Osymyso: an under-rated musical genius

I always thought it was the thick haze permeating my university house which made me think this guy was something of a gene-yus.

A more sober reflection reveals that actually, he is.

2ManyDJ's mash-ups can't touch this obscure young Englishmen's creativity. He deserved to make it from cult stoner icon to mass appeal.

Re-introducing DJ Osymyso. You won't regret checking these out.

More spam email lolz

So. Risa sounds niiiice...


From: Risa Anderson
Reply-To:
Date: Fri, 20 Aug 2010 07:47:00 -0700 (PDT)
To: ""
Subject: HELLO

HELLO
My name is Risa,
i interested in you,i will also like to know you the more,and i want you to send an email to my email address so i can give you my picture for you to know whom i am Here is my email address (risa2donatus@yahoo.com) i believe we can move from here!I am waiting for your mail to my email address above. Risa
(Remember the distance or colour an age does not matter but love matters a lot in life

risa2donatus@yahoo.com

Overpopulation, or poppycock?

These short vids made me look differently at something I just assumed was true.

It's good to change your beliefs regularly. And underwear. Equally important.

Women can't jump

The Men Who Jump Off Buildings is a documentary I just watched on 4OD. It follows the lives of two, pretty different, guys who ignore the 1 in 6 death rate of 'base-jumpers', to gratify their need to leap from increasingly lofty buildings and cliffs with only a semi-reliable parachute, or more perilously, a sort of Erzatz bird suit- which I'm pretty sure is based on a design I sketched in my rough book at school.

There was a tragic, yet noble spirit in these guys that somehow strikes to the core of what I think it is to be a guy. My girlfriend was less moved, on the other hand, and just thought they were "bloody nutters".

The Streets said it best: "Geezers need excitement/ If their lives don't provide it then they incite violence". Skinners's words ring true to my life philosophy- that people should follow their desires and dreams without hurting others in order to prevent internal repression being outwardly expressed.

The philosophy of self denial- championed by Christians- for me denies what it is to be human, and especially male.

This documentary, coupled with the wealth of feminist friends I seem to have on Twitter, got me contemplating the differences between guys and gals- besides, y'know, boobs and that. It also made me question whether being a feminist, or male-ist(?) means anything at all.

People, it seems to me, basically embody varying characteristics of the yin/yang, or testosterone/estrogen balance- a spectrum with equally deplorable extremes, ranging as it does from Jeremy Clarkson to Nikki from Big Brother.

If societies' archetypes are applied to this hypothetical scale, then my interests in fashion, health and celeb news would be tempered by my tick boxing of football, science, rock music and cars. Admittedly though, I probably veer more into the camper, err, camp overall. I just happen to opt for the soft and curvy sex as opposed to the, err, stubbly and square(?) one.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, The Men Who Jump Off Buildings (gotta love Channel 4's abitrary programme naming system). I don't have the stats handy, but I'd guess that 99.9% of base-jumpers are male, therefore the pastime says something close to concrete about us dick-swinging humanoids.

From interviews with the death-defying pair's hapless WAGs, it became clear that these women can reluctantly sympathise with their partner's urge to constantly face their own mortality- to conquer something. Male viewers, on the other hand, will empaphise.

Despite magazine demographics and such, there's no one activity that is exclusively masculine. Rugby players- oft seen as the straightest, most manly of all men- are also prone to dressing in drag at the drop of a hat and simulating gay sex under the pretense of a few Guinnesses.

That being said, I think the need to 'conquer' something is the discernible male attribute. Be it a maths equation, a country, a yo-yo trick, a puzzle, a computer game. Women are better at juggling various tasks at once, and find amusement at our geeky endeavors and general try-hardiness.

Your girlfriend, as The Strokes said, "won't understand".

They can match us at pretty much everything now, but when it comes to reaching the pinnacle of nearly any given discipline, men will pretty much always come out on top. It's not PC to say it, but do truths have to be?

Women may read this as a 'men are better that women' diatribe, but that's just because our brains are hard-wired to compare, fear and find conflict. The fact is that I would no more wish to be all-consumed in an autistic quadratic equation than I would spend my time gossiping over the Benefit nail counter.

People inevitably fall somewhere in the middle of this ill-defined hormonal spectrum regardless of who floats their boat- and this is a good thing. Feminism, then, is something I "don't understand". They get red in the face when a columnist like AA Gill uses the word 'dyke', in much the same way a Daily Mail reader does when they read trumped-up immigration headlines.

Would they react with equal angst if say, gay guys were tarred with the same brush? If no, then they are inverted bigots, if yes then this doesn't make them feminist at all surely? It makes them defenders of human rights or maybe defenders some sort of abstract notion of femininity which, if elaborated on, would probably offend women more than anyone else.

I have to be careful here, I sense. Words, as AA Gill found out, can get you in trouble. I could go through this blog post again adding appendixes and such, but I can't be arsed- I have a sudden urge to change my Fantasy Football team... or maybe jump from a small height and then work my way upwards.

