Dubious Song Lyrics #1 'Young Girl'

And the award goes to...

This entire list, this entire genre of dubious lyrics was designed for 'Young Girl' by Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. Their name alone sounds dubious: Gary's unfortunate surname being so ripe for rhyming slang and 'The Union Gap', to me at least, sounds like the sinister moniker of a gang from 'A Clockwork Orange'.

The song itself is really quite clear in its inherent dubiousness - not much is left to interpretation: 'Young Girl, get out of my mind, my love for you is way out of line' Gary is clearly on dodgy territory. But the element that I've always found particularly audacious is the next line: 'Better run, girl, you're much too young girl.'

'Better run, girl'? Better run or what? Is Gary really admitting that his appetite for pre-pubescent girls is so all-consuming that her only chance is to 'run'? It's as though he's shifting the blame and the responsibility to her - 'look, love, I warned you. I told you you'd 'better run'. If you don't take that on board, I'm afraid I can't be responsible for my actions.'

As with The Beatles' 'Run For Your Life', this song really does speak for itself:

With all the charms of a woman

You've kept the secret of your youth
You led me to believe
You're old enough
To give me love
And now it hurts to know the truth, Oh,
Beneath your perfume and make-up
You're just a baby in disguise
And though you know
That it is wrong to be
Alone with me
That come on look is in your eyes, Oh,
So hurry home to your mama
I'm sure she wonders where you are
Get out of here
Before I have the time
To change my mind
'Cause I'm afraid we'll go too far, Oh,
Young girl

If they'd found stuff like this on Gary Glitter's hard-drive, he'd have been convicted a lot sooner. 

Now please endure the accompanying video, which, although they've clearly used a female actor who is 'old enough', even this is undermined by the sinister use of a baby doll, evoking even more disturbing images than were mustered by the song alone.

Enjoy, and have a happy new year!

 

Episode 2

Episode 2 of the Two Wise Men podcasts is now available to download here and through iTunes. Download, comment and enjoy!

Dubious Song Lyrics #2 'I Drove All Night'

Firstly, I have to say that this is one of my all-time favourite songs, and the recent BBC4 Roy Orbison night served to remind me exactly why he was so great. As such, it is with a heavy heart that I subject Roy to lyrical cross-examination...

On first listen, it's a linear narrative - 'Roy' was a long way from home, but was so desperate to see his wife or girlfriend that he drove through the night, just so they could be together at the earliest opportunity. However, due to what I can only assume is songwriting expediency (it gave the song a nice melody) he ends each chorus with the question 'is that all right?' The careful listener will realise that this is where Roy comes unstuck:

'I drove all night to get to you / Is that all right? / I drove all night, crept in your room / Woke you from your sleep to make love to you / Is that all right? / I drove all night'

Crucially, the 'is that all right?' refrain comes after Roy has crept into the woman's bedroom and made love to her. Essentially, Roy is seeking retrospective consent for the lovemaking, which he follows up with the justification 'I drove all night' as in 'Having driven all night I assumed I could do what I felt like'. 

And why did he creep into the room if he was going to wake her up anyway? Either he's lying about the creeping or the waking ...

On one level, this is dubious even if the woman in question was Roy's wife or girlfriend - you'd assume he'd have established at least some sort of tacit consent before the lovemaking, be it a nod, a wink or a 'brace yourself'. Why on earth would he be asking 'is that all right?' after the fact?

An even more sinister reading is that Roy was not in a relationship with this woman - he had admired her from afar and decided that 'lovemaking' would happen whether she liked it or not.'The fever for [her] was burning [him] up inside.' 

To take it a stage further, this notion, coupled with the fact the lyric is in the past tense, brings to mind an image of Roy attempting to justify his actions in court. 

When asked for his testimony, Roy looked earnestly from the dock, and pointed out that, in all fairness, he had driven 'all night'. 

Dubious Song Lyrics #3 'Cecilia'

This jolly Simon and Garfunkel number is a fairly simple love song with a bizarre central premise. For some reason I always picture Art Garfunkel as the male protagonist: a lanky, giant of a man with a mop of curly hair. The song begins by reflecting on the issues in Art's relationship: 'Cecilia, you're breaking my heart, you're shaking my confidence daily' without actually going into detail. At this point, the listener could be forgiven for assuming the plot is straightforward, and that he's fallen victim to the usual sixties song lyric antagonist - a pesky, no good, cheating woman. To an extent you'd be right. But the sheer audacity of this particular woman must be applauded...

The second verse tells of better days for Art: 'Making love in the afternoon with Cecilia, Up in my bedroom' before things turn sour 'I got up to wash my face, When I come back to bed, Someone's taken my place.' 

Firstly, one can't help but wonder precisely what act Art was involved in, that meant his priority at the time was to 'wash his face'. If it was a reflection of Cecilia's personal hygiene, surely he could've been more discreet. But, more importantly, how the hell did Cecilia manage to get another bloke 'on board' in the time it took Art to scuttle to the bathroom and back. Even assuming their were no en suite facilities, it could only have been a matter of minutes. Did she have someone waiting in the wardrobe? Was it all an elaborate rotation system, and that Art was only one of many men? If so, his determination to wash his face might be more explainable.

Or, more to the point, was this other man known to Art - a diminutive, balding acoustic guitar player, perhaps? Troubled waters indeed.

In the season of good will, you'll be pleased to know that things worked out well for Art: 'Jubilation! She loves me again, I fall on the floor and I'm laughing'. It's also good to know that unlike his hateful, murderous contemporaries, Art has a laissez-faire attitude towards infidelity, perhaps deciding that given his gangly frame and pasty complexion, beggars can't be choosers.

Whatever the reason, he'll certainly think twice the next time he's tempted to wash his face.

Dubious Song Lyrics #4 'Rubber Soul'

Yes, I know 'Rubber Soul' is an album, but to my mind it's the most consistently dubious album of all time. I remember, even as a child, watching in amazement as Paul McCartney concluded the Beatles Anthology series by claiming that if you look back over The Beatles work, you'd find that all of their songs are about love and peace. 'Rubber Soul' must've been conveniently posted down the McCartney memory-hole, because it's a relentlessly, cynically and at times violently misogynistic record.

