Right, so we did it. It feels like VE Day all over again. Simon Cowell's corporate tyranny has been de-throned, the ring cut from his finger; the Great British Public (and right now I'm happy to call them that) has propelled Rage Against the Machine to the summit of the UK Charts. And it feels amazing.
Victory is only made sweeter by tragedy that would have been had the X Factor triumphed. Had Joe McElderry been number one, it would have been proven, once and for all, that SyCo's brand of inoffensive, gymnastic balladry had won over the nation, and even the biggest and most supported music campaign in English, and probably world, history had been defeated. That would have been a disaster, and the 958'419 fans of the original Facebook group would go to bed tonight feeling cowed - or should that be Cowell'd?
X Factor will win again next year. And you know what, I don't care. There may well be other attempts at toppling next year's winner, but none will have the same unifying effect that this one had. But we proved our point. People still like music thats - a huge cliché I know - real.
Its nice to know bands can still offend people. The hell-raisers of old are all dead or have lost it, John Lydon being Culprit Number One. Rage's live performance of Killing in the Name was just another slice of anarchy that provoked outrage and made headlines in a week ridden with it. How did the BBC not see it coming. The goddamn line they wanted changed was the now-classic 'fuck you I won't do what you tell me'; did they really expect them to change it? Morons. It made for a brilliant moment though.
The Machine has successfully been Raged against.
Sunday 20 December 2009
Monday 23 November 2009
Dan le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip
Just a shorty today
Downloaded Dan le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip's debut Angles a few weeks ago, thought it was amazing; bought it legally today off Amazon and it got even more amazing. There are so many strong messages, clever lyrics and cool beats. It's occasionally bleak, particularly Angles and Magician's Assistant. Every song is brilliant. Please download it. Please.
Downloaded Dan le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip's debut Angles a few weeks ago, thought it was amazing; bought it legally today off Amazon and it got even more amazing. There are so many strong messages, clever lyrics and cool beats. It's occasionally bleak, particularly Angles and Magician's Assistant. Every song is brilliant. Please download it. Please.
Saturday 21 November 2009
Q
I was thumbing through the december issue of Q magazine, and all was well. All was well, that is, until I came across a review of Biffy Clyro's Only Revolutions. Or more specifically, the opening paragraph. I'll type it up quick like for your viewing (dis)pleasure:
"It's tough being a young British band, specifically one on the heavier end of the musical spectrum. In rock, as in glabal politics, America dictates the agenda: musicians from that side of the pond are more confident, more image-savvy, more glamorous and just generally better, with embarrasingly few exceptions. Legions of jowly, guitar-toting Gordon Browns have stumbled their way onto the world stage, only to find themselves shoved to the sidelines as their polished counterparts recieved the full glare of the publics adoration."
I was stunned. Taken-aback. Flabergasted. I foamed at the mouth. I wrote a letter. I pity the poor Q email-lackey who bore the brunt of such a verbal firestorm. No doubt much quailing was done. Dave Everly, the pitiful hack who wrote that abomination, will meet with many puzzled stares as he fearfully stops, turns, and shuffles of warily, the uncomfortable impression that someone, somewhere, is watching his every move, waiting.
Q, your reputation has been sullied.
"It's tough being a young British band, specifically one on the heavier end of the musical spectrum. In rock, as in glabal politics, America dictates the agenda: musicians from that side of the pond are more confident, more image-savvy, more glamorous and just generally better, with embarrasingly few exceptions. Legions of jowly, guitar-toting Gordon Browns have stumbled their way onto the world stage, only to find themselves shoved to the sidelines as their polished counterparts recieved the full glare of the publics adoration."
I was stunned. Taken-aback. Flabergasted. I foamed at the mouth. I wrote a letter. I pity the poor Q email-lackey who bore the brunt of such a verbal firestorm. No doubt much quailing was done. Dave Everly, the pitiful hack who wrote that abomination, will meet with many puzzled stares as he fearfully stops, turns, and shuffles of warily, the uncomfortable impression that someone, somewhere, is watching his every move, waiting.
Q, your reputation has been sullied.
Tuesday 17 November 2009
Three Reasons Why Megan Fox Is Overrated.
1)Megan Fox looks like a pornstar, acts as well as a pornstar, but is for some reason in mainstream movies. Suuuure everything is in the right place, but she manages to be so boring to look at.
Even in pretty mode she kinda looks...blank.
2)Shes a freaking moron. "[Michael Bay, Transformers director] wants to be like Hitler on his sets, and he is". Umm no she isn't. Unless Michael Bay murdered millions of Jews on his sets. Moron. Intelligence is where it's at.
3)She has malicious little devil thums. Take a look:
Hisssss!
Even in pretty mode she kinda looks...blank.
2)Shes a freaking moron. "[Michael Bay, Transformers director] wants to be like Hitler on his sets, and he is". Umm no she isn't. Unless Michael Bay murdered millions of Jews on his sets. Moron. Intelligence is where it's at.
3)She has malicious little devil thums. Take a look:
Hisssss!
Tuesday 27 October 2009
Birdsong
Just finished reading this harrowing tale from Sebastian Faulks and though flawed I thought it was excellent.
Wilfred Owen and co have clearly had a big effect on Faulks' writing - theres no wishy-washy romanticised version of life in the trenches; Falks, even more that Owen, conveys the message the the war was an abberation against nature, an evil thing beyond words that scoops out the soldiers' humanity and leaves them scarred. The sheer relentless tragic conditions where a man expects to die at any moment can, I feel, only really be brought out by prose; the typically brief nature of poetry can't adequately convey the grinding misery.
If anything, the sections with the Granddaughter Elizabeth were even more dispiriting - is the bleak existance of her life really worth the sacrifice of so many men? At least Stephen experienced passion; there seems to be none to be found in 1978 England.