Oi, Nolan! Checkout my Batman 3 plot idea

The recent Batman franchise is a tad more sophisticated than the weekly lycra and silk-infested pantomimic drama of the 1960s, which usually featured a cliff-hanger whereby the Caped Crusader (a safe sex euphemism?) is lowered at an unfeasibly slow pace, unsupervised, into a bubbling cauldron of sulfuric acid.

The subtext, I assume, was that repressed homosexuals with a penchant for dress-up are, on earth or in the underworld, going to wind-up being burnt to death in a searing hot pot of boiling day-glow green crap.

Forty-odd years later, an impeccably mannered English grad named Christopher Nolan (with no known history of minority prejudice) stepped up to give the comic book icon back his dignity- and right the wrongs of Joel Schumacher’s butchering of Tim Burton's respectable re-imagining in the late eighties.

If you haven't seen the last Batman film, The Dark Knight, then frankly, you've bought shame upon your family and need a serious rethink of your life priorities.

Those who have seen it will remember that we left Bale's Batman escaping the rath of the cops, and Gotham, after he took the fall for Harvey Dent (Two Face)'s political wrongdoings. The ending would have actually worked pretty well as a franchise finale, showing as it did, how the superhero is a flawed, unachievable notion.

However, there's cash to made, and we now know that a third film will follow, the last in the franchise, and one which will definitely not see the Joker return.

It's my conjecture that Nolan was planning for Ledger to return, but for personal reasons he couldn't face putting another actor in his place. Anyway, with these scant details in mind, here's my idea for how the script could/should/will/might pan out:

The film would focus on Bruce Wayne's dilemma whether to hang up the pointy-eared getup for good- or re-don the suit and win back the favour of the masses. Because it's a film and stuff, it's a safe bet to assume he'll do for the latter. But how will he get into that situation?

The way I see it is that, after the death of his missus in the last film, this outing is a great chance to indulgence in some moody self loathing on BW's part. The franchise has focused on Batman as an 'ideal' so far, with the character of Bruce Wayne relatively unexamined.

Wayne, in my script idea, will be a shadow of his former self, turning to drugs and licker to get over his grief at losing everything. He will be distanced from Alfred and getting his kicks in Gotham's underground nightlife scene. It's here where he'll meet his strongman rival Bane, and also Catwoman.

Getting the Bat/Cat romantic frisson right would test Nolan's directorial sensibilities, and could easily descend into high-camp innuendos. Catwoman, therefore, would have to be a match intellectually for B-Dubya. I think she should be a feline-themed stripper (naturally) who Bruce meets on one of his nihilistic all-night binges.

As an outlet for his rage and to hone his combat skills, BW would take part in an underground Ultimate Fighter style contest- the perfect introduction to Bane, a steroid fiend with whom he would develop an out-of-the-ring rivalry, maybe because Bane also wants to get himself some of Catwoman's... (if only there were a feline-themed word for female genitalia).

Another potential plot twist could bring in a wider political storyline that would serve to bring BW out of hiding and into the Batsuit once more. Way I see it, Catwoman- by day- would be a high flying PR girl for a popular political figure who has links with a nefarious secret society bent on turning Gotham, and the world, into an Orwellian dictatorship.

Said politician would suffer from a bi-polar psychological illness, which prompts him to hint at his real agenda using clues and symbology in his public television appearances, campaign posters etc. If you haven't guessed already, Catwoman's client is also moonlighting as... The Riddler!

For the ending, I would like to see Batman expose The Riddler's pesky scheming and win back the trust of the public, before having an epic face-off with Bane.

The strongman would perhaps have the opportunity to kill the masked hero, but opt to break his back instead (as he does in the comic book, I'm told). This would give the next director room to do a Rocky-esque Batman rehab movie, or start afresh.

Hell, they could even have a plot line where Batman befriends a potential successor, starting a new Robin franchise.

Whaddya reckon? Good thinking Batman?

Foxpocalypse!

A few months back, after a few jars of the old hobo water, I staggered home in the wee small hours of the morning, suffering the textbook descriptions of drunkenness; nausea, impaired vision, delusions of a Frank Sinatra-esque swagger.

Suddenly, from behind a nearby fence, popped that auburn street menace, currently holding the nation in a state of fear- no, not Raoul Moat- it was in fact a shifty looking vulpes vulpes- or, red fox.

These bushy tailed bin raiders usually leg-it at the site of upright homo sapien. This furry lad, however, was something of a rapscallion. He leered forward aggressively, mugging me off with his exposed nashers, shooting me his best Liam Gallagher stare.

Suddenly, SW15 looked set to erupt in a blizzard of ultra-violent man-on-fox lairyness.

I put up my dukes, 1920s style, and awaited the furry bounder's next move.

The street scavenger, clearly bemused by my outmoded- but dignified- combat style, chose to avoid confrontation and scarpered-off.

The altercation was brief, but resonated enough for me to mention it to friends and family the next day.

