My Mondays seem to be coloured by a necessity to get up ludicrously early in order to involve myself in community radio, be it to attend meetings or to actually record a show. This week then it was an earlier start again, as I/we had to be there for half 9 in order to undergo some training by an envoy from the BBC.
Luckily we decided to take our CDs and notes regardless, as the training was called off due to the person who was meant to train us becoming ill. We had reached the station almost an hour early, and so we wasted some time in a little café which was run by the world’s surliest salesperson.
The recording went ahead afterward, and was a lot more fun to do than the first, with both my radiopadre and I loosening up and embracing tangents. The downside to this turn of events is that some sections of our show might be slightly chaotic or difficult to listen to, although I’m not really sure how inaccessible our humour actually is. It is also good that we have begun our tenure in radio presenting with recordings that aren’t going out live and are able to be edited, as in one of the sections our silliness led to comments that a certain program was “gay”, which I foolishly said in whispered tones as though this was a shockingly unacceptable thing. I had intended to have this sound utterly ludicrous and have the joke collapse under the weight of its own idiocy, however it just made me sound homophobic, so I am glad that we were able to just take it out. I don’t mean this to sound as though I am saying: “oh I’m edgy with my ‘you can’t tell these anymore’ jokes”, because it wasn’t edgy, just stupid. I think its interesting that we have recorded about four hours worth of footage, which in reality is closer to two since it is packed with songs, and that is all it took before something came out wrong. Also, Dafydd almost said ‘fuck’, so we have now edited the suggestive ‘fuh’ out of the recording. Just so everyone knows it isn’t just me cocking up. And if you disagree, you are clearly a gay fuck.
I made a point of going to sleep early as my early starts look set to continue this week, as I had to drag myself out of bed today for a haircut, will have to do so again tomorrow for another pre-record (which I am looking forward to), and the rest of the week I will likely have to be up in order to practise material for an open spot I’m doing on Friday. Exciting and busy times.
I was involved in an incident as I made my way to the barber, and while I am amused in retrospect, at the time I was annoyed.
A new walkway has been constructed near to me, which came about due to the creation of the new road, which meant that it was no longer possible to nip through the industrial estate to pass into a town which has a train station. The new shiny path, or as I have now decided to call it: Path 2.0, skirts a small hill, and so provides a leisurely, and importantly a clean, stroll instead of what used to be a muddy and bog-filled dirt track. I do have a history of enmity with the path as when they were constructing the path they failed to put any signs up in the night declaring that there were foot-deep holes spaced out down the path, filled only with the potential of a lamppost. Now since there were no lampposts, and no sun or moon, I fell in one, it hurt, I got compensation, like those horrible people on the telly tell you to get and I spent it on something frivolous and silly no doubt and I’m not proud of myself and I don’t like falling down holes and hope it never happens again okay? Nowadays though, there are lampposts.
Not that I needed them since it was in the morning and sunny, so I strolled on amiably, listening to Atom and His Package and looking forward to a haircut. Of course looking at me you wouldn’t think I was having a good time, but that is neither here nor there: it is up to me when and where I practise my look of deadpan-disgruntlement. The woman who cut my hair was certainly unperturbed by my vacant gaze, though it is difficult to hold a miserable jib when I am looking directly into my own face. I begin to think “aww, smile!” and then I get incredibly angry as there is nothing that will make me grimace quicker than someone beseeching me to smile. Once again, I digress.
The actual anecdote revolves around a dog, a little mongrel that was wandering the path by itself. People often walk their dogs down the path, and so I naturally assumed it was with somebody, though I later came to discover it certainly was not. The way in which I discovered this was by looking sideways and down. The dog was keeping perfect pace with me, jogging alongside me as though he was my friend, although similarly giving off the vibe that I was his owner. This meant that when the dog later went about being a nuisance to other people walking their dogs, it was I who received suspicious glances until I, through a mix of gurning and mime, made it as clear as possible that I was in no way affiliated with the overly friendly hound. Luckily I avoided any situations of utter random hilarity, although a worry did pass through my head when the dog hung back in order to do his secondary business that an overly enthusiastic member of the police would leap out of the bushes in order to force me to remove the offending refuse. Bizarrely, the leavings were a pure cocaine white, which is most bizarre as I have absolutely no idea how white cocaine is.
The dog continued to follow me, which was becoming a serious nuisance as I was heading into town, where it would be necessary to cross quite busy roads, and even though I knew it would make a better anecdote, I didn’t really want the dog to get run over. Even though if I subsequently nursed it back to health I would most definitely have a worthy good deed for Jon Richardson, I knew it was a better deed to ensure the dog wasn’t run over in the first place. The path forks two ways at the end, one around the back of houses, the other over the new bridge, it is worth noting that I am a traditionalist and therefore always go the old way around the houses. As soon as I started on this path the dog sprang ahead down the street, and I saw my chance. I doubled back and cut across a little barrier in order to join the path across the bridge, and in so doing escape the dog. I thought myself a very canny fellow.
I only made it about halfway over the bridge though, before I realised that the dog, most likely utilising his extraordinary sense of smell if I’m any judge, was at my side again. I turned to it and said “Go away!” and it did.
Anti-climactic who?
At least it didn’t get run over (as far as I know).
On my way back, it wasn’t there…
Tuesday 29 September 2009
Thursday 24 September 2009
I Survey from My Lofty Snobbery-Pony
If I don’t start writing now, I feel as though I will let an entire week pass without provoking a dragon of any variety. Which is unthinkable in a week where I have been attempting to flex my creative muscles in as many arenas as is possible, so here we go with a straight retelling of my activities (we’ll see).
I began the week by forcing myself out of bed at an unreasonable hour in order to pre-record a radio show idea that my radio compadre and I had been preparing for the better part of a fortnight. The actual premise for the show, which is far more unique and thrilling in my imagination than it can possibly be in reality, has been bouncing around since the later part of last year, and it is incredibly strange and exciting to actually have an episode of it recorded.
We were shown a heartening amount of trust and were left to our own devices in the studio, which certainly helped, as a recording would probably be awkward and forced were there someone overseeing our efforts. As it transpires, I feel the first few sections were still a bit jerky and nervous, but I think we were far more affable and amusing after that.
I once again delved into the time-consuming world of editing as it was necessary to have certain errors removed, such as playing the wrong tracks (Dafydd) or mistakenly putting the ‘.co.uk’ ending when plugging the website (me). It is good that mistakes came from us both I think, as if it were one of us in particular dragging down our average this would lead to bitterness and resentment, eventually culminating in a huge fall-out where one of us is drugged, lugged into a hemp sack and dumped in the river Selsig. Which would result in an evening of drug-induced damp slumber.
More of my time was taken up with the weekly reviewing project I am involved in, or perhaps co-founder of, of which I feel it is my duty never to miss an entry. This is likely going to prove impossible, although with sufficient organisation and dedication I will be able to meet the weekly deadline ad infinitum, however it has been in the realms of both organisation and dedication that I have always been slightly lacking. My review this week was of the film Paprika, which I have seen several times before, and is a film I genuinely adore, which perhaps made it quite so easy to write a review for, if it was slightly more difficult to stop writing. In order to begin a back-catalogue of reviews I decided to watch Vexille today, so that I could accumulate notes on various pieces in order to not be forced into watching whatever is on hand on the reviewing day in question. I really enjoyed the piece, though I am glad I watched it so far away from a deadline, as some of the comments I have regarding it require research in order to substantiate them, as I don’t fancy making wild statements and invite upon myself the rocket-powered vitriol of internet geekrage (as I saw it described in a Guardian comment section, although I added the term ‘rocket-powered’ myself).
At times I don’t really understand my own dedication to the blog phenomenon, or ‘blognomenon’ if you please, with my original reasons having their roots in giving me somewhere to workshop stand-up comedy ideas in the dark where a handful of would perhaps read them. More and more it has simply become a repository for my topical musings, due to the vast amount of news I read whilst in work, and also for the logging of my day to day doings, which I don’t particularly want to make a regular occurrence, mainly due to the fact that I don’t get up to very much interesting, case in point being the fact that I have so much free time as to enable me to pump out over 1000 words a day for a blog almost every other day. I would like there to be more of the sort of stupid expansion of a story in a similar vein as drowning my radio co-presenter in a shallow river, but in reality I tend to do more of this self-referential indulgent mememememememe rubbish. Now for something hopefully amusing.
