Hello, strangers! Yes, I'm back and in a (doubtless foolish) attempt to cure my current malaise - brought on by a killer combination of bad health and work shite - I'm going to try to watch as much of the football World Cup as possible.
I figured that the fact I've been unable to write anything for the last month and a half is also down to my lack of SELF-DISCIPLINE. Therefore, I'll try to force myself to write something about every game over the next month, within reason. Those who read this sorry-excuse-for-a-blog on a regular basis who hate football (hello!) may want to not bother coming here for a month. So:
BRAZIL vs CROATIA
Pre-Match Thoughts
Back in 1990, I remember getting the World Cup sticker album, thus I had a faint clue about most of the other teams. 24 years later, I admit my knowledge has slipped and any predictions I make will be based on stereotypes and out-of-date references.
All the same, Brazil are starting out as one of the favourites and as hosts, the pressure is on them to deliver. So, I'm going to hedge my bets by saying it'll either be a nervous opener, with a late winner from a Brazil, or the boys in yellow will thrive in the occasion and cruise to a 4-0. This is in part due to the fact I know a few of the Brazil team and how good they are. Croatia have Jelavic, who didn't look that good playing for Hull City last season, and Luka Modric - who is a quality player, no doubt.
Drink?
A few bottles of Jennings Lakeland Ale, for a taste of home. Cheers, Aldi.
First Half
Opening ceremony? Fuck that. I listened to Section 25's From the Hip album instead while waiting for kick off. But just as well I'm not a betting man, as Croatia started strong and took the lead. Brazil finally got their shit in order and managed to equalise through Neymar, expected to be the big star of the tournament, though he can count himself lucky to be on the pitch after a tasty elbow on Modric. Any other game, I reckon that would been a straight red.
Since the Brazil goal, they've been in control and you have to fancy them to score more in the second half. The hosts look dodgy at the back, but there's enough going forward to see them through.
Second Half
3-1 to Brazil doesn't tell the whole story. Their back four is shaky at best and they owe a large part of their victory to a referee whose arse seemed to go. The softest of soft penalties at 1-1 saw Brazil steady, though the keeper might have done better with that, and should have certainly saved Oscar's shot that made the points safe.
I may have to reappraise my feelings of Brazil as being amongst the favourites - going forward with the likes of Neymar, they'll score goals. But their goalkeeper and entire defence are going to cost them dear.
Randon Irrelevant Fact
My maternal grandma was born and raised in a hamlet a couple of miles out of town called Scilly Banks. It was basically a row of about 10/15 two up-two down houses, a church and a pub. The pub had closed shortly before I was born, but I can only assume it was sustained for all those years by the entire community going on the piss there every other night.
Thursday, 12 June 2014
Tuesday, 13 May 2014
Man at Work
In a rare moment of "getting my shit together" two months ago, I took the bus to the yonder side of the city to meet up with Mark Burgess, lead singer of the Chameleons, who now fronts Chameleons Vox, performing the old band's material. The purpose was for an interview to go up on No Ripcord.
I've been lucky to meet several people whose work I greatly admire, and Mark is certainly in that group. Putting aside personal feelings, there's always a slight anxiety when you're doing a big piece that the subject won't be forthcoming or give short answers.
Thankfully, Mark was a brilliant interviewee, offering up more than I could have asked for. Smoking like a chimney throughout the 90 minutes he generously talked to me, we covered more subjects that I could fit into one article.
You can read the result here.
I've been lucky to meet several people whose work I greatly admire, and Mark is certainly in that group. Putting aside personal feelings, there's always a slight anxiety when you're doing a big piece that the subject won't be forthcoming or give short answers.
Thankfully, Mark was a brilliant interviewee, offering up more than I could have asked for. Smoking like a chimney throughout the 90 minutes he generously talked to me, we covered more subjects that I could fit into one article.
You can read the result here.
