New Year's Eve has been a bigger draw for me than Xmas for last few years. There is a sense of exciting romanticism that accompanies it, along with a feeling of universalism that few other events can really celebrate. It seems weird to me that there aren't more songs about celebrating the dawn of a new year and a symbolic fresh start for all. Those that I am aware of fail to match up to the lofty standards of the Xmas classics...
Still, there are plenty of other wonderful songs that can be listened to to ring in the New Year. As it seems to be an integral part of the New Year celebration, be it the dance mix at the party or the Jools Holland Hootenanny being watched from the sofa, I shall begin my personal review of 2011 with my top 10 tracks of the year.
Music
1. British Sea Power - Who's In Control?
2. Electric Six - French Bacon
3. Hurts - Sunday
4. The Streets - OMG
5. LMFAO - Party Rock Anthem
6. Maroon 5 feat. Christina Aguilera - Moves Like Jagger
7. Anastasia Vinnikova - I Love Belarus
8. Take That - The Flood
9. Tim McGraw & Gwyneth Paltrow - Me and Tennessee
10. Noah and the Whale - L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N
For yet another year I feel as though I have fallen away from my indie roots. Most of my experience of new music this year came from exposure to MOR radio in the form of Radio 2 and Bright FM at work. I don't think that it has been a very good year for music. Over Xmas I watched both the 2011 TOTP round-up and the 2009 edition, and 2009's 'highlights' were leagues ahead of this year. 2011 has also seen releases by some of my favourite bands (Art Brut and Radiohead most notably) that were very disappointing and remain unpurchased. Fortunately my two top dogs, BSP and E6 remained as reliable as ever. That's as pop-orientated a top 10 single tracks I've probably ever had to be honest, though also probably one of the most positive sounding ones (barring Hurts).
Film
1. Super 8
2. Black Swan
3. Attack the Block
4. Senna
5. Hobo With A Shotgun
I've not seen that many new films this year to be honest, being quite lax at making it out for the new releases. I could probably make a longer list of films I wanted to see but never got around to (I'll watch you one day, Tree of Life!) The top three films were all visually arresting and emotionally engaging, as was my biggest disappointment of the year, Drive. The difference here is that these three all managed to maintain a captivating narrative where Drive rambled onwards into ridiculous, incoherent, over-stylised irrelevance. Honourable mentions for Melancholia, one of the most powerful art-pieces I've seen in the cinema, and Moonbug, an invigorating documentary on a photographer's pursuit of astronauts.
Gigs
1. Amanda Palmer @ Concorde2
2. Final Fantasy: Distant Worlds @ Royal Albert Hall
3. British Sea Power @ Concorde2
I have played in a fair few gigs this year, as well as customarily attending a great deal. 2011 saw the live debut of the Red Diamond Dragon Club, performing several gigs with fluctuating success. It also saw the return of the Sneaky Frog and the Scoundrel and SmoothGay to the live arena. It was a shame not to be able to play more gigs, but such are the constraints that academia, geography and employment present. Hopefully 2012 will see some improvement there. I would recommend seeing Amanda Palmer live to anyone. She is one of the best pure entertainers I have had the pleasure of seeing. Everything she does conveys an enjoyment of her work and it is infectious. Lots to be learnt from that lady.
Books
I don't really keep up to date with books being released, and I didn't really do too much reading outside of uni texts. The best thing I read this year though, and now one of my favourite books ever, would have to be Dracula. The different narrative styles draw you into the world so completely, and the epistollary style gives the tale such dramatic and tense pacing. It is almost a complete masterpiece (the ending could be more exciting and drawn out I feel) and has certainly inspired the direction I would like to go with my astronaut pieces. Other interesting reads have been Linh Dinh's American Tatts, a collection of accessible but varied contemporary poetry, and Zamyatin's We, the novel that inspired 1984.
Achievements
It would be easy to go off on an angsty rant about the bad things that happened in 2011. Far better and more interesting to look at the things that went successfully. First year of part MA complete, boom. First performance with bands and as performance poet complete, boom. First league trophies for FC Kierkegaard in 5-a-side, boom. Formation of the 11-a-side team, Kemp Town FC, boom. Traversing of the West Highland Way and Great Glen Way, boom. First journey outside of Europe, boom. These are the things that stick in my mind when I look back at the good things that happened this past year. Without a doubt there was bad and unfortunate shizzle that took place this year but at the end of the day it's the good things that usually last. Yeah. Postivity an' shit.
New Year's Resolutions
- write more, try and do something creative at least once a day an' shit
- take more photos, events should be documented more thoroughly an' shit
- keep a more comprehensive record of books and films read and watched an' shit
- be brave an' shit
- maintain correspondances an' shit
- review a cooked veggie breakfast once a week
That's probably enough to be getting on with. It's all about being active an' shit.
Happy New Year!
"Oh, friend John, it is a strange world, a sad world, a world full of miseries, and woes, and troubles. And yet when King Laugh come, he make them all dance to the tune he play."
Saturday 31 December 2011
Dream Diary
Well gosh darn haven't I been slack at posting on here this month. Ahead of my review of 2011, I would like to present a week-long dream diary I managed to somehow keep a month or so ago. It was a challenge forcing myself to get writing at 6am each morning, but the way the dreams revealed themselves through writing was an exciting experience and one that I would recommend other people try and seek out. Please be aware that I'm not the most cogent writer and such ungodly hours.
Friday 18th November
There was an all-night film event. At a bar with a group of people (Neville's birthday crowd). Having dinner, sitting opposite Hopkinson, she keeps leaving for periods of time and then returning. On way out (closing time) we are all leaving and a tall androgynous woman with slick moustache walks past. Both her and Hopkinson are dressed as 1920s private eyes. Recognising this, Hopkinson says something like a film line about parting lovers, they pretend to go to kiss before the androgyne attempts to go for the real thing. I look away, not wishing to see if its reciprocated and appear saddened in front of everyone. THEN I am in a cornershop, dressed messily, holding a plastic axe. Walsh and McEvoy enter and talk about the films they saw. Zombie invasions are discussed. THEN I am playing football away from the crowd on a hillside, with Huzar and Hertogs (jumpers for goalposts). Using the goal from the other side are an overweight Mr. Brooks plus another. Me and Huzar chat whilst passing and scoring. Mr. Brooks is unhappy about having to retrieve the ball if it comes through to our side too far.
(There were definitely other factors but by the time I'd got this book I'd forgotten them)
Monday 21st November
The first part involved an 11-a-side game against Coach House. We owned them in the 1st half, changed things about in the 2nd but were still pwning but less so (Bidwell was playing for us). We went off for a team talk in the changing rooms and I had a shepherd's crook. Then next bit I remember was parachuting after attempting some rock-climbing as Luther Vandross. I fell off so parachuted down into a field near some rich houses in Scotland. Once in field I struggled to find a way out (in a valley you see) so snuck around inside the houses (almost spied on a woman in a bath) before finding a road with heavy congestion, making it difficult to follow. Suddenly Kelly was there. We ended up going inside a mansion. It suddenly hits me that this is all in America now, and there was an earlier bit to the dream pre-football that was a dinner party at Clifford's house. She was having a relationship with another woman. There were nibbles. Back to the mansion. It was difficult to navigate through the mansion which was labyrinthine, and many were trying to find the set path. There were even bits of pipe suspended over sewage water that needed traversing. Walsh (now there) appeared and stripped to Speedos before jumping in to search for a lever. It was just like the canal, he said. I find my way into a furnished room with sofa and bookshelf. I sit on the sofa with Kelly and look at some Top Trumps sets on the bookshelf. The editions are comics and great American novels (including Ralph Waldo Emerson). Then Han Ho Lam and Agrawal join us. Then some girls come, offering tequila slammers. The others accept but I just ask for the two slices of lemon. Girls sit on Kelly and Agrawal's laps and more are going to come, they say. THEN I am in my bed at 7B Wentworth Street, 2.30am-ish, post-party. My phone is out of battery so I can't call my parents. I hear Hertogs enter, drunk, and although B.Huzar and Neville try to tell him to be quiet he says in an Admiral Ackbar voice that people shouldn't be in bed at this hour.
Tuesday 22nd November - fragments
- I told Kemp Town FC KO for a match in Worthing was 3pm instead of 1pm. Trevor called up, angry
- started going out with Lowe again
- went to Han Ho Lam's house; saw Han Ho Lam and his housemate in an armchair, then Han Ho Lam, someone and Burke on a sofa
- went on a bus, was standing near the back, someone was about to get off so I was readying myself to take their seat
Sunday 20th November - retrospect
In large house with wooden flooring. In my large wooden bedroom. Newman is visiting. Hopkinson knocks on the door; she is merry and has two puppets in the style of Bubbaloo Birds. We chat awhile, all the time I want Newman to go - eventually she does.
Wednesday 23rd November
I am a prefect at Ash Manor. I got to leave early and so set off on a bus to the nearest bus stop so I can catch an earlier bus home. I overshoot and have to walk back from Tongham. Lots of people are at the bus stop now, including B. Huzar. After witnessing some mini-Lemon vans going, a B&H City bus comes. At the bus stop we play a game on a PS w/ TV which is like Resident Evil meets Snake Eater. T. Huzar and Woodhouse are very discussive about it. Woodhouse has forgotten all the patterns in it he used to know. There is one bit with a zombie leech thing that attaches itself to your head, another bit with a naked woman negotiating a trap-filled swamp. Suddenly we're in a haunted house pursuing ghosts for a while (in the style of a video game). The main one is the Captain who keeps teleporting. We almost find him. Standing in a corner with my friends I pretend to get scared and drop my rapier which rolls and falls into a downstairs room. Voices call up saying, "what's going on?" Downstairs is an untidy flat containing Wilkinson and Carrick in pyjamas asleep/reading. They invite us down for tea.
Thursday 24th November
Huzar wants to get a bottle of Courvoisier at the Duke of York's but fortunately I can get money off. Harrison is pleased. Fournier points out that it is half-price with electronic purchases/student discount.
Friday 25th November
Starts off with some form of time-travelling bit ? set in Scotland. We are in the past in a very nice house, belonging to Silver and Combes (I think). We must travel to the house in the present (can't remember why) so we do, which is a much smaller flat (still nice) in an iffy area in Glasgow. We make it there and then come morning we must travel to the train station so King must lead me and anonymous person out of a block of flats that has most of its exits cut off. We eventually get out and take a short walk across town (now Edinburgh) in order to get towards station. I get discombobulated, thinking we're at one end of Park Gardens (a street) when we're at the other. THEN we're playing football. There may have been some 5-a-side. We are preparing for 11-a-side cup game against we discover to be Ferguson's! I jokingly attempt a Cruyff turn to get past Kavanagh which fails. THEN in a house preparing for a gig. Mr. and Mrs. Huzar are present. We are practicing for a gig downstairs in a courtyard. Something happens which leads to a traditional smoking of cigars, but as me and Huzar are having to sleep in that room later I tell everyone to stop. We are practicing. D. Hertogs discusses with L. Hertogs and others essential foods we need for lunch - cheese, tomatoes, bread etc. I distribute information about the strike out the window whilst Huzar plays in another band down below. Millar notices me do this (I also think I throw out a gummy lizard thing of great relevance which I've forgotten now). I also attempt to throw some strike literature into Combes' next door neighbours but it got stuck in the gutter. Combes shows me a trophy she's won for teaching. Me, Huzar, Spottiswoode and Sykes practice jamming, improvising lyrics. Huzar improvises first. Then it is my turn, about to start but then Hopkinson comes in and commandeers the snare drum and mic. She has a new (!) tattoo on her forearm; a childish drawing of herself wearing a hoodie with her first name written on it. She says that the drawing is wearing my hoodie. My hoodie is green though, whereas this one is pink. It turns out that she is colour-blind.
I think I will endeavour to get back to recording dreams in the new year. I may need to make my bedroom warmer though, as presently the main struggle is the battle against the cold.
Friday 18th November
There was an all-night film event. At a bar with a group of people (Neville's birthday crowd). Having dinner, sitting opposite Hopkinson, she keeps leaving for periods of time and then returning. On way out (closing time) we are all leaving and a tall androgynous woman with slick moustache walks past. Both her and Hopkinson are dressed as 1920s private eyes. Recognising this, Hopkinson says something like a film line about parting lovers, they pretend to go to kiss before the androgyne attempts to go for the real thing. I look away, not wishing to see if its reciprocated and appear saddened in front of everyone. THEN I am in a cornershop, dressed messily, holding a plastic axe. Walsh and McEvoy enter and talk about the films they saw. Zombie invasions are discussed. THEN I am playing football away from the crowd on a hillside, with Huzar and Hertogs (jumpers for goalposts). Using the goal from the other side are an overweight Mr. Brooks plus another. Me and Huzar chat whilst passing and scoring. Mr. Brooks is unhappy about having to retrieve the ball if it comes through to our side too far.
