Fools Rush in

So this Rush ticket thing then. I wish I'd never bothered asking this Random Rush Fan to come now. I said to him "If you can't find anyone to go with you can come with us". He's more than taken me up on that offer. He rang me the other night and said "I'm looking at Rush tickets now, how many extra people can you get in your car?" Bloody hell. I'm sure I've got an aura above my head that I can't see which reads "Sucker". I've offered to take the bloke, out of the goodness of my heart I might add, thinking it'd be a shame for him to go on his own, and now he's roping in all sorts of mates to come along. I have a hatchback, not a minibus.
I kind of wish I was going on my own now. I've seen Rush quite a few times now and I've always been on my own. I do this because I know they're a bit of an acquired taste and I certainly wouldn't want to subject anyone else to Geddy Lee singing, in the way he does, about a dystopian world in the future where music has been banned and then a guy who finds an ancient flute in a cave gets chucked into chokey for playing it. Or something. See what I mean? Would you like to sit through that? And a ten minute drum solo? Thought not. Whenever you say to people that you like Rush they always either say "Who?" or they roll around on the floor pointing and laughing. It's best if you hide your light under a bushel as far as liking Rush goes. Saying you like Rush is a bit like saying you vote UKIP. Or admitting you're still a virgin (and in many cases with Rush fans...). Or that you think Jeremy Clarkson has got some interesting things to say (and in many cases with Rush fans...)
The other reason I like to go on my own is so that you don't have to interact too much with other Rush fans. You can just turn up, get your ticket ripped and enjoy the show. More typical Rush fans can't wait to spend time together. They rock up in the Signals Tour t-shirt they bought at Stafford Bingley Hall in 1982 and swap  tales about the flattened sixteenth Alex dropped into Closer to the Heart at Wembley on the Hold Your Fire Tour of 1988. Or the time that Neil Peart fluffed a drum fill during By Tor and the Snow Dog at Birmingham Odeon in 1979. Aah, what larks. Not.
They also love to drink. And they love to drink together. Usually while eating a curry. Eating a curry while wearing their Moving Pictures t-shirt. And when they've finished doing that they like to headbang and throw that stupid devil's horn sign populated by Ronnie James Dio. And when they've finished doing that they moan that Rush aren't as good as they used to be. I tell you, Desmond Morris could get a whole book out of observing Rush fans at a Rush convention.
Aah, now then, Rush conventions. I used to be quite pally with a lad, when I used to frequent Rush messageboards (not advised, Rush messageboards. All human life is there) and I asked him once if he fancied going to the UK Rush fan convention, you know, 'for a laugh'. I loved his answer, and I've never forgotten it: "Spend a day with a load of Rush fans? No thanks."
So I wish I was going on my own now and not having to spend the late afternoon and evening listening to some Rush fans quack on about Cygnus X-1. Sometimes loving a band is very hard work. I hope Geddy Lee's pleased with himself.
Having said all that though, they're one of only two bands whom I get incredibly excited about when I see them walking onstage. Who'd have thought that three Canadians could exert that much emotional power over one human being?

Here's the world's greatest living drummer, and, as it happens, also the world's mardiest man trying to do 'comedy'.

Twatter

Have added a Twitter widget to this blog. If any of you would like to, ugh, 'follow' me on twitter I'm @BrightAmbasador. Though why anyone is interested in anything I've got to say is beyond my comprehension.

Anyway, have this, it's Friday and you need to get yer arse onto a dancefloor. They never bettered it:

Ugh, why do I do it?

Facebook, eh? Facebook. I had a load of Facebook 'friends' from work on my profile up until about ten months ago and then deleted them all off. I was getting sick of all the comments in the canteen about stuff I'd put on there. I use that 'status update' feature just to put throwaway stuff on, not anything particularly to chew over, something to keep me amused and alleviate the mundanity of my job.

Anyway, a colleague of mine was giving me a lift to work during the cold weather and he started banging on about why I was no longer on Facebook. So I had to make up this cock and bull story about deleting my profile (as it happens, every now and again I deactivate my profile just to have a rest from that whole Facebook thang) and that I'd now got a new one and would add him as a friend. I did this, much against my better judgement, but that guy had been doing me a favour all week and wouldn't let the Facebook thing drop.