"What if all foxes suddenly turn nasty and gang-up on us humans enmasse?" I scaremongered, coining the phrase 'Foxpocalypse' to denote a post-human society ruled entirely by these cunning carnivorous canine quadrupeds.

(Yeah, I'm running out of alternative names for 'foxes' now).

The public, by and large, mocked my paranoid ramblings - as they so often do (God I hate the public). However, following my ordeal (and it was an ordeal), fox-attacks have positively sky rocketed, leaving little doubt that the ginger menace is preparing for an elaborate coup d'etat:

Fox mauls kids
Chihuahua savaged by fox in family garden
Homophobic fox
Daylight fox lairyness
Pick on someone your own size
Oh, Ok, it did...
A healthy groundswell of fox panic- BBC fox-doc gets 4million viewers!

I was now sure the world would wise-up to the foxes' very real threat to family values and public safety. Then I came across these stats, courtesy of the Beeb:

'Foxes kill very few pets and rifle through very few dustbins, and it seems the majority of people like them. In a poll of nearly 4,000 households, 65.7% liked urban foxes, 25.8% had no strong views and only 8.5% disliked the creatures. '

A 65% support rate! - that would have easily gained a swing vote at the last election.

You see. There's no need for all this people-pestering guys! A carefully orchestrated political campaign could see our current party of fox hunters usurped by the very animal they so despise.

Faced with that choice, I know who I'd vote.

The evolution of excuses in the modern age

Yesterday I turned up to the office late, feeling sheepish and something of a tool.

If I had the swagger of say, Mr Kanye West, I would have strolled into the office, removed my impractical luminous stripe-sunglasses and launched a verbal tirade to my co-workers: "You should be honoured by my lateness/ that I would even turn up to this fake shit/ so go ahead, go nuts go ape shit".

However, in the real world, this sort of lofty arrogance has consequences. Like senior management beckoning you into their office, saying: "Tom, you got a minute?". (The phrase most feared by desk monkeys nationwide.)

The family Hall has a proud history of excuse-making and general avoidance of responsibility. My brother once camped-out in our 6ft x 4ft loft for a week to avoid telling my parents he'd been suspended. He even intercepted the school's letter as it came through the door and drafted a response purported to be from my mum.

The exercise taught him a valuable lesson in mental aptitude (judging which house exits and entrances to use to best avoid adult detection), english (penning a letter using the convincing narrative voice of a 40 year old woman), food technology (he had to make his own grub, I assume) and history (he underwent first hand the trials of Anne Frank, albeit without as dire consequences).

In another dysfunctional family episode, my dad once refused to accept responsibility when he lost a fried egg he'd cooked. He undertook an exhaustive search of the dining area, pointing in anger at smirking faces household-wide, even blaming the cat at one stage.

He only saw the humour in the situation after considerable hindsight. The egg never showed up.

Thankfully, my late arrival to work yesterday required little acceptance of responsibility on my part because I am currently running the magazine on my own whilst the rest of my team are swanning about at a trade show in Vegas. Bloody Vegas!

The genuine reason for my lateness however, would have taken a lengthy explanation. Basically- after a recommendation from my friend Emma- I downloaded Sleep Cycle, an iPhone app. The software harnesses the motion detecting functionality of Steve Job's ubiquitous device to measure the amount of movement a person makes in their sleep.

Active periods of movement indicate deeper sleep- with the device waking you at the most suitable point of lighter sleep before the time you set. It's the sort of faddy, pseudo scientific ball crap I'm the key demographic for.

Unfortunately, the app also saps the battery of the iPhone and needs to be plugged in over night- a flaw I failed to account for.

I awoke then, in a state of panic at 9.06am after having a strange, but oddly comforting dream about porridge.

Fail.

BFF(uniquely modern)F.

Life Guff: Election 'Special'

If I were to draw a New Yorker style cartoon to parody the upcoming election, it'd depict one lame, tired ass wrapped in yellow, blue and red ribbons, staggering its useless behind to the finish line. A lot ain't going to change folks, no matter who gets in.

I don't usually talk about politics, but the election is as good an excuse as any. Below is a rundown of the key issues, and why I’m damned to vote for any of the three major parties:

Climate change
I’m not a scientist, so the fact that I don’t really ‘buy’ human caused climate change theories is irrelevant. However, I do reject that there’s a scientific consensus.

My main gripe with the model, pushed by all the big three political parties, is that- even if we converted the entire grid to renewable energy- the energy needed to do so would create a carbon deficit so large that we'd plummet head-on into a global apocalypse. Not only that, but- as Noel Gallagher said "how are we going to convince everyone in China to turn off their fridges?"

To delve deeper, the green movement is fundamentally doomed, simply because the entire capitalist system would be utterly undermined by a free-power economy. Was anyone really surprised that the Copenhagen Climate Conference was an utter failure? Scarily, the system's rejection of efficient energy technology goes on all the time.

