...ruffles...

Sam works for British Airways so she had a busy weekend. She was drafted onto the frontline to try and help stranded passengers. There are, as you might expect, lots of stories of daftness, like the man who ‘just wanted his four cases’ so he could pop over to Gatwick to catch an alternative flight. It’s difficult to describe to someone what 60,000 suitcases look like and how difficult it might be to locate the said baggage.

Another man only flew BA because they never served peanuts thus preserving him from an allergic reaction. Apparently even the peanut vapours can cause problems to the most afflicted.

This got me thinking; peanut allergies are a new and growing phenomenon. Soon everyone will have it. I, on the other hand, do not have a peanut allergy; I could conceivably take over the world simply by eating peanuts and then threatening to destroy everyone with the vapours that emanate from my pours. With Peanuts only 49p a bag from Morrisons, I think it might be time to start stockpiling.

Now, where’s my cape?

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Labels: News

Ken Fish died last week. He was an Oxford United legend and, fittingly, there was an impeccable minute’s silence before last night’s game against Torquay. A brief eulogy was read out before the crowd fell silent; I’m not sure it was meant to come out like this… but it did…

“Ken retired from playing football at the remarkable age of 72, after which, unfortunately he had to have both his legs amputated.”

Presumably they’d worn out or something.

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Labels: Football

In the gym on Monday morning (another story) my iPod maintained its Kokomo and Clash fixation before finally choosing to play Snooks by Elbow;

Stuff was started
Things had ends
Stuff regarding all my friends
Some were married
All were fine
These are good friends these are mine

As I sprayed those around me with sweat and snot (why am I the only one?) I mused my fleeting weekend. The first time in two years everyone had been in the same place at the same time; from the moment Jo and Brian landed from Sydney on Friday afternoon until Katie and James departed for Melbourne on Sunday evening.

Willy and Leo’s wedding was a gently stylish affair. Sometimes with weddings you get to a point at the end of the evening when you’re too drunk, tired, exhausted or bored to keep going, but not this time. The ceilidh was frenetic, swinging the bride’s mother at 120rpm desperately trying not to fling her into the fiddle player with a beard the size of a nuclear winter. This was balanced against the serene surrounds of Ashfold School, sitting wearing balloon sculpture hats talking about Girl Guides and Hogwarts, the band apologising to the DJs (us) about the music they were about to play ‘oh yeah we don’t normally play this kind of stuff, it’s just a one off for the wedding’ and vice versa . I’m sure you can get bored of a cheese and crackers buffet, but it didn’t feel like it at the time. I could have lived there forever, cocooned from a world increasingly becoming a straight to DVD spin-off of 24.

Stuff is started, things had ends… conversations babble and blend about nothing and everything, about forthcoming children and existing mortgages, how to give a urine sample in three equal parts and how to make money from throwing people in the sea.

Blob, gloop, blob… a fluid interaction without edges or seams … Despite the time lags, everyone just gels back together as though continuing conversations held yesterday. …these are good friends, these are mine.

As suddenly as it began, it ended and the world and its woes returned. “…Bermuda, Bahama come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego baby why don't we go…”

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Labels: Friends

Aylesbury, of course, is now a hotbed of terrorist activity, apparently. Last week’s raid on a house (on the other side of town, I hasten to add, lord knows what this is doing to house prices) linked to the London bombings was, well, a bit of a surprise to say the least.

According another Aylesbury based colleague; the expectation is that Aylesbury is about to be hit by a firestorm of racial hate. Insurgents everywhere. A BACKLASH! Apparently it’s no longer safe to go into the town because of reprisals. All her friends say so.

Backlash? Against who? By who? Presumably the table of 10 white and Asians mingling happily at a table Pizza Express on Friday night were just taking a well earned break from Buckinghamshire’s micro-Jihad. I suppose it was the weekend, it’s not all work, work, work y’know.

My informed colleague also said that ‘at least’ fifty per cent of young Asians have it in them to be suicide bombers. Crikey.

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Labels: News

In an unusual act of random kindness at work, we’ve been given a Red Letter Day voucher. Amongst the activities on offer is zorbing, whereby you are put in a large inflated rubber ball and thrown down a hill.

Also on the agenda, is hydro-zorbing. Which, to the untrained eye, may appear to be something like being put in a large inflated rubber ball on water. Read more closely, however, and it turns out that hydro-zorbing is, in fact, exactly the same as zorbing, expect you’re given a bucket of water to hold before being thrown down the hill.

Next week I’m going to go hydro-cycling; like normal cycling, but with a bucket of water on my crossbar.

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Labels: General me

Feeling proud to be British is not very cool, is it? After all, people ‘proud to be British’ are members of the BNP or blue rinse royalists who keep their1981 Charles and Di Evening Standard souvenir pull-out in a special cellophane wrapper. Ain’t they?

This week, I’m proud to be British because London is going to host the 2012 Olympics. I don’t mean to be all Labourite about it, but part of what I loved about the bid is that it was built on a set of new British principles. The whole thing avoided the hackneyed images of Guardsmen in bearskins and the British bobby on the beat. Instead it focussed on our emergence as a progressive regenerated nation and a much more cosmopolitan and internationally integrated country. The masterstroke was Tony Blair’s final address delivered in French; this was Britain at its best.

This change in Britain has been ten years in the making, shifting from a paranoid, clunking, grinding, belching empire obsessed jalopy to a country which has had sustained prosperity with a refreshed culture. For the first time, however, the international community has endorsed and recognised the change.

When Sydney won the Games, Australia’s became the world’s utopian holiday home, but the Australians are still detached from much of the International community (perhaps life is too good in Australia). This is where Britain can prosper, as the barometer of the international community, the model of a modern progressive country. Delivering the Games means delivering the model.

There’s still a lot to do, delivering the Games, of course, but breaking down the barriers between us and Europe and getting out of the pockets of the US. We’ve been given the chance to prove that we can do it. The two weeks of the Games will be the party to celebrate the achievement. I for one, am all for it.

Postscript: this was written on Wednesday when the announcement was made. I’m still proud to be British as a result of the London bombings. Probably more so, the reaction all round has been another example of how strong this country has become. Nobody has made rash accusations, the city hasn’t collapsed and the world continues to turn. Bad things happen and bad people exist, but that doesn’t mean good things should stop and good people should go away. It’s been a great week to be British. Anyone want to join me in a verse of Jerusalem? No? OK then.

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Labels: News

I’ve read the reviews, seen the news and I realise that history will say that everyone on the Live8 stage was perfectly brilliant. This simply isn’t possible and just not true. I support the sentiment; I don’t understand the methods, I’m sceptical about the bullying tactics (both of the G8 and the general public). The belief that G8 will solve the problem is simplistic in the extreme. But, sod the politics, here’s the Ruffles opinion of each and every bloody act of the show…

U2 and McCartney
I don’t remember Quo opening Live Aid with ‘White Cliffs of Dover’, so why open Live8 with a song nearly forty years old? It’s been a while since U2 and McCartney were at the bottom of a bill, but as party starters, they’ve got a long way to go. Francis Rossi’s bugged eyed wonderment beats Bono’s self importance all hands down. Why did nobody tell me we can ‘cure AIDS with drugs’. Apparently ‘we’ve got those drugs’, although maybe he meant the band had the drugs, and we can’t have them. I dunno.

Coldplay
Has the stage manager got his set list upside down? At this rate the show will be closed by Northern Line. Good old Coldplay, unremarkably mid-paced, Richard Ashcroft arriving holding his shoes above his head raises hopes for a moment but even Bittersweet Symphony is a bit dull. The same set, played as the sun goes down would have been a different story. Perhaps Apple, wearing an enormous pair of pink headphones, needs to get back for her tea.

Elton John
Thank god for Elt. His backing band is a tidal wave of mullets and orange silk shirts but he stands on his piano before playing his own brand of honky tonk piano rock like he’s back on the coke and booze. Pete Doherty appears for Children of the Revolution, he looks better than he sounds but the whole event is lifted by the skag junkie and the fat poof. Like Chris Martin, Elt thanks ‘Bob Geldof’; on stage Geldof mentions: 2 Poverty mentions: 0.

Billionaire Bill Gates of IT monoliths Microsoft comes on to chastise the world’s powerbrokers for exploiting the world’s poor for their gain. I think I need a cup of tea.

Dido
She’s funny Dido, she puts everything into her singing then nothing comes out of her mouth. It’s like they turned down the bass EQ on her voice. Youssou n’Dor comes on; all these surprise guests are making it feel like the Brits. They do Thank You; Youssou resists the temptation to do Eminem’s bits. Seven Seconds is good, finally somebody is on at the right time of day. Dido’s inoffensive mid-ranking pop on at an inoffensive mid ranking point in the bill. She also mentions poverty, 2-1.

Stereophonics
You suspect that the ‘phonics are incapable of being smart-arses. So they strap on their guitars and play some ballsy rock n roll. They’re a bit like Makosi from Big Brother, you wouldn’t want to live with them but on telly, when you can switch them off, they’ll do. The crowd don’t seem that bothered, the BBC show close-ups of people going mental, but the long shots seem almost completely static.

Ricky Gervais comes on to fill with some distasteful jokes, I cringe, then realise it’s the sort of thing I’d say for a cheap laugh.

