Saturday Glastonbury 2008

Betty: Is there something wrong with me? I can't understand why people like her.

Geoff: I can understand why people like her. I can't understand why intelligent people like her.

Betty: It's like, if you were in a bar where she was performing, you'd carry on your conversation.

Geoff: She's the new Sade. Coffee table music.

Betty: It's like the 80s all over again. When pop music was very polished, accomplished and boring. I hate pop music now.

Geoff: I bet this is going to go on for the full hour. They're not going to show any Elbow or Hot Chip. It's the BBC trying to outdo ITV. If she hadn't been on that Nelson Mandela thing we wouldn't get a full hour of this...Well, actually we probably would. Because everybody's supposed to think she's some sort of genius.

Betty: I'd prefer James Blunt to this. At least you can laugh at him. He's a Tim Nice But Dim figure to me. This is just depressing.

Geoff: It's a choice between this...Joan Armatrading...The Wombats...Sod it, we're watching The Wire.

Betty: "When you walk through the garden..."

Geoff: "You gotta watch your back..."

Betty: "Well I beg your pardon..."

Geoff: "Walk the straight and narrow track..."

Betty: "If you walk with Jesus..."

Geoff: "He's gonna save your soul..."

Betty: "You gotta keep the devil..."

Geoff: "Way down in the hole..."

Betty: "He's got the fire and the fury..."


...ad nauseum...

Seven Songs

Boz has kindly handed me the meme baton. His own choices are great so go check 'em out.

So I must "List seven songs you are into right now. No matter what the genre, whether they have words, or even if they’re not any good, but they must be songs you’re really enjoying now, shaping your spring. Post these instructions in your blog along with your seven songs."

Although my spring sprung many moons ago, I can still dream...


1. Rush - Closer To The Heart
A week in Cornwall with nothing but Planet Rock to listen to may have been depressing but it made me re-evaluate my past. I still liked quite a few of the songs including this wondrous Yes rip-off. And any radio station that has Alice Cooper and Rick Wakeman as DJs can't be all bad.

2. Spiritualized - Soul On Fire
He nearly died, you know! Just think how good he could be if he was clean!

3. Sex Pistols - Bodies
Not an "abortion" song, a "Pauline" song. For more information, read "more info" on the YouTube page.

4. David Bowie - John, I'm Only Dancing
We can't get this version anywhere, just the inferior one on The Best Of David Bowie 1969/74.

5. Grandmaster Flash & Melle Mel - White Lines
I've heard this by accident three times in the past few weeks. Is it linked to a new film or something? I wasn't too keen on it when it first came out but I love it now.

6. Scooter - Jumping All Over The World
To celebrate Germany's forthcoming triumphant Euro 2008 victory. As a result of my recent reading and watching, I can imagine a troop of Shane MacGowan's uncles and the puppets from Team America dancing to this. The chorus is, of course, lifted from the sublime A Glass Of Champagne by the brilliant Sailor. Now there's a solid gold classic.

7. Quiet Village - Too High To Move
From one of the albums of the year by Brighton's answer to The Avalanches. What the fuck happened to The Avalanches?

I hereby hand the baton to those of you on my sidebar who haven't yet done this. I'm nosey that way.

North Cornwall, June 2008

It started so well. The weather and the scenery were beautiful.


Absolutely gorgeous

We were really relaxed and laid back.


The foot that launched a thousand ships



Then came the dark clouds.


If Anton Corbijn sold holidays...

And with them came a cloud over my mood. A mini nervous breakdown, caused by the following...

1. Work frustrations rearing their ugly head.
2. The dead atmosphere in the village's one horse pub with its loop of The Eagles Greatest Hits Including The Really Shit Stuff From The Eighties and the seventies menu including gammon with pineapple rings.
3. The small claustrophobic rooms in the cottage.
4. Being woken at 6.30 each morning by the clippety clop hooves of a ghost horse.
5. The shit radio reception in the cottage, giving us a choice of the appalling Virgin or the "Take me back to when I was a miserable fifteen year old" Planet Rock.
6. The shit television reception in the cottage which made all the Euro 2008 matches look like they were being played in snowstorms.
7. Our dirty clothes getting locked in the cottage's broken washing machine.
8. A hairy coastal drive in which I thought the car was going to break down stuck on the edge of a cliff as I attempted a tricky seventy-three point turn.

