There’s a famous episode of top 1970s comedy Whatever Happened to the Likely Lads? that sees our heroes, Bob and Terry, try to avoid the score of an England international football match so to fully enjoy the televised highlights later that night. Acquaintance Brian Glover knows the outcome and tries to spoil their fun by revealing it, leading up to an amusing conclusion.
That was a long, long time ago. Try doing the same thing now, and you have to contend with a lot more than a slaphead from Yorkshire. For the last few weeks, I’ve been trying to get through my Saturdays without finding out the football scores to ensure I watch Match of the Day with a heightened sense of drama. This is, of course, because my own beloved team have been playing on Sundays for the most part.
For those not in the loop of English TV, Match of the Day is a show that’s been going since the mid 60s. In it, we’re shown all the goals of the day’s football with analysis of the key points. Now, the analysis tends to be on the substandard fare of us watching a guy on £100,000 a week miss an open goal and the pundit saying “he should be scoring from there”. Enough to make you want to gnaw your own ears off, pretty much.
It’s on around 10.30pm anyways, which means if you want to watch all the action with no knowledge of what’s happened, you have most of the day to avoid any news sources. A trip to the shops becomes a gauntlet: I just managed to switch off the radio when the words “sport, now, and in football there was…” came over the airwaves. Walking round the aisles, you attempt to devolve into some zombie status, lest you hear people talking about the results.
Bob and Terry never had to worry about mobile phones either. Any message could be from a friend expressing joy/disbelief of our rivals’ results. It gets to the point where you get a message and you have to ask a stranger “is this a text message from Chris?”, to which they look at you as if you’ve escaped from a local mental health unit and reply “no, it’s from ‘Mam’…”
To be extra safe this Saturday just gone, I banned my own better half from looking on Facebook all evening. Why? Because her older sister is a Bolton fan and would no doubt post some message expressing her feelings on the game and on reading this, I would doubtless be able to divine the result from her facial expressions using my Super Derren Brown Skillz*.
In the end, I was able to settle down that night with a sense of anticipation of what was to come. Plenty of goals I didn’t know were coming, Liverpool getting spanked, Chelsea only drawing with the mighty Norwich and the sight of Fernando “Fifty Million Quid” Torres once again playing like, well, me. On a bad day. With a nuclear-level hangover. It was all even worth sitting through Gary Lineker’s smug face for.
*Which I don’t really have. Sadly.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Wednesday, 18 January 2012
Into the Atom Age (and Beyond)
It's a pretty safe statement to make to say that nobody wants to look really stupid. Even the seemingly endless supply for complete morons they get to queue up to audition on shows like X-Factor think they have talent. They may be stupid, but they aren't all that aware of it.
A state of being that may well come to all of us with the onset of time. After all, don’t we in the present age like to have a good chuckle at how people were in the past. “Oh, how quaint, they used to think the earth was flat! And they used to have 20 children per family, all of which had rickets and scurvy!” It’s called progress – the same reason our girlfriends and mothers don’t just have to be baby factories anymore. Now they can come to work and lead a slightly less meaningless life.
Patrick McGoohan, genius creator of The Prisoner, felt that progress in the 20th century was going too fast. His show saw his character Number Six depersonalised to a number, his dreams, perceptions of reality and even his physical identity manipulated by technology. He saw the Prisoner as a warning of sorts, and felt we needed to slow it down some.
An understandable stance, perhaps, especially in the age of Nuclear Terror. But I’m an impatient man and I want my hover boots, damn it.
One good thing about the last century that we can say is that, despite the numerous genocides, world wars and other horrors, we’ve come a long way in a short time. The Industrial Revolution may have been important but when all was said and done, the average pleb was still living in conditions best described as “shit”. Now, at least here in leafy England, even the lowest of underclass scrote has an X Box and access to numerous TV channels of mind numbing cack.
The internet may well be the great invention of our time, enabling us as it does mass communication across the globe. Why, my own dear readers can be sat wherever they may be and think “I wonder what that stupid tosser Harrison is thinking today?” and know in a matter of seconds. Teenage boys around the world no longer have to hope someone has thrown pornography into the bushes for their first chance at seeing a naked woman.
Yet it is this very progress that means we will one day be comparatively seen as little more than prehistoric cave dwellers. When humanity has evolved into beings of pure energy (or something), we will look at our time, with our “iphones” and “eating habits”, in the same way we gawp at insects on Richard Attenborough documentaries. This is our inescapable collective fate, unless we conspire to blow up the planet before then, which you still wouldn't hedge your bets against.
All of which is why I tell anyone who knows me that when I expire, I want to be thrown into a fire rather than buried in the ground. The nightmare situation is that in 1000 years time, I'll be dug up by a 30th century version of Tony Robinson’s Time Team and laughed at as an example of Ancient Humanity. This also has the added bonus of meaning I can never rise as a member of the undead army and eat my friends and family. Always thinking ahead – it's the reason we go forward as a species.