REM
It’s difficult to play a twenty minute stadium gig, but REM can play stadiums, and Michael Stipe does all the big gestures and it all starts to come together. Just after they finish Everybody Hurts, the BBC cut to Fern Cotton interviewing Razorlight, presumably it’s what the nation was waiting for. When they finally cut back to the stage, Stipe’s got the whole place in the palm of his hand, but who cares about that when Razorlight are available to tell us that they’ve seen the Live Aid DVD because they missed the real thing.

Ms Dynamite
… is crushingly dull but she’s the first person to say that we all are responsible for creating world poverty (2-2, Bob must be worrying).

They cut to Berlin where a raven haired beauty is rocking out. “Is that Neneh?” says Ricky Gervais “If it is, she’s shaved under her arms” he’s then caught saying “this isn’t going out live is it”. The BBC is ragged; they cut to Paris to see Muse who sound exciting and noisy. Hyde Park may have the biggest stars, but they’re getting a rummest of deals so far. … and, oh god, it’s Keane on next.

Keane
Keane are sensible boys playing sensible music at a sensible time to people with sensible haircuts. The crowd response is weirdly Pavlovian, when thingy (Tarquin? Giles?) tells them to make some noise they do, then they shut up very quickly. There’s nothing wrong with what they play (something strangely familiar yet equally anonymous). As a musical event, this needs a raging bender in a white t-shirt with a poodle permed guitarist in clogs.

Travis
… or a androgynous man in a powder blue suit with different coloured eyes. Travis’ pop is vanilla even if it is made with good ingredients. I like Fran Healey, he crafts good pop songs, but the article in When Saturday Comes about Stirling Albion’s 1984 cup game against Selkirk was more interesting.

Bob Geldof
Geldof was brilliant at Live Aid. The Boomtown Rats were well past their best but Geldof came on like a snarling dog, seething with anger and passion. This time he’s soporific, they roll out Midge Ure. Fern Britton tells us that it was an ‘amazing historic event’ it was Midge says he can’t believe how bad it was. Good old Midge, somebody who is aware that a good cause does not necessarily make a good concert.

Annie Lennox
Venus Williams wins the woman’s Wimbledon crown and I realise I’ve sat on the TV control. Then I see that I can go Live8 interactive, Lennox is doing her yummy mummy dancing to Little Bird, but in Philly Bon Jovi are doing Living on a Prayer and Ricky Sambrosa is playing a double headed guitar. In Toronto somebody is playing some great soca. I didn’t buy the whole racist thing to do with Live8’s line up, but the Eden project gig looks very black, and empty. Back with Annie, she’s doing Sweet Dreams, the BBC manage to cut to the only person in the crowd who doesn’t know the words.

They show Green Day in Berlin, the German’s are having all the fun. Billy Bob what’s-it says “Fucking” during American Idiot, then does a Freddie Mercury call and response. People are slam dancing and crowd surfing. They cut back to Jonathan Ross who tells us that UB40 are on next. Why does everyone keep saying what an amazing day it is? If I was Wolfgang in Berlin I’d believe you.

UB40
At Live Aid Queen were a fading rock band with a tea time slot. They came on stage and walked straight into pop cultural history. UB40 are a fading band with a tea time slot. Well, I suppose Red Red Wine and Radio Ga Ga are songs which have the same word twice in the title.

Annie Lennox unleashes a brilliantly impassioned tirade about the AIDS epidemic, she’s seething with anger, I stop and listen. Making poverty history might start sort AIDS out, but the Catholic Church and the trucking industry have a lot more to answer for. I suspect Annie knows that a big gig in Hyde Park might not be enough.

Snoop Dogg
Snoop’s so good he should be in Berlin. It’s a twenty minute showcase lauding the “Mother fuckin’ DRE” and dropping bitches like they’re hot. Snoop knows his job, like all the great acts, they perform first, which is what they do best. Leave the messaging to the video screens. Snoop is straight up gangsta, he just never flinches, and for that he deserves to join the top table. Coldplay seem like a long long time ago.

Razorlight
Whilst all the songs sound the same, Razorlight play a furious rock-a-billy. They don’t quite make the career defining statement they clearly hope to make, but it’s all starting to come together. I check Berlin on Interactive, they’re not having as much fun.

Bob’s back, introducing that Cars video, Geldof’s problem is that we’re not allowed to question him. He’s self righteous and pompous. Annie Lennox, of all people, starts to give me a degree of belief, then Geldof comes on to show how much angrier and cleverer and more informed he is than me. Religious zealots are like this, tripped out by their own self worth. He’s been on stage about six fucking times telling us the same fucking thing. I’m getting the principle, but Geldof chooses not to tell us how this is going to happen. All we’re supposed to do is text and he’ll do the rest like we’re a bunch of dumb-asses. Geldof is the one who’s spoiling it. Presumably everyone is too scared to tell him.

Madonna
Madonna has the songs to choose from, not that she chooses her best, but the performance is top notch, slick, professional and tightly choreographed. Because it’s Madonna, and she’s built a career on cold professionalism, you got to love her for that.

Snow Patrol
Are brief, but they seem so happy to be on stage. Their songs don’t reflect their bon viveur. They play two, the second I recognise, although if you’d have played it to me yesterday, I’d have told you it was Embrace.

Killers
In the Reading Festival phase of the concert The Killers are excellent but they only do one song. You feel that if they’d been given twenty minutes like other bands they could have been a bit special.

Joss Stone
I like Joss Stone the kooky teenager with a powerful voice, but she plays the kind of music I absolutely detest. It’s noodly soul which never had its moment, but seems to have been around for ever. The drummer appears to be behind bullet proof glass, he so fat it looks like he’s just part of the kit. Perhaps he’s stuck and lives there, maybe the glass acts like a shower cubicle. Why does she get to do three songs and the Killers just one? It’s no fair. Joss asks who loves Bob Geldof, there it is, confirmed, pop stars really don’t understand why they’re there.

Scissor Sisters
You suspect that all the Scissor Sisters’ songs are about snorting cocaine off dwarves’ bumcracks, but they still sound like Supertramp. They play a song no one has ever heard before, it also sounds like Supertramp. This is very perceptive of them, great moment for a toilet break.

I might be the only one who sees the irony that Joss Stone and the Scissor Sisters have a lot to thank the poverty industry for. The big multiples (supermarkets) have the buying power to drive supplier costs down below the cost of production; this means they offer great value for money, which means demand, which means massive buying power, which means they can sell CD’s for under a tenner. This is where a majority of Scissor Sisters and Joss Stone fans (thirty something families) buy their music.

Velvet Revolver
On the TV its obvious that this is Slash from Guns and Roses new band, but if you’re at the back of quarter of a million people, it’s possible you might be feeling a bit bemused. They do three songs; The Killers could have done their whole album. Who says nobody is on the bill trying to promote their records? It’s not that they’re bad; it’s that they’re the Velvet bloody Revolver, whose hits include… erm.

Sting
You just know sting lies awake at night wishing he’d thought of Live Aid. In supporting de-forestation he backed the wrong horse in terms of beatification. Still he’s not burdened with his own self-worth (that much). He plays a solid set that’s all very Sting, he’s the consummate professional. Earlier in the day he says he’s not nervous, well, he’s just doing his job.

Mariah Carey
A woman who has managed to have a very long career without ever having a song of note.

Robbie Williams
Robbie is the only person here who was not at Live Aid who seems comfortable at this level. He’s a composite of all great performers over the last thirty years, which either makes him supremely post modern, or a big fraud. It’s a damning indictment of our cultural development that it’s a relief to see him on stage. Either that or a clear indication of Geldof’s myopia.

The Who
Are lardy and dis-engaged, they play the same set as they did at Band Aid, which says it all really. During the big interlude during Who Are You, Pete Townshend spends his time pulling at his t-shirt to stop his man boobs showing.

Pink Floyd
Are awful, their songs are crafted to within an inch of their lives. There’s no excitement, no engagement. It’s a self important set weighed down with its own falsely created gravitas… Let’s face it, because they couldn’t get the Spice Girls to reform, the Floyd were next best thing, then they pretended that all the Spice Girls stuff didn’t happen they bigged up the the Floyd reunion like this was what people really wanted.

Paul McCartney and the Finale
Macca does his thing. Like Madonna he’s earned his right to fix himself in time. George Michael comes on and is woefully underused. Then everyone comes on, Hey Jude is anthemic but brief and the cheering doesn’t linger quite as long as it seemed to at Live Aid. Perhaps everyone is tired.

So who won? Snoop was ace, Robbie knows what he’s doing. Elton John, Madonna and REM, Sir Paul do what they do. The Killers and Razorlight didn’t get enough airtime to really make a dent, but where good while they were on.

Who lost? Pink Floyd, The Who, Mariah, U2 and Coldplay

Only Robbie gave anything like a U2 or a Queen type performance. Overall it was a bit bland; where were The Darkness (who should have opened), Franz Ferdinand, Radiohead, Blur, Oasis (who according to Noel Gallagher wouldn’t bow to Geldof’s bullying) and why were Faithless ‘relegated’ to Berlin?

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Labels: Music

It felt like we were cheating, and looking at the cross over between the two line-ups at the Glastonbury and Wireless festivals, it was. Even the usually anodyne newspaper diary dates put apologetic inverted commas around the word festival when referring to Wireless.

Firstly, Wireless was in Hyde Park central London, it doesn’t run on concurrent nights and it was suffocated with corporate branding (02 and Nokia principally). Hell, we even had our dinner at a nearby Pizza Express rather than noshing on a hotdog made of lips, bums and chicken’s ears. Putting it on the same weekend as Europe’s largest (and most proper) of festivals left it feeling like Glasto’s evil deformed twin brother.