We left for home six days early.

Those of you who aren't going on holiday this year can laugh your tits off. Go on, it's funny. Those of you going somewhere more sensible, I salute you.

I need a holiday.

A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall

We're off for a couple of weeks on Saturday. Not saying where, mind.

In the meantime, why not go here for some sizzling sausage discourse?

p.s. Bloglines had better sort themselves out by the time we get back. Or at least reply to my query!

Mark Lawson Interviews Alexei Sayle

Something Alexei Sayle said in interview with Mark Lawson. Something along the lines of "You can't be a real writer and host game shows at the same time."

I've never read a novel by Stephen Fry so I'm not really qualified to agree or disagree with Sayle. But I did accidently turn QI on for a couple of minutes at the weekend and wasn't really surprised by the level of sixth form debating society smugness on show.

I confuse Mark Lawson with that journalist who told the Scientologist "YOU WERE NOT THERE!" I kept expecting him to interrupt Sayle with those words. But Sayle was talking about his life and he was there.

He said Ben Elton decided he was going to be famous early on and everything he does is in the pursuit of fame. Ben will never be satisfied. I regularly see young women on the train reading Ben Elton novels. It never seems to be the same one. I'm sure that would satisfy most ugly middle aged men.

I have never attempted to read a Ben Elton novel, or an Alexei Sayle one. I did once try a Rob Newman one but couldn't get into it. I have never read a David Baddiel novel or a Frank Skinner novel or a Dawn French novel or a Jennifer Saunders novel or an Adrian Edmondson novel or a Lenny Henry novel either.

I wonder if any of you have ever read a novel written by one of the New Wave Of Alternative Comedians? Jo Brand? Arthur Smith? You know, one of those.

Royal Flush

It has been announced that Gillian McKeith has been employed by the Royal Family as their personal health advisor.

Here we see the first interview for the post of Royal Faeces Inspector.

The job is live-in and commands a salary of £12,600 per annum. The Queen is interviewing candidates herself as she wants someone she can look in the eye and feel comfortable with.

My Head is My Only House Unless it Rains

The credit crunch is biting or the credit bite is crunching, whatever, and people are losing their homes and first time buyers can't afford mortgages. Of course, it's been coming a long time as house prices have been obscene for a very long time and they've just been getting more and more obscene year by year.

BBC's The Money Programme and Panorama investigate by snooping on a few people's lives.

Except they don't choose people who you may feel sympathy for, people with mortgages at an almost sensible multiple of their salaries (I say "almost sensible" because it has been impossible for some years now for most people to afford a property with a wholly sensible mortgage).

The programme makers choose people like:-

1. The 19 year old boy who lives with his parents. His girlfriend and young child live with her parents. His parents are willing to give him the deposit on a house but mortgage lenders consider him too big a risk. He won't rent because renting is "dead money". This "dead money" bollocks has obviously been drummed into him by his stupid parents who got married at 12, had 16 children and still managed to buy their first home outright at the age of 21!

2. The young couple with a young child who are renting a tiny, damp flat in the very expensive town they grew up in. They deperately want to buy a property. The problem is their combined income is just about enough to keep them in a tiny, damp flat in the very expensive town they grew up in.

3. The family with the 125% mortgage, living in their "dream home" which they bought at the time when house prices peaked.

4. The 23 year old estate agent who has two mortgages. One on a one bedroom house for himself. The other on a one bedroom flat which he can only rent out at a rate which doesn't cover the mortgage he's paying on it.

5. The divorcee mother of one who expects to be able to pay the mortgage on a three bedroom semi all by herself! Is she crazy?

The only thing you can glean from these exposes is that we are living in idiot Britain. Nowhere did they say that house prices are absolutely fucking obscene and that a lot of decent-earning, sensible people are going to lose their homes or cannot afford to buy. No, they choose bleeding idiots for us to feel superior to.

Dumbing down cunts.


