onionbagblog
Mondays Musings
David Bowie - 'Sound and Vision'
Strange to find the bandwagon hopping chameleon release an album at the fag end of 2003 which has the same title as his Greatest Hits tour some thirteen years ago - you know, the very same one where he wheeled out Major Tom, Ziggy and Aladdin for the VERY LAST TIME. Well lookey here then... Seems like despite endless reviews year after year which re-cycle the phrase 'Bowie's best album since Let's Dance,' there hasn't actually been anything of worth post 1983. To be fair to the South London geezer though, there was about fifteen minutes of magic on this years' hit and miss effort, Reality. As for this latest package, well, same old same really. If you don't already own Rebel Rebel, Young Americans and Ashes to Ashes then we should have lost you a long time ago. Nicely packaged up amongst four discs (count em - FOUR!!!!), and with a RRP at 40 quid plus, this should keep the old codger in Beno and Hedges for at least another year.
Muse - 'Hysteria'
Difficult to take a Freddie Mercury clone seriously now that we have the laugh a minute Darkness boys having a good time, ALL the time. If you can see beyond Matt Bellamy's comedy falsetto, outrageously camp piano breaks and his set of knashers that beam FREDDIE from one ear to the other, chances are that you don’t own a copy of Bohemian Rhapsody. Exactly what is the point of Muse as we approach 2004? If you want authenticity then back track to A Night at the Opera. If you want to act like a twat revelling in the irony of retro metal then The Darkness have already landed. Radio Ga Ga etc...
Will Young - 'Fridays Child'
Mondays child is fair of face,
Tuesdays child is full of grace,
Wednesdays child is full of woe,
Thursdays child has far to go,
Fridays child is loving and giving,
Saturdays child works hard for his living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Looks like Will got his days confused then.
All singles and albums are released today
Mass Mondays Musings
 |
| Monday 1 December, 2003 |
David Bowie - 'Sound and Vision'
Strange to find the bandwagon hopping chameleon release an album at the fag end of 2003 which has the same title as his Greatest Hits tour some thirteen years ago - you know, the very same one where he wheeled out Major Tom, Ziggy and Aladdin for the VERY LAST TIME. Well lookey here then... Seems like despite endless reviews year after year which re-cycle the phrase 'Bowie's best album since Let's Dance,' there hasn't actually been anything of worth post 1983. To be fair to the South London geezer though, there was about fifteen minutes of magic on this years' hit and miss effort, Reality. As for this latest package, well, same old same really. If you don't already own Rebel Rebel, Young Americans and Ashes to Ashes then we should have lost you a long time ago. Nicely packaged up amongst four discs (count em - FOUR!!!!), and with a RRP at 40 quid plus, this should keep the old codger in Beno and Hedges for at least another year.
Muse - 'Hysteria'
Difficult to take a Freddie Mercury clone seriously now that we have the laugh a minute Darkness boys having a good time, ALL the time. If you can see beyond Matt Bellamy's comedy falsetto, outrageously camp piano breaks and his set of knashers that beam FREDDIE from one ear to the other, chances are that you don’t own a copy of Bohemian Rhapsody. Exactly what is the point of Muse as we approach 2004? If you want authenticity then back track to A Night at the Opera. If you want to act like a twat revelling in the irony of retro metal then The Darkness have already landed. Radio Ga Ga etc...
Will Young - 'Fridays Child'
Mondays child is fair of face,
Tuesdays child is full of grace,
Wednesdays child is full of woe,
Thursdays child has far to go,
Fridays child is loving and giving,
Saturdays child works hard for his living,
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.
Looks like Will got his days confused then.
All singles and albums are released today
Mass Mondays Musings
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Streatham Redskins 5 Basingstoke Buffalo 2, 30/11/03
Old time hockey needn’t resort to blue collar teams grinding out a dump and chase bore of a game; the re-born Streatham Redskins are playing a fluent passing style of hockey, epitomised in the classy second goal for the home team during the first period with the puck being passed all around the High Road ice pad. A fluke of an own goal saw the Redskins go in with a 3:0 lead at the end of the first, and with a freshly made flask of tea in my hand and The Clash's Safe European Home booming out around the PA in the old barn, I was close to hockey heaven. Well, as close as you can be in Streatham. I almost stood up and applauded when the track came to an end, it really did sound that good. Buffalo forced their way back in the second period pulling back two goals, only for local boy Wayne Trunchion to seal a superb victory for Streatham with a breakaway wrap around effort in the third.
Highlight: Confirmation of the Redskins Christmas party later next month - bring it on!
Crap Match Report Compendium
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| Sunday 30 November, 2003 |
Streatham Redskins 5 Basingstoke Buffalo 2, 30/11/03
Old time hockey needn’t resort to blue collar teams grinding out a dump and chase bore of a game; the re-born Streatham Redskins are playing a fluent passing style of hockey, epitomised in the classy second goal for the home team during the first period with the puck being passed all around the High Road ice pad. A fluke of an own goal saw the Redskins go in with a 3:0 lead at the end of the first, and with a freshly made flask of tea in my hand and The Clash's Safe European Home booming out around the PA in the old barn, I was close to hockey heaven. Well, as close as you can be in Streatham. I almost stood up and applauded when the track came to an end, it really did sound that good. Buffalo forced their way back in the second period pulling back two goals, only for local boy Wayne Trunchion to seal a superb victory for Streatham with a breakaway wrap around effort in the third.
Highlight: Confirmation of the Redskins Christmas party later next month - bring it on!
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Towers 81 Sheffield Sharks 90, 29/11/03
A packed Palace for the BBL Trophy semi-final double header. First out were the Towers on their home court taking on top of the table side the Sheffield Sharks. The visitors set the early pace with a 16-21 lead at the end of the first. In the second quarter the Sharks sunk a series of three pointers, taking control of the game 42-48 at the halfway stage. Yet another Robert Youngblood inspired comeback for the Towers in the third helped set up a frantic fourth quarter, with the Sharks putting on the pressure and eventually powering ahead at the end buzzer. Always look for the positive - the final will be televised live on Grandstand early in the New Year and the BBC will no doubt manage to fuck it up. Best off well out of it. Yeah right...
Lost interest in the second semi. Sour loser. Managed to make a packet of Minstrels last an entire game as I admired the dedication of the 200 or so travelling fans of the Scottish Rocks. Suddenly switched my allegiances to north of the border, just as the Jocks put in a fantastic comeback against the dirty Thames Valley Tigers; a three pointer at the buzzer took the game to overtime. The Tigers lost their nerve and our Scottish friends celebrated their imminent fame and fortune sharing the billing with live marbles on the BBC next year.
Basketball players are BIG muthas. The Towers did the meet n greet thing after their game but I thought it best not share my new found 'don’t give a toss that you lost' attitude with the seven footers.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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| Saturday 29 November, 2003 |
London Towers 81 Sheffield Sharks 90, 29/11/03
A packed Palace for the BBL Trophy semi-final double header. First out were the Towers on their home court taking on top of the table side the Sheffield Sharks. The visitors set the early pace with a 16-21 lead at the end of the first. In the second quarter the Sharks sunk a series of three pointers, taking control of the game 42-48 at the halfway stage. Yet another Robert Youngblood inspired comeback for the Towers in the third helped set up a frantic fourth quarter, with the Sharks putting on the pressure and eventually powering ahead at the end buzzer. Always look for the positive - the final will be televised live on Grandstand early in the New Year and the BBC will no doubt manage to fuck it up. Best off well out of it. Yeah right...
