Was on the comedy website CHORTLE earlier today and saw that an organisation called Parents Television Council are seeking to boycott companies that advertise around the upcoming CBS sitcom Shit My Dad Says, based on the rather hilarious Twitter feed of the same name.
Without wanting to discuss in greater details the misguided efforts of this group (that’s another post for another time) it made me think of George Carlin’s stand up routine “Seven Dirty Words”, which made me upload the above clip. I don’t think this is the original clip of the routine, but a follow-up analysis of it.
Anyway, sit back and enjoy. Highly NSFW, obviously.
I’m dangerously addicted to the video for the new Yeasayer single Madder Red (thanks to Pitchfork for uploading the clip) for a plethora of reasons. Here are three:
1. It features Kristen Bell, the eponymous heroine of Veronica Mars (a ‘teen’ series ten times smarter and more addictive than the other daytime US imports E4 is splurging out at the moment) and she is, ahem, exceptionally aesthetically satisfying.
2. It features what appears to be a Boglin in the other starring role. I don’t know if you remember Boglins, but I remember trying (and probably succeeding) in scaring the isht out of relatives with these monstrosities. Nice to see them branching out into the world of the music video…..albeit 15 years too late.
3. The song’s pretty good too. The band are an entertaining bunch, and I read an interesting piece on them a few weeks ago in the paper although, I must reluctantly agree with the anonymous masses of the Comments section that the music press interviewing a band about what the music press say about them is slightly cannibalistic and circular.
Although people often level the same criticism at 30 Rock for doing the same thing with the television industry and it’s done them no harm, so perhaps the concept isn’t such a bad one…..maybe, just maybe, I smell a sitcom! Oh. No I don’t. That’s the phone ringing - I should probably get back to work.
Just goes to show you can never trust a parrot…unless it’s an ex-parrot; bereft of life; nailed to the perch; or pining for the Fjords.
I should’ve gone straight in. I should’ve fucking gone straight in. Instead I’m stuck in the corner standing next to a woman whose feet are too big for her sandals. I don’t mean ‘too long’, they’re just too big…EVERYWHERE. I don’t know what the foot-based equivalent of the muffin top is, but I’ve got a front row seat to its debut.
I’m in a Kings Cross courtyard looking at a veritable chocolate box of people who all look so unappealing, it looks like the Milk Tray man rapelled in earlier but left a poisonous box of treats for me. Wait a second, does that make me the Lady in this analogy? For fuck’s sake. Shouldn’t start writing after a few drinks. REALLY doesn’t bode well for future endeavours into the creative industries if I need to travel down the local for that engaging First Act. I’d check my Inception-inspired totem to see if this is all a dream, but I don’t want to spin my pint glass - I’ve still got a bit left in it.
Anyway, am in KGX to see SVIIB (go acronyms!) to help me shake off a busy day in the office and a frustrated one outside of it. I won’t list the petty list of things that have gone wrong for me today, but let’s look at the one that got me the most riled, yet is probably the most insignificant in the grand scheme of things:
Waiting to get a takeaway at a local pizza restaurant earlier as I enter I see a middle-aged couple arguing with the staff about some sort of voucher deal. Long story short (too late), their voucher entitled them each to a 3 course meal and a drink for the two of them for £10 each. However as they didn’t want dessert, they were demanding that they should be able to use the voucher pro rata for just their two courses and pay £13.32.
As fate would have it, their meal sans-voucher came to £19, so logic would dictate you take dessert each for that extra pound. But not our gourmets who argued on and on and on and Ariston until the gentleman caved, threw a £20 note in the direction of the staff, grabbed his wife and stormed out.
As amusing as that was to watch, that just happened to add extra weight to the general loathing I have of all vouchers of this kind.
Reasons why these vouchers are evil:
YOU LOOK CHEAP: I’m fortunate to be friends with an assortment of cheapskates (I LOVE you guys really) who use them all the time, so I don’t have to, but there’s something dignity-stripping about waving an A4 bit of paper as you ask someone for the bill. Nice to know that at least I now know what the sign language is for “Penny pinching bastard over here”.
ALL THESE SITES REQUIRE YOU TO GIVE THEM YOUR PERSONAL INFORMATION: you’d think in this age of identity theft where personal information is at a premium and a phonebook’s worth of information is being sold for a small fortune, people wouldn’t hand over theor details so quickly - but they do.
"What’s that hun? All we need to do is type in our email and DOB into this luminous, Cayman-Island registered, pop-up advert frenzy of a website, and we get a voucher to get us 1p off any premium-standard main course at Pizza Rapido? Let’s do it"
…In for a penny eh?
Additionally, I don’t want to receive a million and one marketing emails the second I register. I’m lucky enough to have this already *cough cough, Amazon* so why have it again? In fact, one of the few times I succumbed to a voucher, I set up a new email address with a new name, address and login details - Timothy Parker. Seriously.
Anyhow, I’ve just remembered I’m not here to merely pontificate I’ve got a gig to go to. Timothy and I are going to head in now - why don’t you join us both? We’re having a BBQ at his on Saturday so why don’t you come join us as he cooks up a mean one. Just one thing - no vouchers allowed.
Rule #1 of gig-going…Ok it’s not a rule, more a convention…and it’s not really #1, it’s charting in the late teens probably - like an ageing boy band whose record company have cut their marketing budget to playing shopping centres in run-down Northern industrial cities (wow that’s a cack-handed way to write “broken dreams”) - Is…hold on, where was I? Oh look! There’s Rob Andrew getting off the train at Twickenham. Of course he gets off here.