On the drive back from work every evening, it is necessary for me to pass through the main road directly in front of the University in which I studied until I graduated this summer (yay me, I am cleverclogs). Now that it is term time once again, the roads are packed with returning students and excitable freshers, and the humbuggery that non-students stereotypically feel for students has not been long in worming its way into my psyche. The short autumn days ensure that I am driving home in darkness, and nothing impacts my driving more negatively than poor-lighting conditions and excess flesh. Wednesdays are the worst, as the University clearly still runs the midweek event ‘Score’, I could tell simply by the vast swathe of vapid hatefuls swamping the road. Now in the country where I live, Wales, it was my understanding that the road was where the cars go, and human beings, for their own safety really, are to walk along the pavement. Of course, I would prefer that vacuous brain-dead knock-off trend-plebs stayed indoors, or at least out of the beam of my headlights. If I accidentally run over a dog or a cat, that would be a shame and a pity, if I ran over a ‘party animal’ it would be a nuisance. I want to get home and into the warm as quickly as is safely possible, which is one reason why I am quite so much at odds with these people who insist on getting all dressed up and going out. I also have a quarrel with the phrase ‘getting all dressed up’, because the actual process is less about putting clothes on, and more about seeing how little it is possible to wear and not be arrested and/or die from hypothermia.
As much as vacuous near-nudity both distracts and frustrates me, pride of place goes to one particular bell-end who managed to dispossess me of any nostalgia and longing I may have felt for Uni just by walking down a street. The fellow in question was weaving foolishly between the other users of the pavement, holding his hand on his forehead as though it was some sort of fin, and pulling an ‘amusing’ face. It was not this negligibly annoying behaviour that fired a nuclear dart of fury deep into my brain and withered my soul, rather it was his chosen garments. Or more specifically, the ‘hilarious’ words writ upon it. Now I would argue that a rugby shirt should be worn on a night out on only 3 occasions: 1) fancy dress, 2) St David’s Day or 3) when the rugby is on. Now having noted that no one else was in fancy dress I could guess that this fellow was a bell-end. The final nail in his coffin, the coffin of my judgemental prejudice to be exact, came as I read the words on his back and realised he must be what people refer to as a ‘character’. Emblazoned upon his shoulders was the moniker ‘Captain Poon’.
He may as well have been carrying a sign which said “You are not going to enjoy my company”.
Luckily for the both of us, our brief liaison was merely a glance from a passing car, as just as he would have very little of value to add to my existence, I hardly think my clever dickery would be amusing to him, and I have no intention of debasing myself to amuse students.
At least, not now that I am no longer one myself.
Ah, hubris.
I began the week by forcing myself out of bed at an unreasonable hour in order to pre-record a radio show idea that my radio compadre and I had been preparing for the better part of a fortnight. The actual premise for the show, which is far more unique and thrilling in my imagination than it can possibly be in reality, has been bouncing around since the later part of last year, and it is incredibly strange and exciting to actually have an episode of it recorded.
We were shown a heartening amount of trust and were left to our own devices in the studio, which certainly helped, as a recording would probably be awkward and forced were there someone overseeing our efforts. As it transpires, I feel the first few sections were still a bit jerky and nervous, but I think we were far more affable and amusing after that.
I once again delved into the time-consuming world of editing as it was necessary to have certain errors removed, such as playing the wrong tracks (Dafydd) or mistakenly putting the ‘.co.uk’ ending when plugging the website (me). It is good that mistakes came from us both I think, as if it were one of us in particular dragging down our average this would lead to bitterness and resentment, eventually culminating in a huge fall-out where one of us is drugged, lugged into a hemp sack and dumped in the river Selsig. Which would result in an evening of drug-induced damp slumber.
More of my time was taken up with the weekly reviewing project I am involved in, or perhaps co-founder of, of which I feel it is my duty never to miss an entry. This is likely going to prove impossible, although with sufficient organisation and dedication I will be able to meet the weekly deadline ad infinitum, however it has been in the realms of both organisation and dedication that I have always been slightly lacking. My review this week was of the film Paprika, which I have seen several times before, and is a film I genuinely adore, which perhaps made it quite so easy to write a review for, if it was slightly more difficult to stop writing. In order to begin a back-catalogue of reviews I decided to watch Vexille today, so that I could accumulate notes on various pieces in order to not be forced into watching whatever is on hand on the reviewing day in question. I really enjoyed the piece, though I am glad I watched it so far away from a deadline, as some of the comments I have regarding it require research in order to substantiate them, as I don’t fancy making wild statements and invite upon myself the rocket-powered vitriol of internet geekrage (as I saw it described in a Guardian comment section, although I added the term ‘rocket-powered’ myself).
At times I don’t really understand my own dedication to the blog phenomenon, or ‘blognomenon’ if you please, with my original reasons having their roots in giving me somewhere to workshop stand-up comedy ideas in the dark where a handful of would perhaps read them. More and more it has simply become a repository for my topical musings, due to the vast amount of news I read whilst in work, and also for the logging of my day to day doings, which I don’t particularly want to make a regular occurrence, mainly due to the fact that I don’t get up to very much interesting, case in point being the fact that I have so much free time as to enable me to pump out over 1000 words a day for a blog almost every other day. I would like there to be more of the sort of stupid expansion of a story in a similar vein as drowning my radio co-presenter in a shallow river, but in reality I tend to do more of this self-referential indulgent mememememememe rubbish. Now for something hopefully amusing.
On the drive back from work every evening, it is necessary for me to pass through the main road directly in front of the University in which I studied until I graduated this summer (yay me, I am cleverclogs). Now that it is term time once again, the roads are packed with returning students and excitable freshers, and the humbuggery that non-students stereotypically feel for students has not been long in worming its way into my psyche. The short autumn days ensure that I am driving home in darkness, and nothing impacts my driving more negatively than poor-lighting conditions and excess flesh. Wednesdays are the worst, as the University clearly still runs the midweek event ‘Score’, I could tell simply by the vast swathe of vapid hatefuls swamping the road. Now in the country where I live, Wales, it was my understanding that the road was where the cars go, and human beings, for their own safety really, are to walk along the pavement. Of course, I would prefer that vacuous brain-dead knock-off trend-plebs stayed indoors, or at least out of the beam of my headlights. If I accidentally run over a dog or a cat, that would be a shame and a pity, if I ran over a ‘party animal’ it would be a nuisance. I want to get home and into the warm as quickly as is safely possible, which is one reason why I am quite so much at odds with these people who insist on getting all dressed up and going out. I also have a quarrel with the phrase ‘getting all dressed up’, because the actual process is less about putting clothes on, and more about seeing how little it is possible to wear and not be arrested and/or die from hypothermia.
As much as vacuous near-nudity both distracts and frustrates me, pride of place goes to one particular bell-end who managed to dispossess me of any nostalgia and longing I may have felt for Uni just by walking down a street. The fellow in question was weaving foolishly between the other users of the pavement, holding his hand on his forehead as though it was some sort of fin, and pulling an ‘amusing’ face. It was not this negligibly annoying behaviour that fired a nuclear dart of fury deep into my brain and withered my soul, rather it was his chosen garments. Or more specifically, the ‘hilarious’ words writ upon it. Now I would argue that a rugby shirt should be worn on a night out on only 3 occasions: 1) fancy dress, 2) St David’s Day or 3) when the rugby is on. Now having noted that no one else was in fancy dress I could guess that this fellow was a bell-end. The final nail in his coffin, the coffin of my judgemental prejudice to be exact, came as I read the words on his back and realised he must be what people refer to as a ‘character’. Emblazoned upon his shoulders was the moniker ‘Captain Poon’.
He may as well have been carrying a sign which said “You are not going to enjoy my company”.
Luckily for the both of us, our brief liaison was merely a glance from a passing car, as just as he would have very little of value to add to my existence, I hardly think my clever dickery would be amusing to him, and I have no intention of debasing myself to amuse students.
At least, not now that I am no longer one myself.
Ah, hubris.
Friday 18 September 2009
Fiction of a Political and Scientific Nature
The title of ‘most annoying news article of the day’ is shared between articles from the BBC and the Guardian today, though it seems self-defeating to award this prize, as they are the only news sources I habitually check.
The BBC article that has caused some annoyance to me is one that states:
“The Electoral Commission has said it will not be able to police the expected explosion in spoof internet videos at the next general election.”
What throws me slightly about this claim is that it is based on the presumption that spoof videos should be ‘policed’, as surely that would be quite a shocking example of censorship. The article doesn’t really go into details with regards to what constitutes a ‘spoof video’. This interests me quite a lot as I have written a sketch that is essentially a mock party political broadcast, and it intrigues me that if they could, the Electoral Commission would attempt to pull it. I could of course be misunderstanding exactly what sort of policing they had in mind, and it doesn’t really affect me directly as the sketch doesn’t exist as yet, but I reserve the right to follow in the proud British tradition of grossly overreacting to nothing in particular.
“complaints about potentially defamatory material, under electoral laws, remain a matter for the police and that cases will be investigated”.
The article fails to define the term ‘defamatory’, whose synonyms range from ‘insulting’ to ‘libellous’. While I agree that genuinely libellous claims are damaging, surely merely insulting videos are hardly a ‘matter for the police’? Or maybe I am just a desensitised cynic. We’ll take my sketch as a case in point.
