This Is This

I’d like to swing out of that last post and jump right into the weekend song. We’re finding emo today, with a total belter.

Hang Me Out To Dry takes southern rock voice and clipped, syncopated guitars - it’s Idlewild meets The Black Crowes meets Talking Heads. What else do you need?

The sound of an idling bicycle wheel? Oh go on then.

These weekend songs, by the way, are now have their own page which you can get to either here or in the navigation on the right.

Careless in our summer clothes
splashing around in the muck and the mire

Listen: Cold War Kids - Hang Me Out To Dry

Brand names that build in punctuation. There are teams of people working for companies which make sure that journalists like me spell things the right way. Only the wrong way, but in keeping with the brand.

Dixons recently rebranded to Currys.digital. That “curries with capital c and a y and s and dot digital with a small d - all lowercase”. If you ask their marketing people what happens when the word in the middle of a sentence?

It’s “curries with capital c and a y and s and dot digital with a small d - all lowercase”

Can I go back to using proper punctuation when I’m not writing about you?

Thanks.

It’s like Which? magazine, the publication of the Consumers’ Association. You always have to use the question mark, even if it’s in the middle of sentence, like just then. You can add your own punctuation on afterwards.

Examples:

Don’t delay! Save £££s (don’t…) on your subscription to Which?!

Did you read that article in Which??

The spell checker on this laptop is also in on the conspiracy. If I spell PlayStation any other way other than the branded version - capital p and captial s with no space - then it puts a squiggly line under it.

Check it out.

And I used to run a website that that had a women’s portal called iCircle and they were the same. I know! Capital c right there like a grammatical speed bump in the world.

I’d spare you how this looks in a headline and opt to be less bothered by this tomorrow.

Have a good weekend, all. Weekend song tomorrow is a good one.

If I had a million pounds, I’d get take out one of those billboard ads on the M4 elevated section.

The posters are huge - about twenty feet high and twice again broad - and I’d make it a poster of the scenery behind it, or what the scenery would be from the angle of the driver’s perspective if the billboard weren’t there. You know, a really clear photograph of the trees and buildings behind it.

I think that would be a nice statement.

Plus, as you drove past it, and changed the angle, it would look all weird because the match would start going out and would make you feel funny and alive inside.

It would be cool driving up to it with the angle wrong at first, then at one point it would match perfectly and I bet at that moment, the guitar on the radio would do some kind of riff that you’d think maybe was just for you because at that moment, all else seemed to be perfect despite or because of the transience of things.

And with my million pounds, I’d be helping that feeling along for thousands of people every day, for however many days that sum would fetch.

That’s what I’d do anyway.

I call priests Mister and I make not apologies. I mean I’ll call him Reverend Peters if he’s a man of the cloth called John Peters, and that’s cool, but I’ll call him John if his name’s John when I’m talking to him.

I will not call him Reverend.

This causes some concern when planning a wedding and talking to the guy who’s going to be front row center, but it just sounds wrong any other way.

I also give no fucks for calling doctors Doctor. Dr Burn (my doctor was called Dr Burn - LOLZ!) gets straight questions from me, without their job title tagged on the end.

“Should it be that colour, Doctor?”

Why do people do that? There’s normally no one else in the room when you ask doctory questions, so there’s no need to do it. The doctor isn’t going to go: “Oh, you mean me?”

Unless people find it reassuring. “Tell me the truth. How long have I got, Kevin?” It doesn’t sound right.

I also don’t call the police “Officer”. PC Watson - fine. It identifies them. It saves time. Sarah Watson the policewoman - “PC Watson”. That’s cool. But: “Thank you Officer, I’ll call you if I hear anything” ? That’s just silly.

It is not a respect thing at all. It’s a sense thing. We don’t say: “How much are we talking about, Plumber?” So why the title/identifier for priests, doctors and policemen?

Now, they do it the Army all the time, don’t they, Captain? I’m glad I’m not in the military. That would annoy the hell out of me. That and getting shot at by people whose country I have no right to be in.

I might start doing this at work.

“Designer, how long are we talking about for the mock-ups? … Really, because Producer here says it’s a three day turnaround - which is fine for launch date, isn’t it Editor?”

Annoying, hey Reader?

I’m tired these days. Just the last two weeks ago - typical black dog stuff. What makes it worse is that it’s now summer and that shouldn’t happen. It’s probably because it has rained just about every day for the last two weeks.

To use a phrase from my friend Guy, it feels like not only am I on a blind date with Destiny, it looks like she just ordered the lobster.

I have had so many senior moments over the last few days that I’m starting accept that as a temporary norm, referring to my periods of clarity as “junior moments”.

As it to make things better these days (and by the way, it often does) I got my hands of a lot of new music. There’s something about a wireless network and a new laptop that makes you want to buy some songs. And when you’re thirty five, you’ve found a niche in your musical tastes, and it’s a reminder that it’s a thin line between a groove and a rut.