Disclaimer: if you disagree with any of the following interpretations, please feel free to comment, but I must warn you that I (mis)spent most of my childhood researching anything and everything to do with The Beatles, and I'm sure I'm not the only person to object to the Fab Four's chauvenism.

In true hack-journo fashion, I'll list each track along with my interpretations and moral obligations, below:

Drive My Car Shallow, vacuous woman cons a man into believing she's famous and talented. He falls for it and agrees to give her a lift. Grrr... damn those pesky women.

Norweigan Wood (This Bird Has Flown) A 'bird' flirts with the male protagonist, but refuses to have sex with him, forcing him to 'sleep in the bath'. Furious, our hero sets fire to her house. Fair Enough.

You Won't See Me Another pesky woman won't return Paul McCartney's calls. He's livid.

Nowhere Man Hooray! John takes a breather from the misogyny.

Think For Yourself Boo! George pipes-up with a fairly straightforward anti-women rant. Women tell lies, women believe lies. 'Think for yourself you skirt-wearing idiots!'

The Word There'd be none of these issues if we just said the word 'love'. Presumably in the context: 'You wouldn't put-out, so I've just burnt down your house, love.'

Michelle McCartney gives advice to Europhile men everywhere: you only need to learn eight words of French and their dolly-birds will fall at your feet.

What Goes On Argh! It's Ringo's song, usually the light hearted moment of whimsy on a Beatles LP, but even he's at it! This was Ringo's first ever songwriting credit in a Beatles song too, so it was actually his latent misogyny that inspired him to pick up a pen. 'It's so easy for a girl like you to lie.' Tell me about it, Ringo, they're all at it.

Girl 'She's the kind of girl who puts you down when friends are there, you feel a fool' - we'd have more sympathy for John if it wasn't for the fact that he's singing over the backing vocals 'tit tit tit tit tit'. I suggest this juxtaposes how the Beatles may have actually perceived women (belittling, devious swines) and what they actually want women for (they like their tits).

I'm Looking Through You Women are transparent. Surely the lads are running out of misogynistic metaphors by now?

In My Life A beautiful ballad, sullied only by the line 'In my life, I've loved them all', which could easily be the opening line of Jim Davidson's autobiography.

Wait Define yourself by your man - if he's away, wait for him. Don't bother getting on with your own life, it's over-rated. Darling.

If I Needed Someone 'Carve your number on my wall and maybe you will get a call from me', I'm not promising anything, though - maybe - okay? I know what you women are like.

Run For Your Life Sometimes a lyric can speak for itself. I wouldn't be surprised if Tom Jones collaborated on this murderous, paranoid, testosterone-fuelled piece of nonsense:

Well I'd rather see you dead, little girl
Than to be with another man
You better keep your head, little girl
Or I won't know where I am
You better run for your life if you can, little girl
Hide your head in the sand little girl
Catch you with another man
That's the end'a little girl
Well you know that I'm a wicked guy
And I was born with a jealous mind
And I can't spend my whole life
Trying just to make you toe the line
You better run for your life if you can, little girl
Hide your head in the sand little girl
Catch you with another man
That's the end'a little girl
Let this be a sermon
I mean everything I've said
Baby, I'm determined
And I'd rather see you dead
You better run for your life if you can, little girl
Hide your head in the sand little girl
Catch you with another man
That's the end'a little girl
I'd rather see you dead, little girl
Than to be with another man
You better keep your head, little girl
Or you won't know where I am


If after reading this you feel you want to get revenge for all of this women-hating, please don't bother, because just-desserts have already been dished out. Two words: Heather Mills.

Dubious Song Lyrics #5 'Delilah'

Inspired by Simon's fine list-based blog, I've decided to enter into the end-of-year spirit with a Christmas countdown of my own. At the risk of being slightly esoteric, my list reflects an obsession that I've had for many years, and I've always promised myself that if I ever had the guts and/or talent to try stand-up comedy, chatting about this obsession would be a staple of my live set.

My obsession is with dubious song lyrics.

Just to clarify, this isn't a list of 'bad' (i.e. poorly written) lyrics, of which there are millions. Rather, I hope to count down the five lyrics which actually breech the boundaries of taste, decency and legality, and yet which remain spectacularly popular and (in most cases) provide popular singalongs for a public who perhaps don't subject them to sufficient semantic scrutiny.

The first is a song so popular it has been embraced on football and rugby terraces, most famously by Stoke City fans. 'Delilah' by Tom Jones starts as our protagonist (let's call him 'Tom') casually spies on/stalks 'his woman': 'I saw the light on the night that I passed by her window / I saw the flickering shadows of love on her blind'. Unperturbed by this obvious sign of infidelity, Tom stays throughout the act, just to ensure he's been truly cuckolded: 'As she deceived me I watched and went out of my mind'.

Tom surmises from this act of voyeurism that 'this girl is no good' for him, before jumping into a sea of mixed metaphors: 'But I was lost like a slave that no man could free'. Correct me if I'm wrong, but based on my knowledge of the slave trade, being 'lost' was not the most pertinent feature of a slaves predicament. Surely the physical and mental torture, as well as the degrading racism, were more pressing issues to a slave than being a bit 'lost'?

Nevertheless, Tom continues: 'At break of day when that man drove away I was waiting', implying that he had no intention of confronting the man actually having an affair with 'his' woman, in turn, implying that he doesn't blame this mysterious gent and that Delilah was entirely responsible for their evening of nuptials. Gallantly, Tom 'cross[es] the street to her house and she open[s] the door', at which point, (and somewhat conveniently for Tom) Delilah stands there laughing. Now either the chuckling Delilah is pathologically cruel-hearted and callous or Tom needed to quickly add some conjecture to ensure that, as listeners, we were on his side. I'm surprised he just stopped at laughing - couldn't she have been murdering puppies, or making obscene calls to Andrew Sachs, just to be on the safe side?

Anyway, Tom does what any respectable man would do and pulls a knife out on her. He seems to be particularly pleased with this act of insane violence as he assures us 'she laughed no more'. Well, that's a relief - you've taken the comedy out of the situation - well done, Tom.