So now it's started. His locker's next to mine so I have to look at him with his trousers around his ankles at 2.30pm while he asks what I've been buying in Argos (I'd made a throwaway comment about queueing in Argos), what the fuck's it got to do with him? Is he some kind of stalker who needs to know about the minutiae of my existence?

Today there's been lots of giggling and pointing in the canteen about something I'd said on Facebook about Angelina Jolie. You know it was just a joke, let it go, it's not important, get a life.

I think the fact is that most of them use Facebook purely as a means of poking their noses into other people's lives and perving over photos of them on holiday. I've had to delete a blog in the past because some nosey bastard at work couldn't let it lie that I had a blog. He trawled through Rush message boards searching for my profile, he eventually found me and the link to my blog, even though I used a pseudonym. I found the whole thing quite unnerving. Aren't you glad you don't work where I work?

If you believe they put a man on the Moon

I've decided I like niceness. I think events over the past few months have taught me to be a nicer, more tolerant person. I've even decided to stop dissing other people's taste in music; if you like it fine, please listen and gain your pleasure from it. (besides, I can hardly talk considering I own albums by Yes) I like the sort of all pervading niceness you get on say the Radcliffe and Maconie radio show, which is just like listening to your mates banter punctuated with some quality tunes. Or I like the sort of niceness you get on BBC4.

Well, I thought I'd turned to niceness until the weekend. It started off badly with me coming home from work on Friday night to be confronted by Friday Night Jonathan Ross. The line-up was Vivienne Westwood, James May and Rufus Wainwright. Westwood came out and it was pretty obvious from the off that she there to bang on about the environment and how we were all fucked. She didn't need to tell me that, I know already, where's she been for the last ten years? Personally I think, by the look of her, she's been playing an ageing Elizabeth I in yet another film about the troubled Tudor monarch.
Then, after James May who spoke more sense about the fragility of the earth and environmentally-friendly transport in the space of a minute than Westwood did in her whole interview, they wheeled on that droning sod Rufus Wainwright. What gives with him? Is he the emperor's new clothes because I can see absolutely nothing to attract me to his music whatsoever. I've worked with openly gay guys and they've all been the most happiest-in-their-own-skin people I've ever come across. He makes being gay sound like a slog. Besides, he must have some pretty saucy snaps of some high-ranking BBC official considering he was interviewed on Radcliffe and Maconie on Wednesday night, had a full hour long Imagine film dedicated to him on the same night and on Friday had fifteen minutes with Jonathan Ross to plug his new sodding opera which no one wants to see.

Now, lets' move on to Master Chef, I only watch the celebrity ones as I can't be doing with real people cooking lamb with a redcurrant jus. How come Middlemiss won? After a week of cooking challenges, where she was proved to be the worst cook, she made the best all-round meal at the end and won. What was the point in the previous bits of the final if they're not going to be taken into consideration? I've never liked Middlemiss anyway.

Moving onto Saturday and the only two minutes I caught of that Katie Price interview left me spitting my cider all over the settee. She went on television and told everyone she'd had a miscarriage. Is there nothing she'd like to keep private? Then she revealed she'd 'ran the marathon bleeding.' (presumably the London marathon) Did we need to know that? Of course not.

I'd like to say though how much I've enjoyed BBC 4's series of programmes marking the 40th anniversary of the Moon landings. I love all that old NASA stuff. One programme concerned Neil Armstrong's withdrawal into being a semi-recluse. Can't say as I blame him, after all, what are people going to ask you? "What was walking on the Moon like?" That's what people ask you. How tiresome would that get? And let's not forget, he was good at his job which is why he was picked as an astronaut. He didn't do it for fame. Do you think ITV would show an exclusive interview with Neil Armstrong on a Saturday night? A man who, let's face it, has a million more interesting things to say than Katie Price, Jordan or Rufus Wainwright added together. No, I don't think they would either. More's the pity...