Regardless of whether you believe the sketch would be funny, I am interested in whether it could be considered ‘defamatory’. It was meant to be a short sketch, opening on a shot of a chubby man sitting behind a desk, looking pristine in a suit. Without saying anything the man would then begin to growl softly, slowly building up to a crescendo where he starts barking, jumps onto the desk and eventually attacks the camera. The sketch would then end with a voice over disclaiming “this was a party political broadcast for the”. I was wondering whether this sketch, which is clearly meant to be comedic in nature (whether you would be amused by it or not) would be considered ‘defamatory’ and removed. I hope not, otherwise I’d have to become righteously indignant along lines of free speech, harrumph.
The other article which rubbed me up the wrong way is one in which the Booker Prize, and more specifically its perceived bias toward historical or ‘worthy’ novels, was discussed. The article retold the opinions of one Kim Stanley Robinson, who I am told (by the article) is a well famous sci-fi author all up. He believes that the genre of sci-fi is tragically overlooked by people who are predisposed to judge sci-fi as being of no artistic merit. He believes that “the best British literature of our time” is based in sci-fi, and believes that there are “very brilliant writers doing excellent work who are never in the running at all, for no reason except their genre”.
I am not a huge fan of sci-fi, having grown up reading more fantasy-based swords and sorcery novels, and taken quite a sharp turn into straight fiction as an ‘adult’, but the sci-fi novels that I have read have all been utterly wonderful, however they have all been classics. So while I think that ‘I am Legend’ and ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’ are magnificent and thought provoking works, I’m not really in a position to comment on more contemporary sci-fi works, which is why I shall be reacquainting myself with the genre in the near-future. Whether or not Kim Stanley Robinson has a point, though I would argue he does, what aggravates me the most is the reply from Booker judge and all-around-numpty John Mullan.
Now what is particularly worth bearing in mind when you read the quotation I am about to provide, is that John Mullan is a Professor of English at University College London, and, therefore, should know better. In regards to why sci-fi isn’t better represented he says:
"When I was 18 it was a genre as accepted as other genres," he said, but now "it is in a special room in book shops, bought by a special kind of person who has special weird things they go to and meet each other."
Now the words I would pick out of that sentence as being of note are ‘special’ and in particular ‘weird’. People who read sci-fi are, apparently, “a special kind of person who has special weird things they go to”. I’d say that statement is hardly more intelligent than the childish labeling of people as ‘nerds’ and ‘freaks’ whilst in school. He is essentially saying “Oh of course there’s no sci-fi in the Booker, sci-fi is for weirdos”. What a knob.
If it was less depressing it would be amusing that someone holding a position at a University, who I would hope to be slightly less close-minded, would view a section of the public in that way. The way in which he describes readers of sci-fi sounds as though they have some kind of dubious sexual fetish. Of course I have fallen into my own trap there, by marginalizing individuals with a colourful sexual preference, which I have only done so that I am able to highlight this mistake in this sentence you are reading here. Huzzah, I am the King of self-referential meta-bloggery.
John Mullan seals his fate by denouncing the complaints as “absolute bullshit” at the end. I have no problem with University Professors swearing, but it hardly lends credence to your opinions, and makes you look like a reactionary dunce, cloaking the fact that you have no real evidence to back up your claims with aggressive language.
Schaa~ I am tempted to end this on a hilariously ironic fit of swearing to send up my own conclusion, but I like my last sentence so much, I shan’t.
You twonk.
The BBC article that has caused some annoyance to me is one that states:
“The Electoral Commission has said it will not be able to police the expected explosion in spoof internet videos at the next general election.”
What throws me slightly about this claim is that it is based on the presumption that spoof videos should be ‘policed’, as surely that would be quite a shocking example of censorship. The article doesn’t really go into details with regards to what constitutes a ‘spoof video’. This interests me quite a lot as I have written a sketch that is essentially a mock party political broadcast, and it intrigues me that if they could, the Electoral Commission would attempt to pull it. I could of course be misunderstanding exactly what sort of policing they had in mind, and it doesn’t really affect me directly as the sketch doesn’t exist as yet, but I reserve the right to follow in the proud British tradition of grossly overreacting to nothing in particular.
“complaints about potentially defamatory material, under electoral laws, remain a matter for the police and that cases will be investigated”.
The article fails to define the term ‘defamatory’, whose synonyms range from ‘insulting’ to ‘libellous’. While I agree that genuinely libellous claims are damaging, surely merely insulting videos are hardly a ‘matter for the police’? Or maybe I am just a desensitised cynic. We’ll take my sketch as a case in point.
Regardless of whether you believe the sketch would be funny, I am interested in whether it could be considered ‘defamatory’. It was meant to be a short sketch, opening on a shot of a chubby man sitting behind a desk, looking pristine in a suit. Without saying anything the man would then begin to growl softly, slowly building up to a crescendo where he starts barking, jumps onto the desk and eventually attacks the camera. The sketch would then end with a voice over disclaiming “this was a party political broadcast for the
The other article which rubbed me up the wrong way is one in which the Booker Prize, and more specifically its perceived bias toward historical or ‘worthy’ novels, was discussed. The article retold the opinions of one Kim Stanley Robinson, who I am told (by the article) is a well famous sci-fi author all up. He believes that the genre of sci-fi is tragically overlooked by people who are predisposed to judge sci-fi as being of no artistic merit. He believes that “the best British literature of our time” is based in sci-fi, and believes that there are “very brilliant writers doing excellent work who are never in the running at all, for no reason except their genre”.
I am not a huge fan of sci-fi, having grown up reading more fantasy-based swords and sorcery novels, and taken quite a sharp turn into straight fiction as an ‘adult’, but the sci-fi novels that I have read have all been utterly wonderful, however they have all been classics. So while I think that ‘I am Legend’ and ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep’ are magnificent and thought provoking works, I’m not really in a position to comment on more contemporary sci-fi works, which is why I shall be reacquainting myself with the genre in the near-future. Whether or not Kim Stanley Robinson has a point, though I would argue he does, what aggravates me the most is the reply from Booker judge and all-around-numpty John Mullan.
Now what is particularly worth bearing in mind when you read the quotation I am about to provide, is that John Mullan is a Professor of English at University College London, and, therefore, should know better. In regards to why sci-fi isn’t better represented he says:
"When I was 18 it was a genre as accepted as other genres," he said, but now "it is in a special room in book shops, bought by a special kind of person who has special weird things they go to and meet each other."
Now the words I would pick out of that sentence as being of note are ‘special’ and in particular ‘weird’. People who read sci-fi are, apparently, “a special kind of person who has special weird things they go to”. I’d say that statement is hardly more intelligent than the childish labeling of people as ‘nerds’ and ‘freaks’ whilst in school. He is essentially saying “Oh of course there’s no sci-fi in the Booker, sci-fi is for weirdos”. What a knob.
If it was less depressing it would be amusing that someone holding a position at a University, who I would hope to be slightly less close-minded, would view a section of the public in that way. The way in which he describes readers of sci-fi sounds as though they have some kind of dubious sexual fetish. Of course I have fallen into my own trap there, by marginalizing individuals with a colourful sexual preference, which I have only done so that I am able to highlight this mistake in this sentence you are reading here. Huzzah, I am the King of self-referential meta-bloggery.
John Mullan seals his fate by denouncing the complaints as “absolute bullshit” at the end. I have no problem with University Professors swearing, but it hardly lends credence to your opinions, and makes you look like a reactionary dunce, cloaking the fact that you have no real evidence to back up your claims with aggressive language.
Schaa~ I am tempted to end this on a hilariously ironic fit of swearing to send up my own conclusion, but I like my last sentence so much, I shan’t.
You twonk.
Thursday 17 September 2009
A Document Regarding Frivolous Patois
"Don't people in Roath have the same right to a decent night's sleep as everybody else?"
This is the only line from a news article that I have discovered today that I found noteworthy. I reproduce it here, out of context, in the hope that the vagaries surrounding the quotation will add to its oddness.
I am unsure what to write about today, so I will allow myself what I originally believed this blog would not become, and write an entry specifically about myself. Oh dear me indeed.
I have been surrounded by children recently, due to the nature of my job, and I have discovered that the youth of today has adopted a number of odd colloquialisms that I find jarring. This is hardly surprising, and indeed is one of the things to be expected from generation to generation, but as I am only 21, I am slightly flummoxed to note the difference in language use already present in people 7-8 years my junior. I appreciate that I may not be a legitimate bastion of current slang, as evidenced by my use of terms such as “flummoxed”, “legitimate” and “bastion”. However, some of the language used without even the thinnest veneer of irony or self-awareness is flabbergasting.
I am no stranger to the concept of “ownage”, though it is feasible to assume that I would not use it straight-faced even in its original definition. What is most surprising to me is the new usage that has cropped up where kids, referring to their armour on an online game, inquire hubristically: “Do I look ownage?” Despite being employed as a glorified child-behaviour paladin, my degree in, and passion about, the English language lead me to view this use of language with an air of haughty distaste.
