This Is This

I’m not sure I am terribly cultured. I mean, I am a bit, but not much more than cheap pearls or expensive yoghurt.

I do a bit. I read books and stuff and I put on Classic FM. I got one of those digital radios and they’re gear. Yeah, I know Classic play movements and snippets whereas Radio 3 does whole the whole symphony, but who has time for symphonies? I listen to the symphony of life, me.

Sometimes if there is a piece of classical music playing in the background, I do this annoying intermittent hum-a-long; a pompous, punctuated “hmm mmm mm hmm hmm hmm” before I realise I have absolutely no fucking idea what the music is.

Gentle. Elgar perhaps. Sounds English. Vaughan Williams. Cold, at least. Dvorak. Dvorjak??

I am fooling no one, unless it’s romantic era symphony movement, which mostly all end “hmm-HMMM. hmmm? Hmmm….” These allow me to redeem myself with the music snob’s equivalent of a last-minute equaliser.

Have a good weekend, you road dog, you old horse-thief you.

The Weekend Song tomorrow will make you feel good.

I have one of those hard drive recorders. It is both new and fangled and it is great.

Trouble is (“Here he goes” - reader’s voice) is that now stuff turns up that I just don’t have time to watch. Stuff I never would have watched if I didn’t have the inclination to be there to watch it when it was on, except now I don’t have to be. I can just have shows and worry about the time part later.

Scrubs. How I Met Your Mother (On at 2am? No problem. Cheesy but well written). Family Guy. History channel. Tribe. Reruns of The West Wing.

Now I need a time machine to allow me to watch all the stuff I have taped.

- No, not “taped”. Stop saying “taped”. Your children will tell people years from now that their dad used to say “taped”.
- Recorded.
-That is better.

Sessions on BBC4. Recorded. No, don’t delete it. I will watch that. Sometime.

A season celebrating 100 Years Of Filming Wildlife? Zap.

Animated classics - Beowulf (how does my spellchecker know Beowulf??? Did Viking discover laptops as well now?) Zap. Moby Dick. Zap.

Zap zap zap zap zap.

It’s like credit cards for live TV. It’s too easy.

If you’re like me, then you watch films you own when they come on TV just because they are on. But recording films that you own? I have done this.

I have written about too much choice, but really I think the problem lies with me. I’m better informed, but need to get better at making decisions. You know, those little things you have before you choose? I don’t do that. I’m like a slut in a boner shop.

I need a more methodical approach to my consumption before time completely runs out and my last words are: “I was going to watch that”.

—
Related posts
Spoiled For Choice
Options
Market Ting

On the back of the Bourne films post, I am proposing an entertainment series based around an even greater star for the ultimate evening in.

I give you:

Christopher Walken Night

Walken In Memphis
Christopher Walken presents the first in a trilogy of travelogues when he experiences a really bad hair day in Tennessee, the cradle of the civil war and resting place of Elvis Presley. Next stop: the Far East

Walken On The Chinese Wall
See all the delights of the Orient as our guest presenter waits for the coins to fall before relaxing in the opulence of the Raffles hotel. Then it’s off to the banks of the Mekong for a live re-enactment of the famous scene from the Deer Hunter. (With Phil Collins). Next stop: Outer space.

Walken On The Moon
Christopher Walken (TBC) blasts off to the final frontier for an exclusive look at the real stars, from the lunar surface that is!

Walken In Your Footsteps
Hollywood walk of famer retraces a viewers family history back to the cretaceous period.
Then…

Walken With Dinosaurs
Quentin Tarantino produces this gritty educational documentary featuring actor Christopher Walken among CGI-animated dinosaurs.

Related posts:
Idea For A Programme
TV Quick Hits
Reality TV - What A State!

I put in a lot of effort  for this website. I’m not complaining either. It’s something I enjoy, but I take the time. I put other things aside and it’s nice to know that you’re reading. Yes, you. But not you. You. The person who won that Time magazine bullshit? Yeah, you. How you doing? Really? Hey wow.

Anyway - my research for posts yesterday took me to the heats of Miss Teen USA.

Yeah, the things I do - I know.

Well, here’s Miss South Carolina being asked why Americans can’t place America on a map. The answer was priceless. And I thought I was dumb.

“US Americans”? She actually says “US Americans”. These are your countrypersons!

It gets better, and so, so much worse. She reels off countries (and when I say reels, I mean two) that she has probably been told has to namecheck.

“South Africa.” Check.

