When Two Become One: Rooms I Mean

It is an intimidating thing to have the rest of your life on your hands.

This is an apprehension I have had since leaving University, where the ever-present, unquestioned cycle of September – June education, that I have been unthinkingly involved in since before I can remember, disappeared. I have discovered that what I do when left to my own devices is astoundingly uninspiring, involving reading, moping and low-level internet symbiosis.

Perhaps the most active I have been since moving back from a student house was when I had to juggle two rooms worth of tat into one room. The cloying sense of pseudo-claustrophobia is perpetual, though it is counterbalanced by my feeling of superiority over these ‘things’. I am the master of this room, I have fastidiously put everything away, and there it will stay. I hope I am able to raise the bar in terms of achievements before I die, as I am loathe to be remembered as the man who was able to fit an excessive amount of needless flotsam and jetsam into his sleeping chambers.

I had a number of mini-epiphanies whilst being the foreman of this gargantuan shuffling project, most of which I am sure will reflect relatively badly on me, or at least highlight some pathetic compulsions and neuroses that impact on my day to day existence.

In order to fit the contents of two rooms into one it is necessary to make material sacrifices, and though I would willingly spill the blood of a small marine type animal in order to have enough space for everything, it was necessary to throw some stuff out. In all honesty, this should have been easy, as there were a number of technological gadgetry type items hidden away in cupboards that, while hipcool in their time, were now ponderously outdated. Looking down into the whimpering displays of three portable Discmans it was extremely difficult to deposit them into the refuse. The particularly pathetic aspect of this tale is that the portable CD players in question were all broken. They were merely totems of a less futuristic time, when going jogging with a portable music device was impossible because even thinking about coughing would cause the device to skip and jump. Strange that this purported step forward from cassettes would make portable music enjoyment more difficult. Is it even possible for cassettes to jump? Regardless, the appearance of the tiny yet mighty iPod now makes all other sort of music enjoyment redundant, and even finding the pathetic remains of my old iPod was a difficult one to part with, even though it too is broken, and has been for years.

Music is a strange thing, with a stereo that plays cassettes, CDs and radio also being relegated to the top of the wardrobe, to gather dust and moth-carcasses until eventually it too is laid to rest in a rotting filth-Valhalla. Who needs a stereo when you have a PS3 which can do all the same things and so much more? (Okay not cassettes).

Another piece of redundant tat that I discovered was a large batch of floppy discs. It is astounding how little memory is on one, where it would now be quite difficult for a disc to store even text based files from up-to-date word processing programs. What is perhaps more astounding is the fact that I have a computer that is capable of reading these discs, though that computer itself only works when the rings of Saturn are parallel to the forest moon of Endor.

I also ended up with a sack full of plugs, which is good because if I ever need plugs then I know where they are.

So after throwing out Discmans and floppy discs, and after meticulously removing painstakingly self-printed inserts from out of jewel cases (also redundant, nobody has noticed yet though), I was starting to feel as though I was essentially throwing memories into the bin. My fragile composure was further tested when I attempted to categorise the items I was tidying away.

Now some things go together perfectly, with very little thought needed; books go together, as do DVDs, CDs etc. Important documents; payslips, bank statements, contracts etc, all go together. Paper, files and stationery also stay together. Things get slightly more complicated as you journey into the land of less symmetrical items.

It is impossible to categorise a roll of wallpaper, an amp and a breadbin satisfactorily. So then they end up with each other, in what it is necessary to unsatisfactorily label a 'misc' section. There’s something about it that makes me angry. Fucking misc.

When I was organising my room I had bought headphones, which, for some reason, had come with a free boomerang. Which raised an interesting question:

How do you classify a boomerang?

It had come with headphones, so perhaps it goes in with music, or perhaps with the amp, or a microphone? Perhaps it is a leisure throwing type item, and goes with kites/Frisbees/Nerf balls (none of which I have), so can it go in with the football or the pump, sporting equipment? Historically a boomerang is a weapon, though I have no other weapons which it could accompany, save perhaps a rounders bat. I ended up just throwing it in the wardrobe and uttering the following curse: Fuck you, Phillips, fuck you. I don’t care if you are Australian, don’t give me useless stuff, I have enough of that as it is. If you wanted to promote your Antipodean heritage you could have sent me a kangaroo or a koala. They would have been easier to categorise (Pets: Kitchen).

Do maracas go in with the bona fide musical equipment?

I can see the guitars laughing at the maracas with their snooty giraffe necks, and I’d hate for the maracas to be bullied. Similarly, a tambourine is just a shaky thing with bells on. But if we’re being reductive, a guitar is just a strummy thing with strings on. Musical politics is tiring.

The advancement of music hearing technology is quite frightening, in terms of its evolution to the point where it is possible, perhaps usual, to have a million and one songs on one small device, making it the musical equivalent of satellite/cable television. Unfortunately it also suffers from the same downside, which is; often there is so much choice to be had, but nothing worth experiencing.

At least with the iPod, it is my fault.

Spamphlets

Having lived for three years as a student I am now suffering an unpleasant multifaceted comedown. When the end of University was nearing I was filled with eagerness and a sense of pending elation as of a wearied grizzly at the approach of hibernation. Now, filled with the knowledge that there are no employment opportunities to be had and peering nervously into the unremitting veldt of time, I am lost as to how to fill my days, or more importantly perhaps, how to fill my days constructively, preferably in a way which will bear the fruit of financial income.

A couple of notes, here, about the last paragraph. My mind is clearly malfunctioning as I was unable to summon the word “hibernation” to my mind, spending about a minute staring blankly at the screen cupping my ears, I then typed ‘bear’ and ‘winter’ into Google, which had the word in the sample of the first hit. This is either an example of internet-savvy lateral thinking or yet another step for humanity on the slippery (and lazy) slope to utter vegetation. Also, I chose to use ‘grizzly’ in that comparison as I deemed other hibernating animals too feminine. In the animal kingdom, only the bear reaches the required standard of masculinity in order to be used in a comparative way to me. Ironically, the term ‘bear’ also has another meaning, which, while not undermining the masculine nature of the comparison, certainly suggests other, unfounded, reasons for me choosing that particular animal. Though I am indeed a large, hirsute gentleman.