(There were definitely other factors but by the time I'd got this book I'd forgotten them)
Monday 21st November
The first part involved an 11-a-side game against Coach House. We owned them in the 1st half, changed things about in the 2nd but were still pwning but less so (Bidwell was playing for us). We went off for a team talk in the changing rooms and I had a shepherd's crook. Then next bit I remember was parachuting after attempting some rock-climbing as Luther Vandross. I fell off so parachuted down into a field near some rich houses in Scotland. Once in field I struggled to find a way out (in a valley you see) so snuck around inside the houses (almost spied on a woman in a bath) before finding a road with heavy congestion, making it difficult to follow. Suddenly Kelly was there. We ended up going inside a mansion. It suddenly hits me that this is all in America now, and there was an earlier bit to the dream pre-football that was a dinner party at Clifford's house. She was having a relationship with another woman. There were nibbles. Back to the mansion. It was difficult to navigate through the mansion which was labyrinthine, and many were trying to find the set path. There were even bits of pipe suspended over sewage water that needed traversing. Walsh (now there) appeared and stripped to Speedos before jumping in to search for a lever. It was just like the canal, he said. I find my way into a furnished room with sofa and bookshelf. I sit on the sofa with Kelly and look at some Top Trumps sets on the bookshelf. The editions are comics and great American novels (including Ralph Waldo Emerson). Then Han Ho Lam and Agrawal join us. Then some girls come, offering tequila slammers. The others accept but I just ask for the two slices of lemon. Girls sit on Kelly and Agrawal's laps and more are going to come, they say. THEN I am in my bed at 7B Wentworth Street, 2.30am-ish, post-party. My phone is out of battery so I can't call my parents. I hear Hertogs enter, drunk, and although B.Huzar and Neville try to tell him to be quiet he says in an Admiral Ackbar voice that people shouldn't be in bed at this hour.
Tuesday 22nd November - fragments
- I told Kemp Town FC KO for a match in Worthing was 3pm instead of 1pm. Trevor called up, angry
- started going out with Lowe again
- went to Han Ho Lam's house; saw Han Ho Lam and his housemate in an armchair, then Han Ho Lam, someone and Burke on a sofa
- went on a bus, was standing near the back, someone was about to get off so I was readying myself to take their seat
Sunday 20th November - retrospect
In large house with wooden flooring. In my large wooden bedroom. Newman is visiting. Hopkinson knocks on the door; she is merry and has two puppets in the style of Bubbaloo Birds. We chat awhile, all the time I want Newman to go - eventually she does.
Wednesday 23rd November
I am a prefect at Ash Manor. I got to leave early and so set off on a bus to the nearest bus stop so I can catch an earlier bus home. I overshoot and have to walk back from Tongham. Lots of people are at the bus stop now, including B. Huzar. After witnessing some mini-Lemon vans going, a B&H City bus comes. At the bus stop we play a game on a PS w/ TV which is like Resident Evil meets Snake Eater. T. Huzar and Woodhouse are very discussive about it. Woodhouse has forgotten all the patterns in it he used to know. There is one bit with a zombie leech thing that attaches itself to your head, another bit with a naked woman negotiating a trap-filled swamp. Suddenly we're in a haunted house pursuing ghosts for a while (in the style of a video game). The main one is the Captain who keeps teleporting. We almost find him. Standing in a corner with my friends I pretend to get scared and drop my rapier which rolls and falls into a downstairs room. Voices call up saying, "what's going on?" Downstairs is an untidy flat containing Wilkinson and Carrick in pyjamas asleep/reading. They invite us down for tea.
Thursday 24th November
Huzar wants to get a bottle of Courvoisier at the Duke of York's but fortunately I can get money off. Harrison is pleased. Fournier points out that it is half-price with electronic purchases/student discount.
Friday 25th November
Starts off with some form of time-travelling bit ? set in Scotland. We are in the past in a very nice house, belonging to Silver and Combes (I think). We must travel to the house in the present (can't remember why) so we do, which is a much smaller flat (still nice) in an iffy area in Glasgow. We make it there and then come morning we must travel to the train station so King must lead me and anonymous person out of a block of flats that has most of its exits cut off. We eventually get out and take a short walk across town (now Edinburgh) in order to get towards station. I get discombobulated, thinking we're at one end of Park Gardens (a street) when we're at the other. THEN we're playing football. There may have been some 5-a-side. We are preparing for 11-a-side cup game against we discover to be Ferguson's! I jokingly attempt a Cruyff turn to get past Kavanagh which fails. THEN in a house preparing for a gig. Mr. and Mrs. Huzar are present. We are practicing for a gig downstairs in a courtyard. Something happens which leads to a traditional smoking of cigars, but as me and Huzar are having to sleep in that room later I tell everyone to stop. We are practicing. D. Hertogs discusses with L. Hertogs and others essential foods we need for lunch - cheese, tomatoes, bread etc. I distribute information about the strike out the window whilst Huzar plays in another band down below. Millar notices me do this (I also think I throw out a gummy lizard thing of great relevance which I've forgotten now). I also attempt to throw some strike literature into Combes' next door neighbours but it got stuck in the gutter. Combes shows me a trophy she's won for teaching. Me, Huzar, Spottiswoode and Sykes practice jamming, improvising lyrics. Huzar improvises first. Then it is my turn, about to start but then Hopkinson comes in and commandeers the snare drum and mic. She has a new (!) tattoo on her forearm; a childish drawing of herself wearing a hoodie with her first name written on it. She says that the drawing is wearing my hoodie. My hoodie is green though, whereas this one is pink. It turns out that she is colour-blind.
I think I will endeavour to get back to recording dreams in the new year. I may need to make my bedroom warmer though, as presently the main struggle is the battle against the cold.
Sunday 13 November 2011
Still thinking about astronauts - a fragmentary draft of sorts
Caelanaut black-box transmission MMXI
i looked and looked but didn't see God/expelled forth upon gilded chariot/i heard angels singing as i ascended into the heavens/sent with a thankyou message to pass on to prometheus/suspended in the subterranean/there is now a celestial frost binding my pinions/a single thread dangling from a burnt web/the hunger/oh how starved i have become so that i must chew upon my umbilicus/i looked and looked but didn't see God/i searched long and hard for old constellations in the new confusion/i rapped my own knuckles/the firmament is broken/who set this canopic jar overflowing with all the fears and loathings of the priest/i am halted in pouring rust into the abysmal gutter/i choke upon feeling/i can hear the tone of a lyre its notes reverberate echoing off distant worlds and rebounding off spheres/i can hear the drums this tattoo and that tattoo cascade as a battery upon my senses/they are words unheard and unwritten/the syntax pierces my wrists and feet/i clasp these words to my breast but they slip through my fingers/the grains scatter to the vacuum/oh how light is worn like a crown/how fiery burns the truth/its tongue is silent as smoke and now i am fluent/i have drenched the banner of my flesh in its outburst/i wave and i scream and still i hear nothing but song see nothing but particles of dance/dust celebrates/waste has found its legs/the sarcophagus rotates in the penumbra/i can see my mother and my father but i can no longer see God/time has been made redundant/the ladder has been kicked away/i have found bad medicine in my locker/why was i prescribed these tablets/the surface of the world is like crushed paracetemol/i hear the angels singing again/alone they send me tales of love and myself/the last man mobile oubliette/frozen and encircled by history/the tigers goad me/go back they cry/they send me away but with a message from prometheus/the proto-tiger/they saw the ashes coming/my orbits are filled with dust but my ears are filled with the music of their howling/
End transmission.
End transmission.
Saturday 5 November 2011
Old constellations in the new confusion
Friends and family gathered at a hangar in the car park of Moscow's Institute for Medical and Biological Problems to welcome back the six-man crew, breaking into applause as they emerged one by one.
Blue jumpsuits hung baggily from the men's thinned frames and sagged around their skeletal wrists as they waved hello to the friends and family who awaited their "return to Earth".
The unprecedented experiment saw the six men locked up in June 2010 as Russia and the European Space Agency sought to come as close as possible to recreating the long, isolated voyage to the red planet. The crew was free to communicate with "mission control", as well as with family and friends – but with 20-minute gaps to recreate conditions in space. Their physical and psychological health was closely monitored, and they were put through stress tests such as a total communication blackout.
The crew has now been taken to a Moscow hospital for a three-day quarantine. They will be shown to the public at a press conference on Tuesday. Psychologists are hoping the men will easily reintegrate into society, and doctors will check that their immune systems haven't been compromised after 18 months "away".
But seen from out here everything seems different. Time bends. Space is boundless. It squashes a man's ego. I feel lonely.
Little information has been released about the psychological effects of space travel, both on the astronauts and the public at large. Over the years NASA spokesmen have even denied that the astronauts dream at all during their space flights. But it is clear from the subsequently troubled careers of many of the astronauts (Armstrong, probably the only man for whom the 20th century will be remembered 50,000 years from now, refuses to discuss the moon landing) that they suffered severe psychological damage. What did they dream about, how were their imaginations affected, their emotions and need for privacy, their perception of time and death?
The Russian astronaut Col. Komarov was the first man to die in space, though earlier fatalities have been rumoured. Komarov is reported to have panicked when his space-craft began to tumble uncontrollably, but the transcripts of his final transmissions have never been released.
The last man, alone with God.
During the Apollo flights I half-hoped that one of the spacecraft would return with an extra crew-man on board, wholly accepted by the others, who would shield him from the prying world. Watching the astronauts being interviewed together, one almost senses that they constitute a secret fraternity, and may be guarding some vital insight into the nature of time and space which it would be pointless to reveal to the rest of us. Unless the space programme resumes, the secret may die with them.
And is it getting easy not to care
Despite the many rings around your name
It isn’t funny and it isn’t fair
You’ve travelled all this way and it’s the same
But you are, my love, the astronaut
Flying in the face of science
I will gladly stay an afterthought
Just bring back some nice reminders
Each of the six also each received bouquets of flowers from young Russian women upon emerging. It was their first sight of a woman for 18 months.
Russian scientists chose an all-male crew after an attempt at a similar experiment in 2000 went horribly wrong when a Russian astronaut tried to forcibly french kiss Canadian Judith Lapierre. Scientists have yet to report any conflicts inside Mars500.
Imagine me needing someone. Back on Earth I never did. Oh, there were women. Lots of women. Lots of love-making but no love. You see, that was the kind of world we'd made. So I left, because there was no one to hold me there.
I looked and looked but I didn't see God.
Blue jumpsuits hung baggily from the men's thinned frames and sagged around their skeletal wrists as they waved hello to the friends and family who awaited their "return to Earth".
The unprecedented experiment saw the six men locked up in June 2010 as Russia and the European Space Agency sought to come as close as possible to recreating the long, isolated voyage to the red planet. The crew was free to communicate with "mission control", as well as with family and friends – but with 20-minute gaps to recreate conditions in space. Their physical and psychological health was closely monitored, and they were put through stress tests such as a total communication blackout.
The crew has now been taken to a Moscow hospital for a three-day quarantine. They will be shown to the public at a press conference on Tuesday. Psychologists are hoping the men will easily reintegrate into society, and doctors will check that their immune systems haven't been compromised after 18 months "away".
But seen from out here everything seems different. Time bends. Space is boundless. It squashes a man's ego. I feel lonely.
Little information has been released about the psychological effects of space travel, both on the astronauts and the public at large. Over the years NASA spokesmen have even denied that the astronauts dream at all during their space flights. But it is clear from the subsequently troubled careers of many of the astronauts (Armstrong, probably the only man for whom the 20th century will be remembered 50,000 years from now, refuses to discuss the moon landing) that they suffered severe psychological damage. What did they dream about, how were their imaginations affected, their emotions and need for privacy, their perception of time and death?
The Russian astronaut Col. Komarov was the first man to die in space, though earlier fatalities have been rumoured. Komarov is reported to have panicked when his space-craft began to tumble uncontrollably, but the transcripts of his final transmissions have never been released.
The last man, alone with God.
During the Apollo flights I half-hoped that one of the spacecraft would return with an extra crew-man on board, wholly accepted by the others, who would shield him from the prying world. Watching the astronauts being interviewed together, one almost senses that they constitute a secret fraternity, and may be guarding some vital insight into the nature of time and space which it would be pointless to reveal to the rest of us. Unless the space programme resumes, the secret may die with them.
And is it getting easy not to care
Despite the many rings around your name
It isn’t funny and it isn’t fair
You’ve travelled all this way and it’s the same
But you are, my love, the astronaut
Flying in the face of science
I will gladly stay an afterthought
Just bring back some nice reminders
Each of the six also each received bouquets of flowers from young Russian women upon emerging. It was their first sight of a woman for 18 months.
Russian scientists chose an all-male crew after an attempt at a similar experiment in 2000 went horribly wrong when a Russian astronaut tried to forcibly french kiss Canadian Judith Lapierre. Scientists have yet to report any conflicts inside Mars500.
Imagine me needing someone. Back on Earth I never did. Oh, there were women. Lots of women. Lots of love-making but no love. You see, that was the kind of world we'd made. So I left, because there was no one to hold me there.
I looked and looked but I didn't see God.
Monday 10 October 2011
Vic Bettany.
Vic Bettany.
b. 1948 – d. 2011
When I entered the public house of mourning through the back door, a jackdaw enshrouded in fog cawed discordantly, clashing with the strains of Amazing Grace floating out from inside. Now someone stirs the jukebox into life and the Stereophonics immediately begin to suffocate the piano's elegy.
They'd all walked in suited and booted, shiny and black like ravens' beaks awaiting worms from the soil. Dull-eyed boys in falsely buttoned waistcoats began handing out crudités from a silver dish to the ensemble, greedily snatched at by fat hands. It seemed as though little expense had been spared in catering for this affair.
