Stonehenge

Does the idea of seeing Spinal Tap live appeal? Bad enough in a venue but standing in a field?

Thousands of people will be able to experience the Tap this summer at Michael Eavis's Funny Farm. Of course, any entertainment on show in the film was to be gleaned from offstage areas. A shit rock band trying to be funny onstage is just a shit rock band trying to be funny onstage.

I've seen some unintentionally funny bands in my years of gig-going. There was the craply-caped Rick Wakeman, Yes starring The Buggles, Genesis with pervy little Phil in his raincoat, the very hairy ponce Sammy Hagar, the very hairy ponces Rush, The Tolkeinesque Enid, the preposterously portentous Comsat Angels, the ridiculously "wasted" Wasted Youth, the comically "lovesexy" Prince, the pretentiously ironic REM...

I could go on. Of course Spinal Tap will think they're going to be the funniest thing at Glastonbury. But with Tom Jones, Tony Christie, Status Quo, Blur et al on the bill they won't even come in the top ten.

Which unintentionally funny bands or artists have you seen live? i.e. the opposite of The Grumbleweeds.

The Karaoke Crowd

We went out for a quiet drink. But the karaoke crowd took over the pub.

A middle aged man set up his computer, speakers and microphones. He played snippets of songs. And in between he sang a few and invited his following to come and have a go.

Karaoke deejays have people following them from pub to pub. These people are not talented enough to win through the early rounds of Britain's Got Talent. But in their heads they're David Gray or Neil Diamond or the girls from ABBA. In their stupid self-centred heads.

They take it seriously. They feel the anticipation as they mentally prepare for their next time on stage. Because they do have several chances each to show off as the evening progresses. Their fellow karaoke creeps cheer them on, applaud them off. The deejay pretends he's reading out the next singer's name as if he doesn't know him (19 times out of 20 the singer is male). He does know him, of course. They're all part of the same strange family.

I imagined them all getting together for a karaoke family funeral. Then, as if by magic, some dickhead started up Robbie Williams' Angels. I could see the coffin and the tears as the karaoke family swayed in their seats, arms aloft, as the young singer belted out an off-key version of that death classic. It's exactly the send-off Neil Diamond/Elvis Presley/Gene Pitney/Roy Orbison would have wanted. And his manner of death, a massive coronary on the karaoke stage was exactly how he would have wanted to go.

Yes, we did get Babylon and Wonderwall and Amarillo and 500 Miles. It was so fucking predictable. The twats had absolutely no imagination. At least the bloke who looked like Ian Curtis could have done She's Lost Control, really lost control and fucked up his dad's laptop.

Take It To The Top

There were a few low points during Sir Ranulph Fiennes conquest of Everest. Fiennes was in constant contact with his team at base camp who captured the lowest, bleakest point on tape. The point where his lungs were bursting, he could see barely a yard in front of him and his comfortable home in England seemed a million miles away.

"I don't think..." he said, "I can carry on. More than man can take. Stress affecting all. Even Sherpa tensing."

Election Special

Remember when I said I was going to publish my book of poems?

Well, when it comes down to it I can't be bothered. They're throwaway, anyway. Not the sort of poems that Phill fucking Jupitus or Griff fucking Rhys fucking Jones could get their teeth into. I'm a pleb with simple tastes, no potential literary giant.

What's really occupying my mind is who to vote for. I don't know why I'm getting all uptight this time round. Is it Labour or Lib Dem or Green on the pro-European side? Or will I go anti-EU and vote for Arthur Scargill's or Bob Crow's party.

Tony Benn's supporting communist/capital punishment fan Crow. Tony Benn's a very nice man, a Christian David Attenborough. How can a nice Christian get into a political bed with an atheist who believes in an eye for an eye? It's all very confusing.

Scargill's a nutjob who's still fighting the miners' strike. He's preaching solidarity with the Tolpuddle martyrs, apparently unaware they died in 1968.

And what about naughty Labour? They took us into an illegal war, don't you know? Blood is on Labour's hands. Gordon Brown shook hands with the devil Bush! So the Lib Dems are telling me. And the Lib Dems have got criminals talking with victims in Chard and reoffending in Chard is down to approximately 0%. It brings a tear to my eye. Just imagine a rapist sitting down with his victim, promising he won't do anything she doesn't want next time.

