Freshly Chopped Basil

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.

Basil Creese Jr: Superhero

2011-06-12T09:16:00.000-07:00

Back in the mists of time, when my sister, my brother and I would go to see Hollywood movies together, we'd bet on when they would kill off the token black character and how gruesome his death would be. I remember there was one movie which saw a black man die quite horrifically within ten minutes of the opening credits which made us all erupt with laughter and cheers and left the rest of the audience with the impression that we were perhaps serial killers taking a break from slaughtering innocents.

The acclaimed director Alex Cox (Repo Man, Sid and Nancy) calls it The Disposable Black Man principle and he cites a friend who worked at a major studio in Burbank, California who would play exactly the same game with her friends. Mr Cox had a programme that he used to host on BBC2 called Moviedrome and he discussed the treatment of the black characters and their gratuitously violent deaths in his introduction to Darkman, quoting Unforgiven and David Lynch's Wild At Heart as further examples. You can watch the last scene in question here.

Up until that point I'd thought we were crazy and that this was something only we had noticed. It's been a while since we Creese Children occupied 3 cinema seats together (the last film we saw as a trio was The Bourne Supremacy, which I retitled The White Supremacy, because there are no black people in that motherfucker! I didn't bother with The Lord Of The Rings trilogy for the same reason), but it's a game I still play on my own.

I went to see X Men: First Class a couple of days ago. It claims to be a metaphor for tolerance (Malcolm X and Martin Luther King are the inspiration for Magneto and Professor X respectively). I was interested in whether, firstly, there was a black superhero, and secondly, how long he would last. The answer was 1. Yes, and 2. About seven minutes. And, as usual, he was eviscerated in the most horrible way. Ah, it took me back. Good times... Good times...

I didn't bother watching this year's Oscars ceremony as my corner shop had run out of Pussy juice (see blogs passim) and there was not a single black nominee in any of the categories. Not... One... Why is ever increasing societal diversity not being reflected in the film industry? Presumably ignorant twats like Morrissey (yeah, I said it. What? And fuck The Smiths!) and David "Multiculturalism has failed" Cameron who yearn for an age where the outside world had the good manners to stop at the white cliffs of Dover will have been feverishly tugging at their tumescence as they saw the list of nominees.

Cambridge graduate Thandie Newton's recent experience gives the lie to the notions that either the black talent doesn't exist or that it's just about the bottom line of dollars and cents. There is an agenda;

"There was one time I went for a meeting for this big movie and I was up for a character who wasn't written as black. The character was a college graduate and the studio head, a woman, said, 'How can we make this role more black if we are going to have you in the film?' And I said, 'Well, I think as it's written it's fine...' And she said, 'Yeah, I know, but she is a graduate, she has been to university.' So I said, 'I've been to university.' And then it was, 'Yeah, but you're different.'"

Thandie turned down the role. Kenneth Branagh's Thor features the peerless Idris Elba as Heimdall and whilst, as a The Wire devotee, it was fantastic to see him in such a high profile role, all through the movie I was waiting for his violent demise. But even his taking the role in the first place caused ire amongst the racial purists. I visit the white supremacist website stormfront.org pretty regularly (the better to know one's enemy), and it's fair to say they were outraged at his casting.

"This IS an attack on a White culture! If anyone attempted to muscle in on e.g. Red Indian or Tibetan culture, the ethnics would be able to legally challenge them! This IS no different! The only role this black should be playing is that of a primitive of some sort! And he should be playing that within his own culture, in Africa!"

Big Idris recently gave his thoughts on the under-representation of black people in Hollywood cinema. Elba said:

"Imagine a film such as Inception with an entire cast of black people – do you think it would be successful?" Elba asks. "Would people watch it? But no one questions the fact that everyone's white. That's what we have to change."

Yes, we do. I've started writing a screenplay which features Basil Creese Jr as a conflicted superhero: should he save a world for which he has nothing but contempt? I haven't decided if I make it to the end of the movie yet, but I definitely want Zac Efron to play me.

I blame the parents

2011-06-12T05:13:00.000-07:00

My Father spent the last few months of his life sitting on, and lying in, not wholly uncomfortable hospital beds waiting to see heart consultants who would stroke their chins and "Hmmmm..." a lot as they studied his file. We would fill the spaces between these disappointments with political discourse. Tragic, n'est ce pas? But I guess that's how we were able to connect. Indeed that's how we would always connect. I remember watching Saturday morning television and rooting for the Goody Cowboys against the Baddy Indians until one day he asked me: "What makes you think that the Cowboys are the Good Guys?" And that kind of changed my perspective forever. Basil Creese Senior and I would chat about politics a lot. I would read LOADS around a subject and then casually bring it up in conversation so I could dazzle him with my erudition. He, of course, would still be far better informed than me and with a perspective which would be genuinely disarming.

The last book I took to him whilst he was in Wythenshawe Hospital was Pirates and Emperors by Noam Chomsky. The central premise of this work is a story related by St. Augustine of a pirate captured by Alexander the Great, who asked him “How dare you molest the sea?” “How dare you molest the whole world?” the pirate replied. “Because I do it with a little ship only, I am called a thief; you, doing it with a great navy, are called an Emperor.” St. Augustine thought the pirate's answer was "elegant and excellent" and 1581 years after his death it still resonates as we consider the notion of "terrorism": a word whose original definition was to describe the acts of violence perpetrated by government to ensure the submission of the populace.

Basil pére read the book and was "amazed" at its power and wondered how come, if this book was in circulation and freely available, people weren't rioting in the streets. I was so pleased he had enjoyed it. I couldn't have been more elated if I'd written it myself. As I sat there feeling smug, he asked me, "Have you heard of Diego Garcia?"

"Was he on the subs bench for Brazil in the last World Cup?" I asked.

"No," he sighed wearily, and put his head back on the pillow. "If you want to know what the world is like, just look at Diego Garcia."

"Diego Garcia?"

I got a bit distracted and didn't look to research it straight away. My Father's Father, Hazel, had died whilst he (Basil Sr) and a friend were at the cinema watching Gone With The Wind, so I spent the next few days tempting fate by going to see lots of rubbish movies between visiting hours, and if Pater was ok when I got back to hospital then that meant everything was going to be all right.*

After his funeral, at which I delivered a joyful eulogy, Diego Garcia swam back into my field of vision and I decided to find out what the Big Fella was talking about.

The great John Pilger described it thus;

"There are times when one tragedy, one crime tells us how a whole system works behind its democratic facade and helps us to understand how much of the world is run for the benefit of the powerful and how governments lie. To understand the catastrophe of Iraq, and all the other Iraqs along imperial history's trail of blood and tears, one need look no further than Diego Garcia."

Diego Garcia was a British colony inhabited by the descendants of slaves who had been there for 200 years. In the 1960s the British Government leased the island to the US Military so that they could install a base which would act as a staging post for their Middle East interventions. The islanders (casually dismissed as mere "Man Fridays" and "Tarzans" by the Foreign Office) were expelled and repatriated to Mauritius, whilst successive governments perpetrated the fiction that the island had never been inhabited and that the islanders were only ever "migrant workers" meaning their rights would not come under the jurisdiction of the UN.

I mention all of this because more than 150 exiled Chagossians gathered in London about three weeks ago to call for a return to their Indian Ocean archipelago home. Sure enough a rebuttal came in the form of a piece written in the Guardian by a Pew Trust (a group who strive to "

acquaint the American people with the evils of bureaucracy and the values of a free market")

representative who asserted;

"We believe the Chagos Islands and their surrounding waters should be protected for the resources and values they have today."

And that;

"The designation of the Chagos archipelago as the world's largest fully protected marine reserve is a bright spot we should all celebrate."

So far, so ho hum. These poor chaps can't return because of the their effect on the fragile ecosystem. Notwithstanding that B52's and Stealth Bombers roar in and out of the place on an hourly basis. Nor the fact that the recent Wikileaks controversy highlighted this as a mere strategy of obfuscation;

Friday, 15 May 2009, 07:00

C O N F I D E N T I A L LONDON 001156

NOFORN

SIPDIS

EO 12958 DECL: 05/13/2029

TAGS MARR, MOPS, SENV, UK, IO">IO">IO, MP, EFIS, EWWT, PGOV, PREL

SUBJECT: HMG FLOATS PROPOSAL FOR MARINE RESERVE COVERING

THE CHAGOS ARCHIPELAGO (BRITISH INDIAN OCEAN TERRITORY)

REF: 08 LONDON 2667 (NOTAL)

Classified By: Political Counselor Richard Mills for reasons 1.4 b and d

Summary

More than 2,000 islanders were evicted during the Cold War to make way for a huge US military base. The islanders have fought a long battle to be allowed to return. British Foreign Office and American officials discuss plans to establish a marine park on Diego Garcia and the surrounding islands, which they say would effectively end the islanders resettlement claims.

Read related article

1. (C/NF) Summary. HMG would like to establish a "marine park" or "reserve" providing comprehensive environmental protection to the reefs and waters of the British Indian Ocean Territory (BIOT), a senior Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO) official informed Polcouns on May 12. The official insisted that the establishment of a marine park -- the world's largest -- would in no way impinge on USG use of the BIOT, including Diego Garcia, for military purposes. He agreed that the UK and U.S. should carefully negotiate the details of the marine reserve to assure that U.S. interests were safeguarded and the strategic value of BIOT was upheld. He said that the BIOT's former inhabitants would find it difficult, if not impossible, to pursue their claim for resettlement on the islands if the entire Chagos Archipelago were a marine reserve. End Summary.

Diego Garcia is a tragedy which has been exacerbated by British governments of all hues. Luckily for us and our insistence on the right NOT to know. Anything. The coverage of this affair remains

virtually non existent in western mainstream media. Servitude to power regularly wears the cloak of silence and the fight of the Chagossians is a very good example of this.

Back in 1982, just before the Argentinians claimed the Falkland Islands, Mrs Thatcher's government made the first conciliatory move for 17 years; the Chagossians received approximately half of what they were due in compensation to allow them to rehouse in Mauritius. The British public were made aware of the Falkland Islands and the people who inhabited them whilst at the same time the Chagosians remained resolutely "unpeople". Anonymous and abandoned.
If you knew nothing about Diego Garcia, don't sweat it. Blame your parents.
* When the end came my brother was in the cinema watching Hellboy.

Bamboozled

2011-04-19T10:26:00.000-07:00

Everything is connected. It's not a profound or abstract thought. It is a simple truth.

At the beginning of the month - before my left eye began feeling as if I was sliding it down onto the point of an upturned knife. Slowly - I went to see "Sucker Punch", a movie in which the sumptuous visuals are deliberately designed to obviate the need for anything but a cursory characterisation or narrative. Being an aesthete it certainly worked for me. Any movie which shamelessly lifts shots from the peerless "Casshern" will always earn bonus points.

Anyway, midway through the vignette where four hotties with submachine guns, samurai swords and tight booty shorts are laying waste to Steam-Powered Zombie Nazis in WWI trenches the Yoda-like Scott Glen, in heavy eye-liner, tosses off the following Malcolm X quote:

"If you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything."

Once I got home I watched Spike Lee's "Bamboozled" which, in its turn, was inspired by another Malcolm X quote.*

In an oddly powerful film with a very odd look - generated by its being shot on Mini DV digital cameras - the highlights, before the heartbreaking closing montage revealing hollywood's ceaseless celebration of coonery, are provided by the ongoing endeavours of the militant hip hop posse Mau Maus featuring Mos Def, Canibus and Charli Baltimore. I bumped their angry track "Blak Iz Blak" steadily on repeat for three days straight.

A couple of weeks later four elderly individuals are standing outside the High Court, one holding a placard which reads: “Pay up for the British Gulag in Kenya.” As members of the Mau Mau (an acronym derived from Swahili: "Mzungu Aende Ulaya, Mwafrika Apate Uhuru" meaning "Let the European go back to Europe, Let the African regain Independence.") uprising they suffered systematic abuse at the hands of the invading British who stole their land and gave it to white settlers. The Kenya Human Rights Commission has said 90,000 Kenyans were executed, tortured or maimed and 160,000 were detained in concentration camps in horrific conditions. They want the UK government to accept responsibility for the crimes committed in these British administered camps. The culture of inhuman cruelty amongst the colonial authorities in Kenya is best summarised by the testimony of British officers. Just two:

"Things got a little out of hand. By the time we cut his balls off he had no ears, and his eyeball, the right one, I think, was hanging out of its socket. Too bad, he died before we got much out of him."

and

"They wouldn’t say a thing, of course, and one of them, a tall coal-black bastard, kept grinning at me, real insolent. I slapped him hard, but he kept right on grinning at me, so I kicked him in the balls as hard as I could. He went down in a heap but when he finally got up on his feet he grinned at me again and I snapped, I really did. I stuck my revolver right in his grinning mouth and I said something, I don’t remember what, and I pulled the trigger.

His brains went all over the side of the police station. The other two Mickeys were standing there looking blank. I said to them that if they didn’t tell me where to find the rest of the gang I’d kill them too. They didn’t say a word so I shot them both. One wasn’t dead so I shot him in the ear. When the sub-inspector drove up, I told him that the Mickeys tried to escape. He didn’t believe me but all he said was ‘bury them and see the wall is cleared up."

A couple of weeks ago David Cameron told Pakistani students that "Britain was responsible for many of the world's problems ... in the first place." He was talking about Kashmir a product of Britain's partition of India in 1947. Also available in this series: the Israel-Palestine conflict and the carve-up of the Middle East and Africa. Naturally, his comments were greeted with bemused indignation by the usual suspects in the right wing press who essentially echoed Gordon Brown's (remember him?) statement that "the days of Britain having to apologise for its colonial history are over."

The expressions of support for Gordon's position were predictable. Essentially the argument boils down to this: "Might is Right," and the British Empire was a benign force bringing the backwards, half-witted people overseas the benefits of civilisation. The brutal appropriation of other people's land and resources, and their persistent humiliation at the hands of a racist system of governance are rendered moral actions because of the introduction of an infrastructure.

Imagine you were so taken with my muscular buttocks in tight gold lamé hot pants that you decided to build an ornate ebony tower so you could imprison and rape me on a daily basis, it would be preposterous to claim the beauty of the tower compensated the horror of your crime. So when acquaintances talk about their mates' experiences travelling for a year in Australia and what a great time they've had on Bondi beach I tend to wince, because the genocide committed against Aborigines so that they can put on sunblock and perv at boys and girls in speedos and bikinis is never mentioned. Chandrasonic from Asian Dub Foundation notes:

"I’m sure the happy-go-lucky, ‘matey’ Australian self-image is a psychological construct that makes these crimes more palatable in popular culture.”

It also speaks volumes to the success the elite have had in skewing our reality that their eminence is seen as a natural extension of the status quo, and their selfish plunder is somehow viewed as a benevolent dissemination of civilised values. And despite its multi-ethnic empire, Britain could never bring itself to embrace ethnic diversity at home. Brian True-May's (is his best friend Freddie True-Mercury?) recent comments re "Midsomer Murders" aren't a shock to anyone who has managed to retain any critical faculties. Neither is today's report by Clearcast, which finds that TV advertising is "drastically under-representing" ethnic minority groups as we appear in only 5% of the 35,000 TV ads screened in the UK last year. David Cameron's recent "multiculturalism has failed speech," is just more of the same old same old.

And now ground troops are entering Libya bearing the tattered flag of "humanitarian intervention." Again. Our government couldn't give a flying fuck about the suffering in Libya. Or Iraq. These countries have something in common: vast oil and mineral reserves. When it came to light that the US Government had bought the false testimonies against Megrahi for $4 million per witness to cover up the CIA's involvement in the Lockerbie bombing, DJ Gaddafi wondered aloud why he should have had to pay $2.7 billion in compensation and threatened to extract his refund from the overseas oil companies on his soil. They went whining to their governments and hey presto! Another war we can pay for whilst libraries are being closed.

The tacit compliance of Middle Eastern Princes is bought (The Manchester City owners recently paid for more troops to suppress the protests in Bahrain) while the corporate vampires feast on their people. Libya has a population of about 6 million people each one of whom should be a millionaire many times over. Instead they're impoverished - the domestic economy drained of its wealth.

Tonight I'm watching "Blade."

* "Oh, I say and I say it again. Ya been had! Ya been took! Ya been hoodwinked! Bamboozled! Led astray! Run amok! This is what He does..."

In The Spotlight: Basil Creese Jr

2011-04-02T16:53:00.000-07:00

I was asked to complete one of those interview things recently and figured I'd share my unexpurgated answers...

What motivates you? I’m definitely an “away from” kind of chap, so, typically, it’s a fear of failure. However, this is a fear driven by my ceaseless insecurity, my limb-gnawing neediness and, what my mother describes bluntly as, my “monstrous narcissism”.

What de-motivates you? A badly lit mirror.

What do you get up to in your spare time? Mine and my brother's band Damaged Gods. Unlike much rap based music, which is entirely concerned with cars, money, guns, drugs, trainers and girls' bottoms, there is a political hue to our vivid beatscape which renders our art both visceral and cerebral. I also write. Amongst my published articles I'm most proud of contributing a cover story to “The Tribune” magazine - a publication which George Orwell used to write for.