A state of being that may well come to all of us with the onset of time. After all, don’t we in the present age like to have a good chuckle at how people were in the past. “Oh, how quaint, they used to think the earth was flat! And they used to have 20 children per family, all of which had rickets and scurvy!” It’s called progress – the same reason our girlfriends and mothers don’t just have to be baby factories anymore. Now they can come to work and lead a slightly less meaningless life.
Patrick McGoohan, genius creator of The Prisoner, felt that progress in the 20th century was going too fast. His show saw his character Number Six depersonalised to a number, his dreams, perceptions of reality and even his physical identity manipulated by technology. He saw the Prisoner as a warning of sorts, and felt we needed to slow it down some.
An understandable stance, perhaps, especially in the age of Nuclear Terror. But I’m an impatient man and I want my hover boots, damn it.
One good thing about the last century that we can say is that, despite the numerous genocides, world wars and other horrors, we’ve come a long way in a short time. The Industrial Revolution may have been important but when all was said and done, the average pleb was still living in conditions best described as “shit”. Now, at least here in leafy England, even the lowest of underclass scrote has an X Box and access to numerous TV channels of mind numbing cack.
The internet may well be the great invention of our time, enabling us as it does mass communication across the globe. Why, my own dear readers can be sat wherever they may be and think “I wonder what that stupid tosser Harrison is thinking today?” and know in a matter of seconds. Teenage boys around the world no longer have to hope someone has thrown pornography into the bushes for their first chance at seeing a naked woman.
Yet it is this very progress that means we will one day be comparatively seen as little more than prehistoric cave dwellers. When humanity has evolved into beings of pure energy (or something), we will look at our time, with our “iphones” and “eating habits”, in the same way we gawp at insects on Richard Attenborough documentaries. This is our inescapable collective fate, unless we conspire to blow up the planet before then, which you still wouldn't hedge your bets against.
All of which is why I tell anyone who knows me that when I expire, I want to be thrown into a fire rather than buried in the ground. The nightmare situation is that in 1000 years time, I'll be dug up by a 30th century version of Tony Robinson’s Time Team and laughed at as an example of Ancient Humanity. This also has the added bonus of meaning I can never rise as a member of the undead army and eat my friends and family. Always thinking ahead – it's the reason we go forward as a species.
Monday, 16 January 2012
Sad Estate of Affairs
As we privileged First Worlders move through the 21st century, trivial matters become gut-wrenching experiences full of existential despair. Of these, amongst the worst is moving home, which I've just had to do, again, and I’m left with a deep sense of utter despair from the whole experience. It never gets easier.
Well, for one thing there’s the actual physical part of it. Unless you've got enough money to hire a large man or men to do it for you, there’s a lot of hard work involved. This leaves me very sore for days after, meaning that instead of unpacking I lie on the sofa and feel sorry for myself.
A condition made worse when you have to deal with trying to get your deposit back on the old place. Dealing with agencies is never made easy, as they seem to employ people who delight in making something out of nothing. As in:
“The thing is Mr Harrison, there was a small amount of dust on the top shelf of the cupboard.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, so we’ll have to get the whole flat professionally cleaned, which will cost £200.”
“Eh?”
“Also, the inventory listed a box of 115 matchsticks, of which I've noticed one has become slightly bent. The cost of replacing these will be £20…”
And so on. Anybody who’s dealt with these people before may well know exactly what I’m talking about. My advice to anybody would be to always check the inventory with intense scrutiny and take plenty of photographs of the property the second you move in.
I've long been of the mind that people who work for estate/letting agents are complete swine because life has dealt them a bum hand. Even the most down-on-their-luck alcoholic street wreck can, whilst drinking White Lightning at eight in the morning, look at themselves in a puddle of what may well be their own piss and sick and think “at least I’m not an estate agent. For that alone I think I deserve another drink”. And they’d be right to do so.
Essentially, no child ever thinks “when I grow up, I want to find ways of not giving people their deposits back. Yes, that’s the life for me”. Only a series of cruel circumstances sees a person go down that path in life. Perhaps they made a bad deal with the devil when they were young: “Oh, I really wish that girl who sits next to me in Physics would give me a hand job”, and then the dark lord appears and offers to make that dream come true, but only at a terrible price. Maybe not that day, or even in the near future, but someday they will have to become an Estate Agent. These are the kind of people we have to deal with when trying to find somewhere to live. Weak, weak people who may well be Satan's envoys on Earth.
But should we hate them? Should we whisper about them in dark corners, point at them in the street to inform our children to beware and spurn them at social gatherings? Should we not instead pity them and offer sympathy for their wretched existence? Surely they must go home every night, wash themselves with bleach and drink a bottle of Scotch to just blank out the horror of their pathetic and futile lives.