“Iraq.” Check.

But what was I saying? Oh yeah. Um: “And the Asian countries.”

I love the look she gives right before she starts talking, like she is about to say something really important. A pronouncements of sorts.

Surely she is a threat to national security.

I’m not sure. I’m either with her or against her.

Watch: Miss South Carolina tells it straight

Tomorrow: Miss Hawaii or “How to boost your blog ratings in just 49 days”

Also - I messed up that Stanley Jordan upload for the Weekend Song, so the end was cut off and the bit I was talking about wasn’t actually on there. I have redone it and you can hear it here. And if you missed the post, you can read it here. I guess there’s a little Miss South Carolina in all of us. But not vice versa. Bad me.

Ok. I said a post every day, but I’ve been busy today, as it’s a holiday in the UK. Besides, this counts. Haha. It’s  totally 10:38pm.

I always beat the system, especially where I am the system.

Sure, I know what you’re thinking.

“Post my arse,” right?

Well, thanks for the offer but the answer’s no.

Not really, but here’s something from a book I’m reading by one of my favourite authors, Dave Eggers. He wrote A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius, which is not a million miles from the truth.

This is a chapter from his follow up, You Shall Know Our Velocity, which you can buy here in the UK and here in the US.

This is not the Midweek Story.

Listen: Dave Eggers - You Shall Know Our Velocity

When I was about twelve I went to the jazz festival in Nice. It was an incredible musical event. I saw my heroes and my dad (also my hero) took me every year.

Everyone played Nice. By the time I was fifteen I had seen Miles Davis several times, Lionel Hampton, Dave Brubeck, Michelle Petrucianni, Gerry Mulligan, Stan Getz, McCoy Tyner, Dexter Gordon, Ornette Coleman, John Zorn, the Count Basie Orchestra, Herbie Hancock, Michael Brecker, Keith Jarrett, BB King, James Brown, Art Blakey, Chuck Berry, Ray Brown, Woody Herman (and met) Dizzy Gillespie (now that’s a story[later]).

Being blown away by music was a childhood recurrence. I’m not rightly sure how a boy can keep getting blown away by the same thing, but there it was. You’d  think I would have learned.

One such occurrence was brought on by guitarist in his early twenties called Stanley Jordan, standing up there on a big stage by himself with a small Marshall amp at his feet, playing sweetly above the sound of dropping jaws.

Normally I wouldn’t like guitar solos. They are wanky and showy off. But this… this is vital expression.

One take, no open tunings and among the finest of songs ever written. His virtuosity even lets you enjoy the arrangement of the song. That’s arrangement. For one person. He’s letting himself take solos. There’s a bit at middle to end which is staggering and shouldn’t be possible for all of its skill and beauty. There’s this finger-tapped solo over a walking bass.

I don’t have the faculties to hunt for the words that don’t exist.

It’s possible that if you play guitar you will hate him, and if you don’t, you’ll vow you never will. Don’t. This is what can happen.

This is one of my favourite songs. One of the songs that, if it were food, I could eat with every meal for the rest of my life.

This is a song I enjoy being sad to, and there’s never been a better time for that.

Listen: Stanley Jordan - Georgia On My Mind

All yesterday’s talk of arms dealers and clandestine deals turned my mind to the Bourne films.

Identity and Supremacy were on TV last week, so I’m thinking the people in the hotel probably weren’t defence industry insiders, and were just the product of an overactive imagination.

Now you’ve got the Bourne Ultimatum.

I wonder if they’ll make a prequel. The could call it

Bourne Yesterday
Tagline: “Some people say he was. But he wasn’t.”

And I’m off.

Bourne On The Bayou
Jason goes to the deep south and assumes the identity of a French-Canadian trapper in order to infiltrate the Cajun community.

Bourne Slippy
Government contract killing with a dash of slapstick. It’s James Bond meets Noel’s House Party. But wait - who’s that at the door?

Bourne on the Fourth of July
Explosive stuff in this holiday special as the CIA killer-gone-AWOL adds some sparkle.

Bourne Free
Spy adjust charging structure to pro-bono fees to drive out the competition, but someone’s calling dirty tricks.

Have a great weekend everyone.

Woah.

There are two arms dealers sitting behind me at a table of a posh hotel. I’m sitting here because I’m two hours early for a meeting and I want to get some work done. I headed for the cafe bar area which is quieter and set away from the main restaurant where people are having breakfast. Which is the perfect place to discuss weapons systems.

