Monday 31 May 2010

This is why we need time machines...

Not a lot of people know this but in 1967 The Beatles (at the behest of John Lennon) were on the verge of buying the film rights to The Lord Of The Rings. The Beatles were to produce it, star in it and write the music while Stanley Kubrick had been lined up to direct!
This discovery sent my imagination into overdrive and I immediately got to thinking about casting. Now, Nasty John himself had already bagsied the role of Gollum but who best to take the other parts?

After much deliberation and soul-searching, I believe I now have the definitive cast list (all we need to do now is travel back in time and make it happen):

Frodo: Syd Barrett
Sam: Ringo Starr
Merry & Pippin: Steve Marriott & Ronnie Lane
Frederic 'Fatty' Bolger: Keith Moon
Bilbo: Brian Wilson
Gandalf: Bob Dylan
Radagast: George Harrison
Tom Bombadil: Van Morrison
Boromir: Robert Plant
Faramir: Roger Daltrey
Farmer Maggot: Leonard Cohen
Legolas: David Bowie
Gimli: David Crosby
Aragorn: There isn't one. (That, ultimately, is the reason the hippy dream failed - too many wizards, elves and fairies and not enough leaders. If they'd had even one Aragorn to hold it all together they'd have been laughing) In the absence of a suitable Aragorn from the rock world, Clint Eastwood will have to do it.
Elrond: Neil Young
Galadriel: Joni Mitchell
Celeborn: James Taylor
Arwen: Kate Bush
Saruman: Jimi Hendrix
Grima Wormtongue: Paul McCartney
Eomer: Dave Gilmour
Eowyn: Sandy Denny
King Theoden: Allen Ginsberg
Treebeard: Willie Nelson
Lord Denethor: Roger Waters
Shagrat (orc): Keith Richards
Ringwraiths: Iggy Pop, Alice Cooper, Ozzy Osbourne, Frank Zappa, Dave Hill & Kiss
Hobbit extras: Donovan, Ray & Dave Davies, Cat Stevens and Pete Townshend


Bilbo Baggins
Wilson's growing insanity gave him the edge in the competition to play Bilbo.






Shagrat
Amazingly, Richards needed no make-up or CGI to become the orc, Shagrat.









Legolas
Many felt Bowie was 'too much of a cunt' to play Legolas.










Frodo Baggins
Barrett, like Frodo, got weirder and weirder as the story progressed.










Faramir
Daltrey was convinced that Plant ripped off his look.











Boromir
Plant was convinced that Daltrey ripped off his look.











Wormtongue
For someone who always fancied himself as a hero, playing Wormtongue came as something of a shock to Macca.






Gandalf
Dylan's legendary hat-wearing ability marked him out as a natural choice for the wizard, Gandalf.










Arwen
Bush brought a refreshing touch of madness to the character, Arwen.











Saruman
Hendrix impressed at his audition by conjuring fire from the ground.











Treebeard
Nelson got the part of the ent, Treebeard, by virtue of the fact that he looked most like a tree.










Farmer Maggot
Even though he was playing a hobbit farmer from The Shire, Cohen still insisted on wearing a suit and tie at all times.











Merry & Pippin
Marriott and Lane could never remember which one was supposed to be Merry and which one was supposed to be Pippin.


















One or two songs written especially for the picture:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o6LZnz0ElLc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cMNrVEi54yA

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=91yaXXmN5kI

Thursday 27 May 2010

Kids say the scariest things...

Now I don’t know about you but I’ve never been a big subscriber to this idea that we can learn a lot from children. All that child is the father of the man and wisdom of innocence stuff; it’s a middle-class fantasy. Kids aren’t gurus, they’re just kids. I’ve nothing against them (they’re certainly a lot nicer than grownups and generally far better company) but they’re clearly idiots.

Just listen to some of the shite they’ve come out with down the years:

‘why doesn’t Granny’s skin fit her any more?’
‘why does the dog lick its own tentacles?’
‘why does that man have a dead rat stuck to his lip?’
‘how does the child-lock on the windows always know it’s me?’
‘when it rains is that God crying?’
‘is that a man or a robot?’


