2008 and all that

That's 2008 then. The Bright Ambassador highlights:

• Guitar Hero 3 - how to kill weekend afternoons during a crap summer


• Dexter


• Nottingham Forest's promotion


• Mad Men


• Metallica back on form


• Charlie Brooker's print and TV tribute to Oliver Postgate


• Fleet Foxes


• The sitcom Pulling - deliciously filthy


• Word magazine's Prog edition


• Danny Baker back on 606


• Rebecca Romero


• Son of Rambow


• The rise of Christine Bleakley


• Dead Set


• Jez using a £20 note as a masturbatory visual aid on Peep Show


• The Ting Tings


• Seeing Peep Show's Isy Suttie in the flesh (pictured)


• Elbow finally getting the recognition they deserve


• Kristen Schaal in The Flight of the Conchords


• Armstrong and Miller's Timeghost podcast


• Terry Wogan leaving Eurovision - how about him leaving Radio 2?


• Watson and Oliver at Edinburgh
  

What didn't float my boat:

• Sam Allardyce not coming to Nottingham Forest


• Graham Norton joining Eurovision


• The way newspapers, especially The Sun and Daily Mail, use the slightest thing as a stick with which to beat the BBC. I'm surprised I haven't seen a headline along the lines of 'Man's disgust at getting papercut from the 1985 edition of Radio 1's Which Way Now? pack. Fat cat Beeb bosses laugh themselves unconscious at the news during the Christmas party WE paid for'.


• The film PS I Love You


• The Ting Tings


• Nottingham Forest playing like a steaming pile of poo from August onwards


• Ashes to Ashes (the telly show, not the Bowie song)


• Dirty Sexy Money - the biggest waste of talent since ELP


• The upward curve of Frankie Boyle's career


• Hole in the Wall

What to look forward to in 2009:

• Guitar Hero: Metallica Edition


• Seeing Metallica in February for the first time in sixteen years


• Anything else Metallica-related

That's me done for this year. Happy Christmas - whether you like it or not. As Geddy Lee says, with alarming regularity immediately pre-interval, I'm 'going to take a break for some brain surgery.' Things are out of my control a little work-wise in the new year, so whether I'll be back sooner rather than later is yet to be seen.

To quote Derek Batey, be good to each other. Ta-ra.

Fallen Madonna with the big bank account

There was a thing on the radio today about the Madonna and Guy Ritchie divorce settlement. Ritchie is reportedly getting £50m for his trouble.Which set me to thinking that that's not a bad return for eight years of marriage. I'm such a shallow turd that I think I could put up with a monumental pain in the arse like Madonna for eight years if I knew I was going to come out of it with £50m in the bank. Yeah, I know it's a kind of prostitution, but £50m's £50m after all. You'd be the most expensive prostitute in history - you could even get Norris McWhirter and Roy Castle involved (Yeah, I know they're dead, but can you imagine? "He's a spunk-donating celebrity-shagging bank-account-emptying record breaker!").
You'd have to get used to her of course. I mean all that Kabbalah; being friends with Sting and his missus; adopting children; impregnating her; having to leave the pub because she's bored; having to see her naked (though this leaves very little to the imagination); being enthusiastic about her latest album/tour/film/kiddies' book must get wearing after a time. I could enthuse for England if I knew that there was a cheque for £50m at the end of it. Just think what you could buy: a whole Aston Martin, a season ticket for Forest (Hung Up is used as part of Forest's pre-match build-up music, they'd have to change that), a riverside apartment in Newark, the Genesis 1970-1975 box set, a ticket to see Madonna in concert - oh, hang on...
And with £50m, that's right £50m, in the bank coupled with my sparkling personality, I'd be beating off the tastier chicks with a shitty stick.

So, Madonna, if you're reading this and you find that you're looking for another fair-haired English chap with no discernible talent to speak of to add to your ex-husband collection, drop us a line.

Beyond wizard's sleeve

I went out on the works do mentioned here on Saturday night. What a wash out, only four of us turned up, and one of those wasn't drinking. I've never been so depressed in all my life, well, not since Score with Ray Stubbs earlier in the evening.

I don't know whether I'm out of practise or what, but I can't seem to drink with the same amount of gusto which I once did. Must be my age I suppose, coupled with the fact that if I go out these days it tends to be to a restaurant, cinema or to see a band. Drinking pints of lager doesn't appeal to me in the same way it once did. Besides, drinking lots of beer these days tends to give me a wicked hangover; which is why I never moved off the settee until midday yesterday. I woke up with what Billy Connolly describes as 'feeling like you're wearing an internal balaclava'. I think I saw the whole of Something For the Weekend with that cock Tim Lovejoy.

The reason for the various no-shows were that a few of them thought the X Factor final was more inviting than coming out with me on a wet Saturday night. What's wrong with these people? I'd rather have a lobotomy than watch the X Factor, and I'm great company in da pub. I hate that show and I hate Simon Cowell - it's not about music it's about filling Cowell's bank account. I know I shouldn't be bothered about the Christmas no.1 but I am, and I'm getting sick of his merry band of mediocre knobsacks laying siege to the charts every Christmas. It almost makes me want Terry Wogan or Peter Kay to beat that song to no.1.

And have you heard Hallelujah? It's rotten, of course. There's a line near the start 'You don't care for music, do yer?' No, Simon Cowell doesn't, does he? They've put fucking drums and a bastard gospel choir on it. And why do people think that all those vocal histrionics add something to the song? It's all technique and no soul (A bit like a pathetic prog metal band I know called Dream Theater. "Whoah, dude, look how fast I can shred my axe!"). Did I mention that I hate Simon Cowell? I'm not a violent man, but I'd love to punch him in his Botoxed, smirking face. Repeatedly.

I. Hate. Simon. Cowell.

By the way, glad to see someone agrees with me about Deacon Blue, even if he is pleading for comments.