Get it right or I kick your head in

Well, here we are again. What have I been up to? like you're interested. For starters I've booked two holidays. One of them is a get-away-from-it-all affair to the north of Scotland in a small place overlooking the Moray Firth. Apparently you can watch dolphins from the garden. I hope they don't get too close, there's a word in The Meaning of Liff for the point when animals stop being picturesque. I don't get on very well with animals and have never seen the fascination of wanting to swim with dolphins. Mind you, I don't see the fascination of wanting to swim. As Billy Connolly says "Man spent thousands of years evolving to get out of the water, and the first thing he wants to do is run back in". We don't belong in there, there are things in there that want to hurt you.

Anyway, I'm going up there to just switch my phone off and chill out, away from solicitors, bank managers, pension companies, fawning funeral directors, the DWP etc etc. Having said that though, I get on quite well with our solicitor, she's a laugh. I knew I'd gone a bit far the other day though when I launched into an anecdote about The Great Soprendo before realising she didn't have a clue who I was on about. The penny dropped when I was reduced to saying "You know, The Great Soprendo off of Crackajack...piff paff puff......he was married to Victoria Wood...used to do Dictionary Corner on Countdown...Geoffrey Somebody...no?...oh." Obviously she'd spent her formative years poring over legal texts while I watched telly. Never mind, it's her loss.

I've also been thinking about buying a new car, thanks to Lord Mandy of Mandelson's scrappage scheme. I hate buying cars though and I'm desperately trying to put it off. It's the salesmen, I went with an ex-girlfriend to look for one for her once and the salesman kept addressing me. I had to tell him it wasn't me buying the car. He also kept saying 'superb' at the end of every sentence, like a complete wanker. The last one I bought the salesman said "I can see, sir, you look like the kind of man who loves his gadgets." How could he tell that? And he was wrong anyway. I'm still putting it off though, and knowing my luck, when I do brave the showroom it'll be the day after all the scrappage money's run out. Bah!

I've been reading The Northern Clemency by Philip Hensher. It's a sprawling book that spans two decades in the lives of two middle-class Sheffield families. I love that kind of thing. (See my love for Stan Barstow's Vic Brown trilogy, Jonathan Coe's Rotters' books and Our Friends in the North for more details) It's a 700+ page monster but it's one of those books I don't want to end. He takes ages getting the detail right, which some would probably find infuriating, but it's the detail I love. Also not much happens, but it's very involving. So involving, in fact, that I had a day off work yesterday and took it to the pub yesterday afternoon. I never take books to pubs, and never go to pubs on my own, but I did yesterday. I read about eighty pages while getting slowly half-cut on pear cider and sitting at an outside table which I think was meant for smokers, but fuck 'em. Have you tried pear cider? It's a great summer drink, very sweet, but it slips down as easily as pop.

I went to see Telstar - The Joe Meek Story at the cinema last week. What a disappointment that was. It didn't know whether it wanted to be a knockabout comedy or a serious drama about mental health issues. I have a passing knowledge, and general interest in Meek, but the film told me very little I didn't know already, apart form the fact that his session guitarist of choice was Ritchie Blackmore. It also concentrated too much on his relationship with a complete turd of a man called Heinz, who Meek fell in love with and spent loads on trying to get a string of hits out of him. It all went pear-shaped, as you'd probably guessed. I was frustrated that it didn't tell you how a tone deaf man who couldn't play an instrument became a producer of such note. I reckon they made it with the interest of the average cinema punter in mind and didn't want to get bogged down in all that detail. It would have made a better TV drama, like those BBC4 films about real people. Especially as I was at a weekend showing with only six other people. That was after I'd picked myself up off the floor at how much the cinema wanted to charge for a) premium seats (Which turned out to be Mastermind chairs at the back with a small table, worth £14 of anyone's money. Not. I'd want a mid-film blowjob by a Polynesian handmaiden thrown in for £14) and b)the price of popcorn, surely the world's most inexpensive food product somehow made on par with caviar.

I'll leave you with this. How hateful is that? It's like those annoying tear-off calendars at work which each have a bit of cod philosophy at the bottom of each page. The filmed report on that page is worth watching just for the sound of the train driver's monotone voice spraffing off a a bit of Immanuel Kant, and saying "The passengers love it." Really? Oh, and it's also worth watching because I've taken a fancy to the woman at 50 seconds.