Absolute drivel… and rude too, most of it. I bet if I went up to a bloke in a wheelchair and asked if he was a man or a robot no-one would say that I say the funniest things. And I bet if I acted like one of those smart-alecky, punk kids you see on American TV shows (the ones with the in-your-face attitudes and slick put-downs who spend their entire lives outsmarting and outsassing their dim-witted parents) I’d get my head kicked in quicker than you could say: ‘talk to the hand ’cos the face don’t give a shit.’
But children, for some reason, seem to be allowed to get away with all sorts of anti-social behaviour.

The 19th-century poet, Robert Pollok, once said: children are living jewels dropped unsustained from heaven.
Personally, I would say they are more like dogs that can talk. By that I mean they are fun, cute and give an awful lot of love but the only thing they can really teach you about is pissing on the living room rug. However, there is one little thing that they are able to do that has the power to unravel any adult to the point of existential annihilation in a matter of minutes and must be the envy of every shrink, psychiatrist and psychoanalyst in the world. I’m talking about The Eternal Question.

The Eternal Question is a technique that every child seems to have an intuitive mastery of from birth and, like most things that work, it is ludicrously simple. Basically, the child will ask a question – usually lulling you in with an easy one that you know with complete certainty that you have the answer to, like: why is the sky blue? – you answer quickly and confidently, thinking: that’s the end of that and what a top quality piece of parenting, and the child will immediately ask, why?
You answer again but it’s notably harder this time; the question has suddenly got deeper and more complex. You’re no longer thinking about why the sky is blue but why blue is blue. Eventually you stumble to some sort of satisfactory answer and the child will again ask, why?
Now you find yourself genuinely unsure. You’ve never delved so deep into anything before and from this close in everything looks like nothing. Still, you bullshit your way to an answer (one that usually involves phrases like ‘it just does, that’s why’ and ‘because I said so’) and still the response comes back: why?
This time you have absolutely nothing. You don’t know why anymore.

It is a scientific fact that after four whys even the simplest question in the world becomes virtually unanswerable. In seconds you can go from complete certainty to blank nothingness and not really know how or when it happened. The whole thing snowballs out of control so quickly, just like exponential growth.
Did you know that if it were possible to fold a piece of A4 paper in half seven times it would reach the moon? Or if you put one grain of corn on the first square of a chess board, doubled it to two grains on the second, four grains on the third, eight on the fourth, etc. there is not enough corn in the entire world to fill the board?
The Eternal Question is like that. It's exponential growth in reverse; instead of multiplying you're dividing, dividing your life, your brain, your existence, everything. After four whys you no longer know the answer, after five you find yourself rethinking your entire outlook on the world, after six you realise that everything in life is futile and pointless and after seven (the magic seven, we call it) you reach a point that I like to think of as pure, undiluted truth and you kill yourself.

It goes a little like this:

Why do I have to go to school?
Because you need to learn about stuff.
Why?
Because… when you grow up you’ll need to know about stuff.
Why?
Um… because all the other kids’ll know about stuff and you want to be on a level playing field.
Why?
Because you’ll be competing with them for the best jobs.
Why?
Because the best jobs pay the most.
Why?
Because we live in a world run by capitalists and that’s how they like it.
Why?
Because they like to keep the rich rich and the poor poor.
Why?
Because they’re cunts.

And then, without pausing for breath, they hit you with something like:

Why do bees like flowers so much?
Because they get nectar from them.
Why?
Because… they need nectar for energy.
Why?
Um… because all living things need food to make energy or they’ll die.
Why?
Because they do, that’s why. Same as you, without food you’d be dead and you don’t want to be dead.
Why?
Oh for fu-! Because you want to be alive!
Why?
Because being alive’s better than being dead.
Why?

Suddenly you don’t know why being alive’s better than being dead. In fact, you’re starting to doubt that it is. After seven whys you know that it isn’t and you kill yourself.

So what to do? Well, fortunately we don’t have to put up with the little bastards’ crap any longer because I have the cure and, once again, it’s stupidly simple. Basically you have to nip it in the bud early (certainly a good couple of whys before the critical seventh anyway) and give them a taste of their own medicine by shouting: why not?
In that triumphant, role-reversing moment you fire all the pointlessness of the universe back in their smug little faces and watch in delight as their puny little brains melt in the hot confusion of absolute uncertainty.
Then, you can rest assured, they will either kill themselves or shut up.*

*As they grow older they will find that this choice is more or less the only choice they have with regards to anything they encounter in the world: kill yourself or shut up. Both fine choices.