Church of the poisoned mind

Found this rather enjoyable website via the Word magazine site via the ever excellent Danny Baker. What larks!

Don't Cry For Me: One Boy's Dream of Not Getting a Daily Thrashing

I'm looking for something new to read. If I don't finish Andrew Marr's History of Modern Britain by Christmas then I'm going to shoot myself. While perusing Amazon, I came across the list for the best-selling 'tragic true life stories'. I know I'm not the first person to comment on this, but who buys these things in such huge numbers? And look at the titles - some probably have more words than the actual book itself contains. Here's my favourite: Cry Silent Tears: The Heartbreaking Survival Story of a Small Mute Boy Who Overcame Unbearable Suffering and Found His Voice Again. Jesus, you'd need to take a deep breath when ordering that at WH Smith. And I just bet someone has that on their Christmas list.

So I've come up with a title for my own, entirely fictional, tragic childhood story: Little Dickie: The Boy Who Was Locked in a Wardrobe For the First Ten Years of His Life Before Being Encouraged to Run Along the Central Reservation of the A1(M) With Scissors In Just His Nylon Y-Fronts.

Anyway, I've been thinking of getting this, but apparently it's very thick and I'll get arm ache reading such a big book in bed.

I know I'm a bit late here, but the fellow who made this contributed to my relatively happy childhood, unlike the mute boy who found his voice. A great storyteller, and who doesn't love a great storyteller?

White winter hymnal

I've just been to a funeral. Don't worry, it was no one close, it was a neighbour. Of course when it isn't somebody you knew really well you can enjoy the proceedings a little more. Myself and another neighbour were about the youngest there after grandchildren. I suspect a lot of those who knew the deceased wondered who those two stylish blokes were. There was an order of service which informed us that there were to be two Beatles' numbers played during the arrival and departure of the coffin. I could hear a woman behind say "Well she never told me she liked The Beatles, and I've known her for eighteen years". Who doesn't like The Beatles? And it's true folks, people of the Beatles' generation are now croaking. How old does that make you feel? I imagine at my funeral people will say, as One Step Beyond blares out "I didn't know he liked this".
There was an address by a bloke who looked like the Willo the Wisp version of Kenneth Williams. The whole thing could have been written by Alan Bennett; he kept banging on about pragmatism, I've had to come home and look pragmatism up in the dictionary. I can now reveal, exclusively, that I'm a pragmatist.
And the congregation were very lacklustre in the hymn-singing. I'm most definitely not a religious man, but I was the only person putting any kind of heat under it, singing-wise. Besides, there's a line in All Things Bright and Beautiful about 'purple heads', and that always makes me stifle a laugh.

I guess funerals are pretty good at focusing the mind. I'm forty in just over two years and I've yet to see the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the Grand Canyon or the Northern Lights. The funeral and a motivational 'seize the day' talk this week by a lady colleague I never knew cared has given me fresh impetus for 2009.

This song's been played relentlessly on my iPod this week. Radcliffe and Maconie started playing it in the summer, but it left me cold. Now we've arrived in December with its short days, sun low in the sky, frozen puddles and a general crispness in the air it all makes sense. It's definitely a winter song - creepy video too.

A finger of whiskey

Is it just the way my feeble mind works, or does the smug-looking bloke in this hateful ad look like he's sniffing his finger after sticking it somewhere he shouldn't?

By the way, I hate that tagline 'seriously playful'. Ugh. It's like when people put the word serious in front of 'fun'. And why is he 'seriously playful'? Is it because he's drawn a comedy moustache on his finger. I bet he's a fucking scream, especially after a bottle of Irish whiskey.
I also hate any comedy club that advertises itself as 'serious about comedy'; in Edinburgh in August you see that everywhere. Oh, and food wholesalers, using the tagline 'catering for the caterer' is the most unoriginal line ever.

Vorderman fans, here's a blog that's right up your boulevard. Those of a nervous disposition may want to steer clear of the comments. Jesus........

Sorry

I don't like repeating myself, but last night I remembered a few more things that get on my wick. Sorry. I promise I will blog about something I like, or at least stop moaning, eventually. And what a surprising amount of love for The Vorderman. Ah well, here goes:

• Press *red* - You've seen it, it appears at the top right of a TV screen while you're watching something else. It tells you to press red to see a load of stuff other than the thing you were watching in the first place. Example: I was watching Have I Got News For You last night, and it popped up about five minutes from the end. What did it say? "Press *red* for Paul Weller and Adele". No thanks. It also tells you to press it during the news, which then takes you into a complicated news menu. Now, when somebody's been awfully kind enough to read the news out to me along with filmed and live reports, why would I want to read it on a text version as well? It's not been thought out properly either, as it often obscures captions that say "Library Pictures" or "October 2005". What they should do is give us something worth watching via the red button. Like, say, a Red Arrows display, a kitten playing with a ball of wool or a looped video of Vernon Kay being punched repeatedly in the face while being made to say 'sorry'.


• High-fiving - Since when did giving a high five become an acceptable way for British people to congratulate each other? I've never high-fived anyone in my life, I'm proud to say. It's completely un-British I tell you. If, like me, you played as first reserve in your dad's skittles team in your callow youth, when you played a good shot people would nod and say 'shot', 'played' or, at it's most extreme, shake your hand. These days the bastards would be high-fiving all over the shop.


• Thieving bastards - I work alone, in a large warehouse. As I work alone I can choose what music I listen to, either radio or CD. I don't normally take original CDs in but ones copied on my home PC (which is perfectly legal if you own an original copy). I do have a couple of original CDs at work - both compilations - and some bastard's nicked one. I've got a pretty good idea who it is too; the other night, after I left, some agency staff came over to do some work. They've taken something called Dark Side of the 80s. Now I can only imagine that their pea-sized brains just saw the word '80s' and they thought it was some sort of awful thing containing Spandau Ballet and Culture Club. Well, I hope they felt foolish when they got home and started listening to a load of tracks by artists such as The Fields of the Nephilim, The Mission, The Sister of Mercy, New Model Army, Bauhaus and, er, Lloyd Cole and the Commotions. I notice that they left The Best Prog Rock Album in the World...Ever! Tasteless bastards...