 Basketball players are BIG muthas |
Basketball players are BIG muthas. The Towers did the meet n greet thing after their game but I thought it best not share my new found 'don’t give a toss that you lost' attitude with the seven footers.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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Jobcentre Xmas Recruitment Dilema:
Too many bloody Santas again...
| Friday 28 November, 2003 |
Too many bloody Santas again...
| #permalink |
Is this the Biggest Spoonhead in Britain?
Right wing 'historian' (read: fairytale teller) and Daily Mail columnist Simon Heffer last smiled in public back in 1976. And that was only because Princess Anne won an Olympic silver medal.
Having just sat through 50 minutes of Question Time featuring fatty 'Hereford' Heffer, the question has to be asked:
Is this man the biggest spoonhead in Britain?
What can be done to raise a smile from the man who thought Schindler's List was on par with the Only Fools and Horses Christmas special? A return to capital punishment is not an option…
• Heffer should be forced to spend 96 hours largin it at Glastonbury. With Bez as his personal host.
• Sod that - actually he should be spoon fed some serious Class A's and then be asked to write his column for The Daily Mail. It may make more sense then.
• Heffer is crony of Michael Howard and shares his 'prison works' sentiment:
'Prison is not just supposed to be a deterrent. It is supposed to be a punishment. It is supposed to be the vehicle of the expression of society's disapproval of certain unpleasant crimes.'
Fine - a life sentence in Brixton nick then for the porky chopped Tory Boy on account of his crimes against journalism and general repugnant public behaviour. Perhaps he'll then see the funny side of slopping out.
• Michael Portillo recently spent a week living as a single 'mum' on a Liverpool council estate as part of a crass TV project / blatant vote grabber. Heffer should star in a follow up series, renting a piss-stained sofa in a Toxteth crack den with Brian Harvey. Laugh a minute reality TV guaranteed.
• Failing all this, Heffer should be a handed a copy of the Daily Mail with the Viz masthead inserted in place of the Mail's. Endless hours of fun seeing how long it takes him to spot the error.
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| Thursday 27 November, 2003 |
Right wing 'historian' (read: fairytale teller) and Daily Mail columnist Simon Heffer last smiled in public back in 1976. And that was only because Princess Anne won an Olympic silver medal.
Having just sat through 50 minutes of Question Time featuring fatty 'Hereford' Heffer, the question has to be asked:
Is this man the biggest spoonhead in Britain?
A life sentence in Brixton nick for the porky chopped Tory Boy |
• Heffer should be forced to spend 96 hours largin it at Glastonbury. With Bez as his personal host.
• Sod that - actually he should be spoon fed some serious Class A's and then be asked to write his column for The Daily Mail. It may make more sense then.
• Heffer is crony of Michael Howard and shares his 'prison works' sentiment:
'Prison is not just supposed to be a deterrent. It is supposed to be a punishment. It is supposed to be the vehicle of the expression of society's disapproval of certain unpleasant crimes.'
Fine - a life sentence in Brixton nick then for the porky chopped Tory Boy on account of his crimes against journalism and general repugnant public behaviour. Perhaps he'll then see the funny side of slopping out.
• Michael Portillo recently spent a week living as a single 'mum' on a Liverpool council estate as part of a crass TV project / blatant vote grabber. Heffer should star in a follow up series, renting a piss-stained sofa in a Toxteth crack den with Brian Harvey. Laugh a minute reality TV guaranteed.
• Failing all this, Heffer should be a handed a copy of the Daily Mail with the Viz masthead inserted in place of the Mail's. Endless hours of fun seeing how long it takes him to spot the error.
| #permalink |
Commandante Joe*
'Somewhere in my soul, there's always rock n roll' - Joe Strummer, Long Shadow
With the first anniversary of the death of Joe Strummer looming, now would be a good time to reflect upon the loss of Uncle Joe.
The impact of The Clash is without a doubt momentous in terms of modern music; the whole Punky Reggae Party kicked off over a can of Red Stripe with the boys from underneath the Westway hanging out with the Notting Hill rastas. The ease with which The Clash soaked up influences, notably dub and even hip hop is set in stone. No Garageland, no Bragg; no London Calling, no Manics; no Magnificent Seven, no Basement Jaxx.
Strummer's roaming years post Clash and pre Mescaleros are often forgotten as some extended lost weekend. But his presence and legacy were always there. Playing with the brew crew in support of Class War, goading the Mondays backstage at Glastonbury and remaining thoroughly shambolic yet still dignified. No Clash reunion, no looking back and still no fucking TOTP. Ever.
Uncle Joe's ability to remain in touch with reality and the changing world around him are a reminder as to how false the cult of celebrity is. When a tabloid star is made overnight after some reality TV show shit, now is the time that we really miss Joe Strummer.
Joe's loss was immense to family and fans alike. On a purely artistic level though the real tragedy is that he had got his act together towards the end and left us on a creative high. Recorded during his final few months, Streetcore is the best of his three solo releases and comes close to matching The Clash at their best. Not the words of someone not wanting to bad mouth the dead, but the truth. Streetcore ROCKS.
The album is tinged with the double irony of featuring another rare untouchable artist who joined Joe this year up in the great Hall of Fame in the sky, no doubt flicking V signs to Lennon, Hendrix, Morrison and all the other fucked up rock junkie wasters. Johnny Cash joins Strummer on the album for a cover of Redemption Song. The two men in black achieve almost the impossible of pissing all over the Marley classic. Who else could have got away with this? Will fucking Young? Save the best till last boys.
I never got to see The Clash and I was always sceptical of all the mythical bullshit floating around about nights at The Rainbow, Rock Against Racism at Brockwell Park and impromptu busking sessions up and down the country. I did manage to catch Strummer and the Mescaleros however two years ago at the laughably Irish themed Fleadh at Finsbury Park.
Here was a man who was not ashamed of his past but still had something to say. No Pistols pantomime punk - the old classics were still given a 100mph rendition and Strummer was clearly worked up over something. Maybe he was always worked up over something? What a beautiful state to be in. Always believing, never surrendering.
'You cast a long shadow and that is my testament' - Joe Strummer
*Title of the excellent poem by Attila the Stockbroker
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| Wednesday 26 November, 2003 |
'Somewhere in my soul, there's always rock n roll' - Joe Strummer, Long Shadow
With the first anniversary of the death of Joe Strummer looming, now would be a good time to reflect upon the loss of Uncle Joe.
The impact of The Clash is without a doubt momentous in terms of modern music; the whole Punky Reggae Party kicked off over a can of Red Stripe with the boys from underneath the Westway hanging out with the Notting Hill rastas. The ease with which The Clash soaked up influences, notably dub and even hip hop is set in stone. No Garageland, no Bragg; no London Calling, no Manics; no Magnificent Seven, no Basement Jaxx.