11 answers to 11 songs...

1. Travis
Q: Why does it always rain on me?
A: Because you live under a fucking cloud, mate.

2. Oasis
Q: D'you know what I mean?
A: I knew what you meant on Definitely Maybe. Now I'm just bored.

3. Elvis Costello
Q: What's so funny 'bout peace, love and understanding?
A: Nothing, I was laughing at your glasses. Specky twat.

4. Van Morrison
Q: Who was that masked man?
A: No idea, but I'm guessing some sort of rapist.

5. The Strokes
Q: Is this it?
A: Pretty much. A couple of mediocre follow up albums and the odd ill-advised solo project but basically, yes, it's all downhill from here.

6. The Waterboys
Q: When will we be married?
A: Oh, for Christ's sake, not this again.

7. Blink 182
Q: What's my age again?
A: Definitely old enough to know better. And stop wearing those stupid trousers.

8. Grateful Dead
Q: What's become of the baby?
A: What ba-? Oh... shit.

9. Creedence Clearwater Revival
Q: Who'll stop the rain?
A: Maybe we can if we all think really hard.

10. The Libertines
Q: What became of the likely lads?
A: They broke up, formed two equally awful new bands, got screwed on coke, drink and smack, went to prison a few times, shagged the occasional supermodel and then had a competition to see who could piss away their talent the quickest.

11. Band Aid
Q: Do they know it's Christmas?
A: They sure as fuck know it ain't Thanksgiving.

Friday 21 May 2010

England expects...

I am pleased to announce that, after much undignified begging from the Football Association, I have agreed to write and record the official England World Cup song for 2010.

It is to the tune of The Who's Won't Get Fooled Again and goes like this:

(VERSE 1)
We'll be watching in the streets,
With our children at our feet.
And the first few games will tempt us to believe. 

And the flags will fly so proud, 
And the fans will cry so loud. 
And the whole wide world will start to shake with fear.

(CHORUS)
We'll get sucked in by the whole situation,
Kid ourselves with our own expectations, 
Smile and grin as the final gets closer 
and everything we do just clicks. Just like '66. 
And I'll get on my knees and pray,
We don't get fooled again.

(VERSE 2)
They'll be melting in the heat,
And dying on their feet. 
And the hope that they have sold us will be gone.

And the men who led us on,
Will say they knew it all along.
And the England team will always get it wrong.

(CHORUS 2)
We'll get embroiled in a cloud of depression, 
Fill ourselves with tears and frustration. 
Soldier on as the summer is cancelled. 
And tell ourselves it was a fix, just like '86. 
And I'll get on my knees and pray,
We don't get fooled again.

(BRIDGE)
We should be pleased just to have qualified 
and be happy that we got out alive. 
Take down the flags and the paint from our skin, 
for we know that the England team never win.
Do ya?

(VERSE 3)
We'll be gracious in defeat, 
'Cos we're good at getting beat. 
We tried our best, we're just crapper than the rest. 

And with Gerrard on the left,
and Walcott on the right. 
We should have known the balance wasn't right.

(CHORUS 3)
I'll tip my hat to Capello's replacement,
The same old players in the same old formation, 
Smile and grin when we beat the Albanians 
and everything we do just clicks, like Euro '96. 
And I'll get on my knees and pray, 
We don't get fooled again.

(I have decided that the classic Daltrey scream that usually comes at this point will be provided by Carlton Palmer. Hopefully it will feel as strange and out of place as the John Barnes rap did on World In Motion.)

(CODA)
Meet the new team,
Same as the old team.

















Available from all good record shops (and at least two really shit ones).

Thursday 20 May 2010

11 things the government took away and hoped nobody would notice...