• This song - It's like Pinky and Perky singing Mambo No.5

What's...

... that you say, 'what's getting on my wick at the minute'? Well, I'll tell you:

• Terry Wogan and Aled Jones's Christmas single - Two of my least favourite people singing one of my least favourite songs. Is it the law that all charity singles have to be shite? Can't somebody make a decent one? Apart from Mark Radcliffe's take on Right Said Fred and Alex Lester's My Brother, of course.


• Iceland adverts - I know this is like shooting fish in a barrel as they feature Katona (a woman who quite clearly needs some professional help) and Nolan, but why does their food always look so deeply unappetising? Prawn Spoons anyone? Thought not. They're seemingly obsessed with prawns.


• 'Quirky' indie rock bands - Step forward The Wombats, Scouting for Girls, The Hoosiers etc. They're like A Tribe of Toffs for the early twenty first century. The sort of people who say 'Ooh, I'm a bit mad, me'. Go away.


• Steve Wright's Old Woman - There's so much wrong with the Steve Wright show that I won't go into all of it, but I'll start at Old Woman. Old Woman is one of his ker-azy afternoon posse, a woman who is made to read things out even though she quite clearly has trouble forming her own sentences, let alone reading. Is also paid to laugh like a drain at anything 'Wrighty' says. I once heard that it is actually Wright's mother.


• Kirsty MacColl and The Pogues - Regular readers will know that both the acts share a place in my heart, but Fairytale of New York gets on my pip. It's the only Christmas song that people who like to think they're still vaguely 'with it' own up to liking. The sort of people who rush out and buy Coldplay albums. From Waitrose. It's okay to like Christmas songs like Greg Lake, Mike Oldfield, Gary Glitter etc.


• Carol Vorderman - Sick of hearing her drone on about being dropped from Countdown. It must've been terrible for her to hear the news that her pay was being cut to a mere £100,000 pa just for picking a few letters out of a box and doing a quick bit of mental arithmetic. Never mind, she could always get herself one of those debtbuster loans she's been hawking on telly to life's less fortunates. Probably not as nice as she makes out she is.


• People who say 'a few quick hellos' on the radio - I like listening to Ken Bruce's Popmaster, but everyday you get at least one contestant who likes to say 'a few quick hellos' to 'my lovely wife Joannne - she won't be listening 'cos she's at work but hello anyway - my kids Jordan and Gemma, Dave and all the lads at work - Oi oi! - Mum, Dad, Joanne's mum and dad, everyone at The Cock Inn, the lads on the football team and anyone else who knows me'. I know a lot of people, and I'll tell you this, there's some of them I don't like, so why would I want to say 'hello' to them via the radio? And why do these people think that millions of people up and down the country are interested in hearing a load of random names read out? If they wanted to hear their name on the radio they should have entered Popmaster themselves. In fact, you can almost hear the relief in Ken's voice when a contestant just signs off with a 'goodbye' without 'a few quick hellos'. DJs, please stop people saying 'a few quick hellos'.


• Graham Norton doing Eurovision - 'Nuff said.

'Tis the season for fat bastards, tra-la-la-la la-la la la

Can you guess what that is in the picture? That's right, it's a box of fast food-shaped Christmas tree ornaments. Do you know any morbidly obese people who would like those on their tree? If so, pop along to your local Homebase store. Hurry, only while stocks last.

Sorry I haven't posted much this week, but I've been knackered and not very well; I'm getting too old for all this burning the candle at both ends mallarkey. No, on second thoughts, I'm not sorry, it's my blog and I'll post when I want to. Although I doubt anyone comes here with baited breath to read my latest pronouncements.

Anyway, here's your Friday Lazy You Tube embed. I've been trying to work out for the last 26 years whether this song is a work of genius or a load of old bollocks. See what you think.

Deacon Blue? Deacon Bollocks more like

Those who have stuck with me over my numerous blogs may remember that about six months ago I wrote about how I'd bought some Simple Minds anniversary tour tickets, and my complete and utter contempt for the support act, Deacon Blue.
Well, they (Deacon Blue) didn't disappoint. What a screaming pile of shit that band always were and still are. Somebody ought to tell the singer that telling a long-winded and completely unfunny joke about Alex Salmond, Scottish Arts Council grants and translating songs into Gaelic won't particularly play well to a partisan SM crowd in South Yorkshire. I'm surprised he didn't tap the microphone at the sound of no people laughing and ask 'Is this thing on?' Just to reiterate, I hate Deacon Blue. But what I hate even more is that with the opening bar of Wages fucking Day, the whole crowd (bar me) were on their feet clapping along. I stayed seated and deleted a load of text messages off my mobile phone, moving onto playing the phone's golf game in time for bastard Dignity.
Anyway, Simple Minds were excellent. I know they're the sort of band you either love or hate, and Jim Kerr can be a little bit of a self-important cock at times, but they're a bloody good live band. After thirty years Kerr knows how to work a crowd and you get the sense he genuinely feeds off it.

One person who doesn't know how to work a crowd is that lass with the saxophone off of The Zutons. I don't know whether she was badly, got the decorator's in, had a row with her drummer boyfriend or snorted something that was 95% talcum powder or what, but she had a face like a slapped arse all night. I've never seen anyone on any stage anywhere look as disinterested as her. The only time she acknowledged the crowd all night was at the end when she said (insert thick, high-pitched Liverpool accent here) 'Cheers, you've been a boss crowd'. How did she know? She'd been looking at the floor all night. Other than that, they're not a bad live band. I wouldn't go and snap up their albums but they put on a good show, apart from old mardy arse.
Oh, and I've moaned on here in the past about mobile phones and talking at gigs, can we also stop lager-throwing? I got covered in lager about three times on Friday night. And the bloke in front of me decided to do it as well. He thought he was fucking hilarious. Him and his mates were discussing earlier about how best to tackle a group of four achingly beautiful young women in front of them (yes, lads, ladies breasts do bounce up and down when they dance, don't they? Have you only just noticed, you childish twats?). In my experience with women, spilling drinks over them - intentionally or otherwise - doesn't do much to ingratiate yourself with them.

