Thursday, September 29, 2005

Arena: No Direction Home - Paul

Albert Grossman, the Colonel Tom Parker figure in Dylan's career, is described as a genius. He knew how to make money out of his singers. He also managed Peter Paul and Mary. He changed Paul's name to Paul from Noel.

That's genius. He sat down with Paul and convinced him to change his name from Paul to Noel, then back to Paul.

Heimat 3: Part 2 of 6 - The Champions

1990. Come on England! Love's got the world in motion! Waddle, Beardsley, Lineker, GAZZA!

Football genius Bobby Robson is persuaded by football genius Don Howe to play the sweeper system, utilising Mark Wright in a Beckenbauer role. And England are going to beat the world.

We are in a pub in Newcastle, watching a tiny screen half obscured by the reflection of a lightbulb. England are playing Cameroon and the geordies are singing "We've got the best keeper in the land", as 63 year old Shilts makes yet another cat-like save, banishing memories of that hand of God goal four years previously.

Then home for the semi against West Germany and penalties...Penalties against West Germany? Is there really any point in taking them?

So, 1990. West Germany win the World Cup. And Hermann and Clarissa invite friends and family to celebrate the completion of their nest high above the Rhine. High, high above the Rhine...our hearts did entwine, where she carved her name and I carved mine.

The house is completed months ahead of schedule, thanks to the sterling work of the hard-working boys from the East whose pay packet is a fortune to them but a bargain to Hermann and Clarissa.

And two of these boys is what this episode is about:-

1. The Blonde Builder - Hermann's rich, nose-bleeding manager has captured the blonde wife and daughters from the blonde builder of Leipzig, leaving the blonde builder understandably upset at the prospect of sharing celebrations with his family and the man who stole them. But when they turn up, he doesn't dress up as a superhero and climb up a pylon. He wears a West German football shirt and gets pissed. Which, of course, is how a real man should behave. He has a bit of a tantrum, gets in his VW and drives to Berlin where he begins to make his fortune by selling a million pieces of the Berlin Wall to Warner Brothers of The USA...Oh, how bitterly ironic.

2. The bearded, long-haired engineering genius who was responsible for the house being completed so quickly, is taken under the wing of Hermann's eccentric aviator brother, Ernst, who wishes to add to his rich collection of art by flying into the Soviet Bloc and ripping off the locals. On the way they take the piss out of an East German general, and the bearded long-haired draft-dodging engineering genius susses that the Russians might be informed that Ernst and Hairy will be flying over naughty areas during the USSR's World Cup match. And Ernst and Hairy may well be shot down. So Hairy buggers off back to Schabbach with a statue of Lenin and leaves Ernst to his flight to oblivion. Let's hope so, anyay.

Neither of these stories affect Hermann and Clarissa in the slightest as they're quite happy to have their house built at a bargain price and can't wait for their friends and family to piss off so they can continue with their lives of music and lots and lots of love on the brand new wooden floors and milking their newly acquired goat. And if Ernst goes missing? I doubt it would trouble Hermann that much. Because he's been asked by the broadcasting companies and the Music Council to write a reunification symphony. Which is only right because the bloke's a 24 carat musical messiah. Whaddya mean you haven't heard of him? HERMANN SIMON. Christ, I thought everbody had heard of HERMANN SIMON. The 50 year old who looks 25. With perfect grey hair. With a face you want to punch. Yes, that's the one.

And the football? Throughout the episode we see people watching the World Cup, some supporting West Germany with a passion, others not really caring very much.

And the semi-final? The big, big match (as Arsene Wenger might say). England? Gazza's tears? The tears of the world?.............................................

Not even mentioned.

Arena - No Direction Home: Bob Dylan

Please give me your precis,
Mr Scorsese.
All those talking heads
Just drive me to bed.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

Newsnight Review

Someone's accessed my dream blog by searching for Michael Owen Penis. Not Michael Owen's penis, but Michael Owen Penis. Ok, I did a post about Michael Owen, but not about the Michael Owen Penis, one of a range of FA approved vibrators. The Michael Owen goes down in the box, the Wayne Rooney shoots on sight, the David Beckham curls in from the right, the John Terry comes up from the back...

