1: Multi-flavoured crisps
Kind of like a lucky dip. You buy a packet of crisps and each crisp therein could, potentially, be a different flavour. So you’ve got all your premier league crisps: Ready Salted, Cheese & Onion, Salt & Vinegar, Smoky Bacon, Prawn Cocktail and Roast Beef, plus a few of the best Championship crisps: Roast Chicken, Barbecue, Cheese & Chives, etc. all in one packet and you never know which one you’re going to get next. Just imagine the tension! Everyone knows that food and flavours are infinitely more shocking when the palette isn’t pre-warned and prepared. Imagine getting two Ready Salteds and then WALLOP! Prawn Cocktail, all of a sudden and without a word of warning! Downside: Some people may die from the shock.
2: Disappearing dress iPhone app
Basically, an iPhone app that works the same way as those pens with the attractive ladies on them whose dresses fall down when you tip them up and then fall back on when you tip them the other way. Everyone remembers those pens as they were as close as mankind had thus far come to perfection… but they did get boring quickly on account of their one-girl policy (a limitation imposed upon them by the technology of the day and the restrictive pen-based format). The iPhone, however, with its phenomenal memory and capacity to store everything in the world ever could hold a limitless number of different girls to undress, thus ensuring that the initial excitement we all remember from the first pen-tip would never, ever fade.
Downside: Could eventually result in the end of civilization.
3: TV idea #1
Special edition of hit BBC quiz show, The Weakest Link featuring only Chinese people, entitled The Weakest Chink.
Downside: Racist.
4: 51st State
Britain to ask Barack Obama for permission to officially declare itself the 51st State of America, thereby finally putting a halt to our 100-year decline. This will mean no more crap government, no more crappy economy, no more rubbish ‘British’ films, no more BBC, no more ruling classes, no more monarchy and, hopefully, no more Jeremy Clarkson.
Downside: Baseball. We would all have to watch baseball.
5: Pedal operated toilet seats
Just like pedal operated bins, the seat’s default position is down. When a man uses it he simply steps on the pedal and the seat lifts while he urinates. When he finishes and walks away the seat crashes back down, leaving his wife/girlfriend with nothing whatsoever to complain about (nothing toilet related anyway). Perfect for public toilets and festivals when you don’t want to touch the seat (or anything else in there) with your hands. Further plus: women, as full-time sitters, need not operate the machine at all and, therefore, it will not get broken and should, in theory, last forever.
Downside: None whatsoever.
6: Special cigarettes for kids
This is still a relatively untapped market. Having done some research at a local primary school (before being unceremoniously moved on) I found this is not because children don’t want to smoke but because all the adverts and marketing and so on are aimed at adults. I predict that the first person clever enough to produce some fags specifically marketed at kids will make an absolute killing. All it needs is some colourful packaging and a clever promotion (give out a few free samples outside schools or youth clubs) and Bob’s your uncle. Could call them SmokeStix or FunFagz or something.
Downside: Many millions of people will die.
7: TV idea #2
In the same spirit as that horrible Ladette To Lady show in which honest working class girls are kidnapped by Normans and forced to conform to their insane standards of etiquette and cuntishness. In this we take four of the biggest cunts in Eton and send them to California to link up with the Oakland chapter of the Hell’s Angels. Here they will be ridiculed for their inability to spit, drink, ride motorbikes, fight and swear properly. The climax of the series will see the four cunts getting the shit comprehensively beaten out of them by the Angels while All Along The Watchtower blares out over the top of their girlish screams.
Downside: My inability to think of a suitably pithy title.
8: Superior education
Current national curriculum to be abolished and all children instead given the following works to study at their leisure over a 12-year period:
TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD
CATCH-22
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF BOB DYLAN
THE I-CHING
PET SOUNDS
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF KURT VONNEGUT
THE LORD OF THE RINGS
THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE UGLY
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF LOUIS CK
IMPROVE YOUR SNOOKER by CLIVE EVERTON
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF LARRY DAVID
THE COMPLETE WORKS OF THE BEATLES
Downside: People will figure out the meaninglessness of life at a dangerously early age.
9: New way to sign off letters of complaint
In order for any letter to be properly classified as a complaint it MUST be signed ‘you bunch of bastards’ as opposed to ‘yours sincerely’ or ‘yours faithfully’ or whatever other bollocks people put down. This will avoid any unnecessary confusion.
Downside: Nope.
10: TV idea #3
Special edition of hit BBC quiz show, The Weakest Link featuring only sinks, entitled The Weakest Sink.
Downside: The sinks probably won't be able to answer any of the questions.
11: Revolution
The current Tory government are setting us up nicely for this with their new Undisguised Hatred of the Working Classes policy and I, for one, thank them for it. We have been oppressed and shackled by the Norman yoke for the best part of a thousand years now and nothing has quite got us riled up enough to do anything about it; but the arrival of these new super cunts, at a time when the country was already ripening for revolution, could be just what we need. I hereby judge the time to be right and call upon the common man to rise up, realise your strength, kick these bunch of bastards out of office and take what’s yours. All it needs to succeed is for us all to do it at the same time (then we can enjoy the fun bit of getting into power, surrounding ourselves in gold and turning, very quickly, into the people we kicked out in the first place). Ok, I appreciate that this isn’t particularly reticent but reticence will only get you so far (even Confucius acknowledged that) and sometimes you have to say: fuck off!
Downside: We'll probably all be shot.
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Thursday, 12 August 2010
Hello, Hello, good to be back...
Good news everyone! I have just signed a deal to take over the management of legendary glam-rocker and all round good egg, Gary Glitter!
I have been weighing up the possibility of signing Glitter for many years now, ever since I noticed how badly he was being let down by his clueless and unproactive management. I'm sure that, like me, you have all been baffled by the great man's sudden and unexplained disappearance from the Hit Parade and I daresay you are equally troubled to see that a man of such talent and charisma can, seemingly, vanish so utterly and without trace in this fickle world we live in. After all, if this can happen to Glitter, then it can surely happen to anyone. It was obvious to me that the fault didn't lie with poor Glitter (who, to date, has never put a foot wrong in his sparkling career) but with his inept management (who, in my opinion, have fucked up big time in the last few years, taking their eyes off the ball and inexplicably allowing their client to drop off the radar of pop culture). Consider this: the man hasn't released a single in almost a decade! Why?! And when was the last time you saw him on The One Show? Or pressing the button that starts the lottery? Or doing something for Children In Need? Or guest starring in Doctor Who? Or even a pantomime? Glitter's boyish good looks and natural affinity with children would make him an obviously perfect Peter Pan!
The more I thought about it the angrier I became, and when I discovered, to my dismay, that Glitter was to play no part whatsoever in the Olympics opening ceremony, I resolved there and then to do something about it. I wasn't going to stand idly by and watch them procrastinate while Glitter's career went up the shitter any longer. I flew out to Dubai the very next day and met Glitter's representatives at Gimcrack Management.
Of course they used every underhand trick in the book to try and put me off, including filling my head with poisonous lies and accusations (which I shan't repeat here) against Glitter's character, but I was not to be taken in. My mind was made up and I wasn't leaving until I'd rescued the man from these dangerous idiots. My suspicions about the general incompetence of Gimcrack Management proved to be well-founded as they, unbelievably, sold me his contract for nothing! They even laughed and danced around like they were happy to be shot of him. I was appalled but vindicated. No wonder the man's career has hit the skids with people like this behind him, I thought. These are the sort of fuckwits who, when the inevitable call came in for Glitter to play Wembley for £10 million, would have laughed and told them he'd play it for free! I felt bad for the man and all the wasted years but couldn't dwell on it. As I said to Glitter as he signed his new contract with Reticent Records, 'what do I care about the past? The past is history! All that matters now is the future and the future is bright! In fact, I foresee a glittering future for both of us!'
The line was completely unplanned. It just came to me from nowhere and further reinforced my belief that we were about to create something wonderful. It just felt right.
Glitter was grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat! His sparkle was back, as was that cheeky mischievous grin we all know and love.