Be that as it may, there’s a lot of music I missed out on growing up that have since become classics, but I never bought them because they were always on the radio.

Last week I was watching My Name Is Earl, the greatest show on TV, and they played Steve Miller’s Take The Money And Run. Now I was never a big fan, but I’m thinking: “I could listen to a little Steve Miller.”

I’d always dismissed it as to simple, he’s not a great singer, he has rhymes like:

They headed down to, ooh, old El Paso.
Thats where they ran into a great big hassle.
Billy Joe shot a man while robbing his castle.
Bobbie Sue took the money and run.

Let’s not break that down, but you know what I’d say, right? 

Also, I think it’s “ran“. But anyway.

I was listening to a lot of jazz when I was a kid because my dad and his brothers gave me a love for that and Everton Football Club. But if you’re going to dismiss rock and roll on the basis of simplicity then you need close looking at.

So I got some Steve Miller and I bought Lynyrd Skynyrd, because southern rock’s always stirred my gumbo in ways I can’t explain. Then I got a big pile of J J Cale and topped it off with The Band.

I’ll bring some of these out eventually in the Weekend Song, the tunes of which can be broken down into three main categories:

1. New Stuff

2. Old Stuff

3. Stuff You Might Not Have Heard

Some of the New Stuff might fall under SYMNHH, but I doubt it because as you may have picked up, I’m thirty five and I have bought some Steve Miller.

So yeah, have a great day - there’s every chance you’ll know more at the end of it than you did this morning.

Remember that there’s nothing wrong with growing old. It’s the priviledge of experience and that’s yours alone.

Best wishes to you,

Cliff

I wirelessed my place this weekend. Every last vestige of old schoolery has been purged from the nooks, if not crannies, of This House.

It took me a little while to figure out, but I’m a little stupid. Then I developed a headache last night which I thought might be related to the network. As if living and breathing this blog weren’t enough and paying money to get my thoughts out there, I guessed I might actually have to physically suffer as part of the publishing process. Lucky you, hey?

But then I thought I’ve stayed in enough hotels to have been exposed to enough wireless signals and they ain’t never hurt me none. (Triple negative - check it out)

It’s probably no worse than the flight path over my house and two motorways I live off. I wonder if there’s a Thames Valley Syndrome? It would explain a lot about the Royal Family.

It’s Monday, so I haven’t got too much to say. Uncle Sam didn’t write back, just as I suspected. I don’t think he’s actually a real uncle at all. Probably just another one of mummy’s “friends”.

So slim pickings today, but at least I got a gag into every paragraph. Except this one. This is the serious paragraph. This is the one that leans forward into the camera, removes its glasses and tells you that we’ve just heard that today’s post … is over - Down To The Wire, a post on This Is This was finally published at eight seventeen AM in the UK, Monday twenty fifth of June, two thousand and seven.

You don’t get many Howards these days…

(click picture for full size)

Inspired by Leemerette, who points out that the US government has issued a decree declaring it safe to fly with Transformers.

Readers voice: “Tell me you didn’t just go old school.”

I’m afraid I can’t do that, because we’re busting out the Creedence.

Born On The Bayou is one of those songs that sounds determined, relentless, grooved, edgy, nothing fancy, sexy as hell and that’s all it is.

More cowbell? Right there in the second verse.

It’s the sound of summer and the way it starts up is the killer.

Two bars of this, two bars of a little something else, building up until you got yourself a song. Count it off with me.

Feedback.

Guitar riff.

Drums and bass.

Handclaps.

Fade it down some

…and sing it.

…my poppa said “Son, don’t let the man git’ ya and do what he done to me.”

Listen: Creedence Clearwater Revival - Born On The Bayou

I went into the supermarket yesterday to get some milk, eggs, chocolate spread and a pumpkin/rice salad thing.

I have a supermarket credit card which gets me points. I resisted the loyalty card for years, but with a growing family I find I spend about £840 a week on groceries, so I have given in, in return for “free” trips to the zoo.

Conversation thus.

Me: I’d like cashback. Can I use this card?

Cashier: Sorry?

Me: It’s just that it’s a credit card and I’m not sure I can get cashback out with this.

Cashier: Oh, no you can’t.

Me: OK, I’ll use another card then.

Cashier: I can swipe the credit card in for the points, though.

Me: OK, great.

She swipes in the card and I put my debit card in front of her.

Me: I’ll pay on this one, please.

She nods and gives me back the credit card, rings up my groceries and swipes my debit card.

Cashier: Five pounds eighty five.

Me: I needed cash.

At this point she looks at me in blank rattlement.

Me: I said I needed cashback.

Cashier: Sorry, I’ve rung it up now.

Me: That was the whole conversation. About how I couldn’t get cashback on that other card?

Cashier: Oh.

Me: And that it was a credit card, so I said to use the debit card?

Cashier: Um. I didn’t hear you.

Me: But we had a whole conversation.

Cashier: Yeah, I didn’t hear.

Now.

What?