No, I have never mentioned Michael Owen and Penis in the same breath. Michael is affectionately known to us as 'little shit', ever since Cup Final Day in...oh who cares? We were sitting in the back garden and we heard our neighbour who doesn't talk to us loudly exclaim "You little shit!" as he scored for Liverpool against Arsenal. How we laughed. And now, when he plays for England, he's our little shit.

My cold's getting worse. I'm coughing uo what look like small baby frogs. And I'm back to work on Monday so I'm in a bad mood. So there'll be less for you to read here and less of my embarrassing comments on your blogs.

I know I was going to write about Status Quo's visit to Coronation Street, and their meeting with Les Battersby. But I now see the meeting for what it really is, a double anniversary celebration. ITV are 50. The Quo are 60. The Quo were delisted by BBC's Radio 1. ITV didn't get where they are today by delisting The Quo. So they cock a snook at the BBC. And ask Corrie's writers to somehow fit The Quo in during all the Shelley/Charlie business. To lighten things up. Ha Ha. I still love you Corrie, but please don't bring any more real life 'celebrities' to the Street. You're better than that.

So, Newsnight Review. Our favourite Friday night half-pissed wine goggles programme. Pretentious, nous?

This week's is a music special. The Scorcese Dylan documentary (no, not the Magic Roundabout one), an atonal opera version of Fassbinder's The Bitter Tears of Petra Von Kant, an updated version of the musical Hair, transplanting hippies to 2005...

And Franz Ferdinand. Who do not belong on Newsnight Review. They are a Pop Group. Mark Lawson, Grayson Perry, Paul Morley do not like Pop Music. They like Dylan, Cohen, and Joy Division. Pop Music belongs on Channel 4's Popworld. Where nothing is taken seriously. Which is how it should be.

But we're watching this programme mainly to see the novelist Lionel Shriver, whose name has been mud in our house for the past week. In last Saturday's Guardian, she was feeling guilty. White, middle class women of European ancestry like her, women with gene pools to die for, have let down the future of the human race by living in the present and not giving birth to extremely intelligent, white middle class children of European ancestry.

I want to see this intellect, this genetic superwoman, at work. What does she say about Franz Ferdinand?

"If you had played that album for me in 1972, uh, I don't think that I would've said, oh, you know, wow, is that from the future? I mean, it it it would've fit right in, and I, it wouldn't have especially stood out, either. It sounds so, you know, it's got elements of The Clash, but not so iconoclastic, it's obviously got strains of the Beatles...I've heard it."

1972? The Beatles? The Clash?
The Beatles? The Clash?
The Beatles? The Clash?...Franz Ferdinand?

Lionel, Lionel, Lionel. Stick to your books, you iconoclast, you.

Thursday, September 22, 2005

Coronation Street

I'm nearing the end of the second and final week of my holiday. I have a cold and a toothache. I've just been to the dentist for the second time this week. He's filed my teeth down again and prescribed me some antibiotics.

I always seem to store illnesses up for when I'm off work. I am a model employee. I don't see why my work should suffer just because I do. Isn't that a very 21st century attitude?

So I am waiting at the dentist's and the receptionist is explaining to someone on the telephone that the dentist who does NHS work only works on Wednesdays. And that he is not in again until a week next Wednesday. And that she finds that Nurofen Extra is the most effective painkiller.

And I feel gulity because I've been with my dentist for 38 years. And I'm NHS and he doesn't take NHS patients any more. 38 years? Christ, he must be 90. He looks about 55.

And I'm lying in the chair and he says, "Are you allergic to any tomatoes?"
"Sorry?" I say.
"Are you allergic to antibiotics?"