I was delighted. The ink was barely dry on the contract, but by restoring Glitter's (understandably) fragile confidence, I had already done more in a matter of minutes than Gimcrack Management had in a whole decade of feeble indifference. With the glint fast-returning to his eye, I gave him a further boost by reminding him that he was a God and could do as he pleased. Then I drafted up plans for a greatest hits album (All That Glitters Is GOLD); a world tour (the Up The Gary! tour); a celebratory book of his life up to this point (You Can't Polish A Turd But You Can Roll It In Glitter) and a new single, co-written by myself and Gary, entitled 'I Raped A Girl... (and I liked it!)'. As you may have guessed from the title, the song is a humorous parody of Katy Perry's 'I Kissed A Girl' and is sure to win Glitter a brand new, younger audience (something both he and myself are very keen on securing). In fact, I am at this stage in tentative talks with a number of primary schools about the possibility of getting a children's choir to sing on the Up The Gary! tour but up until now they have all seemed strangely hesitant. I can only logically put this down to the fact that Glitter has been so criminally under-promoted for so very long that he is deemed to be passe. The new single (with its racy accompanying video) is sure to change all that...
In other news, a staggering six whole people voted in our poll to determine the gayest robot of all time with C-3PO winning (perhaps unsurprisingly) in something of a landslide.
Next, the Reticent Party will find out who the most over-rated person in history is.
I have been weighing up the possibility of signing Glitter for many years now, ever since I noticed how badly he was being let down by his clueless and unproactive management. I'm sure that, like me, you have all been baffled by the great man's sudden and unexplained disappearance from the Hit Parade and I daresay you are equally troubled to see that a man of such talent and charisma can, seemingly, vanish so utterly and without trace in this fickle world we live in. After all, if this can happen to Glitter, then it can surely happen to anyone. It was obvious to me that the fault didn't lie with poor Glitter (who, to date, has never put a foot wrong in his sparkling career) but with his inept management (who, in my opinion, have fucked up big time in the last few years, taking their eyes off the ball and inexplicably allowing their client to drop off the radar of pop culture). Consider this: the man hasn't released a single in almost a decade! Why?! And when was the last time you saw him on The One Show? Or pressing the button that starts the lottery? Or doing something for Children In Need? Or guest starring in Doctor Who? Or even a pantomime? Glitter's boyish good looks and natural affinity with children would make him an obviously perfect Peter Pan!
The more I thought about it the angrier I became, and when I discovered, to my dismay, that Glitter was to play no part whatsoever in the Olympics opening ceremony, I resolved there and then to do something about it. I wasn't going to stand idly by and watch them procrastinate while Glitter's career went up the shitter any longer. I flew out to Dubai the very next day and met Glitter's representatives at Gimcrack Management.
Of course they used every underhand trick in the book to try and put me off, including filling my head with poisonous lies and accusations (which I shan't repeat here) against Glitter's character, but I was not to be taken in. My mind was made up and I wasn't leaving until I'd rescued the man from these dangerous idiots. My suspicions about the general incompetence of Gimcrack Management proved to be well-founded as they, unbelievably, sold me his contract for nothing! They even laughed and danced around like they were happy to be shot of him. I was appalled but vindicated. No wonder the man's career has hit the skids with people like this behind him, I thought. These are the sort of fuckwits who, when the inevitable call came in for Glitter to play Wembley for £10 million, would have laughed and told them he'd play it for free! I felt bad for the man and all the wasted years but couldn't dwell on it. As I said to Glitter as he signed his new contract with Reticent Records, 'what do I care about the past? The past is history! All that matters now is the future and the future is bright! In fact, I foresee a glittering future for both of us!'
The line was completely unplanned. It just came to me from nowhere and further reinforced my belief that we were about to create something wonderful. It just felt right.
Glitter was grinning from ear to ear like a Cheshire cat! His sparkle was back, as was that cheeky mischievous grin we all know and love.
I was delighted. The ink was barely dry on the contract, but by restoring Glitter's (understandably) fragile confidence, I had already done more in a matter of minutes than Gimcrack Management had in a whole decade of feeble indifference. With the glint fast-returning to his eye, I gave him a further boost by reminding him that he was a God and could do as he pleased. Then I drafted up plans for a greatest hits album (All That Glitters Is GOLD); a world tour (the Up The Gary! tour); a celebratory book of his life up to this point (You Can't Polish A Turd But You Can Roll It In Glitter) and a new single, co-written by myself and Gary, entitled 'I Raped A Girl... (and I liked it!)'. As you may have guessed from the title, the song is a humorous parody of Katy Perry's 'I Kissed A Girl' and is sure to win Glitter a brand new, younger audience (something both he and myself are very keen on securing). In fact, I am at this stage in tentative talks with a number of primary schools about the possibility of getting a children's choir to sing on the Up The Gary! tour but up until now they have all seemed strangely hesitant. I can only logically put this down to the fact that Glitter has been so criminally under-promoted for so very long that he is deemed to be passe. The new single (with its racy accompanying video) is sure to change all that...
Next, the Reticent Party will find out who the most over-rated person in history is.
Thursday, 22 July 2010
Hat's entertainment...
I'm sure you've noticed that the Reticent Blog has been even more reticent than usual recently. Don't worry, I'm not dead; I have simply been in South Africa for the last 25 days covering the 121st World Cup of Hats for TIME Magazine!
Now I'm well aware that over the last few weeks the World Cup of Hats has been on every single channel on the planet for every second of every day and you've probably all heard enough and seen enough about it to last a lifetime (or at least until the next one in 2014) and I won't be going over it all again here (check out my 4000-page review of the tournament in TIME for a comprehensive account of all the dramatic twists and turns of that magical month), but I would like to share one or two extracts and photos from my World Cup Diary with you…
The official mascot for the 2010 World Cup, Hats Domino.
In retrospect, possibly a bad choice and perhaps the only mistake the South Africans made in the whole tournament. Hats Domino's uptight Victorian values and attitudes frightened children and generally put a downer on everyone's fun.
Now I'm well aware that over the last few weeks the World Cup of Hats has been on every single channel on the planet for every second of every day and you've probably all heard enough and seen enough about it to last a lifetime (or at least until the next one in 2014) and I won't be going over it all again here (check out my 4000-page review of the tournament in TIME for a comprehensive account of all the dramatic twists and turns of that magical month), but I would like to share one or two extracts and photos from my World Cup Diary with you…
The official mascot for the 2010 World Cup, Hats Domino.In retrospect, possibly a bad choice and perhaps the only mistake the South Africans made in the whole tournament. Hats Domino's uptight Victorian values and attitudes frightened children and generally put a downer on everyone's fun.
The first of what would become a series of 'savage cane beatings' occurred during the opening match when he clubbed a child close to death for blowing a vuvuzela in his ear. His reign of terror finally came to an end at the quarter final stage when he was replaced by the friendlier and altogether more cuddly, Hats Waller.
The French arrived looking like dicks as usual.
Winners in '98 and runners-up in 2006, a lot was expected of the mercurial Berets but they fell disappointingly at the first hurdle, drowning in a sea of bad vibes and hatred. By the end of the tournament the French felt nothing but contempt for each other and everyone else. None of this was helped by me asking, in the press conference after their first match, why they'd come dressed as mimes.
This was the Aussies' first ever appearance at the World Cup of Hats and many, not knowing what the corks did but assuming they had a purpose, tipped them to go far. Turns out the Aussies didn't know what the corks were supposed to do either and they were promptly eliminated without winning a game.
Pele famously once said that an African team would win the World Cup of Hats before the turn of the century.
The laughing stock of every World Cup of Hats since 1578, the Egyptians, in their ridiculous little Fez Hats, are yet to win a single match. This year they excelled themselves, even managing to get beaten by that stupid Jamaican Rasta Hat that everyone had assumed to be a joke.
The Dutch have always been renowned for their beautiful hats and at times they were an absolute joy to watch at this tournament, but once again they lacked that killer instinct needed to win the thing, unlike…
The Stetson, on the other hand, is a hat that continues to punch above its weight. Another fine tournament from the Americans shows that they're finally starting to take hats seriously after so many years tossing about with baseball caps and mortar boards.