The song ends as Tom pleads for forgiveness 'before they come to break down the door', suggesting that at least he had the decency to barge his way in and carry out the murder behind the previously open aperture.

Perhaps the most alarming thing about this song is not the incredibly distressing central narrative; rather, it is the euphoric, anthemic musical accompaniment. The bouncing melody of the verse is so seductive it might as well buy all your drinks and offer to pay the taxi fare, inevitably building to the orgasmically catchy chorus. Set to a dark, brooding musical landscape (imagine, say, a Joy Division version) the song would make sense. But as it is, Delilah is a party anthem, where you drunkenly put your arm around the person next to you, give them a wink and say, without a trace of irony: If I ever caught my girlfirend cheating, I'd murder her.

Aftermath

I've always believed that in order for a song to be truly great, what it needs most is that intangible, often elusive quality: context. Now, far be it for me to proclaim a song that I was involved with as 'great', but I do feel that 'Aftermath' was the most perfectly-formed of Tokyo Beatbox's repertoire. Lyrically speaking, the title derived from a double-whammy of influences, it having been the name of a Rolling Stones album and one of the names considered by James, Nicky and Sean (Richey hadn’t joined at that point) before settling for 'Manic Street Preachers'. It was at the stage of the band where we were trying to move on from our first crop of songs, but lots of petty irritations kept getting in the way. It was a dialogue inspired by The Libertines' 'Can't Stand Me Now' and encapsulated my relationships with several different people at the time. This song is also a perfect example of how Simon's music could instantly and perfectly complement the lyrical sentiments: the music is choppy, turbulent, chaotic. That we were completely in love with Bloc Party at the time is also pretty apparent.

 

This (live) video was shot and edited by my good friend Steve Naish at one of our soundchecks. You can tell that we're cold, rusty and that Andy hasn't brought enough drums and cymbals with him. You can also tell that Chris didn't have time to get changed, hence his 'travelling salesman' look. But I think you can also tell that there's a pretty good song in their too - with a sense of angst and frustration, but also of understanding and redemption. In many ways it was the great 'lost' TB number, as we never made CD copies and stopped gigging soon after recording. Please click and enjoy!

Pest control

On my way to and from work i pass many shops and buisnesses.
I have a favourite...

.... 'Pest Control', which, i presume, is where you call if you have an animal pest in your house or office etc.

What i love is the sign they have outside their office, next to the road. It has in big letters 'pest of the week', then a gap where the 'pest of the week' can be displayed. I find it funny that someone has a pest of the week, usually these sorts of titles are for good things, but i suppose pests are a good thing for 'pest control' because thats their job!

When i first passed by and saw this sign the cynic in me thought, "i bet that sign never changes, it'll be the same pest for months".
But i have been prooved wrong, there has been many pests given the coverted title of 'pest of the week'; german cockroach, house mouse, mite, bed bugs...

Presently it is the brown rat.
Oh joy of joys, the daily commute!

Those who can't...

I'm being a right curmudgeon at the moment - there are a million good things I could say about my job as a teacher, but just because it's misanthropic-blog-fodder I'm highlighting a downside. Perhaps it really is a case of too much perspective.

What I'm moaning about isn't teaching, nor is it teachers, as such. Rather, my beef is with when these two worlds combine.

To explain, as I came to college teaching via university lecturing, I have to attend evening classes in order to gain a formal teaching qualification. This, coupled with regular course/departmental meetings, means that I regularly get to observe teachers being taught. There's more abundant irony than an Alanis Morissette lyric meeting.

You see, you'd expect that people who spend 9am til 4pm every day, asking classes of students to listen, stop chatting, put their phones away etc. to behave impeccably when a fellow teacher, a comrade in class control, attempts to address a crowd of which they are a part. This couldn't be further from the truth. Perhaps teachers' brains are hard-wired to assume that everything they say is worth hearing and that every classroom is their classroom. Perhaps the excitement of being surrounded by fellow teachers really is too much, and it's only natural that the gossiping flows the moment the students have gone. Yet I still can't help but be surprised at the phenomenal levels of rudeness that some teachers display in such a situation - especially when the team meeting/training course in question is in place for their benefit. It's the ultimate blind-spot - often the worst culprits are the teachers who suffer most from (or, at least, complain the loudest about) the behaviour of their groups.

At the training session I attended tonight, I saw two teachers passing notes and two others mumbling to each other throughout the course leader's presentation. In these situations, I'm always reminded of this legendary piece of television, yet frustrated by the fact there's no camera for me to silently transmit my disgust to, in true Tim Canterbury/Stan Laurel fashion.

Of course, it's important to share experiences and ideas with your colleagues. But if you added up the amount of time in your life that's been wasted by misbehaving classmates at school, timewasting fellow students at Uni, or procrastinating, self-absorbed colleagues at work, I'm sure the total figure would be frightening.

And of course, right now it's me who's self-absorbed, and you could argue that writing a blog is just a glorified form of procrastination. But I wonder if any other profession can boast such a perfect form of ... is hypocrisy too strong a word? ... let's settle on ... professional irony. I'm sure there are some pretty unhealthy GPs out there, and there have always been corrupt politicians and immoral journalists. But, just now, nothing seems quite as blatant, or quite as annoying, as a naughty teacher.

Special Needs

If you really want a laugh this Xmas, check out the customer reviews for this. I've never known someone have so much contempt for their fans. He's already released 3 DVD versions of the same stand-up show, but apparently even that wasn't the nadir. Never has someone gone, so literally, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Simon Amstell summed it up best on Buzzcocks this week: "I'm glad he's brought out a new DVD - I need a present for someone I hate who's thick."

Episode 1

Please click here to discover episode 1 of the Two Wise Men podcasts. Please let us know what you think and we can discuss your comments/insults in our next episode!

MISSING

Have you seen this man? Committed drinker, convicted dogger, poet, scoundrel, shoulder shrugger, skin slammer, silent but deadly. Known to answer to the name 'Stixey'. Hasn't answered any of my calls or emails* If you see him staggering between a dartboard and East Street, do not approach. He has some dubious political views.**

WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE
REWARD: £2.00





*no calls have been made and no emails sent.
** very dubious

Where the white boys dance

I've been in a relationship for almost twenty years, and I'm having second thoughts. Can you help? We've been extremely happy, and have stuck with each other through thick and thin. But recently I've started to think my 'other half' is racist and sexist. Should I leave?

