Friday, March 31, 2006
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
That was how I felt about Gnarls Barkley's Crazy.
Now, it's gone mainstream, and I feel... Well, I feel sad about that. My little record's all grown up and ready to take on the charts. But it also means that it's no longer mine. It's now everybody's - even the people who're jumping on the bandwagon, and dancing to it in trendy bars, the people who have no idea what that record meant to those few of us who were lucky enough to hear it when it sneaked out as a white label.
It doesn't matter how big that song gets, though, because it's still mine.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
Alan Sugar's just like a big cuddly teddy bear that goes "You're Fired!" when you squeeze his tummy, but the real stars of that show have to be the people who chose those contestants. By some weirdly wonderful form of magic, they've managed to pick out 14 of the most incredible morons you could ever hope to see on TV. Forget Big Brother, and the complete bunch of "I'm so zany and crazy, me!" wankers they choose year after year, with The Apprentice, you've got a bunch of big business, middle class arseholes who've been living in their corporate bubbles for so long, their heads have disappeared so far up their own backsides they literally talk shit.
You've got Syed, who's so confident in his own ability and sense of self importance, he can't even see past his own nose end, and realise what a complete prick he is. This is the guy who was convinced that the boys team should call themselves The A Team, and even launched into a big speech to emphasise his point. There was Nargis, who told the audience of potential buyers she was doing a presentation for to shut up until she'd finished. Tuan and Sharon are more like human wallpaper: just there, but soon fading into the background, forgotten until you realise paisley isn't cool any more.
There's Michelle, who constantly looks ready to stab anyone in the back; her smiles are so fake, she may as well have drawn them on her face with a crayon. Paul is David Brent, and Jo virtually bursts into tears every time her voice raises half an octave. Everyone seems to hate her but me; she's the only one who actually dares speak up when she realises the others are being idiots, and gets dragged in front of Sir Alan every week for it. And then there's Ansell who looks as if he can stare through time.
They are, in the words of Charlie Brooker, a complete bunch of dongers. They seem to lack the ability to think creatively - which made last night's episode, where they had to tackle a creative assignment, a master class in irony - and do nothing but stab each other in the back at the drop of a hat. The men just butt heads in their typically macho way, unwilling to back down over anything, and it just becomes a contest to see who's got the biggest knob (but to us, the viewers, it's more like a contest to see who is the biggest knob). Not a moment goes past without the women bitching and biting behind each others backs: they're just one bad idea away from an all out pro wrestling match.
In other words, they're all idiots, and together, they provide arguably the most entertaining hour of television the BBC has produced in a long time.
And over them all presides Sir Alan, ever watching, ever vigilant, ever waiting for someone to come up and tickle his belly, and put a big smile on his cuddly face. In fact, if someone hears that immortal catchphrase, the first thing they should do should be to go around the other side of the desk and give his stomach a quick rub.
That's probably the only thing that could make this show better.
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
I've had to listen to Recepto Girl going on about her phone, and how she wants a new one for a couple of days now. In her blog, she makes the claim that her entire life was in her old, now defunct phone, and that made me think: is your entire life in your phone?
Your phone's nothing more than a lump of plastic and electronics, but everyone you know is in there, reduced to nothing more than numbers. Think about that: everyone you know is a number.
Now, take a look at all those numbers. Let's suppose you erase all the numbers that people have foisted onto you in the pub. Now, let's pretend that you remove all of your work related numbers from there, then your friends. That'll leave you with your family. Now, let's get rid of them.
What're you left with? Your own number.
Take a look at that. That's you. Those eleven digits define who you are in the current world of portable communication. Your entire life, your personality, everything that makes you you can be reduced to one eleven digit string of numbers.
That's a horribly depressing thought.
But what's even more depressing is that Recepto Girl's right: her entire life was in her phone.
Lucky - The Most Courageous Stuffed Dog In The World!
And I get paid for it.
Monday, March 20, 2006
God, I remember when it used to be called The Tut 'n' Shive...
Friday, March 17, 2006
Thursday, March 16, 2006
That's not strictly true. I hate being in love and knowing nothing's ever going to happen. I hate the way I can't stop thinking about her. I hate the way it keeps eating at me. I hate the fact that I can't say anything to her, because it'll run the risk of damaging the friendship we're building. I hate it when people ask me if we're together when we're in the pub. I hate the way I keep getting the feeling that we're dancing around each other. I hate the way I can't hold her. I hate it that she can make me smile by just sitting next to me. I hate the fact that I know I'll never wake up next to her in the morning, and realise why I fell in love with her in the first place.