No Clash reunion, no looking back and still no fucking TOTP. Ever. |
Uncle Joe's ability to remain in touch with reality and the changing world around him are a reminder as to how false the cult of celebrity is. When a tabloid star is made overnight after some reality TV show shit, now is the time that we really miss Joe Strummer.
Joe's loss was immense to family and fans alike. On a purely artistic level though the real tragedy is that he had got his act together towards the end and left us on a creative high. Recorded during his final few months, Streetcore is the best of his three solo releases and comes close to matching The Clash at their best. Not the words of someone not wanting to bad mouth the dead, but the truth. Streetcore ROCKS.
The album is tinged with the double irony of featuring another rare untouchable artist who joined Joe this year up in the great Hall of Fame in the sky, no doubt flicking V signs to Lennon, Hendrix, Morrison and all the other fucked up rock junkie wasters. Johnny Cash joins Strummer on the album for a cover of Redemption Song. The two men in black achieve almost the impossible of pissing all over the Marley classic. Who else could have got away with this? Will fucking Young? Save the best till last boys.
I never got to see The Clash and I was always sceptical of all the mythical bullshit floating around about nights at The Rainbow, Rock Against Racism at Brockwell Park and impromptu busking sessions up and down the country. I did manage to catch Strummer and the Mescaleros however two years ago at the laughably Irish themed Fleadh at Finsbury Park.
Here was a man who was not ashamed of his past but still had something to say. No Pistols pantomime punk - the old classics were still given a 100mph rendition and Strummer was clearly worked up over something. Maybe he was always worked up over something? What a beautiful state to be in. Always believing, never surrendering.
'You cast a long shadow and that is my testament' - Joe Strummer
*Title of the excellent poem by Attila the Stockbroker
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Tooting and Mitcham 1, 25/11/03
Dulwich in the pissing rain, Arsenal at home on TV with a pizza? Looks like I lost the toss. And so it was that with conditions resembling boarding day for Noah and his Ark, we welcomed the team down to Champion Hill who inspired the legendary 'you're worse than Tooting and Mitcham' chant. And what do you know, Tooting and Mitcham were indeed worse than Tooting and Mitcham. Dontcha just love local derbies? This is THE fixture all Hamlet fans look out for and the boys in pink n blue didn't disappoint. Well, they played an honest 90 minutes, but didn't hold back in joining in the mass scrum midway though the first half. Our 'friends' from South London took the lead with a keeper error only for Hamlet to equalise with a classic goal mouth scramble. They all count. Get in there. And Tooting are still crap.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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| Tuesday 25 November, 2003 |
Dulwich Hamlet 1 Tooting and Mitcham 1, 25/11/03
Dulwich in the pissing rain, Arsenal at home on TV with a pizza? Looks like I lost the toss. And so it was that with conditions resembling boarding day for Noah and his Ark, we welcomed the team down to Champion Hill who inspired the legendary 'you're worse than Tooting and Mitcham' chant. And what do you know, Tooting and Mitcham were indeed worse than Tooting and Mitcham. Dontcha just love local derbies? This is THE fixture all Hamlet fans look out for and the boys in pink n blue didn't disappoint. Well, they played an honest 90 minutes, but didn't hold back in joining in the mass scrum midway though the first half. Our 'friends' from South London took the lead with a keeper error only for Hamlet to equalise with a classic goal mouth scramble. They all count. Get in there. And Tooting are still crap.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
Great Balls of Fire
Sun sets over Tate Modern
A damp and dreary late November has been transformed to become a midsummer mist adding a hazy and warm feel to the the Tate Modern. Olafur Eliasson's Weather Project installation creates a giant replica of the sun in the vast Turbine Hall space.
Using nothing but mono frequency lamps and some pumped in mist (probably on loan from the Darkness' stage set), the heat wave of the summer 2003 can be experienced in all its blaze of glory yet again, minus underarm wet patches of course.
The English fascination with the weather as a topic for mundane conversation sits perfectly down at Bankside; where else could you enter a manufactured environment and the main choice of chat with a complete stranger is still: 'Nice weather we're having, isn't it?'
The beauty of the installation, apart from the obvious physical attraction towards a surrogate Sun, is the way that the public have interacted with it; part of the installation is a reflective ceiling which aids the transformation from a vast empty turbine hall to a desert mirage effect.
This reflection projects whatever is happening on the ground level of the Turbine Hall up onto the ceiling above; form a circle of human bodies on the floor and you will see a circle above. Spell out the words GO HOME BUSH in the same style as a crappy Halifax TV advert by laying out the necessary bodies on the floor, and you are generating a new meaning to the work.
This is wonderful example of art being interpreted and actively used by the 'consumers' to shape and re-direct the way that it is appreciated.
My lunchtime visit coincided with a number of school trips where the kids had got wise to the fact that sitting around and forming a human circle was not nearly as exciting as projecting FUCK OFF in giant letters above. All in the name of education Miss, honest.
The Weather Project can be viewed at the Tate Modern until 24 March, 2004. Don't forget your shades, dude.
More discussion here.
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| Monday 24 November, 2003 |
Sun sets over Tate Modern
A damp and dreary late November has been transformed to become a midsummer mist adding a hazy and warm feel to the the Tate Modern. Olafur Eliasson's Weather Project installation creates a giant replica of the sun in the vast Turbine Hall space.
Using nothing but mono frequency lamps and some pumped in mist (probably on loan from the Darkness' stage set), the heat wave of the summer 2003 can be experienced in all its blaze of glory yet again, minus underarm wet patches of course.
Nice weather we're having, isn't it? |
The beauty of the installation, apart from the obvious physical attraction towards a surrogate Sun, is the way that the public have interacted with it; part of the installation is a reflective ceiling which aids the transformation from a vast empty turbine hall to a desert mirage effect.
This reflection projects whatever is happening on the ground level of the Turbine Hall up onto the ceiling above; form a circle of human bodies on the floor and you will see a circle above. Spell out the words GO HOME BUSH in the same style as a crappy Halifax TV advert by laying out the necessary bodies on the floor, and you are generating a new meaning to the work.
This is wonderful example of art being interpreted and actively used by the 'consumers' to shape and re-direct the way that it is appreciated.
My lunchtime visit coincided with a number of school trips where the kids had got wise to the fact that sitting around and forming a human circle was not nearly as exciting as projecting FUCK OFF in giant letters above. All in the name of education Miss, honest.
The Weather Project can be viewed at the Tate Modern until 24 March, 2004. Don't forget your shades, dude.
More discussion here.
| #permalink |
Vauxhall and I
I have a strange relationship with Vauxhall mainline station ; it may be the gateway to the South opening up endless travel options taking me to exotic locations such as Tolworth, Motspur Park and Woking, but the platform reeks of piss.
Many a missed train moment has been passed away listening to yet another faceless pathetic apology from South West trains being played out over the tannoy:
'I'm sorry for the delay in your journey.'