Staying on a kind of Eighties theme, I notice that Ultravox have reformed. Why? Don't do it, Midge. You can be crap on your own without the other three.
One of my fondest memories is laughing in my sister's face as she wept when Joe Dolce kept Vienna off the no.1 spot (what a sweet child I was). If Spandau Ballet's True is the worst no.1 of all time, then Vienna is the worst no.2.

After singing heartily last night, and as a result of me being a 'bit chesty' in the first place, my voice is fucked. I currently sound like Lemmy and Su Pollard's love child. It's like my voice breaking all over again, and I hate losing the ability to shout. I shout a lot at work. Bah!

Back to Ver Simps, they played an 'interesting' version of this early classic last night, with drummer Mel Gaynor handling lead vocal duties.

Songs that should NEVER be covered No.2

This is just plain wrong on so many levels that I don't know where to begin.

Friday on my mind

It seems to have been I *heart* Woolies Day on Radio2 today. What annoys me is that people aren't in love with Woolworth's at all, they're in love with a) nostalgia and b) getting things cheaper elsewhere. Woolworth's slit their own throat by trying to change too much. At one time they were the shop where you could buy, literally, everything, on any high street. Then they changed to a shop, which, at its core, sold CDs/DVDs/video games, toys, basic hardware and kids' clothes and moved to large superstores. All the time shops like Tesco, Wilkinson's and Argos were busy stealing their trade. Now they're paying the price.

I blogged about eighteen months ago about how we're all guilty for this state of affairs by picking up CDs with our weekly grocery shop and all sorts of cheap stuff via the internet. I hope they can be rescued, because if they aren't - besides thousands of people being put out of work, which is horrible - that'll mean one less record shop in my home town. Apart from supermarkets, the only place to buy music will be WH Smith, and even their music department seems to have shrunk a little more every time I go in there. I can remember, as little as ten years ago, there were three independent record shops, and three music departments inside larger stores here.



Anyway, I'm not here tomorrow, as I'm going to see The Zutons. I'm not really bothered about going but I'm humouring my gig-going chum as he's a fan, and he wasn't overly fussed about Elbow, but they won him over. So here's your Friday treat. A ZTT Records double-header this week. The first one's based on a Yes track, but don't let that put you off. The second was the theme tune to Top Gear Rally Report, but don't let that put you off either. And getting back to record shops, I bought both of these singles for about 20p from Boots after they'd dropped out of the Top 40. Boots was the place to go if you were a paper boy on a tight budget and could wait a few weeks for your singles.

Christ on a bike

I never liked the Krypton Factor as a kid, but they repeated it on FTN a couple of years ago and I got quite addicted. Today's reveal of the new presenter leaves me extremely cold though. He's the televisual equivalent of beige. Ugh. Unlike Gordon Burns - who is currently starring on the BBC's regional news in the North West - he's had a personality bypass. Besides, Gordon Burns once introduced me on Radio2, fact fans.

Actually, looking at that photo, Burns and Shephard do look quite similar. I don't think many women fancy Shephard though.

I know...

...I blogged about this last week, but I must urge you to watch BBC4's The Department Store. Last night's concerned a shop in Huddersfield called Peters, which, two years ago, was taken into administration. The store's still being run by its previous owners, husband and wife David and Caroline, only this time they're only managing the place. What I loved about last night's episode was that it showed the British at their best. For example:

• The customers were incredibly good-humoured.


• The British ability to either stand and pose or say 'oof' and run out of the way when confronted with a television camera pointing at them.


• The way someone stuck in a lift was only concerned about being late back to work off their dinner hour.


• The way British people, in shop cafes, are quite satisfied with a jacket potato 'inc. salad garnish'.


• Thinking that prawn and ham would be a satisfactory filling for a wrap.


• The way people in positions of power in clothes shops go to work dressed as though they're going for a night out.


• The unflinching optimism which makes them believe they can recreate a terrace cafe in Milan - which is overlooked by a stunning cathedral - in the Packhorse Centre in Huddersfield overlooking Dazzles ear-piercing emporium.


• The way that 'lady petrol' is somehow seen as decadent.

The director, Richard Macer, is quite clearly from the Louis Theroux school of filmmaking, but you can't begrudge him copying when his films are as good as this. Watch it.

I don't, I don't, I don't, I don't understand

There are certain things that, over the course of this last weekend I know I'll never understand.
The first thing is the appeal of the film, Mamma Mia. You know the one, based on the music of Abba? I was perusing the female members of my family's Christmas lists over the weekend, and every one of them (out of four) had the Mamma Mia DVD on there. Now, I'm not one to start slagging off Abba, they did some good pop songs, and they did some bad pop songs, but why would you want to see those songs in the setting of a film?
Now, the film is obviously very popular; I was told on Saturday that it's only just stopped being shown at my local multiplex, and even then that was because of the impending DVD release (handily in time for Christmas). The film was released in UK cinemas on July 10th. So it's been showing continually for a quarter of a year. Now I'm not one to discourage people from going to the pictures, but is there nothing else that these women (and I'm assured from those who've seen it that the audience is predominantly female) would like to see instead? I was rather looking forward to catching Shane Meadows's film Somers Town when it was released on August 22nd, but guess what? None of the cinemas round here were showing it. Which is a shame when you think that Meadows lives fifteen miles from where I sit now. I suppose the screens were blocked up with Meryl Streep doing the splits and Pierce Brosnan being out of tune.
Never mind, I'm sure that Bjorn and Benny are currently sitting on their own private island somewhere lighting handmade Cuban cigars with high denomination banknotes, while a convoy of trucks pull up outside their homes in Sweden and deposit huge wodges of cash down a chute into their cellars. And good for them.