Tuesday, 29 April 2014
Driving and my Dad
As I get older, I feel modern cars are just crap. I mean, they look dull, sound dull and make you seem like a dull person. At least, this is my rationalisation of trying to console myself that I have to use public transport these days. Trams can be sexy, right?
All the same, cars seemed more exciting when I was a child. I used to love long journeys down to visit family in Milton Keynes (English viewers may be raising an eyebrow here at the idea of anyone being excited about going to that place) for the reason that I would see lots of cars on the M6 and M1. Credit to my pop to keeping his patience when we were stuck in a 15 mile tailback at Birmingham and I was bopping around in excitement at having seen a BMW 2002.
In the years before I was arrived, Dad had owned a couple of VW Beetles, the second of which had to go as you couldn't fit a pram in the front boot. Therefore, he made the insane decision to ignore further dabblings in German engineering and buy British. Only weeks before my birth, he picked up one of these (pics nicked from Wiki):
Yes, a Vauxhall Astra. Except he chose one in brown, and we all know the connotations of that colour. My principle memory of it was during a holiday down to Torquay. Along with my recently arrived brother and my parents, my older cousin accompanied us on what seemed like a 15 hour drive down to the English Rivera, where we met my aunty, uncle and their three daughters, who had entrusted British Rail to get them there. At one point, all of us managed to squeeze into the Astra. That's four adults, and six children, aged from 12 to one. If anything had happened, the social would have had a field day.
At some point, I think dad realised the British generally knew fuck all about making a half decent family car. I can recall the day at some point in the late 1980s where we went up to some garage near Maryport to pick up a new set of wheels - a Fiat Uno.
To this day, I'm unsure why he traded in for a smaller car. 1000cc of raw power got us from 0-60mph in around the same time it took me to get out of bed on a schoolday. In hindsight, I wonder if my dad was having a bad time at work, which makes me feel bad for all the times I hectored for a new set of football boots. Still, it cannot be said it was a nice car to look at. Or hear, as on the rare events it seemed to get to some kind of "top" speed, it screamed like a bunch of woodland creatures trapped in a blender, to which it's somewhat dubious "stereo" system would fail to drown out.
Luckily, needs eventually necessitated a bigger car - that being my brother and I had inherited some "tall" genes and were growing to the point that being crammed in the back of the Uno was going to result in some kind of bone deformations not seen in this country since the Victorian era. And so, the Ford Mondeo entered our lives.
Now, this was more like it. Sure, it looks fairly functional, but it was comfortable enough to have two lanky teenage lads in the back, with enough room for them to swing a few digs at each other and our mother to turn round and whack us both for misbehaving. My dad said it was the best car he'd ever had up to that time and actually kept it going for a decade with no major problems - in fact, it was offered down to me after I'd just moved to Manchester, but I couldn't afford the insurance.
Nowadays, my ma and pa scoot around in a Ford Focus diesel, which is very pleasant and efficient, but I find myself unable to give it a personality the way I did 20 years ago.
So - readers, did any of your folks own a particularly dreadful set of wheels that made you cringe when they stopped by to pick you up when you were out with your mates?
All the same, cars seemed more exciting when I was a child. I used to love long journeys down to visit family in Milton Keynes (English viewers may be raising an eyebrow here at the idea of anyone being excited about going to that place) for the reason that I would see lots of cars on the M6 and M1. Credit to my pop to keeping his patience when we were stuck in a 15 mile tailback at Birmingham and I was bopping around in excitement at having seen a BMW 2002.