However much I might deny it, pointing to the odd Marvin Gaye or Aimee Mann album, the relationship I've been in has been with indie music, and a pretty monogamous relationship at that. I'll be forever grateful to my parents for encouraging me to play their Beatles, Stones and Kinks LPs when I was growing up. This led, fairly predictably, to an initial love for Oasis and subsequently (mercifully) Manic Street Preachers, to whom I will always be wed.

Manics aside, the indie music genre I've spent my life exploring, collecting, obsessing over and trying to get involved with, (via Tokyo Beatbox, a delightfully jangly combo of eloquent gents) has always had its problems. With a few notable exceptions, the way that indie bands address and refer to women is naive at best, downright misogynistic at worse. Just think of the clumsy sentiments of meat-heads like Jet ('are you gonna be my girl') or even New-Wave saviours The Strokes ('you talk way too much'). The relationship the genre has with women is inherently problematic. Granted, recently there have been many more successful female-fronted bands (CSS, The Ting Tings, The Long Blondes), but this is a very recent phenomenon. Think back to Oasis' heyday - Elastica, Sleeper, Garbage, Catatonia and ... and hardly a reflection of the talents of 50% of the population. Especially when you consider that all of those bands had predominantly male songwriters and musicians, and at least 3 of them were just shit.

To put it another way, compare the indie female contingent to that of every other musical genre. Let's assume that pop is the genre that encompasses the most successful elements of every other genre. Pop has developed and promoted female talent for decades - The Beatles toured alongside Lulu, Cilla and Dusty. Soul and R n B has always boasted a talented and successful female stable, which can be traced from Billie Holliday to Diana Ross and through to Beyonce, Rihanna and Estelle. I'd argue that even Country music (not renowned for its open-mindedness) is more willing to celebrate its female talent than those at the top of the indie hegemony.

Because surely that's where the trouble lies - I'm sure very few people in the indie fraternity actively hate women. Rather, it's reluctant to give female artists the same sort of opportunities it offers to men. The genre seems to maintain its queasy, schoolboy view of women (we sort of like them, we want to get off with them, but we don't need to waste time understanding them). And for all the sneering that indie boys might do at 'manufactured pop' moguls such as Simon Cowell, you couldn't question his record for discovering and promoting female talent. Indeed, what would have become of the ridiculously talented Leona Lewis if she'd joined a band and sent a demo tape into Rough Trade? My guess is not very much.

The same argument applies to race. It's an overwhelmingly white genre - black singers like Kele from Bloc Party and Lightspeed Champion seem to be the exception, not the rule. Indeed, it shouldn't be ignored that Kele was recently racially abused by members of (punk/indie deity) John Lydon's entourage. Again, I don't believe that the vast majority of the Indie clique are consciously racist. But they should be embarrassed by the fact that they lack so far behind Simon Cowell et al in this respect.

This has personally come to light for me as I teach at a particularly diverse college - the black/white split is approximately 50/50. As a teacher you constantly strive for reference points - shared cultural experiences that you can use to relate to your students. In this regard, my love affair with Indie has badly let me down. 

So can I trust him any more? Should I stay with him? We've been through so much, but I'm just not comfortable now. Can anyone help?

Travelling Will Buried

How do I put this? I completely agree with the notion that travel broadens the mind. I'm as wooly a liberal as you could hope to meet (or to avoid) so I'm all for the idea of meeting people from different cultures and broadening your horizons. I also have to admit that on the few occasions I have been able to afford to travel abroad (Spain a few times, Paris, Berlin) I have had wonderfully enriching experiences.

So it's not travelling per se I have a problem with.

The specific form of travelling I'm sending to room 101 is the 'gap year' journey. The wide-eyed sixth former, hiking around Europe or 'finding themselves' in South America.

Argh! I know, I know, what a cynical swine. There might even be friends reading this who have done these things - nothing personal - this is my own neurosis.

Possibly it's an oikish class thing. Perhaps the fact that I have never (and possibly will never) be able to afford such a trip is at the heart of my disdain. It's jealousy masquerading as insight. But my response whenever I heard friends talking about how they'd love to spend a year in Australia or 6 months in Peru is: 'So you've done Britain, have you? Seen all the galleries, visited all the museums, soaked-up all the history, walked every avenue and alleyway? The mountains of Scotland, the valleys of Wales, the wit and brutality of the North, the diversity and schizophrenia of London?'

It just feels to me that the implication of strapping on a backpack and heading out to Thailand at the age of 18 is a vague and well-meaning form of collonialism. Like do-gooding missionaries, isn't there an inherent arrogance in claiming that you can 'absorb' another culture, in just a few months, when you've barely got to know your own? As I write, I'm not even sure I agree with this - some people I know who have travelled in this way are thoughtful people and valued friends. But, perhaps on a subconscious level, there is something dubious about the 'gap year' mentality.

Or maybe I'm missing the point. Student travel may just be a more interesting way to drink lots and have as much sex as possible, in which case, hats off to it! But maybe in the current economic climate it would be wise for the adventurous 18 year-old out there to try travelling a bit closer to home - visit the thousands of wonderful and beautiful tourist spots in Britain and stimulate our economy. You never know, this might be where you truly 'find yourself'.

Two Wise Men

I'm currently in talks with my good friend, James McRae, about a series of podcasts we'd like to record. Nothing is confirmed yet, but it's all very exciting. We last hooked-up audibly 5 years ago. Our tactic then was to talk nonsense into a tape recorder - I'd type it up into something that resembled a script, then we went into a studio and recorded. This time, I don't think it'll even be that organised, but it does promise to be a 'journey' in the true X Factor sense of the word.

Listen to our previous effort here. Acted splendidly by James McRae and Simon King, kindly hosted by Crystal Clear.

Identity Crisis

I think it was Nick Hornby who suggested that we are what we own. That our record collection, our DVDs, our books etc. are the most accurate reflectors of our identity. I think this idea does gather some momentum when you consider just how fastidious some people can be about their lists of likes/dislikes on Facebook and Myspace. Whatever the psychological relevance, we're certainly all pretty precious about our 'stuff'.