I hate it.
I wish I could hate her.
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Not all of them – some of them are the most down to earth, lovely and helpful people you could ever want to meet – but some. Mainly the ones who think they're more gifted than they actually are; the ones who won't give you the time of day, and who immediately pour scorn on you when you happen to say that you're a writer, too.
These are the people who really fuck me off.
I could rant on all day about the middle classes and how superior they think they are to us working class folk, but I won't, simply because being a writer (or trying to be) doesn't automatically mean that you're some middle class intellectual genius, looking down on everyone else, and reading Dostoyevsky or Shakespeare all day. In fact, in my experience, people who're like that are generally shitty writers, too hung up on the form and structure of whatever it is they're trying to do.
I've said it once, and I'll say it again for anyone who cares to read this bollocks: the desire to write The Great British Novel should bar you from ever doing it. Writing should never be about emulating the greats, it should be about yourself, and doing something you enjoy.
Well, it is for me, anyway.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Go, look, enjoy. Or be deeply offended.
Either way, there's lots of funny pictures of kittens to look at.
Yes, he's a talentless gimp who was on a TV show that is destined now to run until the world ends in fiery torment, or until Simon Cowell has more money than Bill Gates squared, and yes, it's a novelty record that'll be forgotten in a couple of weeks, but let's face it: he's got enough savvy to get this crap out ASAP and make a few quid while he can. The real time to call for him to be disembowled and have his head paraded through the streets on a pike will be if he puts out another single.
Of course, if anyone says "It's Chico Time!" when asked for the time, punch them. Hard.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
Sunday morning, all you want to do is lie in bed, or sit in front of the TV trying to figure out if Andrew Marr's ears really could cover the entire surface of Australia, but what did I do this morning?
Turned on Radio 1.
It's bad enough that you have to put up with that Golf loving idiot that single-handedly manages to mangle the English language every weekend, Forky, or whatever the fuck his name is, but to follow it up with that grinning, no-talent fuckwit Vernon Kaye is just a slap in the face.
His entire repertoire seems to consist of chuckling to his own, increasinly unfunny 'jokes' and claiming to be from Bolton (which I'm convinced he only started playing on since Peter Kaye's rise to success). It's bad enough that those people in TV land seem to insist on forcing him on us at every opportunity without having to listen to his inanity on the radio.
It's almost like he's becoming the male Fearne Cotton. But slightly more annoying.
Saturday, March 11, 2006
Friday, March 10, 2006
Thursday, March 09, 2006
Anyway, the basic premise is that in an alternative future, Britain has become a fascist state, but the order of the government is upset by one man, called V, a freedom fighter, or terrorist, as he becomes labelled.
It's a science fiction film, so it won't be taken that seriously, but I think it does raise an interesting question: when does a freedom fighter become a terrorist? Is there a line they cross, or is it just when a government chooses to brand them? Is the term terrorist becoming the new way to describe anyone or any group a government doesn't like? Do you become a terrorist when you start turning other people to your views? Frankly that's a discussion that's too heavy to get into.
And besides, it's only a film.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
Monday, March 06, 2006
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Then I realised that I shouldn't really complain about it, because the UK music scene has foisted James Blunt on the world.
And that's something we, as a nation, should be truly sorry for.
Like I said, I know that's what MySpace is all about, but I can't really get my head around the fact that someone actually found my profile so interesting that they actually want to add me as a friend.
Saturday, March 04, 2006
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Not only have I had to listen to one of my colleagues from the day job go on about how she's missing her bloke, I also had a rejection for a piece I'd written (which I was actually alright about), found out that the girl I kissed was younger than I thought, and more interested in younger blokes, and, just to top it all off, I seem to have a severe case of writer's block – just when I could really do with sitting down and doing some serious work to get my mind off the shitty day.
I think I need to hit something.
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
A lot of the time, you'll get standard letters, complete with photocopied signatures, and all the usual nonsense about the piece not being what they're looking for etc.
Other times, though, you get something far more positive, that actually takes you through what they feel is wrong with the piece, and praising what they think is good about it. These are, of course, the best types to get.
Why am I talking about this? Because I just got one from FutureQuake. I'm not bitter about it, though. I know, looking at the piece I submitted now, that it wasn't that good, and there's loads of room to improve it considerably, and I've taken the positive criticism about it onboard. So, I'm not jumping up and down calling them a bunch of twats. I'm thinking about my next submission to them.
Besides, I'm appearing in issue 6.