******


N.B. Betty's latest post doesn't seem to have been picked up by Bloglines. Has anybody else had this trouble? Is it something to do with her old skool template? Or has she been barred for taking the piss out of Lily Allen?

I Think I Need Some Sunshine

I'm going through a bit of a "blogging's a great way of making cyber friends but what, honestly, have any of us got in common?" phase. I haven't even got much in common with my real life friends, let alone you bunch of self-publishing egotists. Reading the Dawkins book doesn't help because I don't think I've got much in common with other atheists, either.

Take the British Humanist Association, of which Dawkins is a "distinguished" supporter. "The Humanist view of life is progressive and optimistic, in awe of human potential, living without fear of judgement and death, finding enough purpose and meaning in life, love and leaving a good legacy." So says President Polly Toynbee.

My view of life is pretty much the opposite to that. I am no optimist and I'm not going to leave a good legacy. I'm going to go out in an orgy of drink and drugs, not marveling at Mother Nature through Darwinian spectacles.

And as for the Association's "distinguished" supporters. Sirs, Lords, OBEs, MBEs, CBEs. Sir Jonathan Miller CBE! Come on Jonathan, you can do better than that! Sir Jonathan Miller CBE, GCE, BSc, Phd! There, that's better.

Take Me To The River

I am reading Richard Dawkins' The God Delusion.

"What's the point?" you may ask. "Isn't it preaching to the converted?"

Well, I suppose it is, though I never had to be converted. But so what, anyway? I will read it then I will forget about it. I won't become any more of an atheist for reading it. I won't start arguing with the religious people I meet, asking them for evidence of their God.

I will not wear one of Dawkins' hoodies...




or stick a Darwin fish on my car...



...to proclaim my atheism to the world. I don't take pride in my disbelief. I have never believed in the supernatural. So what?

I'm enjoying the book, especially the arguments for God's existence. There really are some hilarious ones, such as Pascal's wager and Stephen Unwin's Bayesian argument. Why try to justify faith?

Dawkins comes unstuck, though, with his knowledge of popular culture. He asks the question why is the Cluedo character known as the "Reverend Green" in all English speaking areas other than North America, where he is known as plain "Mr Green"?

The answer is, of course, that the Reverend Al Green would sue, not wishing to be associated with a character who bludgeons posh English twats to death with a length of lead piping in the conservatory.

Beneath A Bushel No More

Though I've never watched it, as far as I can tell from reports, Britain's Got Talent consists of hula hoopers, acrobats, karate kickers, dancers, all-rounders, swing singers, opera singers, pop singers, whistlers, spoons players, gurners, teeth chatterers, cheek slappers, cooks, magicians, funny walkers, contortionists, garglers, plate spinners, pie eaters, beer drinkers, balloon shapers, bubble blowers, animal tamers, impressionists, ventriloquists, mind readers, spiritualists, hummers, buzzers, farters, spitters, archers, darts throwers, knife throwers, fire eaters, directory rippers, arse kickers, cellists, violinists, pianists, guitarists, washboard players, rappers, scratchers, strippers, pole dancers, sheep shaggers and car fuckers all competing for one place on the Royal Variety Performance, in front of the ever watchful eye of Simon Cowell.

Well good bloody luck to each and every one of them.

You're Havana Laff

"Allo, Darlin'. I'm gonna laugh you into bed, I am."


Geoff: I quite fancy reading the Fidel Castro autobiography.

Betty: Will that be before or after Booky Wook?

Gore Fest

The South Bank Show on Gore Vidal ends with a bit of awkwardness between the unpredictable 82 year old Vidal and the toadying jet black haired 68 year old Melvyn Bragg.

The camera lingers on Vidal for a while and as he starts to read we see pictures of the Earth in space.

He reads the longest sentence I've ever heard, from 'The Golden Age', 2000. I think this is what he says. It's a little too much for me.

"As for the human case, generations of men come and go and in eternity are no more than bacteria upon a luminous slide and the fall of a republic or the rise of empire, so significant to those involved, is not detectable upon the slide even with an interested eye to behold that steadily proliferating species which would either end in time or, with luck, become something else, since change is the nature of life and its hope."

We see Vidal read the last few lines as operatic music accompanies a still of the man himself and as the credits to the programme roll, as we cogitate in a state of awe, we hear the following voiceover...

