This Is This

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Inspired by this very funny diagram sent round by reader Arlene. Here’s another corker. I’ve seen this kind of things before but I wanted to make my own one up. I may have a couple more up my sleeve.

I think eloquence is better in small doses. I once heard a description by a riverboat pilot on the Mississippi describe the mosquitos as being so big “they could stand with their feet flat and be high enough to kiss a turkey in the mouth”. If that’s not eloquence then I don’t know what is.

I like it when wisdom comes from unlikely places. On September 11, 2001 news reader stalwart Peter Jennings went on air for a seventeen hour broadcast. Jennings was one of the kings.

US news anchors are like quarterbacks – they have long careers of twenty-plus years and Jennings was there as the sole anchor of ABC’s World News Tonight from 1983 until he died of lung cancer in 2005 – two decades alongside competitors Dan Rather and Tom Brokaw. I grew up watching his reports and I’ve no doubt he influenced my decision about becoming a journalist.

When he died, Tom Brokaw said: “Peter, of the three of us, was our prince. He seemed so timeless. He had such élan and style.”

Élan and style…. I would have said panache, but there you go.

But on September 11, Peter Jennings said: “We do not very often make recommendations for people’s behavior from this chair but…if you’re a parent, you’ve got a kid in some other part of the country, call them up. Exchange observations.”

Exchange observations.

I can blam out posts here that I hope strike a chord and maybe every now and then I can produce the kind of writing that connects with you so personally that you can feel it in your shirt pocket, but “exchange observations“. Those two words, within that context, were perfect. Sometimes that all we can do, and often it’s all we need.

Remember this from yesterday? They wrote back.

Dear Mr Jones,

Thank you for taking the time to contact Domino’s Pizza with your comments.

E-pizza is referring to the method in which you order the pizza rather than being a type of pizza.

If I can be of further assistance then please do not hesitate to contact me.

Many Thanks

Flunky McToppings (not actual name, although this letter is real)

Customer Service Co-ordinator

Dominos Pizza has written back. Without expecting any reply, I set these letters up and they fall over one after the other, knocking the next one in a repetitive pattern like, ummm - no, it’s gone.

Anyway - see what they had to say.

Only in tomorrow’s This Is This.

This Is This News
Updates in minutes, every day

If you’re just joining us, you’re waking up to the sad news this morning that the pier at Weston-Super-Mare is on fire. These are live pictures you’re looking at and of course we’ll keep you updated throughout the morning while we read out entries from Wikipedia, google and the town’s tourist board.

Some flames there – burning combustible materials. Wood, paper, fabrics, everything in their fiery path. Some of them arguably as hot as those in the fire which tore through Windsor Castle not even a decade ago. We’re getting word some agency newswires that the local fire department are in attendance and will be doing everything they can to put out the fire, hampered of course by these flames.

With us in the studio is Peter Arnold, our pier correspondent. Pete… Just a terrible sight.

“Exactly.”

Just how vital is their pier to the local economy, if not the community?

“Well this pier has metal supports, and of course those will be left behind and will need replacing, but yes, as you say, yes – vital.”

Thanks Pete. Indeed nothing Super about this morning. Joining us now on the line is Piers Morgan…

To: concerns@dominos.co.uk

From: Cliff Jones, This Is This

Dear Sir/Madam,

I am a loyal customer of Dominos Pizza and have sampled many of your products over the years. I have your number programmed into my mobile phone and I am a decent tipper.

When I was putting out the recycling today I noticed that you have a new type of pizza which is available online. I often use your website but I have never seen this type of pizza you’re talking about.

I have looked on your menu but can find nothing called an e-pizza.

Is this some kind of online scam, having already obtained my credit card details?

Yours for only £12.99 with two sides,

Cliff Jones

Read the reply

My dad’s 250th post this weekend.

Timpani and acoustic guitar, right? I love it. I love it. It’s rich, handsome and it makes me laugh and I love it.

This is the kind of bittersweet alternative folk Americana stuff that I can’t resist. It has an unlikely eloquence, which I will talk about more next week if that’s OK, hopefully without getting too snobby and preachy. If I stick in enough funny and sweary then hopefull I can make a few observations without seeming too earnest. I worry about that and I probably shouldn’t.

I spend too much time seeking shelter

Listen - Windmills

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Related pages
Weekend Song archive

I asked you back here to ask questions and I’d answer them. I did.

Ed asks: Whatever happened to The Leemer? I miss him. Do you hear from Wendy ever? I miss her. What about Bon? Any word?
Why have you stopped production on ‘The Cliff Jones Video Blog’? I really enjoyed that format. I realize it’s a lot of work, though. Maybe some of your office buddies could pitch in a bit?

They all went separate ways and we lost touch. It’s pathetic and tragic. I should make more effort to stay in touch with people.

