Thursday, 31 January 2013

Big Mac

Earlier this week I took a trip back home to Swalecliffe, bumping its total residents to a staggering 401.

I was sitting chatting to my father and stepmother, when the volume suddenly increased on the telly - someone had noticed the One Show was starting!

"OH GOD NOT THIS" I squealed, and started shouting the theme tune back at the TV:

"ONE! Badabadabadaba ONE! badabadabadada ONE!!! badabadabada WAAHHAAA-WOOAHH-ONNNNN!"

I began my scathing critique that the One Show consists of little but the more silly side and 'human interest stories' of the news we'd just finished watching stretched out for half an hour, presented by a stick and a pug...

Source

...but was silenced by my surprise they've been replaced by another giggling faux-couple of sticky and canine qualities.

Source

The guests were 'cockney comedian' Micky Flanagan and Mick Fleetwood. Hang on, are they taking the Mick?

Mick Fleetwood, who is called that and not 'Fleetwood Mac' as my Pop insisted on calling him, was inescapable that day, first appearing on some radio show, then this, then later on in the evening in University Challenge.

There was a clip of Mick Fleetwood being interviewed about the bassline of the Chain, instantly recognisable as the accompaniment to Formula 1, the blokiest of shows for blokes, Top Gear, (and in Radcliffe and Maconie's (ooh, another Mac) 6music segment, THE CHAIN.

The cut from him talking about the song's success to an old clip of McVie playing it in concert.

My father pipes up, "Why is he sitting there yapping about it when he could just play it for us?"

"Because he's not the bassist. He's the drummer."

Back to the studio where they've recruited a pair of session musicians to do bass and geetaw while Mick Fleetwood (not Fleetwood Mac) pounds drums in the background.

"Ahh look. There he goes. So he plays drums and guitar. Why can't musicians today be multi-instrumentalists like that?"

I gave up trying to explain that Mick Mac Paddywhack Fleetwood and John McVie are two different people, and became animated instead explaining how there are talented multi-instrumentalists around today, they just rarely see the heady heights of prime-time tv as that is secured for Wand Erection and their ilk.

But my lament faded in the background, obscured by a familiar theme tune...

The lads campaigned to get 'The Chain' reinstated as the title music for Formula 1 coverage. The Chain Letter (oh-HO!) can be read here.

"F1 WOULDN’T BE F1 WITHOUT IT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!", says 'TG FAN', clearly also a fan of Shift+1.

"It has to be the chain, Hell im 19 and i want the chain, and alot of people my age proberly wouldnt remember it hehe" says 'Kartbreaker', demonstrating once more how 'alot' of people his age have no idea when it comes to spelling and grammar.

'Superior to You' goes from threatening to encouraging in one small squeaky sentence: "Dont you dare use some pathetic techno rave rubbish use the chain evryone knows it im only 13 go on bbc"

"Yeah go on BBC, I'm only 13 and if you promise to bring back the Chain I promise to have it firmly ingrained that 'alot' is NOT A WORD by the time I'm 19." If only.

Saturday, 26 January 2013

Sunday, 13 January 2013

Friday, 11 January 2013

I Strive For the Body of a 'Brazilian Transsexual'.

Instead of doing a whole bunch of retweets, I'm just going to state that I agree with all of the below:

And Stavvers' reaction is...well...not to my taste. To put it mildly.

I think people need to stop being so uptight and pernickity, realise instead when people are on their side, and be grateful for it.

Good on Suzanne Moore for refusing to be bullied into apologising, I say.

And to think I think I'm too sensitive at times...

...IT WAS A FUCKING COMPLIMENT FFS! SHE'S SAYING YOU HAVE NICE BODIES!

Tuesday, 8 January 2013

Milk, Milk, Lemonade

I am not having a very good day today. Asides from being told by by Skin Candy manager Hollie Shannon I am not entitled to a refund on the tattoo that was clearly inked against my specifications, I had to endure a man asking me what time I finished work, in lieu of asking me for payment in the newsagents round the corner from work this morning.

Me from the past doesn't put things quite so eloquently.

Last week he'd been asking me whether I lived in the area. "No, I work around the corner". As usual, wary I'd already volunteered too much information, I skedaddled back to the office.

I've had to stop going to the newsagents near my house because of a similar gentleman.

One night I stopped by at the same time he happened to be finishing his shift. We struck up a conversation that was pleasant enough. But then I wondered whether he was genuinely heading home, or fancying his chances. I thought I could either walk for miles and pretend I lived somewhere else, or I could just duck into my house. Being cream-crackered, I foolishly chose the latter option.

So now I have to endure conversations like "You're really lucky to be living round the corner".

Yeah, really lucky to be living in Hove, a guaranteed half hour walk EVERY TIME, from wherever I need to go.

"Why don't you get the bus then Karen?" you cry.

"Because it's full of weirdos like him!" I explain.

And then the trouble is you're stuck with them in a tin vessel, while they perv at you, invade your personal space, either being mildly irritating or terrifying the bejesus out of you.

Last time, Newsie Bloke near me said, "you don't come in here often enough! You should be in here every day! If you don't come in, I'll come round your house!"

I don't go there anymore.

Coming back today, I was struck by a wild thirst for lemonade.