What job did you want to do when you were at school? “Truth-Campaigning Journalist.” Time’s arrow and the inexorable onset of cynicism dashed my dreams on the unforgiving rocks of harsh reality and led me to conclude that the two terms are mutually exclusive.

Where is your favourite place in the world and why? Onstage, performing. One cannot create art in a vacuum and my compulsion to seek love, adoration and validation from complete strangers - whilst having them attest vociferously and enthusiastically that I’m LITERALLY covered in awesome - is overwhelming.

Which famous person (living or deceased) would you most like to meet, and why? Noam Chomsky. He’s a philosopher, a linguist, a political activist and revered essayist. I’d ask what inspired him to apply linguistic techniques and constructs to an advocacy for social and political change, and whether my looks prevent me being taken seriously.

What makes you laugh out loud? It’s a tie between Britain’s “ethical” foreign policy and America attempting a practical application of the innocuous sounding “Hegemony Stability Theory.” They’re a bit like Steve Coogan and Rob Brydon in “The Trip,” only more surreal and with a little more bloodshed.

Your one piece of advice for future generations: A thing done with moderation may later be judged to be insufficient, yeah? Sweet!

If you were an animal, what would you be? A Liger. It’s a cross between an overly promiscuous Lion, and a Tigress. On their hind legs they’re as tall as a double-decker bus! In this guise I’d be able to cut my queueing time in Boots - for my Astral All Over Moisturiser - in half! Possibly... It’s too close to call... Manchester's pretty hardcore.

Best book you would recommend “Zabiba and The King” by Saddam Hussein. A “Mills and Boon” style love story as penned by a murderous despot. Genius! It proved so popular it was turned into a musical. I mean, he didn’t even feel the need to devise a nom de plume like, say, “Mildred Bagshaw.” And why would he? After all, nothing says “romance” like “Saddam Hussein.” Also available in this series: “Quick and Easy meals for working Mums,” by Idi Amin.

Favourite Film you would recommend: “Brotherhood Of The Wolf.” Imagine “Dangerous Liaisons” meets “The Matrix” meets “Jaws” with an underlying poignant social commentary set against the backdrop of the French Revolution. Amazing. Either that or “Brozilla: He Is Legend!” - the film that’s playing in my head ALL the time, boasting a cast of one, outrageous CGI, gratuitous nudity and a throbbing, sensual self-written soundtrack.

Barcode Crucifix

2011-03-08T11:30:00.000-08:00

I got a call from an excited Matt at Playschool Noize today to advise that 'Barcode Crucifix' by Damaged Gods out on 4/4/2011 is officially available for pre-order from amazon, play.com and hmv.

Slide back a month and I'm watching the Brits hosted by James Corden. Eliza Doolittle, during the first half of an ad break sponsored by Mastercard, proffers her stinky, powder blue trainers to the camera and mews in a voice she obviously imagines to be endearing (but which actually induces me to try and chew at my left elbow), that these are indeed her favourite trainers. If ever there was an indication of the crass commodification of music then here it is: wrapped in a self congratulatory clusterfuck celebrating vacuous product placement.

Music is both an art and a science. Between the algorithms and arithmetic, maths and magic exists the light and shadow of music. And Cheryl Cole.

The musical landscape has always been populated by non-entities with absolutely fuck all to say, playing fifth rate music filtered through fifth hand ideas and sponsored by tossers who know literally fuck all about fuck all. The difference is that now they're likely to receive a Brit nomination as they guarantee TV ratings.

It's been a long road to get to a point where this work could be released. Variously, it didn't sound "black" enough (I'll leave that to Plan B). There were too many long words (Antidisestablishmentarianism, anyone?). The guitars (Jim Davies of The Prodigy guests) were a tad too angry. The themes too dark. Even the artwork (by Lucius Michael Copsey) caused some consternation with the last record company who deemed it "disgusting" and "distateful". Awesome, eh?

But hey, if Chuck D digs it then I know I'm doing something right. I'm not going to rewrite the foreword (Pretentious, moi? Mais oui!) to the album here, but great art should be a document of the times in which it was created, so as I look out of my window I see dissent and dissatisfaction in equal measure and that's what 'Barcode Crucifix' enunciates eloquently. It concerns matters magikal, sexual, political and religious. Every word loaded with a symbolism which resonates long after the last note fades. And I personally guarantee that it'll make you shake that booty.

Can you imagine Public Enemy kicking fuck out of Nine Inch Nails whilst both parties are being torched by Rammstein as Dub C laughs at the horrific carnage? Lovely, isn't it? Man, I love Cradle Of Filth, but their hymns to violence are steeped in either fantasy or, in the case of the amazing 'Godspeed On The Devil's Thunder' album, history. Damaged Gods are of the NOW. When we suggest that "The lawless government invites anarchy," just look around. It is entirely true.

The album has been years in the making and is more relevant and necessary now than when it was conceived. So over the past couple of weeks our government has;

- sent David Cameron to sell guns to Egypt's supreme military council

 - had David Cameron appear in Kuwait to defend arms sales vociferously, whilst Gaddafi continues to use British arms against his own people

 - sent the SAS and MI6 to the wrong place, where they were captured by farmers

Remember, these chaps went to the very best public schools and did the Oxbridge thing, so are far better and way more intelligent than you or I. Thus, I'll pause before branding any of these actions as thoroughly cretinous. Don't get me wrong boys and girls, it's ALL about the music, but these are the reasons I do what I do. And these are the reasons for the snarl on my face.

Meanwhile, shitty bands play their odes to vacuity with a criminal inanity. Don’t accept it. You deserve better. We all deserve better. And that is what Damaged Gods represents. The middle of March finds us on tour as a trailer for the album and August sees us over in America further spreading the damage. As always Brozilla will be sharp of suit. Superior of mien. Sexy of limb. Witty. Charming. And the easy erudition of my oratory skills will be a joy for all to behold. The aim here is to put on a show rather than merely play gigs like so many other bands and I would urge you to attend, participate wholeheartedly and display your affection by offering a two fingered salute.

Vees up. Us against them.

Nothing but love

xBx

Jackin' for beats with... DJ Gaddafi

2011-03-03T13:16:00.000-08:00

As we approach the release of DJ Gaddafi's upcoming album "The G Files" we are pleased to give you an in depth interview with the Middle Eastern Despot/Rapper as he discusses his favorite producers, rappers, David Cameron & Dr Dre's "Detox" album. We're given an "Access All Areas" pass to his impressive Presidential Crib. Situated in the southern suburbs of Tripoli the central domed portico gives access to a lofty entrance-hall, lined by a row of double columns of grooved white marble with gilded bases. The white marble floored ballroom - the size of two football pitches - hung with tapestries woven in a different age depicting the Saracen violently resisting the infidel Christian Crusaders. The high, ornate ceilings are adorned by one elaborate chandelier after another.

We enter as DJ Gaddafi is in the middle of a telephone conversation with his American agent;

DJ Gaddaffi: I don’t wanna hear what the fuck these motherfuckers got to say. They say I can't run shit and this and that? Will. I. Am.? Yeah, the motherfucker’s tight as fuck, but if it ain’t broke, you can’t fix it, motherfuckers. I’m ‘bout to go hard. I’m not gonna make this guy a superstar again. The boy had his chance. GA! DA! FEE!. Let me reiterate this. Hold on... One love, Basil, I get down with y’all, that’s Libya baby, for real. Freshly! Chopped! Basil! Yeah... Y’all puttin’ it down for the brothers and sisters, for real. I’m just talkin’ about all the suckas that be hatin’. Be a fan and stop hatin’. Listen to the real shit, you got to do it. Sheeee-it. Let me pull this motherfucker back for y’all one more time. This just that soulful shit, this is what I do. Don’t get mad at me, I wanna say your name, but I ain’t gonna do that. One love y’all to people that got love for Libya.

Freshly Chopped Basil: What’s up y’all this is Brozilla with "Freshly Chopped Basil". I’m here with DJ Gaddafi, you all know him, and here he is. What’s up, man?

DJ Gaddafi: Just chillin’, doing my thing. You know how we do? Workin’ on "The G Files", tourin’, having a good time. Just want everybody to come see this tour and feel the music I’m bringin’.

Freshly Chopped Basil: So you've got the album coming out soon. It’s coming out at the end of April, right?

DJ Gaddafi: Yep. The album is coming out April 27th. It’s a great record it’s got a lot of features. I got a lot of talented cats gettin’ down; Snoop Dogg, Beyonce, G-Influence and Brother B, The RZA, P Diddy, Eminem, Nick Clegg, 50 Cent, Tech N9ne, Ed Balls, Chuck D, RBX and Caroline Spelman singing some chorus hooks... Dr Dre did his thing on a couple of tracks... Just a bunch of talented artists and I love what they do.

Freshly Chopped Basil: Usually with your albums you produce the entire thing. How come you put Dre in the mix?

DJ Gaddafi: I love Dre, who doesn't? I think he’s a great producer. In fact all the producers that’s puttin’ it down I respect them and I love their work. There’s a lot of good music out there, I respect everybody and I love what they do.

Freshly Chopped Basil: On the flip side of that, you as a producer, which artists would you like to produce for?

DJ Gaddafi: My tastes are way out and people might think I'm trippin’, but I wouldn’t mind doing something for T-Boy. And-

Freshly Chopped Basil: That's Tony Blair, right?

For real. T-Boy can spit. He brings heat and keeps it 100. He's my main Caucasian. He kinda reminds me of myself when I was doing my thing, and I’m still doing my thing, don’t get it twisted. We go waaaay back. He brings the fire. I like Raekwon, he’s cool. I like Jay-Z, he’s super cool. I like Nu Labour, even though they don’t have records out now. Snoop, that’s a must, I’ll work with him anytime. Damaged Gods are crazy talented. They're getting a lot of play out here with "Outf!%king rageous." You heard that yet? Whooooh! HOT. There are tons of guys out there that I like who are putting out good music, but there’s a lot of other people trying to rap and trying to produce just because it’s so easy to get into right now, but in a minute that’s gon’ change once that real music comes back and people understand what’s really going on. I know I went somewhere else on that answer, but hey.

Freshly Chopped Basil: You’re putting out this record on your own Coup D'etat label. This is your second independent release. What's that like when you compare it to your major label experience?

DJ Gaddafi: I mean independent is a little harder than being on a major label. You gotta be hands on: make sure everyone's doing what they s'posed to do. I wasn’t hip to that, I thought I was still gonna have people to do things for me. But you get a chance to really see what’s going on and really know who got your back and who don’t got your back in the business. I’mma put it to you like this: when I was with a major, it was on and crackin’. Everything crackin’. I made a lot of people, a lot of 'behind the scenes' people, rich. But now that I’m independent and I have to get at the same people that made it pop for me back in the day, then it’s a problem. I mean that as far as, “Hey, DC, can you gimme a hand here? I-

Freshly Chopped Basil: "DC?"

DJ Gaddafi: David Cameron. "I made you a load of money and I'm still making you money.” And I gets no love. It can still go down like that. It’s just a different way as far as showing that support. I mean I support everybody in the Middle East, I support everybody in the West, the East, Down South. But it’s just gotta be a mutual thing, especially here where I’m from. Everybody out here, all the DJs, all the clubs, everybody gotta ride and look out for each other. I’ve been to clubs where I’ve seen cats that’s from here at the door, and they like, “Nuh uh” and they let artists from somewhere else right in. We gotta have more unity and that’s what we missin’ from the game. The talent is there, the music is there, the unity is the key.

Freshly Chopped Basil: Tell us about the viral video you had for "Capitalism Crash". How did you guys decide to do that and are you guys gonna shoot any other more traditional music videos?

DJ Gaddafi: For "Capitalism Crash" I just got my secret police to film David Cameron swanning around the Middle east trying to sell arms to literally anyone. In this climate of violence? If that doesn't show you that Capitalism is utterly bereft of morality... Anyway, the response was off the chizzain! I think we're up to something like 5 million views on YouFace. Yeah, we’re gonna shoot more videos. We shooting for "It's All About The Oil Receipts" which is me and T-Boy. Doing that, puttin’ it down and letting people get a glimpse of that. Middle East meets West. I got family in all places so I can’t have tunnel vision. That’s how you survive in the game, you can’t have tunnel vision.

Freshly Chopped Basil: I heard that "Education Revolution" was originally gonna be a Michael Gove collaboration song, tell us about that.

DJ Gaddafi: I did the song with him, that’s what that was. But records change. A lot of records I could tell you about right now that had other people on them from a lot of artists that you know have changed. Just like on that Elton John single “Don't Let The Sun Go Down On Me”? I was on that song originally and I got dropped for George Michael. So records change, that record changed. I put G-Influence and Brother B on it, it was a good feel for them so that’s what it was.

Freshly Chopped Basil: On another note, have you worked with Dre on "Detox"?

DJ Gaddafi: In the beginning, sort of the beginning, I was over there with Dre and the rest of the fellas going through the records and marking off ideas for him to hear. That’s all I did really. Then a year or so ago I spat a verse or two, but I don't know if they made it onto the record.

Freshly Chopped Basil: So you made some TV appearances since your last album. How did that come about and how did they approach you and what was your first thought?

DJ Gaddafi: Well I did the "Celebrity Fit Club". I didn’t want to do it at first because I thought it was some corny shit. So I was like, “Damn, I’m not old, I ain’t played out. I’m still a youngster.” I told ‘em no, but then the producer Rich called me and said, “Lemme take you out to lunch”. So I had lunch with him and he explained to me what the show was about and what was going on as far as showing me how to eat better and showing me how to exercise their way. I said, “So y’all gonna pay me to exercise and eat right?” So I was like, “Shit, let’s go.” And I did that and I’mma do more of those type of shows. On the big screen, as far as movies, sitcoms, all of that, I’mma do it all. It’s just showing versatility and by the way I’ve been easing over into scoring. I scored the popular Libyan drama "Tripoli Heights". I don’t even know if a lot of people know that but I scored that show, it was a great show. So I’m doing a lot of things. I’m easing my way into being behind the scenes ‘cause that’s what I really love. I’m still a motherfuckin’ rap artist period. I do that. But you grow and you have to change and I’m just changing and I’m looking for the next motherfucker who can shock the world. A lot of motherfuckers can rap and they do that all day but I’m looking for a person that has a story about themselves, something that can captivate the world, not just your hood. And that’s what I like about T-Boy. He got a story and he tellin’ these motherfuckers, “This is what it’s like with me and where I’m from. This is what it’s like and this is how we gon’ give it to you." He got a story about it and you rarely find artists that really give you that story and that realness. But I’m pretty sure it’s coming, and I’mma be looking, ‘cause I am a producer, Gaddafi Funk Entertainment, baby.

Freshly Chopped Basil: We’re about to wrap up but before that tell us what kind of vibe people are gonna expect on the album.

DJ Gaddafi: You can expect a lot of records that’s got a soulful feel, a lot of records that’s like more on the groove tip. I ain’t really goin’ hard on the record, like Will. I. Am. Did you catch Black Eyed Peas at the Superbowl? Oh, man! That was some repugnant shit. A lot of people don't know that Fergie played William Shatner's girlfriend in an episode of TJ Hooker back in 1986. She's looking rough these days, right? That's the crack. A lot of these celebs are on crack these days. They tell me crack is in. Anyway, what I'mma be doing is talking to everybody from a fake tanned, ugly WAG motherfucker on "Daybreak" to Paxo on "Newsnight".

Freshly Chopped Basil: Can you explain the bloodthirsty repression of your people for four decades at the behest of your Western puppet masters?

DJ Gaddafi: Huh?

Freshly Chopped Basil: Never mind. Before we leave, do you have any closing comments about anything?

DJ Gaddafi: All I have to say is whatever you want to do in life keep your mind to it. If it don’t jump off at first don’t get frustrated, even though we do get frustrated. Just keep pushin’ and don’t let nothin’ hold you down. And keep faith in God and know that it’s gonna be alright. And for the motherfuckers that be hatin’ on Brozilla Triple X L, kiss my motherfuckin’ ass, ‘cause you can’t hold a brother down.

Freshly Chopped Basil: Wise words. Thanks for your time today. Peace.

DJ Gaddafi: Huh?

Matt Cardle's Official Private Diary: January

2011-01-10T19:15:00.000-08:00

It's been a crazy month and a bit since an audience of 19 million people watched me win 'X Factor'. If you were one of those who either watched me or voted for me, I wanna say "Thank you. Thank you for making ALL my dreams come true." I've gone from fronting a band going nowhere and painting and decorating to hanging out with celebrities, going to parties, appearing at HMVs nationwide, snogging fit birds with bangin' ba-donka-donks and covering songs by my idol Chen Pacino. Nice, yeah? I want to personally thank Basil who's given me this dead high profile outlet for my thoughts so I can let you know exactly what's been going on. He's a top bloke.

January 15th 2011

I was out with the totally hawt Stacey McClean last night and we saw Cheryl Cole who came over to the VIP section and threatened to kick Stacey's head in cos she thought she'd spilled her pint. Gotta love Cheryl. She keeps it realer than real. Hardcore.

