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.