It's A Girl Thing

Had I not fallen down the stairs like a big eedjit, I would be on my way to see Half Man Half Biscuit tonight in Manchester. But as I can't drive - and getting to and from Manchester otherwise would involve a journey from Hell, I sold my ticket on eBay. Instead I shall stay in and listen to my John Martyn records, raising a glass of Cranberry Juice to that unique cantankerous genius who sadly passed away yesterday.



Meanwhile, here's something I picked up from Weenie's blog a while ago and have been meaning to try out since. Gender Analyzer is a website which purports to use "Artificial Intelligence to determine if a homepage is written by a man or woman." Apparently, "a text classifier hosted over at uClassify.com has been trained on blogs written by men and women. In our lab it seems to works pretty well, we want to see how it performs on the web!"

So, always keen to surf the zeitgeist of cutting edge thingy, I submitted Sunset Over Slawit for analysis. And the result...?

We guess http://rolhirst.blogspot.com/ is written by a woman (60%), however it's quite gender neutral.

Perhaps Gender Analyzer thinks women are more likely to break their arm on the stairs? Sexist!

Actually, I'm quite happy to be gender neutral - perhaps that explains why I have so many lovely female readers. (Don't let that 'lovely' go to your heads, girls, you know how insincere I am really.) I don't consider this an affront to my masculinity and I'm not about to start writing about beer, birds, and footy in a desperate attempt to reassert my manhood. ("Did you see the match last night, Rol?" "No, I was pissed, so I watched the Wet T-shirt Carwash on Men & Motors.")

Interestingly though, when I submit my main website, rolhirst.co.uk (the one with all my real writing on) for gender analysis, the results are somewhat different...

We think http://rolhirst.co.uk/ is written by a man (69%).

So my fiction is more male-biased than female? I suppose that's only to be expected - though I'm glad the score wasn't too high in that regard, or I'd need to rethink my writing style.

That's all for today, apart from a bit more John Martyn to sing us out. Do let me know if you decide to gender analyse your own blog, and what the results are...

Punk Is Dead - Pop Sold Out!

Though I have great respect for those songwriters (including Springsteen, Bragg, Morrissey / Marr, and Cocker) who steadfastly refuse to allow their music to be used for the purposes of evil advertising, I have less problem these days with young or struggling bands selling out if in the process they get a nice cheque with which to record their next album, and maybe get their music heard by a slew of new fans too. So when I hear Chairlift or Feist on the iPod ads, I think 'good on them' - they're not selling out, they're just doing their bit to get noticed and get paid in an increasingly difficult business.

I have less time for established, millionaire songwriters like Bob Dylan - who's apparently just allowed 'Blowin' In The Wind' be licensed for an ad about the Co-Op - because really, Bob, do you actually need that money? Still, it could be worse - it could be Tesco or Walmart. At least Dylan is choosy.

Because then I see something like this... and I shudder at the grubby, out-of-town motel room where musicians and admen go to shag each other senseless.



If youtube won't allow you to watch that where you are - consider yourself blessed. It's Iggy Pop - the man, not the musician - selling car insurance. Has it really come to this, Iggy?

I saw Iggy Pop live about ten years ago, and he was hugely entertaining - a complete showman. Fighting with the security guards, jumping off the stage, tearing off his clothes like Bruce Banner after hitting his thumb with a hammer... It was all an act, but it was great fun to watch. I don't believe he's the spirit of punk or anything like that... but I did think he had more self respect than to sell his soul to the oleaginous devils of the insurance industry.

At least British punks have more self respect. You'd never catch Johnny Rotten selling car insurance (then again, who'd ever buy car insurance from Lydon?). No, King Yob of the Pistols sticks to selling butter.



And don't get me started on Norwich Union - sinking millions of pounds of their customers' money into a completely gratuitous namechange campaign in the worst financial marketplace since the Second World War... and roping in the likes of Alice Cooper, Elle Macpherson, Ringo Starr, and Bruce Willis in the process... because I'm certain they all needed the money too. I'm not even going to link to that advert, because frankly - it's obscene.

Oh, and Ringo... yes, I think Beatlemania would still have happened if you'd still been called Richard Starkey. I don't think your bloody name had anything to do with it, mate.

Richard Kimble Thinks I Murdered His Wife

...but that's all I have to say about that today.

Meanwhile, some books I have been reading...



Michel Faber has become one of my favourite authors over the last year or so, and as I work my way towards his new novel, The Fire Gospel, I've stopped off along the way with his second collection of short stories, The Fahrenheit Twins.

I often think the best short stories can be summed up as high concept one sentence pitches, and Faber specialises in tales that lend themselves to this kind of introduction...

A dictator with a serious heart condition discovers the only doctor who can save him is locked in one of his own prison camps.

A virgin supermarket detective catches a female shoplifter who offers him anything he wants to let her go.

A divorced father returning his daughter to her mother after a weekend away finds the lights are going out all over the world.

A slobby computer geek's attractive neighbour needs help with a problem mouse.

The drummer of North Ayrshire's foremost death metal band falls ill for the first time in his life.

A reclusive author famous for novels written from the perspective of domestic animals reveals her most realistic work to date.

The great thing about Faber's writing is that the pitch is just the beginning, and none of these plots progress in any way you might predict. There's a fantastic imagination at work here, and a style that morphs to suit the characters and subject matter - yet remains distinctly Faber. Just an immensely readable writer, whatever the story.



One day in the life of Mr. Phillips, a sexually frustrated accountant who's lost his job but isn't quite ready to let his wife and family know. Lanchester's novel proceeds like a very British take on the Michael Douglas movie Falling Down, as the eponymous hero wanders around town looking for a new direction, while trying to calculate how often his neighbours 'do it', getting involved in a bank robbery, and helping an old lady home with her shopping. It's nervous breakdown filtered through stiff upper lip, with some extremely funny observations as Mr. Phillips uses his accountant's brain to puzzle through life's inequities.



Cages is the debut graphic novel from my old Elephant Words cohort Xander Bennett, together with artist Melanie Cook. It's mighty fine post-apoc fiction, the tale of three genetically engineered twelve-year-olds who have spent their whole life in a cage, only to be sprung into a frightening, unpredictable future. In amidst the big tentacly monster action, there are some well-developed themes, and smooth, flowing artwork. Read more about Cages here.

I Could Do That With One Hand Tied Behind My Back

Loathe as I am to turn this into Rol's Broken Arm Blog, here's an update on that situation anyway... complete with pictures for anyone who might think I'm making it all up for something to write about.



That's me doing my best 'Woe is me!' sadface. I'm not really as pathetic as I look in that photo, I'm just a good actor.



My Top Ten Things That Are A Lot Harder To Do With Only One Working Arm...

10. Washing up.

Not impossible, but not exactly easy either. Using a dish brush helps, but the crockery does tend to jump about in the washing up bowl when you can't hold on to it.

9. Drying up.

Harder than washing, especially getting the tea towel into narrow glasses or mugs.

8. Opening jars and tins.

I have some grip with my left hand, but not much... and it hurts to hold onto things too tightly. I've made sure to buy tuna and bean tins with pull off tops now as a can opener would be out of the question.