Steven's friendship with Weir was the most compelling in the novel, and Weir the most beliveable character and his death upset me more than any others. His death, with no pomp and circumstance - as is the case with the death of most of the minor characters - makes it all the more tragic.
What else? The Isabelle story petered out oddly, and Jeanne (how is that pronounced? Gene? Jane?) was never developed enough for it to seem likely that she could be in a relationship with Stephen, given how empty he was by the end. The image of thousands of injured English soldiers rising like the dead on the slopes near Amiens was an incredibly powerful image, as was most of that scene in fact. Also, allow being in a tunnel. Especially if your name is Stephen.
Aallssoo, during the whole book Stephen did not kill one German until he set off the explosive right at the end, but that was accidental, in fact the only one he did kill was a mortally wounded man in a shared shell-hole who wanted to go quickly. Furthermore, none of the other characters kill any Germans either. Weird. Maybe Faulks wanted to keep the German presence defined only by their shells, which I suppose makes the war seem futile, though I'm grasping at straws here. Gray even said Stephen was a terriffic fighter. Odd
Wilfred Owen and co have clearly had a big effect on Faulks' writing - theres no wishy-washy romanticised version of life in the trenches; Falks, even more that Owen, conveys the message the the war was an abberation against nature, an evil thing beyond words that scoops out the soldiers' humanity and leaves them scarred. The sheer relentless tragic conditions where a man expects to die at any moment can, I feel, only really be brought out by prose; the typically brief nature of poetry can't adequately convey the grinding misery.
If anything, the sections with the Granddaughter Elizabeth were even more dispiriting - is the bleak existance of her life really worth the sacrifice of so many men? At least Stephen experienced passion; there seems to be none to be found in 1978 England.
Steven's friendship with Weir was the most compelling in the novel, and Weir the most beliveable character and his death upset me more than any others. His death, with no pomp and circumstance - as is the case with the death of most of the minor characters - makes it all the more tragic.
What else? The Isabelle story petered out oddly, and Jeanne (how is that pronounced? Gene? Jane?) was never developed enough for it to seem likely that she could be in a relationship with Stephen, given how empty he was by the end. The image of thousands of injured English soldiers rising like the dead on the slopes near Amiens was an incredibly powerful image, as was most of that scene in fact. Also, allow being in a tunnel. Especially if your name is Stephen.
Aallssoo, during the whole book Stephen did not kill one German until he set off the explosive right at the end, but that was accidental, in fact the only one he did kill was a mortally wounded man in a shared shell-hole who wanted to go quickly. Furthermore, none of the other characters kill any Germans either. Weird. Maybe Faulks wanted to keep the German presence defined only by their shells, which I suppose makes the war seem futile, though I'm grasping at straws here. Gray even said Stephen was a terriffic fighter. Odd
Sunday 4 October 2009
Best of 2000-09
With night closing in on the noughties, it seems appropriate to make a list of the best song of this decade. A shortlist of 37 songs has been whittled down to just 10. Rules: songs are judged on how good I think they are, and also their influence on the decade. Beatles remasters don't count!
So, in ascending order:
10) Muse - Stockholm Syndrome
It's the best song from Muse's best album, who by the way would steal the best band of the decade award, but will it be the only Top 10 song? I have a sneaking suspicion that won't be the case...
9) The White Stripes - 7 Nation Army
Best bassline of the decade? Certainly the most recognisable. This sparse tour-de-force from the endlessly-creative mind of Jack White takes 9th spot.
8)Opeth - The Lotus Eater
Time for some metal methinks. Memorable mainly for 'just give me some beer!' line, and the funky keyboard section, this is nevertheless a brilliant song. The only other metal album of the last 10 years to touch this is Maiden's A Matter of Life and Death
7)Elbow - One Day Like This
Elbow were undoubtably the band of 2008 (far superior to bleedin' Kings of Leon) and this is the best song from an album-ful of 12 corkers. It shimmers with positivity from the strident, powerful strings and Guy Garvey's uplifting lyics.
6)Franz Ferdinand - Jacqueline
The first track from FF's debut, this song ushered in a dazzling new talent who single-handedly kick-started the boys-with-guitars movement - without this band we would have had no Scouting for Girls. From the softly-softly opening to the cutting arpeggios this is class from start to finish. Shame their following albums (mostly) failed to live up to the first.
5)Arctic Monkeys - I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor
Into the top 5, and there was something about Arctic Monkey's open, honest music and Alex Turner's bitingly realistic lyrics that struck a chord with virtually everyone with functioning ear-drums. Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not is the best-selling debut of all time (UK at least) and it was this song that was the song everyone knew from the start.
4)Muse - Bliss
The best moment in this song are the first 14 seconds, but what a 14 seconds they are. The opening, sweeping keys are just staggeringly beautiful, and I find personally there is no more relaxing song or melody or otherwise ever written. One doesn't, however, reach number 4 on the best song of the decade on the strength of 14 seconds of, well, Bliss - the rest of the song, underpinned throughout by that melody, is honest open songwriting at its best, with lyrics that anyone can relate to.
3)The Darkness - Black Shuck
The Archetypical Underrated Band. Seen by many as a novelty act; seen by me as a breath of fresh air, the opening track to Permission to Land grabs you by the balls until you're squealing like Justin Hawkins himself. Perhaps the only band of the decade that brought big riffs and guitar solos into the mainstream at a time when that sort of thing was definately out of fashion, and for this Justin, Dan, Ed and Frankie I salute you.
2)Feeder - Buck Rogers
Maybe a song that is neither among my favourites or especially influential doesn't deserve to come in at number two, let alone the top ten, but there is something about having Buck Rogers so high up that just feels right. At the time of release it was played to death, but as it becomes more forgotten it becomes more loved.