January 19th 2011

So, like, I've got my tongue deep inside this girl's arse, yeah? My stubble all over her creamy cheeks and she turns around and she's all indignant:

"Excuse me! Do I know you?"

And I'm like, "Duuuuh!" and show her my special Simon Cowell approved 'Platinum Pussy Pass', which is really just a badge that says "Matt Cardle: 'X Factor' Winner 2010" and she goes MEN-TAL. "Ohmygod!Ohmygod!Ohmygod!" Paddling like a toddler with new Marks and Sparks wellies in a puddle of her own sex wee-wee. And I can't blame her, cos I'm kind of a big deal now and if I could get my tongue up my own arse I'd never get out of bed. Ya get me? Sweet.

So it's all awesome, yeah? But now, right, cos she's made such a scene, EVERYONE in the Post Office wants an autograph. Yawny, yawn, yawn! So I make my excuses and I'm out of there like Prince William's hairline. Ass ta la vista, baby!!!

January 22nd 2011

Dannii Minogue gives me a bell this morning. We've both got the same special ringtone for each other on our iPhones; 'Boom Boom Pow' by The Black Eyed Peas. It's sooooo hardcore, but it makes us laugh. Good times. Anyway, literally as soon as I won 'X Factor' she whispered that she had an idea for a duet. When I'd completed the rough demo (a cover of Chen Pacino's 'H-H-Humpin' Ya') and we were listening to the playback, she looked at me with tears in her eyes. I knew exactly how she felt. It was deep. Titanic deep.

She says she wants to hook up later 'cos there's some coving in her lounge that needs sorting. So it's off to the Wickes in Hanworth. I know what you're thinking: why not B&Q? Well, with Wickes there's a far wider range of products at everyday prices, so, y'know, that's why I go there... PLUS I have some of my best song ideas wandering around the aisles looking for their greased felching grips. With this particular job I reckon the Wickes duopolymer coving will be perfect cos it's really light to handle and the Wickes cove adhesive is easy to use and fills in the gaps proper well.

Got to Dannii's place around 2ish and after a cup of tea she asks me if I want to get started. "Sure," I said, "the lounge is through here, isn't it?"

"Cripes, you're dim, mate. I meant me mut, Matt!" In her Aussie accent she flattened the vowels so that the last bit sounded like "...me mat, Mett!" I looked at her funny cos I didn't really understand. Ms Minogue heaving her Asda floral gusset to one side, fixing me with an intense stare and intoning "You. Owe. Me." soon made the message clear.

Yeah. She's right. I do owe her.

I suppose if I had to liken Dannii Minogue to a bar snack it would be a twiglet. Or pork scratchings. A salty, piquant taste that takes a little getting used to. I don't really like either of them, but, y'know if I'm pressed and there's a lack of any other savoury snacks...

January 25th 2011

Spend the morning jamming with the band I was in before I went on 'X Factor'. I've told them I haven't really left and that once the hysteria dies down and Simon's 'Platinum Pussy Pass' has expired we'll get back together. I'm not sure though. I see myself more as a Darius Danesh or John Lennon solo artist, y'know, a social commentator. We'll see.

My Manager rings to tell me that HMV in Sudbury is closing down, so my appearance there this afternoon is cancelled. That's weird. "I thought HMV weren't going to be closing their shops for a while?" I said.

"They must have heard about your recent appearance at the Bayswater HMV* where you played that stuff from your second album," he laughed. He's always kidding me like that.

"So, Jeff, what time am I getting there?"

"No, seriously. It's cancelled. They said they might as well close down today if you turn up."

"Right, so what am I doing this afternoon instead?"

"Have you got any of those greased felching grips left? Louis Walsh says he wants you to pop 'round. He's got a little project for you in his spare room. Hold on. No, wait." I hear Jeff rustling some papers.

"Sorry. Not spare room. Dungeon. He says you owe him."

Fair enough.

January 27th 2011

'Loose Women' this lunchtime. The hospitality room here is amazing. They've mimicked nature’s colour scheme by painting the room in colours found outside the window. Not sure if they went with Wickes' own or luxurious Dulux, but they've painted both the walls and ceiling in an unobtrusive caribbean pale blue, which is tastefully offset with a palm green throw rug on the hardwood floor. I'm on after Kerry Katona who looks like she's back on the medication she was taking when she made that famous appearance on 'This Morning'. She asks if I want to try some of her special 'diet powder'. I tell her I'm cool.

When the four 'Loose Women' interview me I feel like a wounded Antelope on the plains of the Serengeti being stalked by hungry lions. That Carol Mcgiffin is the worst. She hands me her damp knickers off-camera whilst they're playing my video for "When We Collide" (which Simon told me I'd made my own and stayed at number one for three weeks!) and whispers that she wants a "Cock and Va-Jay-Jay collision." I'm sure she's drunk. I tell her to call my manager Jeff. She needs to back up and get in line.

January 28th 2011

Mid-afternoon and I'm collecting one of those cut crystal glass bowls from 'Woman's Own' for being voted as having The Sexiest Buns Of The Year. The award is handed over by Max Beesley, who's won it the past five years running (!). As we pose for press fotos he grips my hand really tight, making me wince, and with his grin fixed hisses in my ear, "Better watch your back, Cardle. You don't fuck with me in my house." I wouldn't dare. I love Max. He's done loads of great work. He's mates with Robbie Williams and he did that brilliant film with Mariah Carey. Everyone I know calls him "The Guv'nor". I tell him to give my manager Jeff a bell cos it'd be sah-weet if he could play piano in my touring band. He seems really made up and gets a bit weepy as he hugs me and repeats "Thank you, thank you, thank you," over and over again. Apparently those 'Jobsite' ads don't pay too well and 'Hotel Babylon' has been cancelled.

January 29th 2011

A strategy meeting with the Syco team at Cowell Towers. They suggest a co-headlining tour with Susan Boyle to maintain my profile which'll end with an appearance at the death metal festival Bloodstock. I'm being honest here, I'm not sure about it. When I go out live I plan to do a load of stuff from my second album 'Dark Delicacies', which'll come out after this 'X Factor'-related one. It'll be a concept album charting one man's descent into the darker recesses of his own private hell. Most of it'll be just me and an acoustic guitar addressing stuff that really matters to me in songs like 'Hey, Mr Broadband' and I'll be hooking up with The Black Eyed Peas to record the Will. I. Am. penned 'Platinum Pussy Pass'. I agree with Alan McGee, he really is the reincarnation of Sly Stone. I'm not sure if the sheer scale and ambition of my work will go down well with Subo's audience who don't tend to be as thoughtful, quiet and respectful as mine.

I'm just about to venture a tentative "Erm, I don't think so, Simon," when Leon Jackson bursts into the room waving a pistol and screaming "Where's my fucking career, bitch?"

I hit the floor and scramble under the table in a blind panic. Simon's dead calm. "I don't know what you did with it, but I'm afraid you won't find it here, Leon," he says, and then Subo leaps on him and wrestles him to the ground. Apparently, Joe McElderry was waiting at the front of the building in the getaway car. Really scary.

Simon has Leon undressed by security and his ankles and wrists bound to a chair. Simon's eyes look like pools of blue-black oil. Cold. Full of rage. His face is hard.

"Who sent you?" he asks as he slaps Leon with the back of his right hand. Again. And again. A small purple egg starts blooming under Leon's right cheek. Leon spits a mucusy a thread of blood at Simon's feet and laughs a mirthless, hollow laugh. "Fuck you, Cowell," he says.

They drag him away unconscious. "What's going to happen to him?" I ask. "Don't worry about Leon. Worry about yourself, Matt." He sits down, straightening his shirt. "Now, about this tour..." he says, wiping the back of his hand with a white silk hanky which comes away all red and blotchy with Leon's blood.

"I'm in," I say eagerly. "Whatever. Whenever. Wherever. I'll do it!"

* You can read this diary entry in my bezzie mate Basil's previous blog. Take it easy, yeah?

2010 in a pretty pink bow

2010-12-21T13:04:00.000-08:00

Multicoloured balls of fire scatter in all directions, wave after wave of incandescent fury dancing across the night sky, exploding and cascading back to earth. Then, with one last whimper, it's over. Darkness and silence return. Fumes from spent firecrackers and rockets hanging in the air as 2010 turns into 2011.

There were a number of ways in which I planned to wrap this final blog in a pretty pink bow. I thought about doing a spoof Matt Cardle Christmas Diary:

Tuesday Dec 21

Busy day today. Start it off by appearing on the "Chris Moyles Breakfast Show". Top bloke. Dead switched on. And totally funny. Good times. Unfortunately, he had to go to an emergency traffic report and cut short the interview just when I started talking about the stuff I plan to do on my second album, which'll be a return to the more personal and introspective stuff I was doing before I won "X-Factor".

Lunchtime finds me doing a signing of my new no.1 single "When We Collide" at the HMV in Bayswater. The place is PACKED. It's like wall to wall p-u-s-s-y. I rock the house with "Tears In The Rain" which I wrote with the band I was in before I went on "X-Factor". The crowd were so into it. Totally silent and open-mouthed. Dead appreciative. It was a shame that during the second verse there was a power failure. Luckily it didn't last too long and my manager decided I should probably do "When..." to give 'em a different vibe instead of starting up "Tears..." again. Fair enough.

Simon Cowell's been brilliant. He's dead genuine and wants me to express myself. I remember him saying: "Matt, I want you to be you. I don't want you to be a "style". So many acts today are merely style and no substance. You're different. You've got genuine soul and that's what I want. I want your soul, Matt," and he was so intense when he said it. It was almost like his eyes sparked red. I've been giving him my soul ever since.

I thought perhaps I could look at the recent OFCOM report into our attitudes to swearing:

Apparently, pre-watershed, most participants found the words ‘cunt’, ‘fuck’, ‘motherfucker’, ‘pussy’, ‘cock’ and ‘twat’ unacceptable and also wanted care to be taken over the use of the words ‘bitch’, ‘bastard’, ‘bugger’, ‘dick’, ‘wanker’, ‘shag’, ‘slag’ and ‘shit’. Post-watershed, ‘cunt’ and ‘motherfucker’ were considered the least acceptable. There were contrasting views on the use of the word ‘fuck’ which was considered more acceptable by some participants (e.g. younger people and male participants) but less acceptable by others (e.g. participants aged 55-75). Respondents also wanted care to be taken over the use of the word ‘pussy’ post-watershed. The other words listed were considered acceptable post-watershed by most participants.

“I hate that word (‘motherfucker’), I hate it, I don’t know why I just hate it.”
Group discussion, male, no children, aged 30-55, ABC1, white and BME,
Birmingham

Many participants weren't familiar with, and didn't know the meaning of the word ‘bloodclaat’. Some assumed that it couldn't be particularly offensive because they hadn't heard the word before. They also didn't think that many people were familiar with it and would therefore be likely to ‘miss it’ if it was used on television.

“Sorry, can someone explain how it’s offensive to me because I actually don’t understand it.”

Group discussion, male, younger children, aged 20-45, C2DE, white and BME, London

‘Bloodclaat’ – “Jamaican/Patois originated, meaning blood cloth and referring to menstruation” (derogatory)

At which juncture I would have advertised my favourite new non-swearing, swear word: 'TWUNT'. A fruity combination of two naughty words to create a moist, glistening new one which means absolutely nothing but is pregnant with intent and is unequivocal in its communication.

I alighted briefly upon the notion of highlighting my favourite Facebook status updates of the past 12 months:

A good meal can be a near-sexual experience - a sumptuous, homemade Thai Green Curry for example. This evening's Bacon, Mushroom and Goat's Cheese filo baskets on a bed of rocket leaves was so good, I dislodged a light fitting.

Basil Creese Jr dreamt about you again last night, my lips still tingling from your perfect kiss as my eyelids flutter open. The scent of rain and the wet pavement seeps through the open hotel window...

As I departed, the villagers bestowed upon me the name "Mutembaiie", meaning 'Fire God'. In return I ask only that they sacrifice their livestock and Chris Fucking Moyles. Seriously, what is he for?

I danced with the idea of looking at this year's Adult Video News nominees for the "Cleverest Porn Movie Title Of The Year". They were as follows:

Barrack's Big Stimulus Package

A Brutha Came in Yo Mutha

It's Okay! She's My Step Daughter

Sexual Blacktivity

War on a Rack

Who's Nailin' Paylin?

Your Mom Tossed My Salad

Some hot wax dripped on the buttocks of the individual who correctly hits me back with the actual winner of this category. Eventually I figured it best to go with a recent observation. The Top 5 rated television programmes of 2010 are;

The X Factor final - 17.7m
England vs Germany 2010 World Cup - 17.4m
EastEnders - 16.4m
Coronation Street - 14.7m
England vs Algeria World Cup 2010 - 14.6m

Now these are exceptional numbers, so I checked out some more run of the mill programmes. A repeat of "East Enders" on BBC3 commands an audience of 1.16m. "Neighbours" on Channel 5 1.29m. John Pilger's "The War You Don't See" on ITV1, a condemnation of the UK and US media which is complicit in their respective governments' rapacious war agenda, and emerged in the shadow of the Wikileaks mushroom cloud (during which hubbub, high profile Neo-Con draft dodger - aren't they all? - John Bolton, advocated a "military response" to the cable leaks. I mean, it's hard to tell with those Neo-Cons and their quest for "Full Spectrum Dominance", but was he suggesting they nuke the internet? Yeah... Probably) pulled in a paltry 940,000.

“If the public knew the truth, the war would end tomorrow. But they don't know and they can't know.”
Former British Prime Minister David Lloyd George, to Manchester Guardian editor C.P. Scott

Rageh Omaar, Dan Rather and David Rose all told how they spouted, parrot fashion, lies fed to them by a relentless disinformation campaign to justify an illegal war and expressed shame. Testimony from soldiers recounting tales of missions of bloody carnage targeting civilians where they were advised that to rescue injured children was "off mission" brought tears to my eyes. The true revelation of this film is that in the First World War, 10 per cent of casualties were civilians. By the Second World War, it was 50 per cent, rising to 70 per cent in Vietnam. In Iraq, it was 90 per cent.

Grainy camera footage from helicopter gunships unveiling a street strewn with dead innocents is accompanied by a soldier smirking "Oh, yeah. Look at those dead bastards. Nice."

Meanwhile, Andrew Marr was standing outside 10 Downing Street and smugly intoning:

“I don't think anybody after this is going to be able to say of Tony Blair that he’s somebody who is driven by the drift of public opinion, or focus groups, or opinion polls. He took all of those on. He said that they would be able to take Baghdad without a bloodbath, and that in the end the Iraqis would be celebrating. And on both of those points he has been proved conclusively right. And it would be entirely ungracious, even for his critics, not to acknowledge that tonight he stands as a larger man and a stronger prime minister as a result.”
Andrew Marr, BBC 1, News At Ten, April 9, 2003

This is the same man who recently said that those who blog are "socially inadequate, slightly seedy, cauliflower-nosed young men sitting in their mother's basements and ranting." All of which is certainly true of me, as you well know, but what blogging has revealed to me over the past year is the gaping chasm between the concerns and feelings of us, the 'unpeople', on one side and the politicians and their agents in the media on the other, who claim to represent us.

Marr and his clique aren't journalists, they're stenographers unquestioningly disseminating propaganda which is why you'll never read anything in the mainstream press about the worse-than-Hiroshima nuclear fallout levels in Fallujah or the Israeli government calculating the dietary needs for the population of Gaza ensuring the population is kept alive at a near-starvation level.

The political class despise us (probably with good reason. If you've ever been to a football match and had the twunt behind you spit meat pie all over your back in his haste to yell racist abuse then I'm sure you'll have had doubts about the logic of universal suffrage and the notion of democracy) and that's why they would rather carry out the day-to-day running of our lives in secret whilst we lap eagerly at the slick of excrement seeping from the cathode ray tube. And we're happy to comply, aren't we? Otherwise we'd do something about it.

Mr Marr (his incomparably indolent interview with Tony Blair earlier this year was as close as we'll come to seeing a 'rusty trombone'* executed on UK terrestrial television) has helped me connect with my inner Hulk and for that gift I thank him.

Have a brilliant Christmas and I hope 2011 brings you everything you've ever wished for.

Be easy

b-b-b-Bx

* 'Rusty trombone' - "a euphemism for a sexual act involving a man in a standing position with knees and back slightly bent, with feet at least shoulder width apart in order to expose the anus. The other partner typically is on his or her knees behind the man and performs anilingus while reaching up beneath the testicles or around the body to masturbate the man, mimicking the motions of a trombone player."

Chen Pacino: A Life In Music and Pictures

2010-11-07T11:47:00.000-08:00

Chen 'Pacino' Qi Lan (31 October 1956 - 11 November 2010) was an iconic film actor and musician from Hong Kong. Chen is considered the founding father of 'HoKoPop' and managed to combine a hugely successful action film and pop music career. In 2008, Chen was named "South East Asia's Biggest Superstar" by Hong Kong Central Television, and was voted/ranked 1st in the "Favorite Actor in 100 Years of South East Asian Cinema" poll in 2005. Recently, he was voted into 3rd place in QVC's "Top Five Most Iconic Musicians Of All Time" list, placing behind just behind Michael Jackson and The Beatles.