  1. Toys in cereal packets
  2. Soft porn on Channel 5
  3. Slush puppies
  4. Elm trees
  5. Bar billiard tables
  6. Jim Davidson
  7. Fizzy Chewits
  8. Hovercrafts
  9. Communists
  10. Those candy sweets that looked like cigarettes and helped ease kids into smoking from a young age
  11. Freedom

Those of us who live with our eyes open will know that this is not merely a list of things that went out of fashion and faded away naturally (like brown cars and pogs) but rather a list of things that were taken away by our Norman overlords to keep us suitably oppressed and sedated and less inclined towards a possible uprising. You will have forgotten this but some time in the early to mid-90s, the government carried out an evil and sinister experiment to test how much the average prole pays attention to the world around him and, subsequently, find out how much they could get away with.
The experiment was simple: change the colour of Walkers' salt and vinegar crisp packets from blue (as is proper) to green (as is wrong) and swap cheese and onion from green (proper) to blue (wrong) and see how many people notice. Unfortunately for us, very few people did notice at the time and those that did were quickly brainwashed into believing that Walkers' salt and vinegar had never been blue. To help with the subterfuge, pressure was quickly put on other crisps to follow suit and they all did (except Golden Wonder, which resisted admirably and has since been virtually stomped out of existence by the Norman capitalists). Then, having successfully wiped this period of crisp history from people's minds, all that remained was to wipe it from the history books (a search for this cover-up on Google yields suspiciously few results). The results of the crisp experiment were bad news for us because it gave the government cart blanche to chip away at our freedoms one by one (a process that has started but is by no means finished). This erosion happens slowly (just like coastal erosion). First they ban smoking on airplanes, then trains, then in cinemas, then restaurants, then cafes, then pubs, then public places, then your own car and eventually your own home. But it happens so gradually that we do not notice and so do not fight.
Anything with the potential to excite or amuse us is quickly wiped out. Toys in cereal packets (the only thin ray of sunshine in the common man's life and the only real incentive to get out of bed in the morning) were deemed to be far too stimulating, and slush puppies, coupled with the hot summers and carefree spirit of the Britpop years, were a revolution waiting to happen. And don’t think for one minute that drugs are illegal because they are dangerous. They are illegal because they are fun and they make people happy and that is one thing that the Establishment simply cannot allow. In order for them to feel safe we need to be kept in a subdued state of tired apathy. We’re allowed to do things as long as they don’t get us too excitable and rouse us into action (that’s why mind expanding drugs are illegal and car boot sales are not). You see, the masters treat the masses like parents treat children. Give them just enough sustenance and entertainment to keep them alive but for Christ’s sake don’t give them any sugar!

Saturday 15 May 2010

Long live the chevron...

Saw this sign while driving on the M4 last week:
















Now I was naturally sceptical at first (what the fuck is a chevron?!) but changed my mind almost immediately when I noticed that my car was indeed sitting exactly two chevrons behind the car in front. Now, I don’t usually care for rules (that’s why the establishment fat cats fear me so much) but the pride I felt at obeying this one so effortlessly can only be compared to the pride I felt the day I first figured out I was the best Connect-4 player in the universe. Who’d have thought conformity could be so exhilarating?

All of a sudden, maintaining the two chevron gap was the most important thing in the world. Everything else was blocked out – where I was, where I was going, who I was, why I was – all I cared about was keeping close to that car in front and not letting him open up a three, or perhaps even a four chevron gap. This was far from easy and was made harder still by the fact that the swine seemed determined to laugh in the face of the chevron system and kept speeding up in more and more desperate and reckless attempts to lose me. But each time he did, I floored it in the name of law and order and managed to keep and hold that magical two chevron gap for something like twenty miles (my incredible run came to an end when the chevron system ceased suddenly and without warning at junction 5 and I smashed right up his arse).

I have since decided that the chevron is as close as mankind has come, or ever will come, to perfection and should be immediately rolled out as a universal unit of measurement to be used to measure anything worth measuring. So say goodbye to the fiddly days of pounds, pence, metres, ounces, hours, minutes, Kelvins and tonnes, from now on it will be:


How deep is that grave anyway?

About 16 chevrons.


Are we there yet?

Just a couple of thousand chevrons to go.


How much for the hat?

Four chevrons and fifty chevrons please.


What the fuck’s wrong with you?

I’m tired. I only had two chevrons’ sleep last night.


Why the long face?

Because I’ve been living in the same house and working in the same job and sleeping with the same wife for the best part of 50 chevrons now.


And finally…


The speed of light is exactly 299,792,458 chevrons per chevron.


It will be a simpler (and better) world for all of us.


Tuesday 11 May 2010

It's just a popularity contest with you people...