1)The Darkness - Love On The Rocks With No Ice
Love On The Rocks With No Ice is here for the same reasons as Black Shuck - and then some. This is hard rock at its very best: the riffs, the solos, the licks - it's all perfect - not to mention the most powerful vocals Justin Hawkins has ever belted out. Also, the fact that this is something of a forgotten gem - it wasn't a single release - makes it just that bit more special.
Honourable mentions:
Flight of the Conchords - Business Time
It's just the funniest song ever, pure and simple
Kasabian - The Doberman
The first 3:45 of this song is great; the last 1:45 is unadulterated brilliance. The frantic build-up is silenced by a solitary snare-shot, setting up an epic, spanish-tinged instrumental. Kasabian really need to do this sort of thing more often.
Jet - Are You Gonna Be My Girl
Radiohead - Faust Arp
In Rainbows is fantastic, buts the songs work better together, hence no showing in the top 10
The Feeling - Sewn
EDIT - what was I thinking putting Opeth at #8?! But what to replace it with? Possibly The Doberman...though tempting to whack butterflies and hurricanes in there
EDIT 2: Okay, what the hell was I thinking? Buck Rogers?! Get outta here! New list:
10)Stockholm Syndrome 9)Outkast - Hey Ya 8) Jet-Are You Gonna Be My Girl 7) Kasabian - The Doberman 6) One Day Like This 5) Jacqueline 4)I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor 3) The Darkness - Get Your Hands Off My Woman 2) Bliss 1) Love On The Rocks
So, in ascending order:
10) Muse - Stockholm Syndrome
It's the best song from Muse's best album, who by the way would steal the best band of the decade award, but will it be the only Top 10 song? I have a sneaking suspicion that won't be the case...
9) The White Stripes - 7 Nation Army
Best bassline of the decade? Certainly the most recognisable. This sparse tour-de-force from the endlessly-creative mind of Jack White takes 9th spot.
8)Opeth - The Lotus Eater
Time for some metal methinks. Memorable mainly for 'just give me some beer!' line, and the funky keyboard section, this is nevertheless a brilliant song. The only other metal album of the last 10 years to touch this is Maiden's A Matter of Life and Death
7)Elbow - One Day Like This
Elbow were undoubtably the band of 2008 (far superior to bleedin' Kings of Leon) and this is the best song from an album-ful of 12 corkers. It shimmers with positivity from the strident, powerful strings and Guy Garvey's uplifting lyics.
6)Franz Ferdinand - Jacqueline
The first track from FF's debut, this song ushered in a dazzling new talent who single-handedly kick-started the boys-with-guitars movement - without this band we would have had no Scouting for Girls. From the softly-softly opening to the cutting arpeggios this is class from start to finish. Shame their following albums (mostly) failed to live up to the first.
5)Arctic Monkeys - I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor
Into the top 5, and there was something about Arctic Monkey's open, honest music and Alex Turner's bitingly realistic lyrics that struck a chord with virtually everyone with functioning ear-drums. Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not is the best-selling debut of all time (UK at least) and it was this song that was the song everyone knew from the start.
4)Muse - Bliss
The best moment in this song are the first 14 seconds, but what a 14 seconds they are. The opening, sweeping keys are just staggeringly beautiful, and I find personally there is no more relaxing song or melody or otherwise ever written. One doesn't, however, reach number 4 on the best song of the decade on the strength of 14 seconds of, well, Bliss - the rest of the song, underpinned throughout by that melody, is honest open songwriting at its best, with lyrics that anyone can relate to.
3)The Darkness - Black Shuck
The Archetypical Underrated Band. Seen by many as a novelty act; seen by me as a breath of fresh air, the opening track to Permission to Land grabs you by the balls until you're squealing like Justin Hawkins himself. Perhaps the only band of the decade that brought big riffs and guitar solos into the mainstream at a time when that sort of thing was definately out of fashion, and for this Justin, Dan, Ed and Frankie I salute you.
2)Feeder - Buck Rogers
Maybe a song that is neither among my favourites or especially influential doesn't deserve to come in at number two, let alone the top ten, but there is something about having Buck Rogers so high up that just feels right. At the time of release it was played to death, but as it becomes more forgotten it becomes more loved.
1)The Darkness - Love On The Rocks With No Ice
Love On The Rocks With No Ice is here for the same reasons as Black Shuck - and then some. This is hard rock at its very best: the riffs, the solos, the licks - it's all perfect - not to mention the most powerful vocals Justin Hawkins has ever belted out. Also, the fact that this is something of a forgotten gem - it wasn't a single release - makes it just that bit more special.
Honourable mentions:
Flight of the Conchords - Business Time
It's just the funniest song ever, pure and simple
Kasabian - The Doberman
The first 3:45 of this song is great; the last 1:45 is unadulterated brilliance. The frantic build-up is silenced by a solitary snare-shot, setting up an epic, spanish-tinged instrumental. Kasabian really need to do this sort of thing more often.
Jet - Are You Gonna Be My Girl
Radiohead - Faust Arp
In Rainbows is fantastic, buts the songs work better together, hence no showing in the top 10
The Feeling - Sewn
EDIT - what was I thinking putting Opeth at #8?! But what to replace it with? Possibly The Doberman...though tempting to whack butterflies and hurricanes in there
EDIT 2: Okay, what the hell was I thinking? Buck Rogers?! Get outta here! New list:
10)Stockholm Syndrome 9)Outkast - Hey Ya 8) Jet-Are You Gonna Be My Girl 7) Kasabian - The Doberman 6) One Day Like This 5) Jacqueline 4)I Bet You Look Good On The Dancefloor 3) The Darkness - Get Your Hands Off My Woman 2) Bliss 1) Love On The Rocks
Tuesday 8 September 2009
You Can Kiss My RIAA
Right, so this is my attempt to throw my considerable international influence into the "File-Sharing: Yay or Nay" debate. I've not done much research, so this could be horrendous.