Another example of ludicrous patois is the decision of the children to actually declare, out loud, with their voices, out of their own mouths, into the air, where you are HEAR it: “OMG!”. Actually spelling out the letters instead of saying the words these letters have come to represent. I have come to the point where I allot myself 15 lashes if I ever use the actual phrase “oh my god”, and to hear little human whelps using the bowdlerised phrase with no sense of how idiotic they sound leaves me chilled. I think it all comes down to the fact that I hate children, and in this sense I am both not suited and perfectly suited to being in charge of them. They also say “noob”. I am agèd beyond my days.
In a jarring change of topic, I will now stop talking about something that frustrates me and begin discussing things I enjoy. I was let loose into a radio studio recently, along with my future co-presenter, to “get a feel of the room”. What we achieved in the hour or so we were allowed in there was, though it is swell-headed of me to say so, beautiful. We quickly came to grips with the technology and the software by ourselves, since we are such tech-savvy clever Richards, we then proceeded to ‘practice’ and prepare an off the cuff non-recorded pilot of what we think our show should be. It essentially comprised of songs we don’t like being seamlessly faded in and out of each other to an accompaniment of us cachinnating cacophonously. In the heightened oddness of the studio, which I am going to refer to as The Atelier, even the most spurious joke or funny story became hilarious, sending us into rapturous bellowing laughter. We gleaned far too much enjoyment from being ‘naughty’ and pronouncing Foo Fighters as though it was a naughty word (which of course we cannot do on air due to the Don’t Say The Naughty Words! Act 1914), and also from a frighteningly accurate impression of Sarah Millican, which no Rhondda-born man has any right to be able to do, and also a very poor John Lennon. We toyed with the idea of pretending to be from other community radio stations located around the country, welcoming imaginary listeners in a heavy faux-cockney accent to Pearly Kings FM, and topping this off with a gravitas laden “Have a banana”. It was all scuppered however as the manager of the station walked in on us raging through an angry dialogue pretending to be from a Liverpudlian station. I think we scared her quite a lot, and perhaps made her question her own judgement in terms of letting us in. Regardless, we had a swell time (I am very much on board in the attempt to re-popularise this term).
As well as our being-silly centric live shows which we will be broadcasting on the weekend when the radio gets started (if all goes well), we are also planning on doing a number of pre-records using a format I dreamt up last year, and that we have been meddling with in order to amuse ourselves. I am very excited to be planning and preparing for the Cultural Exchange Program, the premise of which is very simple indeed. We will be picking a genre (of Jean Reno as we will be attempt to rebrand them) each, amassing a selection of songs from the genre, playing them to each other and discussing them, in the hopes that The Exchange will make us better, more rounded individuals, and failing that, that some laughter will have been created. Despite having prepared fastidiously for the first show, I won’t put details here as it is still far enough away that I feel I must keep as much information to myself in order for it to remain fresh on the day.
Suffice to say, preparations for the show have been engrossing and enjoyable, even when certain songs cannot be chosen due to the often colourful language my preferred genres contain. I take these instances to be a challenge, and tracks that are unsuitable for broadcast have already forced me to seek out other tracks, which have often proved better. Hopefully we will be able to incorporate a “Tracks We Couldn’t Play” section, in order to explain the reasons they couldn’t be used, which I have already discovered often have quite amusing reasons.
To close up, here is a track that I most certainly couldn’t play, and is a chirpy, although somewhat abrasive, piece. See if you can spot why it’s inappropriate.
Answers on a postcard please.
This is the only line from a news article that I have discovered today that I found noteworthy. I reproduce it here, out of context, in the hope that the vagaries surrounding the quotation will add to its oddness.
I am unsure what to write about today, so I will allow myself what I originally believed this blog would not become, and write an entry specifically about myself. Oh dear me indeed.
I have been surrounded by children recently, due to the nature of my job, and I have discovered that the youth of today has adopted a number of odd colloquialisms that I find jarring. This is hardly surprising, and indeed is one of the things to be expected from generation to generation, but as I am only 21, I am slightly flummoxed to note the difference in language use already present in people 7-8 years my junior. I appreciate that I may not be a legitimate bastion of current slang, as evidenced by my use of terms such as “flummoxed”, “legitimate” and “bastion”. However, some of the language used without even the thinnest veneer of irony or self-awareness is flabbergasting.
I am no stranger to the concept of “ownage”, though it is feasible to assume that I would not use it straight-faced even in its original definition. What is most surprising to me is the new usage that has cropped up where kids, referring to their armour on an online game, inquire hubristically: “Do I look ownage?” Despite being employed as a glorified child-behaviour paladin, my degree in, and passion about, the English language lead me to view this use of language with an air of haughty distaste.
Another example of ludicrous patois is the decision of the children to actually declare, out loud, with their voices, out of their own mouths, into the air, where you are HEAR it: “OMG!”. Actually spelling out the letters instead of saying the words these letters have come to represent. I have come to the point where I allot myself 15 lashes if I ever use the actual phrase “oh my god”, and to hear little human whelps using the bowdlerised phrase with no sense of how idiotic they sound leaves me chilled. I think it all comes down to the fact that I hate children, and in this sense I am both not suited and perfectly suited to being in charge of them. They also say “noob”. I am agèd beyond my days.
In a jarring change of topic, I will now stop talking about something that frustrates me and begin discussing things I enjoy. I was let loose into a radio studio recently, along with my future co-presenter, to “get a feel of the room”. What we achieved in the hour or so we were allowed in there was, though it is swell-headed of me to say so, beautiful. We quickly came to grips with the technology and the software by ourselves, since we are such tech-savvy clever Richards, we then proceeded to ‘practice’ and prepare an off the cuff non-recorded pilot of what we think our show should be. It essentially comprised of songs we don’t like being seamlessly faded in and out of each other to an accompaniment of us cachinnating cacophonously. In the heightened oddness of the studio, which I am going to refer to as The Atelier, even the most spurious joke or funny story became hilarious, sending us into rapturous bellowing laughter. We gleaned far too much enjoyment from being ‘naughty’ and pronouncing Foo Fighters as though it was a naughty word (which of course we cannot do on air due to the Don’t Say The Naughty Words! Act 1914), and also from a frighteningly accurate impression of Sarah Millican, which no Rhondda-born man has any right to be able to do, and also a very poor John Lennon. We toyed with the idea of pretending to be from other community radio stations located around the country, welcoming imaginary listeners in a heavy faux-cockney accent to Pearly Kings FM, and topping this off with a gravitas laden “Have a banana”. It was all scuppered however as the manager of the station walked in on us raging through an angry dialogue pretending to be from a Liverpudlian station. I think we scared her quite a lot, and perhaps made her question her own judgement in terms of letting us in. Regardless, we had a swell time (I am very much on board in the attempt to re-popularise this term).
As well as our being-silly centric live shows which we will be broadcasting on the weekend when the radio gets started (if all goes well), we are also planning on doing a number of pre-records using a format I dreamt up last year, and that we have been meddling with in order to amuse ourselves. I am very excited to be planning and preparing for the Cultural Exchange Program, the premise of which is very simple indeed. We will be picking a genre (of Jean Reno as we will be attempt to rebrand them) each, amassing a selection of songs from the genre, playing them to each other and discussing them, in the hopes that The Exchange will make us better, more rounded individuals, and failing that, that some laughter will have been created. Despite having prepared fastidiously for the first show, I won’t put details here as it is still far enough away that I feel I must keep as much information to myself in order for it to remain fresh on the day.
Suffice to say, preparations for the show have been engrossing and enjoyable, even when certain songs cannot be chosen due to the often colourful language my preferred genres contain. I take these instances to be a challenge, and tracks that are unsuitable for broadcast have already forced me to seek out other tracks, which have often proved better. Hopefully we will be able to incorporate a “Tracks We Couldn’t Play” section, in order to explain the reasons they couldn’t be used, which I have already discovered often have quite amusing reasons.
To close up, here is a track that I most certainly couldn’t play, and is a chirpy, although somewhat abrasive, piece. See if you can spot why it’s inappropriate.
Answers on a postcard please.
Tuesday 15 September 2009
Pedantry, Pedantry, Whimsy, Self-Deprication
What a difference a shift makes.
I’m not really sure how I underwent such an about face in the space of four hours. Actually I am fairly sure, and I am about to provide you with a meandering and long-winded account of the occurrences that led up to my fall from contentment.
I was pleased this morning to receive two items of correspondence that were of worth, rather than the vapid, unwanted spam that usually peppers the entrance portal of my domain. They were both related to money, specifically the aspect of money pertaining to my ownership of some. This is good news, as there is a particularly spiffing hat I wish to make purchase of. According to Mr Bill Gates ‘spiffing’ is not an actual word, and I feel it is my duty to redirect you here in order to substantiate my rather antiquated choice of adjective.
Since now I am, as they say in The Hollywood, in the money, I hastily made purchase of an album I had had my sights on for awhile, No Torso’s Several Brains. I originally picked up a few of their tracks when they allowed them to be downloaded for free on MySpace, back when it wasn’t a grievous faux pas to have such an address in your browser. The tracks were Fight the Blue Horizon and Fatal Fraud, and appear on the album, though Fatal Fraud has undergone radical sonic surgery since I originally heard it. For me Fight the Blue Horizon is by far the best track on the album, though this choice is likely slightly biased, as it is the track I was the most familiar with from beforehand, even serving a brief stint as my ringtone. Not many of the other tracks instantly endear themselves, though they seem considered and nuanced enough to warrant proper and repeated listens, rather than a snap write-off, especially considering I only bought the album today.