7. Washing / showering.

There is apparently a special waterproof glove thingy you can buy that goes over your pot and keeps you dry in the shower etc. ("You can even go swimming in it," said the nurse... but I think I'll just take her word for that.) At the moment though, I'm making do with a black bin bag. Washing your face is a pain, but a face cloth helps.

6. Drying after a wash / shower.

A classic example of something you take for granted - drying your hands with a towel. Just try doing it with one hand... it's a lot more difficult than I'd have thought.

5. Getting the top off the hot water bottle.

What? It's cold in here! Especially as I can't fasten up the Wee Willy Winky one-piece I normally wear in bed...

4. Putting on socks.

Rassenfrassen...

3. Scratching under the pot.

It's started - already! Aaaargghh! This is the one that'll drive me mad. Christine's tip hasn't exactly worked yet, though I keep trying.

2. Driving.

Obviously no chance, which means I'm relying on other people to ferry me about much of the time. (The bus service round here is once every alternate Tuesday or something.) I'm normally pretty self reliant getting about, and I don't like imposing on other people, but family and friends are being good.

1. Fastening shoelaces.

Frustratingly impossible.


Despite all this, I'm not feeling sorry for myself. Far worse things could have happened to me. At the hospital this morning, I met an old lady who had fallen and broken both her elbows. My heart went out to her.

So tomorrow, something totally unrelated to my broken arm. I promise.

Snap!

So I've broken my arm.

This morning at 6.15, I got up, thankful that it was Friday, and headed straight to the bathroom to wash. Then I got dressed and started down the stairs. On the second step down, I slipped, my legs went from under me, and I landed hard on my arm, sliding the rest of the way down on my back.

"Ow!" I felt a little woozy, thinking maybe I'd banged my funny bone, tried to stand up, and had to lie immediately on the couch to stop myself fainting. After a few minutes lying there, drifting close to the edge of consciousness, I decided that maybe if I had a drink of orange juice, the sugar would pep me up. I nearly passed out again while standing at the fridge, so took my OJ back upstairs and lie down till I came round, pressing gingerly at the arm, telling myself it wasn't broken - there's no bits of bone sticking out or anything.

After a while, I tried calling my sister who lives nearby. Eventually I got hold of her and she drove me to A&E where they took me almost immediately into X-ray.

"Put your arm on the table under the X-ray machine and we'll..."

"I'm feeling a little woozy."

"Are you going to faint?"

"No, no, I'm coming round. I'll be OK."

They took the first X-ray, then asked if I could turn my arm over to photograph it from the other side. Moving the arm in any way caused lots of pain, and it was around then that I passed out properly. The radiologist couldn't wake me, but I eventually came around to hear her shouting, "CAN I GET SOME HELP IN HERE, PLEASE!?"

Suddenly I'm surrounded by nurses who helped me up onto the bed, where I passed out again. Eventually I came round and they put me in a wheelchair to take me back to A&E. Oh, how my sister laughed.

They set my arm in a cast, confirming that it's fractured between the wrist and the elbow ("in a good place," said the doctor, which hopefully means it'll heal more quickly - although I could still be in a cast for 4-6 weeks).

"Did you hear it snap when you fell?" asked a student doctor. No, I didn't hear anything through the PAIN.

My sister brought me home and I called Louise, who laughed and called me an idiot... and then I called work, who all laughed and called me far worse things. I'd rather they laughed though, I'm sure I'll laugh about it myself when it stops hurting so damned much.

I'm often giving the NHS a bad time (specifically clueless, googling GPs), so it seems only fair I praise everyone who helped me this morning, from the A&E staff to the triage nurse to the radiologist, doctor and plaster room. They were fast and efficient and kept me smiling throughout (apart from when I was unconscious).

So here I sit with potted arm, unable to drive for at least the next month... hopefully I'll be able to work from home... the good news (though you might think otherwise) is that it's my left arm which is broken... my right typing hand is fine. So... I guess I'll muddle along.

You can all stop laughing now.

My Top Ten Motown Songs

If you've had your head in a bucket of Alexandra Burke for the past month or so, you might have missed the fact that it's the 50th anniversary of the world's greatest record label. Mojo magazine recently asked an all-star panel (including Billy Bragg, Iggy Pop, Johnny Marr, and Paul Weller) for their favourite Motown songs, leading to a list of The 100 Greatest, published in their latest issue. What more excuse do I need to compile my own Top Ten?

But first, a few runners up...

Frankie Valli & The Four Seasons - The Night

Included in the Mojo countdown (albeit at #88), despite the fact that it wasn't written by any of the regular Motown writers, recorded by any of the classic Motown names, or even officially released on Motown itself (instead, the subsidiary MoWest label). None of this changes the fact that it's an amazing record, and while it'd be a cheat to include it in my Ten, it definitely deserves a mention. When I saw Weller late last year, this was the last track played on his warm-up tape before the band took to the stage. Would the Modfather be insulted if I said that it was the best song I heard all evening? Perhaps not. 'The Night' begins with a bass line that shakes through you like a jackhammer. Then comes Valli: while not necessarily in the same league as Levi Stubbs, his voice still manages to tear strips off you. Building to a chorus that's the missing link between Spector and Springsteen, it's one of those songs that immediately makes you want to get up and lift the needle back to the beginning.

The Rare Earth - I Just Want To Celebrate

A very 70's record, rockier than anything else here and recorded by a bunch of hippyish white guys, this is Motown in name alone. Like the Valli track, it'd be a cheat to count it properly... yet, from the first time I heard it on the soundtrack to the movie Three Kings, it sunk its hooks into me in the same way the classic Holland-Dozier-Hollands did many years before.

The Temptations - My Girl

There's no room for the Temps in my Ten (except as guest stars at #2). Much as I admire them, I was always more of a Four Tops kids. There is however plenty of room for Smokey, and this is another of his classics. "I got sunshine on a cloudy day" is one of many lines that confirms Smokey Robinson as the William Shakespeare of pop. A line that's become almost hackneyed by repetition and rip off over the years, yet written long before the cliche set in. This is happy Smokey - he wrote just as many (if not more) songs where the sentiment is reversed. If you close your eyes you can almost hear him singing 'I've got clouds... on a sunny day'. My Girl wouldn't have worked quite as well that way round (and would have been a little too close to Buddy Holly), but you'll get plenty of Sad Smokey below.


The only major Motown artists not to make my Ten are Michael Jackson and Stevie Wonder. Maybe that's because I'm a child of the 80's. In Jackson's case, I actually preferred his early Epic material (whatever else you might say about him, Thriller deserves its place in history); the cheeky little scamp vocals from his Motown days just grate on me... though I do think the lyrics to One Day In Your Life make it one of the most wonderfully depressing songs ever written.

If I had to pick a favourite Stevie Wonder track, it'd be a toss up between the jubilant horns of Uptight (Everything's Alright) and the wa-wa guitar and spooky lyrics of Superstition. But despite my admiration for 60s and 70s Stevie, I can't get away from Jack Black's well-argued point in High Fidelity...

