Thursday night we were kept up by the people who live in the adjacent compartment of this butchered Victorian villa - again. They are special people. It is not clear if they work or at what - one may be Antipodean but the residents change so quickly you cannot be sure. There are several abuses of electricity and our ears that they commonly subject us to. Firstly, there may be some kind of keyboard in there that one of them plays, though their repertoire seems to consist solely of a poorly interpreted Imagine™. Practice, though skill levels have yet to approach that of a second rate pub bore, often occurs as late as midnight on a weeknight. Imagine has always been bad enough to contaminate the memory of the Beatles proper work - like being served a bowl of nasal mucus for a pudding after a passable meal.
This can be accompanied by maximum volume viewing of ITV - the channel for people who find the candy floss of BBC1 too challenging, the proper trash of Five too worrying and the other two terrestrials an alien experience. Or else the reprehensible sound of DFS adverts - Katie Melua: the music of middle-aged compulsive female masturbators, again at the wattage one associates with an improvised rave.
This night I was treated to the sounds of Jerry Show me the Money Fucking Maguire. I have encountered this vehicle for that sexually ambiguous militant Scientologist before - in intoxicated captivity. On a long haul flight and worn down with low-grade free spirits, it was thrust into my face on the tiny LCD seatback screen. As always, I did not choose to listen except for a few minutes I caught with sound by choice. Such as the moment pointless helium voiced Renee Zellweger, who really does look slightly better fattened, 'playing' the single mum of a kid so cutely annoying as to make a sensible man self administer a vasectomy with a teaspoon, blubs 'You had me at hello' to her rich, handsome suburban conquest. I'd rather watch a documentary on diseases of the foot or something.
As I listened to the cliches abounding at 1am, dreading a busy day, wondering what self defence aspects of the law had been tested aggressively, I wished I could have ripped the carpet in the hallway up and chewed out the electrics going into their flat like a wronged rodent to make the noise stop.
A better use of electricity was found by the operators of the American Bar in Prague, who have some very nice lights and a giant brass coffee machine dating from the 1890s: Here are the lights¦
Saturday, February 19, 2005
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Why can't I touch it?
As I was in the midst of another pointless, hellish commute and as a very, very insane man paced up and down the carriage, performing a remarkable paranoid monologue, I noticed a headline in the bubblegummy Metro spread on the 'BRITS':
Joss Stone – The new queen of the streets
Its absurdity and obscenity struck me dumb. Well, not really as nothing surprises me that is spewed out of a mass culture so ignorant and worthless as to be beyond irony. Nonetheless, the notion of some shagtastic pixie from Devon being the new hope of soul is less believable than the Care in the Community entertainer on the tube being the next Serge Gainsbourg. This meat puppet is being compared to Aretha Franklin, yet you could find far better vocalisations than her attempts on the b-sides of the most hopeless looking, forgotten cash in disco records of the early 80s.
At least the awful Brummie bra model Jamelia, who is imitating an utterly worthless tradition, namely the overproduced, nasal ‘R and B’ that has wrecked African American music in a way even the worst disco could not, came away gongless. Not that it matters as I am sure MasterCard or whomever sews it up beforehand on the basis of a focus group.
Affable Scotsmen ripping off Gang of Four, Robbie Williams being lauded as the best songwriter of the last 25 years, lithe American popsters with obvious little designer implants to accentuate their genius in way years of spouting a plasticated shadow of ska could not, disguised Christian rockers singing a duet…
I longed in vain for a horrible accident involving defective pyrotechnics and a burst sewage pipe. And that’s just from being subjected to the media miasma on it all – much of which mentioned that ‘real’ music was back as the industry grinned and sued a few more downloaders. Hopefully Charles and Camilla will block the front pages tomorrow….
Joss Stone – The new queen of the streets
Its absurdity and obscenity struck me dumb. Well, not really as nothing surprises me that is spewed out of a mass culture so ignorant and worthless as to be beyond irony. Nonetheless, the notion of some shagtastic pixie from Devon being the new hope of soul is less believable than the Care in the Community entertainer on the tube being the next Serge Gainsbourg. This meat puppet is being compared to Aretha Franklin, yet you could find far better vocalisations than her attempts on the b-sides of the most hopeless looking, forgotten cash in disco records of the early 80s.
At least the awful Brummie bra model Jamelia, who is imitating an utterly worthless tradition, namely the overproduced, nasal ‘R and B’ that has wrecked African American music in a way even the worst disco could not, came away gongless. Not that it matters as I am sure MasterCard or whomever sews it up beforehand on the basis of a focus group.
Affable Scotsmen ripping off Gang of Four, Robbie Williams being lauded as the best songwriter of the last 25 years, lithe American popsters with obvious little designer implants to accentuate their genius in way years of spouting a plasticated shadow of ska could not, disguised Christian rockers singing a duet…
I longed in vain for a horrible accident involving defective pyrotechnics and a burst sewage pipe. And that’s just from being subjected to the media miasma on it all – much of which mentioned that ‘real’ music was back as the industry grinned and sued a few more downloaders. Hopefully Charles and Camilla will block the front pages tomorrow….