In the years before I was arrived, Dad had owned a couple of VW Beetles, the second of which had to go as you couldn't fit a pram in the front boot. Therefore, he made the insane decision to ignore further dabblings in German engineering and buy British. Only weeks before my birth, he picked up one of these (pics nicked from Wiki):
 |
| Check out the curves on that baby. Wow. |
At some point, I think dad realised the British generally knew fuck all about making a half decent family car. I can recall the day at some point in the late 1980s where we went up to some garage near Maryport to pick up a new set of wheels - a Fiat Uno.
 |
| Compact Italian quality. Or something. |
Luckily, needs eventually necessitated a bigger car - that being my brother and I had inherited some "tall" genes and were growing to the point that being crammed in the back of the Uno was going to result in some kind of bone deformations not seen in this country since the Victorian era. And so, the Ford Mondeo entered our lives.
 |
| Made in Genk, Belgium. What a great name for a city. |
Nowadays, my ma and pa scoot around in a Ford Focus diesel, which is very pleasant and efficient, but I find myself unable to give it a personality the way I did 20 years ago.
So - readers, did any of your folks own a particularly dreadful set of wheels that made you cringe when they stopped by to pick you up when you were out with your mates?
Saturday, 1 March 2014
Space Issues
Perhaps the first game that showed me the possibilities of video games as a storytelling device, and therefore one of the most important games in my life ever, was Wing Commander, released in 1990 as a project from the mind of one Chris Roberts.
It was originally released in 1990, but I came to it a few years later. Despite that, it still took me back with it graphics and the way the action held together. In brief: you were a rookie pilot doing your bit for the people of Earth in a huge war in space against the ruthless Kilrathi, who were anthropomorphic cat folk with a tough line in tradition and honour.
In hindsight, the story was incredibly linear, but by simple virtue of being able to choose your own name and "callsign" it offered a layer of immersion that was very rewarding for the time. You were thrown right onto the front as part of the crew of the Tigers Claw, most the "storyline" taking place in the bar.
Here, your fellow pilots would offer advice and inform you of the how the war is going, while the old guy behind the bar would regale tales of his own days of action. The chalkboard kept track of your kills, while medals and promotions were up for grabs if you showed your style. It may seem all very quaint from this distance, but it was well-written and offered new opportunities for the medium.
The success of Wing Commander meant a sequel quickly followed in 1991. In this, our hero finds his hero status relinquished due to odd circumstances, and he's packed off for ten years doing nothing work. Obviously, he finds his way back to the action to earn a chance to clear his name and save Earth, again. I can only assume Roberts got a bit excited, as the storyline offered more depth, with romantic interludes (yuck!), a Kilrathi defector on the crew and a human traitor in the ranks. Larks!
There was a fair bit of skill needed in the games: one hand on the joystick with a finger and thumb needed for guns and missiles, with your other hand on the keyboard ready to issue commands to your wing partner, swap weapons and chose targets. The different mission types, ships and colleagues all added variation and during the debriefs, it felt good when the Chief offered congrats for a job well done.
Unfortunately, for the third instalment, Chris Roberts fancied himself as George Lucas and wanted to make the scenes between missions all Full Motion Video. FMV had the double issue of being incredibly expensive and it took bloody ages to load up every scene. Also, within a few years as technology moved on, it all tended to look a bit ropey. Another of my favourite games, Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers, went down the same path with the second in the series, The Beast Within, which has dated ten times worse than the older game.
At least 1994's Wing Commander III managed to snare some decent acting talent: Mark Hamill, John Rhys-Davies and Malcolm McDowell all rocked up to do credible jobs to the degree there were additional sequels. I had lost interest, though - the appeal of the first two in the series was that the main guy had MY name and I read his lines in MY voice. Suddenly, he looked and sounded like Mark Hamill and was called Christopher Blair, which is a frankly shite name for the hero of a space war hero.
There was an attempt to launch a film franchise, of which we'll say no more.
It was originally released in 1990, but I came to it a few years later. Despite that, it still took me back with it graphics and the way the action held together. In brief: you were a rookie pilot doing your bit for the people of Earth in a huge war in space against the ruthless Kilrathi, who were anthropomorphic cat folk with a tough line in tradition and honour.
