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Showing posts from October, 2010

Grief, an exceedingly brief analysis

So you sit in a church, some people say some things, and you feel you are observing all proprieties, then you crumble, then you weep.

That's grief, then, like a good anglo-saxon male, you box it up and get on.

Then, weeks later, a passing thought brings you to your knees.

I suspect this may take a while.

I further suspect that I'm a fucking idiot for thinking it might not.

A note in passing

It comes as a mild surprise to note that today is the third anniversary of the death of the wonderul Alan Coren. That's a quick three years. I was thinking of him just the other day, as it happens, watching the cleggster and cabletron's astonishing voltes-faces on tuition fees (+everything else they once held very firm, unshakeable beliefs about) one of the first things that popped into my head was how riotously amusing he'd have found it. Outrageous, yes, revolting yes, but also deeply, deeply funny.

The conflict of indie

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear.

Talk about conflict? Believe me. You know who I don't want to be? I don't want to be an indie snark purist. You know the ones, the ones who drop a band like a hot potato the moment they get a sniff of success; the ones who when you cheerily mention how much you like a track off a band's third album, say, will sniff at you and state that the only good track they ever did was a cover of a Jesus Lizard track which was the b-side to an early single which is 7" Japanese import only, unless you count the 2-track demo for a label sampler which was A&R only, or maybe the flexisdisc given away at one gig and one gig only where the singer changes the words omg at which point you punch them right on the bridge of the glasses that they don't even need to wear, the twunts. And quite right too.

And yet, and yet..

Look, I think we all have an indie snark-merchant knocking about, maybe we need to make peace with them. Mine popped out this evening when …

Needless posturing

Bah, possibly also humbug.

Contrary to the childish posturing of the posts below I am not constantly at odds with existence for no reason other than to be a reactionary bastard. I mean, I am, a bit, but not overly proud of it, kind of teenage really. You'd think I'd have grown out of that sort of entry-level bile by now, but sadly not, it's a cross we'll just all have to bear.

That said, I was perturbed by today's G2, which posed the question why do people loathe hipsters so? Full article here, for what it's worth. Now, I can have a wild stab as to why, and on first read I chortled merrily as I gently stroked my own prejudices to tumescence. But after a while I got to thinking (I was chopping veg for piccalilli, and that sort of exercise does tend to lend one a fugue-like state), surely to define oneself as anti-hipster is in essence as much of a pose as being a shoreditch twat itself? Now don't get me wrong, I have very little time for irritating, trilby-wea…

Vehicles of the end times

Now I admit that I am prone to the odd generalisation, occasionally even a touch of hyperbole (no, no, don't argue, I admit it). But a stroll into town with the boy last weekend provided me with troubling, worrying evidence that some generalisations are, well, right.

our route took us past the rugby club (ho ho, you cry, he's about to have a pop at rugby, favoured past-time of boorish chaps called Dan who believe they can tell a man's character from his handshake), now I have nothing against rugby (so yar boo sucks to you); I'm from Cornwall, it's practically a religion there, and in the same way as the sport transcends class in New Zealand, or cricket crosses every social divide in the yorkshire leagues, so it is with Cornwall and rugby (union, that is, I am in no sense trying to suggest that league is elitist, a little chippy perhaps, maybe even a touch parochial, yes, elitist, no). I grew up playing the sport, I've got a lot of time for it, it does a good job…

Chosen by you!

I inhabit an appalling duality, seriously. Some days it's nigh on impossible to get out of bed. You see, there are two of me.

I know, I know, we're all multi-faceted, each of us is terribly complex etc etc. I am not, however, there are, simply put, two of me.

As a general rule of thumb I'm relatively liberal, reasonably relaxed and inclined to see the best in people. However I am, also, a chef. And chefs, as you're doubtless aware, are for the most part temperamental, egomaniacal arseholes. Goes with the turf, I'm afraid, when your business and reputation ride on each and every plate you send out, and you send out hundreds, it tends to make you prone to stress.

And so I and I struggle on, mutually mistrustful but attempting to rub along as best we can. And then something like Asda'a new "Chosen by you" range comes along. The concept being that they've stuck this label on items "Chosen by you" d'you see, and in no sense chosen by a prog…

Mea Maxima Culpa

The better memoried among you may recall me be describing the labour leadership contest as yadda yadda yadda David Miliband wins. I got that wrong. But in fairness, so did everybody else, and people pay money for their stuff. So who's the biggest idiot, eh?

And yes, I'm aware that the leadership election occurred the best part of a week ago, but frankly, it takes me a while to get round to these things, and I'm a trifle tired of instant media. Who on earth has the energy? And, for that matter, who on earth cares? Read a book for fuck's sake.