A family friend worked for a major motorcycle manufacturer and, around 20 years ago, he invented a carburetor engine which could achieve around 200mpg (if I remember correctly). Suffice to say, the idea was bought out by an (faux-interested/friendly) oil company- making him wealthy. The technology itself, however, was quietly swept under the carpet.

This presents an interesting dilemma. If we back a capitalist agenda then should we also accept this suppression as necessary to perpetuating the system? Or- as has become all the more real over the past few years- is it a sign that we are just putting off the framework’s inevitable collapse?

Which brings me to...

The economy
Again, I’m not qualified to say for certain which party’s system would work best- and probably neither are you (the last collapse was only predicted by a fringe few). A businessman said to me the other day: “I think the Tories would be better for the economy in general, but they would cut public service and jobs significantly so as my business relies on public enterprise, we’d be harder hit under them”.

This sums it up really. It’s just a monetary tug-of-war. The natural urge is to punish those b(w)ankers who caused the crisis- capping bonuses etc- but, in practice, if we stifle their earning power, then we will weaken our international competitiveness when we need to be picking ourselves up.

I don't pretend to have the solution here. What has become pretty obvious though, is that the current inflationary, debt-based system, promoted by all three major parties, is rotten at the core. It’s no coincidence that people who invested in gold and other 'tangible' stocks profited greatly during the recession.

The mainstream media has largely ignored the route causes of the financial collapse. Some respected economists from the Wall St Journal are holding 'The End is Nigh' placards already, encouraging people to start hoarding food and to prepare for social uprisings. Extreme maybe, but what about the next, inevitably worse, recession? What if hyperinflation kicks-in next time? How long can a federal reserve style system where money is based literally on nothing survive?

(watch this video for a crippling analysis of why the system is fundamentally flawed)

Europe/ Immigration

As a rule of thumb, it’s best not to align yourself with Robert Killroy Silk, however, on the issue of Europe, I think he has a point, even if his party members have shown some worryingly right-wing viewpoints.

The EU is basically an unelected, unaccountable, money-frittering entity eerily akin to the Soviet Union in its setup. In my view, we'd be supporting human freedom by opposing it. Brussels has a disproportionate amount of control over the UK and stifles our businesses. It’s sly, undemocratic insistence that we adopt the Lisbon Treaty is an abomination. Sure, there is a degree of altruism in helping out poorer member states, but I think we’d be better off adopting free-trade with Europe on our own terms and conducting altruism via fairtrade schemes and the like.

This man spells it out well. Basically our EU membership is leaking billions each year whilst encouraging more people to flood into our crowded island. Opting out of the EU would allow us to better control this. And, no, none of the three parties would be any good in this area- they just confuse the issue. It is not ‘racist’ to oppose immigration if the infrastructure is not coping- it's common sense.

What is more evidently ‘racist’- to go off on a slight tangent- is New Labour’s preoccupation with demonising certain racial minorities. You are twice as likely to die under a vending machine than by a terrorist attack, yet under this strange guise, we’ve utterly sold out on the basic human rights earnt the hard way over 1,000s of years. Labour has created a legal framework for an Orwellian dystopia. And, yes, the Tories would have done the same, or worse.

Race is the thorniest of issues, but I think they miss the point. White, black and Asian lawyers, for example, all hang out together in the same way that council estate youngsters with different skin tones do. People are united by circumstance, so I slightly resent Labour and the Tories preaching about 'integration'. People with similar things in common, be it religion or trainspotting, will always flock together.

That said, aspects from every culture, rac and movement spill into each other, enriching the fabric of society. Something Nick Griffin will never fathom.

Foreign policy

Iraq was a wake-up call about how government is run. We don't vote for a party, we vote for more powerful, shadowy elite of businesses whose agendas can quite literally kill innocent people.

Like pretty much every war it engages in, the West entered Iraq on false pretenses. Sure, Saddam was an evil tyrant, but ‘regime change’ was always going to be fail. It’s never worked before, but now the blood is on UK/US hands, not Saddam's.

Military intervention is just a new spin on colonialism. The joke, to use the least appropriate word, is on us though, because a sure sign of a failing empire is when a country spreads its international disputes too wide, whilst facing economic turmoil domestically. Ring a bell?

Afghanistan, which all the three major parties back, is another farce. Bush said "we're fighting 'them' there so we don't have to fight 'them' here". However, even the mainstream media has exposed the myth that is al Quaeda- and Dick Cheney backs it up too. (I really recommend the linked BBC documentary by the way). Soldiers need to wake-up and ask the same questions this man did.

More evidence that corporations run governments (not that we need it) is shown in the failure of Obama to withdraw troops, despite his pre-election promises.

Education/ Science/ Technology
The most important starting block of any government is that, on a biological level, we’re all born as walking bags of genes, waiting to be expressed in whichever way our environment dictates.

The rich are getting richer and the poor, poorer in the current system, yet the Tory framework (continued by New Labour), and egged on by Daily Mail headlines, actually encourages the very environment they so fear. Define irony?

To put it crudely, by creating a system in which a deprived, angry, undereducated class emerges, we’re putting everyone at risk. The Conservative’s proposed solution of discipline, hard sentences etc is, transversely, part of the cause of the problem in the first place.