The Greens want to stop all animal testing on drugs. I'm not so sure that is a very good idea. I'm pretty certain the drugs I take were tested on animals. "Yes, but humans are very different from animals. You might as well test drugs on vegetables." Yeah, right.

Oh dear. What is one to do? Who are you going to vote for? And why?

Election Fever

My mum and stepdad read the Daily Mail.

She's angry about MPs.

"You can't trust any of them. They've all got their snouts in the trough. All that taxpayers' money. That's your money, Geoff. Just who are you supposed to vote for? The British Parliament is totally immoral and corrupt."

"So who are you going to vote for, Mum?"

"Your stepdad reckons UKIP."

Toryzone

"I really like this song," said a work colleague.

"I don't," I said.

"It's Ronan Keating. It's lovely."

"It's shit."

"But it's about his dead mum."

"Why didn't you say? I thought it was fucking awful. Now I think it's poignant."



Last night we had the sound turned down on the tv as David Cameron spoke sincerely into the camera for the Conservative Party Broadcast.

Funny Ha Ha Or Funny?

The retiring journalist is holding court. She's going to continue to write, she's known nothing but writing since she was eighteen.

She looks at me.

She says she's going to write something funny.

I am not sure whether she's ever written anything funny. Or how difficult it would be to start writing funny stuff in your later years if you never have before.

I don't know why she looked at me. I've never said anything funny to her. And she's never seen any of my writing.

Maybe she thinks I appreciate funny writing.

I do. But it's got to be funny.

La Mort

Last night I dreamt I was on my death bed. I was surrounded by all the accountants and trainee accountants I have known in my working life.

I think I can read this dream. But just imagine if it were to become real.

Suffice to say I don't want accountants surrounding my death bed. In fact, I don't want people at all. I want a solitary robin, singing his little heart out, perched on my window sill. He'd look at me with sympathy and I'd breathe my last.

How To Save The World In One Easy Lesson

We sat through Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth in three sittings and are now crossing our fingers that Greenland doesn't disappear as if it does it will be a very bad thing for the world because lots of people will be living in water and swimming with the fishes.

In his bid to save the world, Gore has spent years flying all over the place, his slideshow in tow. Let's hope that, unlike Icarus, he doesn't fly too close to the burning sun.

The audience in each country nod sagely and go away to prepare for green power. What we need are leaders of the free world who are obsessed with light bulbs and standby lights, the little things in life that could make so much difference. You could imagine Al Gore as President of the United States, flying the world with a supply of energy-efficient light bulbs, giving the Queen and the Pope tickings off for their wastage, getting out his MacBook and showing them illustrations of the consequences of their evil reliance on chandeliers and security lights.

The MacBook is the portable computer of choice for the likes of Al Gore, Stephen Fry and David Attenborough. They are all filmed looking seriously into their laptops on planes, at home and in public buildings. I have a MacBook but have yet to look serious in front of it whilst being filmed. This is one of my major ambitions in life.

Take It As Read

How fast do you read? Could you read a book in a day? Could you really take it all in?

I know there are people who can do this. Surely they must be speed-reading, getting an overall impression, not giving themselves time to get truly involved. Where's the pleasure in that? Books are there to be read at your leisure. It's not a race.

Since joining Twitter I've learned to speed-read tweets. Something like this...

whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares? lol. whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?whocares?

I'm joking. I don't lol that often. And I do care.

When it comes to blog posts I quickly scan the whole post then decide if the subject matter is of interest to me. If it's not I move onto the next blog on Google Reader. I read the ones I'm interested in at my leisure.

Move along, now. Nothing to see here.

Drukqs

At the beginning of this month I went to pick up my repeat prescription at the chemist's. They'd neglected to order one of my items. I had enough of these pills to keep me going for a couple of weeks so I came back in the middle of the month to get them.

Yesterday I went to pick up a new supply of everything. The chemist said I was too early, I'd have to wait 'til the 15th or I could put my repeat prescription in jeopardy. I told her I was running out of one part of my prescription and the 15th would be too late. It was their fault I didn't get my full prescription at the beginning of the month. She relented but warned me of the possible consequences if I ordered too early in future.

So for next month I said I would like all the items on my prescription. She said I could have them all except for the hayfever nasal spray. Because it had been over six months since I'd ordered this item I would have to see my doctor to get it back on the repeat prescription.