The downside of liking 'stuff', of course, is that other people also like the same 'stuff', and however hard we try, we can't control who else belongs to our particular cultural club.

Never was it so apparent than this time last year. (Of course, all taste is subjective and this doesn't show me in the best light.) I was working at a bookshop and the conversation went as follows:

ME: Wow, you're buying the Russell Brand book! Good choice!
CUSTOMER: Thanks.
ME: Bought it myself a few weeks ago, couldn't put it down. I always read his column in the Guardian, so I knew it'd be good. You're a fan of Russell?
CUSTOMER: Sort of. I bought the Chris Moyles book last year - he's really funny - thought I'd try this. Do you think it'll be as good?
ME: That's nine ninety-nine. Do you want a bag?

Poor old earth

As i drive to work in the mornings i bask in the life giving glow of the sun as it pops its head over the horizon. "Whoopee, good for you" i hear you lovely people say. The problem is the picture i get to see every morning could have been cut straight from a national geographic article on the state of the planet.
For many parts of my journey on the morning the golden orb of the sun, sitting low on the horizon, has many silhouettes of black smoke belching chimneys cut into it. The sky, which at home (harb) would be that washed out winter grey or pale blue, is smudged brown along the tops of the city blocks. I can't describe just how nasty the colour looks, suffice to say that what i used to cough up in the morning, when i was a smoker, comes close!
This shouldn't come as a shock to me, i know. London is a city, it has industry, it still has smog. The thing is i really didn't think pollution was that bad, that factories were actually allowed to burn things and that cars still kick out loads of crap.

I really shouldn't be so naive, i really need to get a prius.
Charlotte

Awkward No.1

Like Ronseal, awkward social situations do exactly what they say on the tin. 

For men, the most awkward situation is a trip to the urinals. Most non-men (aka women) are aware that there's an awkwardness to this scenario, but they may not be fully-versed in the intricate, stilted nuances of urinal etiquette. Allow me to lift the lid.

That you look straight ahead at all times is a given, unless your motive for entering the urinal is something other than to urinate (and I'm sure there are better sites than this for details on lavatory-based trouser-wrestling). I would say that absolute silence is also part of the RUW (received urinal wisdom), but, in fact, the civilised silence established by strangers is all too often interrupted when two or more men recognise each other. In that situation, these men seemingly have to over-compensate by shouting at each other, inane banter about football or drinking, as if they couldn't possibly wait one minute to resume their mindless verbal joshings. In fact, there is such an insistence on the part of such men, that they're only interested in Capello's selection policy, and definitely not the 'midfield general' languishing in their friend's hand, that perhaps they could be accused of 'protesting too much'.

That's beside the point. Let's assume that all of the urinal users are strangers, and there are five facilities to choose from. I'm pretty sure I can chart the order in which these conveniences are used: first man in opts for the urinal furthest from the door, (let's call it U5) second man keeps a respectable distance, but still  avoids being nearest the door (he'll choose U2 - I've always wanted to write about U2 in this context) next man in is a little trapped, and goes for U4, next is U1 and finally, man-in-the-middle is U3. There's something seethingly, unshakably male about such sequencing. I'm led to believe women chat and swap make-up; men abide by the unwritten, draconian laws of manliness.

Apologies if you find this toilet toil a little unedifying. The point is that there are so many situations in life that are unnecessarily complex, and usually defy all logic in the process. Now in London, I spend 2 hours per day on the tube. Often there are awkward, clumsy moments on the tube, whereby although we couldn't physically be much closer to each other, we compensate for this by being so distant, spiritually.

I'm often aggravated by the fact that passengers who sit next to me instantly steal my elbow room, in spite of the fact I'm clearly reading and, hey, I was there first. 

Conversely, we're so scared of showing any sort of kindness or affection in situations like these, that we overlook opportunities to reach out to each other. For instance, on the tube last week I noticed a lady reading Barack Obama's book 'The Audacity of Hope'. Believe it or not, I've been wanting to buy this book since the spring - working in a bookshop it was difficult to ignore, and I found Obama so inspirational, I wanted to read everything by and about him. Yet, for some silly, superstitious reason, I held-back from buying the book, thinking that I might jinx him - that if I bought his book there could be no way he'd win the election. 

As he was duly elected, I was free to make the purchase, and noticing the lady reading it on the tube reminded me. There was so much I could've said to her; I was so enthusiastic about his victory, I was still basking in reflected glory - I genuinely wanted to know what the book was like, what it was actually about and whether or not he'd employed a ghost writer. It was 6.30am, dark and cold, yet I could have reached out and got both of our day's off to an interesting start. But, alas, i didn't. Because having a conversation with someone on a train is a social faux pas - I feared the reaction I'd get would be something akin to winking at a fellow urinator - it was easier to be miserable and lonely.

And yet the fact is, we're all going to die. Why the hell don't we reach out to each other every chance we get? Ok, maybe not in the urinal, but you know what I mean.

Gareth

Hunger

Our first trip to our local independent cinema 'The Phoenix' in East Finchley, a splendid place, and what a film it was: 'Hunger', a gruelling, agonising, painful depiction of life in the cells for Republican prisoners in 1981, culminating in the hunger strike and death of Bobby Sands. A monumental piece of cinema, which carefully navigated the line between representing the prisoners' plights and fetishising their suffering. Bleak stabs of context (the brutal murder of a prison guard in front of his mother) also reigned-in the inevitable temptation to see the film as a pean to martyrdom. Sands' story was nevertheless inspiring and his conviction conveyed expertly. The acting throughout (and especially in the long scene featuring Sands and the priest) was extraordinary. Steve McQueen has made the leap from art installation to the big screen without losing any of the attention to detail or any of his vision. I've always been fascinated in the events of the years I was alive, yet too young to know what was going-on (the early eighties) and so for me this was especially illuminating. I can't recommend it highly enough.

Gareth

Blissful Ignorance

Visited Tate Modern today which was extraordinary. My personal highlight was this:

... I believe it's called 'Goat's Skull, Bottle and Candle', a dark, deathly work - Picasso's response to the futile killing in the Korean war. 