So, Coronation Street. In the slim chance that there's any Corrie fans from Canada reading this, don't worry, I'm not going to give away any big storylines, the big serious things that matter. Besides, Corrie isn't about the big serious plotlines, no matter what TV Choice, TV Quick, TV Now!, TV Yeah!, TV Cor!, TV Wow!, TV Great!, TV Uh? say. Corrie's about the little things that make it the best comedy on the telly.

Little things like Kirk's photograph of Jimmy Savile jogging in the Red Rec. Except it's only Kirk who thinks it's Jimmy Savile. Because to anyone who's frequented the £1 shop in the precinct, it's clearly a photograph of the woman who works in the £1 shop in the precinct. But Kirk is convinced it's Jimmy Savile. In a police line-up including Jimmy Savile and the woman who works in the £1 shop in the precinct, Kirk would point to Jimmy Savile and say, "It's him". And of course it would be him: Jimmy Savile.

I know this post isn't going to get any comments. If I was to write about Star Wars or Doctor Who, however...
Who was the best Who? Who indeed? Maybe we should look in Who's Who? Who do you think? Come on, bloggers, who the fuck do we think was the best Who? Who who who to wit to who? Come on, bloggers. Bring it on!

This post is not about last night's Corrie, however. It's about tomorrow's. And it will be concluded on Saturday. Why tomorrow? Because tomorrow The Mighty Quo visit The Street.

The Quo are Les Battersby's favourite band. They were the favourite band of the hardest kids in my school who lightly bullied me for a short time in my early teens. But my school wasn't hard and the hardest kids in my school weren't hard. So I had it pretty easy, really.

A few years ago The Quo were banned from Radio 1 for being too old. That was when Britpop was at its height and the future looked bright for bright young shit-hot bands like Sleeper and Menswear.

But The Quo had the last laugh. Britpop keeps going but the bands are ten a penny. None of these young bucks will last as long as The Quo.

60 years! 60 years at the top! And to celebrate, last week they played their latest single on Top of the Pops, something about them still rocking after 60 years. And tomorrow, they meet their most famous fan. Les Battersby, Coronation Street's resident working class oik.

Will Francis and Rick enjoy a pint in The Rover's? Will they enjoy a line of coke with Steve and Dev in the bogs?

When two institutions clash, anything could happen. And probably won't.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Heimat 3 - Part 1 of 6: The Happiest People in the World

Barely two weeks after I came off my bike after the longest journey of my life, I'm back on it. Hallelujah! It's Heimat 3. And only six episodes? Booooooooooo!

It's 1989. 1989? A full nineteen years since Hermann left Clarrisa again and went home to his mummy. What's happened in the intervening years?

Well, basically he's junked all that electronic music nonsense and become a famous conductor travelling from city to city. And his hair has aged. He now has distinguished grey 49 year old hair. On the head of a 25 year old.

So Hermann is alone in yet another city: Berlin, on the day the wall begins to fall. He goes into his hotel bar to watch events unfold on tv. And who should be in the same bar watching the same telly? Fuck me if it isn't Clarissa!

She's wearing more make-up, has bigger, presumably dyed (i.e. undyed) hair, and is now a famous singer travelling from city to city.

And absence makes the heart grow fonder. Neither are in relationships (not that that stopped them before) and they immediately go to bed:
Hermann: I've just conducted Schubert'.
Clarissa: 'I've just sung Schubert'.
So they have a Schubert dip.

They decide to spend the rest of their lives together. And buy a house in the Hunsruck together. And live happily ever after.

Well, this is the plan but I'm sure Hermann will run away at some point because that's what he does, useless human being that he is.

So it's back to Schabbach for Hermann and reconciliation with his half-brothers, the wild-card eccentric aviator Ernst, and evil bastard owner of optical instrument multinational Simon Optiks, Anton. Hermann can feel Anton sucking him back into the bosom of his family immediately.

But bollocks to the brothers, they're from the first series. We're dealing with artists now. And Hermann and Clarissa are busy little bees. They've spent too long on the road. They need a nest to be themselves and shag on the floor.

