Turning Rebellion Into Money

There is one thing about the 1980s that isn't being revived right now...

For me, when I hear the term '1980s', my first thought is of Thatcher, miners strikes, the Berlin Wall, Marxism, Captialism, the free market, politicised students wearing army surplus. Extreme Left. Extreme Right. Extreme wealth. Riots. Unemployment. Everything, it seems, stemming from a set of principles, ideologies, convictions.

Not far down these asyndetic lists would be punk and post-punk - The Clash serving up their masterpiece, Johnny Rotten forming PiL and Iggy Pop's 'The Passenger'.

It's at this point that nostalgia turns to nausea: if you've past a poster or turned on a TV in the last few weeks, you've no doubt noticed Iggy whoring himself for Swift Cover insurance. Cringingly, he crow-bars in references to his biggest hits: 'don't be a passenger, it's no fun - get a lust for life' etc.

Don't get me wrong, I know I shouldn't be looking to 60 year old leather-trousered heroin addicts for moral guidance. But Iggy's current omnipresence is a stark reminder that, truly, nothing is sacred. The Clash lent their music to a Levi's ad campaign in 1992. Johnny Rotten is the current face of Country Life butter. In each example, an interesting, adrenalising legacy is compromised for the sake of a few quid.

The most sickening modern example of this is Jack White's involvement in Coca-Cola sponsorship. I can't look at a picture of him and Meg in their resplendent red and white now without feeling that those very colours have been bought. Like Santa, from now on The White Stripes are synonymous with that sugary drink. Was Jack aware that Coke were one of the principle sponsors of the 1936 'Hitler' olympics? Perhaps if he'd been around he'd have signed over the rights to Seven Nation Army...

I digress. But it seems that as we scrap over the corpse of the 80s, re-hashing Human League riffs and frizzy haircuts; the one thing we're not trying to pillage is that intangible sense of conviction, stoicism and principle. As unemployment rises and our political options diverge, it might be the one thing we really need.

Episode 3

Episode 3 of the Two Wise Men podcasts is now available to download here or via iTunes. Although perhaps not the most elegant, I think this episode was the best yet (it was certainly the most enjoyable to record). The Two Wise Men go from strength to strength!

Download, comment and enjoy!

Ad' Enough!

One of the drawbacks of having a google email account, is the targeted advertising. As I've been writing off to literary agents recently, trying to generate some interest in my book, all of the adverts have been along the lines of:

Struggling Writer?
Click: http://www.desperateloserswhocantstringasentencetogether.com/

This I can live with. But this morning when I logged-on, the advert was:

Just Been Dumped?
Click: http://www.useyourotherhandtojoinourdatingagency.com/

... ok, I can't remember the actual site, but you get the picture.

What is it about my email correspondence that gives google the impression I'm 'unlucky in love'? I'm getting married in 10 weeks! We share a blog! She plucks-out my grey eyebrows! Surely we are a great advert for love's relentless campaign. Is google trying to undermine our relationship? Sow a seed of doubt? Or is it just that I don't talk about how happy I am over email?

This idea makes me feel guilty, but email is hardly the most romantic of communication platforms. Compare the success of 'Sleepless in Seattle' with 'You've Got Mail!' - Tom Hanks will back me up.

From now on, every email I send will end with:

PS. I'm in a very happy and fulfilling relationship.

Let's see how those cynical google swines cope with that!

Time's Arrows

If, like me, you're currently enjoying the final of the World Darts Championship, you must read Martin Amis' 'London Fields': a disgusting, depraved, yet probably quite accurate portrayal of urban London life, set against the backdrop of an amateur darts championship. 

There's a used copy for 1p on Amazon here, you won't be disappointed (or just borrow our copy).

Watts the Beef

As Charlotte has had the audacity to go away to Reading for three days on a training course, I thought it might be cathartic to unleash my grumpiness/loneliness on a list of petty irritations:

Five - Due to my uncanny ability to watch 3 or 4 episodes in one sitting, annoyingly I've finished The Wire season two, (a phenomenal, beautifully written show) and won't be able to afford season three for a good while.

Four - I'm a massive fan of Rob Brydon. I like Matt Horne. Lots of people I love and respect tell me it's a great show. Logically I should watch 'Gavin and Stacey' - it ticks all of my comedy boxes. But I can't bring myself to do it because I find there's something intensely unlovable about James Corden. At each of the fifty award ceremonies at which he's received awards this year, he's acted as if he's 'finally' been vindicated - punching the air as if he's just been freed from H Block. It's an ITV comedy award, not the Pulitzer.

During the 'Big Fat Quiz of the Year', his sense of humour seemed to be akin to that of a playground bully, his only joke being to mock anyone who wasn't him. It was embarrassing to have him sitting next to the peerless Sean Lock.

If someone could kindly edit him out of all of the G & S episodes, I'd be happy to give it a go.