How come when Andy Warhol produces a picture of a can of Campbell's Tomato Soup it's instantly declared a pop cultural masterpiece and a deliciously subversive satire on American capitalism and yet, I produce an equally striking and equally subversive can of Tesco's Baked Beans, and everyone thinks it's a pile of old arse?


And how come when Andy Warhol paints a picture of Marilyn Monroe everyone says it's iconic and beautiful and a commentary on celebrity culture and yet, I paint an equally iconic and, arguably, even more beautiful picture of the great Willie Thorne and everyone thinks it's a pile of old arse?

Once again it's one rule for Warhol and one rule for everyone else.

Tuesday 4 May 2010

Doctor, doctor, there's a lime in my coconut...

There are many people in the music business who claim to be doctors – Dr Dre, Dr Fox, Dr Hook, Dr Feelgood – and it is often mentioned (by hilarious wags) that none of these people actually have any qualifications nor put in the requisite amount of time at medical school to justify the title. Everyone laughs at the delightful absurdity of the concept and we move on.
But is it so absurd? It seems to me that the Rock Doctor is a particularly iffy character indeed. You must have noticed that he pops up an alarming number of times throughout the course of rock history and dishes out a lot of, let's face it, crazy advice. You see, the Rock Doctor is a very different beast to the doctors you or I may be used to – the sort that carefully analyse symptoms, run tests, make diagnoses and prescribe courses of suitable treatment – the Rock Doctor seems to work purely on instinct. He makes snap, on-the-spot decisions, thinks outside the box and more often than not puts his faith in nothing more than witchcraft. He is more like an apothecary than a doctor.

Ok, so for starters, there's the Harry Nilsson song, 'Coconut'.

http://youtu.be/9nzRTZvR3M4

Basically, Harry Nilsson goes to his 'doctor' complaining of a belly ache. A fairly standard complaint, you might think, with a fairly standard treatment. So what does our doctor prescribe for the stricken Harry? Antacids? Laxatives? A nice lie down?
Not exactly. He prescribes lime in a coconut. Specifically, 'put da lime in the coconut an' drink 'em both together, put 'da lime in the coconut, then you feel better.'

The doctor, you may have noticed, sounds an awfully lot like the Liltman. He thought coconuts were the answer to everything too.
'So let me get this straight,' says Harry, obviously assuming this to be some kind of wind up. 'You put the lime in the coconut and drink 'em both up?'

The doctor sounds a trifle irritated at having to repeat himself. 'Put 'da lime in the coconut an' drink em bo' down,' he says. 'Put da lime in the coconut an' call me in the morning.'

We never find out if this experimental treatment worked, or, indeed, if the doctor was still around in the morning (though I suspect he scarpered pretty quickly) but we do know that Nilsson died of a 'massive heart attack' in 1994.

I would have said the two events are almost certainly unconnected but then I remembered another doctor who crops up in a Lovin' Spoonful song with similarly suspect credentials:

https://youtu.be/zFDZpzBZR6M

In this instance, it's a lot worse than a bellyache. You see, John Sebastian has been 'down in Savannah eating cream and bananas' and has fainted from the heat. The doctor, apparently, has been brought in to check he's not dying. So, quite a serious situation to be sure. All the limes in all the coconuts in all the world won't solve this one. And what does our magnificent doctor suggest this time? A quick dash to the hospital, perhaps?
Nope, jugband music.
And why?
Because it 'seems to make him feel just fine'.

Jugband music? Flaming jugband music to save a dying man?! The only thing jugband music is a cure for is lack of jugband music! In fact, I think jugband music causes more ailments than it cures!
(I'm almost certain that it was the primary cause of Syd Barrett's 'Jugband Blues' in 1968.)
Nevertheless, our doctor seems to have gone through a phase of thinking jugband music was the answer to every possible affliction that a human can suffer from and throughout the course of this record he goes on to prescribe it for loneliness, dehydration, tiredness, weariness, depression and getting punched in the face on the beach by a cunt. Whether it works or not we don’t know, because, just like last time, the doctor has pissed off before the end of the song and isn’t heard from again.
Sebastian, mercifully, is still with us but fellow Spoonful, Zal Yanovsky, died of a 'massive heart attack' (sound familiar?) in 2002, brought on, we must reasonably assume, by too much jugband music.