I said the drug is for hayfever! For most of the year I don't get hayfever! Why should I order this drug in the middle of winter? I don't get hayfever in winter! What a stupid rule! Etc, etc.

But rules are rules and I'll have to waste my doctor's time in the next few months. Not just yet, you see, as I have a nice big stock of last year's over-ordered hayfever drugs at home. I hoard them like a squirrel hoards its nuts, bury them underneath more drugs, filling up the cupboard like a junkie.

I love that spray. I can't get enough.

What A Waste

I wonder if there's a Brazilian one-man air conditioning repair company called Jesus Of Cool?

Anyway, my mum phoned me up on Saturday to tell me she'd heard The Blockheads on Jonathan Ross's radio show. The new singer sounds just like Ian Dury, she said.

My mum still has me down as a massive Ian Dury & The Blockheads fan. Oh, and that "gravely voiced" Tom Waits.

It's been a long time since I listened to either. What I was listening to in the early 80s was limited to the records and cassettes I had. I couldn't afford a large, eclectic music collection. Even so, my mum's memory is selective. I had a reasonable number of albums for someone with little disposable income.

Reasonably well off young people these days have it all. A whole swathe of popular music available for free on the internet. Back then I took what I could from what was currently being pushed in the NME. The 50s, 60s and 70s were confined to history. Just imagine if NME readers nowadays stuck to the current indie music, ignoring pop's great history. What a boring generation they'd be!

A Shyness That Is Criminally Vulgar

Last night I was thinking, as you do, about the autographs I have owned. I've seen plenty of celebrities but never asked for an autograph for myself. I was always too shy and my mum and dad asked for me. In fact I didn't want them to but they felt they had to. Part of being a parent is embarrassing your children in front of all and sundry.

When I was five we were at a local fete and Eric Sykes was there. He was there in some official capacity so I presume his services were paid for. My mum dragged me up to Eric. I didn't know much about him but he signed his autograph for me. "To Geoffrey, best wishes, Eric Sykes".

Then when I was about seven a Tesco supermarket was opening in Crayford. My mum thought it would be a good idea to go along to the opening. Two Millwall footballers, Dereck Possee and Eamon Dunphy were there in an official capacity so they must have been paid for their services. My mum dragged me up to the two men and they signed their autographs. "Derek Possee" and "Eamon Dunphy". This was in the days before I wouldn't piss on a Millwall player if he were on fire.

Then when I was about ten my dad took me to Loftus Road to see Q.P.R. v West Ham and sitting behind us was the great Frank Lampard. (His son, the current scumbag Chelsea player will always be "Junior" to me). My dad turned to Frank and said "Frank, can we have your autograph, please?" Frank obliged and wrote "Frank Lampard".

In each of these cases I was egged on by my parents to ask the other adults for their autographs. In each case I was terrified I might have to, almost to the point of tears and my parents asked the men themselves. But each time they convinced themselves they were doing it for me, the boy who was too shy and needed to come out of his shell.

Britain's Got Shite

Britain's Got Talent makes stars of ordinary people.

A person who is talented at something possesses an unusual innate ability in their field.

Enrico Caruso was a talented opera singer. Paul Potts isn't.

Gene Kelly was a talented dancer. George Sampson isn't.

Judy Garland was a talented singer of songs from musicals. Susan Boyle isn't.

John Coltrane was a talented saxophonist. Julian Smith isn't.

Both George Best and Vinny Jones could play football. George was talented. Vinny wasn't.

Britain's got a load of Vinny Joneses all being told they're George Best. And the British public are happier watching Vinny Jones than George Best!

That's just not right.

All Our Yesterdays

When I was at school it was all the fashion to paint our haversacks with pictures of our favourite pop star, album cover, etc.

A small gang of us were big Tomorrow's World fans. And we were in love with the gorgeous Judith Hann. My friend Stuart was a talented artist and he painted beautiful portraits of Judith on all our bags. How proud we were to display our sexy bags to the other boys, dull in comparison with their botched Yes logos and rudimentary Ozzy Osbournes.

After a year, however, the paintings began to fade, through wear and tear. Stuart volunteered one weekend to repaint our bags with our favourite Tomorrow's World presenter.

He turned up at school on the Monday with a batch of the most beautiful Judiths we had ever seen. Mine even looked like she was winking at me and Graham's was most lascivious!

But when Stuart tentatively revealed to us the picture on his own bag, we had the biggest surprise of our young lives. Because this was the day our friend Stuart came out to the whole school. His favourite Tomorrow's World presenter was not Judith Hann. Oh, no.