There were questions and answers. Confirmations. We made plans. You didn’t hear any of that?

I should have said, “So what do we do now?”

I should have suggested she scan the whole lot back in and put it back on my card, start again and do what we agreed, but there were people waiting and there was a cash machine right outside the supermarket.

I didn’t want to make more of a scene, because she probably went to school with my wife, but fucking hell, right?

After any given conversation, do I have to say “Did you hear any of that?”

Would it be patronising to recap dialogue that takes 20 seconds? Do we have to draw up action points?

Stupid staff is right up there on the annoying scale with someone turning the TV or radio almost all the way down so you can still hear it’s on but can’t make anything out.

Or Lenny Henry’s stupid fucking Jamaican/generic African accent. Let’s all do it, shall we? Oh no, we can’t, so fuck off with your double-standard racism. Triple, actually because Robin Williams can do a black voice on British TV, but Jim Davidson can’t, and rightly so.

In fact, everyone - no one’s doing the accent. No more accents from anyone. Apart from Welsh ones. Those guys talk so funny.

I’d been out drinking with some friends from work. This was just before the kids were born and such general tomfoolery was measured only by personal consequences.

It was just after midnight I had missed the last train home. I wandered out of Paddington Station to get something to eat. This was before it went all fancy with the late night pannini stands and when the last trains rolled out, the drunks were expected to do the same.

I staggered over to the road to a minicab doorway, where a guy about my age (then - mid twenties) was negotiating with a man. I heard him slur a bunch of stuff which included “Windsor”, so I composed myself and walked up.

The drunk guy, the other one - not me, said: “Come on. Thirty-five quid.”

The guy said: “Windsor, no no. Forty five.” Windsor is about 25 miles away from Paddington, which seems a long way after midnight, but a short way after forty pounds.

“I only have fourty and I need to get some food. Thirty eight,” he said with a cheeky drunk smile and turned to me.

The other drunk guy - me - said, “Are you going to Windsor?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah,” I turned to the man, “Fourty quid for me and him.” I turned back to the drunk. “Twenty each, yeah?” Because that’s like half of forty, uh huh? Dumb drunk.

He took us around the corner to his car and we got in and started talking about our nights in tones of mock regret and affection.

“Hey. Hey. Look at this,” I said, holding up a mobile phone and adding: “Phone.”

He grabbed it and rolled down the window, and went to throw it out. Now either I wasn’t that far gone or I wasn’t that much of an asshole, but I didn’t want him to chuck it out the car at eighty miles and hour.

I had to think of something to distract him. “Wait - let’s look at the numbers.”

I went through the names to see if it had a number called House on it or something. It’s a pain losing a phone, but at least this time I could turn the night around and do something right.

There was no House, but a number of the, um, numbers began with 01628 and 01753, which are Maidenhead and Windsor numbers.

“This belongs to someone out by us. We should hang on to it. Call some people and find out who it belongs to.”

I looked through the phone number at some names and landed on one called Homo.

“Hey,” I said to the guy, “let’s call Homo.”

It was about one in the morning. He grabbed the phone before I could tell him I was joking and hit dial.

“Homo.”

There was a pause. He turned to me and said: “My name’s Dan,” and threw the phone at me.

“Hey Homo,” I said, “Sorry to wake you.”

I kept the phone with me and was woken to a raging hangover the next day by a crap ringtone coming from the mystery phone.

The voice said “You’ve got my phone.”

“Yes - I…”

“And you’ve been calling my mates.”

“Look, I found it in a taxi from Paddington and my friends dialled some numbers. I kept the phone to hand it back. So it’s a good thing you called. Where are you?”

“Windsor.”

I took his name and gave him my address.

“Who’s phone is that?” said wife.

“Funny story…”

I told her the story about how I was kind of doing a good deed and Dan Stevens was coming to get the phone and how I might have called Homo.

“Chris Holmes,” she admonished.

“Hmmm?”

“Chris Holmes is Homo. Dan Stevens and Chris are friends. I went to school with them.”

So Chris and Dan were standing at my door half an hour later, with me realising the world’s too small for me to be such an asshole.

Written on a pad in today’s meeting

Me: I have absolutely no idea what’s going on.
Colleague: There are 125 lights in this room.

Actually it was good and we got a lot done, which is why there was no post this morning. Doesn’t stop you leaving comments, though, does it? Jesus.

One comment by lunchtime today, people. One. Can you count them? Trick question. One. I will turn this blog around…

No, I’m just messing with you. How you doing? Apologies for the late update today.

I’d forgotten how much I like hotels in the daytime. There’s a quiet transience about them, especially on the airportwards edge of big cities. Hammersmith is such a place, being near Heathrow, where body clocks go out of sync.

It’s enough to make me Thomasesque (or Dylanesque like Dylan Thomas but not Bobesque).

The shoppers, the businessmen, the mistress made up for the finger buffet, the conference debutants, the tea-timing two-timers trawling for trysts, the bored teenage boy too young to be “Sir”, the children charging Nintendos under the piano while London waits beyond revolving doors - outside, in the rain.