It is probably for this reason that we simply referred to it as ‘The New Order gig’. Rain meant we avoided the line-up’s very long tail… we caught Moby playing music from adverts, but missed the one single types; Graham Coxon, The Bravery, Fischerspooner et al for a Fiorentina and coke.

If you were to draw lines between Peter ‘Oooky’ Hook, Stephen Morris and the late Ian Curtis they would meet at Bernard Sumner. Sumner is Everyman, part poet, part posturing rock star, part plumber. Oooky has pinned his “Bass Mechanic” icon to the floor with six inch nails; he still plays his bass two inches from the floor – something he originally did because Joy Division’s equipment was so awful he could only hear himself if he played down where his amp was. He still has the straggly rock star hair, he’s still stick thin. He’s a little weather beaten, but he looks and acts pretty much the same as he ever did. “Fooking ‘ell, it’s a fookin’ forty year old mosh pit, fookin’ grow up” chastised the 49-year-old bass player looking down on the mass of middle aged men with Sumner-esque shot back and sides.

Like their crowd, Sumner has gain weight, got older and becomes an embarrassment to his kids. When I saw New Order about ten years ago he stood stock still as he has in all the other film I’ve seen of him. Part cool, part terrified. Now, however, his shackles are off and he puffs his cheeks out out, purses his lips, turns purple and dances like your dad at a disco.

Festivals are so prevalent nowadays it’s much easier for big bands to satisfy their album promoting commitments by shifting from one festy crowd to another (New Order played on Saturday at Glasto) rather than doing their own tour. It means, however, that there is more licence to play a greatest hits set. Play safe, not everyone has come to see you; hit, hit, hit.

This is not to criticise, you don’t get to see these bands often enough to risk an experimental jazz jam session packed full of rare b-sides. We’ll leave that to Babyshambles and the kids who go to see them. I’ve done that stuff; seeing Radiohead at Kingston University a week after their debut single was released, Oasis in Brighton shortly after Definitely Maybe was released (and the after-show party), but for every iconic moment there are ten Sultans of Ping, Scorpio Risings and Flook playing 10 minutes for Radio 1 before going off. Gimme good product.

And that’s exactly what we got, hit after hit after hit from both the New Order and Joy Division back catalogues. True Faith, Crystal, Temptation, Love Will Tear Us Apart, Transmission, Love Vigilantes. It was safe and predictable programming from a driving, varied and adventurous back catalogue.

They ended with a shambolic rendition of Blue Monday, fighting technical problems to ensure that all the important bits were included at some point though not necessarily in the right order. Bernard sang about ships in harbours and shallow bays three or four times as he tried to three point turn himself out of a tight cul-de-sac. Hooky just played on relentless waiting for others to catch up. Then they left, Hooky carefully placed his low strung base on its stand and made for stage right. His rock starring complete for another night, as he disappeared from view a little girl, his daughter, grabbed him by the hand and the two disappeared off, presumably for a story and bed.

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Labels: Music

Spankee phoned sounding tired... What did you do last night, I asked...

"I went to a party, I wore a salmon pink shirt, slacks and brown slip-ons. I felt smart, but it seems so wrong, I feel forty..."

There was silence, he spoke again...

"Ooh, Manimal is on Bravo!"

And in the twinkle of an eye he was back.

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Labels: General me

I’m not troubled by the Michael Jackson verdict; it probably worked out for the best all round. Jackson is free (er, -ish) to continue in his own strange way and the trial probably neutralised any threat he might pose. The authorities, on the other hand, don’t have the headache of putting a high risk inmate in the clink. However, that odd band of fans who camped outside the courtroom trouble me greatly. To all those people, consider if you will…

• twenty year old sparsely adopted fashion fads – trilby hats, spangly gloves, white arm bands - are just twenty year old sparsely adopted fashion fads


there may be a relationship between a persistent addiction to plastic surgery and stunted emotional development
• if your best work is fifteen years behind you, you’re probably not really the king of anything at all

half hearted body popping is only one aspect of greatness

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Labels: Music

Oh god, my sister has raised a two and a half year old urban sophisticate. Sophie’s first words to Emma when she came over the other day were “Oh Emma, I love your shoes”. She followed this, having terrorised the cats, by gushing “Oh, I love your stairs”. All very Sarah Jessica Parker.

All of this can probably be forgiven, however, when I asked where her new cousin Jessica lived (answer: Tamworth) she replied “London”. No she doesn’t, said I. She turned, looked me in the eye and replied “We all live in London”.

Oh yeah, the bloody world doesn’t exist outside Zone 6, I know her type. I tell you, she'll be double cheek air kissing and sipping Manhattans out of her beaker soon …

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Labels: Friends

I won’t bore you with the minutiae of my deeply uninspired conservative party pleasing five hour set at Vibeke’s party on Saturday. In fact, my iPod made a better fist of ‘varied and eclectic’ as I tidied the kitchen on Sunday (Dionne Warwick, Orbital, Gorrillaz, Elbow, PJ Harvey).

Typically, I never seemed to be playing the right record at the right time. One girl came up to me and said “You know you’ve just played Crazy in Love (literally 2 minutes earlier), can you play it again, no one will notice” another said “Have you got any Jamiroquai?” to which I said no, so she wailed “You must have, because I love him”. I did tryto help the girl in the dainty wedged sandals who wanted “More reggae or hip hop… or The Killers”. It’s about par for the course for this kind of party, an occupational hazard if you like. Still, one bloke came up to check a Mint Royal tune I played (during my Ruffles pleasing early evening warm up) he also gave me a big thumbs-up for some Beanie Man, so that was nice.

It’s also nice to see beautiful people dancing and smiling to things you’re playing regardless of how tired the music feels to you. The party was noticeably full of beautiful people. Vibeke’s Norwegian and their was much Scandinavian vitality on show. However, it’s amazing how the beauty can fade when you’re presented in front of the decks with the same pristine smile for the sixth time in two hours. One girl repeatedly tried to explain in the most general terms imaginable, what she wanted to hear. The best she could do was “Less yo, more concrete”.

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Labels: Music

Any bassline which makes your nostrils vibrate is OK by me. The Chemical Brothers used it repeatedly during their Brixton Academy set last Friday which made for an ace night out.

Due to the prevalence with which the music press use the term, it appears potentially illegal to review the Chems without saying things about their “Blockrockin’ Beats”. There’s more to them than Big Beat survivalists. Such a varied back catalogue sweeps from all the tracks with Beats in the title (Block Rockin’, Chemical, Chico) to their housier anthems; Out of Control, Hey Boy, Hey Girl, Star Guitar. Then there’s their epic Private Psychedelic Reels (one per album) and their serious collaborations (with the likes of Flaming Lips, Beth Orton, Bloc Party et al). On top of which they weave the new album.

The performance was OK; Ed coaxes complex textures from his bank of modules whilst Tom is detailed with volume controls and waving. Their timing was out throughout, running through track after track at a frenetic pace. With six albums to play from, it was like they didn’t want to miss anything out. Maybe they need to be a little braver and drop something, even the big hits.

All of which means the whole thing was a little stuck somewhere between regular gig and full-on rave. Frequently the night peaked, racing away at a pulsating house pace, before a retro break from Exit Planet Dust appeared. Huge roars. Then the beats were slowed to the requisite speed and the energy waned. It’s a shame, with better programming they could have built and built the night to frenzy.

None of which should take away from what was a good night out. Sara came with me; a veteran of Busted, Britney and Take That concerts. She seemed to enjoy the culture shock; the sticky Academy floors, the lack of foam fingers in the merchandise stand, the offers of drugs (easy to spot, black guys with no sense of rhythm).

And we parked two minutes from the venue, which was the best bit of all.

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Labels: Music

Star Wars, even the original trilogy, wouldn’t have survived if it’d been launched today. We’re too prosperous and comfortable with the real world to accept innocent fairy tales based in galaxies far far away. Even The Invincibles was applauded because it dealt with the anonymity of suburban life and not because it was a cartoon about retired superheroes who return to save the world.

In our hierarchy of needs we’re well beyond basic survival, we’re beyond needing comfort and escapism; we can buy all these things. Finding spiritual enlightenment trekking in Nepal costs about the price as a packet of Pringles. With all these needs satisfied, we’re obsessed with a need for credibility. This requires cynicism and intellectualism; all part of a process of modern self-actualisation.

The achingly credible and intelligent are wanton to dismiss Star Wars with their breathtaking analyses that the films are riddled with poor acting and telegraphed plotlines. In 1977, nobody went to see Star Wars for a religious experience, they were living in drab times and the cinema was a quick hit of fun.

All six films are silly, but they’re fun and exciting silly. Whilst I could do a few less robots saying “Uh Oh” before being smote by a Jedi, Revenge of the Sith is great. It pauses only to set up the arrival of Luke and Leah and the death of Padme. But the rest of it is loads of fighting, lasers going “peowm! peowm!” and lots of running around like a bunch of pillocks… like just like innocent games played in the playground.

It’s not a historical document; it’s not trying to say much more than good is good and bad is bad. It’s just trying to entertain two hours, if we really had anything to worry about, we’d appreciate it for doing just that.

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Labels: Films

Is it just me but has Liverpool’s epic Champions League win been a rallying cry to all rubbish scousers? Phil Thompson waxed lyrical about how the club have the right to defend their title next season because there’s a magic surrounding them.

