Freshly Chopped Basil

Full Metal Jacket Diary Audiobook – a review

2019-04-19T17:45:00.000-07:00

I spend a lot of time up in the air these days and, as a result, I’ve usually got an audiobook on the go. Alan Partridge’s I, Partridge and Nomad are as exceptional as one would expect. Bruce Robinson’s exhaustive They All Love Jack may well be the definitive investigation of the Jack The Ripper murders and is an absolutely essential listen.

The one audiobook I keep going back to, however, is Full Metal Jacket Diary which is Matthew Modine’s recounting of his time on the titular film directed by Stanley Kubrick. I’ve got a thing for Mr. Kubrick. Firstly his films are meticulously constructed and transcend the film genre. They are works of art.

Secondly, the manner in which Kubrick constructs his movies and his dedication to perfection are the stuff of legend. I recognise some of these blinkered qualities in myself when it comes to music, which is probably why my band now just consists of my brother and me.

A few weeks ago it was Matthew Modine’s birthday. I sent him my best wishes via Twitter and advised that I found his audiobook riveting. He responded by expressing thanks and suggested I write a review. So here goes…

I bought a physical copy of the limited edition, very metal Full Metal Jacket Diary back when it was first released in 2005 (mine is number 09492 of the 20,000 released). As a coffee table book it’s stunning and I often find myself dipping into it. The behind the scenes photos are spectacular as is the glimpse at the celebrated wizard behind the green velvet curtain and the creative process that resulted in “the best war film ever made”.

The difference with the audiobook is that, shorn of the photos it very much becomes a story. A human story. One of warmth and affection for a man we will truly never know, Stanley Kubrick. What surprises you is how collaborative Kubrick was as a filmmaker, regularly asking Mr. Modine and the rest of the cast how the film should end and taking on Modine’s suggestion that there should be a ‘sex’ scene.

The audiobook is so engaging that I recently listened to it three times on the bounce, and then watched Full Metal Jacket twice followed by Paths of Glory and Barry Lyndon. Modine’s friendly narration and the smatterings of a shockingly awful, but strangely endearing, Cock-er-ney accent (imagine a less OTT Dick Van Dyke) make it feel as if he’s leading you by the hand on a journey which unexpectedly becomes an adventure, an at times arduous, soul-sapping adventure.

If you’re a fan of Kubrick, or even vaguely interested in filmmaking, then this is an essential listen. It charts and delineates Modine’s experience from first hearing about the movie via an awkward conversation with a competitive Val Kilmer to wrapping the film nearly 2 years later. We learn how Kubrick wants him to play the role of Private Joker and the pressures the shoot puts on his friendship with Vincent D’Onofrio.

There are anecdotes aplenty (such as Modine telling jokes about Stanley Kubrick. To Kubrick himself. and having to beg him to be at his wife’s bedside when she’s giving birth) and personal reflections that reveal much about Modine the man and the actor. And Stanley Kubrick.

Because this film consumed his life for an extended period of time we are also party to Modine’s ruminations on love, war, fatherhood and life itself. He was in his early twenties when he was cast so we get a snapshot of a young man placed in extraordinary circumstances. I love that there’s no hindsight employed, no rearview mirror context to wrap things up in a pretty pink bow. Just what it meant to him at the time. Perfect.

In fact it’s so good I’m going to put it on and listen to it again. Again.

Thank you, Mr. Modine.

Trials of an Xtraordinary Gentleman

2019-04-19T15:36:00.000-07:00

We played a show a couple of weeks ago at the Saddle Inn, Chester. I intimated to the assembled personages that this was the highlight of my year so far, and I meant it. Just a few hours earlier I was nervously pacing the Priority Lounge of Philadelphia Airport waiting for my delayed flight back to the UK to be rescheduled, worried that I would make it back in time. The fatigue and the jet lag kicked in by about the second song: adrenaline kept me upright. Needless to say my body clock and I are no longer on speaking terms.

There was, however, no way I was going to miss this performance. My New Year's Resolution for 2019 was to dedicate a little more of my time to something I enjoy outside work. I'm lucky enough to have a dream job, but I'm aware that my utter dedication to a professional perfection has resulted in my music being neglected.

The first goal I set for 2019 was to shoot a music video. I'd been chatting about this for a couple of years with two good friends; Julian Croot and Andrew 'Kid Justice' Farnsworth, but we could never agree on a date, a location, or a storyline. Eventually, I suggested G, Julian and I scout locations around Manchester one Saturday in the middle of January. We started at China Lane walking and talking through possible shots, camera angles and movements before sliding over to an alley just off Stevenson Square and then making our way to Jersey Street and Beehive Mill.

G-Influence and I used to rehearse here, lugging gear through the masses queueing for the club mecca that was Sankey's Soap, but the environs has changed so much I barely recognise it. Sparkling new structures erupting along its length. The shadowy, foreboding, and mainly derelict, industrial buildings have been torn down and replaced by utilitarian, residential spaces. A lot of the street's character, or rather a lot of what I remember, has been excised and there really isn't anything that would serve our purpose as an interesting backdrop for a music video. It's all a tad bland. Trudging disappointedly away from the Mill I remember that there is a bridge over the grey, murky ribbon that is Rochdale Canal.

Inspecting the cobbled walkway around the bridge we discover an underpass. It's perfect. Green moss clinging to its old worn tiles. Strip lights buzzing like woozy wasps. Julian immediately selects a camera and suggests we walk towards him and then away from him. With attitude. These initial shots look great. The confines of the location offer a natural frame. It doesn't take me long to retrieve the MacBook from my briefcase and before you know it G and I are lip synching and pulling rock star shapes, pausing to let startled dogwalkers and pedestrians pass.

The captured footage looks stunning and we repair to China Lane to gather more. A short three or four hours after meeting, and content with our efforts, we repair to a McDonalds and call it a day. Over carcinogenic fast food and coffee we determine to congregate again the following week - when Andy should be available - to gather some more footage. Julian wants us to start really early so we can make use of the natural light as the sun rises. I don't say it out loud, but from now on I call him Julian Cimino*.

The following Saturday it's 6:30am and I'm stuck in traffic entering Manchester. I'm happy to defer to the experts, but really? Did we have to do this at this time? The plan for today is to use the top level of a city centre car park: capturing G and I as we perform. I'm the first to arrive, then Julian, who asks me to pose and look awesome so he can grab some footage before the others arrive. The car park floodlights are still on and it's pretty dark and I'm not sure where the value is in this action, but hey, he's the boss.

G-Influence arrives and tells me he isn't feeling great and he's swiftly followed by Andy who insists we call him "Kubrick". Fair enough...

The cold, watery sun is ensnared by an overcast mid-January sky. The familiar dark grey blanket cloaks the city. We start with some shots of The Gents sitting by a table, me reading Alan Moore's The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen Absolute Edition (natch) and G just chilling like the legend he is. We then switch to the middle section of the song and jump around as we sing the "Lalalala's". Mid "Lalalala…" a security guard appears and asks us politely to move on. As he walks away, he pauses, turns and says, "Just finish the take you're on." We do so plus another couple for good luck and we move back to China Lane where the filmmakers undertake some exceptional focus pulling and execute the Michael Bay 360 degree shot whilst attempting to avoid the street detritus.

Soon we're making our way home and I'm more than happy to leave the editing in the hands of the expert, i.e. Julian Cimino. The initial passes are quite fantastic. I'm happy to have been proved completely and utterly wrong on the use of natural light. The early morning footage looks absolutely incredible. The slight blue of the light at dawn looks completely different and adds a dreamlike quality to the opening sequence as the band logo breaks apart. That was an unbelievably good call. Spot on, Julian!

I have to say I'm really proud of the song and the video. They compliment each perfectly which seems quite a simple concept, but is actually quite hard to achieve. Of all the music videos in which I've participated this is the best. Without question. By far. Working with Julian Cimino and Andrew Kubrick was an absolute thrill. A true pleasure. And you can see the fun we had in each frame of the completed work. We're already talking about what the second video might look like. Hopefully it won't take another two years for it to come to fruition.

With especial thanks to Julian 'Cimino' Croot of PicturedMedia, Andrew 'Kubrick' Farnsworth, and the marvellous Ed, Monica and team for making the Chester show so enjoyable.

The Xtraordinary Gentlemen single Cooler Than An 8-Ball In The Corner Pocket is available now, wherever you usually acquire your music.

See the video here

Behind the scenes and post shoot analysis here

Interview with the chaps here

The gig was a HUGE success by the way. Catch you at the next one?

*In honour of Michael Cimino, Director of one of my fave films, Heaven's Gate. Legend has it that he would keep everyone on set waiting for the light to change and the right cloud formation. I admire his relentless commitment to perfection.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

2016-09-18T11:32:00.007-07:00

There were two reviews of this film - Wendy Ibe at The Observer and Martyn Conterio at Cine-Vue - which resolutely and violently played the man and not the ball in a manner which called to mind an unreconstructed Joey Barton. Even Dr. Kermode put the boot in. The reviewers' ire was aimed squarely at George Galloway rather than its subject: Tony Blair and the iridescent conflagration he has unleashed.

Ms. Ibe stated that watching this film had the effect of, "making you want to side with Blair and the long list of despots who – apparently – now list him on their payroll." Mr. Conterio described Galloway as, "A bitter Labour Party reject," who intones solemnly, "as if he's recounting a horror story around a campfire." Neither of these surprisingly vitriolic reviews gave any clue as to the content of the movie itself - indeed Ms. Ibe's review ran to a single paragraph. These and many other reviews amounted to nothing more than mere character assassination. I had contributed to the crowdfunding of the film via Kickstarter so I wanted to know if it was any good. Plus I'm a bit of a Galloway fan and have been since I heard him give the US Senate Committee a kicking in May of 2005.

On a bright Sunday evening last month I hopped onto the M62 and made my way to the Picturehouse at FACT in Liverpool. It's a lovely building with a cool interior and it costs £6.50 for a bag of nuts and a can of Red Bull. As I'm contacting my bank for an overdraft extension I spot Mr. Galloway and his family chilling in a booth near the bar area. George is rocking a high level of Dappertivity - black jacket, black waistcoat and trademarked black Trilby - scrolling through his 'phone while his wife, Gayatri, is occupied with a young son who is also wearing a fetching black jacket, black waistcoat and black trilby ensemble.

I walked expectantly into the packed auditorium and took my seat, smack bang in the middle of row 3. George gave a brief introduction and we were off. Despite the obvious low budget (we're treated to stilted musical facsimiles of ABBA's Money, Money, Money; Madness' Our House; and Dead Or Alive's You Spin Me Round (Like A Record) rather than the originals, and I noticed some stock footage that I myself used in Damaged Gods' Junky For The Bloodshed music video) it is a forensic evisceration of Tony Blair and his ridiculously shady career.

George Galloway's enmity towards his subject is barely veiled. It is clear that he has come to bury Tony Blair, not to praise him and the astute contributors (Will Self, Stephen Fry, Peter Oborne, Seumas Milne, David Davis, Clare Short, Ken Livingstone and Noam Chomsky) are more than happy to grab the shovel and eagerly heap on the dirt. Spoiler alert: you won't find any balance in this documentary. There isn't a single person who speaks up on his behalf, although Lauren Booth acknowledge Our Tone's charm and tells George even he would be seduced. George ponders this for the very briefest of moments, "Perhaps..." before concluding, "But then I'd have to arrest him."

The film analyses Tony’s political career, his spell as Prime Minister, the decision to hook up with George Dubya in invading Iraq, his subsequent role as the Middle-East peace envoy and the creation of Tony Blair Inc. to handle his public appearances and consultancy fees for advising despots and dictators on the softening of their public image. The reputational damage to the role of politician is irrevocable. We don't trust them any longer precisely because of the lies of Tony Blair and his attack dog, Alistair Campbell.

In the twin shadows of the Chilcot Report (Hey! Whatever happened to that?) and the Labour Leadership race the film is chillingly apposite. It's a powerful work which leaves you both sad and angry: sad at the needless waste of life and angry that the sham of "Western Democracy" means that 2 million people marching through the streets of London in opposition to an illegal war makes absolutely no difference to those who make our decisions for us.

Blair has created a worrying blueprint for future prime ministers: hand out favours to vested interests when in office to quangos, foreign governments, dictators, arms dealers, etc., and then when you retire, they pay you lucrative sums for speeches and consultancy work.

After the film I waited to see my name in a tiny font with 4,999 other Kickstarters as part of the credits. The screen faded to black and George asked us all to imagine for a moment a million names for those Iraqis who died at our behest. I felt my stomach lurch. Big George took a stack of questions from the audience until we were asked to vacate the theatre for the evening showing of Star Trek Beyond. I posed for a selfie with The Cat In The Hat and then made my way home. Still numb from what I'd seen.

If Mr. Conterio doesn't understand that over a million dead (there was a deliberate strategy NOT to count the dead as a means to sustain popular support for continued action in Iraq), the Middle-East region in flames and the world's security destabilised is a horror story then I would suggest he is a tad too removed from reality and I feel genuinely sorry for him.

It's easily the best film I've seen this year and it's nauseating to watch the Blair fans reviewing this documentary as they exercise their gag reflex on the rigidity of Tony's three election wins whilst completely ignoring the toxicity of his legacy. Outside of the middle-class luvvie bubble Tony is so despised that he had to cancel a tour to promote his memoirs after he was pelted with eggs and shoes at his first public signing in Dublin.

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power. Jeremy Corbyn's success is a direct reaction to this.

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

2016-09-18T11:32:00.005-07:00

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

2016-09-18T11:32:00.004-07:00

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power.

This documentary has topped both the iTunes and Amazon charts and has just received its Irish Premier. I'm aware that George Galloway's politics aren't for everyone, but, as Withnail says, even a stopped clock is right twice a day. It may well be frustrating to some, or indeed most, but on Tony Blair Gorgeous George is dead on. Pun intended.

The Killing$ Of Tony Blair: A Review

2016-09-18T11:32:00.003-07:00

People abhor Blair for more than just Iraq. They detest him for maintaining the commodification of public services via PFI. They are angry at the betrayal of Labour values in the pursuit of power.

Prince: my tribute

2016-06-04T11:47:00.000-07:00

My Brother has just Whatsapped me a link to a story confirming Prince’s death from an overdose of painkillers. His commentary was, “What a cliche.” I can’t say I see it that way necessarily. If you’ve ever had to endure persistent pain any kind of relief seems like a blessing. I’m biased though. I thought Prince was amazing and so naturally I’ll always cut the brother a little slack.

I didn’t start out a fan though. The first time I encountered Prince I was in the bedroom of my then girlfriend’s girlfriend who lived over by Lyme Park in a very swanky abode. We four - her boyfriend was there too - had spent a lovely summer afternoon chatting and sipping lemonade.

At some point we repaired to my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s bedroom to flick through her music collection… It was clear the afternoon was winding to a close - no-one has music taste as good as mine - and so I tuned out. I remember wondering how we were going to make the journey back to Hazel Grove: hoping that my girlfriend’s girlfriend’s Mum, who looked extraordinarily like Dudley Moore, would give us a lift, when there was a scream. A prolonged, piercing note which made me wince. What the-? It was my girlfriend emoting dramatically having unearthed a rare Prince single, namely Gotta Stop (Messin’ About).

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygodi’lldoanythingi’llkissyourfeetpleeeeeeaaaaaseletmehavethisilovehimilovehimilovehim!” I have had many occasions to look back on my relationship with this unhinged sociopath and experience regret and not a little embarrassment. I would say this is one of the 5 highlights from that particular reel. My girlfriend’s girlfriend looked puzzled and appalled, prised my girlfriend’s clawing fingers from her left ankle and eventually said, “Yes. Sure. Have it,” shooting me a look which seemingly asked the question: “Are you that desperate for regular sex?” I was.

On the long drive home - Our Dud was a particularly cautious driver - I examined the sleeve and was repulsed by the fop in the black, groin length stay-ups, posing pouch and red scarf under his black jacket. He had brown eyes like those of a baby deer and ostentatiously relaxed hair. He looked ridiculous, but for some reason my girlfriend was still shaking with excitement, her chest heaving with emotion.

A few months later we were lying on her bed and a song came on with a truly thrilling guitar solo which threw shards of light about the darkened room. I sat up. “Who’s this?”