Plus they had wireless broadband and free pastries, so why not, right? They do a nice cheese board at the Novotel. Well, you know - they are French and everything.

How is that racist?

Today I am in an all-day conference which involves free food and wireless internet access. Unfortunately it started early which means I was not able to write a post this morning.

As you may already know, I am one of the luckiest people in the world. Literally. I’m not a happy outlook person by some stretch, but I just get lucky. I don’t rely on it, I don’t invite it, it just happens - that’s why it’s called luck. One of the more interesting strains of luck is coincidence, of which I have more than my share.

The downside of coincidence is that it’s a small world and this ruins a lot of chances of anonymity, which has its benefits. So tomorrow I will post a story about how during a drunken taxi ride home from London I made a complete tit of myself only to find that it was in front of someone in my circle of friends.

I was out in my lunch break because I wanted to buy one of those digital photo frames for my folks. You know, the kind that never stay still and tell stories of different places and people? Maybe your folks are the same.

I tried Boots and the Snappy Snaps (”Can I please order the thing that will put you out of business?”) and wandered down to HMV, where you’d think a place that sells PlayStations and USB whosenames might sell digital photo frames.

Well, that was my notion when I approached the sales assistant, a man in his mid-twenties refilling the video rack, and asked him this:

Do you sell digital photo frames?

The man looked at me, then stared blankly in the direction of Country and World, then widened his eyes and puffed out his cheeks in comic bewilderment. If I could have seen into his, I think there would have been a flickering bare bulb battered by a frantic moth.

Something happened, because seemed to regain his composure and said, “Frames. We do, yes. Over here I think.”

I’m not sure he thought anywhere, by the looks of it, but he led me a box of poster frames.

“Sorry,” I said like I do when it’s not needed, “I meant digital ones. You know, computer files. Like jaypegs?”

“Oh right,” he said as the previous expression returned, followed by:

“Crikey.”

You don’t get much crikey these days, or when you do it’s not from someone under sixty. It was like stepping into an Ealing comedy or the music hall or something.

I liked it. I was better than coming out empty-handed.

Check it out: the guy sitting across the aisle of the bus this morning was reading a document called Heads We Win - The Cognitive Side of Counterinsurgency.

OK?

Then he spoke to the steward and was American.

But then, right…

He bought a one-way ticket.

Yeah?

I thought at time he was probably one of those bus marshals.

“Any second now,” I thought, “he’s going to tighten his grip on the Berretta holstered in his parka as we go past Heathrow, where he’ll turn to me and say in the hiss of a determined whisper:

“‘The guy in seat 3C. When he stands up, we’re gonna take him. I need to know if you’re cool. Are you cool?’ and I start telling him about the time I hung out with Dizzy Gillespie and he interrupts me and reaches for his bootknife, hands it to me and says: ‘You know how to use one of these?’”

My life’s so fucking boring.

It’s Monday, everyone.

Let’s roll.

Ronseal make DIY products which are called “Ronseal Five Minute Quick Dry Wood Sealant” and they pride themselves in their straight talking product names. Their slogan is “It does exactly what it says on the tin”.

That last phrase had been adopted by most product managers in the UK and I’ve used it myself. I’m an editor, and any time someone wants to launch a new feature called “The Hubbub” or “Hoedown” or “The Patio”, I’m tempted to say “it needs to do exactly what it says on the tin”.

Now I was talking about Boots earlier on in the week and they sell loads of products that don’t come in tins, but more importantly don’t do what they say on whatever they do come in.

If Ronseal ran the show, Linx deodorant would be called “Gets You In With Complete Strangers In Public Places”. Decongestants would be called “Stops Large Globs Of Snot Streaming Down Your Nose Or Falling Down The Back Of Your Throat”. Incontinence pads would be called - well, you get the idea.

Then again, I’m looking at the title of this blog and it’s not exactly called “Makes You Laugh And Think Sometimes Through Observations By That Guy Who Has That Web Site”, is it?

The Twang - Either Way

Something modern now, and it’s in the charts. The band is The Twang who have that familiar/original thing that hits you with good music. It sounds like a combination of The Streets, The Smiths and The Farm. Smith Street Farm?

There aren’t too many bands with two guy singers*, and the second guy in this does chorus and backup and is almost incidental, which is unusual.

The drums could be more interesting, but everything and everyone should be judged by what they do instead of what they don’t.

Here’s nothing to not like:

Shimmering guitars (chorus and delay unless my ears deceive me), bass notes off the root just nice, pop drums and a catchy chorus with lyrics which stare adversity square in the face and say “whatever, man”.

And I’ve got to find my phone to tell ya
or maybe even write you a love letter.
Either way I’ve got to tell you.
I feel so much better today.
I chased the bad things away.