Three - I'm only 26, yet grey hairs are appearing in my eyebrows. Could I be turning into an inverse Alastair Darling - dark hair, grey brows?

Two - I know I promised to never mention it again, but the absence of the Russell Brand show from my weekly podcast listening is seriously getting me down. For some reason, despite being aired on a Saturday, the show was never edited and ready for download until Wednesday or Thursday. As such, it gave me the perfect pick-me-up to fight off the midweek blues. I remember, some mornings I'd meet my friend, Chot, on the train to work, and literally fire joke after joke at her, inspired by/stealing from Russell's rapier wit and Matt Morgan's acerbic pessimism. It's no exaggeration to say I mourn the loss.

One - On the same subject (you know, the one I promised not to mention again) does anyone else subscribe to this conspiracy theory:

Event 1 - Peter Mandleson known to be friends with dodgy Russian billionaires.

Event 2 - George Osbourne holidays on yacht with same dodgy Russian billionaires.

Event 3 - Both major parties embarrassed by these sleazy dealings being made public and desperately need their friends in the media to bury the story with something even more sensational...

Event 4 - Despite having been broadcast over a week earlier, 'Brossachsgate' 'suddenly' becomes news. Please click here for a perfect illustration of exactly how such news becomes buried.

(I've just realised I slagged-off a perfectly decent comic actor, but posted a link to a show starring Chris Langham. Come back, Char, I'm losing it ...)

Meat to Please You

I'm reluctant to relay this particular bit of bilious bloggery. If I'm not careful, I'll serve-up a slice of sub-Clarkson anti-other, anti-difference, anti-youth, anti-feeling antilife... aintalife. The narrative arc of my story seems to have been moulded in middle-England, a small village on the outskirts of Mail-on-the-Wold. I know, I know... you get the picture ... get on with it. All I can say is that the following really did happen...

I'm reminded of this story because Char just made a delicious vegetable lasagne. It got me thinking that it was probably the first vegetarian dish I'd eaten for about a year. I can't quite remember if it was actually a new year's resolution, but I flirted with the idea of becoming a vegetarian. Whichever way you dress it up, slaughtering an animal just because you feel peckish isn't a particularly civilised thing to do. I was reading Scarlett Thomas' excellent novel Popco at the time, which contains incredibly convincing arguments for veganism, and I thought I might give vegetarianism a try as a first step.

I had one fear. I was terrified that if I did succeed, I might turn into a stereotypical, preachy, dogmatic vegetarian. I didn't want to be smug or superior. I just wanted to stop eating dead creatures.

Supportive as ever, Charlotte agreed to try the first non-meat eating week with me. As we glided around Tesco, (admittedly, quietly, fuelled by a vague sense of moral well-being), we filled our trolley with exotic fruit and vegetables, expensive tofu sausages and Linda McCartney vegeburgers. The value of the shopping added-up to £40 more than it would on a normal week. I'd imagine it must be the same feeling a smoker gets when they shell-out for nicoteen patches: 'this will work, I've spent a bloody fortune.'

Just before we got to the checkout, we realised that we'd already invited Char's brother, Charles to join us for Sunday dinner. We didn't think it was fair to impose our new-found veggyness on him, so we grabbed a lamb cutlet, and perched it on top of the veg mountain in our trolley. As such, the cutlet was the first item on the conveyor belt. Unfortunately, it leaked a tiny bit as the teenage assistant picked it up:

"Argh! That's disgusting. I'm covered in blood - do you realise I'm a vegetarian?"

As it left her lips, the word sounded so holy, so fucking righteous. I knew at that moment, hers wasn't a club I wanted to join. I couldn't have been more annoyed if she'd said "do you realise I'm a Christian?"

Of course, I was too cowardly to protest my innocence. And of course, the friendly checkout assistant didn't even notice that all of our subsequent purchases came from the ground, the tree or the Mull of Kintyre. I bit my lip, and loaded our bags-for-life. 

We ate and enjoyed all of the meals we cooked that week, but my fate was sealed. Someone (Bernard Matthews?) had sent me a message that day, and I returned to my old carnivorous ways the following week, killing for snacks.

I'd like to think I could try vegetarianism again sometime. If I do, I'll order online.

 

'Goofballs'

We brought Mista a 'Cat' christmas stocking. It contained 3 dreary plastic balls which have now lodged themselves securly underneath the radiator, a festive red and white mouse and some cat nip treats.

We fed him some of the cat nip chocolate and cat nip crunch balls. This had the effect of turning him into a rampaging monster with pupils the size of dinner plates!

I managed to capture the 'tail' end of one of his crazes on camera. Gaz calls these episodes being 'wacked up on goofballs'. He says that i don't help by sticking my hand in (as you will see in the clip). Please ignore the lack of light and any background TV noise, wierd TV watching going ahead.

Happy new year
Char x