I am yet to come to a conclusion on how to make money from nothing, and there is no lead available to turn my hand to alchemy, and so the only options available to me this night are either to eat or lose my mind to an internet site. Having exhausted my tolerance of other websites I have decided to, instead, to have an outpouring of premature nostalgia, in what people are never going to call ‘electronic reminiscing’. I am mostly proud that I have constructed a sentence containing both the term ‘outpouring’ and ‘premature’ without being vulgar or base, although I have now done that to some extent by alluding to the possible double entendre that could be taken from that sentence. If you are a childish sod. Which you are, clearly. No, not you.

Whilst I was still in my halcyon days as a student (roughly 3 months ago) I had noticed that if you lived in rented accommodation you would often receive a huge amount of post. There were two types of post usually; letters for other people and rubbish you don’t want. Now you would think that I would not be interested in either of these types of mail, well, you are mostly right, but also, to a smaller extent, wrong.

My favourite type of mail is letters for people who used to live in the house. This is because I am slightly anal and enjoy putting these away in a box for safekeeping should the people ever come back to the house to collect them, which they don’t. It was only in the brittle and shimmering final days of my studentship that I struck upon a brilliant idea. I delved into my memory bank in order to procure for myself a name that had often come posted through the door. I then typed it into Facebook. To my surprise, delight and nausea, he/she came up (not a hermaphrodite I am merely anonymising the person)(anonymising isn’t accepted on Word as a real word, though maybe it is an attempt to make the word more anonymous). It quickly became clear that this was definitely the correct person, due to them having affiliations with the University I was attending. I had the nagging feeling that I was undertaking behaviour of a creepy sort, especially after typing the fifth name. It is perhaps fortuitous then that the majority of ex-housemates had set their profiles to private, though mayhap less fortuitous for the housemates who hadn't. I didn’t do anything horrible, nor did I get in touch, though it is good to know that the people who’d lived in the house previously were both better qualified than me and married with children. It is good to know that the house has a strong pedigree that I can follow in the footsteps of. The ease with which I had discovered them was actually a bit frightening, and certainly spells the end of days for James Bond films. Sorry, 007. I also briefly considered a Dave Gorman style challenge of meeting everyone with un-reclaimed mail in the house and delivering it to them, although whether giving unwanted and out-of-date spam (mail not meat) to strangers would be difficult to beat into a coherent and ultimately uplifting narrative. Still, if you do undertake such a challenge and receive any sort of acclaim for it, I would like to be duly accredited, thank you.

I also enjoyed the spam and pamphlets, or spamphlets, that were addressed to me. It was in this period of my life that I discovered there were three things advertised in pamphlets; pizza, kebab and god. Now these three things fall on a sliding scale of enjoyment for me, I really enjoy a pizza, and if you offered me a kebab I would have to vehemently turn it down, whilst screaming “My body is not a temple but I would rather anal beads than kebab”. And god is even worse than that. The main difference between these three things is that when you eat a pizza it eventually becomes shit, kebab probably has shit in it, while god is complete and utter shit.

I have, however, discovered that there are more kinds of spamphlet than this. Having moved from a student town to a smaller, approaching rural, town the spamphlets which you receive are 1) fewer and, 2) less food-orientated. The three new types of spamphlets available to homeowners in towns are for: charity, fetes and racism. There’s a sliding scale here as well, with charity being good, fetes looking promising but being ultimately disappointing when you walk home with no money and a flyaway football, and racism being bad. There are also catalogues and god being advertised in these towns, but they have the nerve to knock on your actual door, on the actual front of your house, where you live, and talk to you about things (shopping and god, mainly). I had to turn a Jehova’s Witness lady away because she didn’t have an interesting hat on, I said “Madam, if you wish to waste my time with your fanciful fripperies I suggest you at least make purchase of arresting headwear”. I, of course, said no such thing, and I took a sample of her magazine in order to read it and make fun of it in public.

So I’m sure there’s something constructive for door-to-door bastards to take away from this; if you want to talk to me, bring a trilby.

E-Recycling

I thought I would celebrate the passing of another milestone, (a dubious milestone of 40 posts), I thought I would be lazy and plunder my own archives in order to pull a blog out of the past. This is my first true burst of blogs, though I did post an interesting (possibly) blog on MySpace, when it was still acceptable to be there. Technically this blog may not actually be serviceable, and it certainly is in a less sophisticated style than I am able to command now, boo-yah, but I feel it is, at the very least, interesting.

The story I tell in this piece came about when I had my face brutally wounded by an umbrella-swipe to the face, it is the farcical lies to explain away the scratch as something more epic.

The piece has been left mostly unaltered, though I have corrected the spelling. I was in the sixth form when I wrote this, so, from the distant mirk of Monday, February 20th 2006, here is my recycled tale:

Many people have asked me how I came about the scar which has appeared beside my eye awhile ago, and so to help everyone out I have decided to publish the official explanation.

It was a Tuesday when I decided that I would journey down the adventurous highway of the M4 to our fair capital city's airport, and depart on an exciting journey to the land known only as Japan.

The flight was eventful enough, but that is a tale for another time....

Upon landing in Tokyo I decided to take a stroll down one of the madly busy streets therein. There were many shops including a shop completely for the machines that you put money in and turn and a crappy ball with a crappy toy pops out, you know the ones, and also a shop where whack-a-mole machines went 360° on the walls. This trip was also eventful but is, again, a tale for another time.

I made my way to a shop which had piqued my interest. This was a smithy, stocked wall-to-wall with gleaming katanas. I decided that it was my destiny to purchase such a treasure, and so I persuaded the smithy, named Hakuya to allow me one of the aforementioned blades. I strode out of the smithy with a manic grin on my face. Little did I know that the blade I had come into possession of had bestowed upon me godlike skill in the bushido arts.