This being related to eating/drinking, it was a craving perfectly suited to Twitter.com:

Then this exchange occured, perfectly demonstrating lack of humour at Brighton's local paper, The Argus, lack of empathy towards residents, and poor investigative journalism skills.

I can't tell if that's an actual thing, or yet more sarcasm.

A shame Sarah Booker-Lewis is so busy running a newspaper website (i.e. pissing about on Twitter) that she didn't bother to take a few seconds to scroll through my tweets. She might've found a juicy story about a dodgy tattoo shop to report on.

I pretty much mention harassment whenever it occurs. It's not a "hey woe is me I'm so purrrdy I get hit on all the time" kinda thing. I don't think that at all. Generally due to the calibre of men delivering harassment, and because of things like bets at school to hit on the ugly chick - a.k.a. moi. There's still a part of me that thinks that's why it happens. Because I'm funny-looking.

Oh yeah, I had a group of men discussing me like I couldn't hear on the way back from the tattoo place and all.

The point is: FUCKING GET ANGRY. Report this shit, ladies. Tweet it. Blog it. Call anti-social behaviour lines. Take licence numbers, take mental notes of appearance. Write down what exactly was said. Stop ignoring it. Stop brushing it off as 'normal', because then it WILL become the norm.

Get. Angry.

Anger is an energy.

Saturday, 5 January 2013

Hit So Hard: The Life and Near Death Story of Patty Schemel

A couple of firsts for your humble narrator last night: first trip to the new Duke of York's cinema within Komedy Klub Komedia, and first trip to a cinema alone.

First mistakenly walking to the toilets, and then to the café (where music impressively tailored to fit the film was playing), I eventually found my way to the screen. There was a little sound trouble at the start, but these little quirks make the Duke's what it is. It's reminiscient of mate pissing about burning pizza and trying to work the remote upside-down before a movie marathon. You don't care; because you're in good company.

(And let's hope the recent purchase of Picturehouse by Cineworld really does just equate to a financial boost rather than ironing out these kinks altogether).

The first visually striking aspect of 'Hit So Hard' was its chapter titles, stark white fonts on a black background and hot pinks. This tactic of pulling key quotes out of interviewees' mouths and slapping them up on screen proved an annoying distraction by the documentary's second half, however. It was suggestive of when magazines do the same, leading to the reader's eyes constantly drifting from the main columns to focus on Robbie Williams calling someone a cunt or whatever*.

*Based on a true story. I remember the Reader's Letters in Q containing the missive of a chastising chap whose young daughter had spotted the naughty quote in the mag and kept asking Daddy what a 'cunt' was).

There was also the split-screen feature, where you'd be able to see a younger Schemel rocking out at 1995's Lollapalooza, while the older, wiser, been-there-sold-the-tshirt version chats from on a cosy sofa with a snoozing dog about things like leaving her job at Microsoft to go on tour with the band. This is an ode to what Little White Lies described as the 'cut-and-paste fanzine aesthetic'.

"Business as usual, not a gender issue" was how Courtney Love explained the decision to contract a session drummer to do Schemel's parts on Celebrity Skin. Harsh, but good on C-Lo for saying that. I'd made a similar point earlier in the day on Twitter when I'd read a journalist saying "Hurrah for Haim, winners of the Beeb's #soundof2013 poll! Take that, male guitar-music! Will 2013 be the Year of the Woman, finally? SMASH THE PATRIARCHY!". Or words to the effect.

I went on to compare it to Sports Personality of the Year Awards last year and how those were apparently sexist as there'd been no female nominees. Perhaps males had simply been more talented and personable that year? This is why I don't go in for 'positive discrimination' when it comes to gender. Elaborating upon this would require a separate post, but hire the best person for the job, says I.

There are plenty of libidinous, rock 'n' roll scenes for punters to feast on, and talking heads from the era of grunge giving their two cents. There are also a few surprises in form of endearing scenes (Melissa Auf der Maur and Schemel's sisterly, redheaded bond shines through in previously unseen backstage footage), amusing lines (Schemel's exceedinly entertaining mother on her daughter's playing: "I could watch her for hours. I'd shout at the camera, 'hey, stop cutting to the singer!' ") and genuinely shocking moments. The footage of Love stage-diving, only to have her clothes torn off while bouncers throw punches to rescue her from a crowd shapeshifted into a starved pack of wolves will haunt me.

Well, that and Erik Erlandson's teeth.

Alright, the same might happen if a male threw himself onto a clutch of screeching females at a gig with regards to clothing, but they'd be wanting keepsakes and to inspire envy by breathlessly saying "I swear I touched his hair!" rather than trying to rape the idol in question.

When the temptation of heroin managed to eclipse even Love's ego in scale, it was revealing of just how easy it is for anyone to disappear. How people stop caring as soon as you start sinking. Those of you trying to give up smoking or drinking as part of your New Years resolutions may, on an obviously smaller scale, relate. You may be afraid of your friends shunning you, complaining that you're no fun anymore simply because you no longer wish to damage yourself by drinking to their levels of excess. Everyone left Schemel to wander down her own path of destruction, Love cackling with her particular brand of gallows humour as she recalls.

It's important to try to remember then: there is life without Love.