After some thought, I decide that no, we should hate the fuckers with everything we've got. Wankers the lot of them.
Well, for one thing there’s the actual physical part of it. Unless you've got enough money to hire a large man or men to do it for you, there’s a lot of hard work involved. This leaves me very sore for days after, meaning that instead of unpacking I lie on the sofa and feel sorry for myself.
A condition made worse when you have to deal with trying to get your deposit back on the old place. Dealing with agencies is never made easy, as they seem to employ people who delight in making something out of nothing. As in:
“The thing is Mr Harrison, there was a small amount of dust on the top shelf of the cupboard.”
“Oh.”
“Yes, so we’ll have to get the whole flat professionally cleaned, which will cost £200.”
“Eh?”
“Also, the inventory listed a box of 115 matchsticks, of which I've noticed one has become slightly bent. The cost of replacing these will be £20…”
And so on. Anybody who’s dealt with these people before may well know exactly what I’m talking about. My advice to anybody would be to always check the inventory with intense scrutiny and take plenty of photographs of the property the second you move in.
I've long been of the mind that people who work for estate/letting agents are complete swine because life has dealt them a bum hand. Even the most down-on-their-luck alcoholic street wreck can, whilst drinking White Lightning at eight in the morning, look at themselves in a puddle of what may well be their own piss and sick and think “at least I’m not an estate agent. For that alone I think I deserve another drink”. And they’d be right to do so.
Essentially, no child ever thinks “when I grow up, I want to find ways of not giving people their deposits back. Yes, that’s the life for me”. Only a series of cruel circumstances sees a person go down that path in life. Perhaps they made a bad deal with the devil when they were young: “Oh, I really wish that girl who sits next to me in Physics would give me a hand job”, and then the dark lord appears and offers to make that dream come true, but only at a terrible price. Maybe not that day, or even in the near future, but someday they will have to become an Estate Agent. These are the kind of people we have to deal with when trying to find somewhere to live. Weak, weak people who may well be Satan's envoys on Earth.
But should we hate them? Should we whisper about them in dark corners, point at them in the street to inform our children to beware and spurn them at social gatherings? Should we not instead pity them and offer sympathy for their wretched existence? Surely they must go home every night, wash themselves with bleach and drink a bottle of Scotch to just blank out the horror of their pathetic and futile lives.
After some thought, I decide that no, we should hate the fuckers with everything we've got. Wankers the lot of them.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
Give My Regards to Grim
If, like me, you long since give up on the idea of both god(s) and any kind of afterlife, death plays a different role in your thinking than it may do for others.
Naturally, at times it can be bloody terrifying. The thought that life is merely a short spell of existence free from the dark abyss of nothingness that bookends it all can be enough to make you wish you were back being rocked in the arms of your mother. Which would be ridiculous, of course, as I’m six foot five and she’s tiny. The idea just isn't practical - believe me, I've tried*.
Reminders can be everywhere. On the bus home yesterday, I passed a bowling green in Levenshulme. Now, for those unfamiliar, this kind of bowling isn't the sexy, high-octane kind as faithfully portrayed in both Kingpin and The Big Lebowski. No. It’s a rather sedate game generally played by old people in summer. Bizarrely, its broadcast on the BBC and a few years ago, a buxom young lady streaked at a tournament. I took this as a move by the organisers to show that the sport could be young and sexy. But it failed miserably. Everybody knows bowls is a game for your grandparents. Not my grandparents, though. My grandpops preferred horse racing and watching Colombo while my nan always had a soft spot for The Price is Right when it was presented by Leslie Crowther.
Digression aside, at the side of the bowling green I passed was a large advertisement for a funeral director. Now, I know Bill Hicks pretty much had people in advertising as the lowest form of life, but you have to say that this was an example of getting right into your market. Some poor old timer will be there, trying to get right on the jack and they look up to be reminded of their soon-to-be expiration while the business hopes they’ll think “well, I may snuff it soon, but I really must check out their rates before that happens.”
With all of us awaiting our dance with the reaper, I, we, must seize the day, apparently, to find meaning in a meaningless universe. A approach of "we're all going to die, so experience life in its many forms" seems a reasonable way to approach matters. But I can't help but think I’m going wrong somewhere – people I know plan travelling, having families and other adventures. I, on the other hand, think “I hope I don't die before Mass Effect 3 comes out, or before the football season ends”. At times, it seems as if I'm missing out.
And yet, perhaps not. The idea of slogging around Asia or South America with a backpack may well be fun for a lot of people. Indeed, I can understand the appeal of visiting ancient monuments and seeing amazing scenery. It just seems a lot of hard work, though, when I'd much rather be sponged over a sofa in my boxer shorts watching the latest series of Psych. It makes me think that perhaps I'm lucky in a way, to be content with what seems relatively so little, and I'm comforted even more by knowing that I'm not a tabloid journalist, weeping myself to sleep every night from the knowledge that I pissed away my time on earth writing dubious captions for pictures of some young actress showing a bit of cleavage.