“Prince.”

“Are you fucking joking?”

“No. And he’s playing all of the other instruments…”

“Hmmmm…”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

A grudging respect for his musicianship was flowering, but I still had a pathological aversion to this weirdo. Perhaps a year or so later and the short-arse was playing Wembley. Fine… I’ll go if you want. Same damned thing. She’s normal. She’s normal. Prince finally appears on stage and she loses her shit. Like completely and utterly. She’s elbowing past other concert goers and security guards to get to the front whilst screaming as if someone is ripping her left ankle through the top of her skull.

I sigh, gather her abandoned effects from her seat and make my way more politely forward. I can see her form bopping away down the front. Somehow she’s hopped a security barrier and she’s having the time of her life. I look around the venue and everyone else is too. I look at the stage and Prince, in an effortlessly stylish yellow suit with oversized buttons is doing his best James Brown impression as he teases rhythmic chords out of a Hammond organ. Occasionally he’ll pirouette, perform a push-me-pull-you with the mic stand before dropping into the splits as he cues a horn break. Holy fuck!

I look around Wembley Arena. 10,000 people are smiling as they dance to a non-stop, machine-tooled groove. It’s simply the best thing I’ve ever seen. Ever experienced. Transcendental. Magickal. He slows the proceedings just long enough for us to bear witness to him bringing his microphone to a shuddering orgasm. Oh, Lawd… I was officially a fan. I eventually split up with the crazy screamer, but for a while the only thing that kept us together as a couple was a shared affection for Prince.

Unhappy at never receiving a thin penny for either recording or shows and reluctant to tour again under the same fund-free agreement, Jayne County dispensed with my services as drummer - using the N word as the ‘phone was slammed down. I didn’t care. The live reviews confirmed what was glaringly obvious: she was the weakest link in her own band. I wanted to do something else and got together with Peter Turner who was as into KISS as me and we fulfilled our Paul Stanley and Gene Simmons songwriting fantasy. After that I played with a guitarist who was in The Fall for two weeks and then toured Europe with Vicious Rumours. Upon my return I wanted to see if I pull off a Prince and do it all on my own instead of relying on other people whose priorities and values weren't aligned with mine.

I borrowed a keyboard and a drum machine and wrote a couple of songs which were very Prince-like in nature, drawing from his synth-heavy Minneapolis sound blueprint. One of the songs sounded like a riffed up version of Control by Janet Jackson, whilst the other was essentially a re-writing of Prince’s acclaimed B-Side, Irresistible Bitch. I took some birthday money and booked a day in what is now Courtyard Recording Studio. I played everything except the guitar which I brought in Peter Turner to play. As became de rigeur for Pete, any time he had to leave his bedroom to play his instrument he froze. It took him an unbelievable 2 and a half hours to lay down an 8 bar lead break. In order to finish the session I had to rush a little more than I wanted and cut some corners, but the lack of polish added a vibrance to the tunes which means they still sound pretty good today actually.

I searched around for musicians to bring the songs to life, which was pretty tough in Stockport, but I told everyone we were going to be so good as a live band that there was no way we wouldn’t get signed. They were my Revolution and we rehearsed hard, making sure we had harmonies, gang vocals and on point choreography which set us apart from every other band on the live circuit. We’d go down to London and blow away all these bands that we’d read about in the weekly music mags.

We started getting a lot of press ourselves and I whizzed a copy of the demo over to Dave Roberts at FM Revolver inviting him to a gig at The International. He came up to me afterwards beaming. “I’ve no idea how to describe what you do, but that’s the best gig I’ve seen in years.” He signed me on the spot. I was elated because they were the label that had released The Stone Roses’ Sally Cinnamon. So cool.

We had a photo shoot for the EP. It was all a tad untidy with everyone dressed differently and disparately. Eventually Dave dismissed the band and instructed me to take my shirt off. That was the cover. The chaps and chapess who included: Gary on drums; my Brother on percussion; Des and Clifford on keys, Greg Curley - who I’d played with in Vicious Rumours - on guitar; Mark Pearson from Jayne County on bass; and a singer named Shairon who set her predatory sights on our ingenue drummer, were disgruntled. What can I say? I was a lithe adonis back then before the steroids (for health reasons) and the piling on of muscle, and my perfect form demanded to be captured for posterity. I didn’t see the irony at the time, but I had just become Prince on the cover of Gotta Stop (Messin’ Around).

The 3 song EP was supposed to serve as a teaser for the rip-roaring album which would feature all of my best songs including the first two songs I’d written and set closer Rock This House which ALWAYS brought the house down. The album was recorded at Twilight Studio in Salford, and sounded incredible. We'd slimmed down to a 4 piece with me handling drums and vocals and my brother playing keyboards and the live bottom end contrasted with the machine operated rhythms we'd had before. Typically, as we delivered the album to the label Dave got poached by Nude and there was no-one else at the label who got what we were doing. The lesson is, of course: never save your best stuff.

After that first Wembley gig I followed Prince and his work studiously. I saw him 15 or so times in concert and have all of his albums. Even the ultra rare Gold Nigga. When Wireless signed to EMI in addition to my pristine Beatles box set, Gordon managed to secure me a promo copy of Emancipation.

Eventually, disillusioned with the lack of suitors and benefactors the band morphed into Shake Babies who became Damaged Gods and are now The Xtraordinary Gentlemen, but the blueprint has always been that laid down by Prince. The motivation to recreate that feeling I had when I slowly panned around Wembley Arena and then looked at the stage to watch Prince doing stuff I’ve never seen before and never will again.

I had a quick scan of iTunes when I heard about Prince passing and found that FM Revolver had reissued the EP. Half the globe away he inspired me to believe that I could manifest a world from my own imagination and have musicians help me build a gleaming edifice that others would enjoy.

The day after Prince’s passing my Bro’ and I (who have always channelled that louche Morris Day/Jerome Benton vibe) played our first TXG gig in ages supporting Professor Elemental and Cosmic Rays featuring Charlie Adlard (The Walking Dead). I didn’t tell anyone, but as we teased smiles from strangers and demanded their enthusiastic participation in creating a thoroughly immersive experience, that was my tribute to Prince: His Royal Badness.

Mark Two: The Pall Bearer's Lament

2014-11-22T10:39:00.000-08:00

Sup, y'all? S'been a while...

So, a year ago I began the interview process for the position of Learning and Development Manager at Mark Two Distributors, purveyors of quality Kitchens and Bathrooms. The first interview, with the HR Manager and the Director Of Service Delivery went like a dream, due in no small part to my knowledge and experience; natural charm and easy wit; the use of some outstanding hypnotic language patterns; and how amazing I look in a three piece suit (in addition I've recently taken to wearing a pocket watch with chain. It has been suggested that the next logical step is a monocle. Now, I'm not saying that I'm ruling it out completely, but I'd rather be violated by a chainsaw).

The second interview was conducted once again by the Director Of Service Delivery and, this time, a Team Manager. It went even better than the first. I even managed to drag a Shakespeare quote from my gilded quiver - and it wasn't the one about the painted strumpet's front bottom either. On the way home I popped into ASDA to buy my answer to the question: If you were a drink, what drink would you be? Answer: Grapefruit and Lemonade. Natural, harsh bitterness tempered by a shot of luscious sweetness. I was shouldering my way through the front door as I received the call that I'd got the job.

I was so happy I performed a little jig which was, in essence, a crude facsimile of Michael Flatley's Riverdance. Man, I was pumped! This was an opportunity to shape an organisation's Learning Strategy. Essentially I was being handed a blank canvas which I could adorn with my professional musings on what Learning and Development should look like. Very different from my previous place of employment where I was managed by a failed stand-up comedian who chose to emphasise his comic inadequacy at each and every team gathering: "The dolphin of today's meeting is... No, wait. I mean porpoise. The porpoise of today's meeting is..." I'm not even joking. Neither was he. I mean, he was trying to, but... Whatever.

I strutted into Mark Two on the Monday and immediately regretted not wearing kevlar body armour and a combat helmet. I've compared my first day at Mark Two to the first beach scene in Saving Private Ryan. If I may, gentle reader, I'd like to amend the filmic reference to Tom Cruise's recent Edge Of Tomorrow instead, as the comparable beach landing scene in this movie takes it up a notch - featuring killer aliens who can warp space and time and eviscerate you at will. Sure, it was a blank canvas all right, but it was being held by a Grizzly Bear doing Crystal Meth. On a skateboard. Brandishing a Kalashnikov.

As a family business which had exploded into a multi-million pound turnover almost overnight, there were none of the processes or procedures in place which would ensure consistency. It was a free for all, and not in a George-Clinton-controlled-chaos kind of way, but a Miles-Davis-coked-out-of-his-mind-with-potato-chips-sticking-to-his-face-as-he-wails-away-in-the-key-of-D-minor kind of way. Utterly. Frightening. There was so much to do! My days were long and hard (easy there, Finbar!). I'd often pull twelve hour stints at my desk and when I got home I was shattered. Drained. I could barely function. I was commissioned to write a screenplay which remains only 13/16ths finished.

I made an immediate impression: 2nd week in I was named Employee Of The Week which came with a VIP parking space (pic above. Astral moisturiser to the extreme left). My first meeting with the MD to relay my initial findings and outline my plan of attack was a little intimidating. He spent the whole of my presentation with his brow furrowed in a manner which was redolent of Mr. Bean trying to forecast the punchline to a joke he had never heard before in a foreign language. Afterwards the Director Of Service Delivery said, "That went really well. He really liked you." I was, like, are you kidding me?

We moved into lovely new offices on Raikes Lane in January which were situated by the tip and recycling centre. The company's Vision and Values were stylishly graffiti'd by a local artist in black and red on the clean white walls. The concrete struts which jutted out from the walls were painted black and buzzwords such as "Care", "Enjoyment" and "Generous" were graffiti'd on them in white and red. The stench of burning waste was a constant mist seeping slowly into the building, but it was the smell of chips wafting up from the new canteen which truly offended the MD most, and so they were officially removed from the menu - save for a Friday when he wasn't in the office.

The fortunes of Mark Two, seemed to hit an up curve once we moved house. There was the perpetual hum of positivity about the place and the learning interventions, processes and structures I put in place were having a positive effect. I was tasked with bringing some of that gloss, glitter and sparkle to the Managers out in the field and my stock rose even further once I brought the house down at the Summer Conference. A short 6 weeks ago at the Director's Briefing - where the Directors stand before the whole business and give an update on the organisation's progress - I was asked how I thought things were going. I replied that though, ordinarily, I was far too consumed with my own monstrous ego to take an objective view of my surroundings, even I could see that we had come a long way from where we were when I initially joined.

Then, on the 4th of November, the MD announced that Tesco were pulling out of their agreement with Mark Two. Others may have popped on their rose tinted glasses, but I readied my escape pod. I updated my CV, zapped it off, attended an interview two days later and had the second one last Thursday where I had to give a presentation. I start on Monday.

The business officially folded on the 18th of November - a week before payday. There were two weeks of shifting rumour and swirling blame. Games of hangman abounded as we waited to hear what was happening. I spent my time helping colleagues with their CVs, ringing customers to give them updates on where they stood with the installation of their Kitchen or Bathroom and coaching the Customer Service Reps on what to say to seriously disgruntled customers.

There is no positive spin on close to 200 people being made redundant without pay a month before Christmas. It's horrible and I'm sure someone far better qualified than me will untangle the truth and ascertain that the situation could have been handled differently, but it doesn't change the fact that - apart from working on an adult chatline - this was the best job I've ever had with the nicest bunch of people I've ever worked with. That is what I will be taking with me from my time at Mark Two.

Much love to all of the wonderful people I bumped into and worked with. I shall see you on the beach. It's been immense, my gorgeous little ceramic coasters.

Á bientôt

xBx

Dragging Alan Moore From The Vaults: Watchmen 1998

2013-04-03T10:54:00.000-07:00

Just a little curio for your amusement and beguilement. We're going all the way back to 1998 and a young Basil Creese Jr is idly pondering the cinematic future of his favourite graphic novel. I think he got it pretty much spot on. Well played, dear boy...

5 Reasons Why Alan Moore's Watchmen Will NEVER Be Made Into A Movie

See that picture? That's Alan Moore. He's as eccentric as the photograph - which clearly evokes a less contemplative Rasputin - suggests. Shunning the gleam and shimmer of fame and celebrity he lives in Northampton, England. On his fortieth birthday he announced that he was a chaos magician. He worships the ancient Roman snake god, Glycon, which is actually a glove puppet masquerading as a minor deity. He's also a genius. Among Moore's impressive list of works are From Hell, V for Vendetta, Batman: The Killing Joke (a work which, Tim Burton has intimated, informed his 1989 Batman movie) the partially published pornographic tract, Lost Girls, and his recent novel, Voice of the Fire. Mr Moore is not just one of the finest writers in working in comics, he’s one of the finest writers ever, reinventing the comic book as a cutting-edge literary medium through the complex layering of symbolism, erudition and narrative. He has singlehandedly elevated what was once considered a gutter medium.

Arguably his most significant work is Watchmen, a groundbreaking graphic novel which has defined the genre. Written for adults it's a gritty, bleak work which succeeds in unmasking our superheroes' insecurities and neuroses. Released over a decade ago, it allowed mature and cerebral comics to slide into the focus of the mainstream and was named one of the 100 greatest novels by TIME Magazine.*

It was only to be expected that Hollywood would come sniffing around, but since its release in 1986 "the bible of graphic novels" has remained in Hollywood development hell. Here are the 5 reasons why I think, and hope, it will remain there.

5. It's A Comic Book

I do not mean this pejoratively, Watchmen is one of the most important works of art of the 20th century, but there is no escaping the fact that it is a comic book. It is not a novel. It is not a movie script. It is not a sequential collection of storyboards. It is a comic book. The fundamentals of its construction require us to engage with the story in a very specific manner. The nature of comics offers possibilities that aren't available in film. One can linger on each individual panel absorbing all of the information therein, and refer back to certain pages if the action references earlier events.

In a comic book the story unfolds before us as a living canvas, we bring our own interpretations to each aspect of the narrative. A film can never hope to address all of the subtleties and nuances inherent in this very different artform, instead it would simply drag you through the story at 24 frames per second not allowing you to pause and admire the scenery: its eye too literal and linear to allow the transfer of subtext and metaphor, or to describe the organic arc so beautifully crafted here by Moore.

The present capabilities of film special effects technology, so cruelly found wanting in the Spawn movie, couldn't possibly capture the physical complexities of a blue, shape-shifting, radioactive Dr Manhattan. At one point he teleports himself to Mars for a quiet sulk and constructs a glass palace designed as a clock mechanism. The technology hasn't been developed to portray this convincingly, and realistically won't ever be available. As if the Dr Manhattan dilemma weren't enough, there is also the question of how to recreate the ornate, and intricate, "comic-within-a-comic" Tales Of The Black Freighter inserts. I would contend that it's impossible. It can't be done.

Face it, making Watchmen into a Hollywood movie is as probable as a studio turning the labyrinthine, holistic, social dissertation of From Hell into a by-numbers police procedural starring Johnny Depp!

4. Even Terry Gilliam Says It's Unfilmable

I love Terry Gilliam's films. They're ambitious in scope and as mad as his animation for Monty Python back in the seventies. Gilliam has made some astonishing movies: Brazil, The Adventures Of Baron Munchausen, The Fisher King and 12 Monkeys. We fans of Watchmen were enraptured when it was announced that Mr Gilliam had been tasked with bringing Alan Moore's vision to the screen. A maverick cineaste as wild and whimsical as Alan Moore, if anyone could make sense of the Watchmen universe and filter it for mainstream acceptance it was him, and probably him alone. His films are a testament to his both his artistic and technical ability in capturing unwieldy fantasy on celluloid. Teaming Gilliam with legendary Producer Joel Silver was almost a superhero match-up in itself.

As work on the project stuttered and sputtered he voiced concerns about translating Watchmen to film, suggesting that the epic story could not be faithfully reproduced as a movie, unless that movie had a running time of about five hours. He expressed concerns about limiting the story to a two or two-and-a-half hour film as it would strip away the essence of what Watchmen is about.