The next thing I know I'll never understand is the appeal of the mobile phone. I know they're incredibly handy things to have, and now I can have a camera with me wherever I go. The thing is, I was in a phone shop on Saturday buying a phone for my mother. She needs a simpler one to the one she's got because at the minute, instead of receiving calls, she starts taking accidental photographs whenever someone rings her. Well, I was just stood looking at the display to work out my options when I was more or less kicked out of the way by three teenage girls. One of them said "Yeah, this is what Darryl's buying me for Christmas. It's a lovely phone the LG GS666X-WANK ain't it?" A beautiful phone? Now, I like things that are aesthetically pleasing, but I'd never go as far as to call a mobile phone 'lovely'. It's a tool for communicating with, nothing more, nothing less. My boss often tells me that people at work who have the latest phone probably have absolutely nothing else in their lives apart from a fancy phone. For once I think he might be right.
You see, when I was a kid the things I drooled over were things to play music on. The more graphic equalisers the better. And if not stereos, it was poring over the browser in the local record shops looking at what records you couldn't afford out of your paper round wages.
Who knows, in twenty odd years time those teenagers might be blogging about why the kids of today are obsessed with teleportation devices, in their day it was mobile phones.

Stop press: Another thing I don't get, is the obsession with Diane Keen's tits. I get more visitors to this site looking for Diane Keen's tits that anything else. I wouldn't mind, but they're nothing to write home about.

So, I come from Mos-cock!

I've been ill. No, I'm not looking for sympathy, I hate being ill - I just think about all the bonuses and extra day's holiday I'll miss out on. I won't go into it, just let me quote Fawlty Towers and you'll get the gist: "I think those prawns might have been a bit off."



Anyway, that's given me time to watch a load of stuff backed up on my PVR.
It's not all Turkey Twizzlers and crack cocaine here at Ambassador Towers you know, which is evidenced by my interest in military history. I've been watching a documentary series called WWII Behind Closed Doors. Using archive material not released by the Russians until the 1990s, it shows Joseph Stalin's part in WWII. I don't know about you, but Stalin's my favourite 20th-Century-dictator-responsible-for-the-needless-deaths-of-millions. I think it's the bushy moustache and proto-flat top combo coupled with those high-collared safari jackets festooned with medals and red stars ensemble that does it for me. But never mind about that, because it's a serious and weighty documentary, the BBC have made the reconstructions in Russian, hence no embarrassing 'Allo 'Allo style accents. The dialogue in these reconstructions is subtitled, and it was this which made me choke on my dry toast yesterday. Check this for fantastic use of subtitles: Uncle Joe's having perhaps his only moment of self doubt. He gathers the Politburo in a room and speaks "Lenin left us a great legacy, and we, his followers, have fucked it up". Brilliant.

I watched that thing about the department store too (I know Hepworth's blogged about it here). If you didn't see it, it was a documentary about an independent department store in Leyburn, North Yorkshire (watch it on the iPlayer here). When I say department store, I mean department store, as in they sell everything. As opposed to Debenhams who style themselves "Britain's favourite department store", even though their definition of department store is a clothes shop that sells a few tumblers upstairs. The documentary followed the patriarch's retirement and handing over of business to his daughter and son-in-law. Watching it, I'm surprised they ever turned a profit such was their propensity for falling out with each other. For those of you who have watched it, I'd like to make a few points here:

1. The 50% of me with Yorkshire genes got very cross when the daughter apologised first over the chairs incident. She was quite clearly in the right so should have let the mother come to her.
2. If the daughter was in such a thrall to the Playtex rep, why couldn't she blag herself a better bra? At one point, her knockers were pointing in totally opposite directions whilst resting on her stomach. As Gok Wan says "Ladies, get yourself decent underwear; it's the foundation on which you lay everything else. You wouldn't build a house on soggy soil".
3. The 'fashion' show is one of the funniest things I've seen all year. Or perhaps ever.
4. I love the concept of 'bingo trousers'.

Right, as it's Friday, you can have this. I'm reminded of it every time The Killers' rather insipid new single comes on the radio. The intro starts and I mistake it for this, and I think "Ooh, great, I've not heard this Tuesday-dinnertime-chart-rundown-background-music in years". And I'm always disappointed. The video's great, by the way, especially if you fancy the artist. As the artist himself clearly does.

What a cu...

I see that Robert Kilroy-Silk is appearing in this year's I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out of Here!
Now, Mr Kilroy-Silk, as I'm sure you're aware, is an elected MEP. He's an MEP 'representing' the East Midlands i.e. where I live. He was elected in 2004 whilst a member of the UK Independence Party; a party who were supposed to be against Britain's membership of the EU and, as such, against any sort of involvement in British affairs by a parliament based in Belgium. Apparently they stood for election to the European parliament in order to destroy it from the inside.
Well, these days Mr Kilroy-Silk turns up once a month to vote. If you don't turn up to vote, you don't get paid. So, as a public servant, claiming tax payers money, he turns up, votes and sods off again. That's really destroying the European parliament and sticking it to those on the Brussels gravy train, isn't it? Not.
I wish he'd go to Brussels to sort out some kind of EU funding for the dualling of the A46 between Newark and the other side of Nottingham. Oh no, how silly of me , he's currently eating insects on a vacuous 'reality' show with a load of other fuckwits.

While he was on the 2004 election campaign, Kilroy-Silk came to Newark to drum up support. I happened to be in town that day myself, a Tuesday afternoon, as I recall. I saw him and his hanger-on (a man so useless that he hadn't bothered to do any research as to when the market days in the town were, so his man would have found a huge increase in the amount of flesh he could have pressed. Which, in turn, Lead to Kilroy-Silk booming at him "Where are all the people!?"), they approached me, Kilroy-Silk with his arm outstretched ready to shake my hand. I carried on walking towards him, and didn't make any eye contact with him at all. Still with his arm outstretched he said to me "May I introduce myself...", now, I'm not usually rude, but I knew who the twat was and just carried on walking. I was quite proud of myself that day. I hope I never clap eyes on the oily, tanned, xenophobic, controlling turd again.