In hindsight, the story was incredibly linear, but by simple virtue of being able to choose your own name and "callsign" it offered a layer of immersion that was very rewarding for the time. You were thrown right onto the front as part of the crew of the Tigers Claw, most the "storyline" taking place in the bar.
 |
| Drink helps with the space shakes, I'm told. |
The success of Wing Commander meant a sequel quickly followed in 1991. In this, our hero finds his hero status relinquished due to odd circumstances, and he's packed off for ten years doing nothing work. Obviously, he finds his way back to the action to earn a chance to clear his name and save Earth, again. I can only assume Roberts got a bit excited, as the storyline offered more depth, with romantic interludes (yuck!), a Kilrathi defector on the crew and a human traitor in the ranks. Larks!
 |
| Instead of denying it, why not embrace death? It is your only friend now. |
Unfortunately, for the third instalment, Chris Roberts fancied himself as George Lucas and wanted to make the scenes between missions all Full Motion Video. FMV had the double issue of being incredibly expensive and it took bloody ages to load up every scene. Also, within a few years as technology moved on, it all tended to look a bit ropey. Another of my favourite games, Gabriel Knight: Sins of the Fathers, went down the same path with the second in the series, The Beast Within, which has dated ten times worse than the older game.
At least 1994's Wing Commander III managed to snare some decent acting talent: Mark Hamill, John Rhys-Davies and Malcolm McDowell all rocked up to do credible jobs to the degree there were additional sequels. I had lost interest, though - the appeal of the first two in the series was that the main guy had MY name and I read his lines in MY voice. Suddenly, he looked and sounded like Mark Hamill and was called Christopher Blair, which is a frankly shite name for the hero of a space war hero.
 |
| Back in space again, eh? Bloody typecasting! |
Thursday, 13 February 2014
Rock of Aged
Freaky Trigger, a music website, has been doing a running blog of reviewing UK #1 singles for some years now, and on the most recent entry (Discotheque by U2, which I hated then and still do), one commentator noted that 1997 was the year that rock died. For him, at least.
In a way, I get where he was coming from. Emphasis on the individual, as I'm more than aware there's plenty of folk younger than me who got a whole lot out of bands like, for example, Muse. Personally, the first decade of this millennium - in which I was mostly in my 20s and should, in theory, have been most hip to what was going on - I think I only really engaged with British Sea Power and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club (first two albums only) in terms of acts whose albums I deeply loved. There were people like Idlewild and Doves who I dipped in and out of, but very little I got obsessed about the way I did about the XTC, the Cure or the Psychedelic Furs, whose extensive back catalogues I was gobbling up around the same period.
It's part of getting older for a lot of people, the losing of interest in what's going on today in music. I've wondered if, for me, it's a resentment of seeing people coming up to be young enough to be my children (in theory) jumping around.
Then again, I was avoiding the contemporary from a young age. As a stroppy teenager in my bedroom, I pretty much ignored grunge (too loud for me, at the time), Britpop (bunch of Southern ponces pretending to be working class, I thought) and anything like rave/house/techno (didn't take the drugs). From the three Danny Baker BBC4 music shows this week covering the 70s/80s/90s, it was the last that struggled to hold my attention. A passing mention to Chapterhouse aside, only the KLF brought a feeling of "yeah, that was pretty good".
In my own life, it was only a decade later, with access to the internet, that I was able to dig out the pearls from the age. Catherine Wheel, Slowdive, Giant Steps by the Boo Radleys, World Party... I remembered I owned Mansun's first album and a relisten prompted me to pick up a cheap copy of their follow up Six, leading to having my mind blown by one of the most adventurous "rock" albums to make the UK top 10 in the decade.
As I said, last year I bought no "new" albums, which strikes me as a sad state of affairs for someone who claims to have an interest in music. Last summer, I watched footage of the UK festivals where the bright young things did their thing, and mainly thought "shite". They say we all turn into our parents eventually - but then even my then 45-year-old father found value in Rage Against the Machine back in the mid 90s.