Unable to get a handle on the project Gilliam even considered shooting it as a television mini-series when he met Alan Moore to ask how he would film Watchmen. Alan Moore, being Alan Moore, said he wouldn't bother. The project eventually failed to secure adequate funding and was put back into mothballs. Gilliam said he heaved a sigh of relief as he realised this is definitely a film better left unmade. If the great Terry Gilliam is stumped by source material he deems too complex then there's a good chance it probably is.

3. Comic Book Superheroes Just Don't Work As Movies

The hottest comic book property at the moment is Spawn. He's dark, he's troubled and he's supercool. He's probably my favourite superhero of all time. A government assassin who's killed, sent to hell and does a deal with the Devil so he can come back to Earth and see the love of his life one last time. Utter genius. The animated series is an incredible achievement. It perfectly captures the tone and the brooding atmosphere of the comic books. Did you see the movie that came out last year? Horrible. And yet, as abysmal as it was, it was still better than Steel featuring Shaquille O'Neal as the titular hero. The reason for these cinematic superhero failures, both critically and financially, is that any finesse or subtlety has to be jettisoned to ensure that the popcorn munching hordes flock to the movie theatre.

The law of diminishing returns which results from this short-term view of film making is perfectly described by the Batman franchise. Tim Burton's 1989 Batman is a defining entry in the superhero film genre. The Gotham envisioned here is a delicious gothic treat: Anton Furst’s Oscar winning production design was breathtaking. Fast forward to Batman And Robin, the fourth in the series, and the pressure to earn more money than the last movie results in an embarrassingly lacklustre effort with no redeeming qualities whatsoever. The story and its execution are awful: sound and fury signifying, well, not much really. Arnold Schwarzenegger does his best impression of IKEA flat pack furniture whilst delivering 27 (count 'em!) ice related puns and has ensured that we'll never see another Batman movie.

Marvel have done a deal with New Line to make the movie Blade, starring Wesley Snipes, which is out this summer. I guarantee it will be a flop and that Marvel will never bother us with any of their superheroes again.

2. Very Few People Know Any Of The Superheroes In Watchmen

The Watchmen graphic novel represented the collection of 12 perfectly crafted issues and it has to be said that, whilst highly acclaimed, it hasn't actually reached a mass audience. This means that unlike the Spiderman, Superman, Wolverine, Hulk, Spawn or Batman characters that have permeated popular culture, there are not millions of comic book fans, or even those with a casual interest, who are aware of the exploits of the Watchmen superheroes. Most will not even recognise any of the characters.

Mr Joe and Mrs Josephine Public do not read comic books and certainly wouldn't be able to tell you anything about Rorschach, Nite Owl or Dr Manhattan. However, there is a very good chance that they would be able to recognise Superman, Spiderman, Wonder Woman, Batman et al. You may argue as to whether such a thing should ever exist, but no child has ever owned or played with a Hooded Justice doll or placed a Sally Jupiter poster on their wall. This relative lack of profile and recognition for the Watchmen characters will prove to be a huge barrier to any production of a potential film in a Hollywood which is increasingly dependent upon existing properties - whether the film is a sequel in an ongoing franchise or is based on a television series - to generate funding.

All that being considered it would be pretty awesome if I could have a Rorschach doll where the inkblots on his mask were constantly morphing and I could pull a string and have him intone darkly, "Not even in the face of Armageddon. Never Compromise."

1 . The Threat Of Armageddon Is Over

The way in which Watchmen examines the human condition and deconstructs the superhero archetype makes it an essential work, but its tone is entirely informed by its being set in an alternative 1985 and its political context: a world on the brink of nuclear war. It is very much a work of its time. Back in the eighties the prevailing orthodoxy was that those crazy Russians might kick off and blow us all to kingdom come. This looming, black paranoia frames everything in the graphic novel and throws the raw re-imagining of fragile superheroes with hang-ups, delusions, and erectile dysfunction, into a sharp relief. We watch civilisation teeter on the edge of extinction and gauge the reactions of the tormented characters as they contemplate their own mortality. Rorschach, for example, is enthralling because his coping mechanism is the application of his own binary template to every situation and as a consequence he views everyone, and everything, in a coolly detached black and white.

Back here in the real world things are far more peaceful. The Berlin Wall came down in 1989 and Russia has eagerly embraced capitalism. Here in Britain, following last year's General Election, we've moved to a more tolerant and liberal minded government in New Labour. Our new Prime Minister, Tony Blair, has pledged himself to what he calls an "ethical foreign policy", so we can be safe in the knowledge that he won't be scanning the world and looking for wars to start. The Cold War anguish of Watchmen seems rather quaint now. These are days of peace and so it would be practically impossible for an audience to identify with a cast of characters worried about war and conflict. Such concerns are as alien to us today as the city sized squid that turns up at the end of the story.

*TIME Magazine also voted Adolf Hitler Man Of The Year in 1938, so, y'know, make up your own mind about whether they should be arbiters of anything.

Jackin' for beats... Kim Jong Un: Keeping it (Kim Jong) ILL

2013-03-31T06:06:00.000-07:00

Foto by Basil Creese Jr/Brother B/Brozilla/

Don’t let the laid back nature fool you. Kim Jong Un is a vicious kid on the mic, son. The North Korean rhyme spitter has been a fixture on the FreshlyChoppedBasil decks of death recently, so you know we had to hook up and talk about the new Armageddon project that he's working on. Kim talks about the recording process, what he learned from Kim Jong "The ILL Poppa" Il during the recording of the project and how he feels about the consumer culture of he West.

He’s nice on the mic and he’s hungry to leave an indelible mark on Hip Hop. Take a few minutes to get to know Kim Jong Un and I’m sure you'll become a fan.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Yo, yo, yo, yo, yo! Ya know it. Ya got that right. Brother B AKA Brozilla in the hizzouse, and I have the pleasure of speaking to an extraordinary gentleman making headlines and kicking up dust like a crazy tornado around the world right now AS! WE! SPEAK! Kim Jong Un. What’s up, my brother?

Kim Jong Un: Five hunnid, black. What it do, boss?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Man, I'm just chillin’.

Kim Jong Un: Likewise, cousin. Likewise.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Firstly I wanted to say congratulations on winning TIME magazine's 'person of the year'.

Kim Jong Un: Thanks, Man. I appreciate the love, brother. Hitler won it in 1938, so I'm in good company right there.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Sho nuff. Sho nuff. I wanted to ask you a couple of questions real quick. I notice that your new project, Impending Armageddon: Apocalypse Soon is gonna be executive produced by your Dad, Kim Jong Il.

Kim Jong Un: Yup.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Now, and I suppose this is the main point, he's actually dead, isn't he?

Kim Jong Un: Hey, Man, it's Easter. 'Tis the season for resurrection, knowwha'msayin'? The Democratic People's Republic of Korea has got bare cutting edge cryogenics. We be reanimating tissue 25-8, baby including the ILL Poppa.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: A reanimation programme? That's a mad fact you just spat here, bro. Pretty impressive...

Kim Jong Un: Ya better know it!

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Wow...

Kim Jong Un: Look at your face, man. I'm just messin' witcha. Eh-Heh-Heh-Heh… Ain't no reanimation programme. This ain't Buck Rogers, bro. My Dad lives right here in me, Brozilla. I'm fully reppin' the ILL Poppa.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Oh, my days! That is a proper wind-up, blood.

Kim Jong Un: That's how it is, ya get me?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Sweet. So, your Dad's like a spiritual adviser on this album, yeah?

Kim Jong Un: That's right. I just wanna hold it down like the ILL Poppa did for all those years. I feel like he's right there with me when I'm up in the vocal booth spitting on the mic. He gets an executive producer credit because what he's doing for me here and now? It's mad real, blood. People will look at a picture of me and think I'm throwing up a "W". It's not a "W", I'm just reppin' the ILL Poppa. Four fingers up, two twisted in the middle. Keeping it ill. ILL, ya get me? Much love. Much love...

FreshlyChoppedBasil: That's some genuinely emotionally, touching sh*t right there. Now, you've got a production team, the Military Posse. Tell me about those cats.

Kim Jong Un: Aesthetically, I'm taking it back to Professor Griff and the S-1-Ws from Public Enemy, 'cos the DPPK is truly fighting the power, ya get me? The Americans want to beat us until we see stars and feel the stripes on our backs, but homeboy ain't havin' it. Not today. So we comin' back hard. Bringin' the noise. Bringin' the thunder... And other precipitation. Plus the stuff the Military Posse did back in the day with the ILL Poppa and Chen Pacino is legendary. That's the concrete all us young cats is walking on today. Ya feel me?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Oh, indeed. I wanted to ask you what their responsibilities are and how you guys mesh together. What exactly do they do? Do they help you select music? Do they help you narrow the tracklist? Talk about that relationship and how that works.

Kim Jong Un: The relationship with me and The Military Posse is like some big bro – little bro type sh*t, ya get me? They just reached out like a cool minute ago, ya feel me? They said they wanted to work with me and I was like, "What? Fa real?" 'cos they were massive in my Dad's day and had a hand in delivering some of his biggest hits. So we started having sessions together, ya feel me?

We didn’t really talk about what they were going to do with the album. But the only thing they said was that they were going to help me pick my songs and kinda manage the whole project. Ya get me? I’m going to do what I do. I could never be my Dad. Them's some big ass shoes, yeah? Eh-Heh-Heh-Heh... I’m just going to be me, and their job is to help me structure it and tell me what ain't working, or what type of songs I need, like big club bangers and all that… That’s the level we on.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Okay. Now I want to ask you some questions about club bangers so I'll come back to that in a second. You are on the Axis Of Evil record label which has got quite a reputation and oftentimes people romanticise things and imagine it would be great to be on this particular label or work with this artist or that producer... Previously you were a small, independent underground artist putting out little mixtapes, or 'missiles' as we call them. How is it being on a major label like Axis Of Evil? Is it overrated, underrated or is it kind of in between? Talk about a little bit about your experience so far.

Kim Jong Un: It's all about perception. It's just how other people see you, ya get me? My experience being part of the Axis Of Evil… Our bangers, hits and missiles give us the space to do what we do and people either dig it or they don't. I mean, look at what happened to DJ Gaddafi. You need some back up. You can't walk out there alone. I’m on some independent sh*t, just doing me and the rest is all politics. The sh*t is crazy, I know that.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: (laughs)

Kim Jong Un: Stressful, mane. It’ll drive a brother crazy. Drive a brother insane. But it’s like, whatever…I know that once my record starts poppin’ and getting big I know the game will have to come to the table and we'll talk about what needs to happen. The position that I am in right now with the Axis Of Evil is still kinda cool and there's a new playa in the game, Barack. I'm gonna be asking him some tough questions, so I hope he knows what he’s doing.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: We've touched on club bangers and I wanted to ask you about that. Obviously we know the success you had with the Don't Mess With The DPPK song but do you find that the label pressures you to create, not necessarily another Don't Mess With The DPPK, but another song that is going to be that popular? Do you feel that you have to force it? For example, I was listening to the The Time Has Come To Settle Accounts With The U.S. Imperialists In View Of The Prevailing Situation mixtape and the song Droppin' Bombs On Ya is a really good song. It could be huge. But when you think of hits you kind of have to get more accessible. Do you ever struggle with that?

Kim Jong Un: Yeah…I mean if I tried to be a little more accessible then we could go worldwide, but I really don’t feel like I gotta…I just make a song about what I want to talk about off of the real. So the Droppin' Bombs On Ya song is hardcore because I’m from the DPPK and it’s grimy and the song is grimy and as a people we are grimy. Ya feel me? So…I was just doing exactly what I wanted on that mixtape. Making bangers and then putting them out and whatever happens off of the missiles happens. Whatever crosses over is going to crossover.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Sorry. I've just noticed that the picture of Mickey Mouse on your wall is actually a cross-stitch.

Kim Jong Un: Hell yeah! I love my cross-stitch.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: That's amazing. How did you get into that?

Kim Jong Un: It's crazy, right? That's down to the ILL Poppa. He was big on cross-stitch. Over in the West you guys are all about buying things and "Me, me, me." We like our quiet nights in over here. I never thought I'd get on that particular bus, but I hit a brick wall with my knitting, I was getting bored. I needed more of a challenge so I switched up. I love doing cross-stitch while I'm watching television, just like my Dad used to. Have you seen Bluestone 42? Whoo, Man. Awesome! It's by the team who wrote Miranda, only it's funnier and it's got the added angle of illegal war. Sure, some stupid people will miss the subtlety and won't appreciate the moments of light and shade, but it is what it is… Genius. Hardcore laughs and giggles, ya get me?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Gotcha. So I know you have the mixtape that came out recently and you are working on the album. So how can people stay in touch with what Kim Jong Un is doing? With shows or just different things that you have going on. So any last words for FreshlyChoppedBasil? Let ‘em know how to stay in touch with Kim Jong Un.

Kim Jong Un: Follow me on Twitter and Instagram, Facebook or YouTube or whatever. Everything is everything. It's all love, ya get me?

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Yeah, sweet. I appreciate you sharing your time, my brother. We gotta hook up again when Armageddon gets closer.

Kim Jong Un: Good lookin’ for having me, big fella.

FreshlyChoppedBasil: Stay cool. Peace.

Kim Jong Un: I hope so, son. I really hope so...

Bloodshed, Banter and Bluestone 42

2013-03-28T21:47:00.001-07:00

Gadzooks and Odds-bodkins! Excuse my rather fruity language, but rather than issuing a screed of "F" and "C" words I thought I'd go back a few centuries and use minced oaths instead. You see, I've been severely provoked, boys and girls. BBC3 has dumped a fair amount of egesta doubling as comedy on our television screens over the years - I'm thinking specifically about the execrable White Van Man, the horrific Two Pints Of Lager… and the tragic Horne and Corden - it would appear that now they're reloading their Haddron Collider-sized slingshot with diseased horse faecal matter.

Unless you're a sea-dwelling invertebrate you'll be aware that YouGov recently published the results of a poll reflecting the British public's attitude to the Iraq war 10 years on. It revealed that a significant majority felt the war was wrong and half of those polled believe Tony Blair deliberately set out to mislead the British public about the threat posed by alleged weapons of mass destruction. A quarter thought that Mr Blair should be tried as a war criminal, what with the war being just a little bit illegal and everything.

The other war with a slight tinge of illegality is, of course, the ongoing campaign being waged in Afghanistan. There are those far cleverer than me who argue that the invasion of Afghanistan was not legitimate self-defence under article 51 of the UN Charter. Anyway, 12 years later and British, American and Afghan officials admit that the country is unstable and the civilians continue to pay an inordinately high price.

It is against this backdrop that we are presented with the latest "comedic" offering from BBC3, namely Bluestone 42. The series was written by the chaps who brought us Miranda (who knew that slapstick and buffoonery actually needed writing?), whilst the production team has also helmed the aforementioned Two Pints Of Lager… and Mrs Brown's Boys: hallmarks of the singularly unfunny if ever there were such a thing. The distinguished cast includes actors who have featured in programmes I really like: Oliver Chris (The Office, Green Wing, Nathan Barley), Kelly Adams (Hustle) and Tony Gardner (Lead Balloon, The Thick Of It).

The blurb on the BBC3 website says that the series "is packed with the lively workmate banter and relationship minefields.": an ironic choice of words given that the series follows a British bomb disposal detachment in Afghanistan. Essentially the programme is constructed as a workplace sitcom with the "sit" being an illegal war overseas. All the archetypes are in place for a by-the-numbers half-hour of pleasant entertainment: the try-hard everyman, the attractive, but unattainable object of affection, the detached, entirely task-oriented boss and a motley collection of comfortable stereotypes with familiar ticks and quirks masquerading as additional characters.

As there is no contextual exposition Afghanistan and Afghans are reduced to mere background noise as we exclusively explore the tedium and futility of war through the eyes of the British Crusader. The only pain is that experienced by our brave soldiers delivering democracy to the unwashed via the end of a bazooka whilst having to endure what they perceive to be substandard catering.