On the way into work I listened to the Precious Little Podcast, a spanking new baby making its way into the podcasting world. It features comedian and all-round angry man Michael Legge and also James Hingley, who from what I can glean with my far-from-Holmesian abilities is a good-comedy enthusiast. A trend I’ve noticed in my preferred podcasts of late, notably including The Collings and Herrin Podcast and also The Trap Sodcasts, is the habit of the podcasteers to declare “No one will have made it this far”, suggesting that due to the perceived awfulness of the recording everyone will have stopped listening. This isn’t the case, as at the absolute least, I am still listening. So I would suggest that either this line is dropped or is amended with “except for Adam Gilder, who is such a tenacious listener he will most definitely be listening”. They’ve nothing to lose, as at the point that that is uttered, it’ll only be me listening. I am hoping that it will catch on in a “Who Is John Galt?” style, where people will utter “It’s like speaking to Adam Gilder”.
Actually, thinking about this, I have been found to be ‘Best Listener’ through a consensus of my peers, as proven here:
I am also voted the ‘Best Sense of Humor’, and I am equally pleased and displeased with this vote: pleased to have my good humour acknowledged, displeased to have it misspelled. I’m also uncertain with the ‘Best Sense of Humour’ as this isn’t the same as ‘Funniest’, it seems to suggest that I cannot write a joke, but I can bloody appreciate the fuck out of one. So perhaps the gentlemen of Precious Little will be heartened to know that their podcast was received with enjoyment from this comedy nerd. Like a rabid Gremlin fed after midnight, I eagerly await more. That analogy doesn’t really work as Gremlins aren’t famed for waiting patiently.I do find it quite sinister that the other aspect that is considered most notable of me is that I am ‘useful’. I am unsure what use these people believe they have for me, and it is almost certain that I will not enjoy their nefarious plans.
Since there were no news stories that sparked my curiosity, I spent roughly three hours reading entries in the Chortle forums, which I wrongly believed would not suffer from the forum-based-idiocy of every other forum. I believe it was Elis James who first alerted me to the process called a ‘Brain-Wrong’, and this extensive reading of forum entries certainly fits this category. Apart from the very occasional sensible and engaging entries (usually from Steve Bennett, Bethany Black, Paul Sinha or Wil Hodgson) there is such a huge mountain of idiocy, all the colours of the cuntbow. Whichever your bigotry of choice, you are provided for. There is a strong counter-current of rational entries fighting the tide, but some people refuse to understand. It was this slew of what I will tentatively call ‘bad vibes’ that put me into such a sour mood, alongside a child of 11 asking me how to spell ‘changer’. Like change, but with an R on the end. How do you spell change? D-E-P-R-E-S-S-I-N-G.
The ignorant forum entries highlighted such a huge difference of world view between myself and the posters, I had to wonder whether it was actually the same world that we inhabit. This topic is dealt far more wonderfully by Daniel Kitson, whose podcasting techniques I cannot fathom but utterly adore. Mr Kitson must be possessed by some strange madness, as he has opted to release some of his old Edinburgh shows for free in podcast form. I’m unsure as to why he opts not to get in touch with gofasterstripe, as this tag team of comedy production and distribution would cap the decade off wonderfully, in my opinion. Regardless, I am overjoyed to partake of these shows for free, and I will be intellectually self-medicating with deconstruction, deconstruction, deconstruction, whimsy and callback in order to cure myself of the forum-induced brain haemorrhage I have suffered. Kitson is the antithesis of internet posters, which makes this blog entry so very bittersweet, as I aim to poorly pay homage to his work, using the medium of idiocy.
Bum.
Friday 11 September 2009
I Drink Magners
It is interesting, to me, that the Chortle-located shitstorm about the apparent selling out of Mark Watson comes so soon after I awkwardly attempted to express my feeling that it is difficult to compare comedians to each other, since there is no strictly defined idea of what a ‘comedian’ is. My exact words were:
“The problem with these arguments is that there are no clearly defined grounds of what a ‘comedian’ is and does, therefore arguing that one comedian is ‘better’ than another is always going to be a completely subjective process”.
The recent article by David Jesudason offers a very different view of a comedian, claiming that:
“The role of the comedian is to highlight the ills of our society and not be scared to say things that other people are afraid of highlighting.”
The rebuttal I would give to this is already redundant, as it has already been made by Carl Donnelly, who says in his direct reply to David Jesudason:
“The role of a comedian is to make people laugh.”
I think anyone would be hard pressed to argue against that statement, but this simple fact is often overlooked in the light of your personal preference of comedy style. Regardless of what topics, themes or styles are ‘the best’ in comedy, the first port of call is to make it funny, and not, as David Jesudason suggests: ‘to highlight the ills of our society’.
It is quite an odd feeling to be advocating this, as I believe the comedians I favour tend to, in my opinion, ‘highlight the ills of our society’, or moreover to, in some way, examine the human condition. Despite saying this, it is only my own opinion which informs me that this is, in fact, what these particular comedians are doing, and different ears hearing the same material might disagree completely. Despite my enjoyment of what I have heard described as ‘comedy-as-art’, I am also fond of comedy for comedy’s sake, and why not? Laughing is still laughing even if there isn’t a hard-hitting point being made. In terms of actual laughter caused (referred to hereafter as ALC), the most successful radio comedy I have heard is Another Case of Milton Jones, which is a wonderfully crafted jaunt through a ridiculously skewed story, based on the waver thin conceit of a plotline, knitting together a string of garlic puns. No holding a mirror up to society here, just jokes. Which were what I wanted, of course, since I had wilfully tuned in with foreknowledge of Milton Jones’ style.
In a far more recent example, I went to see Chris Corcoran’s Committee Meeting in the Muni just yesterday. The show is a cheeky character double-act, with Corky taking the role of Chairman of a Labour Club, ably helped by veteran caretaker and all-around handyman Rex. This particular outing involved a surprise birthday party for Rex, which led to a “This is Your Life” pastiche charting Rex’s unexpectedly colourful history. The night featured claims that Rex once stood in for a poorly Brian May, wrote health and safety speeches for Martin Luther King (which were overlooked in favour of ad-libbing something about a dream) and also highlighting Rex’s time in the Soviet Union. A little unusual, and far more than a little funny, the life and times of such a traditional ‘no-bother’ aged Welsh caretaker were a joy to experience. Also featuring were the Raymond and Mr Timpkins Revue, who play unbelievably heavily on misheard song lyrics expressed through props, who seemed to do the joke to death, only to have the joke resussitated under the weight of the fact that they dared to stretch the joke that long.
Pointless, and hilarious. Glorious
Further apologies for the poorly written nature of this entry, I was rushing and stressed, I will revisit this eventually as there are interesting points I want to make more clearly.
“The problem with these arguments is that there are no clearly defined grounds of what a ‘comedian’ is and does, therefore arguing that one comedian is ‘better’ than another is always going to be a completely subjective process”.
The recent article by David Jesudason offers a very different view of a comedian, claiming that:
“The role of the comedian is to highlight the ills of our society and not be scared to say things that other people are afraid of highlighting.”
The rebuttal I would give to this is already redundant, as it has already been made by Carl Donnelly, who says in his direct reply to David Jesudason:
“The role of a comedian is to make people laugh.”
I think anyone would be hard pressed to argue against that statement, but this simple fact is often overlooked in the light of your personal preference of comedy style. Regardless of what topics, themes or styles are ‘the best’ in comedy, the first port of call is to make it funny, and not, as David Jesudason suggests: ‘to highlight the ills of our society’.
It is quite an odd feeling to be advocating this, as I believe the comedians I favour tend to, in my opinion, ‘highlight the ills of our society’, or moreover to, in some way, examine the human condition. Despite saying this, it is only my own opinion which informs me that this is, in fact, what these particular comedians are doing, and different ears hearing the same material might disagree completely. Despite my enjoyment of what I have heard described as ‘comedy-as-art’, I am also fond of comedy for comedy’s sake, and why not? Laughing is still laughing even if there isn’t a hard-hitting point being made. In terms of actual laughter caused (referred to hereafter as ALC), the most successful radio comedy I have heard is Another Case of Milton Jones, which is a wonderfully crafted jaunt through a ridiculously skewed story, based on the waver thin conceit of a plotline, knitting together a string of garlic puns. No holding a mirror up to society here, just jokes. Which were what I wanted, of course, since I had wilfully tuned in with foreknowledge of Milton Jones’ style.