Listen The Twang - Either Way

*Yeah, all right shut up: Public Enemy, Squeeze, The Beatles, Simon and Garfunkle, Turin Breaks, Five Blind Boys From Alabama, The Beach Boys, Los Lobos, Gipsy Kings, Take That, Travelling Wilburies, Sebadoh - I meant guitar rock bands.

God, I forget to say goodbye.

Thanks for all the comments this week. From the benefits of imaginary friends, the This Is This club members pizza discount (still valid), to me feeling rough, laying low for a bit and the madness of early conkers - we’ve had some times.

People read the comments, and that’s part of the fun and also the deal here. I’m not going to list the names of everyone who left comments, because we’d be here for well over a minute, but don’t think there’s just one set of footprints left behind when the posts go up. Come on.

Have a good weekend, all. Don’t forget the Saturday Song tomorrow - it’s good.

I was in my local Boots Chemist (non-Brit readers: big drugstore) this week looking for a gift for someone.

I don’t like walking around Boots because the people there are buying things which are personal to them. What usually happens is I’ll walk past someone and they will look up and I’ll make a furtive glance towards whatever it is they are buying.

This can be anything ranging from depilatories to condoms and it’s very embarrassing when the both of us. Because then I make a face like “warts, hey?” and the make a face like, “What the fuck am I doing in this section? Silly me. Ah, nailclippers.”

When I totally know they are buying treatment for a pediatry fungus.

I wonder if the staff in Boots have this same problem. When I worked in an off-licence (non-Brit readers: liquor store), I would know the type of thing people would buy the second they walk into the store. On a good day, I could tell, from someone’s appearance whether they smoke Marlboro Lights or B&H. From their accent I could guess whether they would have an Italian red or imported bottled beer.

But do the staff in Boots go: “Morning Sir, breath mints, yeah?” or “Hello Madam, prune juice is right at the back.”

Either way, I don’t like being in Boots. It’s worse if I see someone I know. God, please don’t talk to me. I’ll just keep moving. I’ll just tell you I’m getting some stuff for a friend.

A very hairy, smelly friend with bad skin and liberal views on dental hygene. 

Let’s just get our stuff and be on our way.

—-
Related post
Coinci-Dental

What are we on, web 2.0? Should we make it web 2.7? No, because we don’t name things in fractions.

Some people say the decimals make things look official, but I think it Roman numerals would add a bit more gravitas.

Web III

We could have teaser titles, too.

Web IV: The Clickening

Or catchlines

Web II: Social Networking
This time, everyone’s going to know.

It beats Word 7.0, doesn’t it?

And the new Die Hard film, Live Free Or Die Hard, is called Die Hard 4.0 in the UK.

Anyway, I wear my heart on my sleeve and nail my web stuff to the mast.

So here are some things I also do online. There’s Myspace, Flickr, Facebook, my blog you know about, Vox, Badjit, Twitter. I also use Linked In and Last FM and other things I don’t really update enough to bother mentioning them here.

My current favourite non-blogging site is Facebook. It’s much easier to use than myspace and and it has a thing where you can tell people your status. Your page says “Cliff is…” and then you tell it what you are and it send updates to all your friends.

So I said “THE BOMB”. And my status to changed to - “Cliff is THE BOMB.”

This drew some attention, admittedly only from Wendy, who messaged me to say that I was indeed not in fact THE BOMB and at least her Facebook status was true. Hers, by the way, said “fully clothed.”

Cliff: What? “Wendy is fully clothed.” What’s that?

Wendy: It’s the truth. I am.

Cliff: It may be the truth now, but later on you’ll be naked and I’ll still be THE BOMB.

I think I got my point across.

One of sixteen vestal virgins
who were leaving for the coast
and we called out for another drink
but the waiter brought me toast.

There are some songs to which I will never remember the lyrics . Just like there are some actors whose (whom’s, surely?) names I get mixed up.

The trouble with blind spots is the more you get it wrong, the bigger the deal it becomes and the more you think you might get it wrong so you do. It’s like the whole pipes thing.

I mix up the words dishwasher and washing machine. It’s a butter-side-down thing because every time I get it wrong, that’s what sticks in my mind, so it seems like I get it wrong most of the time. With that in mind, I can be standing there with armfuls of dirty clothes and say to her indoors (what? I’m indoors, too):

“Has the, um (Think. It washes your clothes. That kind of washer. Thatwasher.) -DISHwasher (fuck.) been on?”

And I know it’s wrong, too. As I hear myself say it, it comes out stupid. Technically, a dishwasher is also a washing machine as well. I’m sure it would be easier for me if they just called it a clotheswasher.

I mean I don’t get bread machine and answering machine mixed up, but I would if the bread machine was just called a “machine”.

I walk into the room and my five year old daughter is talking in an otherwise empty room.

Me: Who are you talking to?

Daughter (bashfully): No one.

Me: Do you have an imaginary friend?

Daughter: Um…

She always says “Um…” when she wants an explanation but doesn’t want to admit that she doesn’t know what’s going on or if she can’t understand why things are just that way. I don’t know where she gets it from.