Who was Vic Bettany? He never existed in my mind. My job was simply to serve the double vodkas and coke respectfully. People will be disgruntled when the complimentary food and drink run out, just like at a wedding reception or parents' evening or mandatory training event. The plan was for everyone to be too drunk to care by this point, but it's hard to say whether this will happen. The crowd could be the kind that are easily disgruntled. I'd best just smile and carry on serving.
Despite this, I'm telling myself not to smile too much. He could have been a wife-beater or a child molester or a rapist or an abuser of animals for all I know. I have to pay my respects though. Perhaps. No-one would be any the wiser if I decided to curse and spit on his grave behind the bar. No-one's looking except for poor old Vic up in Heaven. Or down in Hell. If angels can look down on us from Heaven can demons look up from Hell?
There are lots of people here. Did all of them know Vic Bettany? Do all of them know Vic Bettany? It doesn't seem as though anyone really cares right now. They're all immersed in conversation with each other about their plans, their weekends, their jobs, their children, their Xmas proposals. The hard part is out of the way, on with the drinks.
It's what he would have wanted, for everyone to have a good time. No one paying any attention to his infidelities, foibles or peccadilloes. They're more concerned with hiding their own. Vic Bettany's face has disappeared from their minds and now just a dull stone, sterile urn, or blank casket remains. There's nothing left to exhume the truth from.
Two rowdies from a pub further up the road burst in, ordering shooters, chasers and bombs in an aggressive manner. It's not long before I've lost them in the pre-assembled sea of violence; a whole crowd united in killing Vic Bettany. There are children here too, but no obvious parental figure to anchor them to the deceased. Maybe they're just friends of friends, or maybe they were already here, like me. Do they have a role to perform, or are they just passing through like Vic?
I'm suddenly unsure if Vic is male or female. Vicarious Bettany? Vicious Bettany? Vicissitude Bettany? Victim Bettany? Perhaps I should raise a glass myself; whatever he or she was is now just a name carved onto the faces of these people and their pasts. Time will erode the edges; we must continue to run our fingers like needles through the grooves or else what is it all for? There has to be more to it than a free lunch and unnecessary small talk.
b. 1948 – d. 2011
When I entered the public house of mourning through the back door, a jackdaw enshrouded in fog cawed discordantly, clashing with the strains of Amazing Grace floating out from inside. Now someone stirs the jukebox into life and the Stereophonics immediately begin to suffocate the piano's elegy.
They'd all walked in suited and booted, shiny and black like ravens' beaks awaiting worms from the soil. Dull-eyed boys in falsely buttoned waistcoats began handing out crudités from a silver dish to the ensemble, greedily snatched at by fat hands. It seemed as though little expense had been spared in catering for this affair.
Who was Vic Bettany? He never existed in my mind. My job was simply to serve the double vodkas and coke respectfully. People will be disgruntled when the complimentary food and drink run out, just like at a wedding reception or parents' evening or mandatory training event. The plan was for everyone to be too drunk to care by this point, but it's hard to say whether this will happen. The crowd could be the kind that are easily disgruntled. I'd best just smile and carry on serving.
Despite this, I'm telling myself not to smile too much. He could have been a wife-beater or a child molester or a rapist or an abuser of animals for all I know. I have to pay my respects though. Perhaps. No-one would be any the wiser if I decided to curse and spit on his grave behind the bar. No-one's looking except for poor old Vic up in Heaven. Or down in Hell. If angels can look down on us from Heaven can demons look up from Hell?
There are lots of people here. Did all of them know Vic Bettany? Do all of them know Vic Bettany? It doesn't seem as though anyone really cares right now. They're all immersed in conversation with each other about their plans, their weekends, their jobs, their children, their Xmas proposals. The hard part is out of the way, on with the drinks.
It's what he would have wanted, for everyone to have a good time. No one paying any attention to his infidelities, foibles or peccadilloes. They're more concerned with hiding their own. Vic Bettany's face has disappeared from their minds and now just a dull stone, sterile urn, or blank casket remains. There's nothing left to exhume the truth from.
Two rowdies from a pub further up the road burst in, ordering shooters, chasers and bombs in an aggressive manner. It's not long before I've lost them in the pre-assembled sea of violence; a whole crowd united in killing Vic Bettany. There are children here too, but no obvious parental figure to anchor them to the deceased. Maybe they're just friends of friends, or maybe they were already here, like me. Do they have a role to perform, or are they just passing through like Vic?
I'm suddenly unsure if Vic is male or female. Vicarious Bettany? Vicious Bettany? Vicissitude Bettany? Victim Bettany? Perhaps I should raise a glass myself; whatever he or she was is now just a name carved onto the faces of these people and their pasts. Time will erode the edges; we must continue to run our fingers like needles through the grooves or else what is it all for? There has to be more to it than a free lunch and unnecessary small talk.
Corvus Corax
In recent years, biologists have recognized that birds engage in play. Juvenile Common Ravens are among the most playful of bird species. They have been observed to slide down snowbanks, apparently purely for fun. They even engage in games with other species, such as playing catch-me-if-you-can with wolves and dogs. Common Ravens are known for spectacular aerobatic displays, such as flying in loops or interlocking talons with each other in flight. They are also one of only a few species who make their own toys. They have been observed breaking off twigs to play with socially.
Saturday 8 October 2011
Notes on the New Art Exhibition - draft1
The signature is worth more than the other 99% of the piece.
The cost ratio of signature to rest of piece is 99:1.
The exhibition in the gallery is comprised of seven sculptures, each facing into the centre of the room.
Eyes are drawn to the prices, situated below the name of the sculptor and the title of the piece in a font equally sized.
The display says that each piece represents a different facet of human emotion.
There is more feeling in the small wooden bench in the centre of the room which manages to face all the pieces simultaneously.
If eyes were drawn on the sculptures they in turn would see the bench.
The emotional pieces are inspired by acts of vandalism on public property and postcards can be purchased at the gift shop so that visitors can share their experiences with friends and colleagues.
The postcard stand was knocked over once by a delinquent exiting through the gift shop, who was then dealt with appropriately by security.
Art is taught frequently in prisons as it is seen as both practical and therapeutic.
99% of the general population do not work as artists.
There are many benches in prisons, some of which have been vandalised.
An artist could vandalise public property by writing their name on it without permission.
The item could then be sold at an extensively marked up price.
The prized tag is the price tag.
How many artists are imprisoned?
What percentage of the prison population are artists?
What percentage of the general population are prisoners?
The cost ratio of signature to rest of piece is 99:1.
The exhibition in the gallery is comprised of seven sculptures, each facing into the centre of the room.
Eyes are drawn to the prices, situated below the name of the sculptor and the title of the piece in a font equally sized.
The display says that each piece represents a different facet of human emotion.
There is more feeling in the small wooden bench in the centre of the room which manages to face all the pieces simultaneously.
If eyes were drawn on the sculptures they in turn would see the bench.
The emotional pieces are inspired by acts of vandalism on public property and postcards can be purchased at the gift shop so that visitors can share their experiences with friends and colleagues.
The postcard stand was knocked over once by a delinquent exiting through the gift shop, who was then dealt with appropriately by security.
Art is taught frequently in prisons as it is seen as both practical and therapeutic.
99% of the general population do not work as artists.
There are many benches in prisons, some of which have been vandalised.
An artist could vandalise public property by writing their name on it without permission.
The item could then be sold at an extensively marked up price.
The prized tag is the price tag.
How many artists are imprisoned?
What percentage of the prison population are artists?
What percentage of the general population are prisoners?
Thursday 6 October 2011
Romance in 2011, or, Messages from Granulated Venus
Angel Face
Best Mate
Pamper Me
Cool Kid
I Spy
Spoil Me
Dream Girl
Great Guy
Love You
Sweet Heart
Love You
Grow Up
Lush Lips
Best Mate
Pamper Me
Cool Kid
I Spy
Spoil Me
Dream Girl
Great Guy
Love You
Sweet Heart
Love You
Grow Up
Lush Lips
Thursday 22 September 2011
WPTDITB? draften eins
That's the question I'm going to press them, find the answer instead of second guessing them
What possessed them? Who expressed that they should take our canine and repress them
That's the lesson, have you heard it? It's written down but badly worded
Statements blurted are barely lucid, yet scant details are fairly lurid
Stand up, testify what you did, dumbstruck caught up acting stupid
A cargo plane will help you move it, take your will power and reduce it
Vampire corp is playing Cupid, tyrannosaurus corpses are putrid
They're dressed up now, suited and booted, prejudices unfairly rooted?
I don't care about the cover up. I just want a dog to show some love
To throw sticks with and take for walks, a dog that listens every time I talk
You take that away from me right now and I can't see how we can turn it round
There's the sound of tears hitting the ground like infirm ants on a burial mound
I see evidence piled up around, it's lack of witness leaves me dumbfounded
They've got the anchorman surrounded, the dogsbodies take the horn and sound it
The noise it makes, you'll never mask it, not even with a magician's casket
So there's the question, I'm going to ask it; tell me who put the dog in the basket?
Tell a dog stories just to shock it, with a plot that's too priapic
Well I don't care how big my cock is, as long as I've got a band to rock with
It's definitely time to stop it, leave your bad manners in your pocket
I see your advance and block it, disconnect the chair from socket
I can tell you don't want me to like it, you spoil the ending like a psychic
A Keyser Söze/Rosebud hybrid, take that pleasure and deny it
Just when we had got excited, you pour the petrol and ignite it
Fire and noises get dogs frightened, easy then to let the purse strings tighten
Shocking doctors deal in violence, advocated by a silence
No one here designates the drivers and so our protest is unlicensed
Disappearing all the writers, like the dogs they once were priceless
Dipping toes into the fight test, make sure your bruises are quietest
Hide a book under your floorboards, keep it from your sons and daughters
Turn your sofa into a fortress and fade away to rigour mortis
Anaesthetise with holy waters, share your wafer with the paupers
I can't quite tell just what the cause is so I listen to feline reporters
When Milton Friedman told you Santa was nothing more than a lie
The next day Xmas budget plummets and there's no money left for mince pies
This may seem like a trivial example but that's a claim I must deny
Because this foxy boxing is part of a doctrine that takes our lives from under our eyes
What possessed them? Who expressed that they should take our canine and repress them
That's the lesson, have you heard it? It's written down but badly worded
Statements blurted are barely lucid, yet scant details are fairly lurid
Stand up, testify what you did, dumbstruck caught up acting stupid
A cargo plane will help you move it, take your will power and reduce it
Vampire corp is playing Cupid, tyrannosaurus corpses are putrid
They're dressed up now, suited and booted, prejudices unfairly rooted?
I don't care about the cover up. I just want a dog to show some love
To throw sticks with and take for walks, a dog that listens every time I talk
You take that away from me right now and I can't see how we can turn it round
There's the sound of tears hitting the ground like infirm ants on a burial mound
I see evidence piled up around, it's lack of witness leaves me dumbfounded
They've got the anchorman surrounded, the dogsbodies take the horn and sound it
The noise it makes, you'll never mask it, not even with a magician's casket
So there's the question, I'm going to ask it; tell me who put the dog in the basket?
Tell a dog stories just to shock it, with a plot that's too priapic
Well I don't care how big my cock is, as long as I've got a band to rock with
It's definitely time to stop it, leave your bad manners in your pocket
I see your advance and block it, disconnect the chair from socket
I can tell you don't want me to like it, you spoil the ending like a psychic
A Keyser Söze/Rosebud hybrid, take that pleasure and deny it
Just when we had got excited, you pour the petrol and ignite it
Fire and noises get dogs frightened, easy then to let the purse strings tighten
Shocking doctors deal in violence, advocated by a silence
No one here designates the drivers and so our protest is unlicensed
Disappearing all the writers, like the dogs they once were priceless
Dipping toes into the fight test, make sure your bruises are quietest
Hide a book under your floorboards, keep it from your sons and daughters
Turn your sofa into a fortress and fade away to rigour mortis
Anaesthetise with holy waters, share your wafer with the paupers
I can't quite tell just what the cause is so I listen to feline reporters
When Milton Friedman told you Santa was nothing more than a lie
The next day Xmas budget plummets and there's no money left for mince pies
This may seem like a trivial example but that's a claim I must deny
Because this foxy boxing is part of a doctrine that takes our lives from under our eyes
Monday 19 September 2011
A record collection reduced to a mixtape
One of my most erstwhile colleagues, Sharon, is soon to be heading off on a trip of a lifetime to Barbados. It has been something she has dreamed about since she was a wee lass and now she is only half a week away from jetting off. Understandably she is quite excited and as her final day at work draws nearer her excitement becomes more palpable.
We have a CD player in our office. We are very lucky in this respect; many similar offices are fortunate to have a radio to listen to. At first I tried experimenting by introducing Sharon to some of my favourite artists that would provide a comfortable ambience, such as Arcade Fire and British Sea Power. Disappointingly, these were not received with the enthusiasm I was hoping for, and after Franz Ferdinand's cold reception from several visitors to the office (what is so offensive about them!?) I decided to try a different tack. It's nice to give the Now albums an airing again.