Although it might sound strange, the reason I find such art (in fact, all art) particularly exciting at the moment is because I know very little about it. Having finished my thesis, it feels as though I've been released from the obligation to be an expert in one particular field - I'm allowed to be an amateur in several fields. I can even be a hopeless amateur - it's ok - I no longer have to feel guilty for not concentrating on my own research. It feels great!

It seems literally stupid to extol the virtues of ignorance, but right now it works for me. To idle around the Tate this afternoon was wonderful, my brain felt like a sponge - no obligation, just art and oxygen. Fantastic!

Gareth

No, I'm sure an ostrich was involved

A rare compliment for Ben Elton...

As it was remembrance day yesterday (11/11) I had the privilege of showing my tutor group the final episode of Blackadder Goes Forth. I remember being shown that episode when I was in the Sixth Form and it always stuck with me. Over the years, Char and I have  become Blackadder addicts, so I was almost numb to the effects of that powerful last episode until yesterday. I didn't think it would have much of an impact, yet when I turned the lights on as the credits rolled, there was more than one student wiping away a tear. They laughed in all the right places too. Proud of 'em.

Perhaps Richard Curtis wrote all the best bits. The genius behind 'Dibley', 'Hill', 'Weddings' and 'Actually'. Maybe. But, in the post-US election season of goodwill, hats off to Mr. Elton. Twenty years of lukewarm stand-up, royal arse-licking, president grovelling and piss-poor musicals can't take this away from you.

Celebration

We know how to let our hair down...

TWTWTW

Being the sort of pasty-faced pessimist I am, I find it quite uncomfortable to cope with good news. And would you believe it, this week has been jam packed with amazing, uplifting, life-affirming bouts of great news and good fortune. It's starting to freak me out.

Sunday started, innocently enough, with a lovely stroll around Hamstead Heath:

... we remembered a flask of tea ...

... and stood on Parliament Hill for the first time...

... the view is breathtaking, and the contrast between the wild parkland and the city could hardly be more marked. We're so lucky to only be a couple of streets away from this.

So, nice views aside, I was starting to get a bit unnerved by the sudden upturn in Tottenham's fortunes. Although I'm a Forest fan, due to my brother being a vehement Spurs man (and me living in North London) I'm starting to feel more and more like an honorary Lily White. The great Arsenal clash was followed by a win against the previously unbeaten Liverpool. What was going on? Forest got a well-earned point away at rivals derby too. But I digress...

We returned from the Heath in time to watch the final Grand Prix of the season, and (as you probably know) Lewis Hamilton won the championship on the final turn of the track. I was on my knees, screaming at the screen - what a moment!

This was followed, of course, a couple of days later with the wonderful, wonderful, wonderful US election: restoring our faith in democracy, America, humanity, beauty, taste, intelligence (is that enough?) sorry I get carried away, but it really did feel like the beginning if the twenty-first century.

Simon came down to London to visit (upon his arrival, he said 'the chips are down for McCain') and we were lucky enough to see some of the coverage at a bar in Shoreditch that hosted a party for American ex-pats. The atmosphere was great. It was even better the next morning when I got to work (as a college lecturer) and it was the only subject on each of the students lips.

Somehow, i don't think a Cameron/Brown battle royale will have the same effect.

The week progressed and we were still on cloud nine when Char had to face the Ofsted inspectors. She was singled-out for a special interview and, would you believe it, her school's Ofsted rating went from 'good' to 'outstanding'. Wonderful!

Wonderful, but for the fact that I was too nervous to properly enjoy her news as I was preparing for my PhD viva. Having stayed over in Harborough on Thursday, I journeyed to Loughborough on Friday and survived the two-hour viva grilling, it was very difficult and at one point I was certain I hadn't passed. I was asked to leave while the panel ruminated, and 20 minutes felt like an eternity (I don't care about the tired cliches, ok, it's been a good week) - I was called back in and told I had passed. I now have a PhD. I'm a doctor. Nice.

Mum and Dad bought me champagne and a new TV to celebrate- fantastic!

So, time to celebrate. It's not often you get to reflect on good news, and if you're like me and you believe that all life really just ends with becoming worm-food, it's worth enjoying this sort of thing while you can. Char and I have let off some fireworks in the garden and are now drinking cherry wine. Wild, I know. But we're happy, it's been a great week.

Still not sure I can cope with it though.

Gareth

The dreaded 'O'

Yesterday my head teacher told us that Ofsted will be visiting us this week. The school has been waiting for this for over a year now, before i graced them with my presence.

Previously, at my last school, i found the news of an imminent Ofsted inspection a joy. I knew that the head and other senior leaders, who were not pulling their weight, would get found out and get a shock. I loved watching them squirm and look sweaty for the days the big 'O' were in. I listened to their 'motivating' speeches and knee-jerk policies, knowing deep down that their previous incompetence cannot just be glazed over, that the inspectors will spot it a mile off (and they did)- therefore i left with a smug smile on my face.

So i found myself this morning in a impromptu staff briefing at the start of the day. I sat there waiting for the familiar happy feeling as i regarded my new head and leaders mooching around getting their notes together with slightly tense faces. This time it was different, i didn't get the same feeling as before. This time i actually believe that the school is brilliant, that we deserve an 'outstanding' grade, that the senior leaders all work extremely hard and don't deserve to feel even a little bit stressed. So i didn't feel happy at their predicament, our predicament, i just wanted to do my best to help the school look great.

We had an assembly straight after, topic: remembrance Sunday. There was music, films explaining the symbolism of the silence and poppy, a poppy man created by students (like in the add), the head talking about his own family caught up in wars and pupils reading war poetry. It was wonderful, i almost shed a tear!

How many other people got through anything like this before 9am this morning?
(Excuse my french) teaching is fucking great!

Char

Idiots

Promise this is the last time I'll post on this topic, but you must read this. Good old Charlie.

Gareth

Two fingers to the 'fans'

And here's what everyone has been waiting for... me to post another entry.


There have been comments alluding to the authenticity of my entries from 'friends' and 'family'. I took these as negative, Gaz poo pood my feelings and said to take it as a compliment, that people are obviously confused because of the automatic spell check on this thing. Oh I feel better!





Halloween yesterday, and in true fully grown up style i took great pleasure in carving my pumpkin.