Well I'm sorry, but that just isn't good enough. I don't want some Mr Voice Over Man stuck on a tape loop playing me a feel good message. Having paid for my journey that will ultimately lead to personal bonuses being paid out to the management of the train operator rip off companies, I expect the pin stripes to patrol the platform and offer me a public apology.
Vauxhall station though provides the stranded traveller with many other wonderful options to help pass the time, all thrown in with a unique South London aroma wafting down the Thames and spreading throughout the urine infested platforms.
Smells like teen spirit, etc etc.
SW8 is home to the most public of open art spaces with Vauxhall station providing the perfect canvas for South London's graffiti artist kids to display their work. You don't need to watch (and understand) Late Review to appreciate the graffiti on show at the station. The images capture South London and all the diversity within the area perfectly and are probably seen by more people than some of the more conservative efforts found within the National Gallery.
Here's a selection of the works of arts currently on display:
I love the graffiti artist code of conduct on show here; kids with sprays can are not mindless thugs who will tag anything that resembles a blank canvas. There is genuine respect for another artist's work and pictures are left alone in their original form.
The walls opposite platform eight at Vauxhall station provide the perfect canvass for a piece of public art. The designers of the station even had the foresight to provide a framed brick wall for future generations of graffiti kids ;-)
All artists are unknown (to me). Don't expect canopies and cocktails during your visit to the gallery. The open space does boast ample public toilets though.
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| Sunday 23 November, 2003 |
I have a strange relationship with Vauxhall mainline station ; it may be the gateway to the South opening up endless travel options taking me to exotic locations such as Tolworth, Motspur Park and Woking, but the platform reeks of piss.
Many a missed train moment has been passed away listening to yet another faceless pathetic apology from South West trains being played out over the tannoy:
Don't expect canopies and cocktails during your visit to the gallery |
Well I'm sorry, but that just isn't good enough. I don't want some Mr Voice Over Man stuck on a tape loop playing me a feel good message. Having paid for my journey that will ultimately lead to personal bonuses being paid out to the management of the train operator rip off companies, I expect the pin stripes to patrol the platform and offer me a public apology.
Vauxhall station though provides the stranded traveller with many other wonderful options to help pass the time, all thrown in with a unique South London aroma wafting down the Thames and spreading throughout the urine infested platforms.
Smells like teen spirit, etc etc.
SW8 is home to the most public of open art spaces with Vauxhall station providing the perfect canvas for South London's graffiti artist kids to display their work. You don't need to watch (and understand) Late Review to appreciate the graffiti on show at the station. The images capture South London and all the diversity within the area perfectly and are probably seen by more people than some of the more conservative efforts found within the National Gallery.
Here's a selection of the works of arts currently on display:
I love the graffiti artist code of conduct on show here; kids with sprays can are not mindless thugs who will tag anything that resembles a blank canvas. There is genuine respect for another artist's work and pictures are left alone in their original form.
The walls opposite platform eight at Vauxhall station provide the perfect canvass for a piece of public art. The designers of the station even had the foresight to provide a framed brick wall for future generations of graffiti kids ;-)
All artists are unknown (to me). Don't expect canopies and cocktails during your visit to the gallery. The open space does boast ample public toilets though.
| #permalink |
Crap Match Report
London Towers 91 Milton Keynes Lions 81, 22/11/03
The opening minutes of the first quarter were more like a game of hockey with the ever reliable Milton Keynes team displaying their usual gooning tactics. A very physical game with Jamison in particular for the Lions trying to take out Sneed for the Towers. The home team raced ahead with a succession of three pointers being coolly sunk by Youngblood, justifying the hero status that the Tower's #9 has built up over the past two seasons. A good warm-up ahead of next week's semi against the Sharks. Reminders to self: Forfeit the front of court seat in future if only to avoid the pesky little kid who seems to think that basketball is a game that involves constantly kicking the bloke sitting in front of you. I blame the parents, but judging by the Old Man's appearance, the spoilt brat hasn't got a lot to look forward to in later life.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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| Saturday 22 November, 2003 |
London Towers 91 Milton Keynes Lions 81, 22/11/03
The opening minutes of the first quarter were more like a game of hockey with the ever reliable Milton Keynes team displaying their usual gooning tactics. A very physical game with Jamison in particular for the Lions trying to take out Sneed for the Towers. The home team raced ahead with a succession of three pointers being coolly sunk by Youngblood, justifying the hero status that the Tower's #9 has built up over the past two seasons. A good warm-up ahead of next week's semi against the Sharks. Reminders to self: Forfeit the front of court seat in future if only to avoid the pesky little kid who seems to think that basketball is a game that involves constantly kicking the bloke sitting in front of you. I blame the parents, but judging by the Old Man's appearance, the spoilt brat hasn't got a lot to look forward to in later life.
Crap Match Report Compendium
| #permalink |
An American War Wolf in London
Reflections on a day of peaceful protest.
The mainstream media has made out that staging an anti-Bush demo on the same day of the terrorist atrocities in Instanbul was misguided. Endless ill-informed opinions were up for rent yesterday by an increasingly desperate bunch of career politicians, media whores and war criminal apologists. Sycophants united behind the ugly business of war - not the most pleasant prime time viewing.
'Ahh yes but if you lived in Baghdad you wouldn't have the chance to demonstrate...' Blah blah blah, and please piss off to the isolated and blinkered little corner of the fantasy Imperialist world that you seem to live in. Is that the only damn argument you've got? And just exactly how much democracy exists in Baghdad central right now? Blinkers off please and take a look at what is happening around you.
Accusations that the protestors fail to see the wider picture are nothing but an own goal for the war mongers. How can they fail to see that by bombing a country for no other reason than capitalist greed is going to generate an anti-West rhetoric? The War against Terror is a war you can't win and as Istanbul so tragically proved, bombs will be met with more bombs.
That's precisely why the largest ever gathering of people in this country for a weekday protest took to the streets yesterday to plead with Blair and Bush to stop putting themselves up as High Sheriff and his insignificant little Deputy Dawg of the world.
The march itself felt even more poignant following the Turkey bombings only hours earlier. Arriving at Euston just after the 2pm start, it took me more than an hour and a half to move with the rest of the crowd through the back streets of North London until we hit the bright lights of Holborn.
The route laid down by the Police was strange; what was the thinking in crossing the river at Waterloo, cutting along York Road and then backtracking up Westminster? What exactly is so threatening about a well behaved peaceful protest (27 arrests out of 110,000 - a relative picnic for the police compared to a day out at Twickenham) making their way up The Strand to reach Trafalgar Square?
I finally reached Westminster at 5.30 and the sheer volume of the crowd meant that I missed out on the spectacular toppling of George Jnr, even if the 25 foot gold statue looked more like a sex toy prop from Honey I Blew up the Kids. Insert your own dickhead jokes, etc etc.
110,000 (and that was the official Police estimate) is a mighty fine turnout for a cold Thursday afternoon in November. It's considerably more than the Uncle Sam Stars and Stripes brigade who looked a lonely bunch scattered around the Mall on the lookout for a President in hiding. So much for the State Visit - this was more like a game of Monopoly around the capital with Dubya taking on the character of the Invisible Man.