Anyhoo, I was back at my parent's house two weekends ago in order to celebrate my mother's birthday and to bid a fond farewell to my darling brother who is currently in the land down under for a year of thrills, spills and unfettered existence. Fingers crossed for him. Now, I have left several CDs behind at the house, including a Best of Bob Marley which I was excited about finding as its Caribbean flavours would provide an apt soundtrack to Sharon's last few days of work. Unfortunately I had planned to get a train back to Brighton the same day as I travelled up, and once I was offered a lift back from Ally I was always going to be staying the night. Minus glasses and contact lenses. The gormless fumbling the next morning unsurprisingly did not yield the results I was after, and I made my way back to Brighton with stack of CDs that contained everything BUT reggae.
At least that is what I though initially. Once I had gotten back to Brighton and was able to see again I found that I had picked up a couple of old mix CDs that I had been given many moons ago. One of these had Police and Thieves by Junior Murvin on it, amongst other exciting artists that I never normally listen to, such as the Velvet Underground, Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. Thanks Maya! This CD provided quite a lot of enjoyment at work. There were also a couple from Steve that were a little less exciting, not surprising as our music tastes are so similar, but there were some legendary gems in there, including this one:
Sharon has also brought in a couple of Now albums herself. She even has the most recent one in the series! As someone whose Now collection tailed off around 2002, this was an intriguing prospect. A chance to see what is considered to be upper echelon pop in this day and age. The sad fact of this encounter though was that I only knew a handful of the 40 or so tracks on there. As someone who once prided himself as an aficionado of contemporary music, this was quite an eye-opener.
Ok, so Now albums aren't exactly a barometer of what is hot and not at the moment (although Party Rock Anthem is most definitely in the former category), but it did draw my attention to the fact that my music tastes are rooted in the mid-Noughties, and that I've not really deviated from the bands I came to know and love then since I've left Exeter. There is most definitely more to be heard out there. The musical world is much larger than British Sea Power, Paul Anka and LMFAO. Most of the stuff they play in Resident Records for one thing.
The mix CDs were a light-bulb flashing just above my head. What better way to find out about new music (both unheard and contemporary) than through mix CDs? If I could get several people to kindly make me mix CDs I should be able to expand my musical knowledge exponentially! It is also quite an exciting project to make a mix CD, so I daresay other people would benefit from this idea. So, without further ado, here is the proposal:
I WANT YOU TO MAKE ME A MIX CD
In an ideal world the mix CD would be several things:
- containing music I've not experienced before
- containing music I've experienced before but may not possess
- containing the odd classic I've played countless times
- cogent and coherent
- concise, so as to promote listening to it as a whole
- beautifully presented
This is quite a big ask, but I promise that I will provide anyone who makes me a mix CD with one in return, as well as possibly some biscuits. And if there's lots then the person that makes the best one can have a carrot cake. I've never made a carrot cake before, so this winning mix CD will have to be pretty damn inspiring. And preferably contain one track which is a recipe for said cake.
Sharon embarks on her fortnight of fun that she has been dreaming of since she was 9 years old on Saturday. I will then have two weeks in which to experiment with the CD player. Please help me. There are only so many more times I can listen to Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus.
If you wish to post me anything my address is as follows:
7B Wentworth Street
Brighton
BN2 1TT
I eagerly await mash-ups of Bulgarian dancehall and bootlegs of Latvian Britpop.
We have a CD player in our office. We are very lucky in this respect; many similar offices are fortunate to have a radio to listen to. At first I tried experimenting by introducing Sharon to some of my favourite artists that would provide a comfortable ambience, such as Arcade Fire and British Sea Power. Disappointingly, these were not received with the enthusiasm I was hoping for, and after Franz Ferdinand's cold reception from several visitors to the office (what is so offensive about them!?) I decided to try a different tack. It's nice to give the Now albums an airing again.
Anyhoo, I was back at my parent's house two weekends ago in order to celebrate my mother's birthday and to bid a fond farewell to my darling brother who is currently in the land down under for a year of thrills, spills and unfettered existence. Fingers crossed for him. Now, I have left several CDs behind at the house, including a Best of Bob Marley which I was excited about finding as its Caribbean flavours would provide an apt soundtrack to Sharon's last few days of work. Unfortunately I had planned to get a train back to Brighton the same day as I travelled up, and once I was offered a lift back from Ally I was always going to be staying the night. Minus glasses and contact lenses. The gormless fumbling the next morning unsurprisingly did not yield the results I was after, and I made my way back to Brighton with stack of CDs that contained everything BUT reggae.
At least that is what I though initially. Once I had gotten back to Brighton and was able to see again I found that I had picked up a couple of old mix CDs that I had been given many moons ago. One of these had Police and Thieves by Junior Murvin on it, amongst other exciting artists that I never normally listen to, such as the Velvet Underground, Bob Dylan and Jimi Hendrix. Thanks Maya! This CD provided quite a lot of enjoyment at work. There were also a couple from Steve that were a little less exciting, not surprising as our music tastes are so similar, but there were some legendary gems in there, including this one:
Absolutely different class, that Paul Anka.
Sharon has also brought in a couple of Now albums herself. She even has the most recent one in the series! As someone whose Now collection tailed off around 2002, this was an intriguing prospect. A chance to see what is considered to be upper echelon pop in this day and age. The sad fact of this encounter though was that I only knew a handful of the 40 or so tracks on there. As someone who once prided himself as an aficionado of contemporary music, this was quite an eye-opener.
Ok, so Now albums aren't exactly a barometer of what is hot and not at the moment (although Party Rock Anthem is most definitely in the former category), but it did draw my attention to the fact that my music tastes are rooted in the mid-Noughties, and that I've not really deviated from the bands I came to know and love then since I've left Exeter. There is most definitely more to be heard out there. The musical world is much larger than British Sea Power, Paul Anka and LMFAO. Most of the stuff they play in Resident Records for one thing.
The mix CDs were a light-bulb flashing just above my head. What better way to find out about new music (both unheard and contemporary) than through mix CDs? If I could get several people to kindly make me mix CDs I should be able to expand my musical knowledge exponentially! It is also quite an exciting project to make a mix CD, so I daresay other people would benefit from this idea. So, without further ado, here is the proposal:
I WANT YOU TO MAKE ME A MIX CD
In an ideal world the mix CD would be several things:
- containing music I've not experienced before
- containing music I've experienced before but may not possess
- containing the odd classic I've played countless times
- cogent and coherent
- concise, so as to promote listening to it as a whole
- beautifully presented
This is quite a big ask, but I promise that I will provide anyone who makes me a mix CD with one in return, as well as possibly some biscuits. And if there's lots then the person that makes the best one can have a carrot cake. I've never made a carrot cake before, so this winning mix CD will have to be pretty damn inspiring. And preferably contain one track which is a recipe for said cake.
Sharon embarks on her fortnight of fun that she has been dreaming of since she was 9 years old on Saturday. I will then have two weeks in which to experiment with the CD player. Please help me. There are only so many more times I can listen to Abattoir Blues/The Lyre of Orpheus.
If you wish to post me anything my address is as follows:
7B Wentworth Street
Brighton
BN2 1TT
I eagerly await mash-ups of Bulgarian dancehall and bootlegs of Latvian Britpop.
Hungry draft 1 (for the RDDC)
We set sail from port on a glorious morning
With the wind and the Sun at our backs
A diligent crew had answered my calling
Handsome men with beautiful necks
When all of a sudden the sky turned black
And a cruel mist chilled me to the bone
And I got a dark feeling in the pit of my stomach
That some of us wouldn't make it home...
Hold fast! Hold fast! Put wax in my mouth and tie me to the mast!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
Hold fast! Hold fast! Oh I wish that my will was up the task!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
The isolate seas make my gut so queasy
My mouth is dry and I'm sure my temples will burst
Oh! The salty air disagrees with me!
An ocean of wine couldn't slake this thirst!
I see shadows flee as the night turns to pitch
Illuminated pale skin by the light of the moon
My teeth start to itch, my eyes start to twitch
I think I shall escort the first mate to his room...
Hold fast! Hold fast! Put wax in my mouth and tie me to the mast!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
Hold fast! Hold fast! Oh I wish that my will was up the task!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
The numbers of our crew are rapidly declining
Superstition has become captain of the ship
This seasickness cannot put a stop to my dining
And I've heard that Whitby is well worth the trip
Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!
With the wind and the Sun at our backs
A diligent crew had answered my calling
Handsome men with beautiful necks
When all of a sudden the sky turned black
And a cruel mist chilled me to the bone
And I got a dark feeling in the pit of my stomach
That some of us wouldn't make it home...
Hold fast! Hold fast! Put wax in my mouth and tie me to the mast!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
Hold fast! Hold fast! Oh I wish that my will was up the task!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
The isolate seas make my gut so queasy
My mouth is dry and I'm sure my temples will burst
Oh! The salty air disagrees with me!
An ocean of wine couldn't slake this thirst!
I see shadows flee as the night turns to pitch
Illuminated pale skin by the light of the moon
My teeth start to itch, my eyes start to twitch
I think I shall escort the first mate to his room...
Hold fast! Hold fast! Put wax in my mouth and tie me to the mast!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
Hold fast! Hold fast! Oh I wish that my will was up the task!
Hold fast! Hold fast! I'm not that hungry but I know it won't last
The numbers of our crew are rapidly declining
Superstition has become captain of the ship
This seasickness cannot put a stop to my dining
And I've heard that Whitby is well worth the trip
Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!
Hold fast!!
On hunting.
"How can you possibly enjoy listening to anything so disagreeable as the barking and howling of dogs? And why is it more amusing to watch a dog chasing a hare than to watch one dog chasing another? In each case the essential activity is running - if running is what amuses you. But if it's really the thought of being in at the death, and seeing an animal torn to pieces before your eyes, wouldn't pity be a more appropriate reaction to the sight of a weak, timid, harmless little creature being devoured by something much stronger and fiercer?
So the Utopians consider hunting below the dignity of free men, and leave it entirely to butchers, who are, as I told you, slaves. In their view hunting is the vilest department of butchery, compared with which all the others are relatively useful and honourable. An ordinary butcher slaughters livestock far more sparingly, and only because he has to, whereas a hunter kills and mutilates poor little creatures purely for his own amusement. They say you won't find that type of blood-lust even among animals, unless they're particularly savage by nature, or have become so by constantly being used for this cruel sport."
More, Thomas. Utopia (1516) trans. 1965. (St. Ives: Clays Ltd, 2003), pp. 75-76.
Monday 12 September 2011
Breakfast
Wake up, wake up, can't smell the coffee
This bothers me, my mouth is sticky like toffee
My teeth are mahogany, throat numb from hollering
Need to get up and heat up something for swallowing
Ideas are smouldering, onward I'm soldiering
Come follow and help with the burden I'm shouldering
Food is emboldening, a new day is unfolding
Assemble a dawn patrol ready for ordering
Last night Katie told me she was hungry for monogamy
Now she's just plain hungry; she clung to me so I go hunting
And gathering a pound or three from everybody around me
The people will be proud with what I return back clutching
Call me Prometheus, let the eagle eat with us
The seagulls can feast now that we're getting serious
Last night there was beer in us, we felt imperious
We're imperious again now the menu has been discussed
Are you gathering dust? Are you turning to rust?
Are you feeling concussed? Then baked beans are a must
Don't be non-plussed, when you party with us
The ends justify the means that saw our party combust
Your trusting me is wonderful so I'll give you a bellyful
The morning after's terrible until breakfast is plentiful
Hash browns, the shops will sell. Bread, eggs and shrooms as well
What kind of juice, it's hard to tell in what flavour most will revel
It's perfect now, we're on the level
The dead all rise up from their dance with the devil
Got to be careful, the flat's rarely this full
Feeding five thousand takes all our biblical skill
I wax lyrical still, it is a miracle thrill
Amassed up on my plate is a physical hill
If looks could kill then they probably will
If the seagulls can't get a look in while we're having our fill
Later that morning, world peace ensued
We were all in love with the music of food
The fast was broken, our chains were too
We were all in love with the music of food
- - - - - -
I wrote this as a rap on a train back to Brighton from London many months ago, using part of an NWA track looped on my mp3 player to try and get some rhythm (you can't just go rapping about breakfast on a train at night time, it's not the done thing). I was hoping I could use it with a new RDDC song that Robin has composed the music for, but it doesn't really fit the mood.
This bothers me, my mouth is sticky like toffee
My teeth are mahogany, throat numb from hollering
Need to get up and heat up something for swallowing
Ideas are smouldering, onward I'm soldiering
Come follow and help with the burden I'm shouldering
Food is emboldening, a new day is unfolding
Assemble a dawn patrol ready for ordering
Last night Katie told me she was hungry for monogamy
Now she's just plain hungry; she clung to me so I go hunting
And gathering a pound or three from everybody around me
The people will be proud with what I return back clutching
Call me Prometheus, let the eagle eat with us
The seagulls can feast now that we're getting serious
Last night there was beer in us, we felt imperious
We're imperious again now the menu has been discussed
Are you gathering dust? Are you turning to rust?