Some journo from the Liverpool Echo claimed that in heaven the famous Liverpool boot room (where a generation of Liverpool managers were schooled) got together at half time and conjured up a plan to get out of the 3-0 hole they were in.

My favourite was the fan BBC Breakfast followed to Istanbul. Billy, yes Billy, dressed in a vintage Liverpool shirt got to his hotel room and unpacked his Liverpool bedspread. He then pulled out his walkman so he could listen to his favourite song… “You’ll Never Walk Alone”.

Genius.

Oh, and is it just me but do the words “Midge” and “Sting” actually want you to put in some effort into raising world debt?

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Labels: Football

Publicly at least, the Manchester United players were gracious in their Cup Final defeat on Saturday. This is despite all the TV pundits’ protestations that they had been robbed, having dominated throughout. The players themselves realise that there are two key elements to football, scoring goals and not letting them in. At no point did United have any disallowed goals which should have stood nor did Arsenal defend in any way illegally. In truth, Arsenal were better at not letting in goals than United were scoring them. Manchester United were unlucky if football is all about scoring goals, but that’s a big ‘if’.

The mooted protests from United fans over the Glazer take-over didn’t materialise because of, um, rain. Apparently about 100 fans marched towards the Millennium Stadium in protest, fractionally more than the number of Arsenal fans who dressed up as 1979 Cup Final hero Alan Sunderland. Unfortunately despite the hullabaloo it seems most United fans care as much about who owns the club as people who download Crazy Frog ring tones worry about the state of the British music industry.

The Not4Sale coalition, who have taken the fan responsible for resisting the take-over have been brilliantly blinkered in their approach to all this. For one, they are fourteen years too late, United have been for sale ever since they floated on the stock exchange… in fact many of the Not4Sale Coalition have taken full advantage of the fact that United are 4sale. They also think this is an issue of national importance. One claimed that all football fans should rally in support of United’s plight. Why, exactly? United have been an integral part, and beneficiary of, the Premiership, the Champions League, the European superclub alliance G14, snubbing, and therefore downgrading the FA Cup, belittling the League Cup by playing youth team players. Football competitions are now valued in money-terms. It’s made them a lot of money. This has not only made themselves very attractive to external investors in the club but they have raised the bar to the extent that in order to get in the Premiership/Champions League winning game you have to invest somewhere in the region of half a billion pounds to stand a chance of competing, for this read: Chelsea. In short they’ve deliberately polarised football, and now they’re upset about it.

Then there’s the tactical ineptitude in their protest. The plan was for fans to wear black at the Cup Final to signal the death of their club. The same colour the team wore on the pitch (United are innovators in global brand developing shirts which can be worn as fashion garments). Even if fans did fall in line, it wouldn’t have looked like a protest, it would simply have looked like thousands of fans supporting their team. It’s not a bad idea marking your feelings through thousands of people wearing a particular colour; a few years ago Rangers fans all wore orange to thank their Dutch contingent for a great season. It was so bright and obvious that they weren’t wearing their traditional blue; TV had to comment on it. If United fans really wanted to mark their anger at the situation, they should have worn sky blue, the colour of their arch Manchester rival City. Now that would have caused a stir.

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Labels: Football

Work is potty at the moment, I don’t suppose I’m any busier than anyone else, but it seems to envelope my whole world at the moment. Things aren’t that bad though, people are very positive about what I’ve been doing and it is been recognised in cold hard money terms, which always helps.

There’s also a curious scenario where I’m easing into a position of some importance. This is not to gloat; it’s just that people seem to think I’m quite an important person to have on board when they’ve got things they want developed etc. I’ve tried analysing why this is; in my head I’m nine-years-old and hoping to play centre forward for Oxford United in the FA Cup final. Work is something I do until I get my call up. I’m never really sure about what I’m doing, I’m not particularly learned or organised. Usually, the things I say are backed up with analogies derived from football or the telly. So how does a big fraud like me get listened to? The traditional view seems to be “use management bullshit” and “be a big suck up”. I don’t think it takes you very far; The Ruffles Guide to Getting By is:

Say stuff like you know what your talking about, never say “I’m not really an expert in these things but…” or “I may be completely wrong but…” In the end, nobody really knows what they’re talking about, applying common sense without blinking usually wins.

Don’t be impressed by many people, but be impressed by some. I’m a pretty cynical bugger, so not many people get my worthless vote of confidence. But you have to selective. By not being impressed by many, but being impressed by some you’re effectively ranking yourself in the upper quartiles of the ability range. Amazingly, people seem to buy it.

... Oh, working hard and trying to be good at what you do also helps.

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Labels: Work

It’s difficult to know who won the battle of the Election coverage; I enjoyed BBC’s endless result analogies, especially the one where the three CGI generated main leaders were seen hobbling down Downing Street towards number 10.

Mind you, when flicking through the channels during a lull in the results I did stumbled across a serious contender for the title. Paramount were just introducing their next show “…and now, continuing our election night coverage, another edition of Badly Dubbed Porn”.

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Labels: TV and radio

Who are the people that make an election happen? What do the people who stand outside the polling booths do for a living? Why do they insist on taking your polling card number? What do they do with the information? Who analyses it all? Who makes the rosettes they wear?

Where do the people who check your card come from? What do they write on your card? Why do they punch it with a five hole punch? Do people really pass the information onto MI6 to keep us in check? Who are you? Why are you here? Stop reading this blog. Go away.

Who organises the boxes to get to the place where they count the votes? Who does the counting? Where are the adverts for these jobs? Why would you want to do it in the first place? Do they get paid? Who do they vote for? When do they vote?

Why do Sunderland South care so much about returning the first result? Who cares? What are they trying to prove? Who is it impressed by this? Is Sunderland South overrun by short macho repressed homosexuals?

Do the Monster Raving Looney Party still think they’re funny? No, really, do the Monster Raving Looney Party really think they’re funny?

How many visual analogies does Peter Snow need to demonstrate the state of play? Does he think its real? Who creates all these effects? Why do ITN insist on calling theirs ground breaking when every other channel has exactly the same thing? Why does Jeremy Paxman think disagreeing with everyone about everything is probing journalism? Why has Natasha Kapinsky been relegated to do doing the human interest behind the scenes reportage? Why do I need to ask?

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Labels: News

I have another niece or nephew on the way in the next few days. This will be the third, Sophie was first then Izzy. Izzy is still a bit young, but Sophie has built up an impressive list of classic quotes in the last two and a bit years…

[on the telephone] “Hello can you see my candles they are lellow”
“Hello anybody”
“See you later see you Friday” [she has no idea what a Friday is, by the way]
“I saw a firework and I cried” [pronounced ‘twide’]
“Wow… and… wow”
“Cakes… FOR BREAKFAST!?”

All of these are in regular use around our house, whereas Gareth apparently has been known to eat his Frosties spluttering “Cereal… FOR BREAKFAST!?”

Such is the joy of a developing child. Farmer Jo’s little boy has just uttered his first word, and true to his family’s farming history … it’s 'loader'

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Labels: Friends

Talking to Polly, an aspiring actress about her fledgling career…

Ruffles “So what sort of thing have you done?”
Polly “Well in the last film I did, I played a woman stuck in a man’s dreams. He falls in love with her and kills himself to be with her, but when he does it turns out she’s real and in a coma”
Ruffles “Like Romeo and Juliet?”
Polly “Yes, a modern day supernatural Romeo and Juliet, or as it’s also known a load of old rubbish”

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Labels: General me

According to the papers, immigration is a key issue during the elections. Personally, it’s not for me. We live within a couple of minutes of a large Asian community, but it’s the Chavs who amble around the town who scare me most.

I have noticed, however, that in Tesco you often see Asian family’s buying gallons and gallons of milk. I did wonder what uniquely Asian phenomena caused this. Big families? High milk consumption in traditional Asian cookery? A thirst for Tesco Clubcard points? Apparently the big supermarkets hold such a strangle hold over the milk producers that the price of 6 pints of milk from Tesco is cheaper than from a cash and carry therefore Asian restaurant owners prefer Tesco to their traditional Cash and Carry to buy their ingredients.

However, it seems these Asians can’t get enough milk. Pat, our neighbour who calls her six foot square shed a ‘barn’ and the road we live on (colloquially known as the A41) as ‘the lane’, asked me to cut back a rosebush that was hanging over her side of the fence.

The milkman couldn’t get down the side alley to deliver his milk. He delivers round the back because her milk sometimes goes missing from the front porch. Apparently milk stealing is a bit of a problem round Kings Road where…

And at this point she whispers and raises her eyebrows knowingly…
“A lot of Pakistani people live”.

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Labels: News

On Friday Sara had bought some doughnuts, Emma said she didn’t want one because she was full from dinner. With a cup of tea arriving, I reached for the doughnut that was rightfully mine.

“Can I have just one bite?” said Emma, indicating the minute portion she had planned with her finger and thumb.

I passed the doughnut over to her.

“No you have some, I want a bite from the middle, that’s the best bit”

I refused; she could have the first bite or no bite at all. At this point, things could easily have escalated to a point where we were dividing up the possessions of the house. They didn’t, but my assertion that “Sharing wasn’t natural” didn’t help.

Then on Saturday there was a Friends rerun where Joey is driven mad by a date who insists on picking at his food in restaurants. Then, out with Lucy and Dan on Saturday a sharing platter was ordered as a starter.