An example of the shockingly callous lack of empathy that permeates this work can be seen early in episode one. There's a running gag which features a CIA operative's tiresomely bragging about his exploits in Fallujah. The place name is pronounced here "FA - LOOOOO - JER" for maximum comic effect. Did the writers not know that this was the site of a US military siege which bombed a city flat, subsequently mired in allegations of massacre, the specific targeting of civilians, the use of chemical weapons and a nuclear fallout from Depleted Uranium munitions worse than that of Hiroshima? I would contend that they knew, but didn't care. After all, the fetishisation of our military means that the benign intentions of the West's foreign policy remain presupposed and there is no suggestion that the unquestioning soldiers are merely serving the strategic, economic and regional interests of the British Government. As David Cameron summed up so eloquently when slapping down the top brass who dared to complain about their workload: "You do the fighting and I’ll do the talking".

The reviews of the show thus far have concentrated on the quality of this gentle comedy and trite observations about ribaldry, squaddie banter and camaraderie in difficult circumstances. None of the critics have questioned whether a programme making light of an illegal war should exist in the first place, but then that's the mainstream media playing to type. Perhaps next BBC3 should do a comedy about school shootings. We could follow the perpetrator as he downloads kiddie porn and shouts at passersby in his local Aldi whilst purchasing condoms. We could empathise with his daily struggles prior to watching him stroll into a primary school and delivering acerbic one-liners to camera before shooting smiling children in the face. He could mow down a new school every week.

There is a poignant irony to be found in the utterances of the British and American governments who claim to be exporting democracy, whilst pointedly ignoring public opinion in their own countries. The real military comedy set in Afghanistan has so far cost the UK taxpayer over £17 billion. Instead of turning out this jaw-droppingly offensive toss, the BBC could have spent our money making a series of programmes about how such a catastrophic waste of lives and resources was allowed to happen, why it is still going on and holding to account those responsible.

In the end, if I can bastardise a quote from Thomas Jefferson, we get the military comedy we deserve, not the one we need. My sense of outrage won't allow me to watch another episode, not without gnawing off my own left kneecap first. I predict that this series will precisely follow the template set by the war in Afghanistan: everyone thinks it's a bad idea from the outset, the endeavour flounders as people realise it's worse than a crime, it's a colossal blunder. It soon becomes apparent that the core resources aren't fit for purpose leading to massive public disaffection and a quiet withdrawal from theatre without having achieved the main objective.

The only criticism thus far has been from the Conservative MP Patrick Mercer, who said: "I wonder if a comedy based in Afghanistan, considering the war is ongoing, is in the best of taste." If a Tory, by definition an entity incapable of any feeling, thinks it's a bit dubious then you can bet it's both vile and loathsome. Only it's worse. It's an affront to the decency the West claims as its own preserve. If war is hell then Bluestone 42 is Satan's heated, unwashed, crusty sphincter. Zounds!

10 Years After...

2013-03-20T12:21:00.000-07:00

I'm not too well at the moment - my left foot is now the size of a mid-budget B&Q kitchen with fake mahogany wine rack - and so I have trouble sleeping. Last night I watched the recently restored cut of Heaven's Gate, and the unexpurgated version of John Woo's Red Cliff. My pretentious 7 hour movie marathon was inspired, in part, by my physical affliction, but the main motivation was to catch the early editions of our nation's newspapers and assess how they marked the 10th anniversary of Tony Blair's impassioned House Of Commons speech which greenlit the invasion Iraq.

You won't be surprised that he isn't mentioned much at all. There's just an awful lot of guff about poor planning and benign intentions, both of which are lies. In order to siphon off resources the country needed to be broken.

The Independent had a piece on the politics of pubic hair (I tease mine into a defiantly militant afro), whilst The Sun was all about Rio and his fitness programme. The Guardian, has an article on dozens having been killed injured as Sunni extremists targeted Shia civilians in a series of blasts across Baghdad, a violent consequence of the West's plan to divide and rule in this part of the world.

The Mirror, however, had a retrospective of their war coverage, whilst Richard Sanders in The Maily Telegraph dismantled the myth of shock and awe.

A couple of weeks ago Nick Cohen wrote an article in The Guardian with the headline "Ten years on, the case for invading Iraq is still valid". It wasn't even the mindlessly callous headline which raised my hackles. It was the smug, self-satisfied expression of Nick Cohen in his postage stamp sized photograph accompanying the piece: his body oddly twisted toward the camera as if he has been caught mid-defecation. He suggests that ridding the world of the very evil Saddam Hussein was worth the bloodshed and infers that those who oppose the invasion are apologists for totalitarianism and terrorism.

However, his selective cherry picking of historic events and their frames of reference means he doesn't address the fact that Saddam, like most of the despots across the middle east, was installed and supported by the CIA and MI6: his murderous offensives against the Kurds were supported by British and American governments, who also supplied the chemical and biological weapons.

Nick Cohen makes no mention of the 1.2 million dead. What do they matter, right? Presumably any display of empathy comes as the exclusive result of being a closeted Islamofascist.

"…spilling blood and spending treasure in other people's conflicts," was begun as a concerted effort to stabilise global energy resources by taking them out of the hands of an individual who used to be "our bastard" in the middle east.

So we've established that Mr Cohen is a dead-hearted vampire, but what did the papers have to say 10 years ago?

In January of 2003 Iraq's envoy to the UN protested that his country had no weapons of mass destruction.

"We remain ready to actively cooperate, as we have done in the past, to respond to any doubts," Mr Douri added. "We open all doors to Mr Blix and his team. If there is something, he will find it. We have no hidden reports. Iraq is clear of weapons of mass destruction."

In Baghdad, Iraq's foreign minister, Naji Sabri called the Bush administration "warmongers".

"This evil administration and its ally, Mr Blair in Britain, have continued in their threats and aggression against Iraq," he said. "Their aim is not the weapons of mass destruction. These two governments know very well there are no weapons of mass destruction or related activities in Iraq. By controlling this region, they are dreaming of dominating the whole world."

But Our Tone had already made up his mind, cheered on by the mainstream media and Rupert Murdoch who Rupert Murdoch gave the proposed war his full backing to war, saying George Bush was acting "morally" and "correctly" and describing Tony Blair as "full of guts" for going out on a limb in his support for an attack on Iraq;

Daily Mirror Editorial, March 19, 2003
"Even though the Mirror disagrees strongly with Tony Blair over his determination to wage war on Iraq, we do not question his belief in the rightness of what he is doing. It is one thing to have principles others disagree with, another altogether to have no principles.

The Times, March 19, 2003
"This was a dogged attempt to change the minds of dissenting backbenchers, an attempt made against the headwind of the popular mood. It was a speech to admire for its willpower and its moral conviction rather than the elegance of its prose…"

Daily Telegraph Editorial, March 19, 2003
"In the Commons, as in every debating chamber, the side that wins the argument all too often loses the vote ... But any fair-minded person who listened to [Tuesday's] debate, having been genuinely unable to make up his mind about military action against Saddam Hussein, must surely have concluded that Mr Blair was right, and his opponents were wrong.

Independent Editorial, March 19, 2003
"[Tuesday's speech] was the most persuasive case yet made by the man who has emerged as the most formidable persuader for war on either side of the Atlantic.

"The case against President Saddam's 12-year history of obstructing the UN attempts at disarmament has never been better made ... Mr Blair made a coherent case ... that while disarmament and not regime change is the legal basis for the war, the prospect of the latter makes it possible to pursue the former with a 'clear conscience and a strong heart'

The Sun Editorial, March 19, 2003
"With passion in his voice and fire in his belly, Tony Blair won his place in history alongside Winston Churchill and Margaret Thatcher. In the most momentous speech of his political life he set out the pressing reasons why there must now be war on President Saddam.

"The ringing tones were from Churchill, the cold logic that of Lady Thatcher ... It was a stirring call to arms that was backed with precise, detailed and persuasive arguments ... [that] kept a possible Labour revolt in check [and] will have convinced the nation that war is just ...

It may well be that I'm a little tetchy at the moment, but it truly angers me that no-one has been taken to task for the destruction of a country and the theft of its resources. No-one. Indeed Tony Blair has been rewarded for his actions by being made Middle East Peace Envoy (!) and Dick Cheney’s Halliburton stock value doubled over the eight years he was Vice President, from approximately $5 million to over $10 million. Which means is about $5 per Iraqi death. Who says they didn't value the lives of the Iraqi citizens? The whole episode beautifully reveals both the West's foreign policy and the workings of our mainstream media: if you have resources they belong to us and our journalists will amplify the prevailing orthodoxy.

10 years on and what has been learned?

1. The Irish are a righteous people, more engaged social commentators, and hold public officials to a higher standard than our own "free" press. They hurled shoes and eggs at Tony Blair at the first public signing for his memoirs in Dublin back in 2010. They also shouted: "Hey, hey Tony, hey! How many kids have you killed today?" Our Tone had to cancel the rest of his book-signing tour.

2. International courts work at the behest of Western Powers, thus the best way to get away with horrific crimes against humanity is to be a western politician.

3. The wealthy still send the sons and daughters of the poor to steal the wealth of people in foreign lands and then we make a limp half-hour BBC3 comedy about it. Written by the team who wrote Miranda. FACT.*

*See next blog

Concerning P-Funk and Satan

2013-02-20T23:28:00.000-08:00

I'm kinda beginning to dig Twitter. As I was finishing my previous blog someone posted a link to a song via YouTube. I needed a break so I pressed play and was transported back to a Sunday afternoon when I was younger and music was genuinely magical, rather than this aural pigswill we're forced to endure. The song, by The Charlie Daniels Band entitled The Devil Went Down To Georgia, reached out to me through the transistor radio.

The story the song tells is of Satan is weaving his way through Georgia looking to harvest souls when he encounters a young chap named Johnny and engages him in a musical face-off. Satan offers to give Johnny a golden fiddle if he plays better than he does; otherwise, Satan takes Johnny's eternal soul. Satan goes first and employs a legion of demonic minions to conjure a deliciously discordant riff which would do Megadeth proud whilst he fiddle-shreds wildly like Vinnie Vincent on a raw caffeine bender. When the Devil's performance ends, Johnny compliments him and responds by playing excerpts of four traditional American southern folk songs. The Devil, suitably impressed, concedes the contest and lays a golden fiddle at Johnny's feet.

The tweeter had signed off by saying "And I still say the Devil won." It's hard to disagree with this assertion. Having been transported back to the very first time I'd listened to this song I cast around to find a tune which would have a similar effect. I alighted upon "All That Future" by Lori Carlson and keyboard wizard Bernie Worrell and dove back into a warm pool of reverie.

It was 2001 and I was in the shower listening to Material's (Bill Laswell's avant garde noise ensemble) alternative Hip Hop album Intonarumori. As the rivulets of warm water cascaded down my naked torso, I slowly moved the bar of Imperial Leather soap across my chest and then up and down my chiselled abdomen. I was standing with my back to the spray to avoid washing off the rich lather when the insistent, dissonant clank halted and track 9 came on. Out of nowhere a languidly erotic, delicious shimmer of keyboards and a hauntingly delicate, breathy female voice weaved its way toward me through the steam. It was beautiful, like a glittering rainbow slicing your skull in two. A 5 minutes and 35 second interlude of exquisite enchantment. The rest of the album went back to the wilfully odd and angular Hip Hop of the first 8 songs. That's typical of Bill Laswell: always pulling a sharp left turn when you least expect it.

My first proper encounter with Mr Laswell was via Bootsy Collins' Jungle Bass EP. Bootsy was one of the original JBs - James Brown's backing band - and it is he who plays bass on Get Up (I Feel Like Being a) Sex Machine, Super Bad, Soul Power and Talkin' Loud and Sayin' Nothing. The EP had all the familiar elements of a P-Funk release (popping bass, chicken grease guitar, the assured slap of an authoritative snare sound and sleazy horns), but it sounded just a little off-centre. Tweaked. The 70s transplanted to some unspecified point in the future. It was superb.

Being a P-Funk completist I have precisely 103 Parliament/Funkadelic, or P-Funk, albums in my music library - I've just counted - and none of them are in that awful MP3 format. Unlike Hip Hop, P-Funk was/is genuinely uplifting. It casts Black people as Gods who are waiting for the Mothership to descend from the skies to return us to our proper realm and release us from this earthly bondage. This was symbolic of a spiritual awakening and an acknowledgement of our history and lineage. In the meantime, whilst we wait, our role is to re-educate the rigid materialists and reveal to them the true rhythms of Mother Earth through the Funk. Deep, huh? And more life-affirming than Niggas In Paris, for fuck's sake....

I kept coming across Mr Laswell as I expanded the P-Funk section of my immense music collection. He produced Bootsy Collins' What's Bootsy Doing? album. Bootsy played with Bill Laswell, Bernie Worrell, guitarist Buckethead and drummer Brain (the latter two went on to play with Axl Rose in his new version of Guns N' Roses, replacing Slash and Matt Sorum respectively) on the album Transmutation (Mutatis Mutandis) by Praxis in 1992. He produced the only non-official P-Funk album (it only features 3 songs written by the Godfather of Funk, George Clinton, and he only sings background vocals on 1 song) that is considered an official P-Funk album (1995's Funkcronimicon).

Most importantly, for my collection anyway, Bill Laswell set up the Black Arc label as a home for "Black Rock, Cyberfunk and Future Blues". During what many consider to be the peak years of Hip Hop George Clinton and P-Funk were sampled mercilessly. The Black Arc label was a means to highlight the craft and the magic of the musicians who had created hits for De La Soul, Cypress Hill, Ice Cube, Snoop Dogg, LL Cool J, 2 Pac, Dr Dre, MC Hammer, Run DMC, Adina Howard and Beastie Boys amongst countless others.

Mr Laswell assembled an impressive cast of P-Funk alumni and across 9 albums of righteous indignation - featuring an abstract, yet inclusive beatscape melding disparate and differing textures: gothic rock, Hip Hop, ambient, jazz, hardcore, techno and tribal African beats - the sweeping arc of black experience is declared as a musical memoir. A reminder that our musical culture is richer than that which Hip Hop has chosen to represent.

Only 9 albums were released:

O.G. Funk - Out of the Dark
Zillatron - Lord of the Harvest
Slave Master - Under the Six
Hardware - Third Eye Open
Buddy Miles Express - Hell and Back
Abiodun Oyewole - 25 Years
The Last Poets - Holy Terror
Bernie Worrell - Free Agent: A Spaced Odyssey
Aftershock - 2005

I started writing this just before the Brit Awards 2013 kicked off. After the first couple of paragraphs I turned on the television and accidentally caught sight of the utterly pointless Paloma Faith stumbling through a justification for her vacuity. I threw up in my mouth.

The Black Arc catalogue is the perfect palate cleanser. None of these albums are formulaic. The Bootsy albums (Lord of the Harvest and Third Eye Open) are genuinely fascinating in that one gets to hear the low-slung funk of his legendary space bass grinding against ambient and rock gears.

The Lost Poets are a collective of poets and musicians who came out of the 1960s American civil rights movement and laid the foundation for Hip Hop. Their album gives you a glimpse of a time before corporate rap, when what was lovingly placed over beats was carefully constructed polemical poetry.

Bernie Worrell's disc is rather ethereal, atmospheric and awesome to chill to. The rest are patchy at best, but there are moments on each that will make you catch your breath, the perfect antidote to the empty vessels who have sold their souls. Proving, perhaps, that the Devil doesn't always win.

*The foto features selected highlights from my P-Funk collection.

Jay-Z, Kanye West, The Grammys and the N word

2013-02-19T20:22:00.000-08:00

My brother and I are soooooo different. At the conclusion of the first 5am screening of The Dark Knight Rises, on the day of its release, I'm not ashamed to say I welled up. Perhaps it was the context in which I viewed the movie - I've never been to a 5am screening before - but it seemed the perfect end to a very impressive trilogy. My brother's verdict? Not so much. His was a decidedly unimpressed "Meh..."

'Twas ever thus. Back when we were youngsters the family cat, Rivelino (we named him after the World Cup winning, combative Brazillian midfielder. Later I had a pet Hamster whom I named Reggie The Bastard, but that's a different story for a different time), somehow managed to trap himself in the back of the piano and was mewing desperately for help. I was distraught. I was crying hysterically. Poor Rivelino. My brother, as rational as always, huffed, "What's wrong with you? All we need to do is pull the piano out. Jeez..."