In a far more recent example, I went to see Chris Corcoran’s Committee Meeting in the Muni just yesterday. The show is a cheeky character double-act, with Corky taking the role of Chairman of a Labour Club, ably helped by veteran caretaker and all-around handyman Rex. This particular outing involved a surprise birthday party for Rex, which led to a “This is Your Life” pastiche charting Rex’s unexpectedly colourful history. The night featured claims that Rex once stood in for a poorly Brian May, wrote health and safety speeches for Martin Luther King (which were overlooked in favour of ad-libbing something about a dream) and also highlighting Rex’s time in the Soviet Union. A little unusual, and far more than a little funny, the life and times of such a traditional ‘no-bother’ aged Welsh caretaker were a joy to experience. Also featuring were the Raymond and Mr Timpkins Revue, who play unbelievably heavily on misheard song lyrics expressed through props, who seemed to do the joke to death, only to have the joke resussitated under the weight of the fact that they dared to stretch the joke that long.
Pointless, and hilarious. Glorious
Further apologies for the poorly written nature of this entry, I was rushing and stressed, I will revisit this eventually as there are interesting points I want to make more clearly.
Thursday 10 September 2009
Pedestal to the Metal
Administrative bumph often means that genuine change takes a huge length of time to occur, and so a genuine overhaul is interesting news. One such overhaul occurred recently in Samoa, where they decided to change which side of the road they drive on. This has resulted in significant hilarity because some buses are no longer allowed to run because their doors are now on the wrong side of the bus, meaning that potential passengers would have to walk out into the middle of the road in order to board a bus. I say hilarity.
According the BBC article I’ve got this story from, the reason for this change was to enable Samoans to import cheaper automobiles from anywhere but America, because the left-hand drives they were having to buy beforehand were too expensive. Overlooking the poor arrangement of the previous sentence, I would like to express my interest that the change was made for business reasons. I think I should come clean and admit that I did believe I could make some humorous comment about this story, and have been proven wrong, rather than edit this piece out, however, I think it should be left in, as I am all for honesty and transparency in my blogging endeavour.
Another breaking story today, which I actually have something interesting to say about, was an article about the Beatles, who are a brand new band you probably haven’t heard of. The main thrust of the piece was that, in light of their entire back-catalogue being re-released in glorious mono, the journalist Stephen Robb asks why you aren’t allowed to dislike the Beatles.
“The Beatles seem to occupy a uniquely unassailable position in popular culture - everybody loves them. Don't they?” he asks.
He then discovers that there are indeed some people who hate the Beatles, or at the very least think they are overrated, which is of course such an easy thing to think due to them being so very highly rated. I was not alive when the Beatles ruled the world, nor did I listen to them seriously until fairly recently, and so I am of the opinion that they are ok. There are some songs I do not rate at all, but mostly they are enjoyable.
My interesting (we’ll see) point about the Beatles revolves around the first stand-up set I began performing with my friend (co-hopeful-comedian?) back around February, where a line about Pink not being the ‘rockstar’ she claims she is leads us to question what John Lennon would have made of Pink. Connoisseurs of the double act format will be aware that an extreme contrast between the two parties usually exists, and our act is no exception. Therefore the inquiry about John Lennon leads to my colleague brazenly declaring “John Lennon was an idiot”. Before we embarked on our comedy-attempts we thought there might be controversial lines in our sets, but to this day the only line that has been greeted with a sharp intake of breath and an “ooooh” has been the material on John Lennon. Bearing in mind this is roughly 30 years after he was killed, and the insult was merely “he’s an idiot” (followed by the declaration that “He thought he was a walrus”) is perhaps testimony to the pedestal he is held upon. Whether this is justified, which is the query of the original article, is of no interest to me, as long as I am able to enjoy Norwegian Wood (or not) at my own discretion. The Haruki Murakami novel which takes its name from that song, was the catalyst that made me investigate the Beatles seriously. If you are dying for some Norwegian Wood, I would suggest the novel before the song, unless you are strapped for time. My double act partner has a genuine dislike of the Beatles, the song ‘Octopus’ Garden’ especially, so if Stephen Robb is strapped for Beatles haters to interview, send him my way and I will patch him through.
Rather than disliking the metaphorical John Lennon Hero-Worship Plinth which hangs in the stratosphere in particular, I have a general dislike for putting anyone on a pedestal. When people are elevated to such a position where criticism of them is no longer tolerated, that is where ignorance begins.
I was recently watching clips of Robin Ince on YouTube, where I stumbled upon the commentary from a Ricky Gervais DVD (‘Politics’ I think) that had been uploaded. In the clips, Ricky chats with Robin, in what is either an amazingly fastidious act or evidence of the stunted mental growth somewhere within Ricky Gervais. It is the comment section which interested me most, as with most YouTube videos, as regardless of how good the content of the clip is, it is unavoidable that in the comment section, vacuous idiocy prevails.
I was surprised, then, to discover that actual thought was taking place in the comments below. One poster expressed that Ricky’s constant belittling of Robin was ridiculous, as Robin is a far better comedian. Further posts decried a number of comedians ‘better’ than Ricky Gervais, with particular focus on Stewart Lee. The problem with these arguments is that there are no clearly defined grounds of what a ‘comedian’ is and does, therefore arguing that one comedian is ‘better’ than another is always going to be a completely subjective process, which is why its important to explain what criteria you are judging them on. Of course a YouTube comment section possibly isn’t the place for that, whereas of course, I would argue a blog is (lucky you). An interesting poster simply inquired: “Stewart Lee better than Ricky Gervais, which planet are you on?”
I was intrigued that a comment on the famous video site would take the form of a riddle, thinking that slightly more information would have been welcome before it was necessary for me to answer accurately. With the small amount of knowledge available to me I tentatively answered: Earth.
I received Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle through the post today, which perhaps suggests that my opinion is going to be skewed, though I also own the stand-up DVDs of Ricky Gervais, meaning that I could make an informed decision, should I choose to do so. In terms of my personal preference, I believe that Stewart Lee and Robin Ince are better comedians that Ricky Gervais, regardless of how successful they are in purely monetary terms. I think the works of Stewart Lee and Robin Ince are more crafted and thoughtful than Gervais’, who often has dalliances with ‘dodgy’ topics, the actual aims of which I am uncertain of. When it comes to subjects which are likely to cause offence or leave people feeling awkward, it is important to understand the reason why the jokes are being made, the actual target of the jokes, and the message, and I sometimes feel that Gervais’ point is uncertain. This is of course my own personal reading of them, from one viewing, so it is completely possible that there is a justifiable point to the jokes.
The tone of the commenter, however, suggested that the quality of anything touched by Gervais was not to be questioned, purely on the quality of what has gone before. Which is, of course, rubbish. Each new offering has to be viewed on its own merits, and a mediocre, or rubbish, offering should not receive acclaim because The Office is good. When The Office first came out, I was slightly boggled by it, but I was likely too young to fully understand it, and so I am not really in any position to offer a credible view of it.
While I prefer a vast amount of comedians to Ricky Gervais, I am in no way saying he isn’t funny, and I do enjoy his work. I haven’t seen Extras, or any of the films he has worked on, nor have I heard the podcasts which has him crowned King of Podcasts, and to understand the phenomenon of his being held in such huge esteem, I would have to undertake a comprehensive study of its causes.
According the BBC article I’ve got this story from, the reason for this change was to enable Samoans to import cheaper automobiles from anywhere but America, because the left-hand drives they were having to buy beforehand were too expensive. Overlooking the poor arrangement of the previous sentence, I would like to express my interest that the change was made for business reasons. I think I should come clean and admit that I did believe I could make some humorous comment about this story, and have been proven wrong, rather than edit this piece out, however, I think it should be left in, as I am all for honesty and transparency in my blogging endeavour.
Another breaking story today, which I actually have something interesting to say about, was an article about the Beatles, who are a brand new band you probably haven’t heard of. The main thrust of the piece was that, in light of their entire back-catalogue being re-released in glorious mono, the journalist Stephen Robb asks why you aren’t allowed to dislike the Beatles.
“The Beatles seem to occupy a uniquely unassailable position in popular culture - everybody loves them. Don't they?” he asks.
He then discovers that there are indeed some people who hate the Beatles, or at the very least think they are overrated, which is of course such an easy thing to think due to them being so very highly rated. I was not alive when the Beatles ruled the world, nor did I listen to them seriously until fairly recently, and so I am of the opinion that they are ok. There are some songs I do not rate at all, but mostly they are enjoyable.
My interesting (we’ll see) point about the Beatles revolves around the first stand-up set I began performing with my friend (co-hopeful-comedian?) back around February, where a line about Pink not being the ‘rockstar’ she claims she is leads us to question what John Lennon would have made of Pink. Connoisseurs of the double act format will be aware that an extreme contrast between the two parties usually exists, and our act is no exception. Therefore the inquiry about John Lennon leads to my colleague brazenly declaring “John Lennon was an idiot”. Before we embarked on our comedy-attempts we thought there might be controversial lines in our sets, but to this day the only line that has been greeted with a sharp intake of breath and an “ooooh” has been the material on John Lennon. Bearing in mind this is roughly 30 years after he was killed, and the insult was merely “he’s an idiot” (followed by the declaration that “He thought he was a walrus”) is perhaps testimony to the pedestal he is held upon. Whether this is justified, which is the query of the original article, is of no interest to me, as long as I am able to enjoy Norwegian Wood (or not) at my own discretion. The Haruki Murakami novel which takes its name from that song, was the catalyst that made me investigate the Beatles seriously. If you are dying for some Norwegian Wood, I would suggest the novel before the song, unless you are strapped for time. My double act partner has a genuine dislike of the Beatles, the song ‘Octopus’ Garden’ especially, so if Stephen Robb is strapped for Beatles haters to interview, send him my way and I will patch him through.