That was the day our friend made a Rodd for his own back!

It Wasn't Just The Police

The Hillsborough Disaster was not an accident, but it was waiting to happen.

You read about fans of other clubs than Liverpool being involved in crushes in the Leppings Lane end in previous Cup semi-finals. Fans were segregated and herded into areas they maybe didn't have tickets for. They were herded in like cattle with no escape route as Sheffield Wednesday's board, like many others, had decided to erect wire pens to keep the fans from invading the pitch. Did they forsee the possibility of fans invading the pitch to save their own lives? If they didn't they must have been pretty fucking thick.

It would be impossible to have complete justice for the tragedy. Unless you could imprison a Thatcherite mindset.

Alex, Vic and George

So I finished the Alex James book. I didn't throw it out the window when Keith Allen made his unwelcome appearance and I trawled my way through Alex's flying lessons, his falling in love with the lovely lady he made his wife, his buying his very big house in the country and his soppiness at the birth of his beautiful children. Where was the cheese, Alex? I expected cheese.

And in just over a day (extremely unusual for me) I have read Vic Reeves' Me:Moir, the story of the first twenty years of his life. I liked Vic before and I like him even more now, though I am jealous, once again, of reading about somebody who grew up with friends who wanted to form a band.

Finally in my trilogy of three autobiographies, it's George Melly's, as recommended by Arabella. Yes, I'm keeping the least flamboyant, most conventional character 'til last. Come on, George. Don't let me down.

This Is The Sound Of My Soul

Terry Hall's appearance on Later With Jools was heartwarming for us old miseries. I know he never smiles whilst performing but he looked so pissed off throughout the whole show he negated any enjoyment anybody might have gained from any of the music on offer.

Why The Specials are back together playing live, God only knows. Jerry Dammers sensibly doesn't want anything to do with it. High octane ska is best performed by young energetic musicians to an audience of skinny rude boys, not by a band in their fifties egging on middle aged fat fucks like Phill Jupitus and his ilk, all struggling to breathe as they pound the floor with the full force of their furred arteried bodies.

Turning back the years is the last thing Terry wants to do. Why can't we let him sit at home with his feet up like the rest of us middle aged curmudgeons?

One of the free papers gave ABC five stars for their live performance this week. And Martin wore his lurex suit! This is the sad chicken-in-a-basket circuit that The Specials are now joining.

And of course there's Spandau fucking Ballet. Tony Hadley, fresh from appearing at last year's Gala at the Tory Party Conference, will sing hits such as True and Gold in front of audience after audience of cloth-eared morons all over the country, reminiscing about the absolute low point in pop music history as if it were somehow a good time to be alive!

Ice Cold With Alex

More words of wisdom from our learned friend and Blur bass player, Alex James.

"I was a hedonist. I wanted to get drunk and be irresponsible."

Prat.

"I saw life merely as an opportunity to have as much fun as possible. All young people do, I think."

Wrong. We weren't all fun-loving, Alex. Many of us were depressed, you know.

And on why festivals became the place to be seen for hordes of middle class students in the 90s:-

"I think it was because the best music attracts the prettiest girls and when the pretty girls come, everyone else soon follows."

I think you'll find, Alex, that the best music in the 90s was in the clubs. And I'm at a loss to understand why being a pretty girl means you've got good taste in music. And does everyone follow pretty girls? I thought only creepy men followed pretty girls?



To be continued.

Sky News Live Today

Bad spelling is a must for the common man or woman's funeral. And Jade Goody's was no different. From the "Gran Daughter" flowers to the "Your Special" written on a girl's balloon, this was a funeral for the uneducated. Which makes it all the more special that so much of Jade's money is going towards private education for her sons.

Then there was the "Marmite" flower arrangement. People either love or hate Marmite, say the adverts. People either love or hate me, like they love or hate Marmite, said Jade.

Yes, Jade was like Marmite. You either loved or hated her like you loved or hated Marmite. Or maybe, like me, you are totally indifferent to Marmite and were totally indifferent about Jade.

Am I allowed to take this position? Is it allowed to not really be bothered about Marmite or Jade Goody? Do I have to feel strongly one way or the other? Marmite's a very ordinary foodstuff. Jade was a very ordinary young woman. Ordinary doesn't really move me.