The book They Fuck You Up by Oliver James clearly shows how the first few years of a person's life shape them forever. Constant exams, competitiveness, consumer culture etc is having a serious detriment. Happiness should be the end goal, not profit. We should look to Denmark to guide us.

Conclusion...

In Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World,the government creates a society based on an iceberg metaphor in which eight-ninths of the population remains 'underwater'. It doesn’t pay to have smart, enlightened people, basically. Especially if they're poor.

I don't think it's going out on a limb to say that the current three parties all secretly follow this doctrine to a degree. Perhaps I'm naive, and this is the best we can expect. Until I'm proven wrong though, I'm going to opt for liberal, and some may say idealistic, politics. Out of the big three, The Lib Dems most resemble that, I guess.

What's more, in the recent debates, Clegg and Brown actually back-up their visions honestly by admitting they will raise taxes. Cameron's "let's cut waste" claim in painfully transparent. Clue: he means jobs.

A Tory parliament would almost certainly be woefully split, a Labour one would be too stagnant and, to my utter distaste, would introduce invasive ID cards. A Lib Dem setup would be inexperienced, but at least they'd likely be united.

Out of the major three then, Clegg is making the best case for my cross in a box, even if I am slightly sick in my mouth when I do so. Can we have a clean up in Polling Booth 3?!

Trust me

About a year ago, I underwent a snap facial-trustworthiness test, which I passed with flying colours.

I was summoned to a quiet suburb in Wimbledon to pick-up a print of Roy Lichtenstein’s Whaaam! – a modernist painting which makes a powerful statement on the de-humanisation of modern warfare but, more importantly, looks freaking cool because it has planes, explosions and shit.

The lady who answered the door, the type who runs local book club evenings, engaged me in some throwaway small talk- clearly a mini-audition that I passed- because she then left me in charge of her four year-old son for what amounted to 20 minutes while she popped to a friend’s car to fetch the aforementioned 1960s artwork.

So, there I was in what resembled an Ikea show home in South London, trying to tame a hyperactive nipper before sticking on In the Night Garden which, like televisual Ritalin, transfixed him in an awe-like state.

(And me too actually, the freeform narrative structure combined with the carefree, playfully curious nature of the lead protagonist makes for an soothing, otherworldly experience)

Having the prerequisite middle class accent and the necessary ‘angles of trust’ etched into my Chevvy Chase are traits for which I should be thankful. Secretly though, I wish I looked a little bit more, I dunno, edgy.

If I could undergo a face swap, I’d probably exchange with DiCaprio. That way I’d be able to look as if I’m grappling with a crippling internal angst, whilst being good looking in a non-irritating, populist way.

Poor DiCaprio, meanwhile, would be stuck with my strangely oblong ‘boat race’, and resigned to roles in Dawson’s Creek and straight to video romantic comedies.

Anyway, when the lady returned, I paid promptly for the goods and made my way home.

She was, of course, unaware that when she walked in, I was in the process of selling her energetic youngster to a major sportswear manufacturer in Turkey on the same auction site from which I purchased the artwork. Bit of irony for you there.

The issue of trust then, is a complex one and people make surprisingly snap decisions based on evolutionary imposed signifiers. Which brings me tenuously to politics and the upcoming election.

As Groucho Marx said, “If you can fake sincerity, you’ve got it made”, but then he also said “I wouldn’t want to be part of any club that would have me as a member”.

- My next post will be a lengthy political rant.

(For legal reasons I should add at this point that I did not, and have not ever tried and sell anyone's offspring on eBay.)

Insane Clown Posse, Miracles (a WTF?! moment)

I literally don't know where to start with this music video, except to point out that every 'miracle' in the song should be easily understood by key stage 4 science students.

Yes, even "fucking rainbows".


If you want to LOL further at the expense of others, then check out this fan made video, shot from a deeply unflattering angle. (Sorry the video can't be embedded)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JPLbSoVYknY&feature=related

* Guilty sidenote: After a couple of plays this song's kind of grown on me. I have to conceed that it takes a unique artistic vision to rap about a pelican eating your cell phone whilst dressed as a reverse minstrel.

Re-interpreting Ricky Martin's lyrics in light of recent revelations

My world sank the other day when I found out latin love god Ricky Martin was not the man I thought he was.

My morning routine, which involves jumping out of bed- Byker Grove title sequence style- into my Bert and Ernie slippers, before preparing a sooper mocha frappuccino latte, is always much-enhanced by the hip gyrating rhythms of Livin' La Vida Loca or follow-up single She Bangs.

Now, frankly, it all just feels a bit, gay.

I'd always imagined The Martster and I schmoozin' the ladies of downtown Rio after ritually applying fake tan, waxing our chests and changing into a fresh pair of impractical, but hella revealin', leather trousers. What could be straighter?! I thought.

Perhaps I misinterpreted his lyrics.