I haven’t consciously stopped the video posts, but I guess I haven’t done one in a while. I might do one soon. I’m not sure they were any good. I wouldn’t ask the people at work to help out. In fact I’d rather be circumcised at Anfield while boiling my own head.

Anna asks: Do you have a happy place? You know, a location you go to mentally when you are not happy and it makes you happier, or calmer? Is it a real place you have been? Where is it?

It’s a good one, and this really made me think, because I don’t actually have a happy, calm place. I stew and brood and pity my lot without seeing that it’s better than lots of lots.

I try to imagine things aren’t so bad, but I’m not all that convincing. If I had such a place, it would have a stream in it. Glades and brooks, I think. I need to be more grateful.

Mr Angry asks: What your choice of last meal would be if you were on death row?

Nice. Vegetarian, obviously, although if I were about to die I would request that I eat my executioner. As abhorrent as that sounds, I’d walk free with a full belly.

Honestly, probably Italian food, and some kind of pastry/vegetable combo. There’s a restaurant in Dolce Aqua up in the top laces of Italy that I go to every year and they do these artichoke tartlets that are amazing. I’d start with that.

I like light, savoury food. Pumpkin and ricotta ravioli with a walnut vinaigrette dressing would be nice, with a red Barolo. Or I’d order a nice Baretta and in the confusion, when the waiter brought it, I’d grab it really quick because of course a Baretta is a gun. I’d shoot the jailer and say something caustic like: “At least I didn’t eat you.”

Desert, dessert. Hmmmm – let, me, see. I don’t like really sweet things, so heavy chocolate wouldn’t be top of my list, even though I like the dark stuff. I like cheesecake, tarte tatin, key lime pie, crème brule, but if it’s the best of anything then I’d go for tiramisu. Most tiramisus I could take or leave, but when they are good they are amazing.

I like good coffee, so I’d have a really good strong expresso and florentines with dark chocolate, or amaretti biscuits which were born to go with coffee. Or biscotti. Whatever you’ve got. Keep them coming, I’m going nowhere and put it on my tab.

Then I’d have a Jack Daniel’s and ginger ale and wait for the time at hand, because I’d have been so busy enjoying my tiramisu that they would have found another executioner.

Little did I know the waiter was a hangman serving tables to make ends meet while we waited for his big break to come along.

Turned out good for him, though.

Anna asks: When do you answer the questions? (She asked, with undue and completely disproportionate pressure)

I am answering them now. You really have to pay attention.

Sam asks a few things: What’s your favourite joke?

I don’t really laugh much at jokes or tell them, it’s more situations and words that I like. Or stories. George Carlin was great at this. He said things like: “Have you ever experienced vuja de? Not déjà vu, vuja de. It’s the feeling … that none of this has happened before. Just for a moment … - and then it’s gone.”

But jokes? Here are a couple of ones I like.

A polar bear walks into a bar and says “I’ll have a pint of lager….

…

And a packet of crisps.”

Bartender says: “Why the big paws?”

or

A guy is driving past a farm and he runs over a chicken. He gets out and sees it’s a cockrel. He feels awful so he goes up to the farmhouse with the dead bird.

He knocks on the door and a woman opens it.

“I’m terribly sorry about this. I’d like to replace your cockrel.”

The woman says: “Please yourself, the hens are out the back.”

or

What’s worse than finding a worm in your apple?

Genocide.

How many pairs of shoes do you have?

OK. A pair of Converse all-stars, sturdy walking boots, wellies, walking shoes old, walking shoes new, a pair of brown shoes, one pair of black shoes, one pair of reef sandals and the brown ones I’m wearing – nine.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

Too late, although I am not a million miles away from what I wanted to be when I was a kid, because I was interested in writing, journalism and computers.

If you could have a pug and give it a name, what would it be?

That’s easy. Th – hang on.

Who’s your favourite Formula 1 driver?

I’m not a huge F1 fan, but I’ll say Lewis Hamilton, because the sport needs some fresh blood and this country needs a hero.

What was the last film you saw?

Wally.

What did you think of Maggie Gyllenhaal’s outfit at the Dark Knight premiere in London?

Holy lumbar! I didn’t like it. She has great eyes but she was way too thin. She looked like someone trying to smuggle a spine out in black drapes. What was her designer thinking? “A hint of sacrum… Voila, I am ze genius.”

Kathryn asks a few things: Do you hate peas like me?

No, but not all peas are like you. Tell me though, is it the texture? Because my cousin Dan hated the texture. Same with corn.

Are you scared of spiders? Don’t you think they are the teensiest (alright massively) bit evil?

No, I am not scared of them. I don’t like how they can move eight times their body size in a second, though.

How many times have you flown across the Atlantic?

I think by the time I was 10, it was something like 15 times. About 40, I’d guess. And that’s never been business. That’s just family and holidays.

Have you been to Australia?

No. I’d like to one day, although New Zealand appeals to me more. And Japan. If I were going that far I’d like to see Japan.

