mic face down to the tree and all that could really be heard was me twanging away on a ukelele that the optimistic in me would say was charmingly distorted. But this version of Herman Düne’s “The Static Comes From My Broken Damn Heart” is, at least, vaguely audible. The good news is that last week’s version of Emily Scott which seemed to have disappeared into the ether surfaced today..
Remembering: Esio Trot and Little Things play Brixton on monday! They have a collage!
My life-long search for an eloquent example of hip-hop’s maternal veneration that wasn’t expressed retro-actively through violent retribution is over!
ma mom she nice
she gives me ice
and later we all eat chicken and rice
my name is kee-andre
i’m rap’s king kong
i’m the only boy in this entire song
but that’s ok
your raps are lame
you can’t even spell your own name!
diss of the century? over a sufjan stevens sample? by a five year-old? yes!
I mean, the human race, we are a tribe, let’s face it, and let’s stop all this religious bullshit. I think everybody, or at least a lot of my friends, are just so exhausted with this whole self-importance of religious people. Just drop it. We’re all fucking animals, so let’s just make some universal tribal beat. We’re pagan. Let’s just march.
Volta released May 7th. brian chippendale of lightning bolt, timbaland, konono no.1, mark bell of LFO and Chris Corsano (of Sonic Youth collaboration notoriety) lend magic dust. hot damn. haven’t been so excited since the second smurfs record.
Could this be the best way to spend a saturday ever? Printable Cold Sores, does what it says on the tin.
I am listening to Harry Nilsson