Childhood and education

Chen 'Pacino' Qi Lan was born in Kowloon, Hong Kong. He was the youngest of six children in a middle-class family. Cheung Siu Ha, his father, was a very well-known costume designer, whose work included the original suit for the creature in Ridley Scott's 'Alien'. His parents divorced when he was quite young. Chen attended the famous Rosie Hill Dance School (Meadow Road, Hong Kong) from the age of 6 until he was 12.

At the age of 13, he was sent to England as a boarder at Eccles Abbey School, but was subsequently asked to leave the school due to "unusual and offensive" behaviour with the school Wildebeest. Back in Hong Kong he worked as a waiter at his relatives' restaurant and sang during the weekends. It was around this period that he chose his nickname, 'Pacino'. According to Chen, he chose this name because "I love the film 'Cruising' and I liked Al's performance in it. His name was evocative and inspirational, so I took it."

In several of his interviews, Chen stated that he had had a fairly unhappy childhood. "I had a fairly unhappy childhood. I was brought up by my Uncle Dave who was essentially a transsexual fascist. He would goosestep around the house wearing Vegas Showgirl outfits shouting racial epithets. However, what I would say most affected me as a child was my Uncle Dave's love of cinema. We'd go at least twice a week when I was growing up."

Early career

In 1977, Chen won second prize by singing KISS' 'Love Gun' at the Asian Music Talent Contest held by Rediffusion Television (RTV). He signed a contract with RTV, which subsequently became Asia Television Limited (ATV) and began his career in the entertainment industry. He also signed a music contract with Polydor Records, releasing 'Hot, Sweaty Sex' (1977) and 'H-H-Humpin' Ya' (1979).

The early days of his career were not easy. He was once booed off the stage during a public performance after he sang the wrong words in the second verse of 'H-H-Humpin' Ya', and his first two albums were not welcomed by the public. He left Polydor Records at the end of his contract. Chen's first film, 'Erotic Dreams In The Whore's Boudoir' in 1978 was a soft porn film. Chen later stated that he was unaware of the sexual nature of the film when he signed the contract.

During the 1970s and 1980s, he appeared in a number of TV dramas such as 'The Young And The Listless', 'Super Army Soldiers', 'Out On The Pull', and 'Sailors On Shore Leave'. These TV dramas helped turn him into a household name in South East Asia.

Ascension to fame

In 1982, Chen joined Capital Artists upon the end of his contract with RTV. In 1983, Chen released his first hit song, 'The Wind Blows On'. In 1984, he released his first top ten hit song 'Let's Do It Like Your Mum And Dad', which became the first up tempo song to win the 'RTHK Top Ten Chinese Gold Songs Award'. 'Let's Do It Like Your Mum And Dad' became representative of a new genre of Hong Kong music in the mid 1980s. Fans began to demand fast and energetic, or 'HoKoPop', songs which would be suitable for both dancing and listening. Other Top Ten Gold Songs released by Chen through Capital Artists included 'Let's Get Arrested' (album, 'I'm All About The Sweat', 1985); 'You And You And You And Me' (album, 'Chen Pacino: Want Some, You Dirty Cow?', 1986) and 'Kinda Legal Love' (theme song for 'Skyscraper Peril', album 'It's Long, It's Thick And It's In You', 1987). 'You And You And You And Me' became the 'Gold of the Gold Songs' (Best Song) of the Year for 1986.

Chen's movie career was a little slower to take off. He appeared in supporting roles in his second and third movies 'Skyscraper Peril' (1987) and 'The Dead Walk The Earth, Kill Everybody And Then The Murderous Cycle Starts All Over Again' (1988). However, his acting talent was soon recognized with his nomination for the Hong Kong Film Awards' Best Supporting Actor for his role in 'The Dead Walk The Earth, Kill Everybody And Then The Murderous Cycle Starts All Over Again '. Subsequent to this nomination, he played the leading role in 'Sexy Time Dreamers' (1989) which is widely considered by film critics as representative of Hong Kong 'New Wave' films. Chen's role as Mifune in 'American Assault On Democracy' won him his first Best Actor nomination of the Hong Kong Film Awards. Later, Chen stated that he considered 'American Assault On Democracy' as his first "real" movie. During this period, Chen continued to act in a number of Television Broadcasts (TVB) dramas, such as 'Once Upon Atrocity' and 'The Arkwright Family'.

Stardom and retirement

In 1990, he joined a revived Polymer Records Hong Kong and released the album 'Lose The Dress, Keep The Heels... And The Handcuffs... And The Ballgag' in 1990. 'Lose The Dress, Keep The Heels... And The Handcuffs... And The Ballgag' became the Best Selling CD of the Year and IFPI Best Selling Album in Hong Kong. The success of 'Lose The Dress, Keep The Heels... And The Handcuffs... And The Ballgag' made him one of the top two 'HoKoPop' idols at the time (the other was Colin Stevens).

From 1991 to 1997, Chen put his music career on hold and acted in a number of movies which are now considered Hong Kong Action classics by film critics and Cheryl Cole. They are, chronologically, as follows;

1991 'The Dead And The Deader'

1992 'Zombie Sluts Go Boom!'

1993 'Cops n' Hookers'

1994 'Murderscape'

1995 'Ein, Zwei, Drei, FEAR!'

1996 'Kung Fu Geishas A Go-Go'

1997 'Spank Master'

1998 'Spank Master II: Harder and Faster'

In 1999, with his popularity beginning to ignite globally (his Letterman appearance that year remains a 'must watch', on YouTube), he attempted to crack Hollywood. The breakthrough, however, was not to be as he was fired after an on set disagreement with Bruce Willis whilst shooting Ridley Scott's 'The Hot Zone', which was subsequently abandoned.

This failure drove Chen into retirement and the millennium saw him retreat from the spotlight completely to open the Tai Mo Shan Owl Sanctuary. Indeed many of his rescued owls were used in the recently released movie 'Legend of the Guardians: The Owls of Ga'Hoole' for which Chen Pacino received credits as both a 'Creative Consultant' and 'Owl Wrangler'.

He made a brief appearance during the opening ceremony of the Beijing Olympics in 2008 which saw him receive a rapturous reception. His last work was a collaboration this summer with Peter Andre on a reworking of his 'H-H-Humpin' Ya' hit which has yet to be released.

Chen Pacino is survived by his partner Colin Stevens and 3,000 owls.

In The Spotlight: Cheryl Cole

2010-11-03T14:02:00.000-07:00

What motivates you?

Apart from making sure my new album 'Messy Little Raindrops', which came out on Monday, is a massive success? Lol! As a singer-songwriter, dancer, model and TV Personality I just want to be an inspiration. If only one person sees me on 'The X Factor' and puts down 'de' gun or 'de' knife - that's how they say it - Cheryl Cole will have been successful. That's what gets me out of bed in the morning.

What de-motivates you?

Negative people. That sounds harsh and I'm sorry, but I make no apologies for it. There are loads of reasons for not doing something. Look at Nadine. People said: "Are you mental trying to launch a solo career? You haven't got a fraction of the profile of Cheryl Cole," but she's having a go anyway. Good on 'er, I say.

What do you get up to in your spare time?

You mean when I'm not being "The Nation's Sweetheart"? Lol!!! I read lots, y'know the 'Twilight' books, 'Harry Potter'. I've got my nose buried in 'Madame Bovary' at the mo'. I listen to music. It's usually straight up gangsta rap like Black Eyed Peas. I've got so much time for Will. I. Am. He's so generous and kind and talented. Did you see him in that 'Wolverine' film?!? I literally wet my black, silk thong! Pissed right through on to the seat and everything! He's like Pacino. Chen Pacino, who did a lot of Hong Kong action movies in the early 90s. When I'm running or at the Gym, I'll usually listen to Damaged Gods. That Brother B is totally lush and I've heard he's a bit of an oversized freak in the trouser department. Have you got his number? Lol!

What job did you want to do when you were at school?

I had under-age sex and lost my virginity aged 15. I mean, I have no regrets or anything like that because I made my boyfriend wait for three dates before I let him gggrrrriiiinnnddd me from behind. I think it was in double French… Anyway, there was a whole "to-do" and I had to see a counsellor and I thought, "Yeah. I'd like to do that," because that counsellor turned little Cheryl's life around. So, a counsellor or summat like that is what I've wanted to be for the longest time and I get to do that on 'The X Factor'. People think that Cheryl just has to say "Yes," or "No," but sometimes you have to put a question mark on there because, y'know, it's really up to Simon. Or you've got to get emotional just before we go to a break. Cheryl literally changes lives and that's a really heavy load to bear.

Where is your favourite place in the world and why?

Ooooh… That's a tough one! Cheryl Cole is like a global brand. I'm not saying I'm going to join the panel of judges for 'American Idol' or owt like that, but that's the kind of game Cheryl's bringing to the party table. Milan! Paris! New York! Berlin! Droitwich! I'm all over the place these days, especially with 'Messy Little Raindrops' coming out on Monday. Everyone wants a slice of Cheryl! I'd say wherever Cheryl is, is where Cheryl needs to be and that's my favourite place in the world.

Which famous person (living or deceased) would you most like to meet and why?

Richard Dawkins. End of. He's dead clever. I like to accessorise some of my outfits with rosary beads, crucifixes and temporary henna tattoos of our Lord, Jesus Christ. They're obviously 'out'. The Pope's visit didn't go that well and I'd like him to suggest some alternatives.

What makes you laugh out loud?

Britain's "Ethical foreign policy"! Lol! I'm kidding. Seriously, we need to root out evil and punch it in the face repeatedly. I'm going to go with 'The Larry Sanders Show'. No one knows about it in England, because the BBC only ever showed it after midnight, but it's dead brilliant. I made sure I got the boxset in the divorce. Lol! Oh, and Nadine. I haven't seen her or spoken to her in ages, but I see her on television or hear her single and I can't help it. I start laughing! Lol!

Your one piece of advice for future generations:

Don't lose your rag with a toilet attendant! Lol! Only kidding. Sharon Osbourne and I never quite saw eye to eye 'cos I replaced her on 'The X Factor'. But I read an interview she gave to the 'Sunday Star' and she said how beautiful and talented I am and how I have to beat men off with a shitty stick. Which is dead true! Lol! She's a lovely woman, Sharon. And so wise. She's taught Cheryl so much. What was the question again? Oh yeah, be yourself.

Chelsea or Manchester United?

Man U, all day, baby! Lol!!! Nah, Chelsea. I still get on with Ashley. Apart from 'The Larry Sanders' boxset, of course. Lol!

Favourite Film you would recommend:

'Avatar'. Have you seen it? It's literally the best film ever! Oh, my God! I want to live on Pandora. James Cameron is a genius!

The Tao of 'Alien 3'

2010-10-23T13:45:00.000-07:00

One cannot underestimate the power of rapport. It makes everything easier. Which is why I like to kick off my award winning workshops with a "getting to know you" exercise. The reason why this is so inadvertently entertaining as an "icebreaker" is that at this stage of proceedings people aren't quite sure where the boundaries of this new peer group are, so they tend to let slip a little more than intended, which is immense fun for all concerned. My top 3 "revealed and then instantly regretted quirky facts" are as follows:

1. "My left boob is bigger than my right."

2. "I have a physical aversion to Baked Beans. I'm not allergic or anything, they just freak me out."

3. "If I could be any animal, Basil, I'd be a tapeworm."

Riiiiight...

I also like to find out what the audience's favourite films are. You can find out a lot about a person from their taste in cinema. I'm a committed, card carrying contrarian and inveterate film snob, so you've probably guessed that I'd never offer 'Pretty Woman', 'Clueless', 'Die Hard' or 'Dirty Dancing' as my submissions for your consideration. Nope. The two I always cite as my faves are 'Ran' - directed by Akira Kurosawa, a retelling of Shakespeare's 'King Lear', which sets the tale in 16th century feudal Japan. And 'Alien 3' - directed by David Fincher - a study in existentialism which is officially the most hated movie in the 'Alien' franchise (even by the director himself "to this day, no one hates it more than me."). Both of which identify me as an insecure, pretentious tosser: a pretty accurate analysis, I'm sure you'll agree.

But I love the tone of 'Alien 3'. It looks beautiful. It sounds incredible (Elliot Goldenthal's atmospheric score melds seamlessly with the audioscape, it's difficult to tell when the score starts and the sound finishes). It's adult. It's provocative. It's arty. It asks you to have empathy for the wretched and the despicable. It poses questions about sacrifice and redemption. It credits you with a brain and allows you to appreciate the long, slow burn to the climax. Even at the time one could tell this was the work of a prodigious talent.

The recent release of Rashomonesque 'The Social Network' once again emphasises the genius of Mr Fincher. Back then, though, he was best known for music videos for Madonna and Aerosmith and sneaker ads for Nike. So, whenever he insisted on his vision in an attempt at something ambitious he was summarily belittled by the studio; “What are you listening to him for, he’s a shoe salesman!” and "Look, you could have somebody piss against the wall for two hours, call it 'Alien 3' and it would still do $30m worth of business."

I love that in a medium where the prime motivator is the selling of popcorn he attempted to create "a beautiful, delicate china cup," in a field full of beer mugs. It's commendable that in the wake of the mindless whizz bang shoot 'em up of James Cameron's 'Aliens' Fincher pulled such a spectacular left turn from the right hand lane in very heavy traffic for his debut.

There are those who label Mr Fincher an obsessive (there's a scene in the "Making Of" documentary available as a "Speshul Feature" in 'Zodiac: Director's Cut' where he makes Jake Gyllenhaal do 38(!) takes of dropping an exercise book on a car passenger seat. Even Stanley Kubrick would be prompted to suggest he's a touch picky), but I dig that he wants things right. In my personal, psychotic quest for perfection I use 'Alien 3' as my talisman. When everyone else is happy to shrug, and then drawl laconically "Yeah... That'll do," I'd rather aim for the exceptional. It means a hell of a lot of pressure and misery, but hey, life is just a series of heartbreaking disappointments with the promise of death, or so my Father said.

So, anyway, I'm a drummer for this band signed to EMI. The lucrative contract negotiations went on for an age, which means we need to get in the studio and get the album recorded pronto. The label choose the producer whose CV includes Diana Ross, Chic and Suede. We go in, record and then hit the road to build "the brand". Of course, playing the songs every night means that I've come up with a different, funkier pattern for the "big third single". During a week of proposed overdubs at George Martin's acclaimed AIR Studios (google it. You'll need incontinence pads. I've just had a look at some fotos of it online and I still can't believe I recorded there), I beg the MD to let me redo my drum parts (ever seen my pout? I call it "Black Magnum" and it's impossible to resist). He's sceptical. The drums are the first thing to be recorded and then every other instrument is layered on top. "It's not worth the risk, we could potentially lose the whole song," he says. "Besides, no one'll notice, Basil. It sounds fine."

But "fine" isn't good enough for me. What's the point of doing anything if you're not trying to blow people's minds? Finally, after much negotiation and the promise of physically impossible sexual favours, the "higher ups" relented.

Now I'm in a sumptuous drum booth in AIR. I'm staring at a poster of scantily clad models for inspiration (and when I say "scantily clad models" I mean "latex lesbian bondage"), and everyone on the other side of the glass is wondering what in the name of Tony Thompson I'm trying to prove. I put my headphones on, twirl my sticks and nod to the producer that I'm ready. "This is the biggest mistake of your life, take one," he announces in a malicious monotone. As the tape rolls and the lush guitar floats seductively into focus I close my eyes and repeat inwardly "Beautiful. Delicate. China. Cup."

I got it in one take. Come on, this is me. You didn't think it'd go any other way, did you? Afterwards, the flabbergasted producer pulled me to one side and said it was an absolute pleasure to watch me drum. "Yeah, I know. But how do I compare to Tony Thompson?"

"Oh, you're better than he is. Nile and Bernard would never let him do what you just did."

"I knew it. I just wanted to hear you say it."

I listen to that track occasionally for inspiration when I've spent a day having to deal with persons whose favourite movie is clearly something directed by James Cameron. Or whilst waiting for a "Thank you" for hosting an awards event (6 weeks and counting...). I've never been a fan of Mr Cameron's films. 'Aliens' was an abomination, a tawdry, brainless action movie for a world populated exclusively by Beavis and Butthead: a very bad joke after Ridley Scott's brilliant thriller. He may as well have had Bruce in a vest or Arnie mangling corny one-liners in a heavy Austrian accent. Dreadful. The filmic equivalent of 'Pride and Prejudice 2: Mr Darcy's Kicking Ass!'

Because Mr Cameron is unable to craft a narrative or develop characters his subsequent movies (apart from 'True Lies' which was so chock-full of negative stereotypes that it made the '50 most racist films of all time' list) are all love letters to technology and special effects. I've nodded off during 'The Abyss', 'Terminator 2', 'Titanic' and 'Avatar'. The last of these is barely a film: it's just a series of setpieces glued together with outrageous CGI. When Michelle Rodriguez slammed her Scorpion Gunship into the side of a mountain I stifled a yawn and then realised I was supposed to care about her character.