“Oh Ruffles doesn’t share” said Emma as she insisted that I should have my own starter. She even gesticulated to the waitress, ‘A sharing platter for US THREE’ wafting an exclusion zone around herself, Dan and Lucy.

Right, firstly, sharing isn’t natural. No animal requiring sustenance actively shares their food, unless it’s with their offspring. That’s probably why sharing is such virtue amongst you humans, because in essence, it’s about your own depravation. To deliberately do this has to be virtuous.

Secondly, there’s the nature of sharing, why should I do the work on the sub-optimised sections of the doughnut, only to pass over the prime piece of the pie to someone else? Dan supported my sentiment, when he and Lucy are out, she will order a more experimental selection on the proviso that he has something she will definitely like. Therefore, if her dish isn’t to her liking, she can swap, passing her mistake over to him. And finally, there’s the dessert special, Emma will sometimes refuse a dessert because she is either full, or it is ‘naughty’. However, in order not to miss out, she will then suggest that she could have a bit of mine… if I agree to this, she will then decide what I am going to have. Sometimes providing, to the untrained ear, convincing arguments that I love dishes I positively hate.

“You love Tiramisu, you’re always saying it”

It’s not that I don’t share; I like to be as generous as possible. It’s just that the sharee must understand their role as grateful recipient and that the rules of the sharing are set by sharer. Otherwise the world will undoubtedly shift on its axis.

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Labels: General me

Rather like an Uzbekistani Eurovision entry, whilst I don’t really understand a single word of what is being said, I am prepared to be swept up in the sentiment of the Pope’s death.

The Pope struck me as being a pretty nice old bloke, so that’s good. But on the other hand I find Catholicism quite scary. It all seems so mean. This could be irrational, I know.

What I really didn’t need was Bono to get involved. Much as he wants to be world ambassador for peace, like an octogenarian teddy-boy he’s desperate to continually remind us that he’s no square… He’s still a rock star, let us never forget. Did he really need to pay tribute by calling the Pope the ‘World’s Greatest Frontman’?

Apparently, he has also called him “The Funky Priest” as well. Reports that he said this straddled over a Marshall amp in a pair of wraparound shades remain, as ever, unconfirmed.

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Labels: News

An email came through telling me that the Chemical Brothers gig I'm going to in May has had licensing problems. Say it quietly, but I'm quite relieved it's no longer going on 'til 3am... 1am is plenty late enough for me thank you.

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Labels: Music

Tonight I’m going out with George and Gill, some old MBA buddies. When I did the course I learnt but two things. Most interestingly, I found out that structured training is not as good as learning through shared experience. The principle being that those who can’t do; teach, and extrapolating that further, those who teach, probably teach things you shouldn’t do. This is born out in research; structured training is, by definition, sanitised and often promulgates outdated practice.

So, in short, people who have mastered bad practice are simply passing on bad practice badly. This is often legitimised by hackneyed theory straight out of the Idiots Guide to Management Bullshit.

On Tuesday, we had a meeting which was supposed to be answering a fairly fundamental question – why do we put so much effort into producing something which has no obvious benefit. It was, instead, hijacked by a facilitator hell-bent on ignoring the issue at hand. Instead he put us through as many mind and consciousness expanding exercises as the time permitted.

It’s very much in vogue to punctuate any group meeting with a series of exercises that take you ‘outside the box’ and get the left and right side of your brain working in tandem. First we did some collective self reflection. Where on Tuckman's model of team performance did we think we were? Tuckman invented four stages in team building – which are something like Forming, Norming, Yawning and pawning your awning – the point at which team performance collapses to such an extent that is becomes necessary to liquidate equity that may exist in any light weight canvas structure (including small marquees and bivouacs).

Following this, we indulged in some individual reflection, having to write on post-it notes (obviously) how we thought we were seen and, on a different colour, how we would like to be viewed. My temptation was to write “Likes to eat cheese” and “Likes to eat chips”. I bottled out, which was a shame, given my Chief Exec put “Change agent who doesn’t listen” and “Change agent who does listen, but ignores you anyway”.

Then we had lunch, then we discussed for the briefest possible time, the question at hand. Then we had coffee. That out the way, we did some more collective reflection (same exercise, to see whether things had changed – they hadn’t) followed by some more individual reflection (why our preferred and real perceptions were different – probably down to my relationship with my dad or something). Then we went home with the central question unanswered.

The second thing I learnt in my MBA? Don’t eat the canteen’s Cornish pasties.

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Labels: Friends

I used to write about the Little Publishing Company on the Hill. It’s where I spent nearly four years goofing around with a little gang of twenty something post graduates; Lizard, Ravey Davey, Catherine, Chuckles and Joella. I keep in touch with Chuckles, and Joella although that’s through her blog. Despite the passing years, I’ve learnt that Joella and I still have but one thing in common; we are both utterly indifferent to each others’ interests. She can’t be arsed with football, and I’m not bothered about Women’s issues. It’s probably why we got on. I remember her, the gang, our antics and our traumas with huge fondness. It was nearly ten years ago.

The Little Publishing Company on the Hill was a local company with local people having big international successes. Its success attracted a big ugly Dutch corporate who bought the place out, made its millionaire founder more of a millionaire and rolled in some big ugly corporate executives to run the place. The old directors; chancers, charlatans and lunatics the lot of them, were eventually run out of town. The corporate bled the place dry and closed it down.

The other day I was being harangued by a salesman who was trying to get me to spend £5,000 advertising on a website they hadn’t launched, couldn’t show me and had no marketing materials to support. I Googled my old boss’ name to see if I could find out what she’d up to… and whether she still had translucent skin and wears clashing primary colours in animal prints.

It didn’t take long to find her. She’s started up an event management company with most of the directors from the old charabanc. I looked up their website, and it turns out they’ve moved back into the Offices on the Hill. The circle is complete… perhaps somewhere there’s a next generation Ruffles mucking around writing inappropriate stories about staff members and trying to break email records.

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Labels: Work

I am not a little bit country, nor am I a little bit Rock n Roll. I am, however, a quite a lot Old Skool. People my age can start to get set in their ways. Often, it seems, they settle into a stereotypical social construct of marriage, kids, mortgage, country pubs, golf handicaps, Katie Melua, Joss Stone and Beau Vista Social Club as the beginning and end of world music chic. I don’t begrudge anyone who wants all that, but it’s not me (in the main) that said, I am becoming set in my ways, but my ways are Old Skool.

The greatest trainers ever are Adidas Superstars, the greatest football (let’s face it, we all have one) is either the Adidas Tango, or the Mexico 70 vintage. DJ’s use Technics 1200’s and vinyl, anything else is just cheating. Hip hop should sample James Brown and be funky. Football should kick-off on a Saturday at 3pm.

It’s not that I’m closed to new music, fashion, and football kick-off times, but I’ve experienced my best of breed, anything new has to fight hard to surpass it. I’m very comfortable with this.

On Thursday as I descended into Wycombe (topographically and spiritually) at some god-awful hour in the morning I was listening to James’ Gold Mother – a classic from my Sixth Form. I’d stumbled across it in my CD rack and thought it was worth a whirl.

I found that I was comforted by it, I remember Sit Down being played at parties and discos when I wore long sleeved Happy Mondays t-shirts and had floppy hair. There’s a live version of it on the CD (I originally had the tape, which didn’t have Sit Down on it, that was done after it became a hit, fact fans). At the end the band finish and the crowd just sing the chorus over and over again. It was like a lullaby, completely soothing.

Then I realised that the reason I’m so comfortable within being stuck in my ways, is that it’s safer there than it is in the real world. Five minutes later I was in the car park, first in, again, having been last out, again. It was like emerging from blissful hibernation, the stresses and strains returned like a mallet to the head.

Or a Mallet’s Mallet, if you’re really Old Skool.

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Labels: General me

On the way back from Toronto we saw bugged eyed Arian German tennis playing legend Boris Becker careering down Terminal 4 departures towards a flight. This spot was all the more significant, according to Sara, because he was carrying tennis rackets.

Becker is a legendary tabloid bastard, doing something to some woman in some broom cupboard, or something. That shouldn’t make him special because all celebrities are bastards. Look at it, to be a celebrity you have to do something that distorts accepted norms; actors pretend to be other people, sportspeople play games for money, Jodie Marsh wears no clothes. Do these things in a normal job and you’d be fired.

To want to pervert a norm like this you have to have guts, you have to want to do something most people typically won’t do. You have to have an unstinting self-belief that people will want to pay you to distort these norms. You’ll have a belief that people will pay you to do something they actually want to do. More than anything they have to resist the immense social pressures that you’re subjected to whenever you step out of line form a social norm.

I recently saw Tony Hawks do a corporate gig, he turned up late, sat at the top table with all the VIPs, ate a £60 a head meal for free, did twenty minutes on stage in which he swore when he was asked not to, took the piss out of the main speaker and host of the evening and left several thousand pounds richer.

Funny bastard.

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Labels: TV and radio

Emma managed to commit the ultimate faux pas this morning by crippling the fragile ego of an adolescent boy, I think she got away with it though.

Phoning her friend Jo:

Emma “Hi Jo it’s Emma”
Jo’s son Tom “It’s Tom actually”
Emma “Oh, I’m sorry Tom, you sound just like your mum, not that you want to hear that. You have a very strong and manly voice... and so does your mum.”

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Labels: General me

A week since my last confession…in my absence, I see two of our great national institutions have taken a kicking in the last week.