The Mexican captain, Angel Hernandez, is one of the biggest names in the world of hats and was followed by a huge entourage of reporters, security and screaming girls everywhere he went.I thought he was a bit of an arse myself and was delighted when him and the rest of his poncey Sombrero-wearing mates were knocked out by the no-nonsense Viking Hats of the Swedes in the second round. Hernandez himself lost an eye to the hat of Swedish captain Henrik Hammersen.
The Turban has always been a poor hat and from the minute they arrived in South Africa you sensed that the Indian team knew it. Bereft of confidence, they lost all three group games and limped out of the tournament.
The Italian Fedora was as solid and as well organised as usual but struggled to break down opposition defences and suffered a shock early exit.
As we all know, it was the Spanish, with their stylish Flamenco Hats and fiery latino temperaments, who eventually fulfilled their huge potential and got their name on the famous Golden Hat. Well done boys, you deserved it. The best hats won.
Funnily enough I found out afterwards that there was another tournament going on in South Africa at the same time: the FIFA or Hatless World Cup as you will know it better. Spain won that one as well apparently.
The French arrived looking like dicks as usual.
Winners in '98 and runners-up in 2006, a lot was expected of the mercurial Berets but they fell disappointingly at the first hurdle, drowning in a sea of bad vibes and hatred. By the end of the tournament the French felt nothing but contempt for each other and everyone else. None of this was helped by me asking, in the press conference after their first match, why they'd come dressed as mimes.
This was the Aussies' first ever appearance at the World Cup of Hats and many, not knowing what the corks did but assuming they had a purpose, tipped them to go far. Turns out the Aussies didn't know what the corks were supposed to do either and they were promptly eliminated without winning a game.
Pele famously once said that an African team would win the World Cup of Hats before the turn of the century.
They’ve still got a long way to go in my opinion.
The laughing stock of every World Cup of Hats since 1578, the Egyptians, in their ridiculous little Fez Hats, are yet to win a single match. This year they excelled themselves, even managing to get beaten by that stupid Jamaican Rasta Hat that everyone had assumed to be a joke.
The Dutch have always been renowned for their beautiful hats and at times they were an absolute joy to watch at this tournament, but once again they lacked that killer instinct needed to win the thing, unlike…
The Germans.
This formidable looking German Hat showed its strength once again, particularly in the pasting they handed out to the English, who found that, while their top hats and bowlers work perfectly well at home, they look hopelessly old fashioned and out of their depth at international hat level.
The English are slowly coming to terms with the fact that they will never again be Hat Champions of the World.
This formidable looking German Hat showed its strength once again, particularly in the pasting they handed out to the English, who found that, while their top hats and bowlers work perfectly well at home, they look hopelessly old fashioned and out of their depth at international hat level.
The English are slowly coming to terms with the fact that they will never again be Hat Champions of the World.
The Stetson, on the other hand, is a hat that continues to punch above its weight. Another fine tournament from the Americans shows that they're finally starting to take hats seriously after so many years tossing about with baseball caps and mortar boards.
The Mexican captain, Angel Hernandez, is one of the biggest names in the world of hats and was followed by a huge entourage of reporters, security and screaming girls everywhere he went.I thought he was a bit of an arse myself and was delighted when him and the rest of his poncey Sombrero-wearing mates were knocked out by the no-nonsense Viking Hats of the Swedes in the second round. Hernandez himself lost an eye to the hat of Swedish captain Henrik Hammersen.
The Turban has always been a poor hat and from the minute they arrived in South Africa you sensed that the Indian team knew it. Bereft of confidence, they lost all three group games and limped out of the tournament.
While they have about as much chance of winning the event as I have of becoming Heavyweight Champion of the World, it is often said that the Scots bring a lot of colour and life to the World Cup party and that they are good for the tournament. I disagree. They drove everyone fucking nuts with their drinking and fighting and everything was much better after they'd gone home.
Without doubt one of the worst hats in the history of hats.
Many people have pointed out that if the World Cup of Hats was held in the winter, rather than the summer, the Russians, with their big, furry hats, would have won it plenty of times by now. As it is it's just too damn hot for them. Once again, the entire Russian team collapsed with heat stroke after 20 minutes of their first game.
The Italian Fedora was as solid and as well organised as usual but struggled to break down opposition defences and suffered a shock early exit.
As we all know, it was the Spanish, with their stylish Flamenco Hats and fiery latino temperaments, who eventually fulfilled their huge potential and got their name on the famous Golden Hat. Well done boys, you deserved it. The best hats won.
Funnily enough I found out afterwards that there was another tournament going on in South Africa at the same time: the FIFA or Hatless World Cup as you will know it better. Spain won that one as well apparently.
A couple of vintage World Cup posters from tournaments gone by:
Monday, 19 July 2010
11 questions about Flying Ant Day...
- Do the ants know it's going to happen?
- If so, do they look forward to it and say things like: 'I can't fucking wait for Flying Ant Day this year!' or does it hang over them all summer like a cloud? 'Fucking hell, Flying-fucking-Ant Day's coming 'round again.'
- Do ants call it Flying Ant Day or just Flying Day?
- How do they know to all do it at the same time and who gives the green light to start?
- Do they spend the whole day in a state of frenzy and scream things like: 'fucking hell, I'm flying!' or do they take it in their stride. 'Yeah, I'm flying. What of it?'
- Do they get depressed on Flying Ant Boxing Day when they wake up and their wings aren't there any more? 'Only another 364 days of crawling around on our crappy little legs like cunts again. Carrying leaves and shit.
- Why don't other animals do equally interesting annual role-reversals? Swimming Eagle Day? Walking Shark Day? Flying Badger Day?
- Are there any ants that won't do it? 'That's a load of old bollocks, that Flying Ant Day. It gives me the shits.'
- Is it an overly ambitious attempt to invade the planet, enslave the human race and begin the dominion of the Kingdom of the Ants or is it just to impress girl ants?
- Why is it not a national holiday? After all, it's the only 'day' that doesn't disappoint. Christmas leaves you cold, New Year's is a drag, Valentine's Day is a pain in the arse. Flying Ant Day, on the other hand, delivers exactly what it promises. Nothing more, nothing less.
- Are there any ants that think it's become too commercial?
Thursday, 17 June 2010
Across the alternative universe...
Yesterday evening I wandered into a pretty strange part of town. In this pretty strange part of town was a pretty strange street containing a pretty strange shop. Inside the pretty strange shop sat a pretty strange man with a pretty strange beard, wearing a pretty strange hat.
None of this seemed all that strange to me though, so I gave the man a cursory nod and began to browse through his dusty old records. Now, for a pretty strange shop he had a pretty good filing system, all alphabetised and sorted by genre: rock, pop, soul, northern soul, hip-hop, trip-hop, punk, indie, alternative...
That last one always confuses me: alternative. Alternative to what exactly?
“Alternative to everything,” said the strange man through his strange mouth. “That section contains all the music that might have been, had things been different.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what he meant. “What do you mean?” I asked him.
He just smiled a strange sort of smile and beckoned me forwards with a strange curly finger. “Check this out,” he said, unlocking a big steel trunk and producing a tatty piece of old vinyl.
“What in the name of Christ is that?” I asked.
“This record comes from a universe in which John Lennon wasn’t shot and The Beatles reformed in 1987 to make one truly awful comeback album.”
“Shit off!”
“They held out longer than their peers, but in the end the lure of the money was too great.”
The strange man refused point blank to play me the album, as he had sworn to the God of the Space Time Continuum that he would never let any other mortal from our universe hear it, lest The Beatles legend be diluted and all civilisation destroyed.
“If people lose faith in The Beatles, they lose faith in humanity itself,” he said. “But I will let you read this track-by-track review from Rolling Stone magazine if you like.”