"Sarah Ferguson's on a mission to help a family of overweight smokers in the first of a two-part documentary. Can she battle the bulge on a budget? The Duchess in Hull, new to ITV1, tomorrow night at 9. Next here, Hitler In Colour."

What The Papers Say

Yesterday's Guardian today had some truly beautiful travel writing.

"The pace of life isn't a drama here," observed my bloke, contentedly, while we slipped effortlessly from lattes to lunch at the Beach House Cafe, eating oily bruschetta and Thai cod cakes whose mint-laden mayonnaise evoked not Asia but Sunday lunch.

Truly beautiful. And the John Masefield quotes top the article off like a sprinkling of hundreds and thousands on a knickerbocker glory. And all for a mere £2,643 for seven nights in July and August. Dorset is truly God's own country.

*******

And a fantastic full page advertisement on the back page of the Guardian Review:-

"If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to." Dorothy Parker

At Barclays Wealth, we have always recognised that wealth means different things to different people. We can help protect your wealth, grow it, use it and pass it on. And if, like Ms Parker, you are a passionate believer in philanthropic causes, we can even help you give it away.

What wonderful biting wit! Worthy of Mr Wilde or, dare I say it, Ms Parker herself.

Misreading Of The Day

I come downstairs, bleary-eyed. Betty has the BBC Text Music News on the tv.

"Kanye West sued over jizz samples" I read.

Blue Flag. Up Arse. Stick.

If I were John Terry tonight, picking up a copy of the London Lite, I'd be so embarrassed I wouldn't know where to turn.

"He cried all night - Chelsea skipper inconsolable" screams the headline.

I'd be thinking to myself, "Why do I always behave like a spoilt child? Everyone knows a real man cries when he wins, not when he loses."

If I were John Terry today, I'd also be hanging my head in shame. Not for missing a penalty, but for my disgusting unprovoked spit at one of modern football's great players, Carlos Tevez. I'd be worried that Fabio Capello saw my act and won't pick me for England ever again.

The London Lite has got its knickers in a twist about the amount of potential money squandered by Chelsea's inability to win the Champions League.

£5m in prize money
£30m in commercial spin-offs and merchandising
£20m in media rights and sponsorship
£10m in increased tourism for London

Excuse me? Increased tourism for London? Who in their right mind is going to visit London just because one of its football teams won a match? I can see the logic of some idiots visiting London because of the Royal Family's presence (though nowhere near as many idiots as is claimed), but a football team?

What utter bullshit.

Over The Hill

The past couple of weeks have thrown up a similar image to this...




...on Radio One's Big Weekend.

And something similar to this...



...on Later With Jools.

Madonna is 49. Nick Cave is 50. They were at the peak of their creativity in the 1980s. Back in those days Madonna would cavort onstage in all kinds of get ups. She was known for her raunchy, high energy act. Nick Cave was known for his wild, junkie preacher show. Seeing him live was a little unnerving, as I imagine seeing Ian Curtis was to those luckier/more hip than myself.

Now they hide behind guitars. Guitars don't look right on them. Madonna was born to cavort, hands-free. Nick Cave was born to preach, hands-free. A guitar isn't performance-viagra to the middle aged pop star. It is a crutch for a failing body. A body broken and old and withered and worn.

Making pop music is for the young. And these young compatriots of Old Nick have made the album of the year so far. Well, according to the bloke in the Guardian Guide they have. And I, trend-following wanker, find it hard to disagree. Ladies and gentlemen, Cut Copy...

Outrage!

Betty says I have a reputation of being a bit of a Little Englander so I should mention what happened in Sainsbury's yesterday.

I was apoplectic with rage.

We were unloading our basket at the checkout, at the end of the conveyor belt. There was one person being served in front of us.

I looked up and from the checkout next to us, came a man and woman. At the front of OUR conveyor belt, they unloaded one basket. They then placed the divider on the belt. They then unloaded ANOTHER basket. And placed another divider on the belt. They didn't look back at us, at me looking daggers, apoplectic with rage. APOPLECTIC WITH RAGE.