I could give you loads of examples of where I'm the one shrieking with outrage like a raped goat, whilst my brother gives an insouciant shrug of his shoulders. Our roles have probably been reversed lots of times over the years, but at present I can only bring to mind two examples. A few years ago I was leafing through the NME (yeah, I know). In the ad section I came across a music emporium which announced proudly that it sold lots of different genres of music, but specialised mainly in Indie, Electronica, Heavy Metal and Nigger.

Being permanently drenched in cynicism it was pretty easy to make my voice sound light and breezy when I rang my brother to casually suggest he go to a newsagents and just have a quick flick through the ads section of this week's NME. "You'll know what it is when you see it," I teased. He rang me back an hour later in a frothing rage, which as I've already stated, is most unlike my brother. He had rung both the shop involved AND the publication to ask what they were playing at and to find out exactly what they planned to do about this gross transgression.

On the second occasion, we had just soundchecked for a show as Damaged Gods and strolled into the town centre for some deep-fried, potato based sustenance. Sitting down to eat at a grubby formica-topped table our senses were assaulted by a dishevelled man who announced "He's a nigger. A big, black fookin' nigger."

"What the-? Okay, Brother B," hissed my brother in a harsh whisper. Putting down his fork he curled his fingers into a fist as he used one of my many rap aliases (Big Brozilla, Triple XL, B.B. Mon£y and Daddy Long Stroke are amongst the others), "What are we going to do about this?"

"Leave it, G-Influence," I replied - plucking that particular nomenclature from a very long list of my brother's AKAs which includes Doc Connors, Wachowski and Chachi - "He's clearly disturbed."

Anyone notice the common thread between both incidents? That's right! The N-word.

Words exert influence. You can calm, scare, call to arms or induce sleep with words. Noam Chomsky posited that words and language are an integral part of our psychological being; they give shape and meaning to the things around us, and, in a very real and literal sense, the person and people that use them.

In magickal terms - I've been reading a lot of Aleister Crowley recently - invocations and spells are referred to as "Grimoire", literally "grammar" in French. One can harness power and create magick for one's own ends simply through the use of words.

The history of the word nigger is often traced to the Latin word niger, meaning black. This word became the noun negro (black person) in English, and the colour black in Spanish and Portuguese. derogatory nigger and earlier English substitutes such as negar, neegar, neger, and niggor that developed into its lexico-semantic true version in English. It is probable that nigger is a phonetic spelling of the white Southern mispronunciation of Negro.

By the early 1800s it was firmly established as a pejorative term. In 1837 Hosea Easton wrote that nigger:

"is an opprobrious term, employed to impose contempt upon [blacks] as an inferior race. . . . The term in itself would be perfectly harmless were it used only to distinguish one class of society from another; but it is not used with that intent. . . . [I]t flows from the fountain of purpose to injure."

The word "nigger" is imbued with so much hatred and prejudice that its mere utterance evokes centuries of discrimination and ignorance: conjuring an image of abused, enslaved forebears who were considered lazy, stupid, dirty, subhuman and unworthy of the dignity afforded any other human being. The use of the word was a form of ritual humiliation employed by slave masters.

Fast forward a couple of hundred years and Jay-Z and Kanye West are picking up Grammys for Niggas In Paris. I feel like crying. Trust Americans (a people whose country was founded by genocide and built on the backs of slaves) to trivialise the word, ignore its history, use it as a matey salutation and subscribe to the notion that its meaning changes depending on the complexion of the person saying it.

Slavery has caused severe emotional and psychological trauma, resulting in a self-hatred which manifests itself as Black people disrespecting themselves with the same words which were once used to denigrate them. No other culture does that. You never hear, "What up, my *insert racist epithet here*?!?!" as a greeting in any other culture. It would be quite horrific, but indicates that slavery and its attendant racism have succeeded.

The Godfather of the Black use of the N-word is Richard Pryor. In his rather slight autobiography Pryor Convictions, he said, "Nigger... I decided to make it my own. Nigger. I decided to take the sting out of it. Nigger. As if saying it over and over again would numb me and everybody else to its wretchedness. Nigger. Said it over and over like a preacher singing hallelujah."

In 1979, Pryor went to Kenya. He sat in a hotel lobby and saw, "gorgeous black people... The only people you saw were black. At the hotel, on television, in stores, on the street, in the newspapers, at restaurants, running the government, on advertisements. Everywhere."

Pryor said to his wife, "You know what? There are no niggers here. The people here, they still have their self-respect, their pride."

He left Africa regretting ever having uttered the word "nigger". "To this day I wish I'd never said the word. I felt its lameness. It was misunderstood by people. They didn't get what I was talking about. Neither did I. ... So I vowed never to say it again."

Of course, by then the damage had been done and the floodgates opened for an abundance of Hip Hop Proto-Pryors who considered the word mere slang and paved the way for the negative stereotype to become profitable and impose itself as a shorthand for Black culture. Professor Griff calls it the niggerfication of rap music. Wynton Marsalis calls it "ghetto minstrelsy." He says,

"Old school minstrels used to say they were 'real darkies from the real plantation'. Hip-hop substitutes the plantation for the streets. Now you have to say that you're from the streets, you shot some brothers, you went to jail. Rappers have to display the correct pathology. Rap has become a safari for people who get their thrills from watching [Black] people debase themselves, men dressing in gold, spending money on expensive fluff, using language like 'bitch' and 'ho' and 'nigger'."

Witnessing the rise of an "artist" like Chief Keef is depressing, but, as a teenager, he doesn't know any better. He's young, impressionable and plainly has no idea that he is perpetuating negative (Niggertive) images of black people, or that he could be a focus for the laser beam of racism.

I hold the rap elder statesmen and veterans to a higher standard. Jay-Z and Kanye West should know better, but the lure of filthy lucre means they'll shit yards of reinforced negative stereotypes to keep the shareholders happy and consolidate their personal brands. Music executives want to cash in on gangsta rap and its essentially disparaging narrative: the media complies, ignoring all other expressions of the music. The big money involved means that the corporations care nothing for the soul of hip-hop or the people who create it; their only concern is with profit.

Jay-Z's lyrics are a far more eloquent treatise on why he would rather rap about nothing and perpetuate the notion that, as a rapper, one has to be steeped in criminality and wallow in juvenilia for one's music to have any validity. It all comes down to the money...

"I dumbed down for my audience to double my dollars / They criticise me for it yet they all yell holla / If skills sold truth be told I’d probably be lyrically Talib Kweli / Truthfully I wanna rhyme like Common Sense / But I sold five mill, and I haven't rhymed like Common since." - Jay-Z, "Moment of Clarity"

The resulting dumbassification* sees rap artists all trying to sound the same: chasing the same coin in the consumer's pocket in an effort to justify the major label coddling of their record contracts. They sound so similar that they cancel each other out and create a cacophony of nihilism.

We also have a real-life CB4 movie plot in progress in the form of Rick Ross. In CB4 Chris Rock appropriates the identity of an incarcerated criminal, MC Gusto, in order to sell records, only for the real Gusto to turn up and claim a little violent restitution. All of which is precisely what Rick Ross has done. He's presently living out the rest of the movie as the Chicago Gangster Disciples issue death threats via YouTube(!), passing acerbic comment on his sales strategy. Mr Ross was the target of a drive-by shooting in late January as he sat in his Bentley: great for sales and it bolsters his street credibility.

From Melle Mel's hard-hitting and innovative The Message in 1982 to Niggas In Paris in 2013, the Grammys represent the celebration of Hip Hop's regression. It's ironic that Public Enemy's Chuck D was on hand to close the Grammy awards ceremony with an incendiary performance which was ably supported by LL Cool J, Tom Morello, Travis Barker and Z-Trip; reminding us of the true power of Hip Hop. Historically Public Enemy's call to Fight The Power and their highlighting of the Fear Of A Black Planet were ignored by the Grammys' voting panel in favour of less incendiary, less difficult and less challenging works. He brought a poignantly dignified presence which acted as a peerless counterpoint to the preceeding buffoonery.

* as coined by Mr Chuck

Cheryl Cole: Livin' me dream, like

2012-12-10T21:46:00.002-08:00

These are, indeed, the worst of times: I'm shuttling backwards forwards between the Doctor's office and hospital; Gideon Osborne officially doesn't know what he's doing; Tesco and Sainsbury's are predicting a Christmas shortage in potatoes, parsnips, carrots, sprouts, broccoli, cabbages, cauliflower and swedes; and party balloons will be far less floaty this festive season as the worldwide shortage of helium kicks in. Thank Santa then that two staples remain in place to keep us smiling during the long cold evenings, namely Stand Up Comedy DVDs and the celebrity autobiography.

Stewart Lee's Carpet Remnant World is by far the best of the comedy DVDs on offer, whilst the celebrity autobiography category is dominated by the colossus that is my mate Cheryl Cole's My Story. Not to be confused with Jessie J's autobiography with practically the same title, or Tulisa's Contostavlos' My Story So Far in which she tells us that Dappy has a penis which could conceivably belong to King Kong. Cheryl stopped by my hospital bed recently to share a bunch of designer Ruby Roman grapes and a chat.

It's so nice to see you again, Chezza.

You too, pet. Hoo ye gannin'? Y'areet, hinny?

I'm not great, obviously, but thanks for visiting me and these grapes are amazing.

They're fooking champion! They're the most expensive fruit ever, like. They cost me an absolute fooking SHITE load, but I respect you, Basil and I like you too, so, y'know... No bother, like.

Thanks again, Cheryl. You've had an incredible 2012. You've hooked up with Tre Holloway, released a third solo album (A Million Lights), aired the Access All Areas documentary on ITV2, Girls Aloud have regrouped and your autobiography has just hit the shelves.

2012 has been so fooking crazy, man. Will.I.Am, he's, like, managing me (?), says it's going to get even crazier. Tre is my rock. My soulmate. We connect on every level and it definitely helps that he's hung like a Shetland Pony. This solo album was a real personal statement, the documentary was a chance to show ordinary people the real stresses of being Cheryl, Girls Aloud is just me getting back with me mates, and the autobiography is a chance to show ordinary people the real stresses of being Cheryl. Again. Revealing the real me, like. The Cheryl Cole who stays in of an evening reading Noam Chomsky in a tiger onesie, eating a meat feast Domino Pizza and farting like a good 'un. Lol.

You say that your album was a personal statement.

Aye.

Nothing exemplifies this more than Call My Name. Can you tell me a little bit about what you were trying to say with this song?

Well, first of all I didn't write it, Calvin Harris did, but what I had in mind when I was singing it was, like, me hitting back at the infantile, fundamentalist logic which is subservient to acquisition for its own ends and is impervious to compassion definining the world in a postmodern prescriptivism of black and white: they're evil and we're good.

Having been a solo artist for quite a while, how easy has it been for you to readjust to a group dynamic?

It's been great seeing the girls again... Well... Most of them. Nadine just keeps whining on about her failed restaurant. I wish she'd just bore off, like. Nicola Roberts is so pale sometimes, against certain backdrops she's literally transparent. At the moment we're rebuilding the set for our tour next year because there were points of the show where she disappeared completely and it looked like there was a microphone just suspended in mid-air defying the known laws of physics. Lol. No, but seriously, someone's got to drive the car and, given my phenomenal solo success and being the nation's sweetheart, the girls are willing to have me in charge.

You're as massive a fan as me, have you noticed the similarity between Chen Pacino's H-H-Humpin' Ya and PSY's Gangnam Style?

I know! Fooking mental, right? (Cheryl proceeds to sing H-H-Humpin' Ya to the tune of Gangnam Style) Chen was way ahead of his time. I reckon Will.I. Am is our modern day equivalent. Did you see him on The Voice?

Yes, I did.

What did you think?

When he talks he sounds like a malfunctioning R2D2 unit.

Lol. He's a musical genius though, just like Chen. When we win my case against Simon Cowell for sacking me off of X-Factor USA I'm gonna buy Chen's publishing rights and re-release his whole back catalogue as a 52 CD box set. I'm thinking of calling it Ay No Pacino. There'll be at least a couple of his protest albums in there.

How do you feel about PSY rowing back on his earlier position in criticising American foreign policy. Some of his earlier lyrics were a little incendiary.

And he's apologised, yeah?

Yes, he has.

I see it like this, right. Americans have a President who is a mass-murdering psychopath and they apologise to absolutely fooking nobody for his behaviour. Nobody. Oh, sorry, Afghanistan. Those drones weren't meant to kill everyone at the wedding reception, only the terrorists, but the rest of the guests got in the way. And actually we're not going to apologise, because if anyone is of fighting age in the vicinity of a drone attack we've rewritten our constitution so that we're allowed to kill you just in case. Yet they expect, nay, demand, that a pop singer apologise for some lyrics in a song he recorded years ago? PSY has no blood on his hands, whereas Barack Obama could bathe in the blood of his victims, and for all I know, he probably uses it as shower gel.

If I want to hear to an apology from any pop singer, I'll take one from the gaggle of twat artists who endorsed Obama and conveniently turn a blind eye to the murders he commits daily. Snoop Dogg, Bruce Springsteen, Madonna, Michael Stipe, 50 Cent, Chris Martin, Nicki Minaj... I could go on, but I won't. These fooking assholes are the ones who should apologize, not PSY. Although, it's pretty piss poor that PSY is so desperate to get on Letterman that he'll say anything. Sell out. At least he brought MC Hammer out of retirement though.

People don't get to see this side of you. The politicised Cheryl Cole.

They don't want to see it.

Why not?

They're happy to see me as a piece of fluff. Trivia. A clothes horse with no discernible talent and absolutely nothing to say with dubious views on race, although I'm always gaggin' for the dark meat, if you get my drift?

And that isn't you?

Hadaway, man. Is it fook, like.

I see.

At the moment the way our government voted on that UN vote on Palestine is really pissing me off, like. The UN voted overwhelmingly to recognise Palestine as the world's 194th state. It’s a massive victory for the Palestinian people, for justice and for peace. Do you know why the UK abstained? Because we sell shed loads of arms to Israel - £2.4m between April and June this year - and we can't afford to cut off a gushing revenue stream irrespective of the unrelenting oppression and its illegality. Talking of gushing streams, I'm gonna have to go before I piss meself. Lol. No, no, no. You keep the grapes. Think of them as a Christmas present. Like I said to that black toilet attendant before I kicked her head in for looking at me funny, Season's Beatings. Laters.

* Girls aloud tour the UK next year between February and March

My muscley thighs and 3 days in church

2012-11-14T15:22:00.001-08:00

I'm so disorganised. Maybe because my mind's constantly flitting from one thing to another and I get a little lost on where I am and what I'm doing. On one occasion I searched my room looking frantically for my glasses, riffling through cupboards, throwing clothes hither and thither, cursing myself and my appalling short-term memory only to realise that they were perched on the end of my nose the whole time. I was 11 years old when I did that. This is reassuring because when something similar happens these days I know it isn't dementia. I've always been like this.

This trip to Canada is both poignant and significant, so I felt a little pressured. My best course of action, I surmised, was not going to sleep to make sure that I had enough time to go through my list again and again and again so I didn't forget anything when we left. I handwashed my Evisu jeans at about three in the afternoon, but didn't want to put them in the tumble dryer, so I was checking on them intermittently as they hung on the maiden in the kitchen whilst ironing and watching the outstanding French cop drama Braquo (thanks again, Gordon). It makes The Shield look like Cagney and Lacey. Amazing.

Anyway, I still managed to get to my Mother's house late and then when we got to the airport I left her laptop on the backseat of the taxi and didn't realise until after it had left. I had to ring the taxi firm to send the driver back.

It's been a while since I last got on a plane, so these new security protocols were a bit of a shock. If you know me, you know my muscley thighs are never going to fit inside a pair of skinny jeans. I was instructed to remove my belt and I was thankful that I was wearing underwear when I raised my arms to be frisked. They're a bit zealous these security guards, aren't they? This fella had a good grab at my firm buttocks and a bit of a rummage down the front of my trousers (I wore Diesel jeans to travel in addition to the 3 pairs of Evisu jeans I had packed. Is that too many for a week?). He brushed roughly against El Monstruo (my nickname for Basil Junior Junior) and I briefly wondered if he wanted to induct me into the Mile High club right there in Terminal 3.