Monday, January 03, 2005
mole mission
My, my - the holidays do come and go as quickly as a glue huffing pickpocket plying his trade on the hordes of gothkidz in Camden. Been busy with nothing.
A while back, I noticed this new Kinder Surprise display in a shop in Hammersmith near my workplace whose only other positive attribute is a good price on large bottles of proper Nigerian Guinness and realised that it was an instructive example of the everyday obscenity that the world needs more of. This Mole Mission™ is clearly pornographic in intent - the gleeful rodent wielding an impossibly violent electric phallus of some sort. I have since seen it elsewhere and can only congratulate the designers and product planners who unleashed this little Teutonic jape into the retail landscape.
A while back, I noticed this new Kinder Surprise display in a shop in Hammersmith near my workplace whose only other positive attribute is a good price on large bottles of proper Nigerian Guinness and realised that it was an instructive example of the everyday obscenity that the world needs more of. This Mole Mission™ is clearly pornographic in intent - the gleeful rodent wielding an impossibly violent electric phallus of some sort. I have since seen it elsewhere and can only congratulate the designers and product planners who unleashed this little Teutonic jape into the retail landscape.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Imaginary Giallo locale - Brighton seafront evening
I have been rather busy and thus rather lazy with my leisure. Dont know if anyone is watching yet (or at all) and rather doubt it.
Was down on the Brighton seafront and always notice this building, which seems to attract the birds that once favoured the (now arson gutted) West Pier. It is being restored or something, people are buying flats in it but it could be a dubious enterprise. At the moment, it appears to be some sort of DSS flophouse. I walked in a few yards when the door used to be open and it stank of urine, methadone and mould. Didnt feel hard enough to go further. The various remaining urchins inside, who may or may not know they are about to be joined by bemused yuppies supping at the property trough, have employed fairy lights and other stratagems to add a random sparkle to the lovely decaying edifice. This is from some months ago so who knows what is going on now. Its probably cold.
If films other than export romcoms, mockney monkey gangsta and unchallengingly ironic comedies with BBC One wannabees and faded Hollywood stars were still made in the UK, somebody would notice it would be a great location for a modernised British Giallo or even a credible Noir.
Was down on the Brighton seafront and always notice this building, which seems to attract the birds that once favoured the (now arson gutted) West Pier. It is being restored or something, people are buying flats in it but it could be a dubious enterprise. At the moment, it appears to be some sort of DSS flophouse. I walked in a few yards when the door used to be open and it stank of urine, methadone and mould. Didnt feel hard enough to go further. The various remaining urchins inside, who may or may not know they are about to be joined by bemused yuppies supping at the property trough, have employed fairy lights and other stratagems to add a random sparkle to the lovely decaying edifice. This is from some months ago so who knows what is going on now. Its probably cold.
If films other than export romcoms, mockney monkey gangsta and unchallengingly ironic comedies with BBC One wannabees and faded Hollywood stars were still made in the UK, somebody would notice it would be a great location for a modernised British Giallo or even a credible Noir.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Anni di Piombo
Well, here is the first bit of electric spew. I need to work out how to post other kinds of media and a list of my favourite links before I get too far or I may get bored. I intend to review films, records and tv shows that I have blatantly not seen. Because: I don’t need to in order to give a full, firm and fair assessment. I may advocate stuff that interests and amuses me. I may select a meat puppet that is taking up space in my face for dissection and deconstruction because they have annoyed me or because they are rich and worthless.
Starting in the very back of the cultural u-bend I wanted to point out this indispensable if poorly titled and designed site to everyone who has not visited it. Awfulplasticsurgery.com does what it says on the tin and beautifully reveals and examines the many alterations and enhancements of the puppet people who feed the ears, eyes and express the aspirations of all the multiplex livestock out there. I’ve never been sure how my fellow males could ever, ever consider someone with implants sexy. Even in the depths of early teenage woodery I was wholly unable to jam the pink oboe to any AV actresses who had gone under the knife. A chance to review the ongoing devolution of Nicole Kidman’s face is worth a quick visit alone…
Starting in the very back of the cultural u-bend I wanted to point out this indispensable if poorly titled and designed site to everyone who has not visited it. Awfulplasticsurgery.com does what it says on the tin and beautifully reveals and examines the many alterations and enhancements of the puppet people who feed the ears, eyes and express the aspirations of all the multiplex livestock out there. I’ve never been sure how my fellow males could ever, ever consider someone with implants sexy. Even in the depths of early teenage woodery I was wholly unable to jam the pink oboe to any AV actresses who had gone under the knife. A chance to review the ongoing devolution of Nicole Kidman’s face is worth a quick visit alone…
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