All the same, I'd like to encourage the governments of the world to invest as much money as possible in teleportation technology, as it would allow idle gits such as me to travel without the actual mither of travelling, which is quite possibly one of the most tedious things a person can do, unless you own a Ferrari. Just putting that one out there, in case Barry Obama or Vlad “The Lad” Putin is reading.
*Said in an attempt at comic effect. My mother isn't even that tiny, she's five foot seven.
Naturally, at times it can be bloody terrifying. The thought that life is merely a short spell of existence free from the dark abyss of nothingness that bookends it all can be enough to make you wish you were back being rocked in the arms of your mother. Which would be ridiculous, of course, as I’m six foot five and she’s tiny. The idea just isn't practical - believe me, I've tried*.
Reminders can be everywhere. On the bus home yesterday, I passed a bowling green in Levenshulme. Now, for those unfamiliar, this kind of bowling isn't the sexy, high-octane kind as faithfully portrayed in both Kingpin and The Big Lebowski. No. It’s a rather sedate game generally played by old people in summer. Bizarrely, its broadcast on the BBC and a few years ago, a buxom young lady streaked at a tournament. I took this as a move by the organisers to show that the sport could be young and sexy. But it failed miserably. Everybody knows bowls is a game for your grandparents. Not my grandparents, though. My grandpops preferred horse racing and watching Colombo while my nan always had a soft spot for The Price is Right when it was presented by Leslie Crowther.
Digression aside, at the side of the bowling green I passed was a large advertisement for a funeral director. Now, I know Bill Hicks pretty much had people in advertising as the lowest form of life, but you have to say that this was an example of getting right into your market. Some poor old timer will be there, trying to get right on the jack and they look up to be reminded of their soon-to-be expiration while the business hopes they’ll think “well, I may snuff it soon, but I really must check out their rates before that happens.”
With all of us awaiting our dance with the reaper, I, we, must seize the day, apparently, to find meaning in a meaningless universe. A approach of "we're all going to die, so experience life in its many forms" seems a reasonable way to approach matters. But I can't help but think I’m going wrong somewhere – people I know plan travelling, having families and other adventures. I, on the other hand, think “I hope I don't die before Mass Effect 3 comes out, or before the football season ends”. At times, it seems as if I'm missing out.
And yet, perhaps not. The idea of slogging around Asia or South America with a backpack may well be fun for a lot of people. Indeed, I can understand the appeal of visiting ancient monuments and seeing amazing scenery. It just seems a lot of hard work, though, when I'd much rather be sponged over a sofa in my boxer shorts watching the latest series of Psych. It makes me think that perhaps I'm lucky in a way, to be content with what seems relatively so little, and I'm comforted even more by knowing that I'm not a tabloid journalist, weeping myself to sleep every night from the knowledge that I pissed away my time on earth writing dubious captions for pictures of some young actress showing a bit of cleavage.
All the same, I'd like to encourage the governments of the world to invest as much money as possible in teleportation technology, as it would allow idle gits such as me to travel without the actual mither of travelling, which is quite possibly one of the most tedious things a person can do, unless you own a Ferrari. Just putting that one out there, in case Barry Obama or Vlad “The Lad” Putin is reading.
*Said in an attempt at comic effect. My mother isn't even that tiny, she's five foot seven.
Monday, 9 January 2012
"It's Only Words..." Or Not
In the same way that any discussion on an internet forum is eventually bound to bring up comparisions to someone's behaviour to that of Hitler and the Third Reich, any discussion about race in any form is bound to see one of the parties say something they end up regretting.
So it was with Diane Abbott, whose main regret might not be what she said but more that it has given ammunition to various right-wing lunatics to say “there you are! Black people are racist against white people too!” to justify their own prejudices and badly-written bile against anyone who looks a bit different from them.
The real question, however, is why any politician would want to be on Twitter in the first place, seeing as it can so often be a one-way ticket to a very public execution. See Ed Milliband, whose attempt at paying respect to the passing of TV legend Bob Holness backfired spectacularly when he referred to the quizshow he hosted as “Blackbusters”. Has a single misplaced letter ever caused so much news coverage to the degree where the Sun ran it as a front page lead. I do wonder if the mistake was actually Milliband's, however, or that of some minion tasked with updating the Twitter feed on his behalf as I’d like to think the Leader of the Opposition has better things to do with his time.
Being a social media luddite, for the most part (after all, I’m writing this), I have to wonder exactly what people such as Milliband and Abbott get out of it. I can sort of see why people I know get involved – it’s certainly a handy way of getting certain messages (such as, having a spare ticket for a gig) out to a lot of people you know very quickly, but for anyone with any level of media profile it seems a huge minefield on which it’s only a matter of time before you step into trouble. Especially given there seems to be hacks constantly watching your every tweet, meaning your mishap is all over the world before you blink.