Soundwaves
The Beatles
1. Art Beat (McCartney)
The most eagerly awaited album in rock history kicks off with this catchy but totally pointless pop throwaway about the ‘power’ of music. McCartney’s futuristic production (synths, drum machines and vocoder all feature prominently) seems an over-eager attempt to prove that The Beatles, though all firmly into their forties, are by no means old hat. Unfortunately, this approach has produced a record that sounds instantly dated and a little cheap. The repeated refrain - ‘music is art with a beat, paintings never make you tap your feet. Poems and plays are an occasional treat, but rhythm and blues is the language of the street’ - is McCartney at his most cringeworthy; desperately trying to sound cool and relevant in a world that has discarded all but the most dangerous of its rock dinosaurs. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the ill-advised four minute sax solo which was omitted from the single version at the behest of George Martin is included here in its awful entirety as McCartney repeatedly skats the words “art” and ‘beat” behind it.
2. Maggie Thatcher, Milk Snatcher (Lennon)
Next comes the first of two savage attacks on the current Conservative government of Great Britain from John. Throughout the 80s, John has been most vocal in his criticism of the “Tories”, describing them as both “fascist” and “a big bunch of kid-strangling, money-grabbing cunts.” Perhaps it is no surprise that two of his three contributions to the first Beatles record in 17 years are little more than campaign messages to support his burgeoning political career. (John has set up his own party, The Pig Fuckers, and has already declared his ambitions to become prime minister before the decade is out.) This is basically a spoken-word number in which John reels off a vitriolic list of things that Maggie’s government has cut, or “snatched” as he puts it, from the budget. After four and a half minutes of this, he brings the song to a welcome conclusion with the line, ‘Sorry Bob, we’re all working on Maggie’s Farm now.’
It’s not an easy listen by any means but one gets the impression that this “wake up call to the establishment”, as John describes it, was never intended to be easy listening. It’s supposed to be powerful. And it would have been were it not for the ridiculously chirpy, lightweight instrumental arrangement from McCartney (featuring marimbas, sleigh bells, xylophones and a whole children’s choir) that jars horribly with the dark lyrics. Rumour has it that McCartney, ever fearful of any sort of political rhetoric in The Beatles’ music that might divide their audience, was not too comfortable with this song’s inclusion on the album. As he puts it: “you can’t have universal appeal if you keep saying things.”
3. Pic-A-Nic Basket (McCartney)
The third and (we can but hope) final part in the series that began with ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’ on the White Album and continued with ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ on Abbey Road, in which McCartney attempts to write the most irritating song ever written. This sickening tale of a trip to the beach with his wife Linda is so twee and saccharine that it makes you want to stick pins in your eyes. Indeed, you can almost hear George’s disdain for the song in the delivery of his backing vocals in which he is forced to repeat the lyric: ‘strawberry jam, bread, cheese and ham,’ ad infinitum. Though the song is technically short at 2:12, by the time it finally fades away into blissful silence you feel as though it has been going on for weeks, perhaps even years.
Note: According to George, this song took over 4000 agonising takes to perfect, with McCartney constantly complaining that it wasn’t “bouncing” enough.
4. Zen Barlow (Harrison)
Apparently, some time during the magical summer of 1986, George Harrison’s never-ending quest for spiritual fulfillment took him to L.A. There, he met famous jazz musician, Herbie Hancock, and the two, united by their mutual fondness of Buddhism, struck up a strong friendship and began to jam together in a series of secret but electrifying gigs around the city. It was during one of these gigs that Hancock introduced George to a strange new instrument he’d discovered and began tinkering with the year before: the keytar. George was said to be immediately blown away, not just by the look of the thing, but by the incredible, mind-bending sounds it could produce and immediately decided that his guitars, sitars and pianos were yesterday’s news. The next day he bought a keytar and, according to McCartney, he hasn’t put it down since. This unlistenable instrumental (the title is a nod to George’s other great love, Coronation Street [a British soap opera], and the man he describes as “his guru”, Ken Barlow) is basically just keytar and nothing else.
John: “We wanted to play on it but he insisted that the keytar could do everything. Apparently it’s got a drum machine built in or something.”
George: “I just really wanted to showcase the power of this incredible thing. I wanted to be able to say to people: you know all those crazy, far out sounds on Zen Barlow? Well, that’s just me and my keytar.”
When asked about this song in a recent interview for Butter My Arse magazine, Ringo quipped that George's trusty old Gibson guitar spent the whole session “gently weeping” in the corner.
5. Together, Forever (McCartney)
After the ponderous ‘Art Beat’ and the hateful ‘Pic-A-Nic Basket’, finally a bit of the old McCartney magic. Ok, so the lyrics are a bit cheesy, the strings tickle the puke reflex a little and there’s enough reverb on the vocal to make it sound as though it’s being sung in the Grand Canyon, but all in all ‘Together, Forever’ is magnificent. Pitched somewhere in between ‘Here, There and Everywhere’ and ‘The Long and Winding Road’, this is the kind of melody that only McCartney can write. His heartfelt promise to his wife Linda that they will be ‘together, forever’ sounds genuinely sincere and the emotion with which he delivers the final lines: ‘if death should ever take you, I’ll take my life. Never could go on with another wife,’ leaves the listener in no doubt that he really means it.
6. Pattie Got The Clap (Harrison)
No prizes for guessing what this one’s about, ay? It seems that even though it happened well over ten years ago, George still maintains a healthy amount of bitterness about his wife Pattie leaving him and shacking up with his old mate Eric Clapton. Though the contrast with McCartney’s previous song about his wife could scarcely be greater, this mid-tempo, Pogues-like rocker also makes for a very good listen with George’s chirpy, pub singalong vocal delivery assuring the listener that the lyric is more humorous than nasty:
It should also be pointed out that this is the first time we hear Ringo on the whole album. “It’s not the first time George Martin’s replaced me with a drum machine,” he laughed (this being a sly reference to the time he was replaced by Andy White on their first record ‘Love Me Do’). Happily, he, like the rest of the group, is on fine form here. It just goes to show that for all the sophisticated production techniques and studio trickery, The Beatles are still at their best when they’re playing live (though the keytar solo in the middle is just plain weird).
The funny thing is, if anything’s going to alienate the loyal Beatles’ fanbase it will be McCartney’s pandering, not John’s preaching.
VERDICT 2/5
I put down the review and looked at the strange old man, who was now occupying himself with a strange late sixties Buddy Holly album called Peggy Sue’s Psychedelic Boogaloo and an equally strange Velvet Underground album with an apple on the cover.
“None of that actually happened, did it?” I asked him.
“This isn’t about what is and what was,” he said, mysteriously. “But of what could have been.”
None of this seemed all that strange to me though, so I gave the man a cursory nod and began to browse through his dusty old records. Now, for a pretty strange shop he had a pretty good filing system, all alphabetised and sorted by genre: rock, pop, soul, northern soul, hip-hop, trip-hop, punk, indie, alternative...
That last one always confuses me: alternative. Alternative to what exactly?
“Alternative to everything,” said the strange man through his strange mouth. “That section contains all the music that might have been, had things been different.”
I couldn’t help but wonder what he meant. “What do you mean?” I asked him.
He just smiled a strange sort of smile and beckoned me forwards with a strange curly finger. “Check this out,” he said, unlocking a big steel trunk and producing a tatty piece of old vinyl.
“What in the name of Christ is that?” I asked.“This record comes from a universe in which John Lennon wasn’t shot and The Beatles reformed in 1987 to make one truly awful comeback album.”
“Shit off!”
“They held out longer than their peers, but in the end the lure of the money was too great.”
The strange man refused point blank to play me the album, as he had sworn to the God of the Space Time Continuum that he would never let any other mortal from our universe hear it, lest The Beatles legend be diluted and all civilisation destroyed.“If people lose faith in The Beatles, they lose faith in humanity itself,” he said. “But I will let you read this track-by-track review from Rolling Stone magazine if you like.”
Soundwaves
The Beatles
1. Art Beat (McCartney)
The most eagerly awaited album in rock history kicks off with this catchy but totally pointless pop throwaway about the ‘power’ of music. McCartney’s futuristic production (synths, drum machines and vocoder all feature prominently) seems an over-eager attempt to prove that The Beatles, though all firmly into their forties, are by no means old hat. Unfortunately, this approach has produced a record that sounds instantly dated and a little cheap. The repeated refrain - ‘music is art with a beat, paintings never make you tap your feet. Poems and plays are an occasional treat, but rhythm and blues is the language of the street’ - is McCartney at his most cringeworthy; desperately trying to sound cool and relevant in a world that has discarded all but the most dangerous of its rock dinosaurs. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the ill-advised four minute sax solo which was omitted from the single version at the behest of George Martin is included here in its awful entirety as McCartney repeatedly skats the words “art” and ‘beat” behind it.