Where is your next holiday? (can you tell I work in travel…?)

New York City, baby. New York City.

Clair asks: What was the first job you ever wanted, and the first job you ever got?

First job I ever wanted was either a baseball player or saxophonist. First payslip job I got was in an off-licence, where I worked for about six months. I had had paid work before that, but nothing regular, including bands and chores. Technically my first job for a company was working on props for Under A Cherry Moon when Prince was making the film in Nice where I lived. True story.

Katy asks: When you listen to a particular track, do you ever imagine yourself playing one instrument and then suddenly realise that you’ve totally picked the wrong one? And is there any particular record that does this to you? Mine would be Freddie King’s “How Many More Years”, in which I generally start out imagining myself doing the guitar (obviously), but then suddenly realise half way through that the piano’s pretty good too.
Or this might just be me. Is this just me? I think this might just be me. Forget I asked. Favourite colour?

Yes. Yes I do. Although I don’t thing I’ve picked the wrong bit because I am probably more arrogant than you. Sometimes I’ll be on drums, but normally on the instrument that comes in and nails it. I’ll pick up on various bits for the riffs.

In Joan Armatrading’s Down to Zero, it’s the drums when the come in, then switch to the pedal steel for the end.

And when you miss the bit you were doing in your head, you rewind just to nail it again, don’t you? And go back and listen to the song again and be a different instrument for another go? It’s OK.

Blue.

g. Says: If you were a guitar, what guitar would you be? Oh, and what’s the ratio of readers to commenters on this blog? (This is my first. I’m sure I’m not alone.)

Wassup, g. Thanks for the comment and welcome. It’s a good question and I don’t really know. I can see the stats and tell how many visits I get and things like where they are from, but not if it’s a different person – what we in the business call “uniques”. As I can only see page impressions so I can’t tell how many readers there are. Are you assuming that every commenter also reads this blog?

Guitar-wise, I’d like to think I’d be an acoustic parlour guitar. Nothing fancy with pearl inlays of anything, but good workmanship, rosewood fretboard, ash or maple body and a perfect action. I wouldn’t be a Flying V in Candle Apple Red or anything like that.

Jonners asks: What first attracted you to the millionaire Paul Daniels, Cliff?

If he were on MTV cribs, he could open every door and effectively say: “And this is where the magic happens.”

Hello. Sam’s back, and he wants to know: What is your most often daydream? Mine is rally driving through the streets of Bangor. Have you got a long-held ambition that you would jack it all in to fulfil, or you’re waiting until the kids are off to university before you get cracking on?
Ooh, favourite biscuit?

I don’t daydream that much, I guess. I think a lot, but it’s conscious. Words in particular. Some people count things, some do puzzles, some imagine things, I have things with words – why they sound nice together, how they work, how it’s funny when they don’t. I dream about the usual stuff – love, money, sex, success, hopes, fears, what ifs, what ifn’ts.

Ooh, amaretti. Although if it’s brands straight out of the box then I’d say Pepperidge Farm Milanos. That’s probably because they are unattainable and I am bit of a snob like that. I also like a dark chocolate digestive with Earl Grey. I daydream about biscuits.

—

Well that’s it. It was fun answering those. Thanks for all the questions and let’s be careful out there.

Have a great weekend.

It’s summertime in London and all the big acts are coming to town. Chaka Khan played this week. I remember 1978 when she first proclaimed that she was every woman. (Which isn’t true, by the way. I’ve met loads of women and none of them were her. She’s not even every Chaka. Case in point Chakas Hislop, Zulu, Dimas and Pliers.)

But it’s like the time Paul Young said he was going to tear my playhouse down. “Room by room,” he threatened. Never happened. Although I later found out my parents would rent it out when I went off to boarding school.

Yesterday there was a builder standing in front of a poster in the street. One of his co-builders (colleagues? no.) called to him:

“Come on Harry. Don’t try standing there, mate. You know you can’t read.”

Harry walked away from the poster and back over to his friends. “I know,” he said acceptingly.

“Pretty colours, though, yeah?” said his mate.

Thanks for the questions in Jonesing For Content. I will answer them tomorrow, maybe not all but many. Keep them coming if you like.

I often misunderstand things. Really I’m a bad listener. Like I mishear a small detail and the whole message gets lost. Once I gave a presentation on getting a News midget into Facebook. Another time I reported a colleague to the authorities, only to find out he was downloading “PDF files.”

Totally my mistake.

OK, none of that actually happened, but can you imagine?

But yes, I could listen more, which is why I’d like to bring up the house lights, check my watch and have a sip of water and point and wave Hilary Clinton-style before turning the mic to you.

Ask questions – ask whatever you like. Leave them in the comments box and I’ll get answer them here. It really is that fucking simple.

It’s not even my idea. Anna does this every now and then except it’s called Questions And Annas, which is a better title, although it’s an excellent sitcom title, like if she lived with someone called Jimmy Questions. I don’t think she does, though, but she is funny and gets loads of questions when she does this kind of thing because she’s a much bigger internaut than me.