Top five musical crimes perpetrated by Stevie Wonder in the '80s and '90s? Go! Sub-question: is it in fact unfair to criticize a formerly great artist for his latter day sins? Is it better to burn out... or fade away?

All of which brings us to the actual Ten...


10. Marvin Gaye - I Heard It Through The Grapevine

With an intro that builds the tension as well as anything Bernard Hermann ever wrote, before Marvin enters with his majestic accusation: 'Oh I bet you're wondering how I knew, about your plans to make me blue'. Recorded by many others - even before the mighty MG got his tonsils around it - there's something about Marvin's version that sets it far apart. I think it's the howl in his voice as he gets deeper into the song. He actually sounds like a man who's "just about to lose (his) mind". Written by Norman Whitfield and Barrett Strong who, to quote Billy Bragg, "are here to make right everything that's wrong."

9. Diana Ross & The Supremes - Stop! In The Name Of Love

Diana, Mary and Florence were my first love when it came to Motown. I remember baby-sitting for my nephews while my sister worked nights, going through her record collection and playing her Supremes Greatest Hits over and over again. Stop! In The Name Of Love is probably their most well-known track, excepting Baby Love and the one Phil Collins tried to strangle. Actually, You Can't Hurry Love should really be included here as it contains the bass line that launched a thousand other songs. A Town Called Malice and Lust For Life immediately spring to mind. But Stop! pips it through that bizarre space warp effect that opens the song. They sure knew how to grab you from the first second at Motown. The lyrics tell an emotional story too, as the song's heroine pleads with her man to "think it over" before walking out to see his other woman...

"But is her sweet expression
Worth more than my love and affection?"

When you put it like that... you'd need a heart of stone to keep on leaving.

8. Smokey Robinson & The Miracles - I Second That Emotion

Smokey in frustrated romantic mood. His woman is leading him down the garden path, teasing him along with kisses sweet, "but only for one night with no repeat". Smokey's having none of it though, insiting "a taste of honey is worse than none at all". The crazy thing about this song is that it's build around a corny pun that really shouldn't work, though sincerity always wins out in the end. You'd be hard pressed to find a more sincere songwriter than Smokey Robinson... "If you feel like giving me a lifetime of devotion, I second that emotion". Genius.

7. Jimmy Ruffin - What Becomes Of The Brokenhearted?

Jimmy Ruffin's voice is up there with Levi Stubbs when it comes to conveying heartbreak and joy. It's Wonderful (To Be Loved By You) is his best happy song, but What Becomes Of The Broken Hearted? does everything it says on the tin and more. Don't ever listen to this song if you've just split up from a relationship... you won't make it through.

6. The Four Tops - Reach Out, I'll Be There

God, I love the Four Tops. I could easily give you a top ten with just these guys. Standing In The Shadows Of Love, Bernadette, 7 Rooms Of Gloom, I Can't Help Myself... these songs have it all. Power, passion, and a haunting, almost eerie quality to many of their biggest records that goes way beyond a simple case of turning up the reverb. Reach Out is their most famous, and one of the truly great 'lean on me' anthems. The way Levi Stubbs sings 'Come on girl, reach on out for me!' before the chorus starts proper... no one could be in any doubt he means every word.

5. Diana Ross & The Supremes - I'm Livin' In Shame

Probably the most obscure record in my Ten, this only made number #14 in the UK chart (#10 in the States) and is scandalously absent from the Mojo 100. It's actually the sequel to an earlier hit, Love Child, and it was tempting to tie the two together as one entry. Both thrive on the kind of socially conscious melodrama Phil Spector perfected with groups like The Shangri-La's, but with Diana Ross at the helm (minus the other two Supremes - both tracks were recorded with the Andantes on backing vocals) they're unmistakably Motown. In Love Child, Ross warns her boyfriend about the dangers of an unmarried pregnancy, something she understands only too well as her character (in the song) is herself the product of such a union. I'm Livin' In Shame comes at the same subject from a different perspective - that of a girl ashamed of her own unwed mother... despite everything Mom sacrificed while she was growing up. Schmaltz? No way. It's just a heartbreaking story that gets me every time.

4. The Four Tops - Walk Away, Renee

Less well known than Reach Out, this one wins it for me because it's not just pure heartbreak and unrequited love... it's also a wonderfully bleak stalker anthem too. "Just walk away Renee," sings Levi, his heart ripped out through his vocal chords, "you won't see me follow you back home". Walk Away was originally recorded outside Motown by a group called The Left Banke, and was written by their 16 year old keyboard player. But The Four Tops add layer upon layer of despair. A big influence to many subsequent songwriters, including Elvis Costello (listen to The Invisible Man on Punch The Clock) and Billy Bragg (who recorded his own version of the song, with Johnny Marr on guitar, and entirely new lyrics), I reckon this is also one of the songs that led Billy to pen "When the world falls apart, some things stay in place... Levi Stubbs' tears run down his face".

3. Smokey Robinson & The Miracles - The Tracks Of My Tears.

If Smokey was Shakespeare, this is undoubtably his Hamlet. A light instrumental intro leads you in like a lamb to the slaughter... and then come the lyrics:

People say I'm the life of the party
Because I tell a joke or two
Although I might be laughing loud and hearty
Deep inside I'm blue
So take a good look at my face
You'll see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer, it's easy to trace
The tracks of my tears.

Almost as good, yet not quite as iconic, is this record's deceptively upbeat sister, Tears Of A Clown with Smokey still trying his best to 'camouflage his sadness'.

2. Diana Ross & The Supremes & The Temptations - I'm Gonna Make You Love Me.

I've written about this one before here, so I won't bore you again. Hairs on the back of my neck... atten-shun!

1. The Isley Brothers - This Old Heart Of Mine.



A song that has me from the opening drum roll. Rejected by both the Supremes and the Four Tops, though it sounds more like Levi & co. than anything else the Isleys recorded... one can only wonder how majestic a full on Four Tops version might have sounded (if they recorded it later, I've never heard it). But that's not to slight the Isleys at all. It's a classic Holland Dozier Holland composition; oh, how I studied these lyrics when I was a hopeless teenager, imagining singing them to the girl of my dreams and winning her over with the display. Sadly, this was in the days before the internet - and I couldn't track down a lyrics sheet either. It took me years to puzzle out, "Like a fool I start grinnin', 'Cause my head starts spinnin'", though I did eventually suss the climactic...

"But if you leave me a hundred times
A hundred times I'll take you back
I'm yours whenever you want me
I'm not too proud to shout it,
Tell the world about it!"

Subsequently ruined by Rod Stewart (sorry, Rod: Maggie May, I've no problem with; a good enough voice, but you were never Motown standard), I was horrified to learn of a 90s dance cover by Dutch group Luv... but fortunately, I've never had the displeasure.

About Me Meme

Blogging memes by their very nature are always about the person filling them in, another excuse to cry "me-me-me-me-ME!" (then again, so are blogs in general), but at least this one is honest about it...

With thanks to Lee from Quit Your Day Job...

Were you named after anyone?