'She'll make you take your clothes off and go dancing in the rain.' (she's against wasting water by showering)

'She will wear you out, she's livin la vida loca!' (she's into high intensity cardio and is actually clincally insane)

'I go crazy 'cause she/ Looks like a flower/ But she stings like a bee/ Like every girl in history' (maybe he just had one bad experience with a girl/bumble bee hybrid and assumes every girl is like that.)

I still got love for you Ricky (this isn't my Jan Moir moment), but it's time to align myself with a new heterosexual role model. I'm thinking Tom Cruise in Top Gun, John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever or ladies man crooner Cliff Richard.

Comedy I like: part 1

The Day Today- Jam interview


Big Train- Tyrant at home


Stewart Lee- Princess Diana


Big Train- passing opinions off as your own


Adam Buxton- Obama's alternative victory speech


Biff from Back to the Future- A song about questions he gets asked a lot


Dog running in its sleep


Catchprase cock-up


Flea Market, Montgomery

He's basically a black David Brent.



Adam and Joe- Handy Andy


Bobby Conn- Never Going to Get Ahead

This is not meant to be 'funny' as such, but it gets me every time. The oddballs in the audience; his dancing and ego complex; the shellsuit; the Care in the Community feel of it all. Televisual gold dust.

When spam gets poetic

From: Dennis Wolf [mailto:1c2eldd@chinamobile.com]
Sent: 24 March 2010 19:40
To: Tom Hall
Subject: Melvin Hodge

She must have alluded to her father. Will you take my advice? Come and sit down here beside me. That is what I told her. He went in through the garden. She was born for love. What could she do? Such a lovely plan!
Reuben Metaxa that you wants. It is here. It smothers me.I'll ask Jane. FRIENDS IN NEED. What is the money to me? I'll tell her.
Would you like me to show you? Those are forests. But not with pleasure. The other two were evidently brothers. Why from different people.
No virus found in this incoming message.
Checked by AVG - www.avg.com
Version: 9.0.791 / Virus Database: 271.1.1/2766 - Release Date: 03/23/10 19:33:00

The above is a genu-wine piece of spam emailage, sent by one Dennis Wolf, who a good friend informed me shares the same name of a pro bodybuilder!

Assuming it is said preening meathead, I have to say, I quite admire his literary style. It's fractured, melancholy and somehow defiant. Reminiscent of 18 Century greats like Emily Dickinson and Edgar Allan Poe.

Like myself, I feel Wolf falls apart by taking on too many weighty themes and drifting too far into obscurity, thus alienating his audience.

He also failed to plug any products or fabricate an elaborate story about his wealthy African ancestory to tempt us into parting with our cash- a must in any self respecting spam email.

Wolf should have stuck to what he knows, namely how best to lift heavy lumps of metal as a means to resembling tragic children's TV presenter Mark Speight after a radiation accident in a Cheetos factory.

The email should have read something like this:

From: Dennis Wolf [mailto:1c2eldd@chinamobile.com]
Sent: 24 March 2010 19:40
To: Tom Hall
Subject: Melvin Hodge

She must have alluded to her spotting partner. Will you take my advice on correct dumbbell form? Come and sit down here beside the free weights bench. That is what I told her. He went in through the gym reception area. She was born for high intensity cardio workouts. What could she do? Such a lovely fitness plan!
Dennis Wolf Mega Super Whey Iso-bars that you wants. It is here in three delicious flavours. It smothers me like the bigger man with bigger muscles that haunts my dreams. I'll ask Jane. FRIENDS IN THE SAUNA TO CHAT WITH ABOUT HOW MY DELTS ARE LOOKING. What is the money to me? Who needs money when you have a six pack that could grate cheese?
Would you like me to show you my guns? They are like oak trees. But not with pleasure. I have body dimorphism so to me they look like small pine cones.

Quit being a puny pen pusher!!! Order Dennis Wolf Mega Super Whey Iso-Bars now!!!!

No virus found in this incoming message.
Checked by AVG - www.avg.com
Version: 9.0.791 / Virus Database: 271.1.1/2766 - Release Date: 03/23/10 19:33:00

Live performances I wish I'd been at part 1

I wasn't present at any of these musical delights, but if the grandchildren ask, I'll bend the truth and say I was.

If the grand-kids then call me a liar, and tease me about not being their real granddad, I'll send them to bed without dinner- which will probably come in pill form by then, so they'll no doubt have a load stashed in their satchels anyway. Curse these imaginary future blighters!

Moving on. Here's a few rock performances I really dig, collated for ease of viewing.

The Strokes on Letterman

I love how lead singer Julian Casablancas (the band all have improbably amazing names) manages to fall over a guitar amp and emerge cooler for it.



Radiohead on From the Basement

A gem of a moment from a year ago, that captures the band's newfound swagger.



Jeff Buckley at Glastonbury

This man's vocal range is said to reach the highs of a castrati and the lows of a tenor. No one's matched him since, or before.