At this stage a sudden and shocking realisation dawned on me: this doctor is the reason rock stars die young. I remembered the suspicious deaths of Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison and Brian Jones all within a year of each other. Who's to say the doctor wasn't called in to treat Hendrix's 'Manic Depression' or Morrison's 'Roadhouse Blues' and, feeling bitter and twisted and not in his right mind after his numerous and, frankly, feeble attempts to cure Tommy ('he seems to be completely unreceptive…' Of course he's un-receptive! He's deaf, dumb and blind, you twat! That's why we called you here. '…the tests I gave him show no sense at all.' What did I just say?!), did not switch from prescribing natural remedies like coconuts & homemade music to lethal cocktails of hard drugs & swimming pools with the same carefree attitude and reckless abandon?

Fuelled by this terrifying revelation I began to scour my record collection for further evidence and what I found was shocking indeed. It seems that after the deaths of Messrs. Hendrix, Morrison and Jones the doctor sensibly decided to lay low for a while, changing his name from Dr Robert to Dr Jimmy and not seriously dabbling in medicine again until 1978 when he pops up in the Kinks song, 'Permanent Waves'.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dr1hj4op-xE

So, Ray Davies has been feeling depressed, in fact he thinks he's breakin'. He can't quite explain, he can't feel any pain, but he knows that this time he's not fakin'.

So the doctor, again displaying his penchant for quick thinking, takes one look at him and immediately orders Ray to go and get a perm.

'Why don’t you put in some permanent waves?' he shouts. 'You'll look smooth, you'll look cool, you'll be laughing.'

The interesting thing is this time the treatment seems to work… for a little while, at least. Davies, armed with his new perm, goes from strength to strength until, that is, it starts to rain and his perm got 'flushed down the drain'. This tragic event leaves him even more depressed than before. 'My neurosis returned, I'm a wreck once again.'
And the doctor? Gone.

Funnily enough, Ray had already had one run in with this fraud of a doctor on the Muswell Hillbillies album, when he was told to 'cut out the struggle and strife, it only complicates your life.' I’ve no sympathy for him. To go and see this daft quack once is bad enough but twice is damn near unforgivable. He's lucky to still be alive.

Keith Moon, of course, wasn't so lucky.

I can only assume that John Entwistle, who’d evidently been looking for a doctor for quite some time…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5jsAHbNAmK0

…must have introduced Dr Jimmy to the Moon thinking he might be able to cure his alcoholism and drug addiction...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rn8p1Hrc7yI

...the rest, unfortunately, is history.

When I think of all the great talent that's been lost because of this doctor it makes me angry and sad and I wonder why rock stars can't go to real doctors like the rest of us. I don't know, perhaps they bring it on themselves. They do go in with the most vague and unspecific complaints:
'There’s a pain where there once was a heart.' (Mick Jagger)
'I can’t stand up for falling down.' (Elvis Costello)
'There's a slight disturbance in my mind.' (Roy Wood)
'Doctor, my eyes!' (Jackson Browne)
(In this case my sympathy is firmly with the doctor. You see, Browne goes in under the pretence that he's got some sort of eye complaint and then proceeds to spend the next three and a half minutes moaning about the world and his bird and life in general. I mean, he’s a doctor not a psychiatrist!)
'I’m going slightly mad.' (Freddie Mercury)
'Can you see the real me?' (Pete Townshend)

You've got to ask yourself, what would a real doctor make of that lot? Then there's all those odd ailments that only rock stars can contract such as rockin' pneumonia and boogie-woogie flu (a shot of rhythm and blues, incidentally, is the cure for the former); only the Rock Doctor truly understands these conditions. Maybe that's why rock stars place such trust in him and are always so quick to defend him:

'He's a man you must believe, helping everyone in need. No-one can succeed like Doctor Robert,' said John Lennon in 1966.

Of course, that was a good couple of years before the doctor began his terrible killing spree but it still gives you some idea of just how much his patients revere him. Maybe we'll just have to let the case against the doctor lie. Ok, so he killed a few people down the years (who hasn't?) but he did cure Peggy Lee's 'Fever', Dylan's 'Tombstone Blues' and Jerry Lee Lewis's debilitating shaking problem.
And at least he listens… unlike my doctor.

And so I'll leave you with the one piece of good advice this doctor ever gave out. The lucky recipient? Paul Simon. And did he listen? No.

https://youtu.be/bOQupBG7d2g