Rather than disliking the metaphorical John Lennon Hero-Worship Plinth which hangs in the stratosphere in particular, I have a general dislike for putting anyone on a pedestal. When people are elevated to such a position where criticism of them is no longer tolerated, that is where ignorance begins.
I was recently watching clips of Robin Ince on YouTube, where I stumbled upon the commentary from a Ricky Gervais DVD (‘Politics’ I think) that had been uploaded. In the clips, Ricky chats with Robin, in what is either an amazingly fastidious act or evidence of the stunted mental growth somewhere within Ricky Gervais. It is the comment section which interested me most, as with most YouTube videos, as regardless of how good the content of the clip is, it is unavoidable that in the comment section, vacuous idiocy prevails.
I was surprised, then, to discover that actual thought was taking place in the comments below. One poster expressed that Ricky’s constant belittling of Robin was ridiculous, as Robin is a far better comedian. Further posts decried a number of comedians ‘better’ than Ricky Gervais, with particular focus on Stewart Lee. The problem with these arguments is that there are no clearly defined grounds of what a ‘comedian’ is and does, therefore arguing that one comedian is ‘better’ than another is always going to be a completely subjective process, which is why its important to explain what criteria you are judging them on. Of course a YouTube comment section possibly isn’t the place for that, whereas of course, I would argue a blog is (lucky you). An interesting poster simply inquired: “Stewart Lee better than Ricky Gervais, which planet are you on?”
I was intrigued that a comment on the famous video site would take the form of a riddle, thinking that slightly more information would have been welcome before it was necessary for me to answer accurately. With the small amount of knowledge available to me I tentatively answered: Earth.
I received Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle through the post today, which perhaps suggests that my opinion is going to be skewed, though I also own the stand-up DVDs of Ricky Gervais, meaning that I could make an informed decision, should I choose to do so. In terms of my personal preference, I believe that Stewart Lee and Robin Ince are better comedians that Ricky Gervais, regardless of how successful they are in purely monetary terms. I think the works of Stewart Lee and Robin Ince are more crafted and thoughtful than Gervais’, who often has dalliances with ‘dodgy’ topics, the actual aims of which I am uncertain of. When it comes to subjects which are likely to cause offence or leave people feeling awkward, it is important to understand the reason why the jokes are being made, the actual target of the jokes, and the message, and I sometimes feel that Gervais’ point is uncertain. This is of course my own personal reading of them, from one viewing, so it is completely possible that there is a justifiable point to the jokes.
The tone of the commenter, however, suggested that the quality of anything touched by Gervais was not to be questioned, purely on the quality of what has gone before. Which is, of course, rubbish. Each new offering has to be viewed on its own merits, and a mediocre, or rubbish, offering should not receive acclaim because The Office is good. When The Office first came out, I was slightly boggled by it, but I was likely too young to fully understand it, and so I am not really in any position to offer a credible view of it.
While I prefer a vast amount of comedians to Ricky Gervais, I am in no way saying he isn’t funny, and I do enjoy his work. I haven’t seen Extras, or any of the films he has worked on, nor have I heard the podcasts which has him crowned King of Podcasts, and to understand the phenomenon of his being held in such huge esteem, I would have to undertake a comprehensive study of its causes.
Tuesday 8 September 2009
Gear Shift to Shift My Shift
As I have so little to do whilst I am in work, I have decided to use the massive amount of news reading I do for something that is, arguably, useful. At the very least I hope it will help the passing of the hour that is left of my shift. Here’re some of the articles that I have read and found interesting.
All of the articles that feature here are from the BBC website, where I was distraught to find the line: “The operation also had to be speeded up”. My gut reaction to the word ‘speeded’ was one of supreme wrongness. For me, the word clangs in a sentence like a clang-creating device falling heavily into a vault of clang. Probably should have used the klang spelling, then I could have segued into how good the series We Are Klang was, but I won’t, I’ll focus. The more I looked at the word ‘speeded’ the more I worried that I was wrong to assume that the word is non-existent, and so I copy-pasted it into the search box at the top of the screen. Overlooking the fact that my use phrase ‘copy-pasted’ places my criticism into uncertain waters, the amount of times the word ‘speeded’ appeared in BBC articles leads me to believe that this is my personal foible rather than a lexical error.
Uses included:
“its droning bass and melodic hooks mesh with speeded up snake-charmer horn”
“the films have been speeded up so that you can get more miles for your money”
“Then our technical boffins speeded up the footage”
“Researchers spoke to more than 1,500 drivers and found that 94% of them admitted they had speeded.”
Apart from the final use, which I don’t mind because of it’s relation to the term ‘speeding’, which is a fairly recent evolution of the word ‘speed’, I feel as though the writers really should have been using the term ‘sped’. I like the word ‘sped’. Surely it is the correct term to have used in those situations. Regardless, if the term ‘speeded’ is legitimate, then I will be doing my very best to boycott it. Despite the possibility that this blog entry contains more of the term ‘speeded’ than any other, and is going to have ‘speeded’ as one of the tags. The more I discuss it, the hoisting of my own petard is merely being speeded up. Damn.
What is a petard?
One story masquerading as news was the revelation that in the Flintshire Council headquarters in Mold they had renamed a certain foodstuff, re-christening it a ‘Spotted Richard’. According to the article:
“The "spotted" part of the name refers to the currants, which resemble spots, and "Dick" is believed to derive from the word dough.”
Now I’m not really familiar enough with the workings of Old English to speculate on whether or not ‘dough’ can really be linked to ‘dick’. Dough rises. Yeast infection. Throbbing wholemeal breadstick. The article also contained the oft-repeated phrase:
“But one councillor described the move as "political correctness gone mad"”
Of course he/she did. The exciting game of misunderstanding ‘political correctness’ is omnipresent in Britain, and by using my powers of rampant judgemental speculation I can picture the jowls of the councillor wildly flailing as he rings the death knoll of “pritiacrecntssgoma!”. The real reason that name had been changed was that the workers in the canteen had become bored with the occasional sniggers that inevitably follow when a childish person buys spotted dick. I hardly think it warranted a name change however, as spotted dick is one of the ludicrously named things that the British populace become jaded with quite quickly. The pudding makes the foolish mistake of not actually looking like a dick. If it had nailed that one, it would have been the undisputed emperor of inappropriate after-dinner snacks. It loses out to the jammy fanny, which doesn’t exist.
Another councillor, and winner of the Most Obnoxiously Macho Name in History Award, Klaus Armstrong-Braun laid this nugget of wisdom on the debate:
"People make silly comments about everything in life, there is no need to change the name over it."
Exactly, grow up. I expect to have my puddings correctly labelled the next time I go to purchase some spotted penis.
More silly comments were readily forthcoming in an article about what presumptions you can draw about children based on their names. According to the story a survey discovered that:
“Pupils called Callum, Connor, Jack, Chelsea, Courtney and Chardonnay were among some of the ones to watch.”
I tend to believe that judging people on things they have no control over is wrong. The exceptions are race, sex, sexuality and where you come from. During that last statement my tongue was so far in my cheek it exploded out and now my teeth are visible through the bloody gash in the side of my face. Kids have very little control over what they are called, even nicknames are monikers usually allotted to individuals by others, as the lack of children called ‘Captain Awesome’ shows. Judging a child on how tasteless their parents are seems slightly harsh, I would argue that children known to be from worse-off families should be given fair chance to proceed in life, there’s enough prejudice of ‘chavs’ without actively encouraging judging people because of names they had no control over. I shouldn’t be complaining when:
“The survey also asked teachers what the brightest children tended to be called, with Alexander, Adam, Christopher, Benjamin, Edward, Elizabeth, Charlotte, Emma, Hannah and Rebecca coming in as the brainiest names.”
My name is Adam, which proves that my critique of the article is valid because clearly I am clever because my name proves it. But by using the opinion of the article to vindicate that I am clever I have proven that the article is correct, which makes my criticism of it incorrect, which proves I am not clever. And universe imploded in a spiral of paradox. Of course it is possible for the article to be incorrect and for me to also be clever. Which is the case.
“Names of the most popular children in the class included Jack, Daniel, Charlie, Callum, Emma, Charlotte, Hannah and Anna.”
Not in my class they weren’t.