What spurred me to write this post are a few links I Stumbled Upon a while back, a various reports I've read of the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) targeting evil file-sharers and forcing obscene amounts of money out of them.
Firstly, this one: http://img40.imageshack.us/img40/9172/1245456677307.jpg it's fairly self explanatory. $80'000 FOR ONE DOWNLOAD! YOU MUST BE KIDDING ME! How can the RIAA possibly justify such harsh penalty? The fine would be less if that woman nicked the CDs from a shop!
There was another one but I can't find it :( Sad Face.
The government has done an about-face on its previously somewhat-liberal stance on file-sharing and now has pledged to crackdown on it instead, with threats of disconnected internet and fines and blahblahblah. Let's be clear on this - if people can file-share they will, and theres nothing anyone can do about it: people are too cheap and the internet too hard to govern (but thats a whole different discussion). The old cliché is true - if you can't beat 'em join 'em, which is what many musicians are now doing. The highest profile of these is of course Radiohead's famous you-choose-the-price download of In Rainbows (I paid £4 and probably would have got it illegally if i had to pay a tenner), but recently Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails fame and apparent foreward-thinker has given his ten cents to the discussion, concerning how aspiring musicians can embrace file-sharing to build a fan-base for free and then start charging, which can be seen here: http://forum.nin.com/bb/read.php?30,767183,767183
The man's talking sense.
There's more to add but i'm tired an no one is going to read this anyway.
What spurred me to write this post are a few links I Stumbled Upon a while back, a various reports I've read of the RIAA (Recording Industry Association of America) targeting evil file-sharers and forcing obscene amounts of money out of them.
Firstly, this one: http://img40.imageshack.us/img40/9172/1245456677307.jpg it's fairly self explanatory. $80'000 FOR ONE DOWNLOAD! YOU MUST BE KIDDING ME! How can the RIAA possibly justify such harsh penalty? The fine would be less if that woman nicked the CDs from a shop!
There was another one but I can't find it :( Sad Face.
The government has done an about-face on its previously somewhat-liberal stance on file-sharing and now has pledged to crackdown on it instead, with threats of disconnected internet and fines and blahblahblah. Let's be clear on this - if people can file-share they will, and theres nothing anyone can do about it: people are too cheap and the internet too hard to govern (but thats a whole different discussion). The old cliché is true - if you can't beat 'em join 'em, which is what many musicians are now doing. The highest profile of these is of course Radiohead's famous you-choose-the-price download of In Rainbows (I paid £4 and probably would have got it illegally if i had to pay a tenner), but recently Trent Reznor of Nine Inch Nails fame and apparent foreward-thinker has given his ten cents to the discussion, concerning how aspiring musicians can embrace file-sharing to build a fan-base for free and then start charging, which can be seen here: http://forum.nin.com/bb/read.php?30,767183,767183
The man's talking sense.
There's more to add but i'm tired an no one is going to read this anyway.
Wednesday 12 August 2009
Acrobat - Jo Webb & the Dirty Hands
11 songs about failure
On his website, Jo Webb states his influences as Andy Partidge, Roger Waters, Frank Zappa, the Beatles and Iron Maiden, but in truth, Acrobat, Jo Webb's debut, sound more like a mixture of Maximo Park and The Feeling, or an English counterpart to Harvey Danger.
Jo Webb also claims that the Dirty Hands are 'the best band you've never heard of', and after listening through he may well be right. At times, the songs crackle with energy, and none more so than in Acrobat - the first single and album opener - an ecclectic mix of crunchy guitars, hooky synths and a catchy chorus, Acrobat has a youthful exuberance not heard since the aforementioned Feeling's Twelve Stops From Home. And Acrobat isn't even the best song. No, that title lies with Happy Man. Its a darker song than Acrobat and perhaps less radio-friendly, clearly the 'Happy Man' is anything but. Lines like "Dont need to drink yourself to sleep/don't need to bury the food you eat" and "Break it down, life is full of misery so why participate?" show the darker side of Jo Webb's lyrics.
Its not all plain sailing. Towards the end of the album the quality takes a dip, notably Invisible and Dissolved, but perks up again for the final two. Invisible is incongrously uninteresting, with some awkwardly phrased melodies and lyrics (what would people do if all the money in the world dissapeared and all their treasures were worth absolutely nothing at all?). Similarly, Dissolved never really gets going either, though not quite to the extent of Invisible. Given the overall quality of the record these blips can be mostly overlooked, but its just a shame they're present because Jo Webb can undoubtably write better songs.
The million-pound question is, Will they ever become well-known? In a fair world, where music is judged by quality, and people have time for a more modest band exempt from celebrity-crazed egotism and well-crafted, infectious pop songs, then yes, but sadly this is not the case, and despite the quality of this record, I get the impression that that Jo Webb and the Dirty Hands will plug away as unknowns without making much of an impression on public consciousness.
Tracks to download:
Just buy the damn album!
On his website, Jo Webb states his influences as Andy Partidge, Roger Waters, Frank Zappa, the Beatles and Iron Maiden, but in truth, Acrobat, Jo Webb's debut, sound more like a mixture of Maximo Park and The Feeling, or an English counterpart to Harvey Danger.