And so what have we learnt at the end of three days of pomp and pageant? George Jnr is a frightened and lonely man who is afraid to put his arguments over to the public; obviously a technique he groomed during his own fraudulent election campaign. Tony Tony Tony has the look of a condemned man ahead of the Hutton Enquiry findings. This was all about an exit strategy and the State visit was nothing but a job interview for Blair as he seeks work experience within the twisted Bush family arms empire. And the Royals? Nice to know that the long established family tradition of mixing it with global thugs is still being upheld.
Useless tossers. The lot of them.
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| Friday 21 November, 2003 |
Reflections on a day of peaceful protest.
The mainstream media has made out that staging an anti-Bush demo on the same day of the terrorist atrocities in Instanbul was misguided. Endless ill-informed opinions were up for rent yesterday by an increasingly desperate bunch of career politicians, media whores and war criminal apologists. Sycophants united behind the ugly business of war - not the most pleasant prime time viewing.
Useless tossers. The lot of them |
Accusations that the protestors fail to see the wider picture are nothing but an own goal for the war mongers. How can they fail to see that by bombing a country for no other reason than capitalist greed is going to generate an anti-West rhetoric? The War against Terror is a war you can't win and as Istanbul so tragically proved, bombs will be met with more bombs.
That's precisely why the largest ever gathering of people in this country for a weekday protest took to the streets yesterday to plead with Blair and Bush to stop putting themselves up as High Sheriff and his insignificant little Deputy Dawg of the world.
The march itself felt even more poignant following the Turkey bombings only hours earlier. Arriving at Euston just after the 2pm start, it took me more than an hour and a half to move with the rest of the crowd through the back streets of North London until we hit the bright lights of Holborn.
The route laid down by the Police was strange; what was the thinking in crossing the river at Waterloo, cutting along York Road and then backtracking up Westminster? What exactly is so threatening about a well behaved peaceful protest (27 arrests out of 110,000 - a relative picnic for the police compared to a day out at Twickenham) making their way up The Strand to reach Trafalgar Square?
I finally reached Westminster at 5.30 and the sheer volume of the crowd meant that I missed out on the spectacular toppling of George Jnr, even if the 25 foot gold statue looked more like a sex toy prop from Honey I Blew up the Kids. Insert your own dickhead jokes, etc etc.
110,000 (and that was the official Police estimate) is a mighty fine turnout for a cold Thursday afternoon in November. It's considerably more than the Uncle Sam Stars and Stripes brigade who looked a lonely bunch scattered around the Mall on the lookout for a President in hiding. So much for the State Visit - this was more like a game of Monopoly around the capital with Dubya taking on the character of the Invisible Man.
And so what have we learnt at the end of three days of pomp and pageant? George Jnr is a frightened and lonely man who is afraid to put his arguments over to the public; obviously a technique he groomed during his own fraudulent election campaign. Tony Tony Tony has the look of a condemned man ahead of the Hutton Enquiry findings. This was all about an exit strategy and the State visit was nothing but a job interview for Blair as he seeks work experience within the twisted Bush family arms empire. And the Royals? Nice to know that the long established family tradition of mixing it with global thugs is still being upheld.
Useless tossers. The lot of them.
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Cycles of Mass Obstruction
Slowly pedalling off from under Waterloo Bridge, the spiritual home of Critical Mass in London, the Stop Bush ride attracted a mixed crowd of pedal freaks, black flag wavers and even pensioners, all united under the banner of Bikes Against Bush.
Critical Mass veterans will know that speed is not the essence of the day; when you have such a momentous job of telling Dubya what a dickhead he is, it's probably best not to make plans for the afternoon ahead.
The ride passed the Dubya funeral procession early along York Way before crossing the river at Westminster Bridge and heading off to Parliament Square. Even though it was still early in the day, the Palace of Westminster had more boys in blue than an audition for The Bill.
We had the pleasure of Her Majesty's Mountain Bike finest throughout the route; they may attract looks of derision and despair from the CM faithful, but this is only because they have the best bikes in town. You couldn't wish for a nicer bunch of guys and gals to accompany you around, and we know that they just love a good day out burning some slow rubber around the capital.
The Stop Bush CM can proudly lay claim to forcing the first closure of Whitehall during the day. We got as far as the Cenotaph but by now we had attracted the attention of the bussed in Old Bill who were standing firm.
We snaked our way over to Russell Square, picked up some lost / confused students along the way before hitting Euston. With some delicate negotiation with the mountain bike coppers, the underpass was ours for the taking.
Off to Oxford Street next but still there was no sign of Dubya. We thought New Bond Street may be more to his liking (tasteless overpriced ponce shops selling nothing but useless tat) but George Jnr seemed to be avoiding us. Either that or he was still trying to work out how to turn on his electric toothbrush back at The Palace (just flick the ON switch George, like you use to in the good 'ol electric chair days back home in Texas).
With numbers growing throughout the ride, we had our sights set ambitiously on The Mall. Not a chance. It's fine to walk down the Stars and Stripes Walk of Shame, but to push a bicycle would be considered a 'threat' to the President we were told.
Three hours in the saddle and I opted for a well earned rest at the wonderful Tate Modern. A fine Critical Mass, despite the added presence of the various news crews who didn't like US taking pictures of THEM. Strange that. We're cyclists - we cycle. What were you expecting boys? The appearance of a war criminal may have made for good pictures for you.
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| Thursday 20 November, 2003 |
Slowly pedalling off from under Waterloo Bridge, the spiritual home of Critical Mass in London, the Stop Bush ride attracted a mixed crowd of pedal freaks, black flag wavers and even pensioners, all united under the banner of Bikes Against Bush.
Critical Mass veterans will know that speed is not the essence of the day; when you have such a momentous job of telling Dubya what a dickhead he is, it's probably best not to make plans for the afternoon ahead.
To push a bicycle would be a 'threat' to the President |
We had the pleasure of Her Majesty's Mountain Bike finest throughout the route; they may attract looks of derision and despair from the CM faithful, but this is only because they have the best bikes in town. You couldn't wish for a nicer bunch of guys and gals to accompany you around, and we know that they just love a good day out burning some slow rubber around the capital.
The Stop Bush CM can proudly lay claim to forcing the first closure of Whitehall during the day. We got as far as the Cenotaph but by now we had attracted the attention of the bussed in Old Bill who were standing firm.
We snaked our way over to Russell Square, picked up some lost / confused students along the way before hitting Euston. With some delicate negotiation with the mountain bike coppers, the underpass was ours for the taking.
Off to Oxford Street next but still there was no sign of Dubya. We thought New Bond Street may be more to his liking (tasteless overpriced ponce shops selling nothing but useless tat) but George Jnr seemed to be avoiding us. Either that or he was still trying to work out how to turn on his electric toothbrush back at The Palace (just flick the ON switch George, like you use to in the good 'ol electric chair days back home in Texas).
With numbers growing throughout the ride, we had our sights set ambitiously on The Mall. Not a chance. It's fine to walk down the Stars and Stripes Walk of Shame, but to push a bicycle would be considered a 'threat' to the President we were told.