I don’t think Diane Abbott is a racist. Just stupid beyond belief for a person in authority, especially one so experienced. And yes, 140 letters isn't much to condense a point, which would surely suggest that you should be making it somewhere else. They should have learned the lesson John Cooper Clarke did when he wrote this wonderful poem, simply entitled 'Haiku':
To convey one's mood
In seventeen syllables
Is very diffic
So it was with Diane Abbott, whose main regret might not be what she said but more that it has given ammunition to various right-wing lunatics to say “there you are! Black people are racist against white people too!” to justify their own prejudices and badly-written bile against anyone who looks a bit different from them.
The real question, however, is why any politician would want to be on Twitter in the first place, seeing as it can so often be a one-way ticket to a very public execution. See Ed Milliband, whose attempt at paying respect to the passing of TV legend Bob Holness backfired spectacularly when he referred to the quizshow he hosted as “Blackbusters”. Has a single misplaced letter ever caused so much news coverage to the degree where the Sun ran it as a front page lead. I do wonder if the mistake was actually Milliband's, however, or that of some minion tasked with updating the Twitter feed on his behalf as I’d like to think the Leader of the Opposition has better things to do with his time.
Being a social media luddite, for the most part (after all, I’m writing this), I have to wonder exactly what people such as Milliband and Abbott get out of it. I can sort of see why people I know get involved – it’s certainly a handy way of getting certain messages (such as, having a spare ticket for a gig) out to a lot of people you know very quickly, but for anyone with any level of media profile it seems a huge minefield on which it’s only a matter of time before you step into trouble. Especially given there seems to be hacks constantly watching your every tweet, meaning your mishap is all over the world before you blink.
I don’t think Diane Abbott is a racist. Just stupid beyond belief for a person in authority, especially one so experienced. And yes, 140 letters isn't much to condense a point, which would surely suggest that you should be making it somewhere else. They should have learned the lesson John Cooper Clarke did when he wrote this wonderful poem, simply entitled 'Haiku':
To convey one's mood
In seventeen syllables
Is very diffic
Friday, 6 January 2012
Empty Rooms
If anyone reading this has played in a band, then they might be able to emphasise in an experience I went through, that of the Worst Gig Ever.
Here’s my story: back around 2007, my band had played a few gigs around Manchester. Like many, I suspect, it started well with a gig at a decent sized venue, going on first on some unsigned band night. Naturally, a large amount of our friends rocked up, of which about three were mine. And one of those was somebody I didn't actually know, her being the friend of a girl I was semi-interested in and whom I never saw again after that night for reasons far too tediously complicated to examine at this juncture.
The upshot was, we pulled around 100 people through the door and received £150 in lovely ten pound notes, split between the four of us and the guitarist’s step-dad, who had driven us and our equipment to the gig. The mood was good. Only days before, I had finished my brief dive into the murky waters of professional journalism and elected to chance my arm at temping, believing it would keep me fresher and able to commit myself to the band more. Thinking back, I’m surprised at my optimism in this, but in mitigation I thought we were sounding great and that the strength of the songs would cover up the fact our frontman couldn't really sing very well.
Naturally, it was a long fall down from that early high and subsequent gigs were played to a handful of disinterested punters there to see their mates in other bands. Once or twice we would get approving notes, including one incredibly drunk goth who complimented my bass playing, which was odd as I was and am nothing more than steady, but the attention was appreciated. Another time, a couple of French women, also drunk, were compelled to jump up and dance until they sadly had to catch the National Express from Chorlton Street.
Back on track towards the point: one Monday, I was probably daydreaming at whatever meaningless job I had when I got a phone call from a friend who knew the guy who put on bands at a fairly well known spot in the city centre. An American band (who shall remain nameless, partly for reasons explained later and partly because I can’t remember them off the top of my head) were due to play there tonight and the support band had dropped out. Could we fill in?
My instant reaction was to say yes, but I managed to ask for more information. What I could gather was that they were touring an album – a good sign, as it suggested they had some kind of fanbase to justify releasing it – and that they were “pretty good”. It sounded like a great piece of good fortune – the chance to play to a load of people who didn't know us could be a big help in gaining some kind of following.
Quickly ringing round the band, all confirmed they could do it. We had to be there for around seven, giving me just enough time to get home to remove my crappy suit and tie and dress for the occasion. There was a brief crisis when the drummer had to deal with his girlfriend kicking off that we were to be playing in a “strip club”: the place happened to have a burlesque night once a month, and I leave it to you to decide whether that constitutes dancing. At the time, I scoffed at this because said woman’s tits were (and probably still are) available for all to see on the internet through her sideline in “glamour” modelling.