Jo Webb also claims that the Dirty Hands are 'the best band you've never heard of', and after listening through he may well be right. At times, the songs crackle with energy, and none more so than in Acrobat - the first single and album opener - an ecclectic mix of crunchy guitars, hooky synths and a catchy chorus, Acrobat has a youthful exuberance not heard since the aforementioned Feeling's Twelve Stops From Home. And Acrobat isn't even the best song. No, that title lies with Happy Man. Its a darker song than Acrobat and perhaps less radio-friendly, clearly the 'Happy Man' is anything but. Lines like "Dont need to drink yourself to sleep/don't need to bury the food you eat" and "Break it down, life is full of misery so why participate?" show the darker side of Jo Webb's lyrics.
Its not all plain sailing. Towards the end of the album the quality takes a dip, notably Invisible and Dissolved, but perks up again for the final two. Invisible is incongrously uninteresting, with some awkwardly phrased melodies and lyrics (what would people do if all the money in the world dissapeared and all their treasures were worth absolutely nothing at all?). Similarly, Dissolved never really gets going either, though not quite to the extent of Invisible. Given the overall quality of the record these blips can be mostly overlooked, but its just a shame they're present because Jo Webb can undoubtably write better songs.
The million-pound question is, Will they ever become well-known? In a fair world, where music is judged by quality, and people have time for a more modest band exempt from celebrity-crazed egotism and well-crafted, infectious pop songs, then yes, but sadly this is not the case, and despite the quality of this record, I get the impression that that Jo Webb and the Dirty Hands will plug away as unknowns without making much of an impression on public consciousness.
Tracks to download:
Just buy the damn album!
Sunday 19 July 2009
Jo Webb and the Dirty Hands come to Furze Platt
Right, so while I was still at school the sixth form was asked if they wanted to participate in the filming of a music video for a friend of Mr Richards' band. The theme was to be an 1980's American Prom, two things which I'm not very good at - dancing and being an 80s kid. I suited up and went down to FP and the main hall, where it had been slightly transformed into an 80s styley thing. There wasn't a massive turn up, maybe 20-25 or so, but smaller numbers meant more camera time, which is always a good thing, right?
We were split into the standard cliques for an American (or really any) High School - the 'fit ones', the jocks, the bullies and the geeks. And Chris. Chris Darby was chosen to play a younger version of the singer, Jo Webb, and the main action of the shoot revolved around him, mainly him having his trousers and underwear pulled down in front of some un-impressed girls. The rest of us got to look shocked/make the small-penis sign in the background. Good fun!
Then it was time for the band to play, with us dancing away in the foreground, so several groups of 3-4 danced in front of the camera while everyone else danced and the band played in the background. I had worked out an utterly fabulous dance routine for Peach, Jamie, Liam and I which we performed enthusiastically for a while. The best part was since we weren't supposed to be cool we could dance as awfully as we wanted, cue the old man boogie and the lawnmower.
The song, Acrobat surprised us all by actually being really good and catchy; the band and director were really friendly as well and open to any silly ideas we had. Best of all, we all got free CD's which I may review in the near future.
All in all, it turned out to be well worth my while going and I can't wait to see the finished article on youtube.
We were split into the standard cliques for an American (or really any) High School - the 'fit ones', the jocks, the bullies and the geeks. And Chris. Chris Darby was chosen to play a younger version of the singer, Jo Webb, and the main action of the shoot revolved around him, mainly him having his trousers and underwear pulled down in front of some un-impressed girls. The rest of us got to look shocked/make the small-penis sign in the background. Good fun!
Then it was time for the band to play, with us dancing away in the foreground, so several groups of 3-4 danced in front of the camera while everyone else danced and the band played in the background. I had worked out an utterly fabulous dance routine for Peach, Jamie, Liam and I which we performed enthusiastically for a while. The best part was since we weren't supposed to be cool we could dance as awfully as we wanted, cue the old man boogie and the lawnmower.
The song, Acrobat surprised us all by actually being really good and catchy; the band and director were really friendly as well and open to any silly ideas we had. Best of all, we all got free CD's which I may review in the near future.
All in all, it turned out to be well worth my while going and I can't wait to see the finished article on youtube.
Tuesday 14 July 2009
Footbore (so witty!)
Right, so I'm only beginning this one this way to keep up the trend.
In stark contrast to the blog below, I'm going to write about why I've become so disillusioned with football. Its a farce, and frankly I can't be bothered with it any more. That is, until the 16th August...
I suppose the thing that triggered this abandonment is Cristiano Ronaldo, and the hubbub surrounding his megabucks move to Real Madrid. The man has to honour and his word means nothing. "I am definately staying at Manchester United, no matter what happens tonight" he lied before this seasons Champions League final. He acts like a child. "Playing for Real Madrid has been my dream since I was a child" says Mr. Ronaldo, but it seems to me that now the dream has come true he still thinks he is a child, and his way of expressing he frustration is by throwing his toys out his pram. Sir Alex Ferguson being Sir Alex Ferguson promptly throws them back, but such is the demand for Ronaldo he can do what he likes, namely moving to Madrid.
And then there is the financial side. No human being, no matter how good, should be worth £80 000 000. Its obscene, but because of the ever-raising transfer sales we've become immune and its becoming the norm. Shady foreign businessmen now see Europes biggest football clubs as ways of making money and expanding brand awareness into every corner of the earth. Its no longer for the love of the game, but money, pure and simple. Dr. Sulaiman Al-Fahim and Sheik Mansour bin Zayed Al Nahyan, the two public faces of the Abu Dhabi United Group that took over Manchester City want to use it as a brand to increase exposure of Abu Dhabi in other countries, especially populous East-Asian countries. Make no mistake, this is Abu Dhabi as a country.Thus, football has become political.