The flight was pretty much crash-free, thank fuck, but the diversion to Maine for refuelling meant our arrival in Winnipeg was delayed by 3 hours. A 22 and a half hour journey, door-to-door. Hardcore. We were staying with my Auntie Donna: the rebel of the family, which also means she's the most fun. Oh, and Auntie Donna is the one who called me a bow-legged bitch.

Winnipeg has a large Carribean community which has the church at its centre. Bright and early on Sunday morning, washed out and bleary-eyed, we all went to the Life and Truth Centre for a service, the first hour of which was comprised of a God-themed R&B concert. No kidding. There was a full band, four female singers and a saxophonist laying down hot lead lines which recalled Eric Leeds in Prince's Sign O'The Times/Lovesexy period. Everyone in the building was dancing, and not that nervous shuffling foot-to-foot type thing either. The congregation was going for it! One fella performed a slow robot stomp around the perimeter of the church, pausing dramatically to mop his brow with a sharply pressed hanky. I'm a cynic, boys and girls, but this was awesome.

The following evening was a viewing service, where everyone gets a chance to see the body and pay their last respects. The Life and Truth Centre was packed. Standing room only as family and friends took to the microphone to reminisce about their times with a man referred to by Auntie Donna's husband as "The Martin Luther King of Winnipeg". This is the second funeral I've attended with my Mother this year and on each occasion I've been floored by the vast number of family members I never even knew I had.

The Faith Temple in downtown Winnipeg was chosen for the funeral service proper on Tuesday. As a man whose death had made the evening news a much bigger venue was required for everyone to say "Goodbye". It was pretty harrowing. Myself, Wade's four sons and my cousin Andrew were the pallbearers. There were rivers of tears spilled and much heart-rending wailing and the Prime Minister of St Vincent and the Grenadines sent a letter of condolence in which Uncle Wade was described as a "fearless warrior on behalf of the poor and the disadvantaged."

His youngest son, Maurice delivered a moving eulogy in which he intimated that being part of a family in which the Father was consumed by the bigger picture resulted in a very strained relationship, but that as Wade 2.0 he would ensure his Father's legacy was carried forward. It was a pretty emotional day. It's been an emotional stay. Pushing my Mother in a wheelchair makes her frailty a jarring reality which I don't ordinarily have to confront and yet another funeral puts me right back in the hospital 8 years ago when my Father died.

Now, I'm not necessarily a fan of church or Christianity. Even back in the days of the Roman Games they would use burning Christians as torches at night, because their inventions were perceived as being dangerously crazy. Throughout history armies have marched behind a crucifix to subjugate, commit genocide and dehumanise billions of people. Billions. I shift a little uneasily in my seat whenever I see Luis Fabiano, Kaka or any Brazillian footballer score a goal, cross themselves and then look skyward. It's like they're completely ignorant of Christopher Columbus and his murder of their forebears on an industrial scale to make their gesture a reflex. If you go to the island of St Vincent there's a church practically every 500 yards giving the definite message that if only Black people worshipped our God they'd be a little more human.

There has been a lot of talk over the past three days about justice. Dogma, whether Capitalist in nature or Religious, has no capacity for empathy except on its own terms as part of its own agenda. When Capitalism required the toil of Black people to make plain old Britain, Great Britain, the Church was the cheerleader yelling "God's will" from the sidelines.

As a champion of the disaffected and the disenfranchised, Uncle Wade's mantra was "Injustice anywhere means injustice everywhere," and the Pastor of the Life and Truth Centre recalled a time when Uncle Wade called him and said, "The Haitians are in trouble. Who's going to pray for them?" Behind the pulpit of the Faith Temple two flags are solemnly draped: the Canadian flag and Israel's flag. Given the life he led and the causes he fought for, it was an ironic backdrop. Today Hamas' military chief Ahmed al-Jaabari was assassinated in Gaza, which is essentially an open air prison: a symbol of one of the last injustices of Empire. Could you imagine the British Air Force sending fighter planes over to Belfast to eliminate Gerry Adams as the head of Sinn Fein? Of course not. It's unconscionable. Once again the alien "other" are getting the short end of a very sharp stick. They plainly deserve it though, don't they?

The Pastor of the Faith Temple made reference to the congregation being "Friends of Israel" and it was met with nary a flinch nor a solitary sound. It was chilling. The Palestinians are in trouble. Who's going to pray for them? Injustice anywhere means injustice everywhere.

* Mother's laptop went missing again. This time somewhere between the airport and Auntie Donna's house...

Four More Years, Mittches!!!

2012-11-09T16:07:00.000-08:00

1. Costa Coffee using my favourite song this week - I Was Made For Loving You by KISS - is awesome, even if the residents of Totnes are trying to kick them out of town. They may well be a rapacious multinational, but Damn! They know music.

2. Ash Dieback, the fungal disease laying waste to the trees of the British countryside, sounds very much like the title of a Rammstein song.

3. A death in the family forces us to contemplate our own mortality. I've been doing that a lot and getting very maudlin. Wade Kojo Williams passed away on Monday. He was my Uncle on my Mother's side. The 'Williams' part is very important. When we were growing up ANY virtues or talents we expressed were explained by Mater as being "like the Williams", whereas any missteps, plainly, were due to us being "so Creese".

I can't speak for my Sis, or my Bro', but as a youngster I was of the opinion that these Williamses were a little bit up themselves, until we eventually met them when we took a family jaunt to St Vincent. They were pretty all right actually (apart from the relative who said I walked like a "bow-legged bitch"), and Uncle Wade was a bit of a legend: a journalist, a celebrated songwriter, parliamentarian and an active member of the community. In his time in Winnipeg he served as:

President of the National Black Coalition of Canada (Winnipeg Chapter);
President of the National Council of St. Vincent and the Grenadines Associations in Canada;
President of the St. Vincent and the Grenadines Association of Winnipeg;
President of the Manitoba Intercultural Council (MIC);
Representative on The Visible Minority National Council on Canadian Labour Force Development;
Chairman of the Black History Month Celebration Committee;
Member of the Committee for the Elimination of Racial Discrimination - Social Planning Council of Winnipeg;
Chairman of the Martin Luther King Memorial Committee;
Executive Member of the Afro-Caribbean Association of Manitoba;
Founder and Chairman of the Manitoba Coalition of Organizations Against Apartheid and Racism;
Founder and Chairman of the Forum for the Awareness of the Minority Electorate;
Multiculturalism Director of the Liberal Party of Manitoba;
President of the St. Norbert Liberal Association;
Executive Member of the Assiniboine-Fort Garry Residents Advisory Group (City of Winnipeg);
Founder and Chairman of Students Against Apartheid (University of Winnipeg);
President of Caribbean Students Association (University of Winnipeg);
Founding Executive Member of The Calypso Association of Winnipeg;
Co-Founder of the Winnipeg Calypso and Reggae Competitions;
Co-Founder of the annual Winnipeg Soca-Reggae Festival and Member of the Manitoba Senior Provincial Cricket Team.
He was also a member of several Caribbean Folk Groups/Choirs in Winnipeg.

Truly an exceptional man, and a bit of an inspiration. He will be greatly missed.

His funeral is taking place in Winnipeg, Canada, and I'll be accompanying my Mother, which'll be a laugh riot. I get my sense of humour and sunny disposition from her. Ask my sister. She calls me 'Smiler'.

4. So I skipped over to Liverpool to sort out my passport. The last time I was in the city was a few years ago to rehearse with an early line-up of Damaged Gods, which disintegrated when the guitarist and bassist started banging each other - Gina, the bassist, went on to play briefly for all-girl metal maidens McQueen - so I was surprised at how well I was able to navigate its streets.

Having about four hours to kill before my passport was ready I popped into a Tesco Express to grab some overpriced sustenance, and scanned the newspaper stand for a publication which would entertain me whilst I sat in my car waiting for the paperwork to be completed. Obama's face beamed triumphantly from the front pages of the newspapers whilst, on the shelves above, a scarlet tressed Holly Hagan proffered her sizeable mammaries like shoddily constructed Blancmange desserts. I decided that Roger Moore's autobiography would prove more engaging and stuck with my Chicken and Bacon sandwich, Strawberry and Banana smoothie and a pack of Cool Breeze Extra chewing gum, resolving to check out the Obama reaction to, and analysis of, his re-election online when I got home.

Ah, Obama... He's as war mongering and as slavishly bound to the notion of the expanding American Empire as his half-wit predecessor. That Hopey/Changey thing didn't really pan out, did it? Drone attacks and Guantanamo aren't going away anytime soon, kinda proving that even if it looks like a duck, walks like a duck and quacks like a duck it still might turn out to be a bit of a cunt. On the subject of cunts, seeing the response of the sore loser Republicans was definitely worth it.

Donald Trump called for revolution. A subdued and sombre Ann Coulter intoned, "I'm pretty pessimistic about the country. We have more takers than makers and it's over. There is no hope," whilst Ted Nugent tweeted, "Pimps whores & welfare brats & their soulless supporters have a president to destroy America". Fox News host and attack dog of the bigoted right, Bill O'Reilly, lamented the erosion of the white establishment:

"The white establishment is now the minority. The voters, many of them, feel that the economic system is stacked against them and they want stuff. People feel that they are entitled to things and which candidate, between the two, is going to give them those things? Obama wins because it's not a traditional America anymore. The white establishment is the minority. People want things."

Poor fella. His whole world had fallen apart. He looked devastated. I almost felt sorry for him, even as he employed the stereotype of ethnic minorities being feckless spongers. And that's the Republican Party's problem: its hijacking by the extreme neo-cons means that it isn't inclusive enough and as a result Mitt only made inroads into the hearts and minds of the electorate each and every time he moved to the centre, which left him open to charges of 'flip flopping' and hypocrisy. Ronald Reagan would be too moderate for his own party now.

They and the purblind others of their type need to wake up and recognise that times are changing. Watching one's parents forced at gunpoint to engage in sexual intercourse in a bath of warm excrement would be more fulfilling and better for one's conscience than voting Republican. Compare their separatist language with the following from Obama's acceptance speech:

"The idea that if you're willing to work hard, it doesn't matter who you are or where you come from or what you look like or where you love. It doesn't matter whether you're black or white or Hispanic or Asian or Native American or young or old or rich or poor, able, disabled, gay or straight, you can make it here in America if you're willing to try."

Much nicer and genuinely inspiring, isn't it? But then, he meticulously employs a lexicon designed to be inclusive, which is a very good thing indeed. Just try to avoid looking at the detail, eh? At the very least the average American woman will have control of her own uterus for the next 4 years, which I shall address during my 2 hour stopover in Chicago later today. BOOM!

I'm kidding.

Or am I...?

Yes. Yes, I am.

* The Monkey Obama t-shirt comes courtesy of the white supremacist website Tightrope. Also in this series "Fight Crime. Abort Black Babies."and "Bureau of Negro Control."

Hour back... Get it?

2012-10-30T16:35:00.000-07:00

1. Played a gig with my new band, The Extraordinary Gentlemen, and much adulation ensued.

2. My left knee is now merely the size of a small Mexican boy. I have named it Tiago Rodrigues.

3. Skyfail, more like. It never hits the heights of the mediocre title song. Javier Bardem as Silva hams it up more than a horribly mutated, genetically modified pig. He gives a magnificently camp, rip-roaring performance. He's amazing considering what little he's given to work with.

4. Jimmy Saville, eh? Who saw that coming? Actually, Jerry Sadowitz did. Back in 1987. 25 years ago he suggested Uncle Jimmy was a paedophile who used his charity work as a cover for his evil deeds. Jerry had to withdraw the CD from sale when the threat of a libel action reared its head. Jerry Sadowitz once won a bet with fellow comedians at the Comedy Store by saying to the audience of the celebrated, at the time, Robben Island inmate: "Nelson Mandela, what a cunt. You lend some people a fiver and you never see them again."

His BBC Television series The Pall Bearer's Revue, which featured magic tricks, sketches and stand-up routines, received a record number of complaints and the Beeb have promised never to repeat it or release it on DVD. A tad hypocritical given the criminal barbarity of Russell Kane on BBC3's Unzipped. The only thing I really remember from this series was a sketch in the final episode in which Sadowitz, playing the role of a US Army General, suggests that a strategic nuclear strike against himself and Andrew 'Dice' Clay is the only way to make the world a better place.

I was in a bar with a friend and his American girlfriend when I told her how much I liked Andrew 'Dice' Clay. Incensed, she spat her drink out in classic Hollywood slapstick style and then began rummaging in her handbag for a napkin as she mumbled about what a jerk he was and what an idiot I must be. I got the distinct impression that she was contemplating punching me in the face.

What to say about Andrew 'Dice' Clay..? I've always regarded him as the Italian-American version of Barry Humphries' Sir Les Patterson. A hideously hilarious caricature. Less enlightened people, or morons if you prefer, have convinced themselves that he is deadly serious and that the Diceman is not a brilliantly grotesque invention. I became aware of Dice for the first time when a Channel 4 arts programme featured excerpts from his live act to illustrate how utterly repellant he was. He was legitimised as an artist, in my eyes, when he starred in a film (The Adventure Of Ford Fairlane) which featured both Morris Day and Sheila E: acolytes of Prince's Minneapolis Funk sound. It was directed by Renny Harlin who had come straight from abandoning work Alien 3 and, on the strength of his work on this feature, went on to direct Die Hard 2.

Dice will forever be known for being the only comedian to sell out two nights at Madison Square Garden and his adult Nursery Rhymes ("Mother Goose? I fucked her"). I would contest that he should also be known for recording perhaps one of the greatest comedy albums of all time: The Day The Laughter Died.

Unlike the scripted profanity of his other albums, this one, produced by the incredible Rick Rubin (Red Hot Chilli Peppers, Adele, Johnny Cash, Metallica, Nine Inch Nails, Jay Z, Justin Timberlake) was entirely improvised. It's like a jazz album. Across an hour and a half, Dice describes a thrilling organic arc of a performance: starting off tentatively and disinterestedly describing his first Christmas kiss and ending with the rousing finale of the piano accompanied Something Soft via conversations with a sparse audience which sees their number dwindling as people walk out in disgust. Genius.

I've got a Richard Pryor boxset which collects all seven of his albums for Warner Brothers and they're a laugh riot: filled with pathos (his Mudbone character especially), sagacity and a razor sharp wit, but there's nothing which matches the surreal absurdity of Dice's Hour Back... Get It? routine;

"Ya know, this could take anywhere from fifteen minutes to an hour... Back! Get it?It could be a minute. It could be a half-hour, or an hour... Back! Get it? Hour Back!Ya don't get this bit? D'ya think I do? Think about it, I'll wait... Take an hour... Back! Get it?"

The present equivalent of Jerry Sadowitz is Frankie Boyle - Jerry Sadowitz calls Mr Boyle a tribute act - who recently won a libel case against the Daily Mirror who had called him a "racist comedian". He won his case, which seems fair enough. He's a lot more politically astute than his digs at Rebecca Adlington and Katie Price would indicate. In episode 4 of Tramadol Nights, which was cited in the case, he succinctly summarises British Foreign Policy:

"We're fighting a couple of wars now. Well, we call them wars basically we're just murdering a whole bunch of fucking shepherds. And what gets me is our callousness as a society, when we read out our dead on the news first because our lives are more important. Other people's lives aren't worth as much. 'A bomb went off in Kandahar today killing 2 British Servicemen, 3 UN relief workers and a whole bunch of Pakis.'"

Mr Boyle ends the show with a routine which analyses the results of his wife getting fucked by a Black Cock. As this could constitute a clumsy male compliment does that mean it isn't racist. Think about it, I'll wait. Get back to me in an hour. Back. Get it? No. Neither do I.

My struggles with the truth

2012-10-21T17:33:00.000-07:00

THE FOLLOWING BLOG CONTAINS THEMES AND LANGUAGE WHICH SOME READERS MAY FIND DISTURBING. INTENDED FOR MATURE READERS ONLY.