To signpost my decline into old age, the two best bits of music news I've had in recent weeks have been that Tears for Fears are planning to release new material this year, and that Slowdive have reformed. I'm really quite excited about both.
Sunday, 26 January 2014
Pole Axed
When people find out I had a short-lived Journalism career, they tend to ask "so why did you pack it in?" to which I reply "because I wasn't a big enough arsehole", and we all have a jolly good laugh.
Actually, the truth is that I was sick of the crap money and long hours. By the time I was about to hand my cards in, I was a Sub-Editor and was offered a promotion to Production Manager. Granted, this was for a small publishing company, but even then I knew it would provide contacts and experience to move up in the world: the guy who had vacated that role had done so to essentially take a dream job with a famous English sports team. But I'd decided at that point that I preferred being home for five in the evening every day, rather than seven some days and past midnight on others.
That said, the "arsehole" point stands when you check out a number of the prominent "columnists" that work for the leading UK tabloids. This is a position a journalist tends to rise to when it is proven their willingness to spout any old objectionable bollocks is matched only by how much of a fuckwit they are. Yet the rewards can be significant - take Richard Littlejohn, for example. A man who made a habit of spouting "you couldn't make it up!", only for it to be found out that he usually does. A man who shrugged off the murder of prostitutes by the serial killer Steven Wright because "none of them were going to cure cancer". He still calls women "birds" in the style of his beloved 70s TV shows, derides Health and Safety as meddling and is generally a total bellend.
Currently, he lives in gated community in Florida, paid for the huge sums of money he's paid by the Daily Mail. Thus, many look to follow in his steps. One such chancer is James Delingpole, who comes out with total arse discharge like this. I wouldn't recommend clicking that link if you get wound up too easily, and also because it probably helps him get paid. Needless to say, his views can perhaps be best summed up with this picture:
Men shouldn't play with dolls, it seems. And girls like pink. Let men be men, and let women get on with the important work of having babies and looking pretty. Evidence? Pah! He has anecdotal proof to back up his watertight assertions. The same way I can say my kid brother loved his My Little Pony dolls as a young lad. And he's not even gay, James! All the same, curse my parents for not smashing those dolls and insisting he play with a toy gun instead. It certainly explains why he's fucked up in life, being a respected teacher with a PhD and a stable relationship that's lasted over 10 years. But the bad news is, he's a teacher, so he can pass on his VILE POLITICALLY CORRECT views onto another generation. Oh, the horror.
See, I can do the whole "anecdotal evidence" thing too. Where's my column in a national newspaper?
Another reason Journalism wasn't the bag for me is my lack of patience with idiots - people like Sunny Jim, essentially. And my horrific spelling. Luckily, there are many other folk better than me for this. One such is this blogger here, who does a wonderful job of dismantling the article and the man himself. Even when he tries to be a smartarse on Twitter, she keeps her cool when I would have been banging on his door asking if he'd like to repeat himself to my face. Then to the pavement.
Actually, the truth is that I was sick of the crap money and long hours. By the time I was about to hand my cards in, I was a Sub-Editor and was offered a promotion to Production Manager. Granted, this was for a small publishing company, but even then I knew it would provide contacts and experience to move up in the world: the guy who had vacated that role had done so to essentially take a dream job with a famous English sports team. But I'd decided at that point that I preferred being home for five in the evening every day, rather than seven some days and past midnight on others.
That said, the "arsehole" point stands when you check out a number of the prominent "columnists" that work for the leading UK tabloids. This is a position a journalist tends to rise to when it is proven their willingness to spout any old objectionable bollocks is matched only by how much of a fuckwit they are. Yet the rewards can be significant - take Richard Littlejohn, for example. A man who made a habit of spouting "you couldn't make it up!", only for it to be found out that he usually does. A man who shrugged off the murder of prostitutes by the serial killer Steven Wright because "none of them were going to cure cancer". He still calls women "birds" in the style of his beloved 70s TV shows, derides Health and Safety as meddling and is generally a total bellend.