The Right Honourable Cristano Ronaldo has taken the brunt of this rant, though he is not alone in provoking my scorn. Didier Drogba is a scumbag. As is Thaksin Shinawatra, previous owner of Manchester City and Human Rights abuser. Next to Ronaldo, the people who get my goat the worst are players like Daniel Sturridge, an 19 year old Manchester City player (I think I can see a trend emerging...) who demanded 80k-a-week. What has Sturridge achieve to earn such wages? A league victory for City? A strong showing in the CL? A heap of goals? No. None of this. All he has done is made 21 appearances for the first team and score a few goals. But such is the climate that has been created by massive injections of money into the Premier League, Sturridge and his peers are able to make such ludicrous demands. Fortunately he was rejected, so City's owners aren't stupid at least.
Also, perhaps, another reason why I've gone off football is that the teams I support always lose. I can take Spurs losing, but not England. I was so happy when England managed to actually win a penalty shootout in the semi-final, but that made a dreaful, humiliatingly easy 4-0 defeat to Germany all the more bitter.
Maybe I should just support a Championship team...
In stark contrast to the blog below, I'm going to write about why I've become so disillusioned with football. Its a farce, and frankly I can't be bothered with it any more. That is, until the 16th August...
I suppose the thing that triggered this abandonment is Cristiano Ronaldo, and the hubbub surrounding his megabucks move to Real Madrid. The man has to honour and his word means nothing. "I am definately staying at Manchester United, no matter what happens tonight" he lied before this seasons Champions League final. He acts like a child. "Playing for Real Madrid has been my dream since I was a child" says Mr. Ronaldo, but it seems to me that now the dream has come true he still thinks he is a child, and his way of expressing he frustration is by throwing his toys out his pram. Sir Alex Ferguson being Sir Alex Ferguson promptly throws them back, but such is the demand for Ronaldo he can do what he likes, namely moving to Madrid.
And then there is the financial side. No human being, no matter how good, should be worth £80 000 000. Its obscene, but because of the ever-raising transfer sales we've become immune and its becoming the norm. Shady foreign businessmen now see Europes biggest football clubs as ways of making money and expanding brand awareness into every corner of the earth. Its no longer for the love of the game, but money, pure and simple. Dr. Sulaiman Al-Fahim and Sheik Mansour bin Zayed Al Nahyan, the two public faces of the Abu Dhabi United Group that took over Manchester City want to use it as a brand to increase exposure of Abu Dhabi in other countries, especially populous East-Asian countries. Make no mistake, this is Abu Dhabi as a country.Thus, football has become political.
The Right Honourable Cristano Ronaldo has taken the brunt of this rant, though he is not alone in provoking my scorn. Didier Drogba is a scumbag. As is Thaksin Shinawatra, previous owner of Manchester City and Human Rights abuser. Next to Ronaldo, the people who get my goat the worst are players like Daniel Sturridge, an 19 year old Manchester City player (I think I can see a trend emerging...) who demanded 80k-a-week. What has Sturridge achieve to earn such wages? A league victory for City? A strong showing in the CL? A heap of goals? No. None of this. All he has done is made 21 appearances for the first team and score a few goals. But such is the climate that has been created by massive injections of money into the Premier League, Sturridge and his peers are able to make such ludicrous demands. Fortunately he was rejected, so City's owners aren't stupid at least.
Also, perhaps, another reason why I've gone off football is that the teams I support always lose. I can take Spurs losing, but not England. I was so happy when England managed to actually win a penalty shootout in the semi-final, but that made a dreaful, humiliatingly easy 4-0 defeat to Germany all the more bitter.
Maybe I should just support a Championship team...
Tuesday 7 July 2009
Tour de Force
Right, so the the 106th Tour de France (or at least 106 years since the first one, I can't be bothered with the maths when you exclude the races missed by war) started last Saturday, and my love of the Tour has been re-kindled once more. The Tour de France is something of a mastermind topic of mine, thanks to a 100th anniversary book that my uncle bought my dad in 2003 which details every single year of the race through a combination of stunning photography and wonderful writing that perfectly captures the essence and spirit of the race. At my peak I knew every winner since World War Two, yes I know thats sad but I would argue that all that knowledge was more accumulated through wider reading that specific learning, cause that would be really sad.
I digress. The point of this blog is just to explain why I like it so much, and if anyone does happen upon this humble weblog and is un-initiated in the ways of the Tour de France, maybe they could have a look.
Firstly though, is the true star of the Tour de France: France itself. I would like to point out that I am in no way enamoured with the Gallic people, but my God, they have some stunning scenery. The great mountain ranges of the Pyrenees and the Alps are the stars of the show, but also the rolling countryside and quaint villages that le Tour sweeps through in a blur of colour and cheering Frenchmen plays a significant part too. The sight of a line of riders powering up narrow mountain passes then flying down the steep and exhilirating descents is inspiring. The great mountains of the Tour de France have been edified by the years, and the great moments of the Tour have been held on their slopes, like last years weightless ascent of Carlos Sastre up l'Alp D'Huez, supported valiantly by the Schleck brothers, or the crushing solo break-aways of Eddy Merckx. The mountains have even seen death, for instance the tragic demise of British rider Tom Simpson on the slopes of Mont Ventoux in '67 or the more recent crash that saw Fabio Cassartelli carrer of the road on a descent and plough into a bollard in '95. I feel these moments, though tragic, heighten the mysticism of the Tour; its man pitted against nature at its most extreme.