Me: An imaginary friend is someone only you can see or hear. It’s OK to have one - it’s what’s good about being a kid.

(Not so much as an adult, eh Winston?)

Daughter: Well, I wish I had a real ‘maginary friend.

Me: Well why don’t you have one?

Daughter (sadly): I’ve only got a pretend one.

Me: Well there you go.

Daughter: But he’s not a real ‘maginary friend.

Me: Well, what’s their name?

Daughter: I don’t know daddy, they’re not real.

Me: Um…

Daughter, 5: I wish I had a proper ‘maginary friend.

It was an odd Spring just passed, early and hot. It didn’t live up to its promise and it went back to ordinary weather, if a little cold.

The horsechestnut trees felt it too and started producing conkers, thinking they’d had Summer. Then it warmed up and the leaves didn’t drop, so we’ve got conkers amid and green leaves.

To be honest, I’m not feeling great. I’m a bit run down and need to take it a little easy today. I didn’t sleep much and I couldn’t miss work today but I wanted to post something because that’s what I said I’d do every day.

I should probably have a bank of posts I keep just for such occasions, instead of writing these things every day, but they don’t freeze well.

It’s probably that fucking pizza. Everyone else feel OK?

Do you like Sweet Jane by The Velvet Underground?

Do you like Love and Affection by Joan Armatrading? 

Course you do.

Way back more than a year ago I posted this.

Crazy as it seems, I’m now going to quote myself from that post:

…Also get hold of “Sweet Jane (With Affection)” by Two Nice Girls*, which blends Joan Armatrading’s Love and Affection with The Velvet Undergrounds’s Sweet Jane, because the two songs, when you slow them down, are very, very similar.

Cowboy Junkies did a great version of Sweet Jane on the Trinity Sessions album, but the Two Nice Girls version is achingly beautiful. It will tear and strengthen you heart like love and springtime. Stick that on and it’s like the blossom falling across the city while caterpillars explode into butterflies.

* Now you don’t have to, because about half an hour ago I managed to track down the song. I remembered writing about it back then, so I wanted to share it here.

Listen - Sweet Jane With Affection

Rare hybrid covers and money off your pizza. Where else, right?

Attention This Is This club members.

You can now earn you 20 per cent off Domino’s Pizza when you spend more than £20 on any online order.

The promotional offer applies to all members who are Bronze Club and above.

Just type in voucher code BCZ8LJJJ when you order. Happy eating.

X - Shoot Out The Lights

Here’s a song written by Richard and Linda Thompson in the fading embers of their ill-fated marriage.

Richard Thompson is a tunesmith of the finest order, but his voice never grew on me. Crunchy guitars and face-melting solos did, so I love this version of it by X.

I’d wager “shoot out the lights” I think is a metaphor for bitterness in the bedroom and the razor’s edge honed by years of intimacy which is often wielded too carelessly. Being in a failing relationship is a frustrating thing to put it mildly, especially when you’re keeping up outward appearances to mutual friends.

Keep the shade down on the window.
Keep the pain on the inside.
Just watching the dark.
Just watching the dark.

Listen - X - Shoot Out The Lights

I don’t like touching brushed metal.

Zippo lighters and the like make me feel like my nails are all scratchy. Like most aversions, it makes no sense. I don’t pride myself on perfect nails or anything. I’ve never had a manicure, I rarely file and my cuticles are nothing to write home about.

But brushed metal, be it lighters, car dashboard detail or the tops of those half-plastic Parker Pens make me uneasy.

How about you? Wool on your teeth? Things that feel lighter than they look? Ill-conceived blog posts?

Song of the weekend here tomorrow as normal. Have a good one.

Oh, and by the fucking way?

Remember this from March 2005? Always thinking. 

Well, they’re working on it. Thanks for reading, guys.

You know what would be really cool? A million pounds.

Some folks basked in the glow of the Falklands War, others thought otherwise. The year was 1984, and in the hills behind Antibes it promised to stay that way forever. George’s Orwellian nightmare was running late, as nightmares tend to do, and Paul Young was threatening to tear our playhouse down, room by room.

But another sound sifted softly across the pop charts towards which I played my part, as any rightly constructed thirteen year old would. Bryan Adam’s clear punchy riffs announced the determined verses of Run To You.

She says her love for me could never die.

Nice, I thought.

But that’d change if she ever found out about you and I.

Now.

For a boy learning about grammar, it struck me as odd that he said “I” instead of “me”.

That’s wrong isn’t it? If she found out about “me”. It’s “you and me”, not I. “…if she ever found out about you and me.”

I know grammar is a fluid thing, and that’s cool, but when people try and sound correct and get it wrong, that’s worse than not trying at all. It’s like when cockneys (and I love accents - I use that term as a distinction and nothing more) when cockneys pronounce their H’s where there aren’t any. It’s h’information I don’t need. My neighbours do it when they talk to me sometimes and they don’t need to. It’s like me giving it all “apples and pears gawd bless ya guvna, oi oi  ‘ow’s yer cockles, Awbert Skwayuh” when I’m talking over the fence to them. Silly.

