Jarvis Cocker, complete with inadvisable beard, is going to be sitting round the Question Time table with David Dimbleby, forgotten Tory leader Iain Duncan-Smith, Labour’s Harriet Harman and, best of all, objectionable right-wing bigot Peter Hitchens. Unmissable viewing on Thursday evening, BBC1.
Eight five seven nine nine nine two three six six one
I have now been listening to recordings of Numbers Stations for two and a half hours. I think it might be driving me slightly mad. Yet it’s also curiously compulsive. So much so, in fact, that I am pondering giving up all forms of writing and instead throwing what little creativity I still possess into setting up my own mysteriously unnerving radio presence somewhere in the hidden depths of Shortwave, so that I can sit in a darkened room with a single microphone and intone emotionless streams of numbers all day, every day.
<curmudgeon>13-year-old boy is given 30-year-old Sony Walkman to use for a week instead of his iPod. Hilarity ensues! “It took me three days to figure out that there was another side to the tape,” he says. That’s because you are going through the modern education system, and you’re stupid. “I can’t imagine having to use such basic equipment every day,” he adds. Oh shut up, you ignorant child - this is my history you’re trampling over with your smug, condescending attitude. I hope he was also given music from 1979 to listen to, for that truly authentic Walkman experience - much better than all this Dubstop, Electropica and Postal-Rock that pesky kids listen to today.</curmudgeon>
A local councillor in Wales referred to homosexuality as “a notorious disability”, saying that “the modern culture is to defend these people from any form of discrimination. Hurray for diversity”. Then he went on to claim that he had recently found a book (yes, apparently he can read) which suggested “that homosexuality is a demon which can be driven out”. But it’s okay, everyone, because he further clarified his stance: “I respect them as someone who is struggling with a disability as I would with someone in a wheelchair”. Finally, he rounded things off by crying as he read passages from the Bible during his disciplinary hearing.
Even amongst the catalogue of ridiculous sounding titles for desktop and/or mobile Twitter applications, there is a general consensus that most of them should begin with ‘Twit’ or ‘Tweet’. Makes sense. So what were tha makers of Spaz thinking? And did no one tell them that it might be misinterpreted?
Weather report. It is hotter than Satan’s underpants. I feel like I am about to melt into Beelzebub’s very own sweaty crotch. I am so British. White and pasty or colour of boiled lobster. And nothing in between.
“Iranian state television’s Channel Two is playing a Lord of the Rings marathon in an attempt to keep people inside watching hobbits and not protesting in the streets. Normally, people in Tehran are treated to one or two Hollywood movies a week, but with recent events the government hopes that sitting through a nine-hour trilogy will take the fight out of most of the protesters.”—Slashdot Idle Story
“We have a problem with wallabies entering poppy fields, getting as high as a kite and going around in circles … Then they crash. We see crop circles in the poppy industry from wallabies that are high.”—BBC News: ‘Stoned wallabies make crop circles’
Oh. Bugger. Swells is dead. For many people my age, Steven Wells ranting, apoplectic music journalism was an essential read in the inky NME each week, gurning between his intense cohorts waxing lyrical about the “sonic cathedrals” committed to disc by pale young men with guitars and floppy fringes. In subsequent years I occasionally read him in The Guardian, but didn’t realise that he had moved to Philadelphia and wrote for the Philadelphia Weekly - who have published his last, very moving column.
“Writing a blog post is a lot harder than posting a status update, putting a funny link on someone’s Wall, or tweeting. People are still reading blogs, and other content. But for the creation of amateur content, their heyday for the wider population has, I think, already passed. The short head of blogging thrives. Its long tail, though, has lapsed into desuetude.”—The long tail of blogging is dying: Charles Arthur in The Guardian
Oh come on. There’s no such thing as networking for the introverted, unless by ‘networking’ you mean going to the kitchen and talking to the fridge about what cheese you should eat and why your life is so very lonely and empty.
The latest hilarity from within the British Board of Film Classification reveals that fans of the acting institution known as Saint Dame Judi Dench are shocked and appalled when her usually very proper and very English behaviour gives way to even the most mild of expletives. Also, far be it for me to condone outdated and offensive disablist language, but sticking a 12A rating instead of PG on an entire box set of the bland, inoffensive and nauseatingly perma-tanned Friends, all because of a single use of the word “spastic”, seems a trifle overzealous.
I heartily approve. Bunch of disablist bastards. Not that this would ever happen to me, you understand. Nothing to do with my prosthetic leg. Just that I wouldn’t get a job there in the first place, based purely on my (woefully lacking) sense of style.
Or: how imagery can take you from a graphic tee in an obscure online retail store, via Roy Lichtenstein and Sonic Youth, through to the Moors Murderers and the current round of disturbing video footage from Iran.
Momus: A Complete History of Sexual Jealousy, Parts 17-24: a bedroom electro-pop classic from 1988, featuring some exceptionally cheap and tasteless synthesisers and drum machines. Momus, AKA Nick Currie, is a genius. A mostly unlistenable genius, granted, but a genius nonetheless. No one else but Mr Currie can claim to have brought forth from the NME its nastiest, but also its pithiest album review ever. At just five words, it said: “Shit sandwich. Without the sandwich”. Class. I wasn’t sure whether to post this track or the utterly pornographic ‘remix’ recorded a few years later. So I played safe. Maybe I’ll treat you to that remix tomorrow. Maybe.
Please shut up, because I am now going to bore you to tears with my self-important theorising about Twitter
Whenever I glimpse yet another of those interminable articles - and I do mean glimpse, not read, never read -which seek to explain Twitter or, even worse, offer their self-important views on correct and proper ‘Twittiquette’ (yes, I did just write Twittiquette, and yes, I am filled with self-hatred because of it), the following thoughts tend to go through my peanut brain:
1) Why? In God’s name, why? 2) Analysing something that’s supposed to be mindless fun. Next week, a societal and ethical study of blowing bubbles. 3) It’s 140 characters. You can’t type more than 140 characters. That’s it. How stupid do you have to be not to understand it? 4) Take your codes of good behaviour on Twitter and shove them up your tight, anally retentive asshole, you motherfucker. (Or words to that effect.) 5) Must kill. Must kill before dawn. Must kill to save planet from itself.
Having said all this, I can understand the need for some kind of in-depth commentary to explain certain social networking phenomena. For instance, I need help understanding Facebook ever since they redesigned it. Mostly because whilst I retain some concept of sensible and logical usability, they don’t. Maybe I just need half my brain removed?
“It is an interesting divide, somewhat, in that the authors whose sentences seem the inspiration more than what is being said are of a certain ilk, as is how is the saying, while those of the idea tend to have a different texture, which is communicable among the reading as clearly as it likely feels to be in the minute of the word.”—Blake Butler
The new pop star that all ‘ver kidz’ are listening to goes by the name of Pixie Lott. No, I have not heard her number one hit single. I feel old. Very old. Chart acts just don’t have proper names these days. Like Haysi Fantayzee and Bow Wow Wow.
I would just like it registered here in Lucida Grande black and white that I have not saying anything cruel, heartless or unfeeling about the above story. Above and beyond any political disagreements I may have about how Lady Thatcher ruined ran the country, she is now an 83 year-old woman in ill health and should be cared for as any elderly person is, and treated with the same respect.
So I am not saying anything cruel, heartless or unfeeling.