Currently, he lives in gated community in Florida, paid for the huge sums of money he's paid by the Daily Mail. Thus, many look to follow in his steps. One such chancer is James Delingpole, who comes out with total arse discharge like this. I wouldn't recommend clicking that link if you get wound up too easily, and also because it probably helps him get paid. Needless to say, his views can perhaps be best summed up with this picture:
Men shouldn't play with dolls, it seems. And girls like pink. Let men be men, and let women get on with the important work of having babies and looking pretty. Evidence? Pah! He has anecdotal proof to back up his watertight assertions. The same way I can say my kid brother loved his My Little Pony dolls as a young lad. And he's not even gay, James! All the same, curse my parents for not smashing those dolls and insisting he play with a toy gun instead. It certainly explains why he's fucked up in life, being a respected teacher with a PhD and a stable relationship that's lasted over 10 years. But the bad news is, he's a teacher, so he can pass on his VILE POLITICALLY CORRECT views onto another generation. Oh, the horror.
See, I can do the whole "anecdotal evidence" thing too. Where's my column in a national newspaper?
Another reason Journalism wasn't the bag for me is my lack of patience with idiots - people like Sunny Jim, essentially. And my horrific spelling. Luckily, there are many other folk better than me for this. One such is this blogger here, who does a wonderful job of dismantling the article and the man himself. Even when he tries to be a smartarse on Twitter, she keeps her cool when I would have been banging on his door asking if he'd like to repeat himself to my face. Then to the pavement.
Monday, 20 January 2014
2013, We Hardly Knew Ye
A much delayed piece, this, as I struggle to get my writing mojo together in the face of all manner of issues, none that important, but all combining into a huge ball of apathy. Which is a bit like life, when you think about it, isn't it? No?
English viewers will suggest Charlie Brooker does this kind of thing x100 better with his TV show that I help pay for, but let's face it, he's not as pissed off as he used to be since he hooked with with Konnie Huq and started a family. You used to be one of us, Charlie: bitter, alienated and raging at a world that simply wouldn't listen to any inarticulate rants. I bet you're gunning for a Knighthood. Yeah. You and your chum David Mitchell, with your glamorous wives and personal happiness. How dare you!
I digress.
Footballer of the Year
Once again, my choice of 2012 proved to be something of a jinx, as van Persie suffered a short spell of bad form and more recently, has been a total crock with numerous rumours stating he's spat the dummy about Alex Ferguson retiring.
With that in mind, perhaps I should pick Ashley Young, in the hope that the under-performing clogger is quickly sold back to Aston Villa. But no: honesty demands I say David de Gea, who over the course of 2013 went from derided by the media to earning plaudits galore. His form across 2013 was superb, and in a season where we've been frequently laughable, he's saved the bacon on numerous occasions. One particular save up at Sunderland was straight from the Peter Schmeichel playbook.
Watch now as either his performance level crumbles and/or he's sold to Barcelona.
Album of the Year
Actually, I've not bought a single "new" album for ages. Getting old, perhaps, but nothing is really grabbing me. Instead, I've continued to raid the past, buying classics by Catherine Wheel and Graham Parker.
However, I did go to three storming gigs this year: World Party, Bob Mould and Bruce Springsteen all put on amazing shows. World Party was the most intimate, it just being Karl Wallinger with two other musicians in a small venue, on which I was at the front. Mould wins the prize for loudest - again, being at the very front helped, but my ears were still ringing four days later, amazing the volume created by a three piece band. He played a great mix of Husker Du, Sugar and from his great last album (2012) Silver Age.
The Boss, though, was the most epic. Despite being in a stadium, a fair distance from the front, you managed to feel the guy's energy. Something like three hours on stage, with no pauses and no let up, Springsteen proved to me why he's always up on those "Must See" lists for concerts. Into his 60s, with more energy than any of the pretenders could dream of.