What I like about 'Avatar' a lot, though, is its subtext. It's right up there with 'Starship Troopers' in depicting America as a rogue state. Its succinct summarising of the invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq and the relentless expansion of America's Empire is a joy:

“This is how it's done. When people are sitting on shit that you want, you make 'em your enemy. Then you're justified in taking it.”

Bearing in mind he made the movie for Fox, the official cheerleader for America's murderous foreign policy, this is simply astonishing. A beautiful, delicate china cup.

Brother B in the Twilight Zone

2010-10-21T16:35:00.000-07:00

JERRY: You know, this is like that 'Twilight Zone' where the guy wakes up and he's the same, but everyone else is different!
KRAMER: Which one?
JERRY: They were all like that!

It's the morning after the cuts before and I'm a baffled bystander, or bysitter, as a table full of people discuss the various intrigues of the 'X Factor.' I don't watch it. I have no opinion. Elsewhere in Europe there have been days of action, strikes and demonstrations. Here the front pages are filled with Wayne Rooney's contract negotiations. I awoke on Thursday morning expecting a universal expression of umbrage and ire and was instead presented with 'X Factor' speculation. I'm just waiting patiently to ask:

"So, what do you think of the Spending Review?"

When, eventually, the question is posed (there's loooooaaadsss to talk about with 'X Factor') it is met with a look redolent of Gamu being threatened with deportation. Until I reference the Institute For Fiscal Studies summary that the Spending Review is essentially, and at its very core, regressive - penalising and punishing the poorest. This provokes a vigorous colloquy amongst the assembled parties as they agree fundamentally with this notion and are of the opinion that the scrounging poor should be hit even harder.

3:00am the following morning and I still can't sleep, so I hit youtube, put my head on my unquestionably adequate hotel pillow, close my eyes and listen to Gideon Osbourne's Spending Review speech in the House Of Commons. Later I wondered, on my facebook status, how we let this happen. A friend responded:

Labour did it. Like they buggered up the country in 1978. They can't govern, then its up to the Tories to sort it all out, furthering their unpopularity in the process. Can't we just print more money Mugabe-style?

Genius! Although I don't quite agree.

The ConDem Coalition has successfully created a great myth that this present mess is Labour’s fault. It goes something like this: New Labour ran up huge public debts by wasteful spending on unnecessary public bureaucracies. The task now is to rebalance the economy by shifting resources out of the public sector and into the private.

However, a dispassionate independent observer would see this is as a ridiculous half-truth at best, if not a downright lie. Public spending, as a proportion of national wealth, was not excessive under New Labour. It was running at the forty year average in 2008 as Our Tone and the Capital G stuck religiously to the Tory spending blueprint. Nor was the cumulative debt – at about 40% of GDP – high. Many other "developed" industrial nations countries had far, far higher percentage levels of debt. Indeed, the Tories until recently insisted that they would not shift from the financial path set out by New Labour.

What caused the crisis in Britain to explode so abominably? The answer is the greatly skewed nature of the British economy and its largely amoral, derugulated-by-Thatcher Financial Sector. As the international financial system headed for meltdown, the tsunami of disaster swept through the British economy, leaving the rubble and the stagnant pools we presently survey.

The Coalition further embellish their myth that it’s all New Labour’s fault, by asserting the need to "roll back the public sector," and to make bigger and deeper cuts: the worshipping of The Big Market as we dismantle The Big State. The belief that the Coalition government is merely trying to sort out the country’s public finances has been unmasked for the sham it is. This is 19th century government, wanting a small state with little or no compassion for the ‘deserving poor’ and as little socialised provision as possible. It is setting out to achieve what Margaret Thatcher attempted: reversing much of the great liberal-social democratic reforms of the 20th century. There is no such thing as 'Society', it's every man for himself.

Spending on public services is set to reduce by 25% in real terms by 2014-15. That is the equivalent of around a fifth of all public sector staff or well over a million jobs. But the real impact is not going to be on public jobs, as vital as they are, it's going to be on the services that people get. The poorer you are, the more dependent you are on public services and provision.

I'm guessing you don't do this too often, but if you listened to Radio 4 this week you would have heard a rising chorus from those whose benefits will be cut. For example, the tearful mother of a disabled man who lives in a home rang in. At present he has an adjusted car so that she can drive him about. Under these new measures he will lose this vehicle. The more money you have, the more options you have to provide for yourself if you need to and public services fail to deliver. The effect on many vulnerable people will be devastating. But hey, they deserve it.

Another plank of the New Fiscal Orthodoxy is as follows:

“Public borrowing is only taxation deferred, and it would be irresponsible to accumulate substantial debts that would have to be paid off by subsequent generations in decades to come.”

In 2006 Great Britain finally finished paying off the debts accumulated through ‘Lend-Lease’ that allowed us to buy weapons and armaments from the USA during World War II. Only a buffoon or a cretin would say "I think we should have surrendered to Hitler because we shouldn’t be accumulating substantial debts to pass on to subsequent generations."

An extreme example, but one which works on the mind more forcibly than a precept and merely ponders whether the long-term benefits are worth the long-term borrowing. Our children and grandchildren who have carried on paying off the debt also benefitted from the original spending, unless you would have preferred living under the Third Reich.

This principle can easily be extended to some other obvious areas of public spending – schools, hospitals, roads, bridges and other infrastructure built today might be expected to last for decades and our children and grandchildren will benefit from them, so what’s so bad about asking them to contribute something to the costs of these benefits?

Mrs Thatcher may well be ill and languishing in hospital, but her wickedly divisive world view is in rude health. The current British fiscal problem was created not by profligate spending by the Big State but by an economic crisis caused by the Big Market. The more deleterious effects of this Big Market were then ameliorated by the very State which we're told now needs rolling back.

Do-do-do-do Do-do-do-do

Sorry, that was me singing the 'Twilight Zone' theme to wrap this piece with a pretty pink bow.

7 Days Ago I Was A Rock Star

2010-10-13T11:47:00.000-07:00

“Since music is the only language with the contradictory attributes of being at once intelligible and untranslatable, the musical creator is a being comparable to the gods, and music itself the supreme mystery of the science of man.”

Claude Levi-Strauss

7 days ago I was a Rock Star.

I was chilling in a dressing room as my alter ego fearless superhero 'Brozilla' waiting for the call to hit the stage of a packed Oakengates Theatre, Telford; a prestigious venue which, in the coming weeks, will play host to An Evening With Alistair Campbell, Joe Pasquale's Extra Sensory Pasquale and acclaimed Psychic/Medium Joe Power 'The Man Who Sees Dead People'. Illustrious company.

Tonight I'm in the communal lounge area of the North Stafford Hotel writing this in the midst of a distinctly elderly clientele, none of whom appear to have been born after 1937. They eye this interloper suspiciously, stiletto sharp glances jabbed in my direction: a faint whiff of incontinence pads as they whoop with mirth at "You've been framed!" An ocean of fawn cardigans and polyester slacks stretching towards the flock wallpapered horizon.

The online blurb describes the hotel rooms here as possessing "a classic style," which is certainly true in the sense that Fawlty Towers is unquestionably a classic and the decor, fittings and fittings here are resolutely 1970s. My bathroom is essentially a verruca repository and as a result I've taken to showering in my socks. Tonight's sub-par evening meal concluded I sashayed stylishly back to my room. As I passed room 239 I heard a dog howling plaintively. I'm no dog lover. They are pointless, yapping, smelly bastards. And here's a truth for you: if you own a dog, you smell of 'dog' too. We're just too polite to say anything.

Anyway, the sound was so horrifying it literally rooted me to the spot. Sweet Jesus! Was someone actually beating it? Was it dying? Did that yelp just then sound human. I moved tentatively towards the sound, raised a tremulous hand to knock, and then figured 'Nah...' Whatever lay on the other side of the door would be fine without my intervention. And what in the name of Julian Croot was a dog doing in the hotel? I grabbed my Macbook Pro (tm) and came down to the lounge to make use of a wi-fi connection so limited it doesn't even extend to the bedrooms.

7 days ago I was a Rock Star exhorting a smiling crowd to scream "Fuck You, Brother B!" at me.

I don't think I've ever mentioned my band in this blog. I guess I find it hard to talk about. How do you express yourself to other people on the subject of your nose, for instance? It's just a part of you, isn't it? That's what music's like with me. And, erm, all of us, actually.

Every culture on the planet is bathed in music. Both its universality and its antiquity suggest that perhaps it is something our species cannot do without. Did you know that music activates the same parts of the brain and causes the same neurochemical cocktail as other pleasurable activities like eating chocolate or, ahem, orgasms? Music can also be used as an antidepressant - hard to believe if you've heard McFly, but people in Western society use music to regulate their moods, whether it's playing something upbeat in the morning or something soothing at the end of a hard day, or something that will motivate them whilst taking part in vigorous cardiovascular exercise.

Right now, I've got "The Fragile" by Nine Inch Nails on auto repeat so that I can lose myself in its throbbing sensuous melancholy and let my creative subconscious come out to play as I write.

It's interesting to look at music from an evolutionary perspective. Dr Steven Pinker of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology suggests that music is essentially purposeless - mere ‘auditory cheesecake’ - and that it is piggy backed on the other resources we have to deal with sound to make sense of what we hear and the world around us. Were we to remove music from our culture, he says, everything else would carry on in the same way. Totally unchanged.

Charles Darwin, on the other hand, opined that music was selected by evolution because it signals certain kinds of intellectual, physical and sexual fitness to a potential mate. And recently completed research shows that if women could choose who they'd like to be impregnated by, they'd choose a rock star. There's something about the rock star's genes which signals creativity, flexibility of thinking, flexibility of mind and body, an ability to express and process emotions: whilst musical talent signals sexual potency - Justin Bieber, for example.

Modern neuro science posits that our brains are fundamentally geared to make and appreciate music as it is a gymnasium for the mind. The whole of the brain is engaged and represents a collaboration between the logical side of our cognition (to pick out patterns and make sense of any words) and our emotional processing centres. Music also manages to home in on our motor centres – making us feel an impulse to move. We may hear the same piece of music again and again and it still has the same effect. In fact sometimes our response, whether emotional or physical, can be amplified.

Music is so powerful it's used to rehabilitate stroke victims AND as an instrument of torture. James Hetfield said he felt proud to have the military use Metallica's music. On a visit to Guantánamo Bay Lieutenant Colonel Stuart Couch described his intense dismay when he witnessed a detainee shackled to the floor of a cell with heavy metal music blaring. The detainee was

“rocking back and forth, mumbling as strobe lights flashed.”

Colonel Couch said that

“the treatment resembled the abuse he had been trained to resist if captured; he never expected Americans would be the ones employing it.”

7 days ago I was a Rock Star and I held an auditorium full of people in the palm of my hand.

Good night, North Stafford Hotel lounge! I'd go upstairs and trash my room, but someone beat me to it.

35 years ago.

Oh, the dog? The owners had gone down to dinner and left it on its own in the room. I passed them later on this evening taking it for a walk down the corridor...

Bitter suite

2010-09-06T02:05:00.000-07:00

And so "the world's most miserable and unsociable Man" (copyright Basil Creese Sr) undertakes a prolonged period of travel to far-flung corners and strange locales affording him the opportunity for reflection and self-analysis.

Chelmsford:

I complete the bulk of my journey on one of those leaning Virgin Pendolino trains. The word Pendolino is itself derived from two words; Dolino, as in Niña Dolino - a Filipina actress. She was one of the finalists of MTV's VJ Hunt in 2005. And Pen from the Greek number 5 (pente), referring to the number of times, on average, those of a delicate disposition will throw up before the train reaches London. I looked out of the window at one point and where the sky should have been instead were rolling green fields and yet to be slaughtered livestock. Freaky!

The hotel itself was located in a remote service area just off the A12 lending the establishment a distinctly gloomy Gulagian air further reinforced by the presence of a lifesized, inanely grinning Lenny Henry cardboard cutout. The online blurb for this hostelry boasts of "an integrated restaurant serving a mix of traditional and contemporary dishes." 'Dish' would appear to be stretching the point somewhat and their unwritten mission statement appears to be:

"Your standards will be compromised."

The steak I encountered had the consistency and taste of well worn brake pads. My jaw harrumphed a decidedly pissed off "Fuck this..." midway through the mastication of: The. Most. Gristly. Piece of meat ever offered for human consumption and thus I returned to my room to watch the fascinating spectacle of Andrew Marr fellating Tony Blair live on BBC One. I'm speaking figuratively, of course, but the subtext of the interview seemed to be "Please cum on my face, Tony!"

Tony: There can be circumstances in which it is legitimate to intervene even in another country's affairs where the oppression of the people is so cruel and where you can't simply say well, unless our national interest is directly threatened in a very specific way we're not going to have anything to do with it.

Marr (choosing NOT to challenge this vile assertion, but instead agreeing): So you can topple tyrants because they're tyrants, not because they immediately threaten other people. And so to Afghanistan. Another piece of nation-building.

Perpetual war in the hizzouse! The perfect illustration of "us against them" came a few days later when Tony had to abandon his book signing tour having been subjected to far more criticism and invective from the general public than any journalist - who jubilantly cheerled the invasion and equated those who opposed it to Islamofascists, before later deciding it might have been a little bit illegal (David Aaronovitch and Johan Hari take a bow) - could ever muster.

Manchester:

I hosted the Co-operative Bank Customer Service Awards at the Midland Hotel eschewing the Jean Paul Gaultier black leather kilt in favour of a subtle, understated, grey three-piece suit. I sashayed my way to the stage employing Barry White’s “I’m Gonna Love You Just A Little More, Baby” as my theme. It went pretty well (“Before we kick this baby off, can the owner of a white Popemobile…”), although an insecure, needy, extroverted introvert like me could have done with a more public display of gratitude for my services: y’know like a special ‘Basil’ award just for me being so ineffably me.

Leek:

The venue here is a jumbo-sized, labyrinthine Portakabin. Lovely! The taxi driver on the way back to the hotel (which sits near the local Odeon, a Marina and a Retail Park featuring a celebrated footwear store who quite cheekily ask for your postcode prior to purchase. I'm a very private person and so offer SW1A 1AA and smile smugly to myself as the sales assistant punches it sulkily into their database. Google it. See what turns up) provides a running commentary as we weave our way through the streets of Hanley: "That used to be a Garage," "There used to be a school over there," "That's the most popular club in Stoke-On-Trent." He uses my name for the first time as he points out, "Here you go, Basil. This is the red light district."

"I beg your pardon?!?!" I splutter in affronted response, making a mental note of the name of the road for future reference.

My Moat House Hotel room contains 4 beds in total: two twin beds and a set of bunk beds. I spend my week sleeping in a different bed every night, just for the goof, which incidentally seems to be the impulse behind Nick Clegg (whenever I see him with David Cameron I think "There's a conservative, with a little 'c'") stating that the recent budget cuts are “fair.” "This is completely different from the budgets of the past," said Little Nicky after the emergency budget. And he’s right, the Institute for Fiscal Studies says the measures brought in by the new coalition are "generally regressive" – that is, hitting the poor much harder than the rich. If you are in a family with children at the bottom of the ladder then you come out worst in this government's reforms, with your income cut by more than 5%. The poorer you are, the poorer you will be under this new government. Haven’t we been here before?

Indeed the budget was so “fair” that the Fawcett Society has filed papers with the High Court seeking a Judicial Review. Not that you would have heard about this anywhere. No. Everyone was up in arms about the Pope's shoes, that woman putting a cat in a wheelie bin, or Wayne Rooney, or Anne Widdicombe on Strictly, or the ongoing spat between Dannii and Sharon, or Chantelle and Preston. Rather than that or, say, the obscene increases in infant mortality, cancer and leukaemia in the Iraqi city of Fallujah which now officially exceed those experienced by Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945. Just read that last sentence back to yourself and weep.

That’ll be the depleted uranium then (see blogs passim).

I sat back in my seat in the Moat House restaurant having demolished 2 Bacon, Mushroom and Goat's Cheese filo baskets on a bed of rocket leaves (not quite as nice as a homemade Thai Green Curry, but still...) and cast my detached gaze about the diners - all texting on iPhones or tapping away on swish laptops and I wondered if anyone had stopped to consider the following, as summarised by Bill Blum:

"... the nation of Iraq, the society of Iraq, has been destroyed,
ruined, a failed state. The Americans, beginning 1991, bombed for 12 years, with one excuse or another; then invaded, then occupied, overthrew the government, killed wantonly, tortured ... the people of that unhappy land have lost everything — their homes, their schools, their electricity, their clean water, their environment, their neighborhoods, their mosques, their archaeology, their jobs, their careers, their professionals, their state-run enterprises, their
physical health, their mental health, their health care, their welfare state, their women's rights, their religious tolerance, their safety, their security, their children, their parents, their past, their present, their future, their lives..."
"More than half the population either dead, wounded, traumatized,
in prison, internally displaced, or in foreign exile ... The air, soil, water, blood and genes drenched with depleted uranium ... the most awful birth defects ... unexploded cluster bombs lie in wait for children to pick them up ... an army of young Islamic men went to Iraq to fight the American invaders; they left the country more militant, hardened by war, to spread across the Middle East,
Europe and Central Asia ... a river of blood runs alongside the Euphrates and Tigris ... through a country that may never be put back together again."