Yes. Back in the early 50's when my dad did National Service ("that's what's wrong with the youth of today" etc.), his two best pals were called William and Rolston.

When was the last time you cried?

The last time I answered this question, the crying was more recent and in my memory. I am a bit of a soppy / wimpy git at heart, so crying isn't that uncommon... but right at this moment, I can't think when the last time was.

What is your favourite lunch meat?

Lunch meat? Is that like luncheon meat? Ugh. If you mean what meat do I eat at lunchtime, it's generally ham (with cheese & spinach) sandwiches or tuna with too much mayo.

If you were another person would you be friends with you?

Only if I was a loser.

Do you use sarcasm a lot?

How much is 'a lot'? More than once every two seconds?

Do you still have your tonsils?

Yes, and you're not having them.

Would you bungee jump?

Not unless you paid me a lot of money.

What is your favourite cereal?

I don't really eat much cereal. But when I do, it has to be with hot milk - as cold milk makes me puke. I realise that the idea of cornflakes with hot milk can seem anathema to some people, but it's that or orange juice.

Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?

I can't get them off without untying the laces. Don't start me on when they knot.

Do you think you are strong?

No. I'm a wimp, and ashamed of it.

What is your favourite ice cream?

A good vanilla takes some beating; though I'm also partial to chocolate... but not too much.

What is the first thing you notice about people?

How much they annoy me?

Red or pink?

Red or pink what? Be. More. Specific.

What is the least favourite thing about yourself?

The growing doubt that I'll ever achieve my ambitions and realise my dreams.

Who do you miss the most?

When the gun is in my hand, I try never to miss.

What colour shoes are you wearing?

Black. And scuffed. Boots. I need to buy some new ones, but the ones I like are expensive and I'm a cheapskate.

What was the last thing you ate?

A rather dry mandarin. It was still better than the record-breaking clementines I had last week. Three pips in every segment - at least!

What are you listening to right now?

Absolutely nothing. I may work in a radio station, but we refuse to have it playing in our office. It's a distraction to our "creativity".

If you were a crayon, what colour would you be?

Fuck off.

Favourite smells?

Coffee, which I don't drink any more. Joiner's shop wood. Bacon frying.

Who was the last person you spoke to on the phone?
Can't remember, but it's highly likely they were an idiot.

Favourite sports to watch?

None I can think of.

Hair colour?

Dark brown, with flecks of grey. Isn't 'flecks' a lovely way of saying 'odd hairs'?

Eye colour?

Brown. Ish.

Do you wear contacts?

No. Glasses neither.

Favourite food?

Moussaka. Blueberries. Scones with lots of jam. Cheese (not blue).

Scary movies or happy endings?

I prefer horror films to schmaltz, and I prefer my horror films to have bleak endings. But I also like a nice effective romcom (though they're few and far between these days).

Last movie you watched?

Streets Of Fire, an 80's musical directed by Walter Hill. I was led to believe I might enjoy it as it featured Jim Steinman songs, but it wasn't what I expected - and there wasn't much Steinman going on either.

What colour shirt are you wearing?

Black. "I wear black on the outside..."

Summer or winter?

What, now? Or what would I prefer? Winter now, summer preferred.

Hugs or kisses?

Personal space issues here - get away from me.

Favourite desserts?

Something with blueberries. Or ice cream. Or chocolate fudge brownies. Or something nice and gingery. (No, not Catherine Tate.)

I’m most likely to... get annoyed by stupid, vague meme questions.

I’m least likely to... come up with a smart answer for them.

What book are you reading now?

The Fahrenheit Twins by Michel Faber (of which, more later).

What is on your mouse pad?

At work: Quantum Of Solace. (It came free with Total Film.)
At home: sod all.

What did you watch on television last night?

An old episode of Drop The Dead Donkey. It's dated more than a lot of sitcoms due to all the topical stuff, but it's still funny. Especially Gus. I had a boss just like Gus once. Tosser.

Favourite sounds?

Rain, wind, waves crashing on rocks... silence.

Least favourite sounds?

My bloody alarm clock.

Rolling Stones or The Beatles?

Once, I might have said the Beatles. But I burnt out on them years ago and now have to turn off the radio whenever they come on, or throw things at the TV whenever I see Macca's smug, thumbs-aloft face. But I've yet to tire of Sympathy For The Devil.

What is the furtherest you’ve been from home?

Furtherest? Thatat wouldould bebe Kefalonia.

Do you have a special talent?

Spider-Man trivia.

Where were you born?

Huddersfield.




Is that it?

The Friendship Stop

We've been doing work for a lot of schools lately, and as a result I've discovered a couple of startling new innovations in the social development of our nation's youth: The Friendship Stop and Buddy Bench.

Apparently these are areas (one a bus stop type set up; the other... well, a bench) where kids who don't have anyone to hang out with at playtime can go stand or sit when they're at a loose end. Either they'll meet likeminded (similarly friendless) souls there who they can pal up with; or they'll be taken under the collective wing of a kindly group who see them all alone and invite them to join in with their own formative social activities. What a wonderful world we live in where the Friendship Stop and Buddy Bench can help lonely children make new connections...

...and how different to the schoolyards of my own youth, where if we'd had such facilities available, anyone making use of them would have a) had the piss taken out of them until they cried; or b) had their heads kicked in. As one who spent a small number of his childhood years feeling friendless and alone (sometimes, though not always, through means of my own invention), it's good to know the children of today are by nature so much more benevolent and warmhearted than the callous little fuckers I went to school with. Maybe there's hope for the human race after all...

I could have been all muso-hip and added 'The Headmaster Ritual' to illustrate this post... but it just didn't seem half as appropriate as the somewhat less cool track below.

Ince & Jeays

On Saturday night we went to see comedian Robin Ince and his Bleeding Heart Liberal at the Lowry in Manchester. Ince describes his style of comedy as geek autism, which pretty much sums up the way his act jumps from science to literature to TV to religion to the dangers of performing naked interpretative dance when you've got diarrhea... and that's just in one gag. He may be one of the most intelligent, well-read comics I've ever seen (certainly up there with Rob Newman and Stuart Lee)... but he's definitely the most entertainingly erratic. And according to his myspace blog, he had a cold on Saturday night, which made his thought processes even more confused and capricious than usual. From Dawkins to Chomsky to Morrissey to Richard & Judy... sometimes hard to follow, but always hilarious.

The gig also came with a wonderful surprise: support from singer-songwriter Philip Jeays. Adrian first made me aware of Jeays late last year and directed me towards his website where tracks are available to download. Sly, witty, lyrically dense songs with a nod to Scott Walker & Jacques Brel are always going to go down well with me, and Phil Jeays was born to sing 'Jackie'. Plus he's just as charismatic live as I'd have imagined. Best support act I've seen in ages... and this for a comedian! They were selling his CDs in the interval, and even though I don't get paid till Friday and I have approximately £3.45 to last me all week, I still had to buy one. I like the thought that when you buy a CD from a gig, the artist gets more of the cash.