Three hours in the saddle and I opted for a well earned rest at the wonderful Tate Modern. A fine Critical Mass, despite the added presence of the various news crews who didn't like US taking pictures of THEM. Strange that. We're cyclists - we cycle. What were you expecting boys? The appearance of a war criminal may have made for good pictures for you.
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Fergie Seeks Stud Farm Substitute:
'Why the long face, horse boy?'
| Tuesday 18 November, 2003 |
'Why the long face, horse boy?'
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Jonny on the Spot
England have reached the final of the Rugby World Cup, our nation's greatest sporting triumph since the spirit of '66 etc. Except next Saturday morning when 15 overweight spazmoid beefed up knobheads step out on to some pitch on the other side of the world, I expect to be safely tucked up in bed.
The evidence:
All sports need their flair moments; 'wow I can't believe that just happened.' Although digging deep in the barrel, I would admit that seeing a skilful fly half negotiate an obstacle course made up of half a dozen lard barrels to score a try borders on inclusion in the flair hall of fame. England scored twenty four points at the weekend to progress to the final of the World Cup. None of those points were gained with a flair moment try. That's like England's cricketers winning an Ashes series Down Under as a result of Shane Warne bowling 500 plus leg byes.
Twickenham, the spiritual home of Rugby Union. More like some backwater suburban shit hole where the High Street is lined with wall to wall All Bar Ones and Slug and Lettuce bars. 'Would sir like a meal to go with his drink?' A meal? What the fuck is this? A bloody restaurant?
Most civilised sports penalise any point in play where the ball leaves the playing surface; football - the opposition get a throw in. Tennis - you lose the point. Ice hockey - the attacking team gain a face off. The whole essence behind rugby union is to boot the ball out of play. And people pay money to watch some meathead actively encouraged to stop the flow of a game? You may as well watch the World Welly Chucking Championships.
Student Union bars, Wednesday evenings, underpants on your head. Twats.
All for one, one for all. The collective team spirit. The handing down of a sweaty jock strap to a team mate in need. The latent homosexuality and subsequent denial and the all too familiar homophobic culture that this leads to.
Any sport where Leicester, Northampton and Gloucester produce the leading clubs has to be suspicious.
In football if you were to call the referee a dickhead you would be sent off. In rugby union this is allowed, as long as you paraphrase it with 'Sir, you're a fucking dickhead.'
Speaking of which, rugby union has hijacked the term football and led to the nation's true game having to enter an apologetic mode with references to 'soccer' so as not to cause confusion. I'm sorry? Football is football. Rugby is shit. Understand Tarquin?
England's green and pleasant land; high jinx on the playing fields of the public schools; the establishment in waiting.
Barbecues in the car park, a crap song about swinging low, barber jackets, shirt collars turned up and bloody Will Carling. Nuff said.
Wake me up when the game is over please.
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| Monday 17 November, 2003 |
England have reached the final of the Rugby World Cup, our nation's greatest sporting triumph since the spirit of '66 etc. Except next Saturday morning when 15 overweight spazmoid beefed up knobheads step out on to some pitch on the other side of the world, I expect to be safely tucked up in bed.
The evidence:
All sports need their flair moments; 'wow I can't believe that just happened.' Although digging deep in the barrel, I would admit that seeing a skilful fly half negotiate an obstacle course made up of half a dozen lard barrels to score a try borders on inclusion in the flair hall of fame. England scored twenty four points at the weekend to progress to the final of the World Cup. None of those points were gained with a flair moment try. That's like England's cricketers winning an Ashes series Down Under as a result of Shane Warne bowling 500 plus leg byes.
You may as well watch the World Welly Chucking Championships |
Most civilised sports penalise any point in play where the ball leaves the playing surface; football - the opposition get a throw in. Tennis - you lose the point. Ice hockey - the attacking team gain a face off. The whole essence behind rugby union is to boot the ball out of play. And people pay money to watch some meathead actively encouraged to stop the flow of a game? You may as well watch the World Welly Chucking Championships.
Student Union bars, Wednesday evenings, underpants on your head. Twats.
All for one, one for all. The collective team spirit. The handing down of a sweaty jock strap to a team mate in need. The latent homosexuality and subsequent denial and the all too familiar homophobic culture that this leads to.
Any sport where Leicester, Northampton and Gloucester produce the leading clubs has to be suspicious.
In football if you were to call the referee a dickhead you would be sent off. In rugby union this is allowed, as long as you paraphrase it with 'Sir, you're a fucking dickhead.'
Speaking of which, rugby union has hijacked the term football and led to the nation's true game having to enter an apologetic mode with references to 'soccer' so as not to cause confusion. I'm sorry? Football is football. Rugby is shit. Understand Tarquin?
England's green and pleasant land; high jinx on the playing fields of the public schools; the establishment in waiting.
Barbecues in the car park, a crap song about swinging low, barber jackets, shirt collars turned up and bloody Will Carling. Nuff said.
Wake me up when the game is over please.
| #permalink |
Mondays Musings
Michael Jackson - 'Number Ones'
The pimple boy turned plastic freak releases a moving and personal recording of some of his favourite dumps from the past decade. Recorded intimately from within anyone one of the 48 gold plated bog suites at his Neverland ranch, this rare insight into the Jackson shitter routine includes a bonus disc featuring the King of Pop performing underarm comedy farts to a selected gathering of young boys. Not that kind of number ones you say? Oh well. Still can't polish a turd.
Red Hot Chili Peppers - 'Greatest Hits'
The band who single handedly created the 'guitar funk' genre (years ahead of the likes of Parliament Funk and Sly Stone of course) wrap up some of their best bass slapping riffs especially for the Christmas market. 'Edgy' enough for the indie lite scene, not too threatening for the CD supermarket shopping crowd. Treading water.
Busted - 'A Present For Everyone'
Christmas is all about giving. I don't give a toss about this bunch of fuckspuds.
All albums are released today
Mass Mondays Musings
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| Monday 17 November, 2003 |
Michael Jackson - 'Number Ones'
The pimple boy turned plastic freak releases a moving and personal recording of some of his favourite dumps from the past decade. Recorded intimately from within anyone one of the 48 gold plated bog suites at his Neverland ranch, this rare insight into the Jackson shitter routine includes a bonus disc featuring the King of Pop performing underarm comedy farts to a selected gathering of young boys. Not that kind of number ones you say? Oh well. Still can't polish a turd.
Red Hot Chili Peppers - 'Greatest Hits'
The band who single handedly created the 'guitar funk' genre (years ahead of the likes of Parliament Funk and Sly Stone of course) wrap up some of their best bass slapping riffs especially for the Christmas market. 'Edgy' enough for the indie lite scene, not too threatening for the CD supermarket shopping crowd. Treading water.
Busted - 'A Present For Everyone'
Christmas is all about giving. I don't give a toss about this bunch of fuckspuds.