It’s kind of cool. She’s South African and he’s from France. It sounds like he’s interviewing her for a job, because she’s talking about how much she has travelled (China and Middle East) and he’s talking about defence contracts under review. I think maybe I should smoke them both.

“Ah was imprissed with the Im-Icks Fahv Sivin,” she hisses.

“Of course,” he says.

Why do foreign people seem to say “of course” a lot? Maybe they have lots of phrases that mean “of course” that they use in a variety of circumstances but when they speak English they have to make do with the one phrase. In French you have tout a fait and bien sur and exacte they all mean the same thing. Anyway, foreigners seem to say it a lot. They also say “fishes”. (giggle). Feeeesh-ez.

Turns out the Five Seven is a getting a lot of interest in China.

I wonder if the old man drinking orange juice at the bar is the Five Seven. He adjusts a button on his shirt.

I am early for a meeting drinking strong French coffee and eating very sweet pastries and I am wired. Not in the sense that Five Seven might be wired, but in that I expect to crash in about fourty five minutes unless I can keep up the sugar and caffeine intake throughout the morning.

“Zat seestem will be used for Terminal Five,” he says.

Oh bollocks, they could be in the aviation business. French. West London. Lots of international contracts. Makes more sense. My life’s hectic enough, I guess.

Unless Terminal Five is a plan to take out the five biggest cities in South-east Asia.

Five Seven sinks his orange juice and sends a text message.

Posts may be a little thin on the ground this week and next. I have never been so busy at work. I have been away co-chairing a meeting. Or co-mayoring a cheating.

Busy anyway, so I can’t promise the usual sweet brainhit on the crackpipe of words that I normally pedal. But I’ll still keep things running, you know? This is what I do.

Post a day? Check.

Weekend Song? Check.

Ivan Lendl? Czech.

You know, the standard thing to say when you leave a company is that it’s the people who make the place. I think that’s true, so when the person leaving is someone who made a company so much a part of what it is, then you’re left with less of a place.

This week sees friend, colleague, fellow blogger and regular This Is This contributor Wendy leaving our gainful employer this week and I’m gutted.

She’s moving, too. Sadly I couldn’t get the leaving card to everyone’s desk, so I’ll send her blog round instead. It’s A Life 

There you go. It’s going that way (points to Ed)

To say this is an upheaval is a huge understatement. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time something upped my heaval this much.

Anyway, wish her well on her site. It’s on Vox, and if you have to register then please do it. She’s a talented writer, funny as hell, and I know that your patronage to her site will not only be worth it, but it’ll mean a lot to her, even thought she’ll hate me for saying it.

And if you think it’s just me, watch the comments on her site over the next week. You think I’m dramatic?

Also, I’m talking about her like she’s not reading this, because I know she is, or at least will.

Grrrr.

How many social workers does it take to change a lightbulb?

Four.

One to change it, and three to write pamphlets entitled  “Lighten Up”, “No Lights And You” and “Coping With Darkness”.

Some

more

lightbulb

jokes

Weekend was good. Got to spend time with lots of friends despite the rain.

I had the following conversation during a takeaway meal, and bear in mind we were completely sober.

K: If you’re teleported, right?

Me: Sure.

K: The you that reappears is an exact copy of you, but it’s not actually you because you have ceased to exist.

E: No, it’s you. It’s your atoms and molecules taken apart and reassembled somewhere else. Who else would it be?

K: But it can’t be you because in that split second, you’ve ceased to exist.

Me: Can’t you just exist again?

K: No, because I’m not religious or anything. I think that if you cease to exist, then you can’t exist again. There’s no god. Once you’re gone, you’re gone.

E: Oh, but teleportation exists.

K: Hypothetically speaking.

Me: But if you’re being teleported, you’re saying you’re gone and then you’ve come back.

E: Or gone somewhere else.

Me: Whatever, you’ve still ceased to exist and then you exist again.

K: But that’s just it. You haven’t. It’s a copy of you.

Me: OK, so if I send you a file on a computer. If I email you a photo, that’s the same photo.

K: No, it’s a clone of that photo.

Me: Clone or not, it’s the same photo.

E: So if I take apart my car, bit by bit, and move all the parts and reassemble it somewhere else, then it’s still my car. It’s not a copy.

K: Yeah, but this is a person. A car doesn’t have a soul.

Me: But you don’t believe in a soul.

K: That’s irrelevant.