I proceeded back down main-street and embarked on an insane killing spree, visiting bloody death upon our eastern cousins. My love for the Japanese could not stop my manic fury.

Soon, I was brought down by a rag-tag band of heroes (as is customary in Japan) and I was shipped out via stealth fighter to a remote province of China which will remain unnamed. It is my belief that the Japanese had ulterior motives in shipping me there, deeply rooted political reasons.

Upon being dumped in the backwater wasteland that was this region of China I was struck unconscious. When I came to I regarded my surroundings with awe and shock. I was in a Panda's Nest. Never before have human eyes fell upon the legendary nest of the vicious giant pandas of China. Suddenly, 3 Panda's began hatching from their black and white spotted eggs. The newborn pandas were among the most brilliant things I have ever seen. I named them Kawaii, Mugen and Jonas.

Suddenly the nest was surrounded by a vicious horde of urchins, armed to the teeth with ridged bamboo weapons they planned on killing the pandas ironically with blades shaped from their source of food. I drew my hallowed blade and smote the grungy urchins where they pranced.

Although I was swift with my protection only two of the pandas were saved, my blade was too docile for Jonas to live. There and then I swore to spend my life travelling China, Japan, Thailand and surrounding lands honing my skill so I could one day be powerful enough to protect pandas everywhere.......

With my pandas at my side I am invincible........

This version of events differs from the spoken version as a published edition may cause slight offense to certain parties (such as orphans/pandas and Godzilla).

No pandas were harmed in the retelling of this tale....... the same cannot be said of urchins........

*****

I am quite proud of the way this story was told, though I wish I had written more of the 'tales for another time' since now I have no idea what they were. Similarly I have utterly forgotten what I said during verbal editions of this story. Ah well, you live and lose, some things are better left lost.

The idea of panda nests makes me smile, even now.

In three and a half years since this blog first saw the light of a computer screen I have grown up not a jot. All hail to the panda samurais.

Cabeza Diez, or in English, the Top Ten.

The Sundays appear with worrying haste for my taste, but when Sunday comes it brings with it another Top Ten snide-a-thon. There are three new entrants into this week’s Ten, including (oh em gee) a new Number One! Of course the phrase “Number One” ain’t what it used to be. It is, of course, a joke, which is what I will make of it. Then let’s begin.

Cruzzing in at Number Nine is:

9 – I Know You Want Me (Calle Ocho) – Pitbull

The main message of this song seems to be that someone wants the singer, and luckily for them, perhaps, the singer also wants them, though they, in true pop song tradition, remain unnamed. It is quite difficult for me to follow half of this song, as they have taken a Dora the Explorer approach to song writing, with an educational half-and-half approach to the lyrics, infusing repetitive idiotic English lyrics with what I am driven to assume are repetitive idiotic Spanish lyrics.

The presumably fan-heard lyrics that accompany this song on the tube of you include

“Mami got an ass like a donkey, with a monkey,

look like King Kong, welcome to the crib”

Now I assume that this is insulting, unless the writer has trouble with simile. I don’t know whether or not this ‘Mami’ has a backside which is comparable to the backside of a donkey, or whether her backside is like a donkey, inasmuch as she has a donkey sticking out of her arse. Alternatively, the ‘Mami’ could be the front half of a pantomime horse, which the Latino writer has confused for a donkey, as most likely no one would dress up in a costume of that kind in a Spanish speaking country just in case they are mobbed and thrown off a church.

Unimaginative drums abound accompanied by a minimalist approach to all other instruments involved, with synth pings, guitar bursts and trumpet parps occasionally joining the fray.

The most memorable lines from this song are, in the words of XOXOKISKISXOXO:

“one-two-three-four
Uno-do'-tres-cuatro”

Quite literally music by numbers.

7 – Poppiholla – Chicane

A mellow trance offering in the Top Ten this week, from everyone’s favourite way of pronouncing chicken; Chicane. The music is a mix of a despair-inducing mind-numbing busy default-trance drumbeat, with the piano melody picked out by what seems to be a previously talented pianist who unfortunately lost all but one finger in a terrible accident and as such is forced to pick out as interesting a melody as possible whilst only utilising one key per go. Other noises in this track were created by 1) keeping the beat with an air-freshener and, 2) allowing the wind to blow through a particularly musical crevice (or possibly a crevasse).

The video, then, is a more intriguing offering, with a haggard and worn hoodie-type individual stalking the streets like an emotionless, yet threatening automaton. First he scares a bedraggled woman at an ATM, then disgusts the lady who lives at Number 8, then gets sneered at by two dodgy looking white blokes and pitied by a taxi driver. For me, this is the first part of the story, where the hoodie-character is built up to look like a yob, with this presumptuousness being subverted in the second part.

Or does get subverted? The man leapfrogs a fence, and upon landing breaks into a sprint which incorporates the techniques of both Lynford Christie and a futuristic detached killing machine (or Terminator if you will). He then proceeds, during his sprint, to knock tea out of a bloke’s hands, knock paper out of a woman’s hands, and upturn a waiter’s tray, dousing everyone in the vicinity with chilled beverage. This, rather pedestrian, chaos is initiated in order to perform an unconvincing rugby tackle on a ditsy looking girl who is fully enraptured with her phone, playing snake 2 presumably, and is about to get seriously brained by some falling stonework. Having saved this gormless youth from brick-induced-brain-death she then lies on his chest looking at him backwards like a confused but ultimately disinterested halibut wrenched awkwardly from the watery deeps. The video then fades out.

It is an instrumental piece, though likely no actual instruments were used, and as such there are no accompanying lyrics in order to disentangle this gripping drama. Perhaps the message is: “don’t judge hoodies because they are actually mediocre vigilante superheroes there to save vacuous phone-dwellers from death-by-unstable-masonry”. Maybe there is no message. The amount of stonework that actually fell was unimpressive, considering the apocalyptic SFX we are used to as viewers of film, though likely the phone-girl would disagree.