Anyway, it’s “you and me.” If in doubt - always “me”. Think it up.

Fly I Too The Moon
I And Bobby Magee
Please Please I
Rescue I
Everybody’s Got Something To Hide Except I and I’s Monkey

Anyway, Bryan Adams, though. He’s an enigma. He wasn’t even ten in the summer of sixty nine when he claimed to by his first real six string to start a band from which one band member quit and another got married. It’s another empty premise.

He’s not even The Groover From Vancouver - in fact he’s neither. He doen’t groove and he didn’t move to British Columbia until he was fifteen. Technically, I guess you’d say at best he’s The Man On Your Stereo From Ontario, but that’s not exactly going to take us to the news, is it?

Anyway, keep watching your lyrics, and don’t get taken in. That’s what they want. Stay sharp, and I’ll be right here.

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.

It’s OK not to know. That acceptance is it own kind of faith. That clinging to the rocks is sometimes the way to go, because our lives will ultimately be measured my what we do rather that what we don’t.

Cling to the rocks if you like, or let go and take your chances in the current. It’s all going to change anyway. Impermanence shows us that nothing stays the same anyway. Sure, it might stay the same in your lifetime, but that’s not what I’m talking about. That’s not mysterious.

The mysterious in the quote isn’t about the unknown. Love’s not unknown and that remains a mystery to me. As does fashion, words or probability. I know about music but I’m baffled by it.

Like people who argue that football is twenty-two people kicking a football around a field. Well, yes. And no. Music’s just a series of notes interpreted through a twelve note octave based on the length on a string. Half the string length and there’s your octave. Half it again and there’s another one. Or it’s the other way around, and we have octaves because of string length. Or the string just knows, just as we do, where the octave is, and that’s just How It Is. Ooooooh.

Either way, a mystery.

Science though, that’s all explained, right? Light, density of matter, cause and effect, actions and reactions. It all figures?

Gravity. An object is drawn to another one. A larger object has a greater attraction on a smaller one. They can measure the tug of the moon down to the tide in a cup of tea.

Ask a scientist if we’ve got it all figured out. Ask a doctor.

We don’t, and it’s beautiful.

The most beautiful thing we can experience is the mysterious.
-Albert Einstein

———–
Related post
Small Wonder

You can’t really trust marketing messages because salesfolk always spin their patter to an angle.

Example? Hmmm. Give me a sec.

OK - here’s one. Last month: my lawnmower, right? It blew up in comedy style on my front lawn. It started with a rattle, then a hum, then followed by - boy - a pop and an unforgettable fire. In RAF sonority it went from a Spitfire din to a Lancaster bomber drone within half a minute before two comedy puffs of smoke flew out the sides, signalling the final curtain for the Amazing Flymo.

I took myself by way of the rubbish tip to the hardware store to buy a new one. Like most things that should be easy (see Options, yesterday), it wasn’t. I wanted a cheap one but not a crap one.

Now, the company isn’t going to talk down its cheapest models, but something’s up when the description contradicts those of the more pricey lawnmowers, so they have to thing of something positive to say about all of them.

The cheapest mowers don’t collect the grass clippings, so the blurb on the box says that the cut grass goes back into the lawn to act as a mulch which nourishes the lawn.

The more expensive machine collects the grass, which is handy, the packaging tells me, so you don’t get that shit all over your garden.

Nice, huh?

You get what you pay for in this life, just don’t expect it to make any sense.

There’s too much choice.

Too many add-ons, optional extras, customisation and assortments make every decision so self important that you wonder whether your needs are less important than the thing you decide.

This week I was booking a holiday online (that almost sounds old-fashioned now, doesn’t it? “Online.” Hmmm.)

Anywhore, I chose a destination, city of departure, airport of city of departure, number of passengers, age of passengers, class of hotel, dates, preferred time of flight and class of cabin.

All good? Should be, but don’t offer me a twin fucking* room when you know we’re a party of four.

I hate being offered something I haven’t asked for. Trouble is I’ve worked behind a counter and if you say stuff like “you know if you get one of those doohickies, you get another whoosname for a fiver”, it actually works a lot of the time. I shifted more doohickies that summer than any other employee of Thingamees Ltd.**

And I’m reluctant to admit it, but if you ask your regulars often enough if they have a loyalty card, there’s a chance they’ll get one.

Everything from cars to coffee has more options than having a kid.

*I realise I used the phrase “twin fucking” in this post. The searches I’m going to get now. Actually it always surprises me from the web stats information how people turn up here looking for porn and then stay and read. I got a search last month for “Huey Lewis penis” and the person stayed for 15 minutes. Maybe they were looking for the power of love.

**A couple of fellow bloggers/colleagues here have been reminded of the policy on personal blogs, so I’m being careful about all previous employers as well. But whore, penis and twin fucking are OK, apparently.