I sighed, trudged up to my room, swung himself onto the top bunk, powered up my MacBook Pro (tm), accessed 'Demand Five' and watched Neighbours.

Shitegeist!

2010-08-10T16:40:00.000-07:00

As Summer issues its increasingly sodden proclamation I offer this most moist and delicious of blogs as an alternative gleam of sunshine to illuminate the coming weeks.

Back to hospital yesterday for my left foot which pulled yet another Bruce Banner turning into The Incredible Hulk-type freak out. It was kinda different this time: sure it hurt like a vicious bastard whenever I put weight on it, but it also smarted somewhat when I took weight off it. To avoid this I'd spent a couple of days dragging my left foot like Laurence Olivier giving a fully committed performance of the Bard's 'Richard III'. Finally, I grabbed my crutches, my copy of 'Newspeak In The 21st Century' by David Edwards and David Cromwell and gritted my teeth, winced and whimpered as I endured the 33,000,000 or so gear changes on my journey to A&E...

The Doctor finally called me in after a couple of hours and actually checked. His. Watch. As I painfully struggled to the consulting room. Cheeky fucker. And it got worse. He asked for a summation of my injury.

"Hmmm... I see. Well, pop your shoe off and let's have a quick shuffty."

"Ok."

"Those are interesting. Are they specially built up surgical shoes?"

"Erm, no. I believe they're supposed to be stylish."

"Ah, well...."

One day's ingestion of a new batch of Anti-inflammatories and Painkillers later and I'm less Richard III and rather more Heather Mills.

It was pointed out, by a Man I respect greatly, that my last blog may have been just a tad "heavy". This time around I thought I'd highlight those things which have brought a smile to my face.

1. See above. The A&E doctor moonlighting as a fashion critic. Twat!

2. The 56-year-old woman from Kent who set a new record by taking 28 hours and 44 minutes to swim the Channel. Jackie Cobell beat the previous record for the slowest crossing, set by Henry Sullivan in 1923, by a full two hours.

This was not, plainly, what Jackie set out to achieve. She ended up swimming more than three times (!) the 21 miles that separate Dover from Calais because she hadn't taken into account the tides. "I kept seeing the beach," she said, "and thinking I was there, then getting swept along the coast."

3. Robbie rejoining Take That.

4. The Sun. Abbey (Seriously, what's with the 'E'? Could it be in celebration of her font bottom?) Clancy and Peter Crouch are having relationship problems not unrelated to him banging a teenage Algerian prostitute in Madrid and handing over eight hundred pounds sterling for the experience. Their disagreement as to whether or not this conquest renders him more attractive means precisely nothing to me, or indeed you for that matter. But it turns out that Abbey has banished Crouchy to the sofa both to avoid getting thrush and to ponder their future. The Sun ran a foto of a pair of anonymous white sport socked feet hanging off the end of a chair with the caption:

"Ouch... How Peter Crouch might look on the sofa."

An unfeasibly evil publication, but that is ge-ni-us.

5. Inception. I went to see it twice. And enjoyed it immensely. Of course, the discussion my Brother and I had afterwards concerned the lack of Black actors playing significant roles in Christopher Nolan's non-Batman movies. Online discussion was far more blunt:

"There are no Black actors in Inception because niggers are too stupid to invade your dreams."

Quite.

My Brother found that funny.

6. BP! America has adopted a foreign policy which sees them cruising around the world raping countries of their natural resources and then destabilising governments should they attempt to give voice to their dissent. Along come BP delivering oil literally to their doorstep to save them time, money and energy and they kick off. C'mon fellas, make up your minds. Jeez.

To be fair to our American cousins they have merely appropriated the above template wholesale from the English.

In the early 20th century William Knox D'Arcy began looking for oil in Iran. Just like the baddie in Quantum Of Solace he struck a deal with the corrupt monarchy to own whatever oil he found in Iran and pay the government a derisory 16% of any profits he made. After the first oil strike in 1908, he became exclusive owner of the sea of oil beneath Iran's soil.

Soon afterward, the British government bought the D'Arcy concession, which it named the Anglo-Persian Oil Company. It then built the world's biggest refinery on the Persian Gulf. From the 1920s into the 1940s, Britain's standard of living was bolstered by oil from Iran. Our cars, trucks and buses ran on cheap Iranian oil. Factories throughout Britain were fueled by oil from Iran. The Royal Navy, which projected British power all over the world, powered its ships with Iranian oil.

After World War II nationalism became a central theme for developing countries. In Iran it went like this: "We’d like our oil back, please." Their parliament voted on April 28, 1951, to elect Mohammad Mossadegh, as prime minister, a man dedicated to oil nationalisation. He promised that oil profits would be used to help Iran fluorish, rather than aggrandise Britain.

Under Operation Ajax our government co-opted the services of the Central Intelligence Agency to depose Mossadegh. Even the BBC participated by sending a coded message during a broadcast to confirm to the waiting Shah that the coup was about to take place.

The West deposed a leader it didn't like, and replaced him with someone who would perform as instructed - Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi.

We not only overthrew Mossadegh's government, but ended democracy in Iran. We returned the Shah to the Throne and his repression drove the populace into the arms of Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini and the, some would suggest, justifiably bitter anti-Western regime which has been in charge ever since.

The Anglo-Persian Oil Company rebranded itself as British Petroleum, BP Amoco, and then, in 2000, BP. In Iran, it operated as it pleased, with scant regard for the welfare or interests of the local people. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?

Ah, the sweet nectar of bitter irony.

You've gotta smile.

Good night, Chippenham!!!

2010-06-17T17:21:00.000-07:00

The end of my critically acclaimed UK tour is in sight. 6 weeks of 7 hour car journeys, hanging out in hotels, dining alone and watching second hand DVDs purchased for £2.50 from Pink Planet Games Exchange in the Borough Parade, Chippenham on my wi-fi disabled laptop have simply flown by.

Toploader headlining the town's main music festival and Natalie Cassidy (Sonia from Eastenders) visiting a neighbouring village have been the highlights of Chippenham's social calendar this month* and I'm genuinely sorry I won't be there to imbibe liberally of its forthcoming pleasures. It's been huge fun, the peak being when I encouraged a group of delegates to regale me with the chorus of of my own mid-nineties dance club hit 'Gotta get up, gotta get down! Huh!!!'

So, it's back to the daily routine and being considered an Islamic Extremist/Jihadi Fascist/Al Qaeda Terrorist. Take a pew...

I set up this blog a while ago, so my memory is a little hazy and I can't be arsed to check, but I think I've described myself as either an 'ironic' or 'iconic observer'. Whatever, this merely means that rather than engage with people or life itself I'd rather stand on the sidelines and laugh at you. However, this default position very nearly changed in December of 2008 when Operation Cast Lead kicked off.

Over 2500 Palestinians were killed or injured in the bombardment which began on the 27th of that month and - despite the assertions from Israel that civilian casualties only represented a quarter of these deaths (The BBC's Mike Sargent said "Israel deserves much credit for the precision of its targetting.") - the majority were innocents. For example, the airstrike which killed Hamas 'Higher-Up' Nizar Rayan also killed 18 other people in the same house including all four of his wives and nine of his twelve children. Monster or not. Thug or not, this was perverse. As the humanitarian crisis deepened the leaders of the 'civilised' West seemed complicit in their resolute inaction.

When the BBC refused to air the Disasters Emergency Committee's appeal for Gazans - presumably on the grounds that those dirty Arabs deserved to be killed by shells enhanced with white phosphorus - I looked at myself and beheld a sickening moral weakness and self-centredness. If I took a little time I could gather all the unwanted detritus from my life and transport it to those truly less fortunate than myself. George Galloway set up Viva Palestina to facilitate precisely this endeavour and one Sunday afternoon I had a loft clear-out...

...But, y'know what? Life gets in the way of what we really want to do and my worn beneficence remained in a dangerous pile by the front door for a few weeks before it eventually and inevitably went back up into the loft.

If I hadn't been distracted, had parcelled up my unwanted possessions and contributed to Viva Palestina then theoretically I could have been one of those in the Gaza Flotilla described as a 'Jihadi' or 'Al Qaeda Sympathiser' or 'Islamic Extremist' or indeed 'Terrorist' and would have been fully deserving of getting shot in the face.

I'm not the first to draw parallels with the Naval incident involving Iran in 2007. Then 15 Marines were arrested and detained after they were deemed to have unlawfully entered Iranian waters. The fact that the Marines surrendered was seen by Melanie Phillips (the most evil of the Daily Mail hacks) as:

"... a grim parable of the degraded state to which Britain has now descended and an alarming portent for the free world in its fight to
survive."

and

"... another terrible milestone in the west’s current suicidal trajectory of decadence and moral collapse."

Of the raid on the Aid Flotilla and the subsequent massacre of humanitarian workers, Our Mel had this to say:

"Conversely, as everyone could see from the video evidence, on the main boat the attack took place against the Israelis — who then killed nine of their jihadi assailants solely to protect themselves from being lynched, kidnapped and murdered."

So, that's all right. There was I thinking that because it took place in International waters it might have been a tad illegal.

The World Cup is now the news so what the Western media has reduced to a mere "Public Relations disaster for Israel" has disappeared from the front pages and the announcement that the investigation into exactly what happened will be conducted by Israel itself has gone practically unnoticed. I'm walking around with my arms outstretched and my palms turned skywards intoning "Anybody? Anybody? Anybody?" But then you haven't had my childhood.

I love my brother. He's cleverer than me and tuned in to a big picture which eschews my romantic world view. But we're brothers so we bicker and argue and it's always been this way, except that when we were growing up in Croydon it was waaaay more fun for me. I would have been about 4-ish and my brother 2-ish - just before he could speak or communicate clearly. So, if I, say, prevented him from watching his favourite TV programme he'd start crying and Mother or Father would ask, "Junior! What's wrong with Garfield?" And I'd say "I'll ask him," and then falsely report back that he wanted a Cormorant sandwich made with blue tortoise bread or something equally ludicrous and laugh inwardly. What my parents should have done was introduce a neutral third party (our younger sister perhaps, although probably not. She hated me back then) to launch an independent enquiry and spare my brother years of anguish at my cruel hand. After all, I was never going to say "It's a fair cop. I took his favourite red toy car. No, no. It's okay, I can find my own way to the naughty step."

* according to the Chippenham, Calne, Corsham, Malmesbury and Wootton Bassett Gazette & Herald

Change that works for us

2010-05-29T18:35:00.000-07:00

The TV debates between the three main party leaders engaged millions of people and reversed the trend of dwindling voter turnout, but shifted the focus towards physicality and personality. Suddenly Gordon looked very much like a stranger in a very strange land, his face a tad saggy and that weird thing he does with his lower jaw - a movement so grotesque and pronounced it suggests he's attempting to dislocate it in order to feed upon freshly aborted foetuses - cast the fellow in a poor light indeed. He even had the temerity to refer to a person expressing unequivocally bigoted views as 'bigoted' (actually, I have to defend Gordy on this last point. Were I caught in an unguarded moment discussing the chauvinistic, xenophobic, small-minded views of that woman, then on April the 29th I can assure you that instead of 'Bigotgate' we would have been confronted with 'Ignorant Fucking Dickheadgate' which is far more lyrical, but perhaps a little too unwieldy to form a tabloid headline).

So it's May the 7th and there are 5 other people in the office, none of whom have voted and are happy to enunciate their bafflement with the difference, or lack thereof, between the 3 parties. A 6th, with a little gentle probing, reveals that her vote has been cast in favour of the Lib Dems as "I could never vote for Gordon."

I voted Lib Dem once.

Just the once.

And I was rather young.

An abandoned sofa in the bushes bordering Hazel Grove Cricket Club was an unconscionable eyesore which marred my otherwise idyllic walk to the train station. A letter appeared in the Stockport Advertiser on the Thursday and by the Friday morning - late and running frantically for the 08:03 to Manchester Piccadilly calling at Woodsmoor, Davenport, Stockport, Heaton Chapel and Levenshulme - I noticed it had gone. Buoyed by this prompt restorative community action I voted for the Lib Dems at the next local election.

I think it might have been a week later when I was confronted by my Father ('Dad' never carried the right amount of respect. From time to time I'd even throw in a 'Pater'): "You voted for the Liberals, didn't you?" he said in a level tone which nevertheless dripped with both accusation and disappointment. I looked down uneasily. A "What the fuck were you thinking?" hung uncomfortably in the air between us and remained unspoken. In my panicked defence I offered the settee, but Basil Tracy Creese Sr picked more holes in it than the abused and forsaken piece of furniture which kicked this episode off in the first place. He challenged me to read about the Liberals (this in the days before the internet - I had to traipse to the library to complete my task) and then try and justify a vote for their party. I did. And I couldn't.

I was thinking about this when the country fell in love with TV Nicky and the Lib Dems enjoyed their poll bounce. And when Shirley Williams, at the beginning of Election Night, forecasted 80-90 seats for her party. And when I saw William Hague, Iain Duncan Smith and Michael Gove acquire their new posts within government (the last of these twats actually said the following: "The liberation of Iraq has actually been that rarest of things – a proper British foreign policy success. Next year, while the world goes into recession, Iraq is likely to enjoy 10% GDP growth. Alone in the Arab Middle East, it is now a fully functioning democracy with a free press, properly contested elections and an independent judiciary... ") And when Nicky and Davey C had that cringe inducing press conference on the lawns of No. 10. And again when our new coalition government announced that they were abolishing the Child Trust Fund.

I bought the manifestos for all 3 parties prior to the General Election for just such an event. The Conservatives made no mention of abolishing the CTF. Their policy was to cut back government funding to the poorest families. Nope. The abolition of the CTF is exclusively a Lib Dem thing as outlined on pages 16 and 102 of their manifesto.

The difference between the wealthiest and the poorest of our society is now a yawning chasm. The CTF was an attempt to reduce this inequality. Research by the Children's Mutual shows that the people saving into the funds were in the lower income bracket and children in this band would have no prospect of enough funds at 18 to kickstart their adult lives.

The CTF has been described as "the most successful savings initiative there has ever been". The number of people saving monthly, long-term, for their children, went up threefold, and the amount they were saving went up by 60% since its introduction. It is important to note that whilst the CTF is being abolished more expensive tax reliefs on middle class savings – private pensions and ISAs – are staying in place.

Since the credit crunch the dialogue has been about the need for personal saving and its importance for the financial health of the nation that this is encouraged. The one initiative which attempted to address this is to be axed. It's so spectacularly short-sighted it could only have been devised by incompetents or elitist numpties. If you see Nicky ask him how the dissolving of the CTF squares with their manifesto title of 'Change that works for you: building a fairer Britain.'

I couldn't understand why the country would vote for avowed representatives of the privileged to skew the game for their own ends, until I watched an episode of Fawlty Towers a couple of weeks ago. My namesake is looking rather smug having terrorised a working class oik for daring to breach the threshold of his hotel: this is in direct contrast to the deference with which he treats, say, Lord Melberry or the Psychiatrists. Sybil passes acid comment;

Sybil: You never get it right, do you? You're either crawling all over them, licking their boots, or spitting poison at them like some benzedrine puff-adder.
Basil: Just trying to enjoy myself, dear.

It's what we British do. We despise the working class and the fact that most of us are working class. Blair, Mandelson and the rest of the middle class New Labour acolytes embodied this contempt: Mandy saying the Labour Party didn't need any more "oily handed sons of the soil". They strategised to seduce the Great Satan Murdoch and enthusiastically implemented the inherently divisive Tory fiscal blueprint which has borne bitter fruit.

They say you get the government you deserve, but looking at the numbers the majority of us voted for the progressive, centre-left parties: 85% in Scotland, 70% in Wales, 67% in the North East of England and 61% in the North West. It was this flawed voting system which won the Thatcher Conservatives 4 elections on the spin. The seat numbers reflected the inaccuracy of the system, not the strength of the Tories, who at their very best only achieved 43.9% of the electorate.

So we've entrusted our future prosperity to the posh boys again. The diligent subscribers to the notion that if the rich get richer, we all benefit - they'll look after us and make things better, won't they? Did you know that Nicky has a blue-ish tinge to the sanguine fluid coursing through his veins? Yeah. Turns out his grandmother was a Russian baroness, whilst his great uncle was bludgeoned to death by his own peasants...

...Nah, too easy. I'll leave it there, I think.

The eyes have it (Part 2)

2010-03-28T11:34:00.000-07:00

"For those with eyes who choose to see, this nation is afraid of thee."

Brother B 'Counting Backwards To Zero'

There's a famous anecdote on social policy which goes as follows:

NERO was Emperor and the mob had been rioting uncontrolled in the streets of Rome for two weeks. The economy of the world's greatest empire was disintegrating.

The cost of maintaining Rome’s War Machine in addition to the heavy subsidies that had to be paid to the many nations dependent on Rome for support meant that the impoverished government had neither the funds nor the power to stop the riots.

In this tense situation, the Head of Shipping rushed by chariot to talk to the First Tribune.

"The merchant fleet is in Egypt awaiting loading,” he announced. “The ships can be loaded either with food for the starving people or with the special sand used in the Gladiator Stadiums. Which do you want?"