There is evidence behind me of the poo weather were all having at the moment.

We met up with Simon and Dan in the loaf last night, good night. My highlight was the 'who am i?' guessing game. This morning i was a gremlin, it took Gaz half an hour to guess, i thought, what a good choice i had, until i found out he hadn't seen the film! Who hasn't seen Gremlins?!

Charlotte

Half Term Hijincks

So far, half-term week has been glorious. Things that haven't been mentioned on this blog yet include: visiting our friend Sarah at her gallery, both getting Nathan Barley-esque haircuts in Covent Garden, meeting up with Matt, Alex et al for the amazing Spurs V Arsenal game. Somehow ending up at a banjo playing convention with Alex, at midnight on the Charing Cross Road. I vaguely remember us promising to start a band, too. Having our good chums Mark and Mel visit yesterday was also a delight.

We're now off to spend the day at home in Harborough, before coming back to spend the weekend desperately trying to catch up with the planning and assignments we should have been doing all week. Sugar Loaf, here we come.

Happy Halloween!

Gareth

Brand on the run

The ridiculous reaction to the Brand/Ross scandal completely sickens me. Peter Tatchell (funnily enough, Russell Brand once revealed that he referred to a particularly effeminate handbag he owned as a 'Tatchell Satchell') has written a great article here. Being a massive fan of Brand's radio show, I feel like a bunch of outsiders have turned up and ruined my fun. Brand and Ross made a mistake, they apologised. It's taken a fortnight-long Daily Mail hate campaign to stir it up into the frenzy we see now. I did feel slightly sickened when I heard it, because there was a misogynistic undertone to the way Andrew Sachs' granddaughter was being referred to. Brand's major appeal has always been that he's on the side of the bullied, and his jeering exchange with Ross had the distinct whiff of bullying.

But it was a one-off.

It reminds me of the reaction  Pete Doherty gets when he arrives late to a gig. "Babyshambles' frontman acts shambolically." Isn't there a clue in the name? "Anarchic comedian behaves anarchically." 

My one fear is that without the radio show, Russell will lose the humbling influence of a weekly live knockabout, and concentrate on those awful Superbad-style Hollywood films that tend to get produced every five minutes. 

A weekly podcast, anyone?

Gareth

The Cliff Richard Amnesty

During the aforementioned meal courtesy of Jim and Laura (an extremely tasty three courses: carrot and coriander soup, risotto and tiramisu) Jim and I discussed the concept of the 'Cliff Richard' factor.

To explain, one of my most vivid childhood memories occured whilst cycling around Market Harborough fulfilling my paperboy duties. Once or twice a year, I'd notice a coach outside one of the small terraced houses. It was full of middle-aged/elderly ladies, brandishing official Cliff Richard merchandise: flags, T-shirts, banners etc. They never failed to attend Cliff's most recent outing at the NEC or Wembley. I remember the whole thing being organised by a delightfully charming lady called Diane, who sadly isn't around any more. At the time, I remember being so perplexed: Cliff Richard hadn't done anything - released a good album or single (Millennium Prayer aside) - for decades. So what was the appeal? Why would you continue to support someone whose best days were clearly behind them? In a sense, I already had my answer - the Cliff fans were having a laugh, getting away from it all for a day and just enjoying each others' company. Cliff was both essential to their enterprise and irrelevant.

As I've grown a little older, I feel like I can understand the Cliff fans more and more. For, although in my mind I'm an acerbic critic, a cutting-edge nihilist, a cultural magpie; in reality I have more in common with Cliff's coach party. Because there are some performers and bands who I feel have  given me so much pleasure in the past, that I feel they've earned my continuing support, irrespective of their current and future output.

The reason Jim and I were discussing this phenomenon was because I was defending Ricky Gervais latest performance in 'Ghost Town', and Jim was defending Peter Kay's recent X Factor parody. Notice in both cases I used the word 'defend'? I explained to Jim that I think Ricky Gervais has amused me so consistently, for so long now, that he's been added to my personal 'Cliff Richard list'. I explained my theory to Jim, and he suggested that he had similar affections for Kay. We were both completely unprepared to entertain the notion of criticising our respective 'Cliffs', purely because of their former glories.

For what it's worth, the rest of my 'Cliff list' includes the following:

- Manic Street Preachers (I must've been to around forty gigs by now, and plan to see them play at least once a year between now and the time I (or they) drop.)

- Frank Skinner (say what you like about 'Shane', it was full of great jokes)

- Seth MacFarlane shows (Charlotte was a Family Guy fan years before it became cool, and she got me into this when we first met. American Dad is just as good)

- The Simpsons/Futurama (I don't care what people say about later Simpsons episodes - the people behind these shows make us laugh every day of our lives. To sit through the sub-standard stuff is the least we can do)

There are always people waiting in the wings to join my 'Cliff list'. Russell Brand is probably the most recent addition. I'm not actually sure it's healthy to foster such a commitment to certain people, but I'd hate to just 'quite like' some things and be ambivalent towards others. Isn't that sort of attitude the reason why 'Hollyoaks' and 'Two Pints' continue to be made?

But I digress. Because here it is, the 'Cliff Richard' amnesty. To borrow from the Manics: This is my Truth Tell me Yours - this is your chance to declare your own list of people you support unwaveringly, despite the fact that the charts/popular criticism/common sense suggest you should do otherwise.

It'd be great to find out who your personal 'cliffs' are!

Gareth

The Purley Gates

Yesterday we visited our good friends Jim and Laura McRae. It wasn't easy, there was engineering works at their station so we had to get off at Purley. After a lovely meal we started to make our drunken way home.

My title suggests that this station was akin to the pearly gates, that this station too represented the entrance to heaven. Nothing could be more wrong.
11:30- Me and Gaz were not in the best shape mentally due to alcohol and argument. With our train into the depths of 'heaven' cancelled...we awaited salvation.
12:15- We boarded a train to Victoria, on our journey we were serenaded by a one armed, and very eloquent, tramp. He told stories of hidden foes, cold nights and a sharp surgeons knife.
12:45- Having resisted 'temptation' we traversed the system of night buses. By this time we had put aside our differences to help our survival. We stood close to share body heat and to reduce our exposed surface area to muggers.
2:55- Muggers fooled and £2 lighter we got off at the stop at the end of our road and literally ran home, giving the night back to the homeless, drunk and completely insane!