The take home lesson from his tragically short life? Don't swim in rivers after one too many Jack Daniels kids : (



Jay-Z at Glastonbury

Lapping up- and living up to- the hype, Jay-Z 'pwns' Glasto rap naysayers with the show's best performance. In your face narrow-mindedness.



Beatles Don't Let me Down on the Apple Corps rooftop, 1969

Lennon was off of his face on smack, McCartney was holding the band together by a fine thread, YET the tension sort of gives an untangible edge to this performance, which was designed to wind up the local cops.



Death Cab studio session

Not many bands can pull of an epic tension-building intro, let alone release it as a single.

The lyrics to the track, when they eventually come in, are a little bit 'stalky' on reflection. Still, an undeniably good bass line.

Reality

Upon dismounting the stairs on the top floor of the Stratford-based spa hotel I'm visiting due to my fortuitous occupation, I remark to The Brunette (yep, I'm using AA Gill's affectionate terminology now) that I sometimes question whether I'm completely mad and imagining everything. For all I know, I say, I could well be strutting nonchalently through an Aberdeen crack den, talking to myself, dressed in a bin liner and Jesus sandals.

She giggles, probably at me, not with me.

Given that I have a lot of spare time on my hands, and that hotel rooms are fairly dull when you're not engaged in the various horizontal entertainment options, I continue riffing on this Descartian (or 'Matrix-esque' to people who don't spend their time over-analysing Keanu Reaves flicks) alley of a conversation.

Like the character Cypher in the hit 1999 film, I would rather take the blue pill and live through a fake, but enjoyable, simulation than face a harsh, but potentially spiritually rich, reality. The Brunette agrees and I shut up for a second- a rare event- and put on the television.

The curiously square and curvy relic features an unresponsive and unnavigatable electronic programming guide which forces me to give up and leave it on Sky News.

Current ramblings on the slick and ever-earnest 24 hour Murdochian cable channel revolve around the alleged activities of Jon Venables, one of the murderers of James Bulger. Still a subject that's difficult to stomach.

I'm very much aware that this is hardly the best viewing option for a romantic weekend away- damn this malfunctioning digibox- but I leave it on, mainly because I'm about to start another undergrad-level philosophy rant.

What if, I begin, Venables is essentially living life on a different plain of reality? Maybe that's what evil is, some fucked-up psychlogical plateau in which someone can have the same consideration for human life that I do when playing Grand Theft Auto?

Everyone, for example, would percieve the floral curtains in this hotel room with a different frame of reference (personally I find them a bit mid-nineties and Noveau Riche, since you asked) but very few, I hope, would consider driving through San Andreas, or Stratford Upon Avon for that matter, in a stolen Cadillac at 100mph whilst carrying a 9mm Uzi. It would take a very different level of reality, no?

The Brunette, who studied Criminology, asks whether I'm trying to say that I would have locked up Venables for his crimes or allowed him to lead a more normal life in which steps can be taken to erase this 'alternate reality' in which he lives.

It's an irritatingly logical question which throws me a bit, but I carry on with my rant regardless, notching it up a level, mainly for shock value.

What then, if the people in high positions of power, politicians and the like, have achieved their high-standing because they live in a warped mode of 'reality' which facilitates a borderline psychotic charm offensive which is effective at deluding people and ultimately leading us into wars? Maybe evil works in different ways and people are never aware they are 'evil'.

I wouldn't have led us into war. But I'm also not knocking down doors canvassing for votes, I add, probably coming off like a pompous cross between Alex Jones and Eric Cartman.

Nethertheless, I think I'm onto something and I'm reminded of this book which I'll probably never be arsed to read.

The rant is left hanging. Cartoons come on the telly. It's not on Sky News anymore, unless Murdoch's had a major strategic rethink. Which I'd be all for.

I lie down and chill out for a bit, like normal people do at spas. I take the blue pill, drift off, and enjoy the antics of Tom and Jerry- a show that features a cat with the same name as me, which for some reason forces me to side with him.

I get lost imagining myself locked in an eternal struggle with a cocky, but infinitely resourceful, mouse. An insightful allegory for life itself maybe?

No. No it isn't... Maybe I have lost it?

I look down, raise a puzzled eyebrow, and refrain from asking whether I'm wearing Jesus sandles. I've got enough on my plate anyway, what with this pesky rodent and all.

Quick Brit Awards rant...

I don't pretend to know exactly who epitomises the zeitgeist, but it's safe to say that Mel B, The Spice Girls, Samantha Fox, Mel B again, and Noddy Holder aren't exactly the darlings the showbiz world nowadays.

Mel B's recent appointment as Maharishi and bastion of all worldly knowledge must have passed me by. Why the hell was she deemed suitable to present nearly every award- What did you think of Lady Gaga's performance Mel B? Who do you appreciate in the current music scene Mel B? Is man nearer the central truth in his superstitions, than he is in his science, Mel B?

Peter Kay, who got progressively funnier as the night went on, did his best to hold the event together. I enjoyed his quips about the 'diversity' of Lord of the Rings 1,2 and 3 star Andy Circus' acting career.