And Clarissa has in mind a desolate old haunted ruin of a building on a precipice overlooking the Rhine, inside the military security zone of an American nuclear missile base. And they buy the house. And Clarissa meets some out of work stage hands in Leipzig. And she brings them to the West to rebuild the house at a rate of 10 West German marks per hour. Which is worth 120 East German marks. And the stage hands' families come over from Leipzip at Christmas. They all go off to the Alps for a break. And one of the poor stage hands' wives falls in love with Hermann's rich, nose-bleeding personal assistant.

Oh, Christ. Here we go again.


A sketch show showcasing bright new talent.
Grotesque, perverse women with a Kings of Leon soundtrack.
Homophobic black/black wannabe youth, a necrophiliac police pathologist, a bare-arsed middle-aged middle-classed embroidery circle, a mad East European cleaner, a mad East European plastic surgery victim.

BBC3, eh? Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Fucking Crisps. Little Fucking Britain.

Fuck off the lot of you. YOU'RE NOT FUNNY.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

The White Diamond

Virgin Money are offering me another great investment opportunity. Apparently, because I've invested with them in the past, I know a sweet deal when it falls in my lap. Apparently, heads I win, tails I get my money back. Apparently, I can invest from as little as £3,000 to a COOL £1 million.

Now, a million pounds might be cool to Richard Branson, but to me, an Equitable Life investor, a lump sum ISA investor at the peak of the stock market, who would not know a sweet deal if it dropped in my lap and a bear began licking my genitals, a million quid looks like crazy money. But I suppose Richard thinks its cool to be rich because he wants to be seen as being cool. When in fact he's about as cool as Jeremy Clarkson. Or Tony Blair.

But having crazy money does make some people crazy. Hence Richard's space balloon adventures. He might say it's fun. I might say it's a rich man with a death wish.

He would do better to give a substantial amount of money to the subject of this Werner Herzog documentary. Graham Dorrington does aeronautical research at London University. And he aims to build an airship which will float above the tops of jungle trees where he believes lie the answer to many of mankind's ills. And who's to say he's not right?

The film is not about the tops of trees in the Guyanan jungle, though. It is about a man who believes he is responsible for the death of a German cinematographer in 1994. Because he let him fly alone, above the tops of the trees of the Indonesian jungle. He let him land in a tree. He let a storm come and dislodge his airship. He let him fall to his death with a terrible thud. He let him lose an eye but not his consciousness. And he let him die whilst Graham and his assistants carried him across dangerous terrain.

Of course Graham isn't responsible. Just as he isn't responsible for the welfare of Werner Herzog who demands to join Graham on the maiden flight of his new airship. They land safely even though the main engine pulls them backwards.

Graham feels responsible and he somehow wants to make it right. He wants to create the perfect gentle, safe flight. He wants his flying machine to float above the trees in silence. I'm not sure that he wants to come back to earth.

The documentary is also the story of another gentle man. Mark Anthony Yhap is a local man who has been hired to help out with the mission. His family have all left Guyana and his best friend is a cockerel named Red. Mark Anthony would like to fly away, too. To Malaga to see his mother. And he's hoping his mother will see this film and invite him over. He hasn't heard from his mother in years. He gets a ride in the airship but he ends up where he started.

If I was a man who is comfortable with hugging I would want to hug both men and tell them everything's going to be alright.

But I'm not that type of guy.

So I tear Virgin Money's letter into pieces.

And wait for the next investment opportunity.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Top of the Pops

Last night in our old people's home,
Doped up to sleep, no longer to roam
From bed to bog on our zimmer frames,
Or playing life-lengthening cognitive games,
We dreamt of James Blunt and his smug, gormless smile
And his best-selling album, so terminally vile.
The nasty young man so incredibly hyped,
That his number one album was constantly piped.
So that we wished for a quick, painless death,
Or maybe transferred to a home for the deaf.