Are you feeling concussed? Then baked beans are a must
Don't be non-plussed, when you party with us
The ends justify the means that saw our party combust
Your trusting me is wonderful so I'll give you a bellyful
The morning after's terrible until breakfast is plentiful
Hash browns, the shops will sell. Bread, eggs and shrooms as well
What kind of juice, it's hard to tell in what flavour most will revel
It's perfect now, we're on the level
The dead all rise up from their dance with the devil
Got to be careful, the flat's rarely this full
Feeding five thousand takes all our biblical skill
I wax lyrical still, it is a miracle thrill
Amassed up on my plate is a physical hill
If looks could kill then they probably will
If the seagulls can't get a look in while we're having our fill
Later that morning, world peace ensued
We were all in love with the music of food
The fast was broken, our chains were too
We were all in love with the music of food
- - - - - -
I wrote this as a rap on a train back to Brighton from London many months ago, using part of an NWA track looped on my mp3 player to try and get some rhythm (you can't just go rapping about breakfast on a train at night time, it's not the done thing). I was hoping I could use it with a new RDDC song that Robin has composed the music for, but it doesn't really fit the mood.
Monday 5 September 2011
The Capercaillie
| "I used a low point of view and positioned myself between clumps of vegetation to try to get as clean and as natural a shot as possible of this wild rogue bird." - John. |
This is the capercaillie. In order to counter-balance the gravity of my previous blog post and to make up for the lack of activity recently, I have decided to post about my new favourite bird.
My previous favourite bird was the chicken. Common, uninspiring, lacking in flavour; these were criticism that could be levelled at the chicken. Not so the capercaillie.
My least favourite bird is the toucan. It is a horrible looking creature. Its beak is vicious and its demeanour horrifying. It eats children with a sickening grin plastered across its face.
I really like the duck-billed platypus, but unfortunately it is not a bird. The duck-billed platypus is venomous. Many people think they look ridiculous but I find them charming.
The name Capercaillie comes from the original Gaelic, meaning horse of the woods. The largest ever recorded capercaillie in captivity weighed 7.2kg. They remind me of the chocobos in the Final Fantasy series of games, which were ridden in the same way as horses. They were much larger than the capercaillie.
Capercaillies are an endangered species as their natural habitat is being gradually eroded. There are many conservation projects on Scotland that work to protect suitable breeding areas and develop new ones.
I wish I had a giant capercaillie that I could ride about Brighton. It would be large enough to fit both me and either Amy McDonald or KT Tunstall on the back and we could ride off up onto the Sussex Downs and have a picnic. Their partners would be slightly annoyed by this.
The capercaillie would be too large to stay in our flat so I would have to look at stabling. This would either be taken care of in Woodingdean or Lewes. In between trips I would allow it to graze in the New Steine garden.
I would hate to have a nightmare about a toucan. Imagine lying in your bed, being awoken in the middle of the night by a tapping on your window. Roused from slumber, you would stagger up and throw back the curtains, to be met with the shocking sight of a dark shadow with wicked orange beak! As lightning strikes, illuminating the hellish fiend, you swoon and fall to the floor! The last thing you hear is the crack of glass and relentless, furious tapping...
I would like to think that there is a real ale in existence called Capercaillie. If so, hopefully it would taste like a beautiful oaty forest.
The forests of Scotland are magnificent, and would be more so were the capercaillie as common as the swift or raven.
Oh! Capercaillie! In all the world beneath the firmament there is not beast nor bird as wondrous as thee!
My previous favourite bird was the chicken. Common, uninspiring, lacking in flavour; these were criticism that could be levelled at the chicken. Not so the capercaillie.
My least favourite bird is the toucan. It is a horrible looking creature. Its beak is vicious and its demeanour horrifying. It eats children with a sickening grin plastered across its face.
I really like the duck-billed platypus, but unfortunately it is not a bird. The duck-billed platypus is venomous. Many people think they look ridiculous but I find them charming.
The name Capercaillie comes from the original Gaelic, meaning horse of the woods. The largest ever recorded capercaillie in captivity weighed 7.2kg. They remind me of the chocobos in the Final Fantasy series of games, which were ridden in the same way as horses. They were much larger than the capercaillie.
Capercaillies are an endangered species as their natural habitat is being gradually eroded. There are many conservation projects on Scotland that work to protect suitable breeding areas and develop new ones.
I wish I had a giant capercaillie that I could ride about Brighton. It would be large enough to fit both me and either Amy McDonald or KT Tunstall on the back and we could ride off up onto the Sussex Downs and have a picnic. Their partners would be slightly annoyed by this.
The capercaillie would be too large to stay in our flat so I would have to look at stabling. This would either be taken care of in Woodingdean or Lewes. In between trips I would allow it to graze in the New Steine garden.
I would hate to have a nightmare about a toucan. Imagine lying in your bed, being awoken in the middle of the night by a tapping on your window. Roused from slumber, you would stagger up and throw back the curtains, to be met with the shocking sight of a dark shadow with wicked orange beak! As lightning strikes, illuminating the hellish fiend, you swoon and fall to the floor! The last thing you hear is the crack of glass and relentless, furious tapping...
I would like to think that there is a real ale in existence called Capercaillie. If so, hopefully it would taste like a beautiful oaty forest.
The forests of Scotland are magnificent, and would be more so were the capercaillie as common as the swift or raven.
Oh! Capercaillie! In all the world beneath the firmament there is not beast nor bird as wondrous as thee!
Friday 19 August 2011
Supermarket - Aisle 1
clutching at strings
tied to worse than aluminium
sighing into empty ears
fumbling with/at electronics
an escort of bloodhounds could not
guide me through the pines
socially exceptionless, yet
calling off the hunt is the same
as dialling for takeaway
aluminium foil encasing hope
a small bag of onion salad
is the bulwark against this
this iconic oubliette
self-contained, throw away the keynote
speaker
dash their brains out on the running track
in love with pixels
your pixie avatar resembles
a fog-laden midnight
gas lamps and rippers
I yearn to stalk the cobbles
with my very best magnifying glass
ticking off the wanted posters
rounding corners with/out abandon/ing
principles forged in aluminium
titanic and recyclable
I have drunk from the same can twice before
yet thirst like a pug
is it true to manufacture desires
selling mass-production as home-made?
This is a home-made problem
of breathing problems and back-issues of the heart
an aluminium respiratory system
clean and cheap
this is the top of the range
no strings attached
the heart has a ring-pull instead
open with your fourth finger
metal has a taste
like blood
tied to worse than aluminium
sighing into empty ears
fumbling with/at electronics
an escort of bloodhounds could not
guide me through the pines
socially exceptionless, yet
calling off the hunt is the same
as dialling for takeaway
aluminium foil encasing hope
a small bag of onion salad
is the bulwark against this
this iconic oubliette
self-contained, throw away the keynote
speaker
dash their brains out on the running track
in love with pixels
your pixie avatar resembles
a fog-laden midnight
gas lamps and rippers
I yearn to stalk the cobbles
with my very best magnifying glass
ticking off the wanted posters
rounding corners with/out abandon/ing
principles forged in aluminium
titanic and recyclable
I have drunk from the same can twice before
yet thirst like a pug
is it true to manufacture desires
selling mass-production as home-made?
This is a home-made problem
of breathing problems and back-issues of the heart
an aluminium respiratory system
clean and cheap
this is the top of the range
no strings attached
the heart has a ring-pull instead
open with your fourth finger
metal has a taste
like blood
On Shaving
"'Shaving the upper lip,' I remarked, 'is a curse which canaries and women have been spared.' [The canary] cocked its ear. 'Except, of course, certain aunts,' I added, evoking a squawk of alarm from the feathered f.
'On the other hand,' I mused, fondling the bare ruined choir where once the sweet-briar sprang, 'you and they will never know the bliss of being freshly shaven.'"
Bonfiglioli, Kyril. The Great Mortdecai Moustache Mystery (1999). (St.Ives: Clays Ltd, 2002), pp.173
Tuesday 2 August 2011
Putting the FUN in funeral
Tonight I am embarking on a holiday with Chloe Stapleton, Claire Sissons, Graham Pether, Tim Huzar and eventually Emma Turvey. We are going to catch a sleeper train up to Glasgow where, tomorrow morning, we shall eat a hearty breakfast and hopefully get a quick bit of quality time with Henry King. From then on it will be strictly business, as we walk from Glasgow along the West Highland Way to Fort William. At Fort William we shall bathe in luxury at a hostel before attempting to scale Ben Nevis, the mountain of heaven. The plan from then on will be to traverse the Great Glen Way to Inverness where we will purchase lots of rum and catch a sleeper train home. Hoorah!Now, walking can be a perilous thing. My last attempted long distance walk, the Coast to Coast walk across through the Lake District, Yorkshire Dales and Yorkshire Moors saw me do something to my ankle and have to abandon my comrades after but a day's walking. The first photo depicts us before setting out.
As Scotland is just more hardcore than England in most respects I am a bit more wary this time out. A swift perusal of a Ben Nevis safety website has left me thinking about what would happen should the worst come to pass. Namely, me falling off the side and ending. A couple of select episodes of Northern Exposure that we've watched recently have looked at life, ageing and dying, and so with the fragility of human life in mind I have decided to jot down some quick thoughts about how I'd like to be dealt with if I do happen to tumble to a horrible doom at some point over the next few days.
There are four key areas that need to be addressed:
My physical estate
This will be the easiest thing to take care of. A meeting shall be held between my family and my flatmates and they can divvy everything up. I imagine there'll be some arguments over who gets the Chuckle Brothers poster and the Madagascar promo cardboard box but they are all sensible people and should be able to thrash something out.
Disposal of the body
I'm not sure what sort of state my body will be in following this sort of demise. It would be nice to be buried so that my body can return usefully to nature. I'd quite like all my organs to be donated (including eyes) but I've not filled out a donor card. Hopefully the NHS can accept blogs as a form of consent. As an NHS employee with a sound mind I can assure any doctors that this is what I would like to happen. It would be nice to have a headstone somewhere also. With an epitaph. I can't really think of anything as good as Spike Milligan's right now, so I'd probably have to go for something like, "Don't end up like me, start writing your great piece of children's literature NOW." That's a bit glum, so most of the merry-making will have to take place at the service/wake.
Service/Wake
This is the most important bit really. First of all, everybody is invited. Second of all, there will be karaoke. Somebody needs to sing Bridge Over Troubled Water and somebody needs to sing Tie Me Kangaroo Down. There will be lots of drinking. It should be held in a pub; perhaps Northern Lights as it is my favourite pub currently, but if numbers threaten to be too much for it then a suitable alternative venue can be sort. I would like a band to play, preferably a really good one. If Philanthropy were to play a set of Electric Six covers that would be swell. Alternatively Frankie Solo, 2-Shay, The Sneaky Frog and the Scoundrel or the Red Diamond Dragon Club would also be deemed suitable. I would also quite like Paul Hawkins to sing Empty Chairs at Empty Tables from Les Miserables. That would bring people down to earth. Also I would like a team of artisans to construct an effigy of me to be used as a piñata, so that any unresolved anger issues can be addressed and that any kids present can get some sweets. (Unsure why that's been italicised).
Imagine Paul singing this. People may need to do a whip around in order to get the money for his plane ticket. It would be well worth it though. I realise that this is all becoming deeply narcissistic but then, I wouldn't be having anymore birthdays, so the potential total of time that would have been spent focusing on me needs to be condensed into one day. Overall, the feel of the day would be a bit like one of the Irish cop wakes in the Wire.
Intellectual Property
All bands that I am currently in must continue. Where necessary, suitable replacements can be utilised i.e Lois Huzar, Steve Kelly, Chris Butler
My Facebook account is to remain active, under the control of Tim Huzar. He may utilise it as he wishes.
Someone needs to write The Adventures of Captain Iguanadon. Mike Sykes would probably be my first choice, though anyone is welcome to the project. As long as it conveys a strong environmental message, tackles important polemics making them accessible to children and is a shit-hot read then I don't mind too much.
Steve Kelly needs to get his ass into gear and start filming Chasing Frames 2.
I think that's about it. Ultimately I'm probably not going to die over the next fortnight. It'll probably be just as well that I don't, as all of that narcissism would cost a lot of money.
Sunday 17 July 2011
Nick Cave
"But in the ordinary run of affairs how many people go out of their way to pass even five or ten minutes in a good deep cave completely cut off from the outside world and take the opportunity to hear themselves speak and really listen to themselves? It can come to seem strange that people pay good money to entertain or instruct themselves with drugs or sex or universities or even submit themselves to psychiatric counselling when they could just as well spend a few free minutes in the silence of an impressively tucked-away cave and experience this ordinary auditory apocalypse, discover themselves as never before."
Royle, Nicholas. Quilt. (Reading: Cox & Wyman Ltd, 2010), pp.30
Thanks Nick. I kind of wish you'd suggested that before I signed up to your MA. Although really, universities should function as caves to hold conversations in. It is interesting seeing how in this respect a cave could be seen as something enlightening whereas in other texts it is used as something quite the opposite (The Republic). There's an exciting ambivalence at play here. Perhaps I could write my dissertation on caves.
Royle, Nicholas. Quilt. (Reading: Cox & Wyman Ltd, 2010), pp.30
Thanks Nick. I kind of wish you'd suggested that before I signed up to your MA. Although really, universities should function as caves to hold conversations in. It is interesting seeing how in this respect a cave could be seen as something enlightening whereas in other texts it is used as something quite the opposite (The Republic). There's an exciting ambivalence at play here. Perhaps I could write my dissertation on caves.