It may be egotistical of me, but then you read this site, so you might have an interest in the person behind the keyboard. Or in front of it, but above, like at an angle. Behind it in the production sense.

Now you say something.

There’s a bar in London called Na zdrowie. It means “cheers” in Polish. I wonder if it’s an eastern European version of the Cheers bar off the TV. I picture a guy called Normski propping up the corner of the bar sucking back vodkas.

Reader’s voice: “So it’s the Polish now, is it?”

Since we’re being snappy, I wanted to share two band names I thought up recently. One is a French ambient techno quartet called Four De Trance, and the other is a little bit cheeky, and that’s Fiesta Razzle And The Penthouse Playboys.

There was a pub a band from Melbourne called Glen Waverly And The Mentones. This is not only a great name, but it’s a marvellous in-joke because Glen Waverly and Mentone are suburbs of the city. I can’t think of other suburbs that would lend themselves as well to band names. West Drayton And The Southalls? Brentford, Ealing, Langley and Hounslow?

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Bands And Musicians Whose Names Sound Like Places In Star Wars
Trends In The Weighty Authority Of Band Names, 1960-Present

I started writing a story on Friday. I’m not good at writing stories and I should probably practice more.

Anyway, last week I came up with this:

He sat down in front of us, a controlled descent from a foot and a half, into the chair. He squinted at the control panel and pressed a button, then looked at the screen on the wall while nothing happened.

He lifted it and pointed it at the screen. He still thought that light beams or something came out of the box, not matter how many times we told him. He looked frail and ashamed, and old in the flickering light of the news graphics. Jana got up and helped him turned off the screen and he smiled at her proudly while she returned to her chair.

“At the time, your parents were only children. They weren’t much younger than you are now, before the fire, this must have been in 2015, things were different.”

I thought it was all right as a premise because it was set in the future, but harking back to time which was also set in the less distant future.

That’s writing, baby. That’s it. I’d been looking at the words when all along it was about the numbers.

Then at the weekend I saw Walle. It’s the Pixar movie about the robot, but I give no shits for their stupid spellings. Random capitals and hyphens in the middle of words can go to hell. It’s an Ipod. If I want to say Spiderman, Marvel comics can come and sue my arse for not putting a hyphen in it. The word, that is, not my arse. You fucking try the latter, and I’ll come over and deal with that. I’d put you in a semi-colon. Or a semi in your colon. What? What did I say?

No, fuck all o’y'all. And fuck Disney. Or Disn-E. Or diSn-E. Just. Fuck off.

Anyway, the film was smart and funny but a little preachy at times (Hello? Cue numerous allegations involving pots and kettles)

On Saturday, I was reading the kid’s book of the film and it starts like this:

If you had lived back in the 29th century, you would have lived off in space with all the other people from Earth.

This is one of the times when I should listen to the voice inside my head that says:

“Every idea you’ve ever had? Somebody’s had it already. Not only have they had it, but they’ve done it better than you. You’re not special. In fact, if you thought you were, you’re even less special, because thinking you are is what everybody already does. And they do that better than you, too.”

You know how I like to mix things up a little here. Five trombones here, a little South African jazz there. Well, how about some bluegrass double bass?

Hang on, hang on. Just try it. Just try it, and if you like it you can listen to as much Radiohead as you want. You like Radiohead, don’t you? Mmmmm, Radiohead.

Just try some. Try it.

Come on. There’ll be no RADIOhead.

You never know if you don’t give it a chance. Just a little bit of bluegrass double bass.

I don’t mind telling you this fired me up to tears this week in an ungodly stupor of emotion at the beautiful flaws of the human condition.

I was just out walking the dog, but otherwise alone, when I first heard this song this week, and there it was. I was actually proud that I was hearing it. Just honoured to be around, and it’s my privilege to share it.

The genius of this is how the three instruments – just three – banjo, guitar and double bass – Béla Fleck, Mike Marshall and Edgar Meyer - give each other so much time. It’s patient and brutal, triumphant and sad, yours and mine, a defiant affirmation.

To me, that’s what bluegrass it, because while it has such a definite style, and the more familiar it seems, the more noticeable the difference. It’s a case of plus c’est la meme chose, plus ca change.

You can hate the mornings, but you know you still love the sunrise.

So here’s a little bluegrass double bass for you.

Roll on, good buddy. And don’t you roll so slow.

Listen: Big Country

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Related pages
Weekend Song archive

On the train this week I had to endure the guy who gets on the train listens to music on his phone’s speaker. I have written about this before, saying I’d like to read my book out loud over his music, because I feel I’d like the share my diversion as well for his benefit.