"Are you crazy?" screamed the Tribune. "Things here are out of control. The emperor's mental, the army's about to mutiny and the people are dying of hunger. For the gods' sake, get the sand! We have to get their minds off their troubles!"

Ignoring Western crimes and unconscionable iniquities is a staple of the corporate Western media. Its job is to keep us distracted and fearful enough to avoid asking awkward questions - anyone remember the tanks around Heathrow Airport?

Last summer in a Facebook conversation with a friend I posed a question, swiftly followed by an adroit observation: "Damn! What's with these Somali fishermen pirates? They're a bit intense." Further digging revealed that these fishermen police the waters of Somalia protecting the coastline from poaching (Western vessels steal an estimated GB£300 million in seafood annually from the region) and the dumping of nuclear and other toxic waste. These violations are, and have consistently been, routinely ignored by both the UN and maritime authorities. Thus, with the unswerving support of the population, the fishermen have taken matters into their own hands - a kind of Aqua Robin Hood and his Watery Men. So next time Bob and Lynne Everyman from Marple, holidaying in their luxury Bowrider Motor Yacht just off Puntland, Somalia get kidnapped and their captors demand a ransom of GB£1 million, you now know the reason why, because if you read the mainstream press you wouldn't.

During a night raid on December 27 last year, US-led troops dragged a group of 10 Afghan children from their beds and shot them dead. Afghan government officials said that eight of the dead were schoolchildren, and that a number of them had been handcuffed before being killed. UK news media obsessed with telling us about Jordan 'n Pete, Judy Finnegan's alleged drink problem, Wayne Bridge and John Terry, Ashley Cole, Gordon Brown's bullying and Tiger Woods' porn star texts reverted to type and managed to avoid mentioning it at all.

Assadullah Wafa, a former governor of Helmand province, led the investigation:

“I spoke to the local headmaster. It’s impossible they were al-Qaeda. They were children, they were civilians, they were innocent. I condemn this attack.”

The Western myth or ideology is that, whilst there may well be “mistakes”, the aims of the government are benevolent. But children are a legitimate target: the inhuman spawn of the enemy which hates us for our freedoms. Whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, some lives are worth more than others. How else to explain the military's indiscriminate use of depleted uranium? The word "depleted" is of course pure PR spin. It makes it sound like the 'nuclear' aspect of the weaponry is insignificant. It isn’t though. It’s Uranium. U. R. A. N. I. U. M. We're conducting Nuclear War. Some facts:

Depleted uranium (DU) weaponry meets the definition of weapons of mass destruction in two out of three categories under U.S. Federal Code Title 50 Chapter 40 Section 2302.

Since 1991, the U.S. has released the radioactive atomicity equivalent of at least 400,000 Nagasaki bombs into the global atmosphere. The global atmosphere is permanently contaminated, with radioactive pollution having a half-life of 2.5 billion years.

DU on the battlefield has three effects on living systems: it is a heavy metal "chemical" poison, a "radioactive" poison and has a "particulate" effect due to the very tiny size of the particles that are 0.1 microns and smaller.

In some studies of soldiers who had normal babies before military manoeuvres in Iraq, 67 percent of their post-war babies are born with severe birth defects – missing brains, eyes, organs, legs and arms, and blood diseases.

In southern Iraq, scientists are reporting five times higher levels of gamma radiation in the air, which increases the radioactive body burden daily of inhabitants.

Two weeks ago, whilst we all cried for Becks and his missing this Summer's World Cup, a night raid carried out by US troops led to the deaths of two pregnant women, a teenage girl and two local officials. This is an atrocity which Nato tried to cover up and has gone unreported in the western media.

General elections in Britain are a time for us to talk in reverential tones about democracy and the importance of genuflecting before the altar that is the ballot box. The media will endeavour to persuade us to vote whilst insisting on us taking the views of the two main political parties seriously, heaping scorn on those who point out the futility of trying to choose between different cheeks of the same unwiped arse. The media will spew endlessly that this, like all other elections which have come before, is the fulcrum point at which we decide the fate of the nation, but in fact it merely highlights that the media are the ulcerated sphincter.

My eye's much better, thanks.

The eyes have it (Part 1)

2010-03-28T03:37:00.000-07:00

Dammit! I forgot to mention my eye problems. From time to time my eyes erupt and they look and feel as if a humongous mutant wasp bearing the talons of an eagle has become entangled in my eyelashes and is repeatedly attacking my cornea as a means of escape.

And that's what's been kicking off for the past couple of weeks preventing me from physically confronting the luminescence of my Mac. Which is kind of okay because this has been acting as a very effective counter-irritant to my left foot, but then I need a counter-irritant to counteract the counter-irritant - if you get my meaning.

As it was my birthday recently (Pretty average thanks. I spent the evening in rehearsal) I travelled to the Trafford Centre primarily to distract myself from the physical pain and to redeem the value of a Boots Gift Card received as a present. I'm not much for venturing out in public. To me there's nothing worse than the tide of humanity lapping at my elegantly shod feet as I attempt to go about my daily business. As a shy egomaniac, I only get on with crowds when they're applauding me or screaming my name, otherwise they're a scary monster which keeps me confined to my quarters. But a heady mix of agony and the thought of all the Original Astral All Over Moisturiser I'd be able to purchase drove me to the Catacombs of Conspicuous Consumption.

The first thing that struck me was the sea of females sporting jeggings and Ugg (tm) boots. And, most peculiarly, there were middle-aged women dragging around their daughters and their daughters' daughters who were dressed exactly the same. Three generations of sartorial vapidity. We've regressed so far as a species, we're all dressing alike and in the home Fathers jostle their Sons for precious X-Box time as they attempt to live a perpetual adolescence. Back in the day you knew you were grown up because they gave you a suit on the NHS at the age of 16. Fact!

These days the last, exclusive, ring-fenced province of the child in fashion is the baby grow, or romper suit if you prefer, and I saw Snoop Dogg wearing one of those in a video once. So give it a couple of years and everyone will be hitting the streets in designer nappies:

"Gimme your Pampers or I'll stab you up, innit?"

"They're Huggies."

"Huggies, Pampers, Asda's own, wha'ever, yeah? Don't backchat me, Bigfoot or I'll bus' you up."

A lot more fun is to be had in The Concourse, a charmingly dilapidated shopping centre over in Skelmersdale - or Skem as the locals prefer and, get this, they refer to their Superstore as The Asda - where I've been working lately. Perhaps I’m just ultra-sensitive, but I found the spectacle of a group of 14 year olds at half-term smoking, drinking super strength Kestrel and luxuriating in their world-class surliness a tad unsettling at first. Now, this represents part of its allure. That, the pie shops and the lovely fella in the newsagents who kindly enquires if I want a "Chewy?" whenever I walk past his establishment. You don't get that at the Trafford Centre.

My foot related health considerations run a distant second to the brouhaha surrounding David Beckham at present. It's funny how our lives have followed such a similar path, although I doubt he's thinking, "I haven't heard from this consultant for a while, think I'll go to the Trafford Centre and gawp at the human detritus to see if that makes me feel better."

He inhabits a different world, one in which I imagine Victoria has compliant vulva delivered to their house like pizza in a wifely effort to keep him amused.

"Vic, this one's all dry and dessicated!"

"Easy hun, there's a juicy Hawaiian coming in a minute."

In praise of Pussy

2010-03-07T13:04:00.001-08:00

I may watch the Oscars tonight. It all depends on how much Pussy I can get a hold of. Plus I'm really into the taste so just one isn't enough. Personally, I tend to get through a couple at a time.

God, bless ya!

I'm only talking about the energy drink!

I manfully strode into my local corner shop yesterday and, as I browsed through the myriad of drinks in the open display fridge, the owner chirped up "I've got some of that new Pussy, if you're interested."

I paused...

"Ex-Cuse! Me?!?"

"It's just to the right, sir. Pussy."

Sure enough, bold as you like on the shelf of a refrigerator in my corner shop: Pussy. I delicately examined the vessel, gently fingering the light moisture on its surface, my mind awhirl as I moistened my lips, and shot out, "What does it taste like?"

"No idea. I never touch any of that stuff. It keeps you awake," he replied.

Aroused and intrigued I bought 7 cans. I've been sucking down its sensual effervescence in enthusiastic gulps ever since. Being an obsessive I also visited the website to read the manufacturer's mission statement:

Pussy is spontaneous, entertaining, optimistic and fun. It’s a starting point. A moment when something happens and when things begin – Pussy starts conversations. It believes in having a good time as often as possible.

So, as you make your way to bed tonight imagine me with the taste of Pussy on my tongue as I follow Oscar proceedings from the red carpet to the ceremony itself.

The big winner tonight will undoubtedly be The Hurt Locker. I'd heard nothing but good things about this movie and so, as a contrarian, was absolutely convinced even before I watched the recently released DVD that it would be yet more propaganda for US military intervention overseas. It is, but it's far worse than that.

As there is no contextual exposition Iraq and Iraqis are reduced to mere background noise as we exclusively explore the Hell of War through the eyes of the American Crusader. The only pain is that experienced by the soldiers. A bi-product of this wilful myopia is the crude fetishisation of their male bonding which reaches a climax when the central characters take off their shirts and wrestle. Kathryn Bigelow, the director, might as well have had them oiled, naked and going at it by candlelight. That would have been entertaining.

But it was ever thus and will remain so. Heinrich Goebbels contended that films were a "scientific means of influencing the masses," and a powerful tool for shaping attitudes. He stressed that, "a government must not neglect them." Under Nazi rule, over a thousand movies were either approved or commissioned by the Reich. Goebbel's ministry punctuated popular films with reiterative motifs and symbols evoking a fervour in the German public: "heroism," "sacrifice," "mass murder," "hatred for Germany." Sixty years later and the same themes are played out in the same manner in our cineplexes, the subtext: "hatred for America."

Black Hawk Down espoused this world view whilst neglecting to reference the hundreds massacred by American troops.

300 ostensibly a movie about taut male flesh and ludicrous abs cast Sparta as the protector of Enlightenment and the principles of reason, freedom, and liberty from the "Asiatic hordes": reinforcing the western indoctrination that we are the good guys and that our ideals are better than the ideals of our enemies.

Apocalypto is about how the Mayan culture, prior to the European Conquest, was so inhuman and barbaric that it was necessary for the Mayans to be 'civilised' by the Europeans. Christianity was the best thing that ever happened to these savages. The human sacrifice referenced in the film was actually part of the propaganda promoted by the Spanish conqueror Cortez, a man who himself revelled in butchery and extermination.

Hollywood seeks to turn reality on its head in its use of images which places all guilt for death and destruction in the lap of the West's enemies. It's Bum Syrup. Utter Bum Syrup.

I'd like to see them turn that into an energy drink.

No. Really.

Of biscuits, business speak and bad moods

2010-02-27T06:01:00.000-08:00

I'm being a bit of a grumpy twat at the moment. Randomly snapping at or blanking people I love. It's all related to the problems with my left foot, of course. The MRI Scan shows "considerable damage which may or may not prove permanent", but we're still no closer to diagnosing what the condition is. I've been referred to a second consultant before they resort to surgery. This thing's been going on for 6 months now and it's seriously pissing me off, making me as irrational as the imbecile who commissioned a further 7 episodes of the execrable Chris Moyles' Quiz Night. It's hard to explain the constant pain I'm enduring, but I'll have a go.

Imagine you've won a competition to be driven around Silverstone race circuit by Lewis Hamilton in a specially converted Formula One car which positions you as a passenger right behind the renowned automobilist. The day arrives and you squeeze into tight all-in-one pink racing leathers. A trickle of sweat runs down your face under the multi-coloured helmet. The heat rises off the bitumen making the pit wall shimmer as you pose with Lewis and his Pussycat Doll girlfriend for the thronging media before climbing into the cockpit.

But Lewis has had a Monza flashback. You're half in and half out of the sleek silver vehicle as he panics and pulls away at speed from the grid - wheels squealing their protest. Your cat-like reflexes mean you're able to grab onto the car by the raised camera mount above the engine, but you can't lift both legs clear. Your left foot drags along the track. The reinforced boot disintegrates immediately. An explosion of pain turns your vision an incandescent white and you scream as your flesh and bone paints the monotonous grey of the track in a vivid, anguished bloody trail. Your foot now a ragged stump.

That's what it feels like.

Day after wretched day.

Anyway, if I've pissed you off recently, that's why. I love you and I'm sorry, but try not to take it personally. If it's any consolation whatsoever, check out this excerpt from a recent conversation. I'm the second speaker;

"Ooooh! They look nice. Can I have one, please?"

"No."

"Go on. You've got two there."

"And?"

"Half of one then."

"I'm sorry. I thought I said 'no'."

"Ok... How about just a little bit of one?"

"..."

"Just a tiny bit."

"!??!"

"Please...?"

"?!?@£%!*"

"Pretty please...?"

"... Sigh... Fine... But just an itsy, bitsy, tiiiiny bit."

I want you to know in all seriousness, gentle reader, had that exchange not taken place at a large, round table seating 8 other people all of whom were gawping incredulously at my intransigence like a Labrador watching ITV2 and trying to work out what Katie Price is ac-tu-ally for, I would not have caved in. On reflection I can set my present medical affliction to one side, because everyone knows:

You. Don't. Mess. With. A. Man's. Biscuits.

Especially when they're Freebie Luxury Conference Oat Crunch Biscuits.

Cajoled into an act of generosity I grudgingly broke off as small a piece as I could between my embittered thumb and forefinger. The recipient compounded my resentment by exclaiming "Mmmmm... God! These are faaaaan-taaaastic! Did you get them from the conference?"

Three weeks ago the organisation for whom I work hosted an event at a North West Football Stadium. I realise I'm flying in the face of received wisdom here, but I love these things! Because:

1. You get to meet new people who up until this point have only been names copied in on e-mails.

2. I can laugh inwardly and often at the occasions when 'Business/Management Speak' cascades like a tsunami of vagueness from the beautifully appointed stage and makes the audience want to stab their own eyes out with a small woodland animal.

and

3. You get Freebie Luxury Conference Biscuits. My favourites being the aforementioned Oat Crunch.

The dress code for such events is officially 'smart casual' which is quite plainly an oxymoron - you know, like 'military intelligence'. The talk in the office this year suggested that jeans were officially out, but that we could probably get away with wearing Chinos. Having misplaced my 'Let's go back to the eighties' Time Machine I opted instead for an all green combo with peanut butter Timberlands which was, frankly, redolent of Fidel Castro in his firebrand prime, before his beard went all grey and wispy.

The mini bus journey to the stadium was uneventful, which is pretty much what you want from a mini bus journey. I spent most of it asleep. Mouth agape. And snoring. Loudly. I was reliably informed by my colleagues that the driver had opted for a route which appeared to meander via Croydon and as a consequence by the time we arrived at 9:45am for the 9:30am complimentary coffees the initial batch of biscuits had already been consumed. This resulted in the first part of the morning spent with my stomach audibly rumbling like a Tank Division rolling through a primary school in Gaza.

To focus my mind during conferences I look for an opportunity for everyone to acknowledge my presence and keep a tally of the instances of wishy washy 'Management Speak' so rightly lampooned by those who perceive clear communication as having some value. Last year the results were as follows:

1st place 'In terms of' - 51

2nd place 'Around' (as in: "We'll be discussing themes around...") - 45

3rd place 'Going forward' - 18

And the highlight arrived when we were informed that "In terms of going forward we are going to have some food, which is around having lunch." I wish I was joking.

We also had a guest speaker from IBM who, whilst strikingly employing a lexicon which eschewed the usual Corporate language, still managed to use 'Going forward' twice. However, he redeemed himself by using the most obscure word of the day, namely 'Bifurcation', which impressed the hell out of me.

2010 saw the positions change like a game of musical chairs, but unfortunately without any of the chairs being removed:

1st place 'Going forward' - 24

2nd place 'Around' - 20

3rd place 'In terms of' - 18

Phrases of the day were "Mine the analytics" and "Interrogate the propensity models." And when it came time for my team to make itself known to the auditorium I stood theatrically, spread my arms wide in a David Lee Roth pose and gave an assured, slow nod as I surveyed the room and drank in the unrestrained adulation.

Festivities concluded and we hung around the lobby for the mini bus driver's return, which was delayed by motorway traffic, allowing me to further avail myself of the biscuity treats referred to earlier: lovingly saving a packet for my early morning Hot Chocolate libation the next day.

I could barely sleep that night, so excited was I by the prospect. And thus I seek to explain away my earlier prickly discourse. Hopefully, you can now empathise with my frustration at having this exquisite pleasure snatched from my ridiculously full and sensuous lips.

Around the time my left foot first began to swell and resemble a reasonably priced family hatchback Gordon Brown undertook a webchat with Mumsnet in which, bizarrely, he pointedly avoided answering a question on what his favourite biscuit was 12 times! Political commentators were flummoxed: did he actually think you could disenfranchise great swathes of the electorate by coming out in favour of one snack or another?

We can only dream as to the small, sweetened, flour based products available for consumption within the confines of Number 10. I bet it's like a Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory of delights in there and they've now acquired recipes from Iraq and Afghanistan. But being a stoic individual I'm betting Gordon likes a plain Digestive with his cup of tea.