The Tour is the most demanding event in the sporting calendar: three long weeks through the French countryside is no mean feat, yet this utmost level of difficult leads to glory, and in search of glory come great men. The tour has played host to many charismatic and talented athletes, from the early begginings of Maurice Garin, vÃa such greats as Fausto Coppi, Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Merckx, Bernard Hinault, Miguel Indurain and most recently, Lance Armstrong to name but a few. These men not only have the ability to win, but also to entertain. They are charismatic and enigmatic, not to mention oft controversial. Jacques Anquetil, the joint most succesful Frenchman never won the admiration of the French public in the same way his great rival, Raymond Poulidor did, and Eddy Merckx, usually seen as the greatest rider ever was said to be relentless ruthless, and didn't even have the courtest to 'leave the smallest of crumbs' for his rivals during 5 domineering years in Yellow. I could ramble on for hours about the greats of the Tour, but I'm not going to, because it would be boring and I'd run out of adjective.
However, the yellow lions main is flecked with striped of black, for the Tour does have a dark side which in recent years has come perilously close to de-railing it altogether. Of what evil do I speak? Shortly: drugs. Such are the demands that are placed upon the body during the race, it is of little surprise that the weaker of the men with a poor conscience have resorted to drugs to gain an advantage over their rivals. And after one does it, the dominoes all start falling. It is a problem that has dogged the sport as a whole, not just in the Tour, but across all disciplines of cycling, and even now the Tour has been unable to shake it off. The drugs scandal peaked in 1998 with the Festina affair - large amounts of performance enhancing drugs were found in the car of the director of the Festina team, bringing the race to a standstill for a few days.
Unfortunately, as methods of detecting doped-up riders became more effecient, so did the ways of staying undetected. Blood doping, the method by which the rider removes a pint of blood a few weeks before a race, then injects it back in to gain a huge red blood-cell bonus, is almost impossible to detect, only finding the bags filled with blood is reliable evidence. Riders continue to be found using: last year saw several main protagonists found guilty of doping during and after the race, though the winner was clean, unlike 2006 when Floyd Landis was found guilty after wearing yellow down the Champs Elysee.
Fortunately there does seem to be light at the end of the tunnel. Previous doper David Millar, a Scottish time-trial specialist has been waging war against dopers, and he seems to be having some success. Several teams, notable Millar's Garmin-Chipotle team have declared themselves dope-free, and operate entirely transparently, and several other teams have followed suit, pleasing with British riders being the loudest advocates.
Anyways enough of this, I'm dragging on. In my eyes the Tour de France is the greatest annual event on the sporting calendar. It has everything sport should: it has passion, adversity, glory, defeat, great entertainers, great winners and great losers. Vive le Tour!
I digress. The point of this blog is just to explain why I like it so much, and if anyone does happen upon this humble weblog and is un-initiated in the ways of the Tour de France, maybe they could have a look.
Firstly though, is the true star of the Tour de France: France itself. I would like to point out that I am in no way enamoured with the Gallic people, but my God, they have some stunning scenery. The great mountain ranges of the Pyrenees and the Alps are the stars of the show, but also the rolling countryside and quaint villages that le Tour sweeps through in a blur of colour and cheering Frenchmen plays a significant part too. The sight of a line of riders powering up narrow mountain passes then flying down the steep and exhilirating descents is inspiring. The great mountains of the Tour de France have been edified by the years, and the great moments of the Tour have been held on their slopes, like last years weightless ascent of Carlos Sastre up l'Alp D'Huez, supported valiantly by the Schleck brothers, or the crushing solo break-aways of Eddy Merckx. The mountains have even seen death, for instance the tragic demise of British rider Tom Simpson on the slopes of Mont Ventoux in '67 or the more recent crash that saw Fabio Cassartelli carrer of the road on a descent and plough into a bollard in '95. I feel these moments, though tragic, heighten the mysticism of the Tour; its man pitted against nature at its most extreme.
The Tour is the most demanding event in the sporting calendar: three long weeks through the French countryside is no mean feat, yet this utmost level of difficult leads to glory, and in search of glory come great men. The tour has played host to many charismatic and talented athletes, from the early begginings of Maurice Garin, vÃa such greats as Fausto Coppi, Jacques Anquetil, Eddy Merckx, Bernard Hinault, Miguel Indurain and most recently, Lance Armstrong to name but a few. These men not only have the ability to win, but also to entertain. They are charismatic and enigmatic, not to mention oft controversial. Jacques Anquetil, the joint most succesful Frenchman never won the admiration of the French public in the same way his great rival, Raymond Poulidor did, and Eddy Merckx, usually seen as the greatest rider ever was said to be relentless ruthless, and didn't even have the courtest to 'leave the smallest of crumbs' for his rivals during 5 domineering years in Yellow. I could ramble on for hours about the greats of the Tour, but I'm not going to, because it would be boring and I'd run out of adjective.
However, the yellow lions main is flecked with striped of black, for the Tour does have a dark side which in recent years has come perilously close to de-railing it altogether. Of what evil do I speak? Shortly: drugs. Such are the demands that are placed upon the body during the race, it is of little surprise that the weaker of the men with a poor conscience have resorted to drugs to gain an advantage over their rivals. And after one does it, the dominoes all start falling. It is a problem that has dogged the sport as a whole, not just in the Tour, but across all disciplines of cycling, and even now the Tour has been unable to shake it off. The drugs scandal peaked in 1998 with the Festina affair - large amounts of performance enhancing drugs were found in the car of the director of the Festina team, bringing the race to a standstill for a few days.
Unfortunately, as methods of detecting doped-up riders became more effecient, so did the ways of staying undetected. Blood doping, the method by which the rider removes a pint of blood a few weeks before a race, then injects it back in to gain a huge red blood-cell bonus, is almost impossible to detect, only finding the bags filled with blood is reliable evidence. Riders continue to be found using: last year saw several main protagonists found guilty of doping during and after the race, though the winner was clean, unlike 2006 when Floyd Landis was found guilty after wearing yellow down the Champs Elysee.