Both Jeays and Ince were well-received by about 98.5% of the Salford audience. But where were the three remaining sour-faced, humourless, couldn't crack a smile if their life depended on it audience members sitting? Directly in front of and at the side of us, obviously. The old boy on my left thought he'd wandered into the filming of an episode of Last Of The Summer Wine, and was horrified to discover the humour on offer was a little more challenging than he'd expected. Not only that, but as the seats were very narrow he kept rubbing his leg against mine... and I swear he had something very unpleasant in his pocket.

The Ninth Life Of Louis Drax

This morning I finally finished the first half of the first draft of my new nvl. That's the half that's set back in the 80s done (thanks again to everyone who helped with my research). There's a lot more work to do - not just the half that's set in the present day (which will alternate in the finished story with the flashbacks), but also a good many redrafts and rewrites besides. But I'm happy with the way it's shaping up, and the plot has come together very well indeed. As always when working on a story, I write what I'd like to read, and if somebody else told me about the plot of I Wish, Wish, Wish You Were Dead, Dead, Dead I know it'd be straight on my Amazon wishlist... even if I hadn't come up with it myself. Hopefully others (agents, publishers, readers) will feel the same. If not, at least I'll have got it out of my system.

I'm taking a break from the nvl now to work on a few other projects - including scripts for future issues of PJANG (issue #2 out now, folks!), another play, and - sorry, Paul! - another blasted sitcom. Throw enough shit at enough different walls and...

But enough about writing... what about reading?



I struggled with the first chapter of The Ninth Life Of Louis Drax. It's narrated by the book's eponymous hero, a precocious and disturbed nine year old, the kind of kid you get stuck behind on a long bus trip and soon start praying for the driver to steer you all over a cliff. Books narrated by kids either grab me immediately because I empathise with the protagonist's voice (The Wasp Factory, Black Swan Green, The Wrong Boy) or make me want to feed the authors typing fingers into a mangle (The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time). There was a moment here when I worried Louis Drax was going to fall into the latter category... but then something else happened. A second protagonist turned up: Dr. Pascal Dannachet. Dr. D saved the book.

Dannachet becomes involved when Louis falls off a cliff after a fight with his parents and lands in a coma. It's Dannachet's job to bring Louis out of his coma, and the only way to do this seems to be to unravel the mystery of just what happened on the day of his accident. But with Louis' father missing, and his mother a mess of torment and dangerous allure, the investigation seems impossible... until Louis himself gets involved.

Liz Jensen's novel is a continually surprising, dark and twistily-plotted gem. The final revelations are both shocking and kick-yourself obvious, and Dannachet is a riveting, morally complex character. Louis remains a pain in the arse throughout - to me at least - but that didn't stop me sympathising with or understanding his plight, and that's just down to damn fine writing. Read it!

You can pin and mount me like a butterfly...

So yesterday I had acupuncture.

Longtime readers of this blog (those poor, unfortunate, tortured souls) will remember me whinging on in the past about strange, undiagnosed bouts of fatigue, and my general frustration with the NHS and its 'can't be arsed' attitude when it comes to fixing me. I've had blood tests out the wazoo, and the only thing the doctors can agree on is that I have a liver condition called Gilbert's Syndrome... yet most of those same doctors insist that it has no physical symptoms and certainly shouldn't cause me to feel the way I sometimes do.

I'd never considered trying any kind of alternative therapy, not because I'm a complete Doubting Thomas (again, longtime readers will know I favour more of an agnostic Mulder 'I want to believe' outlook), but mainly through a kind of despairing apathy which ten years of the same recurring, undefinable condition is bound to bring about.

Along comes my old mate Simon. Now if I'm a Mulder, Simon is definitely a Scully. (No, we don't secretly want to jump each other. Stop that.) Simon is the last person I know who's likely to believe in any wacky, alternative mumbo-jumbo - so when he told me about his own positive experiences with acupuncture, I felt it might be worth a try.

Yesterday afternoon then, I had a pin in my knee. And another just above my ankle. It's a strange sensation, not at all like the pinprick you'd imagine. More a dull ache and a curious feeling of release. The pins went in after a pretty exhaustive Q&A session with the consultant who, unlike the majority of NHS doctors I've spoken to over the last ten years, seemed genuinely interested in getting to the root of my problem and solving the mystery. Now a cynic might say, "well of course he was - you were paying him £40!" But forty quid for an hour and a half doesn't seem much when compared to the many thousands that an average GP - or even specialist (who I've also been referred to in the past, and who also had little interest in finding out what was wrong) - gets paid. Yes I know they're overworked, and I wouldn't be a doctor for all the tea in Tetleys, but it was nice just to be listened to for a change, to feel I was talking to somebody who wanted to understand. That conversation was the closest I've ever come to a Gregory House style consultation (without the entertaining obnoxiousness), and it was worth the money just for that... if nothing else.

Because of the nature of my condition, it's difficult to tell whether the acupuncture helped. All I can do is see what happens over the next few weeks and months. The symptoms come and go anyway. If they return... well, at least I gave it a try. If they don't... I'll probably become acupuncture's biggest supporter. Either way, at least I gave it a try. It was a new experience, and an interesting one. No harm done.

From Paris With Love

This afternoon, I'm going to see a man who plans to stick needles in me.

Really.

More on that tomorrow... if I survive.


In the meantime, how could I have gone so long without mentioning the new Morrissey single? Given its world premiere a couple of weeks back on the Ken Bruce radio show (if you're not in the UK, you won't appreciate how hilarious that is... I dunno, I suppose it's like seeing the video on Oprah or something), 'I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris' sounded, on first listen, like Morrissey-by-numbers. Nobody loves me, so I'm going to take solace in the arms of another old European city. It was Italy last time, so he is at least getting closer to home... perhaps we'll hear him writing about Manchester again one day soon.

A couple more listens and the song got properly under my skin. It has a swelling, joyful chorus that's really quite irresistible - particularly the way that Moz avoids the obvious tune and splits the title over two phrases. I'm a little disappointed that the final tracklisting of the new album features only ten new songs (from many more originally rumoured) while also crowbarring in two previously released singles taken from last year's Greatest Hits collection... but, if the other nine new songs are as wonderful as 'Paris' is turning out to be, I'll let him off.

Morrissey - I'm Throwing My Arms Around Paris


The video is a typically low key affair with Morrissey and the band on an empty set (I'd have loved to see a literal interpretation with the Mozfather strolling down the Champs Elysees and hugging the Arc de Triomphe, but I guess the budget wouldn't stretch). Enlivened by some of his most entertaining dancing and gurning, it's almost a full-on tribute to Norman Wisdom. Perhaps Moz fell for Sky News's evil plot to kill off Sir Norm over Christmas and was inspired to go completely 'Mr. Grimsdale!!!' in celebration of his own forthcoming 50th birthday. Nice of him to let his little dogs in on the action too. Wonder if he'll take them on tour?

Hulk Smash Stupid Blog Post!

I've been reading a lot of Essential Incredible Hulk lately... wait, wait, all you non-comic-reading types, don't click away just yet, this isn't another long, dull comics post, honest! It's about comics as, y'know, like a metaphor for life, man. Or something.