All albums are released today
Mass Mondays Musings
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Crap Match Report
London Towers 99 Thames Valley Tigers 86, 15/11/03
A storming start from the Towers stealing a 6-0 lead only to allow the Tigers to trail 27-26 at the end of the first quarter. The second quarter was characterised with clumsy passing from the home team allowing the visitors to hurt them on the breakaway with a 44-46 advantage. Both teams matched each other point for point in the third and then the Towers managed to finally pull away in the fourth. Equally entertaining was the weird sport (?) taking place in the adjacent Olympic size Crystal Palace pool; two teams, flippers and snorkels, lots of swimming around with random players making a plunge for the bottom of the pool. Underwater marbles? Not the greatest of spectator sports...
Crap Match Report Compendium
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| Sunday 16 November, 2003 |
London Towers 99 Thames Valley Tigers 86, 15/11/03
A storming start from the Towers stealing a 6-0 lead only to allow the Tigers to trail 27-26 at the end of the first quarter. The second quarter was characterised with clumsy passing from the home team allowing the visitors to hurt them on the breakaway with a 44-46 advantage. Both teams matched each other point for point in the third and then the Towers managed to finally pull away in the fourth. Equally entertaining was the weird sport (?) taking place in the adjacent Olympic size Crystal Palace pool; two teams, flippers and snorkels, lots of swimming around with random players making a plunge for the bottom of the pool. Underwater marbles? Not the greatest of spectator sports...
Crap Match Report Compendium
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Crap Match Report
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Worthing 1, 15/11/03
One way traffic in the first half with the Hamlet having their backs to the wall against the boys from the South Coast. Oooh, Sailor Boy, etc etc. Worthing took the lead with a bullet of a diving header - shame it was an own goal, but easily out-classed any Premiership Goal of the Month crap. Dulwich managed to scramble an equaliser just before the break and then Omari Coleman scored a skilful winner ten minutes from the end. A healthy crowd of 250 plus. Well, healthy in the sense that the metre for the floodlights can be fed for the next home match. Worthing coach managed to get through an entire packet of Benson & Hedges in less than 90 minutes. Quite a feat.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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| Saturday 15 November, 2003 |
Dulwich Hamlet 2 Worthing 1, 15/11/03
One way traffic in the first half with the Hamlet having their backs to the wall against the boys from the South Coast. Oooh, Sailor Boy, etc etc. Worthing took the lead with a bullet of a diving header - shame it was an own goal, but easily out-classed any Premiership Goal of the Month crap. Dulwich managed to scramble an equaliser just before the break and then Omari Coleman scored a skilful winner ten minutes from the end. A healthy crowd of 250 plus. Well, healthy in the sense that the metre for the floodlights can be fed for the next home match. Worthing coach managed to get through an entire packet of Benson & Hedges in less than 90 minutes. Quite a feat.
Crap Match Report Compendium
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Ice Cold Eyes
Professional footballers wear gloves when the going gets tough, egg chasing rugby union jocks don some ridiculous head gear and cricketers resort to a plastic box to keep their meat and two veg warm. Sporting equipment is all about hype over substance.
But have you ever seen anything as spectacular as this?
Pictured here is the latest form of visor currently all the vogue for Scandinavian hockey players. The cut of the gib is that it reduces the glint of the ice as you're about to be checked by some 18 stone goon.
And nothing to do with simply looking as cool as fuck?
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| Saturday 15 November, 2003 |
Professional footballers wear gloves when the going gets tough, egg chasing rugby union jocks don some ridiculous head gear and cricketers resort to a plastic box to keep their meat and two veg warm. Sporting equipment is all about hype over substance.
But have you ever seen anything as spectacular as this?
Pictured here is the latest form of visor currently all the vogue for Scandinavian hockey players. The cut of the gib is that it reduces the glint of the ice as you're about to be checked by some 18 stone goon.
And nothing to do with simply looking as cool as fuck?
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Self (ish)
I've usually got a lot of time for Will Self, Vic and Bob dumbtastic antics aside; last night however on the This Week politics programme, the Stockwell Scribe put forward an ill-thought out tirade agasint the British Left.
Self's 'video essay' argued that demonstartions agaisnt the arrival in London of the war criminal Dubya next week are missing the point; attacking Amercia and all things American are misguided as the real partner in crime here is our beloved Tony.
Don't look for the wider picture, attack from within was Self's rather clumsy message.
No arguments from me Will about Blair's role in the whole nasty business of an ilegal and unjust war, but are you seriously suggesting that George Jnr's state sponsored terrorism can simply be brushed aside for the sake of bringing the issue closer to home?
How close to home do you want the issue exactly? Bush is going to be wined and dined by our dear old Queen with the Stars and Stripes bedecking The Mall. The evil fucker will be doing his meet 'n greet thing and you expect democrarcy just to sit at home and wait for the next General Election to give our Tony a bit of a ticking off?
By attacking the left from within, Self has done nothing but to play right into the hands of the establishement who lap up the stereotype that all protesters are part of the great unwashed. Unless they're part of the Cuntryside (correct spelling) Alliance of course.
By all means kick out the New Labour clones in 2005, but also have some fun
baring your bum at Bush next week. Your country needs you.
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| Friday 14 November, 2003 |
I've usually got a lot of time for Will Self, Vic and Bob dumbtastic antics aside; last night however on the This Week politics programme, the Stockwell Scribe put forward an ill-thought out tirade agasint the British Left.
Self's 'video essay' argued that demonstartions agaisnt the arrival in London of the war criminal Dubya next week are missing the point; attacking Amercia and all things American are misguided as the real partner in crime here is our beloved Tony.
Don't look for the wider picture, attack from within was Self's rather clumsy message.
Have some fun baring your bum at Bush |
How close to home do you want the issue exactly? Bush is going to be wined and dined by our dear old Queen with the Stars and Stripes bedecking The Mall. The evil fucker will be doing his meet 'n greet thing and you expect democrarcy just to sit at home and wait for the next General Election to give our Tony a bit of a ticking off?
By attacking the left from within, Self has done nothing but to play right into the hands of the establishement who lap up the stereotype that all protesters are part of the great unwashed. Unless they're part of the Cuntryside (correct spelling) Alliance of course.
By all means kick out the New Labour clones in 2005, but also have some fun
baring your bum at Bush next week. Your country needs you.
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Wise Words from Howard's Advisors:
| Monday 10 November, 2003 |
'Beware the ides of March'
'And April'
'And October'
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Spirit of Independence
Tony Blair wants to welcome Ken Livingstone back into the New Labour family with open arms. Not so much a case of Red Ken being given the red carpet treatment, more like Blair wants Livingstone back on his leach where he can keep an eye on him.
What has changed so much in the past four years that has led Blair away from his 'Livingstone is the worst thing that could happen to London' viewpoint? New Labour's pending humiliating defeat next year when Londoners get their chance to vote in a new Mayor might just be a factor.
New Labour is facing a kick in the teeth by the London electorate, currently trailing a poor fourth in the polls with their candidate Nicky Gravon. With Dobber Norris, the sexually over-excited Tory candidate (no, we don't understand it either) also looking like a dead duck, the 2004 campaign will be a two horse race between Livingstone and the affable Lib Deb candidate, Simon Hughes.