Right, erm, gig-going convention #17 - if you’re going to see Band X live, DO NOT wear a tee with Band X’s name on it. Simples. Like tonight - I am off to see Los Campesinos! so my Baldrickian cunning plan to subvert the night’s proceedings is to wear a musical-themed tee, but one not embossed with tonight’s delightful Welsh hosts, but instead one sporting the fair insignia of Wild Beasts.
The reasons for this convention are numerous, but suffice to say it can be broken down into a few simple points:
1 - I don’t want people to know where I’m going. I’m a strange and paranoid man at the best of times. If I’m chatting with a friend on the street, if a stranger passes us on the pavement I stop talking, pretend as if I’ve lost myself, pause for thought (write a rambling blog post) and then continue my conversation once they’re out of range. Now I know it’s unlikely anything I would’ve said would be a direct personal insult to them, but you never know - I’m a callous, heartless bastard so you can never rule it out.
2. It’s a bit sad, isn’t it? Unless the band in question are creative with their tees (even if they are thieving, behaviourally-challenged folk), or if you know that it’s part of a mandatory dress code, then don’t do it unless you also display your Mickey Mouse Club membership card at all times.
In an anti-tee display let’s all do an Iggy (no, not this ‘do an Iggy’, nor this one, nor this one) and go skins instead of shirts. Yeah, come on! Who’s with me? Ooooh, not YOU I hope. That gut of yours is even more perfectly spherical than a Jabulani (OK, make that 10 Jabulanis bound together to form some kind of weird football-based chemical diagram) and that’s your second pastie already this train journey. You’re not a Newcastle United fan, put it away son.
Anyway, need to get on the tube so catch you on the other side.
Me: “Yes! I’m in, I’m in, I’m in”.
Johnny Foreigner: “Thanks so much, this is our last song”.
Bugger. My tweet mentioning them goes unanswered…as of yet.
I swear The Garage is lookalike central tonight. I’ve just seen a camp David Cross, what looked like James Petrelli from White Denim, and a man who looked like a cross between my old maths teacher Chopper Harris and James Murphy.
I reeeeallly hope the fact that I keep imagining all these friendly faces around me doesn’t betray any simmering, subconscious ideas of loneliness…..I bet Mr Murphy could write a belter of a track about that. Getting lost just thinking about it. I wonder what the lookalike can do.
On the other-band-tees front I’ve counted Broken Social Scene, Eazy-E and The Pixies thus far. Starting to feel a bit inadequate. Thank God I didn’t wear my Lethal Bizzle one. You think I’m joking don’t you?
Even so, with only one LC! tee I’ve seen thus far, that makes it 4-1. “For the first time in my life I’m winning! I’m winning!”
There’s a couple in front of me wearing matching Jean Paul Gaultier-style striped tops. Hers has buttoned shoulders, yet is STILL the more masculine of the two.
I’ve moved positions but the couple in front of me now are writing down their weekly shopping list. I can see from here that the title of the note is Beef Mince. If I had a shopping list right now it’d just say “More Lager” in big red letters, though I’ll resist the temptation.
I just can’t believe they’ve taken the time out from this gig to think about it and write things down on their phone. Really, some people these days. For some reason right now I can’t help but think of the words ‘Pot’ ‘Kettle’ and ‘Black’.
Sonic Youth: 5-1.
Stuck behind a big-and-tall emporium’s worth of house of mirrors freaks. That line made more sense in my head.
Notes thus far: They’re so amazing I can’t believe I’ve never tried to move Heaven and Earth to try and see the band before; Gareth Campesinos! is the most energetic and engaging frontman I’ve seen in ages; The girl to my left who keeps shouting arequest for Broken Heartbeats Sound Like Breakbeats between tracks is gonna get a punch in a minute.
"Broken Heartbeats Sound Like Breakbeats!!!"
An all-together outstanding gig ends in spectacular fashion, and ‘request girl’ looks glum as she goes unfulfilled. Get LC! ready on the iPod for the journey home.
Thick-necked reserve rugby player gets on the train wearing a T-Shirt with “Heart 106.2” embossed on it. Words fail me. Still to decide which t-shirt team gets a point for that one.
Male Bonding and The Pretenders. 7-1 and Goodnight Vienna.
I’ve been back from my friend’s stag do in Newquay just over 48 hours now, and rather than prattling on as I might usually do, I’ll keep it brief. Firstly, the image of it being the post-GCSE Mecca it’s often portrayed to be, seemed to have been expelled…or at the very least grounded.
Sure, there’s many a surfing competition going on down there (with a scary doppelganger of a friend of mine lurking in the background at 8:15 of that clip) but trust me, with the numbers of stags down there, it’s less playtime and more rutting time…so to speak.
Anyhow, to save time and to allow me poetic licence for many an anecdote in the future, here is the weekend in as succinct a format as possible, one word at a time:
Funbus. Cassius. Locksmiths. Blisters. Plugging. Sans Red Bull. Seasickness. Mackerel. Tell Her. Raoul. Gazza. Jelly. Belly. Foam. Pants. Mugshots. Müller (He’s Upbeat! He’s Helpful! He’s Reliable!). Dolphin. Laaaaaaager. Suicide. Categories. Bananas. Categories. Home. Categories. Bunfus.
That oughta cover it for now.