Copy here from Mike at Troubled Diva, veteran blogger, cybersaint and, as far I can tell, neither troubled nor diva. Mike says:

As Shaggy Blog Stories approaches its 500th sale (just one more copy to go), the long-awaited Shaggy Blog Podcast is finally available for purchase.

Featuring readings by 14 of the 100 contributors, and with a playing time of 67 minutes, the Shaggy Blog Podcast can be purchased for a measly Two Quid, of which £1.60 will be donated to the Comic Relief charity.

Inevitably, the recording quality does vary somewhat - one of the contributions was even phoned in from Namibia - but the quality of the readings themselves is uniformly great, and That’s What Counts.

Hope you enjoy it. Perfect pool-side listening for the holiday season!

I say: Feel free to download the podcast, which isn’t free, but worth every penny. The blurb reads:

14 readings from Shaggy Blog Stories, a collection of comic writing from the UK blogsophere in aid of Comic Relief. All readings are performed by their original authors: Vaughan Simons, Mike Atkinson, Anna Pickard, Marcos de Lima, Bob Merckel, Cliff Jones, Peter Maling, Pete Hall, Karen Hall, Rachael Johnson, Clare Sudbery, The Goldfish, John Soanes and Meg Pickard. All profits in aid of Comic Relief.

 Listen to the free, two-minute preview (MPG)

You can read more about the Shaggy Blog Stories project here

So if you like laughing and helping people then please buy the podcast

Public Enemy - Give It Up

I love this track and Chuck D’s voice in it. He remains one of the most eloquent artists in music with a rhythm to carry any message. There’s not much syncopation in it like Eminem, but/so it packs a punch.

The production in this is almost nothing and that takes some talent to pull off. This came out in 1994 when indie grunge and gangster rap had everyone looking the other way, but the glipse I caught was enough to make my head turn and spin.

Listen - Public Enemy - Give It Up

Gordon asks:

“Cocks!”

Is that the best swear word you can come up with?

And what is your favourite cheese, and why?

I admit I could do better, but as I was swearing in a headline, I wanted to turn it down a notch. As you know, I can swear up to 11 in a post once I really get going. See this letter to the Daily Star.

As for cheese, I like a lot. I’m a vegetarian, so I eat quite a bit of the stuff. Yeah I know, rennet, but also finings in beer, but life’s too short, OK? Anyham, I like mature cheddars and a brie. Sliced I’d go for a good provolone or emmental. I’m a sucker for goat’s cheese grilled on toast. But mainly, I like my cheese like I like my women: mature, a bit blue and with lots of veins. I love a good strong stilton, a tad salty on a digestive biscuit.

It’s not just stiltons, but your whole blue cheese gamut. I’m talking your bleus de Bresse, your gorzonzolae, your dolcelatti, etc.

You can’t beat a nice stringy spongy mozzarella and mask-a-pony is good for cooking.

Basically, I like to mix things up a little. Thanks for your question. Jonny.

JonnyB asks:

Which record do you think should never have been made?

I posted a track from it here recently, and that’s The Royal Philharmonic Orchestra And Guests Play The Police. Because I can’t think of a single context where it would ever be right to play it.

Kathryn asks:

Where in the world would you go if you had a chance or for your next holiday? I’d choose Peru.

Peru. Nice. There’s an island in the gulf coast off of Florida called Sanibel which is just beautiful. It’s got great restaurants, beautiful beaches, friendly people and a slow pace of life. I’ve been there a couple of times over the space of ten years and it never changes. Either there or Seward, Alaska because I love the Pacific Northwest and it feels like you’re brushing shoulders with the barely tamed wild.

sooz asks:

What would make you really lose your temper to shouty proportions?

I pride myself on a long fuse, but like any man, I can be pushed. I’m actually more of a seether, hissing profanities into the ground. Watching Everton play really badly against a team I know we can beat makes me shout.

Also, see next.

robram asks:

Come on, Cliff, say something about Big Brother - you know you want to!

Rob - Big Brother is hideous. It’s a travesty, it’s a sham, it’s a sham of a travesty wrapped up in two mockeries of a sham. Who do they think they are, this country, why oh why, etc. I might watch some of it. One of them is a Peaches Geldof look-alike. Peaches Geldof, who is famous for being the daughter of a famous guy. It’s only a matter of time when people in the house make careers out of their resemblance to former housemates. And for this show they’re either dollybird or old bags. It’s like Hollyoaks crossed with Dinner Ladies. If you’re reading this outside the UK, then apologies for the mysterious cultural references. And can I come and stay for the next two months?

Pete asks:

Who is the man that would risk his neck for his brother man?

Pete, I want to say Shaft.

Torsten Cool asks:

I ask question if you have meet Stefan Dennis?

Torsten - I have not met Stefan Dennis. Are Mr and Mrs Cool OK with you reading this blog?

Have a good one. Thanks for the questions and don’t forget the audio posts over the weekend.