Ken is a winner and Blair knows this; the Congestion Charge works, public transport is showing signs of improvement and Livingstone is not afraid to voice his opinion that David Blaine is a twat. This goes down well with the London voters.
New Labour insiders have admitted that: 'What we must do is avoid the smell of death.' Not a reference to the afore mentioned twat (Blaine, not Blair), but a cynical political view that Red Ken just might be New Labour's saviour in the capital.
Don't do it Ken.
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| Saturday 10 November, 2003 |
Tony Blair wants to welcome Ken Livingstone back into the New Labour family with open arms. Not so much a case of Red Ken being given the red carpet treatment, more like Blair wants Livingstone back on his leach where he can keep an eye on him.
What has changed so much in the past four years that has led Blair away from his 'Livingstone is the worst thing that could happen to London' viewpoint? New Labour's pending humiliating defeat next year when Londoners get their chance to vote in a new Mayor might just be a factor.
What we must do is avoid the smell of death |
Ken is a winner and Blair knows this; the Congestion Charge works, public transport is showing signs of improvement and Livingstone is not afraid to voice his opinion that David Blaine is a twat. This goes down well with the London voters.
New Labour insiders have admitted that: 'What we must do is avoid the smell of death.' Not a reference to the afore mentioned twat (Blaine, not Blair), but a cynical political view that Red Ken just might be New Labour's saviour in the capital.
Don't do it Ken.
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Mondays Musings
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| Monday 10 November, 2003 |
Coldplay - 'Live 2003'
As 'live' as you can get once the master tapes have been over-dubbed, re-sequenced and had Chris Martin's bumbling Bono impersonations edited out. Not quite that authentic Monday night at the Bull and Gate live feel. The appearance of a live album is a sure sign that Christmas is around the corner. Difficult to see how Coldplay Live 2003 will differ from Coldplay Live 2004, 2005, 2039 etc.
Mark Owen - 'In Your Own Time'
Cuddly Mancunian lad who wishes he was in Radiohead. Fair play to the little fella - the music may be third rate Nick Drake, but at least he's not some over-bloated ego out of control who thinks that three sold out nights at Knebworth makes you the most important person to ever walk the planet. Expect plenty of strumming and complex chord changes.
Atomic Kitten 'Ladies Night'
AKA 'Slappers Night.' Three incredibly dumb female children's entertainers operating under the misguided belief that they are actually musicians. Already secured their place as being 'first up against the wall' in my little black book. And no, not in that respect...
All albums are released today.
Mass Mondays Musings
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Pantomime Dame
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| Wednesday 5 November, 2003 |
I say, I say, I say... Did you hear the one about the disgraced Tory councillor who got away with debts of 37 million pounds in exchange for being stripped of her Dame title? Strange but true; hit the establishment where it hurts by taking away crap titles that just make them look even more aloof and pompous than they already are.
37 million pounds worth of debt racked up through the mismanagement of public enterprises? Pah! This means nothing to a Dame as she suns herself in her holiday hideaway in Guernsey. Take away the title of Dame however and this is what really hurts. Public debts however can be easily written off.
Shirley Porter (just seeing it written without Dame in front makes for all the more better reading) has an estimated personal wealth of sixty million pounds through her position as heiress to the Tesco empire. When ordered by a court last year to disclose the loose change floating around in her leopard skin handbag, that figure surfaced as 300,000 pounds.
Let us not forget that Porter owes 37 million pounds of tax payers money in surcharges after being found guilty of selling off council homes on the cheap to try and pamper the Tory vote.
The London borough of Westminster is not known as a hotbed of political activism; given the decision of ignoring the 37 million pounds rightly owed to the people in the borough and instead stopping some rich old cow from poncing around calling herself a Dame, then you know that the pantomime season is just around the corner.
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Daddy's Boy
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| Tuesday 4 November, 2003 |
After a gruelling selection process involving the best head-hunters that money can buy, James Murdoch looks set to become the new Chief Executive at BSkyB. The hip hop loving Harvard student boasts all the right credentials for what is one of the tops jobs in British broadcasting; namely a surname beginning with M and ending with H, with urdoc sandwiched in-between.
Janet Street Porter didn't get the call up then.
BSkyB has a proud history of appointing the best person for the top job, providing they have the right surname that is. Elder sister Elizabeth warmed the big leather chair for younger bro James back in the '90s.
So how does a father and son Chairman and Chief Exec relationship work exactly? Imagine if you're a fresh faced, wet behind the ears MD of a high profile company that is facing a critical period in the growth and expansion. New markets, de-regulation of the industry, accusations of monopoly etc.
And then you fuck up. Big time.
What happens? Well, any self-respecting rational Chairman of the Board would have you filling out your application for Job Seekers Allowance faster than you can say nepotism. Can you really see the old Digger dishing out a P45 to baby James?
Can you really see the old Digger dishing out a P45?
The myth that Murdoch Snr owns Sky has meant that the hordes of angry shareholders starting to fight back have been overlooked. Everyone's favourite tax exile and publisher of the finest popular prints known to modern civilisation actually owns only 35% of BSkyB.
This is still enough to control the company on an operational basis, but the collective voice of the 65% of the other shareholders have a damn good case for an explanation as to how James Murdoch emerged the man most likely after the headhunting farce.
Of course all of the above is only relevant if you think BSkyB is a quality broadcaster that is delivering programmes actually worth watching. We wouldn't want to confuse you with someone who couldn't give a shit.
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Mondays Musings
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| Monday 3 November, 2003 |
Primal Scream - 'Dirty Hits'
Angry not so young Scotsmen with who have managed to forge a career out of fueling their creative energies with all things chemical. Stumbled on dance, quite by chance, and hitched a ride on the coat tails ever since. A continued fascination with MC5, despite the fact they're shit, proving that bad drugs definitely cloud you judgment.
Peter Gabriel - 'Hit'
Ageing hippy who invented world music. Make sure your irony is in check. Never quite fully immersed in the Sting / Phil / Tina corporate rock axis. Good job as he actually churns out some rather decent tunes. Video for Sledgehammer is indeed iconoclastic. Although not the most sexually alluring of images, despite the shagging subject matter in the song - stick with it; current day Gabriel looks like a hot cross bun with a chronic case of deadly wizard beard sprouting out.
Robert Plant - 'Sixty Six to Timbuktu'
Like Dave Stewart, the sins of a former career have left Rockin Rob with money to burn. Still, better to explore new directions than to carry on with the same lumpen guitar path trodden by the Zep. Free-form experimentalism in a Jazz Odyssey style aplenty. Mention 'esoteric' and you can't go wrong.
Underworld - 'Anthology'
Imagine recording a deeply personal track addressing your daily struggle with alcoholism, only to find that every wank infested weekend meat market Ritzy nightclub bangs it out each Friday with two dozen bare chested piss heads chanting 'Lager, LAGER LAGGER!!!,' in-between spewing up kebabs and fucking local sluts in the toilet at random. Strange business this inner demons catharsis through music shit.
All albums are released today.
Mass Mondays Musings
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