Although the Hulk I grew up reading changed his personality every couple of years* - from brainy Hulk to nasty Hulk to savage Hulk... who can even remember them all? - the classic Hulk personality that existed through most of the 60's and 70's was the big, dumb, angry "Hulk smash!" Hulk. This Hulk was a creation of pure ego - a childish tantrum at the bullies and injustices of the world. He had a limited vocabulary (yet curiously, a habit of referring to himself in the third person) and like all true temper tots, his needs were pretty simple. He wanted friends (yet wherever he went, people kept trying to beat him up). If he couldn't find friends, he wanted to be left alone. And if he couldn't get what he wanted, he lashed out at everyone.

Reading those old comics again, I found that the Hulk's personality was perfectly encapsulated in his dialogue - a variation of the same few phrases repeated every issue...

"Hulk just wants to be left alone. Why won't puny humans leave Hulk alone? Leave Hulk alone, puny humans, or Hulk will SMASH!"

"X thinks he can beat Hulk, that X is stronger than Hulk, but Hulk is the strongest one there is. Go away, X, stop bothering Hulk or Hulk will SMASH!"

"X still keeps bothering Hulk, and now X is making Hulk mad! And the madder Hulk gets the stronger Hulk gets! Rarrrrrghhhh!"

It soon becomes apparent why this Hulk was such a popular character with young children. As a child, I reckon we've all felt like Hulk when we couldn't get our own way... but unlike Hulk there wasn't much we could do about it. That's where the wish-fulfillment fantasy stuff comes in. We can relate to Hulk's anger at the unfairness of the world - but we don't have the power to lash out like he does. If only we did! Of course, while taking out his rage on bad guys and monsters may have had a positive effect in story terms, it rarely made life any better for old greenskin. There's probably a lesson in that, but that doesn't make it any less appealing...

You see, it's not just kids who can relate to a good old "Hulk smash!" rant. I've found it quite effective myself over the last few weeks as a way of relieving tension and stress in the everyday world. Take something that's getting on your nerves and reduce it to simple "Hulk smash!" terms and you'll be amazed how good it feels to just get it all out of your system.

Say you've got a cold, but also big plans for the weekend...

"Go away, stupid cold, leave Hulk alone - or Hulk will SMASH!"

Say there's a particularly annoying driver clinging to your rear bumper...

"Stupid car thinks he's a better driver than Hulk - but Hulk is the best driver there is! Stop bothering Hulk, stupid car, or Hulk will SMASH!!"

Say you've got a new multi-plug adapter for your bedroom but it has a really bright light on it that stays on all night and illuminates your bedroom, stopping you getting to sleep... (Just as some random, non-specific example.)

"Go away, stupid light - why won't you leave Hulk alone? Hulk just wants to be left in peace to go to sleep! Get away from Hulk, stupid light - or Hulk will SMASH!!!"

We're talking serious catharsis here, really. Give it a try if you don't believe me - it's the Incredible Hulk Guaranteed Stressbusting Technique! Do you think I could copyright that without getting sued?

"Hulk does not understand why stupid Marvel wants to sue Hulk. Hulk's head hurts. Why does it hurt so much to think? Go away, stupid Marvel, leave Hulk alone - or Hulk will SMASH!!!!!"

OK, here's a bit purely for the comic geeks among you. Y'see, the other thing I like about those old Hulk comics is how Jade Jaws can never remember the name of the person he's fighting (even if he's fighting with them), so he always gives them his own dumb-yet-descriptive nickname. Here's a little quiz for anyone who's as sad as me. Who might Hulk be referring to when he says...?

1. Sword Girl

2. Big Ears

3. Little Man

4. Dumb Magician

5. Green Hair

6. Monkey

7. Bug Man

8. Beak Nose

9. Fish Man

10. Carrot Nose





*Thanks largely to Peter David, but let's not forget Bill Mantlo's contribution. Long before David took over the book, Mantlo had Banner-brained Hulk receiving an official pardon before going savage again and then having all vestiges of the Banner personality removed before being banished to the Crossroads (sadly, not the motel) by Dr. Strange.

What Year Is It?

To stop myself worrying about the big things - like whether I'll still have a job this time next year or the possibility that self-replicating nanotechnology will soon wipe out all life on Earth - I distract myself with thoughts like this...

When exactly does two thousand become twenty?

The year is two thousand and nine. Unless you're in America, where you probably drop the 'and'. Now I have no problem with you dropping the 'and' if you're American. After all, we didn't call 1999 nineteen and ninety-nine, so I guess you're just keeping in line with that. However, the whole 'and' or 'no and' issue does raise a couple of questions...

1. Do all Americans drop the 'and', or is there a mix of 'and-ers' and 'non-and-ers'? And what does the rest of the world do?

2. Have you always dropped the 'and'? I mean, did you even drop it in 2001? And if so, what do you call Arthur C. Clarke's book and Stanley Kubrick's film?

The 'and' issue was brought to my attention by ultra-annoying British DJ Steve Wright. I caught a few seconds of his Sunday Love Songs show yesterday, and in the time it took me to rush and turn off the radio before he played Jennifer Rush again, I heard him call the year 'two thousand nine'... which would be fine if he were American, but as he's not - fuck off. I don't care if his wife's American, Steve Wright dropping the 'and' just sounds self-conscious and affected.

But none of this is my real concern. My real concern is when do we stop saying two thousand (and) whatever and start saying twenty whatever? Is next year two thousand (and) ten... or is it twenty ten? Clearly it has to happen soon, because nobody wants to still be saying two thousand and forty nine in forty years time... but we've kind of got into the habit of saying two thousand now - how easy will it be to make that change? Will there be a big resistance to twenty? A schism between twenty-ers and two thousand-ers? Violent protests and fighting in the streets? Maybe that's why Nostradamus and co. predicted the end of the world in 2012... maybe that's when we just can't take the indecision any more.

Of course, all this pales into insignificance compared to Tom's big query: what the hell do we even call this decade?

Cold, Cold, Cold As The Cold Wind Blows

Yes, it's bloody cold...









...but not as cold as Brother Tobias's bedroom.

The Reader

My New Year's Resolution, if I had one, was to see less shite films. This was partly due to the fact that I no longer have a critic's pass for the local multi-fleapit-plex (you don't mind watching films like Wanted and Max Payne when you don't have to pay for them); and partly because I just want to see better movies.

With this in mind, despite pressure from my peers, when given the choice between The Spirit and The Reader , there really was no choice at all...



I haven't yet got round to compiling my Top Ten Actresses (I doubt it'll be as much fun as my Top Ten Most Annoying Actresses), but the top of that list has never been in doubt, and I don't mind spoilering it here. There's no one quite like Kate Winslet; unmissable in any film she appears in, she can even make me not just tolerate but thoroughly enjoy a Jim Carrey film. Should Louise ever kick me to the kerb, I might well go knocking on Kate's door: she must be fed up of that chump Mendes by now. I mean, what does he have that I don't? (Apart from talent, looks, money and all that superficial stuff.)

Anyway, The Reader...