2. Maggie Thatcher, Milk Snatcher (Lennon)
Next comes the first of two savage attacks on the current Conservative government of Great Britain from John. Throughout the 80s, John has been most vocal in his criticism of the “Tories”, describing them as both “fascist” and “a big bunch of kid-strangling, money-grabbing cunts.” Perhaps it is no surprise that two of his three contributions to the first Beatles record in 17 years are little more than campaign messages to support his burgeoning political career. (John has set up his own party, The Pig Fuckers, and has already declared his ambitions to become prime minister before the decade is out.) This is basically a spoken-word number in which John reels off a vitriolic list of things that Maggie’s government has cut, or “snatched” as he puts it, from the budget. After four and a half minutes of this, he brings the song to a welcome conclusion with the line, ‘Sorry Bob, we’re all working on Maggie’s Farm now.’
It’s not an easy listen by any means but one gets the impression that this “wake up call to the establishment”, as John describes it, was never intended to be easy listening. It’s supposed to be powerful. And it would have been were it not for the ridiculously chirpy, lightweight instrumental arrangement from McCartney (featuring marimbas, sleigh bells, xylophones and a whole children’s choir) that jars horribly with the dark lyrics. Rumour has it that McCartney, ever fearful of any sort of political rhetoric in The Beatles’ music that might divide their audience, was not too comfortable with this song’s inclusion on the album. As he puts it: “you can’t have universal appeal if you keep saying things.”
3. Pic-A-Nic Basket (McCartney)
The third and (we can but hope) final part in the series that began with ‘Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da’ on the White Album and continued with ‘Maxwell’s Silver Hammer’ on Abbey Road, in which McCartney attempts to write the most irritating song ever written. This sickening tale of a trip to the beach with his wife Linda is so twee and saccharine that it makes you want to stick pins in your eyes. Indeed, you can almost hear George’s disdain for the song in the delivery of his backing vocals in which he is forced to repeat the lyric: ‘strawberry jam, bread, cheese and ham,’ ad infinitum. Though the song is technically short at 2:12, by the time it finally fades away into blissful silence you feel as though it has been going on for weeks, perhaps even years.
Note: According to George, this song took over 4000 agonising takes to perfect, with McCartney constantly complaining that it wasn’t “bouncing” enough.
4. Zen Barlow (Harrison)
Apparently, some time during the magical summer of 1986, George Harrison’s never-ending quest for spiritual fulfillment took him to L.A. There, he met famous jazz musician, Herbie Hancock, and the two, united by their mutual fondness of Buddhism, struck up a strong friendship and began to jam together in a series of secret but electrifying gigs around the city. It was during one of these gigs that Hancock introduced George to a strange new instrument he’d discovered and began tinkering with the year before: the keytar. George was said to be immediately blown away, not just by the look of the thing, but by the incredible, mind-bending sounds it could produce and immediately decided that his guitars, sitars and pianos were yesterday’s news. The next day he bought a keytar and, according to McCartney, he hasn’t put it down since. This unlistenable instrumental (the title is a nod to George’s other great love, Coronation Street [a British soap opera], and the man he describes as “his guru”, Ken Barlow) is basically just keytar and nothing else.
John: “We wanted to play on it but he insisted that the keytar could do everything. Apparently it’s got a drum machine built in or something.”
George: “I just really wanted to showcase the power of this incredible thing. I wanted to be able to say to people: you know all those crazy, far out sounds on Zen Barlow? Well, that’s just me and my keytar.”
When asked about this song in a recent interview for Butter My Arse magazine, Ringo quipped that George's trusty old Gibson guitar spent the whole session “gently weeping” in the corner.
5. Together, Forever (McCartney)
After the ponderous ‘Art Beat’ and the hateful ‘Pic-A-Nic Basket’, finally a bit of the old McCartney magic. Ok, so the lyrics are a bit cheesy, the strings tickle the puke reflex a little and there’s enough reverb on the vocal to make it sound as though it’s being sung in the Grand Canyon, but all in all ‘Together, Forever’ is magnificent. Pitched somewhere in between ‘Here, There and Everywhere’ and ‘The Long and Winding Road’, this is the kind of melody that only McCartney can write. His heartfelt promise to his wife Linda that they will be ‘together, forever’ sounds genuinely sincere and the emotion with which he delivers the final lines: ‘if death should ever take you, I’ll take my life. Never could go on with another wife,’ leaves the listener in no doubt that he really means it.
6. Pattie Got The Clap (Harrison)
No prizes for guessing what this one’s about, ay? It seems that even though it happened well over ten years ago, George still maintains a healthy amount of bitterness about his wife Pattie leaving him and shacking up with his old mate Eric Clapton. Though the contrast with McCartney’s previous song about his wife could scarcely be greater, this mid-tempo, Pogues-like rocker also makes for a very good listen with George’s chirpy, pub singalong vocal delivery assuring the listener that the lyric is more humorous than nasty:
“Georgie fell head first into her trap, Eric slipped in like a cat through a flap.
He lost that grin when I gave him a slap, and Pattie? Pattie got the Clap.”
He lost that grin when I gave him a slap, and Pattie? Pattie got the Clap.”
It should also be pointed out that this is the first time we hear Ringo on the whole album. “It’s not the first time George Martin’s replaced me with a drum machine,” he laughed (this being a sly reference to the time he was replaced by Andy White on their first record ‘Love Me Do’). Happily, he, like the rest of the group, is on fine form here. It just goes to show that for all the sophisticated production techniques and studio trickery, The Beatles are still at their best when they’re playing live (though the keytar solo in the middle is just plain weird).
7. Beautiful Boys (Lennon)
With the album suddenly hitting its stride, John too steps up his game with this delightful ballad. As the title suggests, it’s more or less a sequel to the original ‘Beautiful Boy’ written by John to “set the record straight” after Cynthia had told him how upset Julian was when John sang: ‘beautiful, beautiful, beautiful darling Sean’ at the end of ‘Beautiful Boy’.
“Up until then he’d thought the song was about him,” she said. “I remember he cried for weeks and eventually asked me: aren’t I beautiful, Mum?”
So John finally acknowledges his firstborn’s existence in song with this heartfelt little ditty in which he reminds both of his “beautiful boys” how much he loves them. Nice.
“Up until then he’d thought the song was about him,” she said. “I remember he cried for weeks and eventually asked me: aren’t I beautiful, Mum?”
So John finally acknowledges his firstborn’s existence in song with this heartfelt little ditty in which he reminds both of his “beautiful boys” how much he loves them. Nice.
8. Persephone (Harrison)
Another keytar-driven rocker from George about a mysterious ‘devil woman, Queen of the underworld,’ who ‘tore out his heart and ripped it apart’ and left him for an equally mysterious ‘man with slow hands.’
9. Back Where We Once Belonged (McCartney)
This is obviously a not-so-subtle callback to the line ‘get back to where you once belonged’ on ‘Get Back’ and once again illustrates just how much McCartney is in love with his own myth. According to many reports, the shadow of Let It Be hung over the recording of this track with John repeatedly bickering with Linda McCartney - who just sat in the corner staring at him for the whole session - and calling her “the new Yoko” and George storming out after McCartney refused to allow him to play keytar on the track, insisting that it was to be honest rock & roll or nothing. George said, “I’ll take the nothing option then,” and wasn’t seen again for two days. Eventually though, the song did get finished, and it’s not a bad number all in all, even if it does feel a tad contrived. (George Martin himself described it as ‘Beatles by numbers’.)
“I don’t like going backwards,” said John, talking of the lyric. “The problem is he always wants to get back and I always want to go forward. Maybe one day we’ll meet in the middle.”
10. The Wheels On The Bus (trad. arr McCartney)
About three quarters of the way through listening to this record I was struck by a thought that ran all the way up and down my spine and chilled me to the bones: Ringo hasn't sung one yet.