How much...

...would you have to completely hate someone to buy them this for Christmas?

Night of the living dead

That time is nearly upon us again. That's right, I know it's only mid November but plans for Christmas are being made already. I mention this because my boss came to me today to discuss whether our department should go out for a Christmas drink. I normally hate going out with workmates; I don't go out with my 'proper' friends enough, so why would I choose to go out with a bunch of people I can just about tolerate?
The last time I went out on a 'works do' in 2004, the guy who worked the opposite shift to me threatened me with 'I'm going to kick your fucking head in' for no reason whatsoever. Oh, how we laughed on the Monday after when he claimed not to have remembered any of it. Not. Personally, I think he might have wanted to say that for a while but the drink loosened his tongue. Perhaps he wanted to take it out on me because I went on my own and he took his wife who had a face like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle.
Anyway, I always said that that was the last time. I now think my boss feels as though enough time has elapsed - and the head-kicking guy has since left - to suggest another pre-Christmas snifter. I told him to see what other people on the department thought. And because they're all young and full of spunk they all said 'yes!'. Bah! That means I'll have to go, if only to show how miserable the only guy older than me on the department is for not going. I still like to be down wi' kids, see? And they've convinced me by saying that it's the office staff's night out on the same day, so Knockers O'Neill and the Scottish Siren will be out too. Woo, and indeed, hoo!
I'm not looking forward to it though, they'll all want to go in the pubs I hate. You know the ones, the ones where you feel like Tommy because you can neither see, hear or make yourself heard. And there's bound to be the local market square heroes out looking for a scrap. I'm running if it all kicks off, I don't want a shiner for Christmas Day.

Can I just say that I enjoyed a marathon Charlie Brooker's Dead Set the other night. I'm not usually in to horror but it was rather good. It was about zombies taking over Britain and the action was set in the Big Brother house. Believe me, nothing is more satisfying than seeing Davina McCall get a lamp stand shoved through her head. I also love the fictional idea of some mysterious plague or virus wiping out huge numbers of the population. Which is why I've always had a soft spot for 28 Days Later, The Day of the Triffids, Z for Zachariah and The Stand. I think living on an island nation it doesn't leave much to the imagination to think that something like that may actually occur.

And, as it's Friday, and I've mentioned the 'C' word, you can have this:

Remember

What enthusiasm?

As much as I'm not overly keen on Curb Your Enthusiasm, I've found myself, over the past couple of weekends, having Larry David moments.
Take Saturday, for example. I was doing a spot of housework in my kitchen whilst listening to selections from my iPod, in particular playing a pretty mean air guitar to this. Anyhow, while in my cleansing and air-guitaring state, I must have inadvertently pumped a bottle of white Carex hand soap I keep on at the kitchen sink. True to form the postman turned up at the crack of midday to deliver a parcel which needed signing for. I could see that he couldn't make eye contact with me but seemed to be focused on my navy blue pullover. When he'd sodded off, I went back to my household chores. I then noticed a load of Carex hand soap all over the draining board, and, horror of horrors all down the front of my jumper. The postman must have thought, in my red-faced state and with a load of thick, white liquid down my front, that I'd been having a spot of 'me time. Nooooo!!! No doubt he couldn't wait to get back to the sorting office to laugh about it 'with the lads'. Ugh.

And last Sunday, I broke my own rule about not going to pubs where a TV plays to watch the big Forest v Sheep football match. I waited outside the pub for my mate to turn up (I hate going into pubs on my own). I'd bought a Q magazine from the newsagents on the way and was passing the time reading it. While waiting, this woman with a small dog on a lead approached me (The dog was one of those Greyfriars Bobby types - a Wanky Terrier I think they're called). The dog stopped and started sniffing the bottom of my jeans. The owner made no effort to call the dog off, and then it arched its back, as a dog parking its breakfast does, and started to have a shit. Now, I don't know what the dog had been eating, vindaloo by the look of if, but it had serious diarrhoea problems. The woman was then saying to the dog - the fucking dog, mark you, she forwent apologising to me - 'oooh, just a minute, let mummy get a bag'. At this point a wasp landed on my face, I started swatting with the magazine to get it off and ended up stepping in the dog toffee whilst the old bag was scrabbling in her bag to a receptacle to put the shit in. Bah! I had to do that thing where you find some grass and scrape your shoe along it to get the grass off. And then you find you need a stick to poke it out. I spent the rest of the afternoon watching people near me sniffing and looking at the bottom of their shoes. Still, it was a good match. In the second half.

Anyway, in other news, that Q magazine carries a great article by Billy Bragg about how he'd almost given up on his son showing any interest in the guitar. That was until Guitar Hero 3 of course. Now his son's forming a band. How cool is that?
Talking of guitars, this one's still in my local music shop window. When I get my Christmas bonus, a moment of madness may overcome me and I shall probably end up buying the bloody thing. It'll be like the final scene of That'll Be the Day where David Essex goes in to buy his first electric guitar.

Songs that should NEVER be covered no.1

Oh dear. Those of a nervous disposition and small children should look away now. New Zealand, how could you do this to us after the genius of the Finn brothers and The Flight of the Conchords?