I've not read the book, and I suppose I really ought to have, but this is a film that will stay with me for a long time. It's one of those big stories that deals with love, guilt, responsibility, forgiveness and redemption (yes, yes, like Spider-Man) asking serious questions with no easy answers.

Michael Berg, a young man in 50's Germany meets and falls for an older woman, Hannah Schmitz (Winslet). A passionate affair ensues but the woman always seems detached, never revealing much about herself or her true feelings... and then she disappears. Years later, while studying to become a lawyer, Berg observes a war crimes trial in which his first love is charged with leading an SS guard unit. Berg has information that might help Hannah's case... but is he prepared to use it... and would she even want him to?

It's a film that blows apart black and white notions of morality and good / evil, and one that delivers a considerable emotional punch in its final half hour. Kate is astonishing. Even in the early seduction and affair scenes, she has carries darkness in her eyes and a weight on her shoulders that rarely lifts. Her final scenes as an old woman still coming to terms with her crimes are heartbreaking, yet also - through the lifeline Ralph Fiennes' Berg offers her - wonderfully uplifting.

Go on, try and convince me I should have gone to see The Spirit instead... I dare you! Bah, Frank Miller, what happened to you?

Bloggembarrassment

Back when I was a kid, I was a big fan of Dallas. One of the recurring characters in that show was Pam's boyfriend (when she wasn't with Bobby - and sometimes when she was) Mark Graison, played by the actor John Beck. Graison had an enormous moustache, as seen below.



Terry Wogan at the time commented that the character looked like he had "a ferret under his nose" and that always stuck in my mind... to the point that I one day found myself repeating it to an older male relative who had exactly the same kind of 'tache. He looked a bit miffed, but I was mortified. I still cringe about it now, more than 25 years later, though I'm sure my relative doesn't remember it at all.

This kind of 'open mouth insert foot' faux pas happens every now and then in everyday social interaction, and you learn to live with those 'biting your fist' moments as you get older, though you never become immune to them. You would at least think that you'd be safe from such horrors on the internet though... but even in the relatively friendly arena of the blogosphere you can end up putting your foot in it without ever meaning to do so... and withering up when you think about it afterwards.

Yesterday I was over at Swiss Toni's Place reading another of his Shuffleathon 2008 updates, which I always enjoy. Because I know what's involved in the Shuffleathon (I even took part myself this year), I skipped the intro to the post and waded into what I presumed was Toni's own review of the CD he'd received. As I like to think ST and I have fairly similar tastes in music, I was surprised by what I thought were his reactions to some of the tracks he was reviewing, and left a cheeky comment to that effect. ST quickly corrected me that the review in question wasn't actually his, but that of a friend who took part in the Shuffleathon... but doesn't have a blog of his own to post his review on. Which I'd have known if I'd read the intro!!!

A very longwinded story, and I doubt you're still with me, but the upshot is that I felt like an idiot, and found myself repeatedly cringing about it for the rest of the evening.

It's not the first time I've regretted a comment I've left on someone else's blog. Sometimes I misjudge how my darkly cynical (morbidly bleak?) sense of humour might be taken and leave a comment that seems funny to be... but doesn't curl the corners of the blogger in question's mouth. Occasionally I've made a comment that, in retrospect, I think might possibly have been a bit too familiar or sarcastic or even downright rude... and I end up worrying I've caused great offence. Like all social interaction, it's a tightrope... and if you're a delicate flower like me, you're constantly worried about when you might fall off.

What about you? Have you ever left a comment you immediately regretted... or that you still cringe about today?

If not, why not give it ago. My comments box is always open to you...

A Kiss With A Fist Is Better Than None

What I love about blogging is that it's like when you were a kid and you had a scrapbook and you could put whatever you wanted in it. There was no order or reason or plan from one day to the next, and sometimes you didn't even have to write anything, you'd just clip it out of a newspaper or magazine and Uhu it onto the page.

In that spirit then, a few more random catch-up bits from my Christmas break. To start - what have I been reading?



Finally got round to Andrew Collins's Billy Bragg biog Still Suitable For Miners, feeling pretty smug that I'd managed to pick up a cheap copy of the revised edition on eBay that takes Billy's story up to the release of the England, Half English LP. I've always found Collins an immensely readable writer, and he brings a warts, big nose 'n' all perspective to Billy's story that perfectly suits the everyman quality of the Barking Bard. It was great to read how Billy set up a trust fund for employees of his first record company so that when it was finally swallowed up by the majors, all the employees got a nice chunky payout. The book is packed with some hilarious 'on the road' stories too, like the time Billy was supporting the Stranglers and he watched Jet Black give Jean Jacques Burnel £50 to do the weekly shopping for the whole band... only for Burnel to return with fifty quid's worth of Wagon Wheels.

My only disappointment came on finishing the book to find that a further update is now available taking Billy's story up to 2006... but with a new album out just last year, do I wait for the next update before replacing my current copy? This could go on forever. Tell you what, Andrew, rather than the constant revised editions... how about drawing a line and starting work on volume 2 instead?



After much hinting, Louise bought me the mammoth hardback Spider-Man: The Icon for Christmas, and it's proving to be the best present of the year. You wouldn't think I could read another book about Spider-Man that told me anything I didn't already know... I wouldn't have thought so either, but this huge slab of a tome is proving us both wrong. Even better than all the comics stuff which has already been covered pretty well in books by Tom DeFalco and the like, what sets Icon apart is all the non-comics material, from the various cartoons and TV shows, to page after page of rare merchandising... much of which I remember fondly from my childhood. A serious nostalgia trip for arachno-obsessives everywhere.



Finally, some fiction. Not only that, but the best time travel novel I've read since Ken Grimwood's Replay. Many thanks to Lucy Fishwife whose review of Invasion Of The Body Snatchers author Jack Finney's Time And Again persuaded me to track down a copy. And you know what I was saying about clipping things into your scrapbook? Thanks to Lucy, I don't even need to write a review!

Meanwhile, a quick search on Amazon has revealed a sequel: From Time To Time. Typically, the Amazon reviewers can't agree on whether it's superior or inferior to the original, but it's definitely been added to my ever-increasing list.


And finally, a little music. One of the last songs I discovered in 2008 - so late, it just squeaked into my Tracks Of The Year - was 'Kiss With A Fist' by Florence And The Machine. A great, rocking single (and the follow-up, Dog Days Are Over is pretty cool too, though the video's a bit too Flight Of The Conchords do Kate Bush) that some cloth-ears on the interweb seem to be comparing to Kate Nash or Lily Allen. Why? I can't hear any of the old stage school mockney in Florence - can you? Then there's the Daily Mail-reading faction who're complaining the song glorifies domestic abuse. Honestly, give me a break. Irony, anyone?

Florence And The Machine are supporting Glasvegas on the NME Awards tour which is stopping off in Manchester in a few weeks time. Unfortunately they're first on and there's two other acts in support, so I'll have to try and get there extra early... if only in time to catch this one.

Too Cold For Mould

OK, I might have been exaggerating a little when I mentioned "six inches" of snow yesterday... but I'm a man, it always looks like six inches to me. That doesn't change the fact that it's bloody cold right now. Minus 7!? OK, I'm officially fed up with winter.