But this latest time my annoyance hit a new level this morning, which involved the thinking of slicing off his bollocks with the emergency window hammer, gouging out his eyes and sticking a gonad in each of his bleeding sockets and screaming:

“Your hearing’s OK, though, isn’t? Because I’d hate to spoil your enjoyment of the music you want us all to hear, since you think it’s that good.”

Anyway, public transport. It allows me to write this. It gets me to work and puts food on the table. It’s a love-hate relationship, double-edged sword and a two-way thing, even literally. It’s a bunch of hyphens.

Don’t let anger get the better of you, and mind the gap. Not just that gap, but the gap between what we say and what we truly feel, and from what we do and what we really want. - That gap.

Have a great weekend.

I complete the Olympic 100m every morning. I cross the finish line, which is painted there on the pavement for prosterity.

In 1908 White City was the meeting place of highly trained individuals who were the best in the world at what they do. Now it’s a BBC office.

But back in 1908, Team GB won 146 medals, and more golds than any other type, too. I don’t think you’ll ever see that again, because the events at that Olympiad were mostly things that Brits are good at, like standing in queues, complaining to your friends but not the management, hating the French and progressive rock.

Not really – but they were skewed in our favour, with sports like rugby and rackets. The UK won gold, silver and bronze in that.

And Tug Of War. The tug of war gold medal was taken by City of London Police, silver by Liverpool Police and bronze by Metropolitan “K” Division Police.

I bet the Chinese commentators were going:

“The way I see it, Bob is that we don’t instill the same competitive values in our kids. We don’t nurture talent like they do in children in Britain. Go to any village fete in the UK and you see kids playing tug of war. They really want to be tug of warrists. You walk down the street in Peking and you’ve got kids doing gymnastics. While the British children are knocking back crisps and constructively using the weight to pull each other over, our lot are doing stretches and aerobics. We just don’t have those competitive sporting values. We need to look at sport from a grass roots level.”

“That’s right Dave.”

At the bottom of the table, there was Bohemia with just two bronze medals in fencing. Since I don’t get any blog traffic from Bohemia, I had to look up where it is. Or was, because it isn’t there anymore.

For all I know, that might have been its finest hour, and I’m sorry Bohemia didn’t get a gold. It would have been a proud moment for them, the athlete standing there on the podium, a tear in the eye, the flag waving, “I see a little sil-hou-ETTO of a man…” Beautiful.

I wrote about The Philippines in the post before, and wondered why it’s a “the”. It’s not a band or anything.

Other countries that get “the”s are The Sudan, The Gambia, The Lebanon and The Ivory Coast.

The Sudan. You’re a long way from home.
John Cusack. Mini Driver. Matt Damon. And Morgan Freeman.

He gets a lot of “And”s, Freeman. It’s movie talk for “he’s only in it for five or six minutes and he’s playing God again”.

I don’t see why countries need the article. Nouns. OK, those are fine. The UK, The United States. Same with regions: the highlands, the Balkans. Fair enough. But if you’re a country, you should just be “Country.”

Maybe it’s a class thing. Posh people say “The” more for countries.

“We went to The Vietnam and then travelled by junk to The China up the Yangtze.”

See this?

How’d you like that up the Yangtze?

Yeah?

Posh twat.

Your average straight-talking Yorkshireman wouldn’t have owt of it. He’d play down the whole thing.

“EEEEEEE, we’re off to T’Soloman Islands by way of T’United States and T’Emerates, then stopping off at t’in-laws in T’Virgin Islands t’see T’Pau.”

Monday night Len played the race card again with this comment, so I’m throwing back a class stereotype here by suggesting that everyone from Yorkshire is working class.

But it’s cool, though, because the fictional character was also Chinese. Oy to the vey.

Me and Len grew up together in Pennsylvania, as much as we grew. Here’s a picture of us near his house in the 1970’s, and us near my house a few weeks ago. (Click pics for bigger versions)

Dude. We’re old.

I’ve never understood this one.

If something were too tight, why wouldn’t you mention it?

“It’s OK, really. Maybe It’ll loosen up after a bit. Please don’t make a fuss.”

No. You’d say something.

Anyway, like I said last week, I’ve been checking my stats. It turns out I have been getting more stats than I thought because I was only checking the front page, so if anyone clicked a link to an individual post, like something from the archive or from a feed update, then it wouldn’t register.

Not that it matters, it’s just that I can now make tons of money now. I’m still going to write the same stuff, only I’m going to build my next post out of Ferraris.

I got a page view from Legazpi yesterday. That shit’s in the Philippines, dawg. After my mind ran through some Dizzy Gillespie headlines (involving also Monica Lewinski, Greg Rusedski and a jet-ski), I looked it up on a map and there it was – Legazpi.

Turn right at Manila. Hit Guam and you’ve gone too far.

Do you ever wonder what a band with five trombones would sound like?

You are now, though, right?

The musical elephant in the room this week is just such a band.

Forged in the fires of Harry Connick Jr’s backing band, this New Orleans group took a huge leap of faith when they started their own band, not only finding heaven, but taking us all with them, if only for a moment.