Don't panic, I told myself. Maybe there won't be a Ringo number.
Don't be ridiculous, man! There's always a Ringo number. There always has been and there always will be. A Ringo number on a Beatles’ record is as certain as death and taxes.
Talk about a self-fulfilling prophecy! No sooner had I conceived of it than it was happening... and it was even more awful than I could ever have imagined. Quite what malfunction occurred in McCartney’s brain to make him think the world was ready for a “disco-funk remix of ‘The Wheels On The Bus’ to get everyone dancing” (his words, not mine) is unknown, but that the others were unable (or unwilling) to talk him out of it says everything you need to know about their mindsets by this time.
“We just wanted it to be over,” said George, reflecting on the final few days of recording.
My sentiments exactly. This “epic” clocks in at a staggering 11 minutes and 26 seconds, the final 6 minutes of which are little more than a chaotic, anything-goes jam during which John shouts, among other things, ‘all you need is gloves!’ over and over again.
“That was great fun to record,” smiles Ringo. “The jam actually went on for over four hours but they decided to cut it down to 12 minutes for the album. It’s a shame because some of our best stuff got left on the cutting room floor. I was all in favour of putting the whole thing out as a historic four-disc single but it wasn’t to be.”
11. 1984 (Lennon)
Fortunately, the record doesn’t end with ‘The Wheels On The Bus’. Instead we get John’s third (and best) composition, ‘1984’. Now, if Soundwaves contains a masterpiece then this is surely it. Built around an eerie descending chord progression (think the verses of ‘Cry Baby Cry’ but somehow heavier and more oppressive), this paints equally as terrifying a picture of the future as the book that inspired it.
“I wanted to scare people,” said John. “I wanted to show them what could happen if we stopped paying attention.”
Once again, McCartney was said to be unhappy with the political message, preferring to end the album with his less controversial ‘Polka Dot Princess’ but John would not be denied.
McCartney: “I don’t like the idea of alienating the majority of the country; and whichever way you look at it the majority of the country voted for them.”
John’s riposte? “I couldn't think of any people I’d rather alienate.”
The funny thing is, if anything’s going to alienate the loyal Beatles’ fanbase it will be McCartney’s pandering, not John’s preaching.
VERDICT 2/5
I put down the review and looked at the strange old man, who was now occupying himself with a strange late sixties Buddy Holly album called Peggy Sue’s Psychedelic Boogaloo and an equally strange Velvet Underground album with an apple on the cover.
“None of that actually happened, did it?” I asked him.
“This isn’t about what is and what was,” he said, mysteriously. “But of what could have been.”
Monday, 14 June 2010
I Love Shite Festival 2010...
Successfully wasted another couple of hours of my life last night watching the highlights of the Isle Of Wight Festival and getting all worked up about the state of modern pop music (which has now fallen behind TV adverts, radio jingles and lift music in the race to produce fresh and original new sounds for the masses).
I was reminded of my own trip to the Isle Of Wight Festival back in 2004 (when pop music was only three quarters of the way through its terminal decline and was still significantly more relevant than lift music and radio jingles, though still behind TV adverts) to see the remaining living half of The Who. This was during a period of my life that I now refer to as 'ambitious' (most people at the time plumped for 'deluded') when I decided that I could write just as good as, if not a little bit better than, Dylan. There doesn’t seem to be any real trick to it, I thought. Just bring out the madness in everyday life, make the ordinary seem extraordinary, keep it rhyming, toss in a few Shakespearean references, the odd Bible character, add the occasional satirical swipe here and there… easy. Turns out it's not nearly as easy as it sounds and, instead of making you appear really cool and interesting, can in fact leave you wide open to looking a bit of a twat.
This song went through many working titles - Stuck Inside Of Newport With The Island Blues Again, Henry Harding's 116th Dream, Like A Standing Stone - before I eventually decided to parody (rip off) another of my heroes instead:
Fear and loathing at the Isle Of Wight Festival
Written June 2004
The milkman ain’t out today, he don’t come round no more.
But the postman is on his way to feed a ticket to my door.
The neighbour drops round to say, “have fun on holiday,
And I’ll water your plants for you but I’ll do it my own way.”
I mixed up some cornflakes with some milk inside a bowl.
It’s a common way to start your day but it lacks a little soul.
Then walked around the corner for my daily paper Sun.
To get my fill of hatefulness and sexy, topless fun.
I arranged a meeting with my friends outside the car,
They said, “where are we going? I hope it isn’t far.”
Gave a pound to Michael so he’d read my horoscope.
He said “all men will hang themselves if you give them enough rope.”
Then someone with a clipboard asked me if I’m gonna vote.
For Labour or Conservative and as I spoke he wrote.
I said, “I won’t be voting, not through fear but lack of choice.”
When he snapped his pen and shouted at me, “Boy, you’ve got no voice!”
I arranged a meeting with my friends outside the car,
They asked, “where are we going? I pray it isn’t far.”
Filled the car with petrol and then drove it off a cliff.
The walk will do us good you know, my joints were feeling stiff.
And everywhere I look I see a picture of the sea.
It keeps my mind from staring at the local scenery.
I think if I can see it I might paint one of the sky.
I’m not the greatest artist but I’ll sure give it a try.
Chewing gum and waiting for the ferry to arrive.
When I set food on land again I hope I’m still alive.
The ferry overcharged me when I went to get a drink.
I asked them if the food was free, they said, “only if we sink.”
Everyone was soaking up the sun as it got high.
But I became distracted by some pirates floating by.
The people on the fruit machine did not win any fruit.
But the man on the car boot machine very nearly won a suit.
Then the pirates broke the cash machine and pocketed the loot.
So the captain swapped the money back for a basketful of fruit.
The boat came into port and they were shooting ducks for sport.
It seems this trip is going to be stranger than I thought.
Set foot on the island it’s a maze of docks and cranes.
And fishermen and Coke machines and coloured aeroplanes.
And I’ve been told that fishermen are dignified and free.
Take commands from nobody, married to the sea.
Smoke cigarettes, learn alphabets and recite poetry.
Well poetry’s like music but without the melody.
I could hear a singer floating songs into the air.
He was giving it his best but the people didn’t care.
The sun was shining fierce it burnt the buckle on my belt.
And half an hour later my baguette started to melt.
It seemed I had two options that could cool my body down.
A glass of Pure Wight Crystal or a pint inside The Crown.
I sat my head into my hands to ponder on my choice.
When a lady told me that she thought she recognised my voice.
She said, “aren’t you a banker when you’re back on the mainland?”
And I shook my head and said, “No, I’m a singer in a band.”
I was sucking apple cores to counteract the heat.
While everybody else was simply staring at their feet.
Now I’m discussing razor blades with tattooed, racist men.
Who tell me that Britannia’s gonna rule the waves again.
I asked if it’s a statement that they never wear a shirt.
Or a warning to the rest of us that people might get hurt.
They said, “you’ve got a lot of nerve to talk with us that way,
And don’t think for a second that you’re not about to pay.”
I said, “we could talk for hours ’bout what’s wrong and what is right.”
When they all put on St George’s flags and offered me a fight.
I fell asleep and dreamed that I was on my way back home.
Then opened up my eyes to find I already was at home.
What hour of the morning did I step on to the boat?
What time was it exactly that I registered my vote?
A friend of mine walked in and looked at me a funny way.
He said, “you should get out more.” I said, “I’ve been out all day!”
“It’s a pointless, useless waste to spend a day inside your head.
You haven’t moved a muscle, just been lying there in bed.”
He says imagination will only get you so far.
But I wrote this song on a picture of my guitar.
Just in case you were wondering if it works better with the music, it doesn't.
I was reminded of my own trip to the Isle Of Wight Festival back in 2004 (when pop music was only three quarters of the way through its terminal decline and was still significantly more relevant than lift music and radio jingles, though still behind TV adverts) to see the remaining living half of The Who. This was during a period of my life that I now refer to as 'ambitious' (most people at the time plumped for 'deluded') when I decided that I could write just as good as, if not a little bit better than, Dylan. There doesn’t seem to be any real trick to it, I thought. Just bring out the madness in everyday life, make the ordinary seem extraordinary, keep it rhyming, toss in a few Shakespearean references, the odd Bible character, add the occasional satirical swipe here and there… easy. Turns out it's not nearly as easy as it sounds and, instead of making you appear really cool and interesting, can in fact leave you wide open to looking a bit of a twat.