My theory is this: on the morning of the webchat someone nicked the last plain Digestive, hadn't popped out to Spar to get a new packet and Capital G just didn't want to talk about it.

And now we learn he's a moody bully. Coincidence? I think not.

You. Don't. Mess. With. A. Man's. Biscuits.

Ever.

Can't see the Woods for the threesomes

2010-02-21T16:13:00.000-08:00

Living black icons are few and far between these days. There's me, obviously, Barack Obama, Nelson Mandela, Denzel Washington, Dr Cornel West, Chris Rock and Tiger Woods. It's not a definitive list by any means, but they're the only ones I can think of right now. For a hot minute, at the beginning of the millennium, it looked like Richard Blackwood would join our exclusive club, but the genius of Chris Morris' Brass Eye Paedogeddon Special put paid to that and perhaps we should be thankful.

So will my cohorts and I lose the company of Mr. Woods? That's the question. He gave a press conference on Friday to apologise for ever giving the impression that he was an asexual being with a smooth, rounded plastic groinal area resembling that of an Action Man. The first thing I noticed (apart from the fact that not even Gordon Brown crying about his dead daughter got this kind of media coverage. Our Prime Minister upstaged by a tumescent, throbbing Black penis? Awesome!) was that his head looked all weird and lumpen without his personally trademarked cap and as a consequence his face didn't make sense: he resembled a really bad hand in scrabble, all consonants and no vowels, with a 'Q' and a 'Z' thrown in just for a goof.

Turns out he hired George W. Bush's media advisers for this press conference and whilst it was scripted far more clumsily than Guy Ritchie's Revolver and delivered in a manner which would make even Jason Statham exclaim "That was shit. Can I do that scene again?", he offered what seems a genuine apology (see the hand on heart foto above). But then if I had billions of dollar$' worth of corporate sponsorship on the line I'd be apologising like a motherfucker too. I guess the only people who'll know if he meant any of it for sure are Tiger and his wife.

Golf was invented so that the rich could go for walks without bumping into peasants and the target demographic for any golfing TV broadcast remains middle-aged, middle-class men, popping Viagra like smarties who are trying to decide whether to upgrade to a Chrysler 300 or a Mercedes Benz at Easter. Their wives pretend, hypocritically, to be shocked at Tiger's antics, whilst kicking themselves that they could have actually met him a couple of years ago if they'd gone to that corporate hospitality thingy he hosted during the local golf tournament. Most men will pretend to be appalled at what Tiger's done whilst hissing "Go on, my Son!" under their breath - everyone with a pulse recognises that if you can't start a conversation with "'S'up, sweet thing? I'm Tiger... Fancy a bit?", then what's the point of being a billionaire? - whilst 'Golf Widows' the world over now fantasise more about sex with the Tiger than with their husbands. Fact!

It was amusing to watch the corporations run away from him like Cheryl Cole fleeing a Relate Counselling session; Accenture dropped him; AT&T barred his calls; and Gillette advised that they would be scouring the planet looking for literally anyone else to shave for them - I personally turned them down last Wednesday, so expect your call any minute.

Ever searching for the world between the cracks in the pavement I figured I'd slide by Tiger's website and see if there was an official story.

web.tigerwoods.com ROCKS at the moment. It's choc-full of innuendo and reads like a first draft of 'Carry On Golfing'. In the section entitled 'Tiger's Tips' (fnar, fnar), where the man himself offers advice allowing us to emulate a Golf Master and improve our 'game', we find:

'Holding firm greens' (!)

and

'Face up in the rough' (as opposed to 'Face down in the rough', presumably)

His monthly blog includes:

'Playing three in a row' (lucky bastard!)

and

'Developing endurance and stamina' (riiiight...)

All of which, I would suggest, got him into trouble in the first damned place.

Anyway, he's going back to rehab for a while and it made me wonder: what exactly do they do in there?

My first port of call was the Sexual Recovery Institute who claim to treat;

Sexual Addiction
Compulsive Masturbation
Online Hookups
Porn addiction
Chronic Infidelity
Prostitutes & Massage
Exhibitionism
Voyeurism
Strip Clubs

Not that I suffer from 'Strip Clubs' or 'Prostitutes & Massage' personally, but they sound pretty serious, don't they?

The Mayo Clinic identifies the symptoms of sex addiction as follows;

Having sex with anonymous partners or prostitutes
Using commercial sexually explicit phone and Internet services
Engaging in excessive masturbation
Frequently using pornographic materials
Engaging in masochistic or sadistic sex
Having a fixation on an unattainable sex partner

But, strangely, when you visit their site you get pop-ups advertising what can only be described as special interest Adult DVD titles such as;

'Tiitten Party: Big Bouncing Euro Tits' and 'Rock That Midget 2' (to be honest, a quick scan of the second one reveals that it has very little to do with music). Evidently some kind of cruel test to make you think "Please, God, it's happening again! I'm being assaulted by porn!!!" and immediately sign up for a course of treatment.

As the prescient Chris Rock observed "Men are only as faithful as their options," so someone like Tiger, logically, will be more predisposed to extrajudicial coitus. Ditto Ashley Cole, Vernon Kay, John Terry etc etc... Thus, his only crime seems to have been getting caught. If he had balls as big as Our Tone's then, once fingered, he would have denied it and then bounced up and down like a toddler at a Tweenies concert shrieking that if he had to do it all again, he would ('my friend, Fernando').

Besides, Tiger's real crime, which will never ever get mentioned, but for which he should definitely say 'sorry', is documented in the film 'The Golf War'. In the late nineties the government of The Phillipines, its military and a cabal of greedy land developers, attempted to displace thousands of villagers and farmers from their homeland to build a golf course. Opponents to this gleaming 'economic development' were killed, whilst Mr Woods was hired by the government to play in an exhibition match and promote the game of golf. The government called it "The Day of the Tiger" and at his junior golf clinic Tiger uttered these portentous words;

"I want all of you to learn and grow from this experience. Invariably you're gonna learn life, gonna learn about life because golf is a microcosm of life."

Romy Capulong, legal representative for the farmers, assumed a diametrically opposed position: "Tiger Woods should be barred from entering this country, I think. If I can do something about it - I'll certainly do that - to bar him from entering this country and propagating golf."

Kinda puts banging a few porn stars into perspective, n'est ce pas?

Denzel Washington revelled in his Oscar winning role as the amoral Police Officer on a powertripping bender in 'Training Day', but felt the character was so depraved and corrupt that the only just retribution was death in a hail of bullets. As the perpetual, so-called 'War On Terror' unravelled this seemed completely out of step with reality, so much so that if you watch the movie now you feel let down by a lazy, disingenuous cop-out (sorry) of an ending which sits uneasily with the easy nihilism of the film.

Evil always prospers.

Politicians never apologise.

However, wouldn't it be great if just once. Once! A world leader, any world leader, proffered a Tiger style 'mea culpa' and then went into Conflict Rehab to cure his War Addiction?

Happy F!%king Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T02:48:00.000-08:00

Somehow, today's celebrations have been thoroughly trivialised in a shower of Clinton's cards, tacky Ann Summers novelty outfits, trite poetry, mid-priced R 'n' B compilation CDs and garishly themed areas in ASDA. But love matters, dammit! As does its physical expression: sex.

Ah, sex....

It's a beautiful thang. Defined as 'an act of coition between three or more consenting adults', it's the one chance for us to express who we are. Unequivocally. The most significant moment of human existence is the orgasm. Sex Magick as espoused by Aleister Crowley and Paschal Beverly Randolph posits that the sexual orgasm can be used to invoke spirits, alter reality, exercise our innate psychic powers and/or heighten one's consciousness. In that one incandescent moment true awareness flickers and flutters open. In that infinitesimal fissure of perception we can behold the truth.

And girls say we're shallow. Pah!

In my widely acclaimed book 'After you: Sexual Etiquette in the 21st Century' (which seeks to explore sexual politics in a post modern society where 'missionary' is now only viable as a sexual position if accompanied by a balaclava and a tub of chunky peanut butter) I suggest an ORGASM RATIO (tm) of 4:1, ie you ensure your partner climaxes at least four times before it's your turn to:-

1. make funny faces
2. issue blasphemous exhortations
3. convulse like a fox caught in an electrical fence installed to protect livestock
4. roll your eyes to the back of your skull like Gene Simmons preparing for a Bass solo
5. gibber like Alistair Campbell dodging a question on Iraq from Andrew Marr
and finally
6. gasp like an asthmatic okapi.

By observing this one simple rule and adjusting your ORGASM RATIO (tm) your sexual needs are more likely to be fulfilled and you're less likely to encounter a crushing, judgemental repulsion from the one you love when you give voice to your long kept secret desires. However, you may have to raise that initial number considerably if a) your partner's sexual tastes are strictly Victorian or b) you're into one of the following:

Acrophilia
Acrophilia (Acro: highest point; philia: attachment to) refers to a person who is sexually aroused by heights or high altitudes. Skydiving or bungee-jumping, for example, offer an adrenaline rush which easily metamorphoses into a sexual ecstasy and, let's be honest here, both of these activities include a light form of bondage and suspension so its pretty understandable. Janet Jackson and Richard Branson are self-confessed members of the 'Mile-High Club', so I'd suggest it doesn't have the same allure as when I joined. Watch yourself though, having sex in a public facility or toilet is actually punishable under section 71 of the Sexual Offences Act 2004 and on EasyJet there's now a service charge if you want to use the loo which is only avoidable if you use a Visa Electron card to book your flight.

Agalmaophilia
Pygmalion was a mythical Greek sculptor who fell in love with one of his female statues Galatea. At his request, the goddess Aphrodite brought her to life. Today the term refers to people with a statue or mannequin fetish. Displaysense, an acclaimed shop dummy manufacturer, now attaches warning stickers to its shop dummies after a man mistook one for a sex doll and got his penis stuck.

The chap bought the female bust from the Displaysense website for £38, but trapped his manhood inside a 24mm hole designed for a display stand. Luckily, he managed to waddle into his kitchen with the plastic dummy still attached, grab a pair of scissors, release himself and ring their call centre to enunciate a stern complaint.

Bee Stings
(Melissophilia; Entomocism - use of insects; Entomophilia - arousal from insects) Apparently bee stings can be used to extend the period of orgasm, enhance the sensitivity of the penis and increase its girth.

I found this dialogue online:

Would it be advisable to have a bee or wasp sting the penis to get a harder erection? And which part of the penis would it be better for applying the sting to?

My boyfriend would do this all the time and it would turn me on so much. You squeeze the abdomen of the bee to trigger it into combat mode, so it will sting and get the stinger out. You put the stinger in the urethra and keep on pinching the bee until it releases the venom and stings the penis. The reasons this works is because the venom from the bee makes your penis swell, and well, that just seems to make it harder and larger =)

So now you know.

Coitus a Unda
This refers to sex in water rather than watersports. People are quite fond of having a crafty one in the shower or bath and fellatio, during which the partner holds water in his or her mouth, is pretty awesome.

Cosmopolitan magazine highlighted the following water/bath related sex positions:

Hot-Tub Hug
Take advantage of this you-on-top pose to titillate his nipples. Draw gentle circles around them with your fingers as you grind.

Sea Horse
Since you’re in charge of the randy reins, lean your torso forward or backward to alter the depth and angle of penetration as you ride him.

Bubbly Back Float
Floating weightlessly gives you pelvic flexibility. You can experiment with aqua acrobatics that you couldn't manage on solid ground.

Niagara Falls
Have him grab the soap and lather up his hands before sliding them around your body. His wet touches will add an extra-sexy sensation.

Randy Raft
Your guy can move your legs up and down to vary the angle of penetration, creating alternating sensations for you.

Canoe Canoodle
Your bodies will be melded from head to toe, and the rocking motion of the boat will intensify each of his internal strokes.

Dogging
(Amomaxia: sex in a parked car.) Where couples in cars perform for a gathered audience. Katie Price and Alex Reid recently reviewed the Citroen Picasso for enthusiasts’ online journal, Doggers' Monthly.

"We're, like, totally mental and completely impulsive, yeah? So, right, we just, like, went to Vegas? Because that's what we wanted to do, yeah? Anyway, Ohmygod! Ohmygod! Ohmygod! We just so, like, loooooved the conveniently ‘eeezy-wipe’ interior? And the wider driver and passenger seats makes spit-roasting, like, so much easier? Plus the optional full-length sun-roof and increased windowed surface area lets more people enjoy what you're up to, and it’s great if you’re expecting the paparazzi."

"Oh, and the Citroen Berlingo is well buff! Deffo our 'best budget buy'. It was, like, ace, to find a high performance, affordable family car with the headroom to enjoy a good old-fashioned ‘reverse cowgirl’ position, innit?"

Homilophilia
(Autagonistophilia - arousal by being on stage or on camera. Homilo: sermons.) Homilophilia refers to feeling sexual arousal whilst listening to or giving public speeches. Public speakers are often dynamic and this, combined with excitement, anticipation and adrenaline can produce sexual arousal for both speaker and audience. Now, whenever I assume the role of event compere or host I imagine myself in a deep, warm bubble bath: rivulets of water cascading over my naked torso, effervescence playing gently over my nipples, a chilled glass of Veuve Clicquot Champagne on the side... Given my meticulous mental preparation, anything less than sexual arousal in these circumstances is unacceptable.

Nasophilia
Nasophilia (naso: nose; philia: attachment to) refers to arousal from the sight, touch or act of licking or sucking a partner's nose. The reasons for people digging this practice are varied. Inuits rub noses as a greeting, and certain Native American tribes traditionally rub noses, just as other cultures kiss on the lips, to express affection.

Palatin Technologies Inc developed a product in the mid-noughties, Bremelanotide, which was to be marketed as PT-141 Nasal Spray. Palatin conducted a study in 18 premenopausal and 26 postmenopausal women with a diagnosis of Female Sexual Dysfunction (FSD). Patients reported a significant increase in sexual desire and in genital arousal after receiving Bremelanotide, compared to a placebo, and a definite correlation was drawn between sexual desire and genital arousal in patients receiving Bremelanotide.

However, further tests must have gone "breasts awry" as the last communication on this wonder product reads as follows on the Palatin website:

"Following discussions with the Food and Drug Administration (FDA), Palatin discontinued work on Bremelanotide as an intranasal first-line therapy for sexual dysfunction."

Oculolinctus
Oculolinctus (oculo: eye; linctus: lick) refers to the act of licking a partner's eyeball for sexual arousal. I couldn't find any specific, noteworthy examples of this fetish, but what follows is very disturbing:

Eyeball sex scared help?
I was getting a beej from my gf and came in her eyes. She immediately washed them out with water but I was wondering if it was possible for the sperm to travel down the optic nerve into her body and get her pregnant?

Queening
This is the practice of a dominant female using a man's head as her throne. The woman sits in one of several positions, either on the side of the man's head or so that his nose is near her anus with his eyes covered by her genitals. The object of queening is bondage rather than cunnilingus. The man may wear supplemental ankle or wrist restraints.

Scrotal Infusion
(Ballooning; Scrotal inflation) Scrotal infusion is the process by which a saline solution is injected into the scrotal sac. The visual effect of the scrotal infusion resembles a water balloon. Men don't report any pain from this procedure and claim that one advantage is the solution filtering into the penis causing it to swell to the size of one of those Foster's Lager Supercans.

The website www.pumphouse.me.uk offers a comprehensive guide which states "don't be a pansy" and helpfully suggests "don't plan to move around too much for the next 30 minutes - hour. Have your beers/soft drinks or whatever already out of the fridge. You will want to stay idle and focused while you do this." Quality advice.

Their Bullet Point recap of the process reads thus:

1. warm the saline to just above body temerpature.
2. Make sure that the ballsack is cleaned with wipes provided and is loose hanging.
3. hang the saline above you to ensure gravity works.
4. open the blue tag and insert the spike on the gravity feed line.
5. make sure the clamp is closed (it’s on the line and has a wheel that opens closes the line.)
6. insert cannula into ball sack and withdraw the needle part leaving the plastic sheath inside.
7. unscrew the plastic cover from the other end of the gravity line (it can be on a bit tight so use some muscles)
8. open the clamp wheel to blead the air our of the gravity line and re-close the clamp wheel.
9. attach the gravity line to the cannula, it will half turn screw on.
10. open the clamp wheel to allow a steady infusion of saline.
11. you will be able to see the flow by looking at the vial at the other end of the gravity line just below the blue tag entry. Give the vial a little squeeze to allow a reservoir of saline into the
chamber.

If you are not getting a good flow rate then you can start
by jiggling your ball sack carefully to see if that increases the flow rate.

The spelling mistakes in step 8 gave me no cause for concern whatsoever, so from Monday morning you'll see me walking with a wider gait than usual...

Sex isn't just for Valentine's day, boys and girls, and if we're doing it right we can cause a magickal storm which rips a hole in the fabric of our material reality generating true revolution. Get yourself a harness, acquire a strap-on, speak exclusively in a West African tongue-clicking dialect, go without underwear for a day. Experiment. Pick one of the above kinks at random and have a go before the end of the year. Notes and feedback to the usual place.

I love you x