“Hi, I’m calling about the add for the band. I’m a guitarist… Mostly funk, a bit of soul, some motown… You need a drummer? … You’re ok for drummers, OK. What about a bass player? … You ‘have a sousaphone’. Really? …. No, I know, like in the marching bands. Speaking of horns, I know this trombone player. …. Oh you already have one of those, then. …. Say again? … Sorry, this might be a bad line, because it sounded like you said you had FIVE trombone players. …. Oh I see. In a seven piece band? … Right. So effectively I’d be half of the rhythm section, with this drummer, for five trombones and a sousaphone.”

It shouldn’t work. It shouldn’t but it does.

I put this song here because I care. I care and I mean it, even at the risk of some of the searches I’m going to get with “Bonerama”, because it’s worth it and we are only as good as what we love.  

So join me and stick your fingers in an AC socket of trombones just because I dare you and can not get over this recording of an old Meters tune, recorded at Tipitina’s in New Orleans.

Listen: Cabbage Alley

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Related pages
Weekend Song archive

I was only looking an new templates, and now this happens. I’m all thumbs, and two left ones at that.

And my designer’s in Switzerland.

That’s true, by the way, and it almost seems worth it for that line alone.

No it’s not worth it.

I am bad with technology. I’ll never be one of those early adopter types.

It’s a bona-fide crisis. Jokes, then.

Joke 1 ready. Fire.

I’m not an early adopter. I might consider fostering and then never get around to it. Maybe I’ll sponsor an Ipod in Cambodia.

Joke 2 ready. Fire.

If I tried to be an early adopter, all my gadgets would probably be taken into care.

Joke 3 ready. Fire.

I had a Psion in 1997, but I said some things, we drifted apart, and technical services won’t tell me where it is.

Stand by.

All three jokes successfully deployed. Three hits confirmed.

Have a good weekend.

Update: Panic over. I am still an idiot, mind you.

Hey sports fans. I went to the doctor’s the other d– actually, can I call you sports fans? That was just for the blokes. I hope no one minds. Not that women can’t be sports fans, of course. I might need to work on that. For the ladies I’m trying out “scrumpsh”.

You know, like scrumptious? I just made that up, and I think it’s kind of sweet, like not the kind of thing you’d expect me so say, seeing as I’m not known for my vulnerable optimism. Sports fans. Scrumpsh. I bet those are things Jangly Ramirez would say.

I went to the doctor’s the other day. I’m not a fan of the doctor’s. Doctors’, techically, although I only saw one, and my experience is better than my grammar. I went to the University Of Life, me. Well, actually it was the Polytechnic Of Life, but it’s all the same now anyway. Life City University. So what?

The doctor’s, anyway. It always seems so clinical and matter of fact and cold there. Then there are the questions: “Do you like spicy food?” “Do you smoke?” “Are you sexually active?” But, you know, that’s just my way of breaking the ice.

I have mild to chronic-at-times asthma and the doctor was talking about medicine and said I have a risk of getting emphysema by the age of fifty if I didn’t seriously do something about it now. I’ve was on steriods a few weeks ago just to get my lungs working to what I’d call overtime and you might call “breathing”. Proper steriods, like anabolic, so there goes my Olympic career. 

But it’s a little concerning, because fifty is nothing really. I used to think it was, but now I’m closer to fifty than my dad is, so it seems like nothing. So I’m cutting down on things that I know that are bad for me and pasting in (it’s a technical term) things which are good.

You can’t really predict lifestyle things, but that’s no excuse for doing the wrong stuff. People who smoke and say: “You could get hit by a bus tomorrow”, make me kind of wish that they would, well, get hit by a bus tomorrow, after fucking off that is. Just because you can’t predict the future or control your own destiny - that’s no excuse for not doing the right thing when you can. You do your best and steer into the skid. Jean Cocteau said: “Life is a horizontal fall” and there’s a lot to be said for that.

Then again he died of a heart attack hours after hearing the death of his friend Edith Piath.

HAHA – I normally write things on the train and sometimes ideas that I need to look up later when I can get online, so when I come to the final draft, I often have notes for myself in the drafts which I need to look up before the post goes live. Well, just now I missed my own notes and nearly published the line:

Then again he died of RESEARCH.

Heh. That’ll kill you, all right. You want to remain as sketchy as possible, my friend. I knew one bloke who checked his sources and nearly lost an eye. Careful of that research. Incidentally, this was also the working title of this post and I was drinking a marguerita while writing a doctor joke and that’s how my head works. No coconuts were involved in the writing of this post on a wet Wednesday evening.

The epitaph on his gravestone though is beautiful, and as much as any artist can wish for. It says simply: “I stay among you.”

Take care, sports fans. Later, scrumpsh.