Trance isn’t really my thing, but everyday heroism is. The film portrays a good deed, though the trail of soaking by-standers may disagree.

And new in at Numero Uno (as Pitbull would say):

1 – Beat Again – JLS

A, perhaps, unlikely entrant in the Number One slot for X-Factor leftovers JLS. It is possible they are enjoying success on the back of the death of Michael Jackson, as a four-man black boyband would of course draw comparisons to the Jackson 5.

What struck me first whilst watching their video, apart from a feeling of my own impending seppuku, was that one of them was wearing a dickie-bow. Clever put-downs and wordy insults aside; what a twat. The video is an example of clever filming, as they have heavily utilised dynamic camerawork to disguise the fact they look like diarrhetic ducks with ants in their pants, prancing around in order to clench tighter. This is made all the more disgusting by their insistence on maintaining a facade of vomit-inducing squinting and pouting faux-sincerity. Ych a fucking fi.

The music then is computer-generated nothingness bleeping and blooping around the same old vague lyrics. I believe I have, however, deciphered the meaning of their song. It is the touching tale of the love and loss of their liver. Stay with me.

Lines such as:

“Damn,

the doctor’s just finished telling me,

there’s no time,

losing you could be the end of me”.

And:

“they’re telling me that my heart won’t beat again”

suggest that the writer of the song has been involved in a botched operation, where his liver was accidentally removed. As everyone knows, the liver is an essential piece of kit when it comes to being alive, and having no liver would put extraneous stress on your heart, resulting in death. Now go back and read those lines and tell me I am wrong. Yeah~.

The confusing line “If I die / would you come to my funeral?” is likely due to the writer suffering greatly due to the slow collapse of his bodily organs, and this has led to him/her considering whether, in the event of the anthropomorphic transformation of his liver, whether it would then attend the ceremony commemorating his/her death. Yeah I know, what a weird song.

If you bought that single, Simon Cowell is laughing up his sleeves, or more likely, down his trousers at you.

Here is the full list for posterity, which means to insert up your posterior.

10 – Diamond Rings – Chipmunk ft Emeli Sande

9 – I Know You Want Me (Calle Ocho) – Pitbull

8 – Man in the Mirror – Michael Jackson

7 – Poppiholla – Chicane

6 – When Love Takes Over – David Guetta ft Kelly Rowland

5 – Paparazzi – Lady Gaga

4 – Bulletproof – La Roux

3 – I Gotta Feeling – Black Eyed Peas

2 – Evacuate the Dancefloor – Cascada

1 – Beat Again – JLS

I've got a feeling, it is Top Ten nausea.

Upon researching this second instalment of the moribund Top Ten Review blog, I discovered that there is less movement from week to week in the singles chart than I had expected. Which is both a good thing, and a bad thing. This means that there are 8 tracks that I have already touched upon, and as such you can just search for the original entries on those songs should you desire an analysis / deconstruction / angry rant of them. This also means that in order to justify this as a sumptuous blog entry it is necessary to delve deeper into the two tracks that I am unfamiliar with.

I stared into the abyss, and it mewled hateful inane computerpop at me.

10 - I Gotta Feeling - Black Eyed Peas

Two songs in the list for the Black Eyed Peas this week then. As I've already expressed my feelings of their other track, the song titled as if in tribute to a Batman fight scene, Boom Boom Pow, I feel I must warn you that I have just as much bile for this track. It was with a degree of trepidation that I listened to this song, as I was worried that the Peas had decided to undertake a Beatles cover, which thankfully is not the case, however this does ensure that the Feeling alluded to in the title is a far less profound one than might be expected from the Beatles.

This is indeed the case, as the entent of this predictive Feeling is that 'it is going to be a good night'. Far be it for me to decree that songs should in some way attempt to throw a mirror up to society in some way, perhaps reveal some insights into the human condition, but as a matter of personal taste, I prefer songs to be endeavors in that direction. Hearing a song whose only aim seems to be the glorification of 'having a good night' seems stricken with a forehead-creasing paucity of ambition. Yay! Woo! Hurrah! It's gonna be a good night I reckon.

This unifying rallying cry isn't helped by the music, which is a combination of a repetetive one-string melody, a repetitive one-key melody and a repetitive one-beat rhythm. Now repetition can be a powerful artistic technique, as long as the repetition repeats repeatable aspects worth repeating. Just repeating, like, something, like, that isn't, like, worth repeating, like, only, like, decracts from the experience like.

There are however some truly standout lyrics in this song, such as the eternal line: "Go out and smash it / Like oh my god". The trouble with this instruction is that 'smashing it', to my knowledge at least, isn't a phrase in any vernacular when used to mean what they intend in this line. "Did you go out last night?" "Yeah I went out and smashed it" "Excuse me?". Perhaps they intended the line to be "Go out and have a smashing time" Pip pip. Of course I am incandescent with impotent despair at the line "like oh my god", which is so heavily laden with cliche that it is surprising the music doesn't distort around it, like a VHS that's been played too often. I think heavily cliched phrases seem to suck sense into them like a black hole, leaving anyone in the vicinity with a brain feeling drained and nauseated.

Like most successful pop songs the lyrics in this track are infused with the maximum amount of vagueness it is possible to have while still actually using words. References to jumping off sofas (PARTAY!) and burning roofs (What?) abound in what is a pitiable nothing-fest of a song. Perhaps the most telling line is "Look at her dancing, move it, move it, just take it off", which is a mix between a plea to anyone watching the music video to just watch the dancers in the hope this will distract them from the emptiness of the lyrics, and at the end the line devolves into a frightening glimpse at the thought process of a lech that's lost control. Go on, just take it off, you dirty dancing slag.