This little (averted) crisis perhaps should have set alarm bells ringing, but as I met half the band at our rehearsal room/storage space, there was some confidence only offset by the fact we’d be missing the United-Fulham game that night (we won 2-0, Ronaldo scored both and I remembered that without looking it up, which may be a bit tragic). When we arrived at the venue, things started to go south at an alarming rate.
For one thing, the band we were supporting wanted to borrow our amplifiers and drum kit. It appeared they were doing this tour “on the cheap” and renting backline equipment was seen as non-essential. The promoter came up and asked us right away how many people we were bringing. As we’d been roped in at short notice, the answer was not many and his reaction to this wasn't good.
The doors opened and an hour later, there were about ten people milling about. Including the four members of my band and our faithful driver. The “headliners” asked if they could go on first. Clearly, they wanted to get out of there somewhat rapid. At the bar, the promoter cursed them, stating he had been assured they would bring in “at least” 100 people.
At this juncture, I was hit by a crippling panic attack. Perhaps somewhat weirdly, I only got nervous before gigs where the crowd was small. If I saw a packed room, it gave me some kind of confidence, but seeing enough people I didn't know to count on one hand, I hid in the corner and freaked out for 20 minutes before an arriving friend calmed me down with small talk. Our American friends took to the stage and played for what seemed 20 minutes before quickly leaving. They left copies of their album to “thank” us. Mine remained sealed in its plastic wrapping on a shelf in my kitchen until it went up in flames last summer.
For reasons I didn't understand, we had been set up on stage in a straight line, with the drummer sat directly to the my right. As we trundled through our set to pretty much nobody, all I could hear was the smash of snares and cymbals through one ear, giving me the most peculiarly lopsided headache of my life. My recollection is that we played every song we knew, lasting about 50 minutes, at the end of which the promoter had stormed off home in a quiet rage.
I made it home around midnight, feeling like crap and unable to get any sleep. A few hours later, I got up for work and somehow got through the day without collapsing in a heap. We never did get the call to “fill-in” again.
Doing such gigs is probably a rite of passage for bands. After all, most of us never graduate beyond that point. So if you happen to see a bunch of plucky chancers ploughing through their songs in front of the proverbial one man and his dog, think of them kindly. It was me once upon a time.
Here’s my story: back around 2007, my band had played a few gigs around Manchester. Like many, I suspect, it started well with a gig at a decent sized venue, going on first on some unsigned band night. Naturally, a large amount of our friends rocked up, of which about three were mine. And one of those was somebody I didn't actually know, her being the friend of a girl I was semi-interested in and whom I never saw again after that night for reasons far too tediously complicated to examine at this juncture.
The upshot was, we pulled around 100 people through the door and received £150 in lovely ten pound notes, split between the four of us and the guitarist’s step-dad, who had driven us and our equipment to the gig. The mood was good. Only days before, I had finished my brief dive into the murky waters of professional journalism and elected to chance my arm at temping, believing it would keep me fresher and able to commit myself to the band more. Thinking back, I’m surprised at my optimism in this, but in mitigation I thought we were sounding great and that the strength of the songs would cover up the fact our frontman couldn't really sing very well.
Naturally, it was a long fall down from that early high and subsequent gigs were played to a handful of disinterested punters there to see their mates in other bands. Once or twice we would get approving notes, including one incredibly drunk goth who complimented my bass playing, which was odd as I was and am nothing more than steady, but the attention was appreciated. Another time, a couple of French women, also drunk, were compelled to jump up and dance until they sadly had to catch the National Express from Chorlton Street.
Back on track towards the point: one Monday, I was probably daydreaming at whatever meaningless job I had when I got a phone call from a friend who knew the guy who put on bands at a fairly well known spot in the city centre. An American band (who shall remain nameless, partly for reasons explained later and partly because I can’t remember them off the top of my head) were due to play there tonight and the support band had dropped out. Could we fill in?
My instant reaction was to say yes, but I managed to ask for more information. What I could gather was that they were touring an album – a good sign, as it suggested they had some kind of fanbase to justify releasing it – and that they were “pretty good”. It sounded like a great piece of good fortune – the chance to play to a load of people who didn't know us could be a big help in gaining some kind of following.
Quickly ringing round the band, all confirmed they could do it. We had to be there for around seven, giving me just enough time to get home to remove my crappy suit and tie and dress for the occasion. There was a brief crisis when the drummer had to deal with his girlfriend kicking off that we were to be playing in a “strip club”: the place happened to have a burlesque night once a month, and I leave it to you to decide whether that constitutes dancing. At the time, I scoffed at this because said woman’s tits were (and probably still are) available for all to see on the internet through her sideline in “glamour” modelling.
This little (averted) crisis perhaps should have set alarm bells ringing, but as I met half the band at our rehearsal room/storage space, there was some confidence only offset by the fact we’d be missing the United-Fulham game that night (we won 2-0, Ronaldo scored both and I remembered that without looking it up, which may be a bit tragic). When we arrived at the venue, things started to go south at an alarming rate.