I realise that I'm fortunate enough to have people reading this blog (you know who you are) who live in Canada or Northern Europe or places where minus 7 seems positively balmy, but it's all relative isn't it? If this blog was called Sunset Over The Sahara, I'd no doubt be complaining if the temperature dropped below 15. Gimme a break.

Anyway, last weekend we went away to one of those hotel-spa jobbies to celebrate Louise's birthday. She's one of those special / poor unfortunate types born during the Christmas holiday, which means she suffers from the old "I've bought you this present for Christmas and your birthday" syndrome, and as her actual DOB is January 1, most of her friends are usually too hung over from the night before to feel like partying. Fortunately she has me, Wild & Crazy Party Animal Numero Uno to... erm... y'know... Sorry, it's hardly much of a consolation, is it?

Being both a woman and a sophisticated cosmopolitan type, Louise is well acquainted with spa culture. Being both a man and an unadventurous waster, this was my first time. I had reservations; but then I have reservations about going out to the shops most days. Still, Louise is doing her best to encourage me out of my shell by waving a soggy piece of lettuce in front of my nose... and if that doesn't work, a good old kick up the arse usually does the trick. So on with the trunks and into the water...

I don't mind a bit of swimming, as long as the pool isn't full of scabrous mutants (or worse, children), and I had half a mind that this was about as adventurous as I'd get... but you only live once, right - and my pathetic score on those Things I've Done In My Life memes suggested I need to do a little more than dip my toe in the pool of life every now and then. So, with a little arm-twisting, I dived in to...

The Sauna - my first time in the sauna, I wasn't too impressed. When I walk into the office on a sunny day and say, 'phew - it's like a sauna in here!', I'm not usually being complimentary. I found it hard to breathe and the instant sweatiness wasn't too cool. However, I changed my opinion on this later...

The Steam Room - 'well, if you don't like the sauna, you'll probably hate the wet heat of the steam room' said Louise... but for once, she was wrong. The smell of eucalyptus reminded me of when you have a cold and you steam your head over a bowl of hot water and Vicks Vapour Rub. I much preferred breathing that than the arid air of the sauna, and laying back staring up at the twinkling, colour-changing lights, I could almost have dropped off to sleep. I returned to the steam room a few times that afternoon, a definite highlight.

The Outdoor Hot Tub - excuse me, 'outdoor'??? All I could hear was my mum's voice saying, 'you're wet through and wearing only a soggy pair of trunks - you'll catch your death out there!' But we braved the dash to the hot tub and once we were inside with the bubbles going it was really quite lovely. Night had fallen so we stared up at the stars and tried to ignore the tub's other lone sourfaced occupant. Good fun, but in the back of your mind you still know you have to dash back inside through the cold again.

And back to the Sauna... which proved far more appealing after a freezing wet sprint through a cold January evening. That dry heat'll dry you out in no time, and I was getting quite into the sauna by this time... though I still preferred the steam room.

The Jacuzzi - I'm not really sure of the difference between the Jacuzzi and the Hot Tub, other than one was outside and the other had far too much chlorine which made my eyes sting. Couldn't stay in there long at all.

And finally, because the pool had cleared out, a good old swim. Louise went back to the room at this point, but I was enjoying myself so much (look at me!) that I even made a couple more returns to the sauna and steam room. And very invigorated I felt afterwards too... if only such places were more affordable, I might even become a regular.



I might have closed this post with the video to Life At A Top People's Health Farm, but the record company don't want people playing that on their blogs in case... hell, I don't know why they disable the embedding option, it's not as though you can steal the track from it or anything. But who am I to question the wisdom of the great and powerful Universal? Instead, I'll just close with another PJANG #2 plug and avoid any tenuous DJ links to "the plug in the bottom of the Jacuzzi - ha ha!"

Oh, sorry.

New Year, Same Old...

First day back after the Christmas break (not a complete break as I was in work Monday to Wednesday of last week, but very little was happening), I step outside the house into six inches of snow. Typical, isn't it? Two weeks of Christmas with not so much as a dandruff flake and the day you go back, it's sledgageddon. Plus, I have a cold. Again. However, unlike the cold I had a few weeks back, this one has all the dwarf-like symptoms (sneezy, coughy, snotty, snooky), but none of the feeling shitness. Which is fine with me.

Anyway, what have I missed writing about during my two week blogbattical? A brief catchup...


We saw the film Blindness with the always excellent Julianne Moore and Mark Ruffalo at the Hebden Bridge Picture House, a quaint and adorably creaky one screen cinema with old fashioned ticket machine, friendly staff, plenty of legroom, and the facility to take a cup of tea (proper china cups - and being Hebden Bridge, a wide variety of herbal options) in while you're watching the film. Makes you never want to set foot in a multiplex again.



Anyway, Blindness... from the premise alone, I knew this was going to be my kind of movie. In an attempt to contain a contagious epidemic of blindness, the government confines the affected to detention camp style hospitals. Despite being immune herself, Moore fakes sightlessness in order to protect her blind eye doctor husband (Ruffalo). It's Day Of The Triffids without the killer plants, and the film avoids all the obvious Hollywoodisms to provide a fascinating microcosm of the breakdown of society rather than attempt any big sci-fi spectacle. Had I seen it a few weeks earlier it'd probably have fumbled its way into my Top Ten Films of 2008, but good films often get saved till the no man's land between one year and the next. Still, couldn't let it go by without mention.


On DVD, we watched Australian comedy series Summer Heights High, an Office-style mockdoc featuring Chris Lilley in three roles: camp, failed thesp drama teacher Mr. G; snobby public schoolgirl Ja'mie King; and Tongan troublemaker Jonah Takalua. It's very funny, as long as you're not one of those easily offended, overly-pc types...




Still on TV, the announcement of the new Doctor Who was greeted by a big old Mark 'n' Lard style 'Whoooooooooo?', but then I had a similar response to David Tennant, and he worked out fine. Besides, Matt Smith has the advantage of 'No More Russell T. Davies', a blessing for any would-be Doctor; Steven Moffat has complete my faith; and from watching the (non-Who) clips of the actor in action... I think I can see him pulling it off. Of course, there's been a predictable fanboy meltdown as there is whenever they announce anything like this, mostly centred on the fact that Smith is only 26. What this comes down to is the terrible realisation for 90% of the audience that the Doctor is now much younger than they are! I must admit, when I think about it that way I do get a bit depressed. But what can you do? The next James Bond will be younger than me too, and I long since left Peter Parker behind. I am now officially, to quote Tim Booth, "too old for Hamlet; too young for Lear".


I reckon that's enough for today. A few quickies before I sign off...


Apparently there's a club in Sheffield that holds regular 'Rubber Nights'. They do have a 'Strictly No Latex' policy though. Sorry.


In case you've had your head in a sock all over Christmas, PJANG #2 is now available. (Did you really think I could go a whole post without mentioning it?)


And finally, the wonderful Paul Rainey begins his new serialised online comic strip 'Goddard & Prisk Are Now Investigators of the Paranormal' today. A new page posts every Monday - get in on the first episode action by clicking here.