This song went through many working titles - Stuck Inside Of Newport With The Island Blues Again, Henry Harding's 116th Dream, Like A Standing Stone - before I eventually decided to parody (rip off) another of my heroes instead:
Fear and loathing at the Isle Of Wight Festival
Written June 2004
The milkman ain’t out today, he don’t come round no more.
But the postman is on his way to feed a ticket to my door.
The neighbour drops round to say, “have fun on holiday,
And I’ll water your plants for you but I’ll do it my own way.”
I mixed up some cornflakes with some milk inside a bowl.
It’s a common way to start your day but it lacks a little soul.
Then walked around the corner for my daily paper Sun.
To get my fill of hatefulness and sexy, topless fun.
I arranged a meeting with my friends outside the car,
They said, “where are we going? I hope it isn’t far.”
Gave a pound to Michael so he’d read my horoscope.
He said “all men will hang themselves if you give them enough rope.”
Then someone with a clipboard asked me if I’m gonna vote.
For Labour or Conservative and as I spoke he wrote.
I said, “I won’t be voting, not through fear but lack of choice.”
When he snapped his pen and shouted at me, “Boy, you’ve got no voice!”
I arranged a meeting with my friends outside the car,
They asked, “where are we going? I pray it isn’t far.”
Filled the car with petrol and then drove it off a cliff.
The walk will do us good you know, my joints were feeling stiff.
And everywhere I look I see a picture of the sea.
It keeps my mind from staring at the local scenery.
I think if I can see it I might paint one of the sky.
I’m not the greatest artist but I’ll sure give it a try.
Chewing gum and waiting for the ferry to arrive.
When I set food on land again I hope I’m still alive.
The ferry overcharged me when I went to get a drink.
I asked them if the food was free, they said, “only if we sink.”
Everyone was soaking up the sun as it got high.
But I became distracted by some pirates floating by.
The people on the fruit machine did not win any fruit.
But the man on the car boot machine very nearly won a suit.
Then the pirates broke the cash machine and pocketed the loot.
So the captain swapped the money back for a basketful of fruit.
The boat came into port and they were shooting ducks for sport.
It seems this trip is going to be stranger than I thought.
Set foot on the island it’s a maze of docks and cranes.
And fishermen and Coke machines and coloured aeroplanes.
And I’ve been told that fishermen are dignified and free.
Take commands from nobody, married to the sea.
Smoke cigarettes, learn alphabets and recite poetry.
Well poetry’s like music but without the melody.
I could hear a singer floating songs into the air.
He was giving it his best but the people didn’t care.
The sun was shining fierce it burnt the buckle on my belt.
And half an hour later my baguette started to melt.
It seemed I had two options that could cool my body down.
A glass of Pure Wight Crystal or a pint inside The Crown.
I sat my head into my hands to ponder on my choice.
When a lady told me that she thought she recognised my voice.
She said, “aren’t you a banker when you’re back on the mainland?”
And I shook my head and said, “No, I’m a singer in a band.”
I was sucking apple cores to counteract the heat.
While everybody else was simply staring at their feet.
Now I’m discussing razor blades with tattooed, racist men.
Who tell me that Britannia’s gonna rule the waves again.
I asked if it’s a statement that they never wear a shirt.
Or a warning to the rest of us that people might get hurt.
They said, “you’ve got a lot of nerve to talk with us that way,
And don’t think for a second that you’re not about to pay.”
I said, “we could talk for hours ’bout what’s wrong and what is right.”
When they all put on St George’s flags and offered me a fight.
I fell asleep and dreamed that I was on my way back home.
Then opened up my eyes to find I already was at home.
What hour of the morning did I step on to the boat?
What time was it exactly that I registered my vote?
A friend of mine walked in and looked at me a funny way.
He said, “you should get out more.” I said, “I’ve been out all day!”
“It’s a pointless, useless waste to spend a day inside your head.
You haven’t moved a muscle, just been lying there in bed.”
He says imagination will only get you so far.
But I wrote this song on a picture of my guitar.
Just in case you were wondering if it works better with the music, it doesn't.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
United in madness...
In the last few days, a fair few of my friends/colleagues/acquaintances have come down with some particularly nasty cases of this World Cup Fever that's been going round.
World Cup Fever is a delusion of the brain that causes hitherto healthy and rational men to suddenly convince themselves with complete and utter certainty that England are about to win the World Cup. They paint their faces, put flags on their cars, buy new TVs and say things like: 'we've got the players' and 'Wayne Rooney's the best striker in the world' and 'remember, it's winter over there.'
Occasionally, they even get science involved. Remember this list of previous World Cup winners that was rolled out to mass excitement in 1998?
1966: England
1970: Brazil
1974: Germany
1978: Argentina
1982: Italy
1986: Argentina
1990: Germany
1994: Brazil
1998: ?
*That question mark was supposed to symbolise England but ended up symbolising France.
Sufferers of the disease seem to lose all cognitive thought (much like those under the influence of a spell or hypnosis) and are unable to understand what the rest of us all know intuitively - there is more chance of the moon turning, overnight, into a giant, floating Malteser than there is of England ever winning the World Cup.
Fortunately, the disease is still rare (though experts have noticed that it seems to be on a four year cycle with particularly bad outbreaks in the summers of 1998, 2002 and 2006) and can be controlled with repeated, Clockwork Orange-style viewings of Chris Waddle's penalty, Beckham's sending off and Graham Taylor saying 'do I not like that' on a continuous loop.
Now I know all about World Cup Fever having first contracted it as a mere boy in 1990 and almost dying from it in 2006 but I am now, thankfully, immune to all forms of the disease (including its domestic variants Pre-Season Optimism Disease and Our Name's On The Cup Syndrome). My immunity, of course, means I am destined to spend the next month as the 'lone voice of sanity in an ocean of madness' (or 'miserable prophet of doom' as the afflicted call me) but I don't mind. I'd rather be despised for my defeatist attitude than get sucked in and blown out again by that complete bunch of bastards and losers we call the England Football Team.
If you, or anyone you know, is currently suffering the effects of World Cup Fever, the following clips should help to bring it back under control:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dmws59X1cNg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGdQvqbIexk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExUX7MBk5UM
and finally...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37PIWoYsj00
World Cup Fever is a delusion of the brain that causes hitherto healthy and rational men to suddenly convince themselves with complete and utter certainty that England are about to win the World Cup. They paint their faces, put flags on their cars, buy new TVs and say things like: 'we've got the players' and 'Wayne Rooney's the best striker in the world' and 'remember, it's winter over there.'
Occasionally, they even get science involved. Remember this list of previous World Cup winners that was rolled out to mass excitement in 1998?
1966: England
1970: Brazil
1974: Germany
1978: Argentina
1982: Italy
1986: Argentina
1990: Germany
1994: Brazil
1998: ?
*That question mark was supposed to symbolise England but ended up symbolising France.
Sufferers of the disease seem to lose all cognitive thought (much like those under the influence of a spell or hypnosis) and are unable to understand what the rest of us all know intuitively - there is more chance of the moon turning, overnight, into a giant, floating Malteser than there is of England ever winning the World Cup.
Fortunately, the disease is still rare (though experts have noticed that it seems to be on a four year cycle with particularly bad outbreaks in the summers of 1998, 2002 and 2006) and can be controlled with repeated, Clockwork Orange-style viewings of Chris Waddle's penalty, Beckham's sending off and Graham Taylor saying 'do I not like that' on a continuous loop.
Now I know all about World Cup Fever having first contracted it as a mere boy in 1990 and almost dying from it in 2006 but I am now, thankfully, immune to all forms of the disease (including its domestic variants Pre-Season Optimism Disease and Our Name's On The Cup Syndrome). My immunity, of course, means I am destined to spend the next month as the 'lone voice of sanity in an ocean of madness' (or 'miserable prophet of doom' as the afflicted call me) but I don't mind. I'd rather be despised for my defeatist attitude than get sucked in and blown out again by that complete bunch of bastards and losers we call the England Football Team.