Game of the Year
Obvious choice, but Grand Theft Auto V wins the title through the amount of enjoyment I got out of it. There was plenty of enjoyment to be had from The Last Of Us and Remember Me, but GTA takes the cake. Best part of 50 hours spent to get through the story, and I'm pissed off I lent it to a mate now, as I want to take a spin round the city with Kenny Loggins DJing some classic rock. I never was one for the Steve Miller Band, but hearing Rock'n Me while cruising down the coast was a pretty cool moment.
What do you mean, it's not real?
Absolute Aching Arsehole of the Year
My kid brother is a teacher, and so is his wife of six months. With that in mind, this year's winner is again Michael Gove, whose single-minded road to fucking up generations of the country's youth through his own refusal to budge from his own dogma continues unabated.
So, in the unlikely even googling your own name has lead you here: Michael Gove, I hope your ballbag goes septic.
English viewers will suggest Charlie Brooker does this kind of thing x100 better with his TV show that I help pay for, but let's face it, he's not as pissed off as he used to be since he hooked with with Konnie Huq and started a family. You used to be one of us, Charlie: bitter, alienated and raging at a world that simply wouldn't listen to any inarticulate rants. I bet you're gunning for a Knighthood. Yeah. You and your chum David Mitchell, with your glamorous wives and personal happiness. How dare you!
I digress.
Footballer of the Year
Once again, my choice of 2012 proved to be something of a jinx, as van Persie suffered a short spell of bad form and more recently, has been a total crock with numerous rumours stating he's spat the dummy about Alex Ferguson retiring.
With that in mind, perhaps I should pick Ashley Young, in the hope that the under-performing clogger is quickly sold back to Aston Villa. But no: honesty demands I say David de Gea, who over the course of 2013 went from derided by the media to earning plaudits galore. His form across 2013 was superb, and in a season where we've been frequently laughable, he's saved the bacon on numerous occasions. One particular save up at Sunderland was straight from the Peter Schmeichel playbook.
Watch now as either his performance level crumbles and/or he's sold to Barcelona.
Album of the Year
Actually, I've not bought a single "new" album for ages. Getting old, perhaps, but nothing is really grabbing me. Instead, I've continued to raid the past, buying classics by Catherine Wheel and Graham Parker.
However, I did go to three storming gigs this year: World Party, Bob Mould and Bruce Springsteen all put on amazing shows. World Party was the most intimate, it just being Karl Wallinger with two other musicians in a small venue, on which I was at the front. Mould wins the prize for loudest - again, being at the very front helped, but my ears were still ringing four days later, amazing the volume created by a three piece band. He played a great mix of Husker Du, Sugar and from his great last album (2012) Silver Age.
The Boss, though, was the most epic. Despite being in a stadium, a fair distance from the front, you managed to feel the guy's energy. Something like three hours on stage, with no pauses and no let up, Springsteen proved to me why he's always up on those "Must See" lists for concerts. Into his 60s, with more energy than any of the pretenders could dream of.
Game of the Year
Obvious choice, but Grand Theft Auto V wins the title through the amount of enjoyment I got out of it. There was plenty of enjoyment to be had from The Last Of Us and Remember Me, but GTA takes the cake. Best part of 50 hours spent to get through the story, and I'm pissed off I lent it to a mate now, as I want to take a spin round the city with Kenny Loggins DJing some classic rock. I never was one for the Steve Miller Band, but hearing Rock'n Me while cruising down the coast was a pretty cool moment.
What do you mean, it's not real?
Absolute Aching Arsehole of the Year
My kid brother is a teacher, and so is his wife of six months. With that in mind, this year's winner is again Michael Gove, whose single-minded road to fucking up generations of the country's youth through his own refusal to budge from his own dogma continues unabated.
So, in the unlikely even googling your own name has lead you here: Michael Gove, I hope your ballbag goes septic.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