First Delia Smith is derided for her impromptu pitch-side tirade at Norwich City fans. Why is this news? Because she is a) mumsy b) middle class and c) a woman at a football match. Typically, a) gritty b) working class c) men who rant at football matches are considered passionate “football people” with infectious enthusiasm and drive. Deels, on the other hand, is just a silly woman who’d got a bit squiffy on a white wine spritzer. Poor love.

A few days later Katie Price, wisely dropping the Jordan brand for risk of it being sullied, was humiliated during her Eurovision attempt. Her skin slowly turning an odd shade of taupe, she waddled around the stage in a pink catsuit screeching some sub-Arabian pop catastrophe with a rubbish subtext along the lines of “I’m revealing the real me”. Yup, big norks and a lot of luck.

We should preserve these woman in formaldehyde and be done with it.

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Labels: General me

As he carved a career as the Internet generation’s Tony Hart, I bet Neil Buchanan thought he was the cock of the Number 73 alumni. The fact he had his own show, Art Attack, shadowed anything Sandi Toksvig (scary site, huh?) managed. Numerous appearances on smarty-pants TV and radio shows and she still never really transcended her image as a poor man’s female Scandinavian lesbian Stephen Fry. In fact, The Sandwich Quiz was pretty much her finest hour. As for the rest of the gang, well, they just fried in Buchanan’s after burn didn’t they. Didn’t they?

Buchanan was the bollocks, and he knew it. His bouncy curly mullet, his neat logo’ed pullovers, he’s the (40+ year old) boy next door. Mums all over the country could leave their children in his capable hands, safe in the knowledge that the worst he could do was suggest that using different colours of tissue paper can make a rudimentary stained glass window. Buchanan was the only true survivor of the much underrated Saturday morning show of lore, the man, the winner, numero uno. Goodnight Vienna.

That is until rollerskating dad-candy Andrea Arnold rocked up to the Oscars and bagged herself an Best Short Film award for Wasp. Zoinks!

What next? Gaz Top wins a Nobel Peace Prize for single handedly placating Iraqi insurgents through the introduction of GCSE Spanish and speed dating events?

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Labels: TV and radio

Unlike us Brits, who have a predilection for specifics, it is not untypical for an American to be interested in the altogether more generic pastime of ‘sports’. When it comes to American sports, the Toronto Raptors command a similar level of importance in the sporting lexicon as the Springfield Isotopes. When we asked the hotel concierge to fix us up with some tickets, he said that he’d try but with the hockey season locked out “people do funny things, like see Raptors games”. And this guy is paid to sell us the city’s attractions.

The benefit this sort of anonymity enjoys is that, and all the guidebooks reinforce this, a Raptors game is a rare opportunity to see some of the world’s top ‘ballers e.g. those who play for other teams.

Last week the Chicago Bulls were in town, a shadow of the all conquering team of Michael Jordan, Dennis Rodman, Scottie Pippin et al, but one of the bigger boys none the less. According to the Toronto Sun they are a young and exciting team, now I don’t know much about basketball but they were certainly too good for the Raptors.

With Hockey’s political problems marginalising its interest (though not its space in US news bulletins – go on, test me, ask me anything about the strike), the triumvirate of Baseball, Basketball and American Football (what we call Rugby according to our Niagara Falls tour guide) dominate the national psyche. But, similarly to the baseball we went to see a couple of years ago it is not the game of basketball that dominates an American sporting event.

Both the start and finish of a basketball game are strangely muted affairs. It’s a mere sideline to buying merchandise, food and finding your seat. As the clock runs down two and a half hours later the crowd leave as though they’ve just watched a rather average film. At least a football game always ends with a jeer, cheer or muted applause.

Yep, two and a half hours to make it through a 48 minute game something has got to make up the time. NBA have picked up on the Hip Hop chic that surrounds b-ball, so each attack is soundtracked by an instrumental hip hop break. The next day I went out and bought Ludacris, Nas, Lil John and De La Soul albums... suckah.

Interspersed with the game itself is all sorts of tomfoolery; the Raptors Dance Pak do three stints, we play NBA Bingo, Ralph Raptor, the Toronto mascot, shows his nifty moves to a track which has a hook of “Don’t you play around with my click”. He follows this with a skit where he runs into a popcorn selling stooge (evidently Torontonians love that sort of stuff). Then there’s the bit where they run the camera around the arena picking out some lucky fella to sit in the expensive court-side seats. There’s the One Minute Madness, where t-shirts are thrown into the crowd. At half-time the world’s cleverest dog does some appallingly executed stunts which apparently got him and his owner onto the Jay Leno Show. The owner, pushing forty and dressed in a cheerleader’s outfit, urged us all to “Do more stuff with your dogs” as she exited. Then a short ugly redneck failed to basket any of his prize winning shots from the free throw line. In the second half a larger rubberised version of Ralph Raptor appeared to stalk the perimeter of the court. His actions range from hilarious – falling off a ‘trash receptacle’ to downright suspect – mounting a small child. He returned later in his smaller guise to give the dominant Bulls the ‘I’m watching you’ sign (pointing at his eyes then pointing at his prey).

The game itself is a side attraction, it was all but over when, after 2 and a half minutes of the first quarter, the Raptors called an emergency timeout to solve the mystery of how they’d managed to go 10-0 down before half the crowd had finished their first hotdog (my previous assertion that American sports are just a more interesting way of consuming junk food wholly reinforced).

American sports are a fully evolved genre of show business, in Curse of the Bambino Dan Shaughnessy admits that most fans of baseball don’t really care how their chosen teams get on. Plenty happens, there’s lots of opportunity for advertising and making money and you’re almost guaranteed to be entertained – regardless of how good or bad the actual game is. Even though it was a great night of safe light-hearted amusement the game itself ended a rather meaningless 115 to 121 and the Raptors continued their march to humble obscurity. I’m no expert, but they could do worse than draft in their new English phenom, the slightly camp looking ginger number 18.

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Labels: Holiday

You might argue that choice is one of life’s gifts and one of life’s curses. Mars, Twix, Yorkie, Snickers… Ford, Volkswagen, Alpha Romeo, Saab…choices choices choices.

I mean how many different ways can you take the piss out of someone who claims to not be able to get to work from Reading (to High Wycombe, 20 completely snow-free miles away) because they were snowed in?

Or do you start on the woman at work who left at 4.30 on Monday because of “what was happening out there” cue: light flurry of fluffy flakes.

Decisions, decisions.

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Labels: Work

Toronto was a grower for me, following an eight hour flight and a typically irritating tussle with immigration, my fatigued initial reaction was that the city was all building sites and grey snow. It didn’t have the buzz of New York; probably because it was Sunday and everyone was sensibly at home. Nor did it have the instant appeal of Boston, because the lush greenery that compliments Boston’s mix of Colonial, Victorian and Federal architecture won’t survive in Toronto’s sub zero winter temperatures. There’s a distressing number of homeless people struggling to survive on frozen streets sleeping on heated vents under piles of dirty blankets – but their presence is all the more conspicuous because the more fortunate prefer to spend their time in the PATH - the underground city which riddles Toronto’s downtown. Sometimes you feel like you’re stuck in a North America of the mid seventies. Snow tyres are necessities on the cars and trucks so they look typically huge. The workmen are rugged in heavy dungarees and hobnail boots and there are more handlebar moustaches than at a Village People look-a-like contest. It all feels very practical and dour.

But Toronto isn’t the tediously functional city it first appears to be. There’s the exclusive district of Yorkville and the cooler younger homelands of Queen Street West and Kensington Market. Expecting to encounter a stream of ruddy lumberjacks, it’s instead occupied by the stylish, the self-assured and the beautiful. I was surprised by its cosmopolitan complexion; its Chinatown is typically bustling, its Portuguese, Italian and Asian communities a surprise. It mixes modern commerce with colonial history; it’s a young and fresh university town and an exclusive enclave of the nouveaux riche. The city begins to reveal itself as one of effortless style laid over chunky affluent confidence.

Canadians are more direct than their cousins further south. Having set my bullshit-ometer to hyper sensitive to accommodate the infinite cheese of an American service culture, I had to reset to accommodate their more friendly, but pragmatic demure. They love it when you wince at their mild but sub-zero temperatures, telling you that a couple of weeks ago it was -24 (and out of the city, a very nippy -42).

It was mild when we were there, the temperatures didn’t drop below -5 although with the wind chill it was cold enough (Gareth upgrading its cold status from ‘eyeball cold’ to ‘bollocks cold’). The chill can be quickly warmed with a cup of Tim Horton’s hot chocolate so you can comfortably sit and watch (and not do) ice-skating in front of City Hall, visit the CN Tower, see some real, proper NBA basketball, shop at Sam the Record Man or the World's Biggest Bookstore or just hang out with real people living real lives. Valentine's Day was spent eating Burritos in a sparsely populated Tex Mex on Queen Street West with groups of, presumably, singleton Torontonians.

With most cities, four days is usually quite enough for me, mostly for the same reason they appeal; New York’s intensity, Boston’s tranquillity, Rome’s antiquity, Paris’ timeless style, Vegas’ crass commercialism. But I could have spent a few more days in Toronto visiting the Hockey Hall of Fame, or the Bata Shoe Museum, or the Royal Ontario Museum. We only scratched the surface really, there is still plenty to reveal.