Me: No, it’s not. It’s the same as the car. We’re just parts, whatever your views. You’re teleporting atoms. Don’t go talking about souls.

K: I’m just saying I don’t think it’s you that reappears.

E: If I take the batteries out of my radio, it loses its memory, but only sometimes.

A friend posts:

Prince tickets
Saturday face value 5:09pm Friday, Aug 17
Uploaded via Facebook Mobile
mate has split with girlfriend let me know if interested

Cliff Jones (no network) wrote at 12:09am
I might be. Do you have any pictures?

— On the subject of being clever , I would like to do my own version of radio’s comedy panel show “I’m Sorry I Haven’t A Clue” and call it “How The Fuck Should I Know?”

And finally, for shits and grins, please look at this.

Let’s squeeze the last juice out of the summer while we can. Life’s too short not to and winter will come. I’m sorry you had to hear that from me, but there it is.

If you want to take a moment with that, that’s fine. I know.

It’s OK.

It’s OK

You all right?

Cool. Sure?

OK.

This weekend song - I don’t love this song, but I do know I will always like it. Devon rockers Reef giving it some, and doing the Stones better than the Stones’s Stones.

Guitar riffs, bongos, piano, blues ripping through the man’s voice and a steady walking bass. Totally keeping up with the Stoneses.

And the singer creates one of my favourite moments in singingdom when in the first verse he fills in after “through my soul” with “all right, yes”, which he barely gets out, but it’s fucking right there, soft, sudden and heavy like a stolen kiss.

Enough with the typing already - get your groove shoes on and if you don’t got ‘em then turn it up like the sun’s shining. Winter will come. Just not today.

By the way, if you’re a fan of the Weekend Song, you can look here for the archive and get effect of a whole big gay mixed tape thing.

Anyway (manly hrmmph). Rock.

Oh place your hands, on my hope,
Run your fingers through my soul,
And the way that I feel right now,
Oh lord it may go.

Listen: Reef - Place Your Hands

Hawaii has been spared the wrath of Hurricane Flossie

No, really.

What happened to real names?

What about Bessie, Camille, Aretha? These are names of gospel singers, lady truckers, probation officers. Women with whom you don’t fuck, or if you do it’s on their terms.

On the male side, you’ve got Raoul, Alexis, Luther, Hector or Benson. These are overtures for scary things. The names cast long, dark shadows in doorways. Noms de doom which could belong to international terrorists, which is kind of what hurricanes are.

What’s next, Tropical storm Tristram? Monsoon Percy? It’s a slippery slope to the Penelopes. I have written about hurricanes before, but this?

Flossie my arse.

Oh god no, Not like that.

Have a good weekend, you.

1001

I think.

But I’m really not sure if I did anything wrong.

Spoken word today because I have never been so busy at work and it was faster to just talk about something rather than type it all out. Hey, it still counts.

The subject today is a bit of a dilemma with me. I wonder if you would have done the same.

Anyway, I say “um” a lot when my thoughts run away with me faster than I can relay them, here’s a picture of Karl and here is today’s (audio) post.

Actually, I am a little proud. This is the 1,000th post on this blog.

Coincidence this morning in the shape of helicopters.

At the rainy bus stop, Bus Stop Jeff asked if I’d been anywhere on my summer holidays yet. I said I had, told him about the weather and asked if he’d been away.

He said he went to the Scilly Islands (Man, I love my spellchecker - how can it know Scilly? What are the odds anyone would type fucking Scilly) getting there by train.

I knew that you could by a train/helicopter combo ticket to get there because I’d seen the posters and was very much attracted to a portion of that action.

Turns out he took the boat, but next time Bus Stop Jeff goes, Bus Stop Jeff vows to take the helicopter. Bus Stop Jeff did not actually use those words, because he is neither mad nor trying to create a side character in his blog post.

We had both been away the same week just gone, not far from each other as it happened, with me in north Devon. I had made a side trip to Lundy Island one day, also travelling by boat, although they make the crossing by helicopter when the weather is rough.

To be honest, I was hoping for rough weather, so I could ride in a helicopter, but that didn’t happen. The weather was bad, but not enough to keep the boat in harbour, so it was a bad crossing, with people around me being sick and apologising in posh accents.

BLEUUUUUGH!!!!!! “I’m so sorry.”

HWUEEEGHHHH! “Would you mind awfully closing the -” BLEUUUUUGH!!!!

So it’s Boats 2, Helicopters 0.