Who says the devil has all the tunes?
This is an epic tune of biblical proportions. I love seeing a crowd in raptures.
Sunday 10 July 2011
SmoothGay Love Song aka Justin Bieber Sex Tape
Just uncovered these lyrics in my bedroom, written by myself and Michael Sykes, which will no doubt feature on the upcoming SmoothGay album...
I think you're pretty swell
Just might mean we'll get on well
But I want to put it to the test
Get these feelings off my chest
So I'll leave a voicemail on the phone
Which doesn't express the love I own
I'll leave a box of chocolates out on the doorstep
I forgot my umbrella so I got pretty wet
So it rained
Like my pain
Just kept coming in floods of shame
I'm Noah without animals
I'm drowning
And I need a towel
You've got me speaking only in vowels
I like the way that you smile
I've been thinking about that for a while
As I construct my visage
Too worthy for any homage
I hope you're ready for what I can give
The heart must beat if we are to live
Like letters sentenced to commit
A lifelong intimacy incarnate
Love sustained
Amour is the name
And it protects me from disdain
I'm James Joyce forced to write sensibly
Digging myself a hole
With a paper trowel
You've got me speaking only in vowels
So I form this literate sponge
Into which all my love I do plunge
Are you ready for my glove?
I flutter with peace next to you like a dove
Because...
We had drunk quite a lot when we wrote that. Lord knows what musical accompaniment it had.
I think you're pretty swell
Just might mean we'll get on well
But I want to put it to the test
Get these feelings off my chest
So I'll leave a voicemail on the phone
Which doesn't express the love I own
I'll leave a box of chocolates out on the doorstep
I forgot my umbrella so I got pretty wet
So it rained
Like my pain
Just kept coming in floods of shame
I'm Noah without animals
I'm drowning
And I need a towel
You've got me speaking only in vowels
I like the way that you smile
I've been thinking about that for a while
As I construct my visage
Too worthy for any homage
I hope you're ready for what I can give
The heart must beat if we are to live
Like letters sentenced to commit
A lifelong intimacy incarnate
Love sustained
Amour is the name
And it protects me from disdain
I'm James Joyce forced to write sensibly
Digging myself a hole
With a paper trowel
You've got me speaking only in vowels
So I form this literate sponge
Into which all my love I do plunge
Are you ready for my glove?
I flutter with peace next to you like a dove
Because...
We had drunk quite a lot when we wrote that. Lord knows what musical accompaniment it had.
Wednesday 29 June 2011
...as if you have a choice...
Light up, light up.
My good friend Michael Walsh has gotten me into some sticky situations in the past, but this one could potentially be the stickiest. He has managed to persuade me into taking part in the British 10k Run in London next Sunday, helping him represent his charity of choice, the Samson Centre; a voluntary initiative of the MS Therapy Group (Guildford) that aims to establish and maintain a day-centre dedicated to the treatment and support of Multiple Sclerosis in West Surrey.
There is no doubting the worthiness of the cause, but charity endurance trials are not my speciality. I have quite happily played in football tournaments, performed at gigs, baked a cake and hiked around the Surrey Hills in a dress and tights before, but the last time I tried anything truly strenuous I failed horribly. Last summer I entered a sponsored swim at the infamous Pells Pool in Lewes to raise money for the pool, the hospital and the football team. It is a nightmarish place; Olympic sized and fed from a freshwater stream, enabling it to be colder than the sea. I felt thoroughly sick after both times I went into it and managed a feeble 5 lengths in total. Fortunately a lot of people sponsored me lump sums rather than a fixed fee per length...
I'm not much of a long distance runner. At primary school I was nearly lapped in an 800m race, and it's not really gotten much better since then. As this run is under a fortnight away I decided it would be a good idea to start my training yesterday. A hearty evening jog down from my flat to the Marina, up to the end of the breakwater and then all the way back to the Palace Pier to finish. Dressed in t-shirt, shorts and my ragged astroturfs, it was going to be great.
Here is a brief summary of my initial thoughts from the early stages of the jog:
1. I need some actual running shoes, as these astroturfs are making my feet hurt
2. I need some new astroturfs
3. I'll have to wait a few months to buy them because...
4. I need to buy some new walking boots, a new sleeping bag and maybe a tent for August and those things cost crazy money!
5. I hope that's not a stitch...
It was a painful start, and I wasn't a particularly happy bunny by the time I reached Dukes Mound. Fortunately, as I came down from there towards the Volks railway station I happened to bump into Clare Silver and Emma Combes which was lovely as I haven't seen much of them for the last month or so. After a brief chat whilst jogging/dancing on the spot, I was back off and up onto the breakwater. This encounter was revitalising. It may be an idea to arrange for there to be some charming girls (or excitingly dressed boys) stationed along the route, perhaps a couple every kilometre, in order to give me much needed morale boosts. If this could happen I would be extremely grateful.
The breakwater is awesome, especially when sunny. I wonder how the fishers would feel about people going up there, taking up valuable space for just sitting, reading and eating cookies? That is a project for another sunny evening no doubt.
As I set off back the way I had come I became more conscious of my heavy breathing and sweating. I could honestly not tell if I was sweating or crying, such was the volume of moisture trickling down from the corners of my eyes. We McIntosh are a moist bunch unfortunately. I feel guilty for ridiculing Ivan Ljubicic for wearing his headband now, and am considering utilising one myself.
Eventually I made it to the Pier, having been in perpetual motion the whole way which I was fairly proud of. As I walked back to the flat with the summer rays fading across the sea, I felt as I had felt on the first day I moved to Brighton. The feeling of relaxation, the sense of casual occasion, of extended holiday. It was back and it felt good. Endorphins are lovely things.
Upon getting home more sweat than man and consulting one of the myriad maps in our living room, I discovered that my route had only constituted 5k. I would have to do that distance twice over, back to back, in one go. Arghghghghghghgh.
More training sessions are required. I will hopefully be able to persuade some to come get joggy wid it on Friday evening before I head up to Nottingham on Saturday for Michael Walsh's birthday. He told me to watch The Hangover again before I head north. I am apprehensive. I hope he doesn't plan to put things in everyone's drinks.
In the meantime, it would be great if you would consider donating some money towards the project. You can donate money to the cause via my justgiving page: http://www.justgiving.com/james-mcintosh11one/
Please be generous :) xxx
My good friend Michael Walsh has gotten me into some sticky situations in the past, but this one could potentially be the stickiest. He has managed to persuade me into taking part in the British 10k Run in London next Sunday, helping him represent his charity of choice, the Samson Centre; a voluntary initiative of the MS Therapy Group (Guildford) that aims to establish and maintain a day-centre dedicated to the treatment and support of Multiple Sclerosis in West Surrey.
There is no doubting the worthiness of the cause, but charity endurance trials are not my speciality. I have quite happily played in football tournaments, performed at gigs, baked a cake and hiked around the Surrey Hills in a dress and tights before, but the last time I tried anything truly strenuous I failed horribly. Last summer I entered a sponsored swim at the infamous Pells Pool in Lewes to raise money for the pool, the hospital and the football team. It is a nightmarish place; Olympic sized and fed from a freshwater stream, enabling it to be colder than the sea. I felt thoroughly sick after both times I went into it and managed a feeble 5 lengths in total. Fortunately a lot of people sponsored me lump sums rather than a fixed fee per length...
I'm not much of a long distance runner. At primary school I was nearly lapped in an 800m race, and it's not really gotten much better since then. As this run is under a fortnight away I decided it would be a good idea to start my training yesterday. A hearty evening jog down from my flat to the Marina, up to the end of the breakwater and then all the way back to the Palace Pier to finish. Dressed in t-shirt, shorts and my ragged astroturfs, it was going to be great.
Here is a brief summary of my initial thoughts from the early stages of the jog:
1. I need some actual running shoes, as these astroturfs are making my feet hurt
2. I need some new astroturfs
3. I'll have to wait a few months to buy them because...
4. I need to buy some new walking boots, a new sleeping bag and maybe a tent for August and those things cost crazy money!
5. I hope that's not a stitch...
It was a painful start, and I wasn't a particularly happy bunny by the time I reached Dukes Mound. Fortunately, as I came down from there towards the Volks railway station I happened to bump into Clare Silver and Emma Combes which was lovely as I haven't seen much of them for the last month or so. After a brief chat whilst jogging/dancing on the spot, I was back off and up onto the breakwater. This encounter was revitalising. It may be an idea to arrange for there to be some charming girls (or excitingly dressed boys) stationed along the route, perhaps a couple every kilometre, in order to give me much needed morale boosts. If this could happen I would be extremely grateful.
The breakwater is awesome, especially when sunny. I wonder how the fishers would feel about people going up there, taking up valuable space for just sitting, reading and eating cookies? That is a project for another sunny evening no doubt.
As I set off back the way I had come I became more conscious of my heavy breathing and sweating. I could honestly not tell if I was sweating or crying, such was the volume of moisture trickling down from the corners of my eyes. We McIntosh are a moist bunch unfortunately. I feel guilty for ridiculing Ivan Ljubicic for wearing his headband now, and am considering utilising one myself.
Eventually I made it to the Pier, having been in perpetual motion the whole way which I was fairly proud of. As I walked back to the flat with the summer rays fading across the sea, I felt as I had felt on the first day I moved to Brighton. The feeling of relaxation, the sense of casual occasion, of extended holiday. It was back and it felt good. Endorphins are lovely things.
Upon getting home more sweat than man and consulting one of the myriad maps in our living room, I discovered that my route had only constituted 5k. I would have to do that distance twice over, back to back, in one go. Arghghghghghghgh.
More training sessions are required. I will hopefully be able to persuade some to come get joggy wid it on Friday evening before I head up to Nottingham on Saturday for Michael Walsh's birthday. He told me to watch The Hangover again before I head north. I am apprehensive. I hope he doesn't plan to put things in everyone's drinks.
In the meantime, it would be great if you would consider donating some money towards the project. You can donate money to the cause via my justgiving page: http://www.justgiving.com/james-mcintosh11one/
Please be generous :) xxx
Tuesday 21 June 2011
My Own Trumpet
12/06/11
I am currently sitting on a leather armchair which I have occupied for the past few hours, as Olli Daffarn works hard at straightening out Mike Sykes' vocal take. This weekend, as well as playing host to an annual footballing event (which this year had a particularly unfortunate result), has seen the Red Dragon Diamond Club's first ever recording session take place. The band has camped out at HL Studios in Totton (just outside/inside of Southampton) since Saturday morning, recording what will be our first single and b-side release. All terribly exciting, especially with so many of the Club having never experienced recording before.
You can see highlights of day 1 by clicking here! Pictures so far from both days can be perused by clicking here!!!
As Olli bravely forges ahead with his mission, and Tim and Lib venture out to try and procure late night snacks and supplies, I am left to sit here in what I imagine is very similar to a nuclear/anti-zombie bunker and muse about musical matters, especially since I am too tired and hungover to do anything useful.
I have been involved with a modest number of musical projects over the years. Today is a day which teeters on the brink of the future, and so is an opportune moment to look back in retrospect at these projects. The hangover is always a vehicle for introspective backwards glances. Backwards I glance then, to the very first musical misadventure...
Frankie Solo
With a name pilfered from a pub sandwich board, this was the infamous vocal quartet that set the corridors of Ash Manor Secondary School ablaze, with a propensity to steal and manhandle other peoples' songs with a vicious abandon unheard of until the arrival of the X Factor. The original line-up; Frankie, Solo, DJ Franko and Duck Tiny, mainly performed a capella with a Rolf Harris vibe and released a single album, Streetwise, on cassette. The line-up was trimmed down with the disappearance of Duck Tiny but boosted by musical instrumentation in their live performances. The legacy of this quartet lives on in a series of videos on youtube taken from their career-defining performance at La Casa de Hawkins. I'd like to think that this group has lived on through each of my subsequent musical projects.
Philanthropy
This is where it started to get a bit more serious. 3/4 of the original Frankie Solo lineup joined with Graham Pether on bass to form a band. Early on Duck Tiny was replaced by Dan Hertogs on drums, and it was from this that I first got a taste of the murky world that is the gigging circuit. Starting off focusing on an alternative rock side fuelled by a love of the White Stripes, Ash and the Datsuns amongst others, we eventually moved towards a style that was more reminiscent of Radiohead and Portishead (at least I think we did), expedited by the addition of Olli Daffarn into the mix when I moved away to uni. He was originally there to cover for me when I was in Exeter, and to beef things out when I was back but he soon became a very important and integral member of the band; his technical skill and sonic gadgetry proving to be key in the band's progression. We recorded a couple of albums and played gigs at exciting venues such as the Kentish Town Forum and the Garage. You can listen to our albums here and watch a live video for the song Rapport here.
21/06/11
This post is taking quite a while to write up it would seem...I have since returned to Brighton. Both RDDC tracks have been successfully recorded. All that is required is mixing ahead of our eventual single release in September. Jollification.