Which is essentially how they run the entire video, ticking as many of the stereotypical male-interest boxes as possible: nudity, near-to-nudity, grinding, showers and lesbians. They missed out alcohol and football but the lyrics are so vague it is possible to incorporate these at your own whim. This song could be boiled down to the bare essentials of having the phrase 'mediocre hedonism' flashed into your face for a few minutes. Perhaps the strangest scene is one where the 'band' have had their faces painted with luminous paint, making them look like The Black and White Minstrel Show repackaged for the Nu Rave generation.

The other new entry to the list is:

6 - Diamond Rings - Chipmunk ft Emeli Sande

Plinky first wave ska rhythms infuse this track, which would usually ensure that a song receives a good review from me, being a big fan of anything within the skaosphere. The problems begin with this track when it becomes obvious that it is in fact not a ska track at all, but an example of pop-rap with a plentiful helping of quavery diva-pop woahings for a chorus. The generic computer generated drumbeat takes the upstroking guitar riffs and the funky noise of the horn section so far away from enjoyable.

There is a thin line between being confident, self-assured and being an absolute swell-head. Chipmunk fits into the latter category. Rap seems to be, largely, the domain of the unforgivably arrogant, and the offerings of Mr Chipmunk include:

"I'm such a classy guy

designer shades hide my eyes

I look good with a face like mine

how the hell could i be camera shy"

(http://www.onlylyrics.com/hits.php?grid=3&id=1034626)

There is something unspeakably hateful about the line "I look good with a face like mine", it is either the bucket-filling conceit of the man, or the circular argument he's chosen to illustrate it.

It is possibly hypocritical to type this on my laptop, from in my room full of stuff, but the song is also far too interested in materialism, in designer shades and the titular diamond rings. Obviously there must be an audience for this sort of peacocking otherwise this song wouldn't be on this list, but it is just depressing that there are people for whom this is important, shiny things. People should get a grip and realise what is really important; guitars, books and hats. Yeah.

However, more than the rampant stuff-worship, it is the way in which this magpiesque fascination is voiced that rubs me up the wrong way. In particular the line: My new diamond rings / They're the shit. Truly a line to render anyone who believes that there is any sort of poetry dead inside. The pedestrian nature of that line is just offensive. It is also strange considering the video has opted for a 1930s style, which clashes more than contrasts with the lyrics.

In terms of this song I will you leave you with Chipmunk's prediction of the future, he claims: "I aint gonna be a one hit wonder", which could be true. I am unsure as to whether #6 in the charts counts as a hit, though I doubt this is what he means. He follows this line with: "I am forever, call me diamond man". No, I will call you Chipmunk. You chose that silly name, and now you have to live with it.

There would be something chilling about the line "I am forever" if it wasn't uttered by a bulbheaded posturing tool stuttering out his asinine observations. No, surely it will be me, the snide, critical, sneering blogger that will be forever. Yeah. I am eternal.

But hey! What should I listen to instead?

I would suggest the album Men's Needs, Women's Needs, Whatever. by The Cribs. A well rounded and catchy indie rock offering that is as enjoyable as it is considered. Very. And with a new album in the near future it is a perfect time to acqaint yourself with their backcatalogue.

You see, I am able to be positive about noise also.

RoundupRoundupRoundup

10 - I Gotta Feeling - Black Eyed Peas

9 - Release Me - Agnes

8 - Knock You Down - Keri Hilson

7 - Boom Boom Pow - Black Eyed Peas

6 - Diamond Rings - Chipmunk ft Emeli Sande

5 - When Love Takes Over - David Guetta ft Kelly Rowland

4 - Paparazzi - Lady Gaga

3 - Man in the Mirror - Michael Jackson

2 - Bulletproof - La Roux

1 - Evacuate the Dancefloor - Cascada

And there was Top Ten!

And here begins what blogologists are already calling "Another one of those blog thingys you may have heard about". It is a simple premise I'm sure you will all warm to:

Boy meets Radio 1 Top Ten Chart (every Sunday) and talks snidely about the songs therein. You'll have to pretend that the riff from Led Zeppelin's Whole Lotta Love is playing over my analyses, as actually having the track play on this page would be hugely annoying.

Duh-nuh-nuh-nuh NUH nuh-nuh-nuh nuh-nuh-nuh duh-nuh-nuh-nuh NUH! (rinse repeat).

Starting off this enterprise in a possibly distasteful way it's an unlikely replacement for Gordon Brown at Number 10 it's:

10 - Billie Jean - Michael Jackson

Renewed popularity and chart appearances will likely offer little consolation for everyone's favourite alleged paedophile Micky Jack as he enjoys his first week in whatever afterlife he currents moonwalks in. The appearance of prophetic hit Billie Jean in the Top 10 has particular poignancy amid speculation that Jackson was in no way biologically involved in the creation of his children. "That kid is not my son" indeed. Rumours abound that it is not Billie Jean that will get custody of the children, but singer/actress Diana Ross.

9 - Mama Do - Pixie Lott

The Number Nine slot is filled this week by generic airbrushed 'diva' and punchline to the joke "What do you call a woman who is often nose-mining for boogers" Pixie Lott. Ms Lott falls comfortably into the Gwen Stefani school of poppelganger. This track contains a subtitle in parenthesis, Uh oh, uh oh, which is a surprisingly apt summation of my reaction to the noise contained therein. The Grade 1 plinking of piano keys is beautifully complimented by the deranged percussion of clapping. The vacuous pop instrument of choice, as always, is the hand. Hands feature heavily in the video aswell, in one sequence, which will surely be remembered as the iconic scene of the video, a line of fashionably dressed poseur men play pattacake with a line of skantily clad poseur women. In fairness the pattacake playing is quite energetic, but it is still, nevertheless, pattacake. Of course when I say this is the scene that will be remembered what I mean is the entire song will be forgotten and Pixie Lott will likely not even be worth putting to work in a Buzzcocks line-up (the show or the band).