His description of Liam Gallagher ("a knobhead") was spot on too. Honestly, who actually cares about Oasis since Morning Glory anyway? and why does a man who ran away when a teenager attacked his brother onstage still posture as a hardman?

Maybe we should ask Mel B.

Besides Kay, humour was woefully absent. Acceptance speeches fell flat on their faces and were completely ignored by an audience chatting amongst themselves, understandably.

Elsewhere, Jonathan Ross' rapper disguise made Richard Madeley's Ali G prank look like a deftly observed Wildian parody. Seriously, what the feck was he doing?

Other celebrities were acting a little, odd, too. Dizzee Rascal apparently thinks it's socially acceptable to perform a antler horn-locking jig with a member of his entourage as a gesture of jubilation, Cheryl Cole showed off her knack of mouthing the words to lyrics she'd previously uttered and Lily Allen donned a wig based on Chris Evans' hair circa 1996.

On the plus side, Jay-Z smacked it, and Kay was quite funny. Oh, I said that already. Yeah, bit of a damp squib the 'ol Brit Awards, but then, it is a show voted for by GMTV viewers.

Noughty lists

The Noughties are over, and the internet's grown to the point where it's basically a giant brain, enabling everyone to become a mini expert on everything.

Recently, during a menial conversation about Corn Flakes with a person I just made-up, I left the table, Googled for a bit on my iPhone, came back and brazenly threw this nugget of raw factoid out there:

"Did you know that corn was of critical importance to the Native American group called the Hopi. In an area where food was often scarce, corn provided a relatively stable food supply with important nutritional value."

Impressed by my intellectual fortitude, my imaginary accompolise then left the table for a bit himself, came back and retorted:

"The Native American Hopi tribe you say? You mean the ones who primarily live on the 12,635 km² Hopi Reservation in northeastern Arizona which is entirely surrounded by the much larger Navajo Reservation?"

As with so many an intellectual tête-à-tête, the whole debacle eventually descended into a full on fist fight, from which I was able to emerge the victor by implementing instuctions I'd read on the web about the one inch punch, a technique from Chinese martial arts performed at very close (0-6 inches) range.

The one inch punch was popularised by actor and martial artist Bruce Lee and is commonly believed to come from the Wing Chun system of Kung Fu, I understand.

....

Yes, the Noughties for me has been characterised by know-alls. Smug know-alls and a plane crash.

My next few posts will be me rounding up my favourite things from the last decade, albums and stuff.

Did you have a good Christmas and New Year Mr Hall???...

... Is a question I get asked regularly at this time of year in polite conversation.

Usually I hone a little set routine which succinctly sums up my Yule Tide shenanigans in a sentence designed not to tax too much time from the person who asked- I'm self depracating enough to realise that the question is merely intended as clumsy conversational foreplay.

This year, however, I balked a little more than usual when asked this question. To be specific, the word 'Christmas' is now accompanied by an image of the woman who birthed me in agony on the living room floor whilst the phrase 'New Year' conjures a macabre flashback of my cupboard filled with human sick.

You see, over Christmas, my mum was taken ill with stones in the gall bladder- which is pretty much a world of pain as I understand it- and a fate that may well await me if I have the same hereditary condition, the otherwise uneventful Gilberts disease. Gulp.

The ordeal was heightened by a 45 minute wait for an ambulance and further complications which I'll quickly bore you with- the rather serious Pancreatitis and pseudocysts on the pancreas.

Pseudocysts, I can only assume, are bits of debris pretending to be cysts. Pretty low aspirations in life, even for debris.

Mrs Hall is now making a valiant recovery- you'll be glad to hear.

But what about the cupboard full of sick? You ask, because I just wrote that you did.

Well, this was a separate incident. New Years Eve started off well in a pleasant bar in Queenstown Road, Battersea. A quick montage of booze, laughter and mayhem later and it was morning.

I awake on my sofa- leg propped out, sort of toeing my coffee table seductively- to a phone call which was lost due to the perennial signal problems that beseech my basement flat.

I then stagger into my bedroom, which I had dutifully given up for my sister and her two friends. I'll grab a jumper and make the call outside, I reason.

To retrieve said garment, I walk towards my cupboard and... I'm hardly the master of Hitchcockian suspense here as I'm sure you know what's coming... essentially, my finest garments or yarn were coated in a thick layer of human bile mixed with stagnated booze and the obligatory pieces of carrot.

It was my sister's friend whodunnit. Sigh, it usually is.

Queue montage of said companion holding mop, me suppressing rage with a much-practiced look of sincerity, her reaching for the relevant cleaning utensils, looking green, leaving my house apologetically and then screeching off in her car- no doubt to reassess her life choices and perhaps embrace one of the five major world religions.

Queue second montage of me grabbing mop, finishing the job properly, then cleaning the rest of my flat in a OCD-like attempt to restore order and decency to this particular boxed unit in sleepy North Putney.

... So, enough about me. Did you have a good Christmas and New Year???? :-)