Char

"British" museum

Me, Gaz and Steve visited the British museum today for a whirlwind tour. The speed of which was dictated by how long Gaz could make it without food. He seems to have worms at the minute, either that or he has shares in Tesco express. Good for him, he will be the only one with money left in a few months.

Mista has graced us with a lot of his presence today. He's so gorgeous sometimes, i just want gobble him up cause gorgeousness must taste great! I'd love to be a cat, i would also sit around with smug self righteous looks on my face.

Char

The gag factory

Don't get me wrong - I lap 'em up. In fact, 'Dave' spends so much time in our flat, he feels more like a lodger than  a TV channel. But there's something gnawing away at me about most of Dave's shows (those comedy panel shows mainly, that originate on the BBC) something queasily cynical.

8 out of 10 Cats, Mock the Week, Would I Lie to You?, Never Mind The Buzzcocks, Have I Got News For You? Even Top Gear. Yes, sorry, Top Gear. I like all of these shows. Yet each time I laugh at them I get a pang, as though I've been manipulated, as though the laugh comes from my throat and not my stomach.

The issue I'm clumsily dancing around is the use of comedy writers. 

Now, I'm not so naive to have thought that these shows didn't use writers, but what galls me is how small the pool of 'talent' is from which these shows draw their comic hydration. Keep your eye on the credits the next time you watch any of these shows. I guarantee you'll see the name Ged Parsons. Others will include Fraser Steele, Jim Pullin and Pete Sinclair. 

It's difficult to articulate why I have such a problem. I guess it's comparable to hearing your favourite band play a cover version. I think that some of the panel show regulars  are amazingly talented, particularly Paul Merton, Frankie Boyle, Bill Bailey and David Mitchell. In fact, I like them so much, that I'd rather see them make the odd dodgy gag that falls flat (safe in the knowledge that the material is their own, and, hey, we're all human) than watching an endless stream of perfectly crafted comedy nuggets, never knowing whether it's actually their material or not.

The question we should be asking is, why aren't Parsons, Steele, Pullin et al comedians/panelists in their own right? Are they hideously ugly men? Do they suffer from massive crises of confidence, or have particularly bad speech impediments? Why is this comedy A-Team always so confined to its underground lair? And don't they have trouble sleeping at night, knowing that they've engineered a way for even, say, Anne Widdecombe or Sara Cox to seem funny? However much they're being paid, shouldn't this at least cause a crisis of confidence? Bear in mind, these people carve out their living through appearing to be: a) slightly left-wing, and b) cynical about celebrity culture.

As I said, my main problem is just how short this comedy shortlist is. If there were several writing teams, each competing for the best topical gags, wouldn't it make for fresher, more interesting shows? 

That's not going to happen, so here's my idea: a new panel show. It's called 'Have I got ugly, bumbling, stammering, cynical writers who need to claw back their credibility for you?' Each of these comedy masterminds can wear balaclavas to mask their repulsive faces, and each will have access to Stephen Hawking's voicebox, to save them actually having to speak. The show can be 10 minutes long, because there'll be no pretense of actually reflecting topical news stories - the lads can just reel off their jokes and get out of there. 

Carol Vorderman can host... but, wait! Who's going to write her jokes? Has anyone got Ged Parsons' number?

Gareth

Three weddings and a grave yard.

This is the first Saturday for a while where we've had the chance to do whatever we like, so how fitting it was that today we ended three weeks of beautiful weddings, the very start of peoples lives, with a trip to Highgate Cemetary, the very end of peoples lives.

We visited Karl Marx's grave, it reminded me of old set material from Dr Who.

It looks like the face of Bo.

Steve Barraclough has come over and we went to see the new film with Ricky Gervais in, Ghost town. Good flick. If i was a ghost i wouldn't hang around being in 'limbo', i would scare nasty people by making stuff float and i would go to museums and mince around the parts that mere mortals have to pay extra for, cause i just don't seem to have to time or the money to do it now.

Char

Throw another blog onto the fire

If you're interested, my previous attempt at a blog is here.

Gareth

Hastily splashed onto the screen

After a morning of reading through Ricky Gervais' brilliant blog, Char and I decided to create a blog of our own (one that was slightly less good, and featured less Emmy-winning).

There are a few reasons for writing.

Firstly, I like the idea of keeping in touch with our friends in a way that isn't just hastily dashed-off facebook posts, or hastily dashed-off text messages. Creating a hastily dashed-off blog is the way forward. Hopefully, this way friends can read it if they want to and if it's entertaining, and not just because they're obliged to reply to something. (At this point I ought to point out I'm the world's worst facebooker and constantly forget to reply to people. As if you hadn't guessed from the fact I'm writing a blog, I'm incredibly self-obsessed. Sorry.)

Secondly, I feel a certain sense of responsibility, having gone to so much effort and expense in moving to London, that I should actually 'do stuff'. The reason for coming here was to visit galleries, go to great gigs and watch the sort of films that wouldn't have been shown at the Kettering Odeon. And I hope that starting a blog will compel us to all of this stuff and occasionally type it up. Be lovely if you'd like to read it and see what we're up to.

I'm going to drop the pre-cursor at this point (thirdly) and say that I've always wanted to keep a diary. Earlier this year I managed to keep a diary every day for 3 months and it was great. Plus, it's no exaggeration to say that when I managed to write 500 words a day for my novel/PhD project, it was one of the happiest times of my life. There's something undeniably and unashamedly cathartic about writing regularly. Did I mention I was self-obsessed?

So, what's going to be on this thing? 

Who are you, and why are you asking questions?

I'm a device.

You're an idiot.

As well as a journal of what we're doing/reading/watching/listening to, it'd be great to share some songs, prose, poems, jokes if I ever get round to creating any of those things. I also hope to introduce regular characters (friends from London and from Leicestershire) so that you all get to know each other, filtered through the cruel conduit of my clumsy fingers.

One such character is our erstwhile lodger, Matt. Matt recommended this website. For that, we should all be thankful.

Gareth