If you, or anyone you know, is currently suffering the effects of World Cup Fever, the following clips should help to bring it back under control:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Dmws59X1cNg
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SGdQvqbIexk
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ExUX7MBk5UM
and finally...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37PIWoYsj00
Sunday, 6 June 2010
11 sensible ways to improve 11 sports...
1. DARTS
Set the board to 'rotate' as opposed to the more traditional 'stationary' option. The board will move slowly at the start of the match and get quicker with each leg until, eventually, it is nothing more than a red, black and green hypnotic blur. This will undoubtedly separate the men from the boys.
Also, introduce a new 'quadruple' ring in between the treble and the bullseye. Hard to hit, being roughly the size of two gnat's cocks side by side, but, if mastered, would enable a fearless player to check out 501 in 7 darts. This will also separate the men from the boys.
2. FOOTBALL
Introduce a ten minute 'multiball' period at the end of each game. Between the 80th and 90th minute there will be two balls on the pitch, both in play. This means two goals could be scored simultaneously at each end or, if one team were to take possession of both balls, two goals could be scored in the same goal at the same time. This will inevitably lead to chaos and put an end to games dribbling out in dull and predictable fashion. TV companies will have to show the action in split-screen so as to be able to focus on both balls. If that doesn't separate the men from the boys I don't know what will.
3. SWIMMING
Fill the pool with all manner of 'interesting' aquatic life such as piranhas, sharks, jellyfish, seaweed, coral, seahorses, beach balls and oil tankers. This will almost certainly separate the men from the boys.
4. TENNIS
Introduce two new surfaces to go alongside grass, clay and hard courts: ice and sand. With a new grand slam on each, one in Dubai and one in Sweden. Also, force the spoilt bastards to say 'please' and 'thank you' every time they request balls or towels from the ball boys. Each time this rule is flouted, the ball boys are permitted to throw one ball, as hard as they like, at the back of the offender's head as he serves. This will integrate the men and the boys.
5. FORMULA ONE
Introduce numerous obstacles (a few tricky and a few downright dangerous) to each track. I'm talking about ramps, speed-ups, big holes in the ground, patches of oil for skidding, patches of glue for slowing you down, bags of nails for puncturing your tyres and 'tunnels' that turn out to be just painted on to solid rock. Remember, the only significant difference between Formula One and Wacky Races is one's boring and one's not.
6. GOLF
Install some sort of vertical firing mechanism in the cup of each hole that shoots the ball straight up to a height of about 10ft approximately 5 seconds after being putted. The putter will then have to volley the ball as hard as he can with his driver onto the next hole and that replaces the tee shot. This will be exciting for all concerned as any spectacular long range puts will have to be accompanied by a lung-busting, heart-attack-inducing sprint to the hole in order to hit the drive. If you don't get there in time it's a dropped shot. Harsh but fair.
7. GYMNASTICS
Advise that all female gymnasts perform their routines in the nude so that we can better analyse their techniques and award them the marks their talent deserves. Also, insist that all male gymnasts perform their routines in a full dress suit, complete with bowler hat and umbrella. Some discretion will be given with regards using the umbrella for balance but points will, of course, be deducted if the hat falls off at any stage.
8. CRICKET
Bring in the old 'one-hand, one-bounce' rule that has been so successful in beach cricket down the years.
9. RUGBY
Just get rid of it. It's rubbish.
10. SHOWJUMPING
Instead of posh totty on horses, do it with Hell's Angels on motorcycles.
11. ROWING
Similar. Instead of toffs pissing about in boats, do it with Hell's Angels on motorcycles.
Set the board to 'rotate' as opposed to the more traditional 'stationary' option. The board will move slowly at the start of the match and get quicker with each leg until, eventually, it is nothing more than a red, black and green hypnotic blur. This will undoubtedly separate the men from the boys.
Also, introduce a new 'quadruple' ring in between the treble and the bullseye. Hard to hit, being roughly the size of two gnat's cocks side by side, but, if mastered, would enable a fearless player to check out 501 in 7 darts. This will also separate the men from the boys.
2. FOOTBALL
Introduce a ten minute 'multiball' period at the end of each game. Between the 80th and 90th minute there will be two balls on the pitch, both in play. This means two goals could be scored simultaneously at each end or, if one team were to take possession of both balls, two goals could be scored in the same goal at the same time. This will inevitably lead to chaos and put an end to games dribbling out in dull and predictable fashion. TV companies will have to show the action in split-screen so as to be able to focus on both balls. If that doesn't separate the men from the boys I don't know what will.
3. SWIMMING
Fill the pool with all manner of 'interesting' aquatic life such as piranhas, sharks, jellyfish, seaweed, coral, seahorses, beach balls and oil tankers. This will almost certainly separate the men from the boys.
4. TENNIS
Introduce two new surfaces to go alongside grass, clay and hard courts: ice and sand. With a new grand slam on each, one in Dubai and one in Sweden. Also, force the spoilt bastards to say 'please' and 'thank you' every time they request balls or towels from the ball boys. Each time this rule is flouted, the ball boys are permitted to throw one ball, as hard as they like, at the back of the offender's head as he serves. This will integrate the men and the boys.
5. FORMULA ONE
Introduce numerous obstacles (a few tricky and a few downright dangerous) to each track. I'm talking about ramps, speed-ups, big holes in the ground, patches of oil for skidding, patches of glue for slowing you down, bags of nails for puncturing your tyres and 'tunnels' that turn out to be just painted on to solid rock. Remember, the only significant difference between Formula One and Wacky Races is one's boring and one's not.
6. GOLF
Install some sort of vertical firing mechanism in the cup of each hole that shoots the ball straight up to a height of about 10ft approximately 5 seconds after being putted. The putter will then have to volley the ball as hard as he can with his driver onto the next hole and that replaces the tee shot. This will be exciting for all concerned as any spectacular long range puts will have to be accompanied by a lung-busting, heart-attack-inducing sprint to the hole in order to hit the drive. If you don't get there in time it's a dropped shot. Harsh but fair.
7. GYMNASTICS
Advise that all female gymnasts perform their routines in the nude so that we can better analyse their techniques and award them the marks their talent deserves. Also, insist that all male gymnasts perform their routines in a full dress suit, complete with bowler hat and umbrella. Some discretion will be given with regards using the umbrella for balance but points will, of course, be deducted if the hat falls off at any stage.
8. CRICKET
Bring in the old 'one-hand, one-bounce' rule that has been so successful in beach cricket down the years.
9. RUGBY
Just get rid of it. It's rubbish.
10. SHOWJUMPING
Instead of posh totty on horses, do it with Hell's Angels on motorcycles.
11. ROWING
Similar. Instead of toffs pissing about in boats, do it with Hell's Angels on motorcycles.
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
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 BagginsWilson's growing insanity gave him the edge in the competition to play Bilbo.
ShagratAmazingly, Richards needed no make-up or CGI to become the orc, Shagrat.
LegolasMany felt Bowie was 'too much of a cunt' to play Legolas.
Frodo BagginsBarrett, like Frodo, got weirder and weirder as the story progressed.
FaramirDaltrey was convinced that Plant ripped off his look.
BoromirPlant was convinced that Daltrey ripped off his look.
WormtongueFor someone who always fancied himself as a hero, playing Wormtongue came as something of a shock to Macca.
GandalfDylan's legendary hat-wearing ability marked him out as a natural choice for the wizard, Gandalf.
ArwenBush brought a refreshing touch of madness to the character, Arwen.
SarumanHendrix impressed at his audition by conjuring fire from the ground.
TreebeardNelson got the part of the ent, Treebeard, by virtue of the fact that he looked most like a tree.
Farmer MaggotEven 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.
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.
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).
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...
- Toys in cereal packets
- Soft porn on Channel 5
- Slush puppies
- Elm trees
- Bar billiard tables
- Jim Davidson
- Fizzy Chewits
- Hovercrafts
- Communists
- Those candy sweets that looked like cigarettes and helped ease kids into smoking from a young age
- 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.
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