For one thing, the band we were supporting wanted to borrow our amplifiers and drum kit. It appeared they were doing this tour “on the cheap” and renting backline equipment was seen as non-essential. The promoter came up and asked us right away how many people we were bringing. As we’d been roped in at short notice, the answer was not many and his reaction to this wasn't good.
The doors opened and an hour later, there were about ten people milling about. Including the four members of my band and our faithful driver. The “headliners” asked if they could go on first. Clearly, they wanted to get out of there somewhat rapid. At the bar, the promoter cursed them, stating he had been assured they would bring in “at least” 100 people.
At this juncture, I was hit by a crippling panic attack. Perhaps somewhat weirdly, I only got nervous before gigs where the crowd was small. If I saw a packed room, it gave me some kind of confidence, but seeing enough people I didn't know to count on one hand, I hid in the corner and freaked out for 20 minutes before an arriving friend calmed me down with small talk. Our American friends took to the stage and played for what seemed 20 minutes before quickly leaving. They left copies of their album to “thank” us. Mine remained sealed in its plastic wrapping on a shelf in my kitchen until it went up in flames last summer.
For reasons I didn't understand, we had been set up on stage in a straight line, with the drummer sat directly to the my right. As we trundled through our set to pretty much nobody, all I could hear was the smash of snares and cymbals through one ear, giving me the most peculiarly lopsided headache of my life. My recollection is that we played every song we knew, lasting about 50 minutes, at the end of which the promoter had stormed off home in a quiet rage.
I made it home around midnight, feeling like crap and unable to get any sleep. A few hours later, I got up for work and somehow got through the day without collapsing in a heap. We never did get the call to “fill-in” again.
Doing such gigs is probably a rite of passage for bands. After all, most of us never graduate beyond that point. So if you happen to see a bunch of plucky chancers ploughing through their songs in front of the proverbial one man and his dog, think of them kindly. It was me once upon a time.
Wednesday, 4 January 2012
That Was The Year That Was (Not Was)
Yeah, lame pun, I know...
If I manage to get to be an old man, I wonder how I’ll look back on 2011, given I went through a series of bizarre events that usually happen to other people.
But no matter, I emerged in relatively one piece to keep writing the usual crap about things that either annoy me or stop me getting annoyed in a world seemingly designed purely to irritate.
Footballer of the Year
Bit of a tricky one, this, as even though United won the league and made the final of the European Cup, I’m struggling to think of one player who managed consistency across 2011. Rooney upset many with his stupid antics on and off the pitch, Nani has been his usual inconsistent self. Vidic has been crocked for most of the last six months, as has Javier Hernandez, who scored some vital goals in the run-in last season.
So, for lack of a better choice, I’m giving it to Phil Jones, despite the fact he only signed for us in the summer, on the basis that he’s proven so good as to be almost an automatic choice in the first team. He’s made a couple of major clangers, but you can excuse that in a 19 year old, especially one with the confidence to charge upfield with the ball at his feet in a way not seen at Old Trafford since Gordon McQueen.
Album of the Year
Surprisingly, there was more than one album released in 2011 I liked. There were in fact four, which must be a record. Note must also go to the reissue of Nick Lowe’s fab 1979 Labour of Lust album that I've been enjoying recently.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart stumbled at times with their second album Belong, but overall it was a fine album and I have hopes they’ll knock on and produce something better in the near future.
British Sea Power made another fine album with Valhalla Dancehall, albeit one that treaded water a little bit and did nothing to halt recent sliding returns commercially. Whether they’ll elect to go down weirder paths, as flirted with on their soundtrack to the historic Man of Annan film, they’re still capable of writing excellent songs in both pop and experimental genres.
Half Man Half Biscuit did what they do best once again on 90 Bisodol (Crimond) with songs of tedious daytime TV (Tommy Walsh’s Eco House) and pavement etiquette (L’Enfer C’est Les Autres). Always the same, always different, they should have put statues of the lads up on that spare plinth on Trafalgar Square. Or at least outside Prenton Park somewhere.
The winner, however, is The Coldest Winter For a Hundred Years by the always excellent Wild Swans. A fair old time in the making, it seemed I’d been anticipating it for years and luckily it didn't disappoint. Killer songwriting and brilliant playing all over, especially the kind of guitar chops that I’m glad to hear again. Following their jaunt out being pop stars in South East Asia, I can’t wait to see what Paul Simpson will do next.
Game of the Year
Up until Christmas, this would have been Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim hands down. However, having spent the last week or so hammering through Batman: Arkham City, it’s become a closer run thing. After much consideration (i.e. the time it takes to sup three mouthfuls of coffee and eat a handful of Quality Street sweets) I've gone with Skryim. Though not matching the moments of drama Batman produced, or the voice acting skills (Mark Hamill will always be the Joker to me), its sheer depth and scope has not been seen by me since I played Elite II: Frontier, a game that had the whole galaxy as a playground.