8 - Knock You Down - Keri Hilson ft Kanye West and Ne-yo

Hip-hop non-entity Keri Hilson is joined by both rampant egomaniac and all-round despicable human being Kanye West and the man with a name like Japanese phrase signalling agreement Ne-yo, in order to give this track a smidgen of credibility. What is most striking about this song is the unbelievably painful repetitive synth which seems to have been composed by a maniac and played by an elephant in boxing gloves. However on closer inspection it is the lyrics that are the most notable in this song. Lines like: "I used to be commander-in-chief of my pimp ship flying high" that truly single this track out as an outstanding piece of art. I am in awe of the particularly topical references and also the breathtaking metre in the lines: "This is bad, real bad Michael Jackson / Now I'm mad, real mad Joe Jackson". This song truly is bad, real bad Michael Jackson, as further demonstrated by the line: "You should leave your boyfriend now, I'ma ask 'em". What a wonderfully 2D world Kan-yo lives in (I have created this amalgamation because I have no idea which is which). Another line features Kan-yo declaring that he was the 'class clown' which is ironic given his famous sense of humour, or lack of one, but it is what we have all come to expect from him, he is after all, a gay fish.

7 - Release Me - Agnes

Complaining gently into seventh place is another poppelganger, this time with the name of a middle aged Scottish grump, no it isn't Susan Boyle, it's Agnes. This song has opted for violins rather than piano, which makes me hate it less just for offering the tiniest fraction of variety in this frankly stale countdown. However the video soon makes me fall in hate with this song, with juddery dancing and camera technique adding to the vague creeping nausea already instigated by the music. There is also far too much casual nuzzling in the video for my liking. If someone is nuzzling you I believe it is polite to acknowledge it in some way, at the very least, don't just whinge out your tedious track. From what I can tell the message of this track is fairly controversial, with a strong pro-euthanasia standpoint being taken throughout: "no, i'm not in control, so let me go, release me". Just point me to the plug Agnes, and I will pull it with pleasure.

6 - Boom Boom Pow - Black Eyed Peas

I'm unsure whether I was watching the real video for this or a Vista advert with the track spliced over it, whichever, I wasn't pleased. More than the hateful vocal and musical stylings I was angered by the surreal dating methods used by this outfit. "Two thousand and late" is not a year. 200Late. It doesn't work, FURY. There are also references to "cybertron" in the song, which is worrying as this track could very well be, barely, coded messages to the Decepticons. If our world is brought to the brink of destruction by robots in disguise I will be furious, and will pin the blame squarely on the name-stealing piss-pants Fergie. With the inability to use accepted dating systems and references to Transformers this track certainly seems to have been written, and composed, by a child, with lines such as: "This beat go boom boom" which are not only idiotic,they are also an innacurate representation of the beat. The Black Eyed Peas must not be big fans of Flight of the Conchords, as a similar track already exists which sends up the idiotic repetitive use of "boom".

5 - Paparazzi - Lady Gaga

The incredibly Swedish opening to this video does not bely the strangeness to come. The presence of the word 'cunt' in the subtitles is quite a good hint though. I'm uncertain as to who the Lady Gagger's target audience is, she seems to be a poppelganger cut from a Toxic-era Britney Spears mold. In line with this the video contains a vaguely distasteful combination of bdsm and morbidity. I don't really know where I stand on this video as it contains far too much footage of the Lady Gagger in a wheelchair with a neck brace on, and subsequently juddering around on crutches, for me to be wholly comfortable watching. With this sort of imagery the video is attempting to make a point about paparazzi & celebrity but in so doing is possibly trivialising disability. In retrospect it was easier when she was in her "I'm stealing David Bowie's face lightning is that okay?" phase. It isn't okay, you Bowie thief.

4 - When Love Takes Over - David Guetta ft Kelly Rowland

This track opens to a piano riff cut and paste from the track Clocks by little-known band Coldplay. Let's be fair, if you are going to commit piano-based daylight robbery, you may aswell steal it from a bloody famous song, eh? (as the Canadians say). In the video you are treated to many lovely holiday-snap style shots of Kelly Rowland looking lovely with her massive face and her holey dress, and also to footage of, who I presume to be, David Guetta pushing his dance-creating equipment around a city on a trolley looking for all the world like a techno tramp. This song is really much of a nothingness, which will ensure that it is this summer's anthem that pilled-up sweaty Ibizagoers will spread their STI's to. Lovely.

3 - Bulletproof - La Roux

Slamming synthilly into the Number Three is the androgenously fronted synthy-synth duo La Roux. The track is the distant aural cousin of fond childhood memory of millions: the theme from Tetris. This is augmented by having a very abstract video, which has a particularly 'boxy' feel to it. There is a very definite edge to the check-out-attendant-having-a-nervous-breakdown chic that is sported by La Roux. Interestingly I discovered that her mother holds the record for longest ever serving actor in stalwart British police drama The Bill, meaning that she also holds the record for longest time spent playing a police character (according to the trustworthy and accurate Wikipedia). I suppose you would believe yourself to be bulletproof as well if your mother was a police (acting) demigod. There's a joke about Acting-Sergeant etc in there somewhere. I have also attempted not to pass comment on her hair, which I'm sure is very cool, though occasionally she does resemble Egon from The Real Ghostbusters.

2 - Man in the Mirror - Michael Jackson

He moonwalks in the footsteps of Tupac, another place in the Top Ten for the dead man (not the Undertaker). Strangely there is footage of La Roux in an old video of Man in the Mirror hosted by YouTube.

Jacko is unable to avoid irony, and the opening lines "I'm Gonna Make A Change, For Once In My Life" are no exception to this rule, providing the need for me to explain that he is unable to make a change, as he is dead. On the comment section of this very same video I found this moving message:

mrbeanslefthandman (19 minutes ago)

I want to make a change for once in my life. I want to stop eating pizzas and change my diet to high protein and low carb diet. The man in the mirror is looking pretty fat. Micheal there is no doubt you were the best in the world you have motivated me to get rid of the tyres round my belly.

I feel that there can be no more fitting a tribute than this completely unrelated tangential one to the, if we're lucky, one and only Michael Jackson.