The bus pulled up and I sat next to a man in pinstripes who was reading Bill Bryson’s African Diary and he said “morning” and I said it back, seeing his “”morning” and throwing in a “good” before it. With the stakes raised, and some bluffing talk about the weather for a minute, he ups the ante.

“I hope if doesn’t stay like this,” he said, “I’m taking a helicopter trip this weekend.”

“A helicopter?”

“Yes I won it at a charity auction last week. It leaves from Biggin Hill (my spell checker does not know Biggin - ha!) and arrives at the Waterside Inn.”

He says “Waterside Inn”, not Bray, because he assumes I will know the restaurant, which I do. He is also very posh, and he’s going to ride in a helicopter and probably learn new words like cyclic, torque and autorotation.

“Have you ever been in one before?” I scan for signs that he may have a chopper-riding lifestyle. Safari hats, dog tags and an M16. That kind of thing. No. If you cut him open, you’d see the pinstripes went right through.

“No,” he said. “I’m quite looking forward to it.”

So he’d never been in one. Coincidence again, but a good one. And a friendly exchange.

Another in a wave of my synchro-nice-ities.

Eh?

Please yourself.

You’re a vegetable. You’re a vegetable.
Saying “hey” you. You’re a vegetable.
You’re a number plate. You’re a vegetable.
Hey I’m talking to you. You’re a vegetable.
Ow.
 
Listen: It’s not just me, is it?

There’s a holiday company in the UK called Hoseasons. They are very popular with families looking for a cheap summer break.

I think they should have a new slogan saying: Spend Mo’ Seasons with Hoseasons

A thought, anyway.

My head, sometimes.

Also
The pain is thunder

Hello, yes, yes.

I am back from a lovely week off in Devon but it’s nice to be home. Although the location was beautiful, certain elements had me yearning for back here. These were:

A computer

Solitude

Homecooked food

My bathroom

The house I stayed in was clean enough but the shower was horrible. I would go so far as to say it was minging. Seriously.

It really mang.

It mung?

It mought.

But I did a lot of thinking and I vow - fucking vow - to watch less TV and read more. I know I say this every time I come back from holiday, but I honestly will.

Doing this means means I will write more and better of it. I even started a short story while I was away, and I haven’t written fiction in about fifteen years. This mean I will have to shelf my novel (Origins Of The Finger - A History Of The Bird) but it will be worth it.

I also learned I am not good at taking compliments, but I will write more about that tomorrow.

I know it was jazz last week, but that was an instrumental and wasn’t sung by the woman with the sexiest voice in the world.

Why the hell don’t people listen to Julie London? This song just makes me feel good and the band’s gentle expertise sounds live and great.

I don’t believe in frettin’ and grievin’;
Why mess around with strife?
I never was cut out to step and strut out.
Give me the simple life.

Listen: Julie London - Give Me The Simple Life

I am back from holiday very soon, OK? I’m really sorry.

Have a good weekend.

Weekend Song tomorrow, if you like.

Holding something that’s heavier than it looks.

It’s reassuring.

Answers to yesterday’s Transformers or New Wave 80’s Band quiz

New Wave 80’s Bands: Hardware, Icehouse, Kino, Metropolis, O-Phase, Re-Flex, Yazoo, Aneka, Camouflage

Transformers: Black Omen, Colossus, Dogfight, Mirage, Perceptor, Scattershot, Trap, Volt, Tempest

Seriously, The Whotles - There are four of you, You could totally do it.
Drums, bass, guitar, vocals.

I’ll make some calls.

Think you grew up in the 80’s? With Transformers making a comeback, let’s find out how much you know.  

Transformer or New Wave band:

Hardware
Mirage
Perceptor
O-Phase
Scattershot
Aneka
Camouflage
Icehouse
Kino
Metropolis
Volt
Tempest
Re-Flex
Yazoo
Black Omen
Colossus
Dogfight
Trap

Answers tomorrow

Here’s an idea for a band - The Whotles.

And yes, we’ve done this before. I was ahead of my time then.

Mmmm Hmmm.

There’s somthing about the summer that makes me want to listen to a penny whistle over blazing horns.

By the time you hear this, I’ll be sitting on a beach, and, if I’m doing it right, I’ll be feeling a little bit like this song sounds.

Loose Tubes was a jazz big band in the 1980’s, which would explain why they were obscure until they folded.

But to me, they were a musical enlightenment, so I’m happy to share one of their many musical style with you now.