At a quarter past seven our dreams went away.
Sweet nothing took over until the next day.
But the bastards in white shook us and woke us
For Streisand and Gibb in soft light and soft focus.

Sunday, September 18, 2005

The Family

The bathroom mirror in our holiday hotel was a magic mirror. I looked so handsome, I could look at myself all day. I wish we could have brought it home with us.

But one thing I could not bear, no matter how flattering the image, is to watch myself on the telly, interacting with other people. Even if the camera operator is as sympathetic and unobtrusive as Paul Watson.

An evening of BBC4 is devoted to Paul Watson, documentary film maker/nosy parker. Not that there's anything wrong with that, we all like a good nose, we all like to see how the other half live.

Paul disclaims any responsibility for the rise of the reality show, especially Big Brother. Which is fair enough as in Paul's programmes the people involved already either live with each other or are close friends. They're also not in competition with each other to win a prize. So it's a bit harsh to call him the father of the nonsense currently filling our screens.

Of course he's an artist, he's not just showing us the boring minutiae of life. The film-making is all in the questions he asks which we don't hear and in the editing, the juxtaposition of different scenes. We get Paul's version of things.

We get the grotesque real life soap that is Sylvania Waters, the harrowing effects of Alzheimer's on a relationship in Malcolm and Barbara: A Love Story, the puke inducing rich at play in The Fishing Party and the working class every family, The Family from 1974.

In 1974, they are just like us. We have broken marriages, we live together before marriage, we piss away state benefits into the pub urinal, we are a long way down on long council housing lists, we have nine people round a dinner table built for four, we buy beefburgers, cakes and tinned potatoes, we argue most of the bloody time and we don't watch the telly in the evening even though it's always on.

That was the way we was that was.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

The 2nd Heimat - Part 168 of 168

We've done it! After 73 years of non-stop telly-goggling, we've made it to the end of the second series. And I feel sad. I'm going to miss these guys. It's like when you read a good long book and you want it to end but you don't want it to end. And when it's ended you pick up another book which turns out to be a pile of poo. But we've got the third and final Heimat to look forward to, so I don't feel too bereft.

Part 168 is loopy. It is 1970. A bemused 30 year old Hermann Simon goes on a train journey in search of the love of his life, complicated cellist/singer Clarissa Lichtblau. On the way, we meet his old friends in the unlikeliest of places. One performs erotic cabaret to businessmen, one performs acrobatics in a circus, one has joined the Bader-Meinhof gang, one dies an alcoholic. It makes me feel glad I'm not one of the arty set.

Hermann finally tracks down Clarissa in Amsterdam. She is singing in a show about witches. Her American friend/girlfriend? plays trombone in the show. And the show seems to take up half of the programme so I'm quite glad I'm half-pissed and time is not an issue.

Do they make sweet love? Of course they do. The nearest they'd got before was on Clarissa's stairs 8 years previously when Hermann ran off sniffing with her knickers after a fumble on the stairs of her apartment building.

Of course we don't see them in the act. But the aftermath shows them laid out naked on the floor of Clarissa's Amsterdam hotel room, Hermann pointing his feminine arse to the camera and Clarissa showing a complete lack of armpit hair.

Of course, Hermann can't handle too much love and he fucks off to Mummy and the Hunsruck.

The End.

God, I hate these people. But I'll miss them so much.

Arena - My Way

I suppose I've done things my way. Although, may I say, mostly in a shy way. So you won't get me singing Paul Anka's words in your local karaoke pub. In fact you won't get me performing anything because I'm too scared of taking the blows.

The tune to 'My Way' originally had different words. But they were in French and sung by Claude Francois, who we see being introduced by the great Vince Hill.

Of course, not understanding French, Paul Anka thought the lyrics were a load of old shit. And messing around with the tune one day, thinking of Frank Sinatra, he came up with the most egocentric song in human history. Even Henry the fucking Eighth wrote about love.