I made reference to the peerless Cyrille Regis in my last post. He was a late 70s striker who played for West Bromwich Albion and, alongside Laurie Cunninham and Brendan Batson, was one of Ron Atkinson's pioneering Three Degrees. This clip on YouTube shows them destroying Man U in the 78-79 season, the black footballers being booed every time they touched the ball. So things have moved on considerably, but I'd like to say a heartfelt "Well done" to Jason Roberts and Rio Ferdinand for their actions this weekend in not wearing the Kick It Out anti-racism campaign T-shirt. It looks like Rio's going to get a good kicking from Sir Alex Ferguson. SAF described Rio's actions as "embarrassing" and promised "He'll be dealt with it, don't worry about that".

Roberts and Ferdinand are protesting what they perceive to be a lack of action by the 'Kick It Out' organisation in combating racism in football. In light of the high-profile Suarez and Terry cases and what happened in Serbia it's time for something more than words on a t-shirt. I hope they get the opportunity to explain their positions rather than being vilified for rejecting the prevailing orthodoxy.

The reaction of the Serbian FA to the criticism they've received for their monkey chanting fans has been curious. They posted a heavily edited video on youTube suggesting that Danny Rose is lying when he says that he was the subject of racist abuse. It's pathetic, asinine, utterly witless and smacks of a Lance Armstrong style two-fingered denial.

There's a lot of that denial stuff floating about. I was on a sports news website and was perturbed by the amount of racist abuse offered by Football fans in defence of John Terry, which, of course, I had to challenge. There was one fella who had an onscreen name of THE TRUTH. The following are all pretty awful, but illustrate that racism is alive and well. I've copied and pasted his posts without editing or correction:

THE TRUTH

WHY DO NIG_GERS CARRY A TURD IN THERE WALLETS ?

I.D.

THE TRUTH

WHY DO MONKEYS LOOK SO WORRIED ?

BECAUSE THEY KNOW THAT IN A MILLION YEARS THEY WILL EVOLVE INTO NIG_GERS.

THE TRUTH

WHY DID STEVEY WONDER ALWAYS LOOK SO HAPPY ?

BECAUSE NO ONE TOLD HIM HE WAS BLACK.

THE TRUTH

WHY DO NIG_GERS STINK ?

SO THAT BLIND PEOPLE CAN HATE THEM AS WELL.

THE TRUTH

THE DISCOVERER OF DNA DR JAMES WATSON SAID BLACK NEGROS

HAVE A VERY LOW IQ AND PREFER TO DANCE AROUND TO BONGO DRUMS

AND MOST SCIENTISTS BELIEVE THIS TO BE TRUE.

THE TRUTH

WHAT DO YOU DO WHEN YOU SEE A NIG_GER WITH ONE LEG ?

STOP LAUGHING AND RE-LOAD.

THE TRUTH

MOST SCIENTISTS THINK NEGROS HAVE THE IQ OF SMALL CHILDREN AND THE ONLY WAY TO CONTROL THEM

IS TO GIVE THEM A GOOD THRASHING

THE TRUTH

ITS AN ""INCONVIENIENT TRUTH""

NO ONE WANTS NIG_GERS OR PAKIS HERE

THEY ARE SUB HUMAN IN EVERY WAY

ITS NOTHING PERSONAL

ITS JUST THE TRUTH

THE TRUTH

YOU HAVE ALREADY LOST THE ARGUMENT IF YOU TRY AND BAN SOMETHING..

WHICH MEANS YOU ARE UNABLE TO ARGUE YOUR POINT FOR OR AGAINST

THE TRUTH

ANYONE NOTICE HOW BLACKS ARE ENGLISH WHEN THEY WANT TO BE

AND SUDDENLY CHANGE TO AFRICAN VICTIMS WHEN THEY WANT TO BE

THE TRUTH

80% OF AFRICAN NIG_GERS ARE HIV POSITIVE

AND THE REASON IS THEY TAKE IT UP THE ARSE

STRANGE BUT TRUE CHECK IT OUT

THE TRUTH

DARWINS LAW

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST

WHITES ARE FIT

NIG_GERS ARE S_H_I_T

Horrified, I asked, quite reasonably, what the fuck the moderators were doing allowing this vile filth to be posted without censure or sanction as it indicated that they agreed with these views. There were those who posted that, like many "People of colour", I was being too sensitive, or actually a bit of a bigot for wanting to restrict THE TRUTH's right to free speech.

In celebration of my love for Gene Simmons my e-mail addy bears a "Demon" reference, which inspired the THE TRUTH to respond:

THE TRUTH

HAVE YOU NOTICED ITS ONLY NIG_GERS AND FAGSTHAT WANT TO BAN ME

OTHER MAY NOT AGREE WITH ME, BUT THEY RESPECT MY RIGHT TO FREE SPEECH

DEMONFAG.... ITS CALLED FREEDOM OF SPEECH

COS YOU CANT HANDLE THE TRUTH

This was a step too far for me. I channeled the spirit of Malcolm Tucker and offered a brusque riposte:

Do not address me, you f@%king moron. You're a waste of skin, rather like the useless moderators who've allowed you to say stuff that you should be arrested for. And what's with the 'fag' reference? Scared of the big black dick, are we? If I'd known you were going to turn out this way, I would have insisted your Mother swallow instead of...

Despite the warning in red at the top of this page I cannot reproduce the concluding thoughts of my rant. If you can bear to, read this imbecile's crass posts again. They pinpoint precisely why wearing a t-shirt is not enough. Kick It Out need to do more than offer slogans and promotional t-shirts, because racism is still a very real problem.

Bringing you up to speed

2012-10-21T10:16:00.001-07:00

Sudden realisation can have a profound physical effect. You read about it in books and see it on TV and it seems so hammy and cliché, but it's true. Try this for size.

I used to play as a striker for the British Council football team. I modelled myself after Cyrille Regis: muscular, powerful and quick. Very quick. My scoring record was pretty good: better than a goal every two games. My favourite goal saw me run from midway inside my own half, head the ball past the last defender, dummy the keeper and roll the ball into the bottom left hand corner of the goal. I was so elated I ran off to celebrate with the two casual bystanders who were watching by the corner flag. It later turned out that they'd pissed all over my kit bag and my copy of Vibe magazine which featured a Public Enemy cover story. Bastards.

A couple of weeks later I scored a 25 yard screamer which curved outrageously as it arrowed into the top corner of the net. Buoyed by having notched what was obviously the goal of the season I found an extra enthusiasm. An exuberance which gave me an extra yard of pace as I chased our opponent's playmaker back towards the centre circle. I executed a perfect sliding tackle, gathered possession of the ball and passed it back to our holding midfielder before sprinting my way back upfront for the next phase of play.

As I ran I became aware that my left hand felt weird. I figured it must have been caught underneath me as I slid in to win the ball. I looked down and saw my thumb bent back on itself at a grotesque angle, as if it had decided independently to pack up and emigrate to my elbow. I knew immediately that it was dislocated and ran to the referee to ask him if he would pop it back into place. His response, after a wince which pulled his face into a horrified 'O' was, "You've been watching too many movies, mate. I can't do fuck all about that. You'll need to go to hospital."

The understanding that my injury was serious and wasn't a Mel Gibson in Lethal Weapon momentary inconvenience acted as the trigger for the physical response referred to above. Not, as you'd imagine, one of excruciating pain, but a wave of nausea the like of which I've never experienced, even after a dodgy kebab which is the exclusive fare of my local high street eaterie. My legs were suddenly unable to bear my weight, I swooned and collapsed like a 19th Century woman suffering an attack of the vapours. I was helped back to the dressing room by a couple of colleagues where I waited for an ambulance to arrive.

I had a similar revelatory experience this week. About 3 months ago I had an appalling day at work. I finally gave up smacking my head against the brick wall at about 7pm and, in a supremely bad mood, drove home. A month later that I received a letter advising that I'd been caught by a speed camera doing 36mph in a 30mph zone. I was so angry at myself, but hey, that'll teach me. I'll be paying much more attention when I get behind the steering wheel from now on. Luckily I was given the option of attending a speed awareness course rather than have to pay a fine and accept a 3 points penalty on my licence. So that's what I was doing on Tuesday morning.

There were 24 of us in a room being looked after by 2 facilitators, one of whom had the demeanour of a sorrowful, empathic, avuncular prison officer, the other the gloomy aspect of an undertaker from Rotherham: each one of his anecdotes ending with, "Ploughed straight into 'em. Never stood a chance."

I saw this course as an opportunity to reappraise my attitude to driving and get back into the good habits that I'd long slipped out of. The other people there...? Hmmmm... Not so much.

The first question was offered by the sad Uncle: what is the speed limit in built-up areas? Easy. That's 30mph. Although in some circumstances the police will apply a formula (the speed limit + 10% + 9) that gives drivers some leeway up to 42mph. Interesting, no?

Second question. What is the speed limit on motorways? That's right, 70mph. Use the formula and you get 86mph. A middle-aged woman with badly died hair (she had plainly forgotten to do her roots) and who steadfastly refused to take her brown anorak off said, "Well the limit's going to be 80 soon anyway. So..."

"Yes, but the limit is still seventy miles per hour," said the doleful trainer. The funeral director was out of the room.

"They'll put it up to eighty. They have to," said a bloke in a chunky grey pullover which looked as if it was rather itchy. The whole room shifted its attention to him. "The government want us to drive faster so we use more fuel and give them more money in taxes."

His pronouncement was met with silence. Apart from me. I coughed up a giggle. His stern face told me he wasn't joking. I stopped laughing. This fella's enunciation of his conspiracy theory was the cue for everyone else to give voice to their sense of injustice.

A woman at the back with her glasses perched on the end of her nose said, "The thing you don't appreciate is that society moves much faster now. We all work, we're all pressed for time and for the most part we're all being penalised for just keeping up with the flow of traffic."

"They friggin' trapped me - excuse my language. They were hiding behind the bushes with a speed gun," said a woman in a nurse's uniform.

"I'd like to see the breakdown of deaths on the road. I bet most of 'em are just ordinary people in a hurry to get to work," said a man in a tracksuit at my table.

A woman with a number two haircut and very pink, shiny skin - which reminded me of spam - got very animated and punctuated her shrill speech with a jabbing index finger. "Right. Let's get right to the crutch(!) of the matter," she hissed, flecks of spittle spraying from her downturned mouth. "You lot want us to speed so we can keep you in a job. We have to speed," which sounded a lot like the same conspiracy theme enunciated by the grey pullover: as if David Cameron had clamped their foot to the accelerator pedal.

Many whiney voices were raised at this point, crashing around the room in a bitter cacophony, but I tuned out as I began to swoon with the realisation that I may well be a misanthrope. Suddenly X Factor and 50 Shades Of Grey made perfect sense. I spend most of my life fully engaged in responsibility avoidance (I construct my own little world within which I can draw upon resources to help me remain creative - that's my excuse anyway), but even I accept that the reason I received a speeding ticket is because I was driving like a wanker and I could have hurt, or even killed, someone.

I'm aware it's a bit of a touchy feely notion, but we are all of us connected. Whatever I do, or don't do, has an impact on the wider society. A more apposite example of this is our lust for the new iPhone 5. The working conditions in the Foxconn plant where they are manufactured are so awful there was a spate of suicides. In reaction to this the employee dormitories are now equipped with safety nets to catch those who might want to jump. Earlier this year around 150 workers threatened to commit suicide by leaping from the factory roof in protest at their working conditions. This is emblematic of life in the Western world: poor foreign workers, stripped of their rights and dignity, and forced to make gadgets for the wealthy (ie. us). We point to our gadgets as a sign of the advancement of the human race and this is true, but at what cost.

These workers do not receive what any person would consider a living wage. A Foxconn production line worker would have to work 60,000 years to earn what Tim Cook, CEO of Apple, takes home in 365 days.

And the wider implications if we cede our responsibilities to each other are manifest. We end up in a special relationship with a rapacious America who's foreign policy in the Middle East is clearly delineated by the scary and comical John Bolton, but no-one gives a flying finger of fudge:

"...Persian Gulf, the critical oil and natural gas producing region that we fought so many wars to try to protect our economy from the adverse impact of losing that supply or having it available only at very high prices."

So, what have I learned this week?

1) I'll be sticking with my iPhone 4 for a while. Well, at least until my present contract runs out.

and

2) Only a fool breaks the 2 second rule. Unless the police take time out from tasering blind people of pensionable age and force you to drive faster.

Lost in the Hustle

2012-10-18T17:30:00.000-07:00

So, I popped into HMV to acquire the new KISS album and, (sigh...), well... Despite hitting No. 3 in the US Billboard Album Chart, it has to be said that the first few spins reveal a rather sub-par attempt. It sounds more underwhelming than I'd expected: the tired efforts of 4 old men surfing the wave of brand recognition onto an increasingly deserted beach. A re-tread of overly familiar riffs accompanied by lyrics so bad they could have been penned by any 6 year old who has English as their second, or indeed third, language. There aren't even any extras to mitigate the disappointment. Their last album, Sonic Boom, came with an extra CD of re-tooled KISS Klassics and a DVD which featured a live performance from Argentina.

But what does it matter? This stopped being about the music long ago. The 3D cover looks pretty fantastic.

My week was saved by my sister, who finally returned my Hustle DVDs. I'm watching the final ever episode as I type this. Hustle is right up there with The Persuaders in the fun, timeless, slick entertainment stakes. The style, the gloss, the plot twists, the breaking of the fourth wall, the lavish London locations, the guest stars, the sharp suits, the gratuitous tap-dance routines and Napoleon Solo from The Man From U.N.C.L.E. rendered this a supreme televisual experience.

It's a massive shame they won't be making any further episodes as there haven't been too many BBC series with a Black British lead, but it does mean that Adrian Lester - the real reason why I watched this programme - can get back to ripping it up on stage. He's doing Othello at the National next year and I can't wait to see what he does with Shakespeare's Moor.

In the meantime Mr Lester is warming up by winning rave reviews for his performance in Red Velvet at the Tricycle Theatre. Written by his other half, the playwright Lolita Chakrabarti, it concerns the celebrated 19th century black American actor Ira Aldridge: the first actor to play Othello who didn't have to black up. At the time of Aldridge's first performance the abolition of the slave trade had just been enforced, but racist attitudes still prevailed and thus he attracted a vicious ire from the press based solely on his complexion. Described as "Gentleman of colour," and an “unseemly nigger”, The Times said of him,

“Owing to the shape of his lips it is utterly impossible for him to pronounce English.”

The scathing reviews saw the London theatres block his further employment and so he made his career in regional theatre before eventually leaving England to become a star in Eastern Europe and one of the world's most celebrated actors, receiving £60 per performance.

Two ironies here;

1) 147 years after Ira's death Eastern Europe is a far less racially tolerant place, as evinced by the monkey chanting Serbian football fans at the recent England's Under 21 match.

2) Attitudes here have changed little. This weekend will see Premiership striker Jason Roberts of Reading boycott the Kick It Out campaign in protest of the leniency shown towards John Terry after he racially abused Anton Ferdinand. And ethnic minorities are still referred to as "People of colour," because, of course, Caucasian Pink isn't a colour, it's the default setting.

3) Whereas Ira came to England from America to sustain his art, British Black actors are travelling in the opposite direction for roles of substance. Morgan Freeman suggests, "The British film (and television) industry needs to catch up with the times."

Mr Lester has intimated that he'd like to get back into film, which means he too will be disappearing across the Atlantic pretty soon following Parminder Nagra, Chiwetel Ejiofor, David Oyelowo, David Harewood, Marianne Jean-Baptiste, and Idris 'The Man' Elba.

Upcoming band stuff means I won't make it to the Tricycle Theatre before the present run of Red Velvet finishes, but I'll be cheering Mr Lester on when he takes on Othello, wishing him bon voyage and keeping my fingers crossed for a Hollywood career which is bound to include the big screen adaptation of Hustle.

KISS and sell-out

2012-10-08T16:52:00.000-07:00

So, I'm watching the movie Ted and I squeal with pleasure when I see a KISS poster on the titular teddy bear's bedroom wall. I LOOOOOVE KISS. Always have. In 1994 they released an album entitled Kiss My Ass on which Lenny Kravitz, Stevie Wonder, Tom Morello and Maynard James Keenan paid tribute to the self-proclaimed Gods Of Thunder. Seth McFarlane and I are not the only celebrities who love them.