A chap called Dennis

I wrote last week about my affection for Brady Haran, the Australian 'video journalist' off of my local news programme. After doing a bit of digging, I can show you my favourite film of his, shown earlier this year and made in a village close to Newark. It's about a chap called Dennis and his History of Farming display in his back garden. It breaks my heart to watch it. Yes, this thing he's done isn't the best exhibit in the world, but who cares? It's his handiwork, which he's put years into and nobody, he thinks, wants to go and see it. Although to be fair, listening to him speak, his family have hardly encouraged him. What I love is the way he's used any old models he can get his hands on. He Man is seen messing around in some straw, one of his Masters of the Universe chums sits astride a tractor while a Pippa doll is completely out of scale on a giant horse riding through a farmyard. What I also love is the way he blows his nose whilst speaking to camera. And he pronounces the word 'make' quite correctly as 'meck'.
I feel like crying at the end when we see Dennis walking off into the distance. You see, underneath this cold, hard exterior beats a heart of marshmallow.
I really hope we don't see this on Russell Brand's Ponderland.

Bright Ambassador's Googlewhack non adventure

I've found out, via the extremely hand and incredibly informative, Statcounter that I've very nearly been Googlewhacked. Some bod from Channel 4 put 'Tits McCrikey' into Google and found this blog. Unfortunately 'Tit's McCrikey' returns two results. Although the other result only returns 'McCrikey'. So it's kind of a Googlewhacking victory for me. If I or you were bothered about such fripperies of course...

In other news, I'm thinking of taking up the ukulele, anyone know where I can buy a cheap but decent one from? Thought not...

And as it's the weekend, have this on me.

Ugh, I feel sick

I was unfortunate enough to catch the last fifteen minutes of that National Television Awards thingy last night. I'd never seen it before as anything voted on by the public usually ends up being shit. It didn't disappoint as Simon fucking Cowell was given some kind of Lifetime Achievement award (pointedly not voted for by the public). How can a man who, according to Mark Radcliffe, has been responsible for more shit records than anyone else, find himself winning a big TV award like that? I must be getting old.

To make matters worse, the man responsible for the second most shit amount of records, Pete Waterman, likened his shows to a Shakespeare play. Christ on a bike!

And if that wasn't enough, Piers Morgan was spraffing off about how he'd told Gordon Brown (Did you hear the clang when the name 'Gordon Brown' dropped there?) that he could take some lessons off Cowell. As if Brown hasn't got enough problems without that smarmy bastard telling him where he's going wrong and saying he should be more like the Botoxed, is-he-or-isn't-he shit magnet that is Simon Cowell.

I'm pretty sure that throughout it all, Cowell was sat there with the biggest erection he's ever had.

I'm off for a lie down.

Next year, why not give it to someone who actually deserves it. Like, off the top of my head, Tony Hart. Or the Australian 'video journalist' off my local news programme. He's ace.

Oh, and 'who's going to be the next doctor'? I don't give a fuck!

Licence to be bored

I gather there's a new James Bond film coming out. Not that you'd notice, I mean I've hardly seen any promotion done for it, have you?
I can't take Bond films seriously these days. After the first Austin Powers film it just all seem so ridiculous. But I guess that ridiculousness is the point. I was listening to Adam and Joe the other week and they had Roger Moore on. They asked him why he never seemed to take Bond seriously, he told them that how can you take it seriously, when this man, who is supposed to be a spy, is recognised in bars and casinos all over the world. And, if he doesn't want to be recognised, why does he drive around in Aston Martin DB5s and Lotus Esprits? When I see either of those cars, while I'm out and about, I always stop and say 'Cor, look at that penis extension'*.
I used to like Bond films when I was a biscuit-cruncher. My little Holy Trinity of Bonds was Goldfinger, Thunderball and You Only Live Twice. Let us, for example look at You Only Live Twice in more detail. For a start it involves a plot that sees an extinct volcano in Japan being used to launch rockets to swallow up other spacecraft. This engineering job to hollow out the volcano must have been massive. But it wasn't just hollowed out, it was also rigged up with all the gubbins needed to launch rockets, as well as a fucking monorail. And how come nobody noticed the lake in the volcano's crater was being replaced by a sliding glass cover to look like a lake? Who are all these contractors who do theses huge jobs for SPECTRE but don't tell anyone? If it was McAlpine's or Wimpey's they'd be crowing from the rooftops about this massive job they'd done in Japan. And what of planning permission? If that was in Blighty a big job like that would more than likely go to a public inquiry.
And why does he always avert some major catastrophe with 007 seconds to spare? Why can he never avert a catastrophe with a tidy fortnight to spare?
Why do we now have this new, serious Bond for the 21st century? I'm sorry, but you can't churn out twenty odd films over forty years - making huge wedges of cash - and then suddenly say 'Hmm, they were a bit silly, weren't they? This is how we think it really should be'.

Oh, and this Bond-related new release is absolutely bloody shocking.

Of course, this post has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I was listening to this week's Armstrong and Miller Timeghost podcast on my walk to work today. I'm sure passers-by thought I was a bit doolally when I cracked out laughing as they were thinking up names for new Bond girls. Tits McCrikey and Flouncy Minge indeed!


*I'd just like to point out to any ladies who might be looking in that I drive one of those very small Smart cars, if you catch my drift..........

Brand awareness

I just thought I'd have my two pence worth on this Jonathan Ross/Russell Brand thing. Isn't it funny how 'over 10,000 people have now complained'? They mean 10,000 people have now complained since reading about it in the Mail on Sunday and have probably never even heard the broadcast. Indeed, by the time they'd have read about it, this week's broadcast would have superseded last week's on podcast or online.

Not that I'm condoning what they did. If I went to work, rang people and left smutty remarks on their answerphone, I'd be severely reprimanded, and quite rightly so. I think these two should be made an example of. Are they both such powerful figures within the BBC that they'll be allowed to get away with this? I mean, who's going to miss Brand's Saturday night show? His audience should be out of a Saturday night anyway. There was some Brand fan bleating on the radio this afternoon that 'controlling comedy is wrong and if you don't like Brand then don't listen to him'. Yeah, well, making salacious remarks about someone's granddaughter when they haven't got a chance to answer back is also wrong. Tosser.