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Labels: Holiday

I suppose the least surprising thing about the Da Vinci Code is that Sophie is both brilliant and beautiful. I mean, you're just not going to get... 'Sophie was a brilliant cyptologist, but she was an ugly old sow'. The least surprising thing about Air Canada air stewardesses is that they are, at best, a little ruddy and well worn.

Four hours into the flight, they also managed to pour half a litre of water over my lap, and laugh at me whilst they did. To add insult to iminent nappy rash, my iPod, which was in direct firing line, also got it sploshed making the jog wheel work only intermitently. I completed an 'incident report' which will go to their insurance company. I don't know what the profit margin is on your average transatlantic flight but I doubt it stretches to a new iPod.

Toronto is wet and cold, this library is warm and dry. We shall return to the streets when we've thawed out.

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Labels: Holiday

I’m off to Toronto on Sunday morning so here’s something to read about Meet The Fockers. Read it slowly, there’ll be nothing new on here for week. Toodle pip…

Ben Stiller’s life is easy; think of a dumb plotline, make it dumber, point camera and shoot. For this read Dodgeball, Zoolander, Starsky and Hutch and his cameo as the anchor of the Spanish language channel in Anchorman (“Ben, put this moustache on and do something stupid for a bit”). He’s not trying to satirise or be clever or win Oscars although presumably he’ll get to a point as Spielberg and Tom Hanks did where he’ll want to be taken seriously and we’ll all hate him for it.

The mistake that was made in Meet The Parents was that he was put on a platform with Robert De Nero. This raised expectations; you expect a De Nero film to deliver something a little smarter. It was a half decent set piece, hapless goon meets uptight father of girlfriend and endures endless contrived mishaps. Maybe De Nero was too big for the film, or more likely they spoiled the simplicity of the concept with the De Nero as CIA agent subplot. It was garbage.

Meet The Fockers should be an even bigger bomb. Whilst playing down the CIA thing (though not completely, it’s just not needed) they treble the gravitas with by introducing Dustin Hoffman and Barbara Streisand as Gaylord Focker’s parents. Both have weighty reputations for taking themselves terribly seriously (see Hoffman in I Heart Huckabees). As “Holly Hunter” says in Team America – “As actors, we have a responsibility to read things in the newspaper and then repeat them as our own opinions”. The problem with big stars is they have big brands to maintain, which means being terribly clever about everything.

So the formulae stinks – poor previous film, stupid plot in itself and enough weighty reputations to sink a battleship full of elephants. But director Jay Roach, presumably introduced Hoffman and Streisand to Stiller and challenged them to out-stupid him. Which they do, they are both brilliantly daft. If they’d cut out the CIA stuff (De Nero has a hi-tech investigation lab in the base of his mobile home, sigh) there’s a risk it would be the best comedy of the year.

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Labels: Films

Do you ever feel like you’re rushing to keep up? That the world it moving too fast for you to truly comprehend what is actually going on? Lots of little oddities that throw you for a second, but before you have a chance to analyse them, the next thing is on top of you. So, for example: -

Plumber; I’m not coming round on Monday; I’m coming in a couple of weeks. Me: Why I’ve booked holiday and everything. P: It’s down to the Kyoto agreement. Me: Really? P: Yeah, the government are offering £100 off energy efficient boilers in accordance with the Kyoto agreement to cut emissions, but they’re not doing it for a couple of weeks so I’m waiting until the price drops. (result: Kyoto discount doesn’t come through).

Emma leaves a message on my phone saying “Hello, can you tell me what time it is on my mobile”

To the plumber; do you want a tea? Yes please. How do you have it? Just a splash of milk. Sugar? No thanks… what has it come to that plumbers don’t have 45 sugars in their tea anymore? What’s more, the plumbers mate didn’t have sugar either.

The Territorial Army advert where two stern looking women are being chatted up by two blokes, when, eventually the blokes ask the women their names they reply with “This is Lance Corporal Jones and I’m Captain West”. At which point the men recoil with obvious horror and revulsion. Women, join the army to scare and repel men.

The comments book in the curryhouse from Dan and James “Lovely meal, now we’re off to bum each other”

To the plumber; do you want a tea? No thanks I’ll wait a bit. What has it come to when plumbers don’t drink you out of house and home anymore?

10 and a half minutes from the end of my gym session, the ten and a half minute sure-fire adrenalin shot that is Impact by Orbital comes onto iPod. After about 2 minutes it inexplicably flicks onto next ‘shuffle’ track… Transmission by Joy Division.

…and without a word of a lie I saw naked hairy man with his arms round a naked dwarf coming out of the sauna at the gym. The naked dwarf was laughing saying “And I’m not letting you do that again”.

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Labels: General me

Sometimes there’s nothing better than a quiet night in. Just cooking a nice meal and watching a DVD. Last Saturday was a quiet night in; Jamie Oliver Botham Burgers, Fried chilli wedges, fizzy pop followed by Tesco Finest Toffee Sundaes at a gluttonous 800 calories per pot. Yummy.

Sorry? Which DVD you say? Oh yeah, Supersize Me.

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Labels: General me

At first, the Aviator seems to be all sub-plot. You suspect that the story of Howard Hughes is simply too big and Scorsese should have chosen a more modest yarn, like biopic’ing Howard Hughes from Ever Decreasing Circles.

It jumps from one preposterous adventure to another, the world’s most expensive film, the world’s fastest plane, the world’s biggest plane, buying TWA, dating Katherine Hepburn and Ava Gardener, taking on the US Government and Pan Am and winning. Hughes did it all, and in this film, he does it really really quickly.

You get no real sense of his impact or the perspective and environment in which he operates. He’s accused of being a war profiteer, but you don’t get a chance to understand whether that’s true, or even that there was a war on. This may just be a reflection of the general detachment the US had during the War. They probably ran their own World (Series) War (Bowl) at the same time proclaiming the Denver Spitfires World War Champions in the process. It feels like you’re watching Hughes’ life through a frosted window, with ear muffs on, and a towel in your mouth… and, well you, get the picture… or not, as it turns out. Eventually, however, the story emerges. It’s about his obsessions; his ability to pull off stunning audacious projects is simply the result of a neurotic fastidiousness he struggles to control.

From compulsive hand washing to fully blown Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, Hughes struggles to channel his mania into something productive, and then fails completely. Whilst it’s an overly long film that broods rather than thrills, it’s this that lifts it from a straight Biography Channel story.

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Labels: Films

For a hackneyed cliché in corporate team building, paintball is a particularly lonely experience. I’ve been twice, both times on Stag dos. Whilst there is a camaraderie that surrounds a Stag party it is a brittle one. The party is made of a mix of work, university and school friends, each with their own histories and stories. To build a team through paintball means that you have to be a close knit team in the first place. Making it all rather pointless.

For those who have never been, a day of paintball involves joining a hybrid team of birthdays, stag dos, corporate team builders and most worrying, hobbyist paintball enthusiasts (serial killers in training). You take part in a series of set piece games with names like ‘defend and attack’, ‘take the flag’ and ‘total annihilation’. Paintball guns fire little pellets of paint that feel like you're being hit by a hailstone. When you’re hit you’re dead. In between each game you gather in a holding area where the general bonhomie of naive squaddies ensues, nonchalant marshals with heavy metal hair drift around waiting for the next game to start, when it does the anomie sets in.

Paintball companies are paranoid about safety, exiting the safety zone you put a full face mask on which makes you look like a Stormtrooper. With everyone wearing identical baggy fatigues you’re stripped of your identity, unable to separate friends from strangers. The walk to the battleground is usually made in near-silence. All you hear is the hiss of your own breathing. By the time you get there, the mask has usually misted up so you can’t see anything.

Once the game starts, hope of any kind of teamwork is instantly forgotten and you become an individual vigilante. The game is explained in about ten seconds and the opportunity for planning almost non-existent. There are two broad strategies you can employ. The first is ‘Hide in a Hole’. This involves finding a nook, or diving behind a bit of wood and randomly firing into the general area of your foe. The second strategy is ‘Run like a Loony’ This involves kamikaze runs at the enemy firing wildly. The first means you play for the whole game, but have no fun. The second means more fun, for about 30 seconds, then you get shot and it hurts.

When you are shot and therefore out of the game, you have no idea who shot you there’s a thud, a burst pain and it’s all over, you’re being bullied by a faceless aggressor. Usually after you’re shot you’re hit a couple more times as you head for the Dead Zone. This is exacerbated by the fact that you don’t know how successful you’ve been because you never see the people you’ve shot. You’re being bullied and you don’t know why, and you are stripped of your individuality and any affirmation of your own ability.

Even a victory is hollow, last Saturday we had a couple of girls in our team. Both were little over five foot tall. In the heat of the first battle a scream was heard behind…

“Owww”
“Are you alright”
“Shit I’ve been hit”
“Oh no, does it hurt”
“A little bit, I’m dead so I’ve got to go”
“I don’t want to get hit, I’m coming too”

We’re not dealing with trained killers, a victory is meaningless.

When the game is over everyone trudges back to base in silence. When the masks come off, everyone has a fictitious war story of taking a hail of paintballs for the team. Johnny had a good strategy, he bought 200 paintballs per game, suggesting he’d either seen some serious action, or was eating them.

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Labels: General me

Bez’s Celebrity Big Brother win gives me reason to tell my favourite Bez story.

Years of lurching from one disaster to another Tony Wilson’s punk rock brainchild, Factory Records, was going to the wall. Two things could save them, New Order’s new album Republic and the Happy Monday’s fourth album, Yes Please. There were doubts that New Order could stop arguing long enough to record anything. The Mondays were Wilson’s last chance.