Terry Fuckwit Clone of the Year
It has to be James Murdoch, for his stunning display of ineptitude at the Leveson Inquiry, in which we got the general picture that he didn't have a Scooby about what was going on in the company he was apparently in charge of. Watching, I got the idea that ol’ Rupert was thinking ‘he must get it off his bloody mother’ or something.
The fall of the News of the World, of course, was a major highlight of the year. I expect it’ll be the first of the major papers to go belly up, though the rest will probably fall under the harsh machine gun fire of falling sales and public indifference. The fact that it’s hardly been missed says something about the nation’s reading habits, and not in a good way, but I can console myself that at least one bastion of shite journalism has been dumped onto the slagheap of history.
With that all done, it's in 2012 we go. We can look forward to Mass Effect 3! Which is good! And Manchester City beginning to dominate English football for years to come! Which is crap! And it makes me want to go live in a cave somewhere for the next 30 years...
If I manage to get to be an old man, I wonder how I’ll look back on 2011, given I went through a series of bizarre events that usually happen to other people.
But no matter, I emerged in relatively one piece to keep writing the usual crap about things that either annoy me or stop me getting annoyed in a world seemingly designed purely to irritate.
Footballer of the Year
Bit of a tricky one, this, as even though United won the league and made the final of the European Cup, I’m struggling to think of one player who managed consistency across 2011. Rooney upset many with his stupid antics on and off the pitch, Nani has been his usual inconsistent self. Vidic has been crocked for most of the last six months, as has Javier Hernandez, who scored some vital goals in the run-in last season.
So, for lack of a better choice, I’m giving it to Phil Jones, despite the fact he only signed for us in the summer, on the basis that he’s proven so good as to be almost an automatic choice in the first team. He’s made a couple of major clangers, but you can excuse that in a 19 year old, especially one with the confidence to charge upfield with the ball at his feet in a way not seen at Old Trafford since Gordon McQueen.
Album of the Year
Surprisingly, there was more than one album released in 2011 I liked. There were in fact four, which must be a record. Note must also go to the reissue of Nick Lowe’s fab 1979 Labour of Lust album that I've been enjoying recently.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart stumbled at times with their second album Belong, but overall it was a fine album and I have hopes they’ll knock on and produce something better in the near future.
British Sea Power made another fine album with Valhalla Dancehall, albeit one that treaded water a little bit and did nothing to halt recent sliding returns commercially. Whether they’ll elect to go down weirder paths, as flirted with on their soundtrack to the historic Man of Annan film, they’re still capable of writing excellent songs in both pop and experimental genres.
Half Man Half Biscuit did what they do best once again on 90 Bisodol (Crimond) with songs of tedious daytime TV (Tommy Walsh’s Eco House) and pavement etiquette (L’Enfer C’est Les Autres). Always the same, always different, they should have put statues of the lads up on that spare plinth on Trafalgar Square. Or at least outside Prenton Park somewhere.
The winner, however, is The Coldest Winter For a Hundred Years by the always excellent Wild Swans. A fair old time in the making, it seemed I’d been anticipating it for years and luckily it didn't disappoint. Killer songwriting and brilliant playing all over, especially the kind of guitar chops that I’m glad to hear again. Following their jaunt out being pop stars in South East Asia, I can’t wait to see what Paul Simpson will do next.
Game of the Year
Up until Christmas, this would have been Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim hands down. However, having spent the last week or so hammering through Batman: Arkham City, it’s become a closer run thing. After much consideration (i.e. the time it takes to sup three mouthfuls of coffee and eat a handful of Quality Street sweets) I've gone with Skryim. Though not matching the moments of drama Batman produced, or the voice acting skills (Mark Hamill will always be the Joker to me), its sheer depth and scope has not been seen by me since I played Elite II: Frontier, a game that had the whole galaxy as a playground.
Terry Fuckwit Clone of the Year
It has to be James Murdoch, for his stunning display of ineptitude at the Leveson Inquiry, in which we got the general picture that he didn't have a Scooby about what was going on in the company he was apparently in charge of. Watching, I got the idea that ol’ Rupert was thinking ‘he must get it off his bloody mother’ or something.
The fall of the News of the World, of course, was a major highlight of the year. I expect it’ll be the first of the major papers to go belly up, though the rest will probably fall under the harsh machine gun fire of falling sales and public indifference. The fact that it’s hardly been missed says something about the nation’s reading habits, and not in a good way, but I can console myself that at least one bastion of shite journalism has been dumped onto the slagheap of history.
With that all done, it's in 2012 we go. We can look forward to Mass Effect 3! Which is good! And Manchester City beginning to dominate English football for years to come! Which is crap! And it makes me want to go live in a cave somewhere for the next 30 years...
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