The day I encountered KISS for the first time changed my life. It was at my baby sister's birthday party and one of the guests brought a couple of KISS discs to rock the house. The covers alone intrigued me. I guess it was because they looked so different and were utterly unapologetic. It was something with which I could identify and, weirdly, they were a source of strength when everything went a little bit Nazi at school. I have KISS to thank for my desire to make music, and Gene Simmons to thank for the thrilling dexterity and flexibility of my expert tongue.

The brilliant thing about KISS is that even though their songs are utterly peerless - sticking rigidly to the pop template set out by The Beatles, but with heavy, overdriven guitars - you don't have to like the band to dig their live show. For example, you've got to really enjoy Bono's preening sanctimony to derive any sort of pleasure from a U2 concert. Whereas with KISS, well, "You wanted the best, you got the best!" has always been their battle cry (the rabidly dedicated fans are called the KISS Army). Who amongst us doesn't love guitars which shoot rockets, drums which levitate 50 feet in the air, singers who fly over the heads of the audience, or blood spitting, batwinged demons sporting dragon platform boots who breathe fire? Sufuckingperb!

They have sold more than 100 million records and have officially licensed over 3,000 products since their bigger-than-The Beatles 1970s heyday including KISS Marvel comics; KISS credit cards; KISS condoms; KISS Him and KISS Her fragrances; KISS action figures; the KISS Kasket (a coffin featuring pictures of the band and a tasteful logo); KISS Monster Mini-Golf Amusement Center in Las Vegas; KISS pinball machines; the KISS Coffeehouse; and emblazoning Hello Kitty and Family Guy merchandise with KISS imagery.

KISS were the very first Rock Brand and a marketing strategist's wet dream. They opened the door for non-entities like Tulisa from X-Factor to have her own perfume.

"I wanted a fragrance that I could relate to. Something powerful without losing its girlieness. I wanted to be able to wear it day and night. This fragrance will really give the girls the confidence to show those boys who is boss!"

And we all know that the latest James Bond movie (heard the Adele tune yet? What the fuck is a "Skyfow"? Or a "Crumbow"? It's truly dreadfow) will be a product placement fest. A quick scan of the website reveals that they're selling bottles of 007 Bollinger Champagne for £150 and there's a list of products which have been featured in previous movies;

"In the movie GoldenEye Bond is drinking Jack Daniel's whiskey with M in her office. The bottle can be seen on the counter, at around 49 minutes into the movie."

Anyway, I was buying my Sean John (the clothing and fragrance company of Sean 'P Diddy' Combs) I Am King Eau De Toilette in the Skelmersdale Concourse last week and I noticed that on one of the top shelves of the Mens section, next to the cut price Beckham Instinct they had a bottle of Sex Pistols fragrance which proclaimed "Certainly, there's a revolution in this bottle." How punk is that? Almost as punk as John Lydon saying about the Palestinians "If Elvis-fucking-Costello wants to pull out of a gig in Israel because he's suddenly got this compassion for Palestinians, then good on him, but I have absolutely one rule, right? Until I see an Arab country, a Muslim country, with a democracy, I won't understand how anyone can have a problem with how they're treated."

Butter selling tosser. You are the antichrist indeed.

Despite having KISS action figures in my attic (you're officially sad if you keep them in their boxes, so I bought 2 sets: 1 to recreate their classic concerts and 1 which will stay sealed to form the better part of my estate once I'm dead) and the impending release of their 20th studio album Monster, I've reached an impasse. One which might see me officially revoke my membership of the KISS Army and go AWOL.

Slavishly adhering to the "If something's worth doing, it's worth overdoing," mantra KISS recently released an autographed photo book priced at a trouser-filling, wait for it... $4,250. Let me just write that in words: four thousand, two hundred and fifty dollars. For a book. A book! If I was laying out that amount of do$h I'd need to be able to drive that sucker to work. At a time when many of us are struggling to get by, it's aberrant that a band which purports to be of the people would put out something like this, which is obviously skewed towards their weekend golfing buddies.

"We understand it’s not for everybody, but it wouldn’t be fair to the people who can afford it and appreciate it to not put it out. It’s something for a select few. One size doesn’t fit all with KISS. Just like those people who have the front row seats, this is a book for people who can afford it."

They're officially the Marie Antoinette of Rock 'n' Roll and chillingly echo the acidic sentiments of Mitt Romney:

"There are 47 percent of the people who will vote for the president no matter what. All right, there are 47 percent who are with him, who are dependent upon government, who believe that they are victims, who believe the government has a responsibility to care for them, who believe that they are entitled to health care, to food, to housing, to you-name-it... My job is not to worry about those people. I'll never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives."

Little wonder Gene's rooting for Mitt in the upcoming election. As I'm typing this paragraph, my sister's just sent me a text which says, "Ahhh. KISS! Special memories." And she's right. There are whole swathes of my life which have a KISS soundtrack. Songs which have a special significance and transport me back to a specific time and place. I became The World's Greatest Drummer® by playing along to KISS records: slowing them down so I could work out how Peter Criss played his Jazz-flavoured fills. Any time I play a show I channel the spirit of Gene Simmons and gather darkness to please me.

The thing is, on reflection, KISS never had any integrity. They've never even pretended to have any integrity. They had a go once (the glorious prog rock misstep which was The Elder), fell flat on their faces and never tried again. Indeed their whole career has been a long, slow, deep fucking of integrity's ass. So this book thing is no surprise really... And you never just fall out of love, do you? It's impossible...

Anyone want to lend me $4,250?

You wonder where I been? I been gone for a while!

2012-09-26T16:26:00.000-07:00

The words of Daryl McDaniels from Can I Get It Yo, track 3 on the seminal Run DMC album Down With The King. Mind you, in the same tune he also says, "Back to attack the wick-wick-wack. Me, Daryl Mac. Suckers on my ball sac!" So, y'know, I'm not sure how much store one can put by his statements. I have, however, been on hiatus for a period of time.

Writing a novel.

A cross between Douglas Adams' The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and Robert Tressell's The Ragged-Trousered Philanthropists: weaving the overtly political into the surreally comedic, because, kids, there is truth in art. Which is why Shakespeare rocks so hard and still resonates through the veil of five (count 'em) centuries.

Here's a f'r'instance: Coriolanus. A lesser known of the tragedies in Bill's canon, the character of Caius Marcius Coriolanus (the flawed warrior who tries being a politician because his Mum thinks it's a good idea), is so one-dimensional he doesn't even get a soliloquy like Hamlet or Macbeth.

I struggled getting through it when I read this play as a youngster. I found the politics of the piece baffling, but it taught me a new word which described the group of people Coriolanus so despised;

You common cry of curs, whose breath I hate
As reek a’th’rotten fens, whose loves I prize
As the dead carcasses of unburied men
That do corrupt my air—I banish you!

The word, of course, is "Plebeian" and it's been bandied about recently as flagrantly as an empty Lib Dem promise: the Chief Whip accidentally giving voice to the contempt Tories feel for ordinary people, as if their divisive policies weren't clue enough. When Gideon cut taxes for the rich in the 2012 budget the acceleration of inequality was plain for all to see. It is projected that by 2015 at least half a million more children will fall below the official poverty threshold. The young, women and the poorest have taken the brunt of the Coalition cuts. Andrew Mitchell denies he used the words attributed to him, which is good enough for Our Dave to draw a line underneath this episode. Or at least try.

The irony is we're supposed to feel sympathy for the target of Mr Mitchell's ire, namely the police. The very same chaps who altered statements to cover themselves over Hillsborough, shot and killed Mark Duggan and instigated a "gangster" narrative to muddy the waters and ensure that we all came to the conclusion that he was asking for it. They fed the media the story that Mark Duggan shot at them first, was out-gunned and died as a result. As evidence they cited the fact that a bullet lodged in a police radio. At first we were told Duggan was responsible, before it became clear that the bullet belonged to the officers themselves.

The legendary rock band, Spinal Tap, summarised this precise situation best in their description of two business managers who meet in a hotel lobby*.

When two liars lie so much they just cancel each other out.

A plague o' both your houses.

* from the DVD commentary of This Is Spinal Tap possibly the greatest movie commentary of all time.

Michael Bay vs Rupert Murdoch: Clash Of The Twats

2011-07-10T16:08:00.000-07:00

I can't believe almost every blog includes my visiting the cinema, but, in the words of West Coast Ghetto Heisman, Dub C, "Uh oh! Here we go again!"

I went to see Transformers: Dark Of The Moon. I've now seen all three movies in the franchise, returning like an inquisitive index finger to a ripening scab. That's over seven hours (!) of no discernible plot, explosions, slow motion sequences, more explosions, gratuitous ass shots, ever more explosions and cringe inducing dialogue permanently set to "CONSTANT SHOUTING!". All of which should make for the perfect popcorn experience, shouldn't it? Shouldn't it?!? However, in the hands of Mr Bay you feel like the poor stunt driver who was injured during its production: permanently brain damaged with one eye stitched shut.

Mr Bay describes his style of filmmaking as "Fucking the frame". I spent the whole movie thinking "Damn! Can I at least get a blow job, or an enthusiastic tongue between my oiled buttocks to get me excited first?" But no. No foreplay. It's all about the penetration with Michael. A sinister penetration which recalls Robert De Niro as Max Cady in Cape Fear. Bay is laughing at us as he rips at our flesh with his teeth. How else to explain the execrable Rosie Huntington-Whiteley in her film debut? Her bee-stung lips are more animated than she is and, undoubtedly, pre-assembled flat pack furniture in Swedish pine would have proved far less wooden. She manages to make Megan Fox appear as accomplished as Dame Judi Dench. Bay doesn't care though. He's essentially saying "My movies are just about blowing stuff up. I don't even need actors. Look!" That's how little he thinks of us as the audience.

Fans of the movies (I know! Incredible. How they stay upright is beyond me) claim that Transformers: Dark Of The Moon is better than Transformers: Revenge Of The Fallen, which is like me saying that my tonsillectomy was a better experience than having my wisdom teeth out.

The most annoying thing though isn't the interminable asinine juvenility, it's the caption: "Middle East: Illegal Nuclear Site", which appears just before Bumblebee and the rest of his Autobot homeboys start kicking a little raghead ass.

What the - What?!? Is Michael Bay doing politics?!?

I felt so dirty I left the cinema vowing to wipe myself down with the last ever edition of the News Of The World. I'm kidding. I've never bought that filthy little rag, its sister paper The Sun or subscribed to Sky, so my conscience is entirely clear. Well, at least when it comes to the funding of Murdoch's empire. I remember being in the studio recording a track with guitar legend Jim Davies (he of The Prodigy fame) who arrived one morning a tad upset that he'd received a volley of abuse from a newsagent for purchasing the latter publication. David Goldring, who was laying down beats, explained the revulsion in Liverpool for the paper. It dates back to the 1989 Hillsborough disaster and the headline:

“The Truth.

Some fans picked pockets of victims

Some fans urinated on the brave cops

Some fans beat up PC giving kiss of life.”

A policeman was quoted in the article claiming that Liverpool fans "were openly urinating on us and the bodies of the dead.” David summarised succinctly, "So we were picking the pockets of our own dead friends and families and pissing on their corpses, yeah?" The Sun have yet to apologise. Kelvin McKenzie even stated recently that he was happy to stand behind the veracity of the story.

The Milly Dowler revelations came as no surprise to those who have nothing but utter contempt for Mr Murdoch, his twisted world view and his hijacking of a party which was supposed to represent all of us who have to go to work tomorrow. The leader of the Labour Party can't even support workers voting to strike for fear of how it would play in the press. The only thing separating us from my bound and shackled forebears is our right to withdraw our labour.

When Our Tone became Labour leader in 1994 he flew across the globe to pay homage to Big Rupe, assuring him he'd play by his rules. It's been revealed that he spoke to Rupe on three occasions in the days leading up to the Iraq invasion on March 11th, 13th and the 19th, which was the day before the invasion itself. Rupert said at the time, "I think Tony is being extraordinarily courageous and strong... It's not easy to do that living in a party which is largely composed of people who have a knee-jerk anti-Americanism and are sort of pacifist. But he's shown great guts…"

Yep. "Great guts" to go to war on a stack of lies and rape a country of its resources. And he's so brazen he had no fear in referring to that three letter word our governments are far too scared to whisper. "The greatest thing to come out of this for the world economy...would be $20 a barrel for oil. That's bigger than any tax cut in any country." So it's not like it's a bad thing.

The same fella recently ran a story saying that DJ Gadaffi issued his troops with Viagra, the easier to commit mass rape. The motivation for this lie being the same three letter word. The same fella who claims to support our brave boys overseas runs an organisation which hacks the 'phones of dead soldiers' families.

I'm looking forward to him scapegoating his sacked journalists as workshy benefit scroungers. The question now is whether or not people are disgusted enough by these recent revelations to make Rupert's gleaming edifice of shit crumble to dust. I doubt it though. Boys like Page 3 don't they, eh? They like their boobs, don't they, eh? And it's just a bit of fun, innit? Phwoar, eh?

PPPPPPHHHHHHHWOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRRRR!!!

Which, I believe, was pretty much the first draft of the script for Transformers: Dark Of The Moon.

Johann Hari's Divinterview

2011-07-10T15:33:00.000-07:00

I've never liked Johann Hari. I saw him once on a BBC current affairs programme shouting at George Galloway because he thought the Iraq invasion was morally necessary. His pudgy child's face was all red and puffy as he jabbed a finger towards Gorgeous George who had a smirk on his face. 8 years later and despite being absolutely right in EVERYTHING he said George inspires little but ire and consternation (an acquaintance recently described him as "an arsehole spouting shit", whilst another shared a joke about shooting him. It's fair enough. Once you put your head above the parapet you're fair game for anything really), whilst Mr Hari is now the darling of the "Left".

Unfortunately, Mr Hari has been caught plagiarising other journalist's articles and existing quotes from his interviewees to flesh out his articles. Hardly the appropriate actions of an award winning journalist. Anyway, below is his recent interview with Jesus Christ which should restore his reputation.

Jesus Christ. Rebel. Freedom Fighter. Icon. That he chose me to be the first interviewer since his recent resurrection is, undoubtedly, a burden, but one my coolly cynical shoulders are more than happy to bear.
The first thing I notice is that the door to Jesus' abode doesn't seem to exist. It's merely a collection of abstractions and concepts rather than anything solid one would find in aisle seven at, say, B&Q or Wickes: the weekend altars of worship de nos jours. I asked him about this as we finally sat opposite each other. He folded his arms and regarded me slightly askance. "You see, Johann," he began, all charm and easy, if vague, erudition, “ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” His eyes are vast with benevolence as a laugh barks from his throat, the light dancing on his burnished skin.
But what relevance the House of God as the struggle between the 'Haves' and the 'Have nots' rages? "My position hasn't changed, Joey, but not due to intransigence," he clarifies. He's more relaxed now as he warms to my softly softly questioning. "Years of detached observation, derived from my fundamental divinity, have led me to this simple truth." He pauses, leans in conpiratorially and says softly: enunciating in a breathless whisper, "It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the Kingdom of Heaven."

As I look about the room - a testament to distinguished Oak and Mahogony bathed in an avuncular incandescence - I'm reminded of appearing on BBC's 'The Sharp End' with George Galloway in 2003. I was wrong about the Iraq War. So very wrong. Vociferously so. David Aaronovitch and I - ekeing out a very comfortable living in a resolutely mediocre UK media with no fear of reprisal - will have to live with that for the rest of our lives, but instead of giving me the slap about the ears I plainly deserved for spouting Blair's propaganda George merely smiled at me. An expression imbued with such sympathy and pity I interpreted it as mockery. JC - as he insists I call him - is grinning at me in exactly the same way now. He knows something. Or at least he thinks he does.
Gabriel, his PA, appears from nowhere like a Mr Benn shopkeeper and whispers something in his ear. JC nods slowly and fixes me with an ambivalent gaze. Our time is up. "Everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, and he who humbles himself will be exalted," he pronounces as he rises to show me to the door. "All I ask, Joey, is that when you write this up it is not just an essayistic representation of what I think; but a report on an encounter between the interviewer and the interviewee. Will you do that for me?" He sounds a little like Claire Rayner.

"Whatever you say, Lord," I reply.
I walk down the short road to the tube and everything is the same; shiny shopfronts on either side of the street; people chained to their ipods, their eyes cast groundwards. But I am different.