Frank's, of course, is seen as the definitive version. The great Welsh rugby player Barry John chooses it as his first Desert Island Disc. So that's final, then.

But Elvis Presley, Shirley Bassey, Vera Lynn, Dorothy Squires, and probably Don Estelle could lay claim to it being their song. Because everybody in show business has sung it at some time. But the words were for Frank and Frank is the best and if anybody disagrees wiv me I'll break yer legs.

Actually, the best thing about the song, and the best thing on the programme, is Sid Vicious' two fingers to the world, just after shooting his audience. Now that's what I call classic.

Friday, September 09, 2005

Arena - Private Life of the Ford Cortina

1982. My dad leaves home to be with a woman 20 years his junior, I become the man of the house and get myself a job, and my one friend goes and kills himself. So of course I couldn't give a flying fuck about the Ford Cortina. Especially since I have my dad's old Vauxhall Viva.

But I should care. Because 1982 is the end of an era. After 19 years of production, the Cortina is replaced by the new hi-tech Sierra. And Britain will never be the same again.

How the change affects Ford's employees, we are not told. Are there redundancies and factory closures? How do people's jobs change, what with the Sierra being hi-tech and all that? We're none the wiser. Because this is a quirky film. It is about our quirkiness. The great British public.

Exhibit A - The couple from North East England who write a eulogy to Ford. Their Cortina has done 100,000 miles and will even now take them to Cornwall for their holiday.

Exhibit B - The CB radio buff/Cortina souper upper in his 'Street Legal' blue Cortina pick-up with its Capri engine.

Exhibit C - The black South Londoner who's owned 3 Cortinas and says the Cortina is the black man's Rolls Royce.

Exhibit D - The company car drivers, employees of Thorn EMI, all of whom seem to drive Cortinas - the higher up the ladder, the more expensive the model.

Exhibit E - The extremely quirky National 1600E Owners Club, including the ageing gentleman who writes poetry comparing his Cortina to his wife.

All very well and good. But Arena is an arts programme. And quirky arts programmes require quirky artists. So we get:-

1. Alexei Sayle - a really bad comic actor doing really unfunny sketches in a jokey Essex-man voice. And a song which lasts twenty minutes called 'Road Rep' about a saleman who customises his company Cortina.

2. Tom Robinson - in his young, free, and single days. "I once did a song called 'Wish I had a grey Cortina', now I've got a Morris Minor blah blah blah."

3. Paul Welton and the Weltones - must have been a fictional band. New wave pub rock with Human League type girls. Paul says that all Cortina owners are called Terry, have perms, highlights, and are dripping with gold. Paul looks like in 2005 he would be in a Weller tribute band. It's what he was born to do.

4. Sir John Betjemen - nutty old John says a Cortina driver is probably an executive, someone who thinks about cash and not about scenery, someone who doesn't travel in steam trains which of course is the only civilised way to travel chuff chuff chuffety chuff. And the word 'Cortina' 'sounds a bit foreign, a bit South American, and not quite human'. Come, friendly bombs and drop on John.

5. Fiona Richmond - who says she likes to get dirty under a bonnet. But the Cortina sounds uninteresting to her.

The artists have spoken, thank Christ for that. But I did learn something. And this is what I learnt:-

The Cortina was named after an Italian ski resort.
The Cortina logo design was modelled on that of the Cortina sandwich shop somewhere in London.
Fiona Richmond doesn't stir my loins like she did 30 years ago. Too posh.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Arena - The Journey

England are losing. Good.

BBC's Arena is 700 years old this week. And BBC4 have dug out some classic shows.

This one involves a 1978 pre-eye-patch Roger sorry George Melly going to the Hayward Gallery to see an exhibition called 'Dada - an exhibition of Surrealist Art'. The programme ends when George reaches the gallery. On the way, we get to meet lots of his mates but never hear them speak.

I hate hearing the word 'surreal'. Everybody says it nowadays, even footballers. 'It hit the bar and bounced straight into the keeper's arms - it was surreal'. No, surreal would be if the pitch was dive bombed by a load of bowler-hatted 1950's office workers. Or Mr Benns.