The high hat at the start! The guitar riff! The breakdown! The bass trombone solo! The octave jumps in the sax break! Believe me, that’s hard to do.

God damn. It’s summer. It’s actually summer.

Listen: Loose Tubes - Sticklebacks

It’s firmly August, and I have that creeping dread that I get right before the beginning of the football season.

You may know I’m a big Everton fan, and for those of you who don’t know, my family have supported Everton since they were founded in the century before the last one. My grandfather was a young man when they won the cup in 1901, he fought in the First World War with other fans, in fact he enlisted at the office at 59 Everton Road on a match day in 1914. My uncle went to school in Gladwys Street. My dad took me to my first match and we walked out through the tunnel on his 70th birthday onto the pitch where he and his older brother ran around like little kids, none of us knowing it was the last time we would be together.

Don’t let the beer-swilling, cocky obsessive exterior fool you - deep underneath the surface lies a football fan.

The feeling at the beginning of the season, for me at least, is like the one I get before walking into a room full of strangers. It’s the exciting dread that says “yeah, it could be great, but there’s every chance I’ll do what I do and it’s all just going to go wrong. Remember Farnham?”

It’s a sinking realisation that the holiday may not be like the picture in the brochure.

So why am I trying to get tickets to see Everton play at Reading?

Oh, I could tell you that it’s because I want to take my seven year old son to a match in the summer. I might say because it’s a winnable game and I need the lift. I’d even ruse that I live in the Thames Valley and it’s a handy stadium to drive to, with lots of parking and a big area for away fans.

But it’s really because my dad took me to my first match (Against Portsmouth. We lost.) and I was hooked from there, become the fourth in a generation of Evertonians. So this is a big deal to us Joneses, even though Everton can be really fucking awful sometimes. They break my heart and then pleasantly surprise me. Why should I do it to him? Maybe it’s rite of passage. A Bar Shitzvah. Maybe it’s just in the blood.

I’m not one to stand much on ceremony, but this is a thing that makes me who I am, as any fan will tell you.

I’m losing my edge now and I need a break. A friend this week said I was all mouth and no trousers I disagreed straight away, saying that I was at least a quarter trousers, as my grandmother on my mother’s side was trousers.

While it’s obvious I am of mouth descent, I do have some trousers in me. I’ve said my piece.

But the point is I need a break. There will be posts but there will be no me, because I’m off.

Huh?

Come on, it’s not forever. I’ll be back.

Stop it, come on, you’ll get me going.

What?

Oh - um, me too. I mean “you too”.

I should probably go.

Have a great weekend. The song tomorrow will tell you summer’s here.

There’s a group of people I can’t much abide and they are so clever. These are the people who know a lot about stuff and love sharing their knowledge.

“Ah yes, ah, but mmm, ah,” I hear you say, “That’s you that is. That’s what you do.”

Well, yes, but also maybe no. If I can get around the thing that I don’t think I’m all that clever, and that I sometimes take part in conversations where way over a head that’s reminding me the fact, I can say that genuinely clever people can be a hoot.

Some people can pass off clever and be lovely, unassuming and engaging people. Humphrey Littleton, Stephen Fry, Graeme Garden, P J O’Rourke, Stewart Maconie and the great, great Nicholas Parsons.

But there are others who just know it and l can’t stand them. They turn up everywhere. Sandy Toksvig, Giles Coren, that bloke who had that show once and I think he wrote a book or at least he should and Mark fucking Kermode.

They are the Cleverati.

They use words like pastiche and protege. And they have soirees and actually say “nibbles”.

Mark Lawson was on Radio 4 the other day discussing the Simpsons movie. Now I’ve seen it and it’s a great film. A brilliant film, but brilliant in the sense of the word that you or I would use, not in the way that the Clevers would, chasing it down with words like postmodern or indictment.

He and his guests, also members of the Cleverati, followed it up with a review of a drama about nuclear physics and then a critique (see, even that word annoys me) of a play about German post-war politics.

If this brings evokes a shudder of recognition, then you should watch yourself. Nobody like a smart guy.

That’s quite profound, if you think about it.

Here’s the last in the series of Midweek Stories. I hope you’ve enjoyed them, and if I may pick it up in the future or at least do some kind of spoken word post things in the future if you think these audio points work.

I found this story a few days ago in the McSweeney’s anthology that the Mollusks story came from.

You can buy it here in the UK and here if you’re in the US.

I think I’m coming down with a cold, but (t)here you go.

Listen: The Double Zero by Rick Moody