The woman had a badge stuck to her jeans. "Open University" it said. What the fuck kind of education is it that promotes pushing in queues?

Cleans His Teeth Ten Times A Day

The choice of dentists in our area is as follows...

1. The dentist I've had since I was a boy. He does all his own work. He checks, he scrapes, he cleans and polishes. And he fills and extracts. He's in his 60s now and I've spent the past few years going back to him with one problem after another. A young dentist should really be taking his place but he's hanging on. As it's a bit of a journey to get there and I was having more and more time off work, I thought I'd try a nearer, more convenient dentist.

2. A nearer, more convenient dentist. He does all his own work. He checks, he scrapes, he cleans and polishes. And he fills. I'm sure he'd extract if the tooth was beyond a reasonably-priced repair. He's in his 70s now and a young dentist should really be taking his place but he's hanging on. I went back to him several times in a few months with problem after problem.

3. The second nearest, but most convenient dentist as he's open from 8 a.m. I've now settled with this one. He's young and lightning quick. His check-ups last a couple of minutes. He would fill but I'm not sure if he would extract. He's probably one of the new school who like to save teeth as saving teeth generates more income. At another dentist's, my sister has just paid £400 for a cap. My new dentist doesn't scrape, clean or polish. He has a couple of dental hygienists to do that for him.

I've seen her twice. She doesn't look me in the eye. She reads her notes and puts her mask on. She lowers me down until I am horizontal (which I find uncomfortable because of my digestive problem).

"Any problems? No? Good! Using an electric toothbrush like I told you? Good! That's much better! Flossing?"

"No, but I'm using mouthwash."

"Useless. Mouthwash won't get rid of all this. Look at all this debris between your teeth."

"I once tried flossing but I wasn't very good at it. I can't get to the back teeth."

"It's a knack. Start on the front teeth first. You'll get the hang of it. Like this. Up and down. Up and down. Like you're removing glue."

"Nnng."

"You will get the hang of it. When you pay for your visit you will purchase this special floss you cannot get in supermarkets. You will start with the front teeth. Once you have mastered the front teeth you will move to the side teeth. Up and down, up and down. Once you have mastered the side teeth you will go to the back teeth. Up and down, up and down, you will get rid of the debris. You must get rid of the debris! You must! You must! Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"No, you must raise your left arm like this. Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"That is much better. I will see you in three months. No longer than three months. We must eradicate this debris. Goodbye."

"Heil Hitler!"

"No, you must walk like this. Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"Keep walking like this until you get the hang of it. Come on, round the room. Step and step and step, come on, lift those feet!"

"Heil Hitler!"

"Heil Hitler! Good! Keep practising!"

The Boris Johnson Limerick Post

Roll up! Roll up!

It's the Boris Johnson limerick post!

Let's be having your limericks about the great man in the comments section.

The man who promised to stop the rail workers from striking, who promised to rid the city of knife crime, who promised to reintroduce Routemasters, who promised to reduce your Council tax bill and give you better services, who promised to get more black men teaching black boys, who promised to plant a tree with the money he saved from scrapping the Mayor's Londoner newspaper.

Well, actually he has ditched the Londoner and planted a tree with his own bare hands.

Well, actually he didn't do any digging, just moved a bit of earth from A to B.

Anyway, here's mine...

There once was a toff with blond hair
Who had not a singular care
Whether young men were stabbed
Or their killers were nabbed
But he don't sleep at night now he's Mayor

Gordon's Grin

Well what a season that was! Comfortably mid-table right from the word "Go!"

No nail-biting last-week relegation scraps. No heart-stopping promotion play-offs. Just nice relaxing Sundays watching recordings of Sky's excellent Football First highlights. No Match of the Day, with its insufferable smugness and bias towards the teams at the top.

Congratulations to Stoke City on their promotion. Stoke are my second team and the team of the mother-in-law I never met but wish I could have. Gordon Banks' fantastic save from Geoff Hurst's penalty in the 1972 League Cup Semi-Final deserved a winner's medal. And they went on to beat Chelsea in the final. Yes, the great Chelsea with all their history and glamour.

Here's looking forward to next season. The Top Four will be broken. The Nouveaux Riches are coming to get you!