1 - Evacuate the Dancefloor - Cascada

And at Number One; the teeth-grinding noise of Cascada. Cue three and a half minutes of footage of a posing tool. Strangely the woman from Cascada looks remarkably like an R.E. teacher I once had (teaching me), except I quickly warmed to the R.E. teacher as she did not spend most of her time strutting and booming middle of the road dance noise like a public service announcement from the seventh circle of synth hell. Instead, she taught R.E. I preferred this. Unquestionably, the woman from Cascada is attractive, and that is enough to get to Number One, so there. She now enjoys her place in an elite group of artists that include Bob the Builder and Crazy Frog, truly the highest echelon of music recognition. Huzzah.

Bumming Herring: Nyum Nyum Nyum

The seemingly all-encompassing nature of the internet has had an unquestionably huge effect on the world of comedy. Anecdotes and retrospectives of the comedy of yesteryear suggest that acts would often keep the same material for many years, refining it maybe, but continuing to perform what was essentially the same set. The prodigious popularity of video streaming sites now goes a long way to ensure, or perhaps force, comedians to have a far greater turnover of material. Though the vast majority of viewers understand that a comedian's set is a pre-prepared batch of material, and will be performed many times, it is perhaps a bad thing for a comedian to have multiple 3-8 minute clips of them on the internet performing the same material. This is something that is not always possible for comedians to monitor, as a deft mobile recording from the audience is out of the comedians hands.

The comedian Rhod Gilbert discussed one effect of video streaming websites whilst on his radio show, explaining how, when appearing on Michael McIntyre's Comedy Roadshow he had to decide whether to include certain material, luggage-based, in his set. The reason behind this decision was that the material already existed on YouTube, and has received a colossal number of views (it eventually went in, as a BBC1 audience was felt to be different enough from a YouTube audience).

Although the internet's effect can be seen to be troublesome, it has also offered many new avenues and opportunities for comedy to explore. I will take as my case study one Richard Herring, as he is an act who has a huge presence on the internet, amassing quite a splendid array of electronic notches to his internet-based bow. My familiarity with his works are, without doubt, down to this vast internet presence. I first became aware of Mr Herring several years ago, after being linked to one of his videos from a clip of a Stewart Lee appearance on Edinburgh and Beyond. My lack of awareness was soon quashed as a huge back-catalogue of his work is available online (and importantly - for free). The ready availability of a blog, scripts (both commissioned and not), plays, TV and radio shows ensured, and ensures, that for anyone who has an interest in his work, there is much there for the taking. The helpfulness of this possibility might only extend to more established acts however, as regardless of how much material you are able to link to, a newer act simply will not have the depth of material to offer.

The internet also offers more real-time comedy opportunities which, again, are able to be highlighted using Richard Herring as an example. Utilizing the sites and services of facebook, twitter and whichever new incarnations begin doing the rounds all help 'maintain a presence', and for the most part continued visibility is likely a good thing. The interactivity of these sites also help harbor closer relationships between acts and fans, which is, again, a good thing (but could lead to stalkerish behaviour but that's unlikely to happen ever I love you Richard). The appearance of the podcast as a format is another effect of further internet developments, and the efforts of Mr Herrin (and Mr Collings of course) still stand out in the bountiful podcast field as they are strictly 'for podcast' creations. (Audio) Podcasts are, by and large, excerpts from existing radio shows, and while these are still enjoyable, there is an added joy to be had from hearing a podcast recorded for podcast's sake. The most exemplary of these, in my opinion, include Collings and Herrin (surprise!), The Perfect Ten and Peacock and Gamble. The huge added effort put in by Adam & Joe to add new material to their podcast goes a long way to making it a splendid creature.

With the advent of iPlayer, alongside the monster that is YouTube, so much TV footage is now readily available legitimately, or at least without complaint, for free on the internet. As someone who often experiences the wonders of the BBC almost purely through the medium of the internet, I began wondering whether or not television and radio as we know them are on their way to becoming obsolete. There is certainly no need for a separate TV or radio systems when my computer could provide the exact same services (though I did once enter a strange place where I was using the internet browser of a PS3 to load up the iPlayer in order to listen to the radio - THIS IS THE FUTURE). One of the factors which suggest that the current radio and TV systems may prevail is the amount of money it takes to fund a show, which isn't there for people wanting to create things for the internet (though 'webisodes' are perhaps attempting to buck this trend), hence how the aforementioned formats are generally available for free. It is, yet again, Richard Herring who is leading the charge in this arena, with plans to create a sketch show in the autumn, which will be available for free on the internet, where the costs will be managed by having a live, paying, audience. Previous comments made by the man himself suggest that the monetary side of this would be in the same area as having a radio show commissioned by an organisation, with the added bonus of having full control over the content. No need for, perhaps, over-sensitive censorship, also the initial need for a commission is leap-frogged, though a sort of commissioning process would occur democratically, in terms of the need for a paying audience. Whether or not this system would work for other formats is even more uncertain.

I personally wouldn't be hugely upset to see TV and radio succomb to the same fate as VHS and his pals, as I am attached by the soul to the internet regardless. The internet has made it possible to see, hear and read the work of comedians with utmost ease (I am uncertain about forays into scratch-and-sniff internet) and also enabled cottage industries to safeguard and provide shows that would have been lost (the destined-to-be-legendary gofasterstripe).

Hopefully the advances of the internet will ensure that it becomes more and more the case that comedians will not have to be mainstream and bland/safe in order to see their ideas become a reality. And when that point is reached I hope caps will be doffed and heads will be dipped to the internet-content pioneer Richard Herring. Only time will decide whether he is the most groundbreaking comedian of this internet age, or a fucking idiot.

Felicitous Canada Day

As I write this the country in which I am currently present within is celebrating it's Day. It is currently 15:49 local time and the extent of the celebrations in the local town (Banff - lovely) seem to extend only to a general redness of clothing and various enthusiastic people wearing national dress (Canadian kit from various sports - hockey, american football, proper football, tiddlywinks) and also cruel/humourous parents putting the uniform of the Canadian mounted police on their overweight children (I am not in a Mountie uniform as I dressed myself today). Some particularly pro-Canadian enthusiasts have decided to wear small Canadian flags in their heads, which is either admirable or silly.