So, the journey was the thing. And this is what I learnt:-

'Dada' means something in every language in the world.
In 1978, punk/new wave band The Stranglers were seen by George Melly as surrealist.

And these were the people I recognised:-

George Melly
Alan Yentob
The Stranglers
Molly Parkin

I once met Molly Parkin on a night school scriptwriting course, which was surreal.

I once saw George Melly on Diss railway station when I was on the way to a scriptwriting course, which was surreal.

I never completed a script which was surreal.

Mercury Music Prize Part 2

Bollocks to the football. And bollocks to England. We're always on holiday during World Cups/European Championships and we always end up watching yet another sad capitulation on a tiny telly in a European bar.

So welcome back to Mercury. And Polar Bear. The drummer's hair is truly astounding. Should be called Hair Bear.

Maximo Park. Definitely the best of the shit indie bands around at the moment. Fast forward.

Antony and the Johnsons. Antony - a gentle giant of a man. His songs send shivers down your spine, apparently. Yes, well he does sound like a wounded POLAR BEAR. Standing next to Jools he looks like if he hugged the smug little twat he'd crush him to death. Go on, Tony! Go on, my son!

M.I.A. Now I've got her album so I'm biased. She was the pick of the Beeb's Glastonbury coverage, along with Kasabian and The White Stripes. So do they let her perform live? Of course not. They ask her to give us her life story instead. Thanks, Mercury.

The Magic Numbers. What can be said about this brother sister brother sister combo that hasn't been said about The Thrills. Fast forward.

Coldplay. Fast Forward, Christ I wish this machine would go faster.

The Go! Team. Energetic and full of enthusiasm. That's about it. Oh, and Phillllllllllllllllll Jupitus likes them.

Of course Antony wins as he was the tallest contestant. And an extremely old man with gaps between his teeth who is apparently one of the judges tells us that we may not like Antony immediately but he's a grower. So go buy it, kids...erm, dads.

And that's the Mercury Music Prize. Freddie must be turning in his grave.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

The Mercury Music Prize Part 1

Bloody Jools Holland introduces (mostly) a useless bunch of nobodies. Fast forward through wooooooooooooooooooah Kaiser Chiefs and KT (yawn) Tunstall. Watch Bloc Party who seem to have been sabotaged as the drums are mixed far too much to the fore and the singer says thank you for the nomination into a massively echoing microphone.

Watch a short film on Seth Lakeman, a 14 year old boy from Devon who plays indie folk whatever the hell that is. His whole family is involved in the album including his 1 year old sister on rattle. The family have a nice dog, though. Live, Seth is a 14 year old seething maelstrom of sex and danger. He plays fiddle and sings at the same time about things that didn't happen in Devon in the middle ages. Jools calls him a talent.

Then there's Hard-Fi, one hit wonders from Staines. Apparently, according to the boys, Staines is boring and like everywhere else. They don't seem to realise they're in the entertainment business.

Then there's Polar Bear, a jazz band led by a drummer with massively frizzy hair.

Then we go to bed. More tomorrow.

The 2nd Heimat Part 167 of 168

Revolutionary free love hippy twats take over filming the film within a film. The director is offered some money from Hollywood moguls to delay filming for two weeks whilst the French leading man finishes the film he was previously working on. The director says 'thank you very much', takes the money and runs away with the equipment, leaving the hippies with no audience.

Meanwhile, musical genius Hermann Simon leaves his short, dark-haired wife for a tall blonde woman who is one of the revolutionary free love hippy twats. Trouble is, he wants her for himself and although he is quite happy to relieve himself in a bathroom with no door, he cannot handle the free love element of his relationship: two German Jim Morrisons rubbing themselves up against him as he attempts to make sweet love to his lady. This wipes the smarmy smile off his face and he leaves Berlin and returns to Munich and the bosom of his family. His smarmy smile returns.