The other day on the tube I wondered what was song number 666 on my Itunes library. “Man,” I thought, “that would be the most evil song I own. It must be, because I just thought of it for no reason, so I bet it’s there right now. I have added tracks and taken tracks away, but I’d never thought of doing this until just now, so it’s got that random-but-meant-to-be factor, which invokes unfathomable things.”

So I scrolled to song number 666 and there it was.

Cool Yule by Bette Midler. Of all the things unholy. That’s dark, man. That’s very dark.

I should point out that this comes from one of my Christmas albums, not one of my Better Midler albums. I don’t have any of her albums. The fact that she appears on some compilations I have is neither here nor there. Let’s be absolutely clear.

Quick updates and glimpses into people’s lives are what makes the internet so great. It’s what others more eloquent than me have called “ambient intimacy” and I’d muster “insights in sites”.

I like the way the internet lets us say something about ouselves and share our experiences, however personal. There’s a balance, as always. “Twitter on the shitter”, for example – waaaaaaaay too much information.

Anyway – what’s your evil music? I am tagging Anna, Meg, Sam and Jonners.

I am hoping you all have Itunes or somesuch electronical musical filing system. If you don’t, just go to your music collection and file all your albums alphabetically by artist, then count the songs on each album until you get to song number six hundred and sixty six. That’s the one you want right there. Then just post that on your blog and - alacazam Mugabe’s a sham – you have The Devil’s Music.

You can’t be racist. Fair enough. You can’t joke about racism. OK, I’ll go with that. But apparently you can’t even joke about joking about racism.

I was looking at my stats over the weekend, and to my horror, this post came up as number four in google if you searched for “racism blogs”.

That’s number four in the world. I don’t want to be associated with dodgy crap.

Other articles bound to get loads of hits here are the words (and I have to include spelling mistakes here so as not to attract searches) w1fe and p1ctures.

But the good news is that I had been counting stats all wrong, and I am getting twice the traffic I though I had, which could be why I say something and it gets all twisted in the google rankings.

I know it’s vulgar to talk about how big the audience is, but it’s good to know. It’s not that much anyway. The World Service isn’t shitting itself just yet.

Raising the brow only slightly, the best search I got this week was for jangly ramirez.

Jangly Ramirez. I have this image of a Rickenbacker mariachi playing hippy music in a Mexican style. Senor Tamborine Hombre. Tequila Mockingbird. If I were at a festival, I’d definitely head on to one of the smaller stages to check me out some Jangly Ramirez.

Great, now I’m going to get hits for Rickenbacker Mariachi.

I should also probably lay off the Mexicans.

What a men’s final. I’m not the world’s biggest tennis fan, but that was incredible. Seeing Nadal beating Federer was like watching an angler land a very large fish. He kept reeling him and before finally pulling him into the net. Yeah, that kind of works. Maybe the Federer era is now over.

I almost want more Wimbledon, but then I know matches like that don’t grow on trees. I am a sport fan, though. I’ll watch a few things and it’s a nice way to pass the time. It’s a shame that England we’re in Euro 2008, but it would have been a differed blend of shame if we had been.

The other big sporting event to take us up to the Olympics is the Tour De France. Cycling is something of a religion in France, whereas to most of us religion is something like cycling. By that I mean it’s easier than running, it probably does you some good and it’s appealing when you’re going downhill.

Yes, over the weekend we saw people dressed in white battling it out in a traditional competition while their female counterparts agued that they should have equal status.

I’m talking or course of the Church Of England’s annual meeting, the General Synod. I’m not sure what a Synod actually is. When it’s written down it looks like it stands for something. You know, like Nato or Noraid or Opec. Synod.

Saintly Youth, Not Of Devils

Satan – You’re No One’s Deity

Sunday! You’re Never Over Dressed

But no, it’s kind of a governing body for the church where they discuss burning issues, like which kindling to use on heretics.

No, only joking. I mean church matters. Wine vs actual blood, do bagels send out the wrong message or should we stick to scones, can we really trust women – that kind of thing.

Here’s one. When it comes to the Weekend Songs, I dig deep. I sweat and agonise. I scan the airwaves and I plunder the archives. Actually, plundering is putting it mildly. I’m up for war crimes for what I do to the archives.

But it’s all for a good cause. Saul Bellow said “A man is only as good as what he loves”, and by that token, I must be all right, because this is fucking awesome.

We’re going right back to the 1930s with this recording by The Delta Boys. Chuck in some weapons-grade kazoo, dark lyrics, a Django Rheinhart guitar bed, make it all sound happy and hey presto penne with pesto - it’s summer time. And that’s a fact. That comes straight from the Institute of Advanced Musical Thinkification.

The singer’s great in this. It’s like he almost outlouisprimas Louis Prima. But not quite. He wants to walk like him, talk like him, ooo-ooo-ooo though.

Actually, this recording predates Louis Prima, but I had to get that line in.

God, imagine if Louis Prima had a kazoo player.