The Monday’s were deep in a hellhole of smack addiction. Surrounded by gangsters and drug dealers Sean Ryder simply wasn’t conscious for long enough to complete the album.

Wilson decided to get the band out of Manchester so he sent them to Jamaica. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, you might say. The band spunked tens of thousands of pounds on cheaper, purer crack cocaine, selling items from their studio to raise the cash. The wolves continued to bark at Wilson’s door.

Wilson needed Yes Please; the Monday’s needed money so Ryder took the master tapes hostage. Despairing, Wilson pawned his children and wired the money to Jamaica. Ryder handed the tapes over where the relieved Wilson played them, they were half finished instrumentals with no vocals.

The madness continued. Bez, bombed out on smack, hired a jeep to drive across the island. Travelling down a one way track he came across another jeep coming the other way. Swerving, he turned the jeep over. He broke both his arms and was rushed to hospital. The doctors put both arms in solid casts fixed so that his arms were sticking out as though pinned to a crucifix.

Feeling he was missing the party, Bez quickly discharged himself and decided to get out of the madness (presumably his maraca parts were sorted). He took a holiday on the other side of the island.

Still in his plaster casts he was drawn to the fun that could be had riding the ‘flying bananas’ which were popular with tourists. Despite being unable to hold onto the straps the world’s greatest Mancunian went for a thrill a minute ride…

Where he hit a wave, was thrown into the air, landed in the water he broke his broken arms.

Both of them.

Again.

Within a week.

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Labels: Music

Last night Channel 4 mapped the Michael Jackson’s compulsive attraction towards young pre-pubescent boys in, er, Michael Jackson’s Boys. Inevitably the story of Jordy Chandler raised its head. The programme investigated the FBI's in-depth enquiries into the allegations. One ‘source’ said…

“They took pictures of his front private parts, his back private parts, his side private parts…”

Excuse me? Michael Jackson has side private parts?

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Labels: Music

Leave meeting in Angel Islington at 6.30
6.35 Catch cab to Marylebone
Crawl across London in cab, whilst driver tells you about the suicide on the Marylebone flyover (they had to wash blood and bones off the road and everything).
Arrive at Marylebone Station at 6.46 see that next train departs at 6.58
Buy orange juice and pistachio nuts
Put ticket into barrier, pull out after it’s rejected
Look at ticket, realise that you’ve managed to buy a Travelcard which doesn’t cover Zone 1
Head for ticket inspectors
Wait for ticket inspectors to finish dealing with about 60 tourists
After 5 minutes of waiting decide instead to buy a Zone 1 ticket just to get you through the barrier
Go to machine, select appropriate ticket
Put debit card in
Take card out after it’s rejected because you can’t use it twice on a ticket machine in the same day
Go to cash machine to get cash out
Wait in queue
Withdraw £20
Go back to machine
Select ticket and put £10 into slot
Pull £10 out after it’s rejected
Put same £10 into slot
Pull £10 out after it’s rejected
Put another £10 into slot
Pull this £10 out after it’s rejected
Put it in again
Take it out again
Miss 6.58 train
Walk up to ticket inspectors
Look confident, wave invalid tickets in the air, proceed onto platform
Finally board next train at 7.30
Arrive Amersham at 8.15
Get changed in car park
Depart car park at 8.22
Go to Tesco to get Petrol
Realise you need the toilet
Drive to Tesco shop and go to toilet
Head for Beconsfield
Join M40
Listen to Pete Tong
Listen to Westwood
Turn Westwood off after 15 minutes as he doesn’t appear to have played a single record not completed a single sentence even though his music and talking have been constant.
Join M23 at Junction 7
Stop at Pea’s Pottage Services for Burger King
Eat Burger King
Feel ill
Set off towards M23
Turn back as Coke passes straight through and toilet is needed again
Go to Pea’s Pottage Services toilet
Get back in car
Put half cup of Coke in cup holder in glove compartment
Depart Pea’s Pottage Services
Drive over small bump
Spill Coke all over car
Turn back to Pea’s Pottage Services and collect napkins
Set off towards M23
Join A23
Arrive in Brighton at 10pm
Drive to seafront
Park at NCP
Check into Quality Hotel
Leave Quality Hotel, head north
At Traffic lights turn right
At HSBC turn left
Komedia is on your right
Arrive at Komedia at 10.35 (and the show ended 20 minutes ago)

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Labels: General me

OK, it’s not Ghandi, it doesn’t even have the emotional texture of Dodgeball, but Team America – World Police is as funny as your mum starring in a blaxploitation flick. Using Thunderbirds style marionettes gives Trey Parker and Matt Stone licence to do things that wouldn’t normally get near a mainstream cinema. Alongside songs about AIDS (whether you’re gay, straight, white or spade, everyone’s got AIDS) and hard core pornography is a clear ridiculing of the breast beating Americans and bleeding heart liberals that Hollywood is otherwise scared to touch at the moment. Every time Team America is deployed to save the world they’re accompanied by red neck soft rock soundtrack which goes “America, FUCK YEAH!” It says it all really.

Along side is the typically brainless South Park stupidity. Terrorists communicate with each other using a combination of just three words – Mohammed, Jihad and Dakadaka. Kim Jong Il is a Dr Evil type character with a daft evil plan for world domination. He talks by switching his Rs and Ls round (like what Koreans do). Whilst you shouldn’t, you can’t help laughing every time he says Herro Everlybody! His song, Ronery, is truly touching. Of course there’s endless jokes that can be drawn from the limitations of marionettes (stupid walks, imprecise movements, strings everywhere) they use every one, about six times each.

As a piece of satire, I’m not sure how clear the message, if there is one, really is. There’s something to do with pussies (liberals, depicted by Hollywood Actors) don’t like dicks (Flag waving Americans) because dicks fuck pussies, but dicks also sometimes fuck assholes (evil dictatorships) and if they didn’t we’d all get covered in shit, and that pussies aren’t that far from assholes anyway. There’s something there, but I don’t know.

It’s not big and it’s not clever, but it’s very big and very clever. Hmm.

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Labels: Films

I often concern myself over the utter drivel written on this site, I'm comforted in the short term by occasionally reading those blogs written by teens exclusively in txt msg language. However this opening paragraph from this article is actually written a by paid professional journalist.

"According to figures released by the Football League yesterday, only nine clubs in League Two did not pay for the services of a licensed agent in the second half of 2004 and Oxford United were not one of those."

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Labels: News

How out of touch can the royals be? Do they not understand this country at all? Do the people they claim to represent mean nothing to them? I mean, who the hell goes to a “Natives and Colonials” party anyway? Have these people never head of Vicars and Tarts.

According to GMTV, The Jews have accepted Prince Harry’s apology for wearing a Nazi uniform to a fancy dress party last week. Well done The Jews, all 300,000 of you!

I believe the conversation would have gone something like this…

“Hello… Harry who?... Oh he’s The Ginger right?... as a Nazi you say? … accept his apology for what?... Right, whatever, ‘spose so, go mad, now can I go its quiz night down at the Red Lion”.

Apparently William went as a Lion, well done Wills, what a jolly good chap he is.

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Labels: News

Let’s face it, if Bez entered the boat race he’d deserve to win it, his victory in Celebrity Big Brother should be assured. I never got the chance to see the Mondays in full flow, but I did once see a shambolic Black Grape gig at the Town and Country Club.

We were in the balcony and could see right into the wings of the stage, the Grape’s backing band came on following a shouty support slot from Kaliphz, who had a brief but bright career as an Asian Agit-Hip Hop unit until they spoilt it all by hooking up to record a single with Prince Naseem.

The band struck up one of those signature Mondays style ramshackle grooves. It went on for an age, round and round, chugging a dirty funk. After about four minutes, it seemed that Shaun Ryder and Bez weren’t actually going to turn up. Just as it seemed the gig wouldn’t happen, from the wings, a dancing monkey appeared in the gloom. Bez grooved into view shaking his maracas as though he’d freaky danced his way all the way down the M6 from Manchester. The place went ballistic, but the rapture didn’t break Bez’s rhythm as he continued across the stage, halting occasionally to do a little back step or a freestyled trot on the spot. Eventually he reached the far side of the stage squatted to shake his maracas at a couple of enthralled fans. Then he rose and, still without breaking his rhythm, danced straight off the other side of the stage.

And that was it, Bez went home, one Ecstasy induced circuit, the best performance of the night, and he was done. Or so it seemed. He did return several songs later, presumably having carried on in the same direction until a roadie turned him back towards the stage. When he eventually came back, he took up station on the edge of the stage. He didn’t break his rhythm at any point for the next two hours, he even danced to the silence in between songs, demonstrating some of his best moves as it happens.

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Labels: TV and radio

Baz brings up a good point in my top 50 CD’s, (aside from the fact that I have both Coldplay albums in my top 50, which seems odd even to me) he questions my Queen selection. Which brand of overblown pompousness do you prefer?

Early Queen Era?
Begone with you you shod and shady senators
Give out the good leave out the bad evil cries
I challenge the mighty titan and his troubadours
And with a smile
I'll take you to the seven seas of Rhye

Or

Mid-Late Queen Era
You say smile I say cheese
Cartier I say please
Income tax I say Jesus
I don't wanna be a candidate for
Vietnam or Watergate
Cos all I wanna do is
Bicycle bicycle bicycle

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Labels: Music