2-Shay
2-Shay started when myself and former Frankie Solo colleague, Steve Kelly, began to write immature political raps during our free periods at college. These intellectual seeds flew in the air like those of the dandelion, until one Philanthropy practice saw the melding of said lyrics to a RATM aping guitar line. A full track was born and unleashed to great surprise at a Philanthropy gig a few months down the line. Fuck The 3World received its first airing an a legend was born. From time to time the ugly head of 2-Shay would rear itself; slipping into Philanthropy recordings and performances here, leaping about at parties there, but never was the 2-Shay project fully realised. Recordings of several tracks have been made, with some available to listen to here! One day, I am sure we will see the full potential of this political hip-hop monster unleashed and unmatched, but until then we will have content ourselves with shouting, "UHHHHHHHNNNHHNHN," really loudly.
SmoothGay
This is the real deal. Upon leaving for university I fell in with some real scoundrels. The best kind of scoundrels it turned out, and I was very fortunate to have encountered them. SmoothGay was the band I formed with my university pals, fuelled by the '8 cans of Castlemaine for £5' deal at the nearby 24/7 Esso garage. Our early output displays this influence quite explicitly, but it was only once I signed us up to perform at an Indie Society gig in 24 hours time, without much of a catalogue of music to draw from, that we really took off. After writing a set within the time limit, we performed with critical acclaim to a receptive crowd. It really looked as though things were going to take off, but at our second gig we fell flat. Perhaps it was the formal surroundings (an Indie Society formal event...), perhaps it was our overexuberant imbibing pre-gig, whatever the case, the magic had gone and that was that. Despite the death of our commercial career we struggled on gamely, eventually recording the genre-defining album Do You Remember SmoothGay? over the course of a day (naturally) and holding a launch party the same evening. The album has gone down in history, and can be heard in all its lo-fi glory here! This summer, me and Mike will hopefully be reconvening to record the follow-up sophomore release. Keep your ears peeled...
The Sneaky Frog and the Scoundrel
Named after a piece of music from the FFIX soundtrack by Nobuo Uematsu, this was the band myself and Tim of Philanthropy formed once ensconced within the surrounds of Brighton. The band consisted of the two of us, teamed up with two fellows Tim had come to know through his humanities degree, our overall friendship cemented through our 5-a-side football team. Understandably, the songs were usually to do with humanities or football, or indeed at times a wonderful mix of the two. The music this time was of a more poppy, indie stylised nature, perhaps reminiscent of Belle and Sebastian or the Arcade Fire or Talking Heads? Possibly not. Anyhow, it was nice and accessible. We performed a couple of gigs and recorded a 5 track EP, Me Too, I'm A Painter! with Olli Daffarn. This release is easily the most profitable record I've ever contributed towards, as somehow we managed to sell one at a gig for £40. Sensational. You can make your judgement on whether or not it was worth the cost by listening here! Sadly, as Tom and Ed both opted to leave Brighton following the end of their MAs, we were left without a band once more, and a wonderful song about Dick Van Dyke unplayed. Perhaps...one day...
The Red Diamond Dragon Club
And so we come to the present... Kanye would be proud. Taking on electro and folk and injecting something of a party vibe, we have ourselves the RDDClub. Two gigs down, a third coming on Saturday. It is, quite literally, all go. I think that so far we have managed to work the 9-piece thing without sounding too much like an Arcade Fire rip off, or a Polyphonic Spree rip off, or a Slipknot rip off for that matter. I think we need to explore the nu-metal territory at some point though, sooner rather than later.
I am currently sitting on a leather armchair which I have occupied for the past few hours, as Olli Daffarn works hard at straightening out Mike Sykes' vocal take. This weekend, as well as playing host to an annual footballing event (which this year had a particularly unfortunate result), has seen the Red Dragon Diamond Club's first ever recording session take place. The band has camped out at HL Studios in Totton (just outside/inside of Southampton) since Saturday morning, recording what will be our first single and b-side release. All terribly exciting, especially with so many of the Club having never experienced recording before.
You can see highlights of day 1 by clicking here! Pictures so far from both days can be perused by clicking here!!!
As Olli bravely forges ahead with his mission, and Tim and Lib venture out to try and procure late night snacks and supplies, I am left to sit here in what I imagine is very similar to a nuclear/anti-zombie bunker and muse about musical matters, especially since I am too tired and hungover to do anything useful.
I have been involved with a modest number of musical projects over the years. Today is a day which teeters on the brink of the future, and so is an opportune moment to look back in retrospect at these projects. The hangover is always a vehicle for introspective backwards glances. Backwards I glance then, to the very first musical misadventure...
Frankie Solo
With a name pilfered from a pub sandwich board, this was the infamous vocal quartet that set the corridors of Ash Manor Secondary School ablaze, with a propensity to steal and manhandle other peoples' songs with a vicious abandon unheard of until the arrival of the X Factor. The original line-up; Frankie, Solo, DJ Franko and Duck Tiny, mainly performed a capella with a Rolf Harris vibe and released a single album, Streetwise, on cassette. The line-up was trimmed down with the disappearance of Duck Tiny but boosted by musical instrumentation in their live performances. The legacy of this quartet lives on in a series of videos on youtube taken from their career-defining performance at La Casa de Hawkins. I'd like to think that this group has lived on through each of my subsequent musical projects.
Here is a video of one of our original songs, complete with dance routine. It is both informative and entertaining.
Philanthropy
This is where it started to get a bit more serious. 3/4 of the original Frankie Solo lineup joined with Graham Pether on bass to form a band. Early on Duck Tiny was replaced by Dan Hertogs on drums, and it was from this that I first got a taste of the murky world that is the gigging circuit. Starting off focusing on an alternative rock side fuelled by a love of the White Stripes, Ash and the Datsuns amongst others, we eventually moved towards a style that was more reminiscent of Radiohead and Portishead (at least I think we did), expedited by the addition of Olli Daffarn into the mix when I moved away to uni. He was originally there to cover for me when I was in Exeter, and to beef things out when I was back but he soon became a very important and integral member of the band; his technical skill and sonic gadgetry proving to be key in the band's progression. We recorded a couple of albums and played gigs at exciting venues such as the Kentish Town Forum and the Garage. You can listen to our albums here and watch a live video for the song Rapport here.
21/06/11
This post is taking quite a while to write up it would seem...I have since returned to Brighton. Both RDDC tracks have been successfully recorded. All that is required is mixing ahead of our eventual single release in September. Jollification.
2-Shay
2-Shay started when myself and former Frankie Solo colleague, Steve Kelly, began to write immature political raps during our free periods at college. These intellectual seeds flew in the air like those of the dandelion, until one Philanthropy practice saw the melding of said lyrics to a RATM aping guitar line. A full track was born and unleashed to great surprise at a Philanthropy gig a few months down the line. Fuck The 3World received its first airing an a legend was born. From time to time the ugly head of 2-Shay would rear itself; slipping into Philanthropy recordings and performances here, leaping about at parties there, but never was the 2-Shay project fully realised. Recordings of several tracks have been made, with some available to listen to here! One day, I am sure we will see the full potential of this political hip-hop monster unleashed and unmatched, but until then we will have content ourselves with shouting, "UHHHHHHHNNNHHNHN," really loudly.
SmoothGay
This is the real deal. Upon leaving for university I fell in with some real scoundrels. The best kind of scoundrels it turned out, and I was very fortunate to have encountered them. SmoothGay was the band I formed with my university pals, fuelled by the '8 cans of Castlemaine for £5' deal at the nearby 24/7 Esso garage. Our early output displays this influence quite explicitly, but it was only once I signed us up to perform at an Indie Society gig in 24 hours time, without much of a catalogue of music to draw from, that we really took off. After writing a set within the time limit, we performed with critical acclaim to a receptive crowd. It really looked as though things were going to take off, but at our second gig we fell flat. Perhaps it was the formal surroundings (an Indie Society formal event...), perhaps it was our overexuberant imbibing pre-gig, whatever the case, the magic had gone and that was that. Despite the death of our commercial career we struggled on gamely, eventually recording the genre-defining album Do You Remember SmoothGay? over the course of a day (naturally) and holding a launch party the same evening. The album has gone down in history, and can be heard in all its lo-fi glory here! This summer, me and Mike will hopefully be reconvening to record the follow-up sophomore release. Keep your ears peeled...
The Sneaky Frog and the Scoundrel
Named after a piece of music from the FFIX soundtrack by Nobuo Uematsu, this was the band myself and Tim of Philanthropy formed once ensconced within the surrounds of Brighton. The band consisted of the two of us, teamed up with two fellows Tim had come to know through his humanities degree, our overall friendship cemented through our 5-a-side football team. Understandably, the songs were usually to do with humanities or football, or indeed at times a wonderful mix of the two. The music this time was of a more poppy, indie stylised nature, perhaps reminiscent of Belle and Sebastian or the Arcade Fire or Talking Heads? Possibly not. Anyhow, it was nice and accessible. We performed a couple of gigs and recorded a 5 track EP, Me Too, I'm A Painter! with Olli Daffarn. This release is easily the most profitable record I've ever contributed towards, as somehow we managed to sell one at a gig for £40. Sensational. You can make your judgement on whether or not it was worth the cost by listening here! Sadly, as Tom and Ed both opted to leave Brighton following the end of their MAs, we were left without a band once more, and a wonderful song about Dick Van Dyke unplayed. Perhaps...one day...
The Red Diamond Dragon Club
And so we come to the present... Kanye would be proud. Taking on electro and folk and injecting something of a party vibe, we have ourselves the RDDClub. Two gigs down, a third coming on Saturday. It is, quite literally, all go. I think that so far we have managed to work the 9-piece thing without sounding too much like an Arcade Fire rip off, or a Polyphonic Spree rip off, or a Slipknot rip off for that matter. I think we need to explore the nu-metal territory at some point though, sooner rather than later.
Tuesday 7 June 2011
The Neil Warnock Trophy
I have been mulling over various different topics for posting recently; an article on wrestling following the death of the Macho Man Randy Savage, a top 5 fictional drunks, a top 5 musicals, profiles of various music projects, a treatise on the art of boules...all of these worthy topics, but I have thus far struggled to find a sweet little moment in which to compose both myself and them.
Instead, my hand has been drawn for me. This Saturday, the 11th of June, shall see once again the forces of good and evil descend on that most provincial of English cities, the fair Exeter of Devon. It is, of course, the annual rematch between two of the most mismatched rivals in sporting history, between the ridiculously named and ridiculously attired Team Laser Explosion Mob and the far more brave and handsome Brotherhood of Justice.
The rivalry has been alive and well since 2006, its seed germinating when team captains Oliver Tiberius Ezekiel Jarman and, yours truly, James Douglas Iago Chrysanthemum McIntosh, extended their acquaintance within the confines of heated Past and Present seminars. Those were heated times, leading to heated confrontations on and off the field.
They have had a fierce history; In 2007 we played for the Richmond Road Invitational Cup. In 2008 TLEM fought back from 0-4 down to claim the Steve Sidwell Memorial Trophy. In 2009 the BoJ managed to sneak the Bruce Grobbelar Trophy (I think) through a bit of the old "next goal wins it" magic. 2010 saw the unofficial stag do victory head to TLEM. As you can see, the results have tended to swing towards Ollie's team more often than not.
What the Brotherhood of Justice lack in the results department, they usually make up for in the popular support market. This is a team that represents not only the people, but both the land of the people and the animals of the people as well. They can usually count on lots of lovely and attractive people turning out to support them. These people are often their seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth men, giving a strong numerical advantage to them in their quest for that elusive minx, Glory. It just goes to show that quality is probably more important than quantity.
Instead, my hand has been drawn for me. This Saturday, the 11th of June, shall see once again the forces of good and evil descend on that most provincial of English cities, the fair Exeter of Devon. It is, of course, the annual rematch between two of the most mismatched rivals in sporting history, between the ridiculously named and ridiculously attired Team Laser Explosion Mob and the far more brave and handsome Brotherhood of Justice.
The rivalry has been alive and well since 2006, its seed germinating when team captains Oliver Tiberius Ezekiel Jarman and, yours truly, James Douglas Iago Chrysanthemum McIntosh, extended their acquaintance within the confines of heated Past and Present seminars. Those were heated times, leading to heated confrontations on and off the field.
They have had a fierce history; In 2007 we played for the Richmond Road Invitational Cup. In 2008 TLEM fought back from 0-4 down to claim the Steve Sidwell Memorial Trophy. In 2009 the BoJ managed to sneak the Bruce Grobbelar Trophy (I think) through a bit of the old "next goal wins it" magic. 2010 saw the unofficial stag do victory head to TLEM. As you can see, the results have tended to swing towards Ollie's team more often than not.
What the Brotherhood of Justice lack in the results department, they usually make up for in the popular support market. This is a team that represents not only the people, but both the land of the people and the animals of the people as well. They can usually count on lots of lovely and attractive people turning out to support them. These people are often their seventh, eighth, ninth and tenth men, giving a strong numerical advantage to them in their quest for that elusive minx, Glory. It just goes to show that quality is probably more important than quantity.
This time though, in these difficult, difficult times, with the economy receding further than Wayne Rooney's hairline and a society receiving more ill-advised cuts than a punter in a drunken barbershop, few are able to make the long pilgrimage this year. We will be down to a solid six, an electric six, perhaps with a magnificent seventh, who can say? This will be the first time a mighty team of WAGs and BABs won't be present to cheer on our green-clad heroes. Will this lead to an upturn in fortunes? Will this eradicate those distractions that have been the perennial stumbling blocks thus far (apart from that one time)?