Other news sees a discussion of people who have actively changed their names, thus proving them both to be stupid. The divorce of Jordan/Katie Price and Peter Andre/Peter Andrea has gone through successfully. It would seem hypocritical to criticise people because of their names after speaking out about that very thing, though clearly these individuals saw some inadequacy in their own names, and it is the choice I am scrutinising, not them. In Jordan/Katie Price’s case I imagine is was glamour/privacy reasons that fuelled her choice back in the day, though privacy and glamour don’t usually go hand in hand. It is for aesthetic reasons that Peter Andre must have dropped the ‘a’ from the end of his name. Still, the husband with a woman’s name, the wife with a man’s name, it’s not surprising they didn’t last. The reason actually given, however, can be discovered as:
“It was revealed the pair had both applied for a divorce on the grounds of unreasonable behaviour.”
So luckily that clears that up. The divorce goes through:
“with neither party accepting blame for the split.”
It seems strange to me that it is necessary to accept blame in a divorce, or indeed provide a reason more pressing than “I don’t want to be married to you anymore”. What a strange and outdated system marriage is. I will be boycotting it henceforth, which I’m sure will cause global outrage, as the removal of a spotted dick obsessive should.
That is surely the only pudding that, with the help of the humble comma, can become an explanation of a picture of a celebrity.
Spotted, dick.
Monday 7 September 2009
Voluntarily Volunteering Volunteering Observations
Volunteering is a strange process. Throughout the vast majority of my life I have not been a volunteering sort of person. In school I was often involved in a number of interesting extra curriculars, but this was always as the behest of teachers or friends. Since leaving Uni, however, I am attempting to buck this trend.
In order to have enough to write about, I am using the word ‘volunteer’ in a very broad sense. My first foray into the world of volunteering came when I was involved in giving University hopefuls a tour of the campus. Which I did once. In all truth this was not meant to be a volunteering program, I would have been paid for my efforts, but I did such an awful job of it I felt it would be wrong to chase up payment. There is an applicable saying referring to money and sense that I could apply to that anecdote, but I won’t. Though I have.
I am also broadening ‘volunteering’ to include comedy open spots, which I started seeking out earlier this year. These shouldn’t really be considered volunteering, as I very much wanted to do them, and arguably I was earning more in non-monetary terms than I was investing. I wonder whether open spots / open mic nights are officially considered voluntary work, although I am not inquisitive enough to do anything apart from include the query here.
In a more direct sense I will, in the near future, be volunteering for a local community radio station, but even this doesn’t quite fit the bill for me. Volunteering is usually portrayed in such a way as to seem like a burden and a hassle, but my experience of volunteering for the radio so far has been a joy, and genuinely exciting. For me, being involved in the workings of the station is less an unpaid use of my time, and more a fantastical romp through the airwaves, wondering quite how I have been allowed free reign to fill time between songs. Still, it hasn’t happened yet, fates may conspire against my radio aspirations. My comedy efforts have thrived thus far however, and I am fully confident that I will be equally competent in the radiographical sphere. Because I am a self-impressed hubristic eloquent yob.
It is interesting that I have the opportunity to discuss my understanding of volunteering to such a degree, as I am writing this whilst in work. Having run out of interesting (to me) BBC, Guardian and Chortle articles to peruse, I am forced to write my own words in order to pass the time. The responsibilities of my employed role require me to ensure the safety of computers, and the harmony of a cyber café. The dash of the ‘e’ in cyber café was placed there automatically by Word, I note this as it would be simply ghastly if the reader were to find within me a quantum of pretention.
My job of babysitting internet-browsing youths is particularly stress free at this point, as 4 kids playing Runescape are hardly ‘rowdy’ in any way shape of form. There are a group of my co-workers assembled in the corner of the room schmoozing, but instead of joining them and enjoying some rational human company I am compiling this facile correspondence to be flung haphazardly into the vacuum of the blogosphere. How deliciously futile.
A mixture of monitor-based-pain of the eye-area and a lack of sleep conspire to shroud the room in a foggy haze. Either that or a monitor has overheated in a Runescape based tragedy. I hope the second is the case and I am freed from the 20 minute minimalistic survival game until the end of my shift. On second thought I think I will wait it out.
I am now down to three children left under my scrutiny. Down to the final three. Who will win? You decide. The winner is Youssef Richards-Harrowby, whose name I have altered for security reasons.#
What this post proves is that my creativity is hampered by the potential for people to glance over my shoulder. Also sleep deprivation and lack of respect for the blog reading public.
I would end this post with a 'meh', but I hate that phrase with a passion akin to fury. 'Meh' is evidence of a lack of thought, and a lack of thought is the only truly evil action a human being can undertake. So why don't you 'ave a fink about dat den cleverpants?
Sunday 6 September 2009
I Hate Hiatus
I have been shanghaied into a routine that sees me outside and active, which means that my agreed upon schedule for blogging has been vaporised. Any move away from the plan in terms of writing, in my case, means nothing gets done. Hence I am late in breaking out a September blog.
I have decided to stop criticising the top ten every Sunday, as this allows me to not listen to music I know I won’t enjoy. There is also enough bile on the internet without me needlessly, and feebly, adding to it for no reason. Should an appropriately evil song appear, I will mercilessly spear it.
My unplanned hiatus from blogging occurred because I have been busy starting a new job. Despite having been offered the job in the spring, administrative bumph has ensured that it is only now I can begin, to be fair I am just glad to be starting. Most everyone there seems glad to have my post filled, as various people had to multitask and take on the responsibilities of my job on top of their own. I am glad to be of use, and needless to say, but I will regardless: the money is also welcome.
My role is, largely, to make sure children playing on computers behave themselves. For the most part this is an easy enough task, though I was forced to be stern/firm with a group of potential miscreants who were attempting to act out a moribund “Outside, then” scenario, with another young sir who clearly wasn’t interested. Children should just grow up.
It is odd how little changes from generation to generation, the same kids wanting to fight, the same other kids getting dragged into it. Cyclical, repetitive and pointless, though sometimes amusing. However, I mostly find the behaviour of the children distracting and abrasive. I’m sure you are thinking that it was necessary to apply a significant amount of tongue-biting in the interview for this job, there wasn't I promise, I’m not actually as distant and disjointed as this blog perhaps suggests.
What is particularly weird about this job is that I get to see the sort of activities the computer-friendly youth of today partake in. The biggest surprise for me whilst observing was that very little has changed since I was their age (roughly 10 years ago). The appearance of YouTube is the only huge change, allowing cackling kiddos to huddle together suspiciously to electronically watch people falling over ad infinitum. Aside from that, it is flash and browser-based games that still rule the internet-use sweepstakes when it comes to children. The only major changes in those fields are graphics and connection speed.
Direction-button games involving BMX tricks and just rag-dolling a hapless, faceless blob around the screen abound, as well as an extremely basic and ugly first person shooter involving what looks like Lego men that have been pimped with steroids and a neon trim. Amazingly, though, Runescape is still being played. It has undergone huge graphical changes since I used to play it, but it is very much the same grind-happy rubbish MMORPG. I am mostly annoyed that most of the kids have characters of a higher level than any of mine ever achieved, though that only proves they are dorks. Take that lame-Os! Shaaaa~
Since I now have to travel to daily, I am driving again. I am very glad to be back behind the wheel of a car, I feel like Hercules at the end of Hercules (the Disney one, yeah) where he has got his immortality and power all back up on it. Podcasts are best enjoyed behind the wheel of a car leisurely doing 30, with the easy banter summoning Jon Richardson into the passenger seat, and Tim Key and Fordey in the back. This doesn’t mean that I am not paying attention to the road though, so calm down, anyway you are not my mother, unless of course you are.
I have a meeting for a community radio station tomorrow, as do you Dafydd, which I am looking forward to as I am itching to receive training and get some radio done. It’s an early one though, which will make the driving experience unpredictable, I am a much bigger fan of late night driving, when the roads are empty and dark. Tranquillity is hard to achieve when other human beings are out and about. Similarly, my job would be so much easier were there less humans to bother about. Human beings are so inconsiderate.
I have been broadening my musical horizons this weekend, with a foray into jazz (Duke Ellington) and ambient indie (The Mercury Program) resulting in enjoyment. I have also taken a stroll down movie soundtrack avenue, listening to the works of Ryuichi Sakamoto and also of Joe Hisaishi. Hisaishi’s live orchestra concert showcasing his Ghibli tracks is breathtaking, I’ll probably be partaking of more orchestral scores in the near future. The Cribs new album is out, I believe as of today, and I have been enjoying that, though their track referencing ‘Hari Kari’ annoys me, partly because I’m not sure the mistake is purposeful (it should be hara-kiri). The opening track ‘We Were Aborted’ is a particular personal highlight.
I will bring this entry to an abrupt end, as I must away to enjoy Andrew Collins and Robin Ince on the iPlayer, eat and following these two activities I will bathe and read more of ‘Kafka by the Shore’. I can only undertake activities in twos. Whilst writing this I have been listening to the music described above. Who says its only women that can multitask? Eh? Whoever they are, find them and tell them to stop lazily conforming to stereotypical trains of thought.
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