Since today is such a celebratory day I thought I would add a surreptitious burst of cynicism, by detailing a few of the observations that were observed by me in the course of my observing Canada so far. I certainly think there is an abundance of fresh-faced naivety and enthusiasm present in Canada (Banff especially) that isn't present in the UK. This may have a lot to do with their extreme weather conditions (blazing sun in the summer, snow in the winter) and also the abundance of actual wildlife (bears, wolves, moose, eagles) that simply aren't present in Britain, where grey drudgery is commonplace all year round and a curmudgeonly goat is the most feral of the indigenous fauna. As a native of the Royal Kingdom of Cynicism I find the chipper "hey there!" attitude of the Canadians (the ones I've met at least) refreshing, though mostly grating and aggravating. This lack of cynicism manifests itself most succinctly in the naming of the shops in the area, my particular 'favourite' being The Unique Rocky Mountain Souvenir Store Ltd, which is of course unique inasmuch as its products are indistinguishable from the products of every other shop in the area.

As a short aside I would like to vent my annoyance at a tube located in the bathroom of the establishment where I am staying which bears the words Green Tea | Conditioner. My problem with this product is that I feel these two items are mutually exclusive, it is either conditioner, and therefore for your hair, or green tea, and therefore for the bin. I used my powers of deduction and concluded that since it is in the bathroom it is most likely a product for your hair, but I feel nothing should be taken for granted whilst in strange lands.

One thing Canada has aplenty is mountains, you can't turn around without seeing a mountain. Because they are huge. I suppose if you are indoors, with the curtains drawn, you might not be able to see a mountain. Unless you live on top of one and have opted for a natural floor. But that would be stupid, and cold. My main problem with the mountains (apart from them being marketed as 'Bear Country', is it still Canada or not?) is the ample warnings you are given by jutting wooden plaques to "Stay on the Path". The justification given for this is that by not using the path, hikers will cause erosion of the mountain, and the signs also admonish that previous hiking has already left much scarring on the mountainside. My main issue with this is that mountains, as a rule, are made out of rock. As in from the phrase 'rock-hard'. I appreciate that erosion will eventually have an effect on the mountain, but from the rather harsh weather the mountains have had to withstand I hardly think a couple of monkeys clambering up its side is going to have such a huge effect. Especially since the mountains are the habitat of bears and goats. It is the term 'scarring' that I find quite intruiging aswell, as to avoid scarring, hikers are being advised to stay on the path, which is, unless I am very much mistaken, a huge scar gouged out of the mountainside. Instead of scarring the mountains, please use the scars provided.

Another aspect of Canada which clashed quite massively with Britain is its take on alcohol. To appreciate the death-grip of alcohol in Britain it really is necessary to travel elsewhere. Alcohol, in Britain, is sold almost everywhere, in Canada, almost nowhere. Convenience stores in Canada do not supply alcohol, though the age limit is not far different from the one in Britain (though this varies from province to province). I also got ID'd in a restaurant, despite having a beard. I was most annoyed by this because of how amused my mother was, there's nothing like a hysterical mother to entice a thunderous lock-jawed grimace onto a face. If you want to buy alcohol in Canada, you can't. That isn't actually true, I just thought it would be amusing to write. Is it? Off-licences and liquor stores are the only stockers of alcohol (that I have found, I could be wrong) in Canada, and what dens of strangeness they are. The liquor store that we have discovered here in Banff is named A Liquor Store, which is either idiotic or brilliant. There was roughly an inch of moving space in the store, as the vast majority of it had been fenced off with a chain. The delights that hid behind the chain were bog-standard alcohols, which is disappointing for me as a Brit. If alcohol was restricted through the use of chains in Britain I would expect nothing less than the presence of a monstrous carafe-melting brew, guarded over by a denizen of the underworld. Ironically, the creature serving in the shop was certainly from a different realm, possibly arriving on direct link from the imagination of Bill Bailey. This is not to say he looked like Bill Bailey, more that if Bill Bailey ever got thrown into the children's TV show Penny Crayon, this was the sort of creature that would be born thereof. One word that Canadians cannot handle in a Welsh accent is 'Cider', which is inconvenient for me, as a cider drinker. Restaurants simply do not serve cider, and if you ask for any the serving people give you an incredibly perplexed look. The look you receive is the one I imagine I would receive if I had ordered "A drink of televised justice in a decanter of dreams". The strange hypocrisy of Canada however means that it suffers from a Cider Dichotomy. Not even knowledge of cider in restaurants, every cider ever conceived of in the off licence (and even some that were never imagined, that's Off-L Space for you). Apple cider, Pear cider, Peach cider, Blueberry cider, Blackberry cider, Lemon cider, even Bread cider (No). I was intrigued by Glacier Berry cider, and dutifully bought some to sate both my curiosity and my liver. Upon returning to our place of sleep, I utilised the wonders modern technology to do some speed research into glacier berries. What I found was startling; they do not exist. Somehow, the amazing alcoholiers of Canada had concocted cider out of a concoted fruit. I feared there was cidermancy afoot. My eyes darted as swift as a swift using the pokemon move swift to the side of the bottle, scanning as fast as a really fast scanner to discover the ingredients of the drink. I was worried by my findings. Ingredients: Cider, Natural Flavours, Carbon Dioxide. That list is surely not exhaustive, and almost certainly in contravention of rules somewhere along the way. "What's in your cider Gilder?" "Well to be honest, mostly cider." If you are interested, in Canada play-doh is made out of play-doh. That's secrecy Willy Wonka would be proud of.

That is it for now, as I have been supping on my Fakeberry Cider during the writing of this and I am now in no fit condition to continue.

I hope you had a nice Canada Day, I did. Well, it was alright.