Let's have a heated debate!

I know Mr FC has already blogged about Question Time, but fuck it.
I don't regularly watch it, but while listening to Radcliffe and Maconie last night, they said Will Young was going to be on it, so I thought I'd give it a go when I got in.
Billy Connolly once said that the desire to be a politician should automatically bar you from ever being one. Something I agree strongly with. I hate all politicians (except Ken Clarke).
The thing is with QT is that it's just a fancier Mrs Merton Heated Debate. A heated debate with cocks. I think they should just do a Harry Hill and have a great big fight.
Let's look at last night's line-up (we'll come back to Young later):

Geoff Hoon - Goverment mouthpiece. Obviously briefed for hours beforehand by a team of people. Nottingham MP who was recently banned from attending the Latitude Festival. Cock.

Theresa May - Conservative mouthpiece. There solely to argue with Hoon. A career politician of the worst kind. Minge.

Nigel Farage - Oh dear, where to start? UKIP leader. A man who not only looks like a penis but talks like one too. Has an annoying habit of laughing at his own putdowns while playing to the crowd. There to argue with Hoon and May. Arsehole.

Shami Chakrabarti - Head honcho of pressure group Liberty. FC's said it all. But I think I would she'll, no doubt, be glad to hear. There to argue with anyone she bloody well likes 'because that's what living in a democracy's all about, right'? Every time I watch QT, she seems to be on it. Mong.

Now, Mr Will Young. Whoever thought he'd make a good choice for that show needs sacking. I gather they do it to go after ver kids. Well perhaps they should have got her off the Ting Tings or Dizzee Rascal to do it because Young appeals to...oh, I don't know, does Young appeal to anyone? What's going on with that chin? You could get pickles out of a jar with that monster.
All his answers started with "Mmm...now...yes...err...", which left Chakrabarti with golden opportunities to come in and start shouting about what she thought. Which she was loving. And to justify it she was saying stuff like "Well, I agree with Will on that point, but..."
And I'm surprised you didn't hear me laughing at your house when Will came out with this little corker: "This whole snow business makes me so angry!" There's no business like snow business, clearly.

I won't tune in again in a hurry. Mind you, Monty Don's on next week, so the curiosity of seeing how his stroke's affected him might get me to have a gawp.

Oh, and yesterday I had the highest number of returning visitors ever to this blog. Thank you, I love you all.

To cut a reformation short, I lost my mind

Of course one of the things I love about working late shift is that I can listen to Radcliffe & Maconie on Radio2 of an evening. I tuned in last night for the first time in ages and it really is a show full of delight. What a musical selection: The Yardbirds, Split Enz, David Bowie, Rush (yay!), The Divine Comedy, Nick Lowe, Marvine Gaye, Radiohead, Fleet Foxes, Lily Allen and Iggy Pop, amongst others, all got an airing last night. As well as a three song set by Adrian Edmondson's band, The Bad Shepherds. They play folk covers of punk and new wave songs; last night's set featured songs by The Clash (even an anti-Clash fan like me got a load of enjoyment from hearing I Fought the Law on the uilleann pipes and bodhran), Kraftwerk and Wreckless Eric.
I know I bang on about the R&M show sometimes but they really are worth listening to if you're disenchanted with the telly of an evening.

The R&M show last night mentioned this story about Spandau Ballet getting back together. I keep banging on about 80s reformations too, but why do this? Everybody knows that Hadley and Gary Kemp hate each other so it's so nakedly about earning loadsa cash it makes me sick. Here's the most telling quote from that small article: "It would be a great, fun comeback and very lucrative for the band." Just take out the words 'great' and 'fun' and you're getting there. No doubt the fortysomething fans'll be queueing up for tickets. Don't go, you're only encouraging them.
I'll give Hadley the same advice I gave Midge Ure a month or so ago: don't do it Tony - you can be crap on your own without four other kilted and tartan-tea-towelled-bedecked mongs as well.

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.

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.