Let us hope so. The Team Laser Explosion Mob are not a nutritious bunch. Whenever we invited them to parties back at uni they wouldn't come. Ollie came once or twice, granted, but then secretly he wishes he was part of the Brotherhood of Justice. They never went to the Cavern. They probably chose fish and chips over veggie kebabs at the Raj. They probably don't know where the Exeter Picturehouse is. For shame. These guys deserve to be put in their place. Perhaps this could be the year it happens.
Let us hope so. The Team Laser Explosion Mob are not a nutritious bunch. Whenever we invited them to parties back at uni they wouldn't come. Ollie came once or twice, granted, but then secretly he wishes he was part of the Brotherhood of Justice. They never went to the Cavern. They probably chose fish and chips over veggie kebabs at the Raj. They probably don't know where the Exeter Picturehouse is. For shame. These guys deserve to be put in their place. Perhaps this could be the year it happens.
above - the banner of the Brotherhood of Justice
Whatever happens this weekend, we can rest assured that Voss, Earwaker, McIntosh, Parker, Dawes, Cowley and perhaps even Dunkley will give their all, eat lots of food, drink lots of alcohol and wake up with very sore heads on Sunday morning. Exeter is a lovely city with lots of great places to visit; if I'm able to fit in the Top 5 (Boston Tea Party, the Cavern, the Raj, Real McCoys and Beerbox) then I will be overjoyed. However, even if we end up going to Arena or worse, I can rest safe in the knowledge that I will get a chance at some point to take Oliver Jarman's legs out. Oh yes.
Monday 30 May 2011
Toothsome (song 1st draft)
I'm in love with your smile, it means your happiness is doubly worthwhile
And I don't mean to be judgemental, I just think it's preferential that you show me some more dental, it's essential
Because I've been staying up all night, thinking about your perfect pearly white so forget about the whites of your eyes
And your gentle lips, the shaking of your hips or the lines of your thighs
Just tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth (x2)
It was your molars that bowled me over, your incisors excite me I want to get inside
The cavern of your mouth, touch your tender gum tentatively with the tip of my tongue
You have thirty-two teeth, each one beyond belief, just as sweet as the last, make your beauty complete
So, if your inclined, place your lips on mine, our canines can dance in time
Just tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth (x2)
Your enamel...I'm enamoured
And your armour...is Arm and Hammer
Don't turn your back...don't turn your back on me
And don't turn your back...don't turn your back on plaque
Just tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth (x2)
------------------------------------------------------
Capo 4th fret, yo, capo 4th fret.
Verse - C, E, Am, F
Chorus - C, E, F, G > C > G
Mid 8 - Am, C, F, C > chord that I don't know the name of
I think I need to tweak that plaque line. Also not sure if this is better suited to SmoothGay or The Red Diamond Dragon Club. Or whether that really matters too much.
And I don't mean to be judgemental, I just think it's preferential that you show me some more dental, it's essential
Because I've been staying up all night, thinking about your perfect pearly white so forget about the whites of your eyes
And your gentle lips, the shaking of your hips or the lines of your thighs
Just tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth (x2)
It was your molars that bowled me over, your incisors excite me I want to get inside
The cavern of your mouth, touch your tender gum tentatively with the tip of my tongue
You have thirty-two teeth, each one beyond belief, just as sweet as the last, make your beauty complete
So, if your inclined, place your lips on mine, our canines can dance in time
Just tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth (x2)
Your enamel...I'm enamoured
And your armour...is Arm and Hammer
Don't turn your back...don't turn your back on me
And don't turn your back...don't turn your back on plaque
Just tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth
Tell me all about every tooth in your mouth (x2)
------------------------------------------------------
Capo 4th fret, yo, capo 4th fret.
Verse - C, E, Am, F
Chorus - C, E, F, G > C > G
Mid 8 - Am, C, F, C > chord that I don't know the name of
I think I need to tweak that plaque line. Also not sure if this is better suited to SmoothGay or The Red Diamond Dragon Club. Or whether that really matters too much.
Thursday 19 May 2011
Pop Song Guitar Tab - draft 1
Pop Song
This is quite an easy song to play along to. If you listen to it whilst playing you should be able to pick up the strumming pattern. Enjoy!
Tuning: E A D G B E
Oh baby when I see you, you take me higher!
C Am Em G
Every look I take sets my heart on fire!
C Am Em G
You are the only one that I desire!
C Am Em G
Tonight we dance, tonight we love, tonight!
C Am Em G
But yet, I can’t help worrying that this is Dionysus talking
D7sus4 Bbaug F Aaug
and sweeping me up with rutting stags and clucking hens,
Cm Bdm7 G#7sus4 G#maj7 B6
This whole place stinks, usually the beer and sweat smell
D7sus4 Bbaug F Aaug
remind of good times, not the Roman Empire throwing up,
Cm Bdm7 G#7sus4 G#maj7 B6
andshouldIaskforthenameagainnoshutupkeepeyesonfacenotbreasts
D7sus4
This. Is. Me. Trying. To. Act. Normal.
C A B B A G E
Successful compliment. Sincere invitation. Best intentions. Meaningful interactions.
B# Fbmin B# Fbmin
You and me, baby, tonight!
D G D
NB - I wrote this originally to present at a seminar as part of my Marxism and Creative Writing module. Unfortunately I was ill that day so I didn't get to get any feedback on it. One of the people in the group made a recording of their interpretation of it, then emailed it to a guy called Ben instead of me. I am intrigued as to how he played B# and Fbmin.
I also wrote it whilst I was on a train, so couldn't really check to see if the chords sounded any good together. The first chord sequence is pretty generic but after that I imagine it gets messy.
I also wrote it whilst I was on a train, so couldn't really check to see if the chords sounded any good together. The first chord sequence is pretty generic but after that I imagine it gets messy.
Tuesday 17 May 2011
Saved By A "War"
"Only a crisis - actual or perceived - produces real change."
- Milton Friedman
"The kind of crisis Friedman had in mind was not military but economic. What he understood was that in normal circumstances, economic decision are made based on the push and pull of competing interests - workers want jobs and raises, owners want low taxes and relaxed regulation, and politicians have to strike a balance between these competing forces. However, if an economic crisis hits and is severe enough - a currency meltdown, a market crash, a major recession - it blows everything else out of the water, and leaders are liberated to do whatever is necessary (or said to be necessary) in the name of responding to a national emergency. Crises are, in a way, democracy-free zones - gaps in politics as usual when the need for consent and consensus do not seem to apply."
- Naomi Klein, The Shock Doctrine.
I've finally gotten round to reading The Shock Doctrine. It is an intensely frightening book, but also an intensely illuminating one. Reading it is akin to looking under your bed and discovering a nest of spiders, and as soon as you notice your first spider you quickly spot another one. Then another one. Then another one. It has been well-documented how comprehensively the political processes that Klein describes are at work in our society today, and I would urge anyone who hasn't had a look at it to give it a go.
- Milton Friedman
"The kind of crisis Friedman had in mind was not military but economic. What he understood was that in normal circumstances, economic decision are made based on the push and pull of competing interests - workers want jobs and raises, owners want low taxes and relaxed regulation, and politicians have to strike a balance between these competing forces. However, if an economic crisis hits and is severe enough - a currency meltdown, a market crash, a major recession - it blows everything else out of the water, and leaders are liberated to do whatever is necessary (or said to be necessary) in the name of responding to a national emergency. Crises are, in a way, democracy-free zones - gaps in politics as usual when the need for consent and consensus do not seem to apply."
- Naomi Klein, The Shock Doctrine.
I've finally gotten round to reading The Shock Doctrine. It is an intensely frightening book, but also an intensely illuminating one. Reading it is akin to looking under your bed and discovering a nest of spiders, and as soon as you notice your first spider you quickly spot another one. Then another one. Then another one. It has been well-documented how comprehensively the political processes that Klein describes are at work in our society today, and I would urge anyone who hasn't had a look at it to give it a go.
Wednesday 11 May 2011
An open letter/cry for help to Brighton
Dear all,
This weekend sees the return of the one event that makes me wish I had a television. True, it would be handy for some sporting events (I'm looking at you, World Cup), but these generally work pretty well down at a pub. Now, I have watched Eurovision in a pub once before, but it's always felt like something that deserves a more homely, intimate and comfortable setting. Plus it's cheaper, you can hear the snide remarks and slightly xenophobic comments made by whoever is being paid by the BBC to get drunk and keep the viewers updated, as well as usually having much more pleasant toilets on hand if you stay in.
The benchmark of Eurovision parties I've been lucky enough to be involved with has to have been the one held at 46 Priory Road, Exeter, during my last year of university there. It was a beautiful occasion. We had gotten ourselves familiar with that year's selection of songs. We had dressed ourselves in suits. We had printed out pictures of various European flags and stuck them up about the living room. We had brought downstairs two of the mattresses from our beds so that everyone could sit/slouch in comfort. We bought a lot of pizzas and beer. We persuaded some Americans to come over who had no idea what they were getting themselves in for. We had one particularly enthusiastic chap who brought along his very own full sized Polish flag. Thankfully Poland did not win. Unfortunately Latvia did not win. An honourable mention went to Spain, especially their idiosyncratic dancers. It was glorious. What a night. I will put pictures onto the internet at some point.
And so here we are, three years on from that wonderful night. Here we are in Brighton. It is here that, once again, I am met with that most atrocious problem; not having a TV but having something very important that I need to watch.
I can't quite understand why the television owners I know that live in Brighton haven't been shouting from the rooftops and rallying the troops for that wonderful night where the whole of the continent and a nice proportion of Eurasia are united in battling each other across the field of music. Perhaps people have been shouting from the rooftops, and only doing it whilst I'm at work. Perhaps I've been getting drunk in my leisure time a little bit too much, and that inexcusable displays of loutish behaviour have put people off inviting me to any such gatherings. Hopefully this is not the case. I watched the semi-final yesterday on my housemate's laptop and it's just not the same.
Someone needs to step up to the plate here. Step up to the plate and have a swing at glory. Someone needs to take that chance, to reach out and grab at it. That person could be the one who gets to say, "hey, remember that gathering I held when that Belgian a capella jazz-pop group won Eurovision?" Imagine being able to say that. Much better than saying, "hey, remember that Sufjan Stevens gig we went to?" I don't have anything against Sufjan, but he's just not Witloof Bay is he?
So, those who own the means of production in this matter, open up your arms and share this joy with those who have not. Do the right thing. Host a Eurovision party. Even if I'm not invited. I will find a way and a venue to watch it eventually. I can. I will. I know I can untie these hands.
PS. I love Belarus.
This weekend sees the return of the one event that makes me wish I had a television. True, it would be handy for some sporting events (I'm looking at you, World Cup), but these generally work pretty well down at a pub. Now, I have watched Eurovision in a pub once before, but it's always felt like something that deserves a more homely, intimate and comfortable setting. Plus it's cheaper, you can hear the snide remarks and slightly xenophobic comments made by whoever is being paid by the BBC to get drunk and keep the viewers updated, as well as usually having much more pleasant toilets on hand if you stay in.
The benchmark of Eurovision parties I've been lucky enough to be involved with has to have been the one held at 46 Priory Road, Exeter, during my last year of university there. It was a beautiful occasion. We had gotten ourselves familiar with that year's selection of songs. We had dressed ourselves in suits. We had printed out pictures of various European flags and stuck them up about the living room. We had brought downstairs two of the mattresses from our beds so that everyone could sit/slouch in comfort. We bought a lot of pizzas and beer. We persuaded some Americans to come over who had no idea what they were getting themselves in for. We had one particularly enthusiastic chap who brought along his very own full sized Polish flag. Thankfully Poland did not win. Unfortunately Latvia did not win. An honourable mention went to Spain, especially their idiosyncratic dancers. It was glorious. What a night. I will put pictures onto the internet at some point.
And so here we are, three years on from that wonderful night. Here we are in Brighton. It is here that, once again, I am met with that most atrocious problem; not having a TV but having something very important that I need to watch.
I can't quite understand why the television owners I know that live in Brighton haven't been shouting from the rooftops and rallying the troops for that wonderful night where the whole of the continent and a nice proportion of Eurasia are united in battling each other across the field of music. Perhaps people have been shouting from the rooftops, and only doing it whilst I'm at work. Perhaps I've been getting drunk in my leisure time a little bit too much, and that inexcusable displays of loutish behaviour have put people off inviting me to any such gatherings. Hopefully this is not the case. I watched the semi-final yesterday on my housemate's laptop and it's just not the same.
Someone needs to step up to the plate here. Step up to the plate and have a swing at glory. Someone needs to take that chance, to reach out and grab at it. That person could be the one who gets to say, "hey, remember that gathering I held when that Belgian a capella jazz-pop group won Eurovision?" Imagine being able to say that. Much better than saying, "hey, remember that Sufjan Stevens gig we went to?" I don't have anything against Sufjan, but he's just not Witloof Bay is he?
So, those who own the means of production in this matter, open up your arms and share this joy with those who have not. Do the right thing. Host a Eurovision party. Even if I'm not invited. I will find a way and a venue to watch it eventually. I can. I will. I know I can untie these hands.
PS. I love Belarus.
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