Anyway, in further news, I've started walking to work. I've put my bike away as I don't like riding in the dark. Walking's murder on my ankles. What I have noticed whilst walking is that one of my neighbours is the proud owner of an Aston Martin, and that one of the houses en route has changed its name from the original Buena Vista (it's etched on the brick gate posts) to Orchard House; Buena Vista is Spanish for 'pleasant view' apparently. They probably changed its name because the view now is of the factory where I work, a factory which makes cream cakes for every supermarket going, the largest distribution centre in the UK and the largest sugar processing works in Western Europe. Not a very 'buena' view these days, clearly.

Number Six

I've been tagged by Mr Avenues and Alleyways to do this writing six random things about yourself thingy. I'm not tagging anyone else because I don't know six other bloggers well enough, and I can't be arsed. Anyway, here goes:

1. I once saw Motorhead's Philthy Animal Taylor walking around the town in Newark of a weekday lunchtime. I knew it was definitely him because he's fairly unmistakable, right? It was during his second stint in the band in the very early 90s. As I was too shy to approach him, it was like a scene out of a cartoon, he'd stop to look in a shop window, so I'd stop twenty yards behind him to look in another shop. I often wondered what he was doing in Newark of a weekday lunchtime. I later found out that he's from Chesterfield, and while that's not exactly round the corner, it's close enough for him to feasibly have family in the town.


2. I didn't realise how bad my baldness was getting until I saw a reflection of the back of my head in some restaurant toilets last weekend.


3. I've never seen any Star Wars, Godfather, Sylvester Stallone or Lord of the Rings film. Nor do I have the desire to.


4. I once went on a protest over the visit of General Jaruzelski of Poland to Newark, when he was still the Communist leader of the country. Well, when I say protest, I mean I went and stood with some protesters outside Newark cemetery gates - which was across the road from my house - in the hope of getting on the Six O'Clock News. I didn't get on the news but the report did, I was stood behind the camera during the melee as his motorcade passed us on the way to the Polish war graves (and, more importantly, the grave of General Sikorsky, leader of the free Poles during WWII) in the cemetery. I read in the paper the other week that he's currently under trial in Poland for imposing martial law in 1981. Our house got on telly though.


5. I've been a best man twice. I haven't spoken to the first guy I was best man for in about five years. I haven't spoken to the second guy I was best man for in the last twelve months. I know this because it was his birthday recently and the last time I spoke to him was on his birthday last year. Kind of sad really...


6. The first CD I ever played on my first ever CD player was the Pet Shop Boys' Introspective on my 18th birthday. The second was Marillion's The Thieving Magpie. See, I've always had a weird taste in music. I think I played the PSBs first because Left to My Own Devices probably demonstrated the superior sound quality of the source material better (it had strings on it). Or something equally as wanky.

Celebrity lookalikes no.3

Knocked-up-in-an-afternoon, friend of Dum Dum, Hanna Barbera kiddies' post-school favourite, Touche Turtle.

Peace sign-waving, autograph shy, second least talented member of The Beatles, Ringo Starr.


I know this Ringo Starr business is last week's news, but I've never understood the fascination for autographs. What is the attraction? Is it because someone who does a job you like has actually held something in their hands and scribbled on it with a piece of paper? I dunno...
I'd rather shake someone's hand and tell them how much I like what they do. I think they'd appreciate that a lot more. I don't have anything autographed, apart from the Alex James book, which I picked up from one of those table displays in an Edinburgh bookshop with the intention of using it to read on the bog (I'm not even much of a Blur fan, I'd read any old crap about popular music. And it was on offer.). I didn't know it was signed until I got it home, and I certainly wouldn't have paid more for it just because he'd sat and signed a huge pile of them at the end of an in-store. I once read where Rowan Atkinson told autograph hunters to 'fuck off', which sounds perfectly reasonable to me. Fortunately for my mother though, he didn't tell her to 'fuck off' when she asked him about five years ago.

I'd tell this rancid old hag to 'fuck off' though if I'd just paid over £100 for the 'pleasure' of attending one of her enormodome concerts and she picked me out like that. It's not that bloke's fault her husband's sodded off, is it? And why does she use the 'f' word as punctuation? The more you use it, the less impact it has.

Leicester squares

Look at that picture. That's right, it clearly shows a wedge of lime in a pint of Coke. What sort of madness of poncification is that? I went to the De Montfort Hall in Leicester last night for the first time since I saw The Wonder Stuff there in 1989 and look what's happened. I blame the 6Music Brigade with their fancy Dan ways to be honest. Lime in Coke, whatever next......?

Anyway, the gig? Superb thanks. Elbow really are tremendous and I urge any lovers of quality music to catch them, very uplifting. I'm so, so jealous of anyone who can express themselves artistically, unfortunately I can't.

Best moment of the night? Elbow frontman Guy Garvey telling a woman in the crowd called Karen that the guy she was with called Paul had something to ask her in the next song. After the song we learned that Karen had said 'yes', hurrah! Things came back to Earth with a bump when Garvey told them that 'we won't be playing the wedding.....but to celebrate the engagement, here's a song about blinding heartache.'

Two things I've never seen at rock show too: 1) a lady roadie and 2) a cellist desperately trying to do a big rock 'n' roll finish. Top drawer. And can people please stop talking all the way through gigs please. I turned to my gig-going chum once at the end of a song to say 'Fuck yeah'. That's all that's required, thank you.

And I'd forgotten how much I love, and I mean love Newborn. Beautiful.

Reel to reel warping

Hey, remember the summer? No, not much to write home about, was it? Well I got in my car today for the first time in ages, and look what I found. At some point over the summer, it must have been warm enough to do that to one of my groovey compilation tapes (it's been photograghed while resting on my denim-clad thigh - calm down, ladies). Ain't Mother Nature er-mazing sometimes?

As you can see I don't go in for writing on those little stickers to put on the tape, I love the mystery when you put it in the 'deck'. I wonder what's on it? Probably a weird mix of this, this, this and this.