I’ll be there in the morning if I live.
I’ll be there in the morning but don’t get killed.
If I never no more see you again,
be sure to remember me.

Listen: Black Gal Blues 

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Related pages
Weekend Song archive

The pictures in this blog are thumbnails. While you are invited to click them for larger versions, and explore more pictures at your leisure, please keep your hands and feet inside the blog at all times.

Hey, it’s good to be here. Thanks for having me back.

The last couple of days I have been entrenched in Bush House, a beautiful old building which looks like this:

… although it might as well have been called (snork) Bushed House, because I have been feeling tired, and the early starts in Central London means I had to set off before I normally would than if I were leaving for the Big British Castle in Wood Lane.

Bush House is the home of the World Service and it’s hard to talk about the place without using words like bastion and corridors. Groups of busy people click past on stone floors that feel two feet thick, staff who speak Arabic in serious metre. Posters remind you that hundreds of millions of people are the audience right now.

Anachronistic features are built into the architecture, like ashtrays that pop out of the walls, like the flip-out ones cars used to have in the doorwells. Post shutes with legal disclaimers run parallel to the main stairways, reminding us why mail rooms were always on the ground floor, and why it is bad luck to send a letter from a basement.

I’ve been getting home later, which means less time for anything. Night before last, I got home, ate some leftovers I couldn’t be bothered to heat and watched Top Gear with my son. I tried to resist telling him I saw Richard Hammond the day before (he works in my building), but I lasted only a few moments.

After I put the kids to bed I watched a documentary about the battle of the Somme, then made a marguerita, a proper one though, none of this mix stuff. I mean a double shot of tequila, a shot of cointreau, a shot of lime juice, crushed ice and that’s it. I enjoyed it with a bag of nuts, an antihistamine and the second half of Pushing Tin. I slept like a baby who had just washed down a Zirtec with a proper marguerita.

I should add that the Zirtec was medicinal and I would have had it with or without the booze. I’m not going down a slippery slope or anything – I’m not that good a writer yet. Although I should make up a name for it. A puritonic. A dry bogey. I could crush the antihistamine and top the frosted glass with it. Or just do slammers with a Beconaze hit chaser. I’m on to something here.

Writers, though - we’ve got the weekend song tomorrow with the latest volley in the fusilade of tunes I routinely fire off to scare of the crows, and I’ll close with Mark Twain, who called music: “that magician of magicians; who lifts his wand and says his mysterious word and all things pass away and the phantoms of your mind walk before you clothed in flesh.”

Have a great weekend.

I didn’t know. Did you?

I was doing some research for music for my Mexican party tomorrow when I found this. Proper post tomorrow or as we say in the news business: More follows later.

Drawn as I am to writing in general and blogging in particular, I can’t resist sounding off when something catches my ear, even if I said it myself. Actually, especially if I said it myself, let’s face it.

So this morning I was out walking the dog.

The conversations when walking dogs generally follow the same pattern, at least they do if you have a my dog. For the sake of brevity, not that I’ve given much providence to the notion, and to preserve the anonymity of strangers (ditto) I’ll just relay my half of the conversation:

1. “He’s a pug.”

2. “Nearly five months now.”

3. “Not much bigger. This is pretty much it.”

4. “A boy.”

5. “(Dog’s name)”

6. “Yeah, really friendly. To the point of foolhardy.” (I say this as he tries to mount a pitbull or similar – every dog is bigger than him.)

7. “You too. Bye.”

Sometimes we get to eight steps, but normally it’s six or seven.

I’ll ask a few things about their dog, but that’s fairly it, because normally when I do, I put my foot in it. Not literally, that would just be a faux pas, literalement. That’s French. Oh yeah.

Also, I’m not much of a talker, so I try and make the effort, but then the person I’m speaking to is aware that someone is really making an effort to talk to them, and I pick up on that.

This morning I thought I’d try a bit harder and I jumped right in after step one. Step one, mind you! On reflection I think that might have been a little early, but I was already in so I had to paddle.

“And what’s yours?” I chirped, not ordinarily being one for chirping. ”He’s a what? A terrier? Or a collie? Or a sheep dog.” Already I feel stupid because I wonder if a collie and a sheepdog are actually the same thing, or if there’s even a breed called a sheep dog. I don’t know much about dogs, really. No, honest.

“He’s a mix,” she says.

So there’s me, with my purebred sixth-generation specimen of a beast while he tries to mount what I this mutt. A mongrel. A rescue dog. Not that I give a shit, but what if I’ve offended her? What if I’ve done the pooch equivalent of pulling up to the lights in my Aston Martin to roll down the window and politely ask about the Allegro next to me.

“A bit of everything,” she volunteers.

I have to say something.

“And he’s – it’s a he isn’t it?” She nods. ”–he’s great. Great features. He’s got a bit of everything going on there. Look at that. Lovely.”

Bang. And we’re straight back into step two. I’d stretch the game penalties every time if I could rely on saves like that.