Fortunately there does seem to be light at the end of the tunnel. Previous doper David Millar, a Scottish time-trial specialist has been waging war against dopers, and he seems to be having some success. Several teams, notable Millar's Garmin-Chipotle team have declared themselves dope-free, and operate entirely transparently, and several other teams have followed suit, pleasing with British riders being the loudest advocates.
Anyways enough of this, I'm dragging on. In my eyes the Tour de France is the greatest annual event on the sporting calendar. It has everything sport should: it has passion, adversity, glory, defeat, great entertainers, great winners and great losers. Vive le Tour!
Sunday 5 July 2009
Hyde Park Life
Right, so last thursday me and Ali bunked off school to go see Blur in Hyde Park their third public performance since reforming earlier this year. Unfortunately, I had quite a lot of drink so my reccolections are a bit blurry. Hiyooooooo! I jest, I was def sober. We got there really early so basically spent 6 hours in the sun, watching the lame warm up acts and waiting for The Real Deal to come on stage. Quick run-through of the support: first up the Hypnotic Brass Ensemble, a group of brass-playing Americans who were actually pretty good. Second up were the Golden Silvers, kinda a Morrissey rip-off band - the singer had nailed that trademark mournful caterwaul perfectly. After that Crystal Castles performed in what can best be described as bizzare; the front-woman, sporting an 'Oasis Have Aids' t-shirt stumbled through their set. She was either completely off her face on who-knows-what, or is really good at pretending to be inebriated. She fell over a speaker at one point and took a few moments to get up again with the help of a poor stage-hand who spent the rest of their set trying to stop her mic lead getting tangled as she wobbled all over the stage. Finally, the only bad I had previously heard of, Foals, were just plain old boring. I've never been a big fan of their music and nothing they played did anything to change my mind. Onwards and Upwards.
Blur finally entered the stage at 8:30 to rapturous support, and the crowd loved it. The whole 'amazing atmosphere' that people tend to talk about at events like this finally became evident; it was amazing. Blur were inspired, and blasted through some twenty-five songs, both famous and not so much, with panaché, including two encores. The shoddyness of their support on cast the talents of Blur in greater relief. Most bands are better live, but for Blur the difference was even greater. Tender, the great balad in Blurs back-catalogue, was given a greater poignancy by the 55'000 strong crowd singing along in unison: it really is a beautiful song, and desparately underrated by johnny public. Other highlights included the closing song before the encores, This Is A Low, which was so good it made the encores seem a bit (just a tad!) weaker. Retrospectively perhaps it should have been the final song, it would have been a fantastic send-off.
Anther fun thing during the day was the crowds tendency to lob plastic bottles at anybody and everybody that went up on someone elses shoulders. To some, this is the height of idiocy, but frankly when is it not fun to throw stuff at someone else?? One complaint, where was Charmless Man? God knows we shouted loud enough for it. On another note, I was looking through the myriad videos on youtube of the concert, and lo-and-behold, I found one with Ali and I in it, what are the chances!
Ace day!
Blur finally entered the stage at 8:30 to rapturous support, and the crowd loved it. The whole 'amazing atmosphere' that people tend to talk about at events like this finally became evident; it was amazing. Blur were inspired, and blasted through some twenty-five songs, both famous and not so much, with panaché, including two encores. The shoddyness of their support on cast the talents of Blur in greater relief. Most bands are better live, but for Blur the difference was even greater. Tender, the great balad in Blurs back-catalogue, was given a greater poignancy by the 55'000 strong crowd singing along in unison: it really is a beautiful song, and desparately underrated by johnny public. Other highlights included the closing song before the encores, This Is A Low, which was so good it made the encores seem a bit (just a tad!) weaker. Retrospectively perhaps it should have been the final song, it would have been a fantastic send-off.
Anther fun thing during the day was the crowds tendency to lob plastic bottles at anybody and everybody that went up on someone elses shoulders. To some, this is the height of idiocy, but frankly when is it not fun to throw stuff at someone else?? One complaint, where was Charmless Man? God knows we shouted loud enough for it. On another note, I was looking through the myriad videos on youtube of the concert, and lo-and-behold, I found one with Ali and I in it, what are the chances!
Ace day!
Wednesday 17 June 2009
Right, so I was bored earlier in the week and was just Stumbling around the internet like usual, when I chanced upon an article about some security workers being forced to remove an inch-by-inch Union Jack from their sleeve worn in support of our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, because their superiors said it could be construed as offensive. Thats right, offensive.
I was flabbergasted. So flabbergasted in fact that I actually used the word flabberghasted, which never happens.
This is by no means an isolated incident. During major football tournaments people bring out the cross of St George, and incidents have arised where 'perpatrators' have been asked to removed them or cover them from view. @!"%!$^!
We must be the only country in the world to find our own flag to be offensive. Though the glory days are long gone, I still feel proud to be British, but this was hard to swallow. I'm trying hard to avoid the the R-word, but I'm fairly sure that the influx of nationalistic and devout muslims immigrating from the east are the root of this travesty and loss of British identity. However, this perhaps is only a contributor and not the main cause, which I would blame on our saturatedly polictially-correct society which says all peoples beliefs should be held equal, which is fair enough, but people are so afraid of causing offense to minorites that they would rather offend the majority. This is something that we have grown immune to and is seen as standard practice; thus British identity is left by the wayside in favour of other groups. Thank God British music is still going strong.
Speaking of British music, one of the posters on the aformentioned article posted a youtube link which neatly summarised my feelings, to the tune of the Kinks' Living on a Thin Line.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_IIzNmLDvb8
I was flabbergasted. So flabbergasted in fact that I actually used the word flabberghasted, which never happens.
This is by no means an isolated incident. During major football tournaments people bring out the cross of St George, and incidents have arised where 'perpatrators' have been asked to removed them or cover them from view. @!"%!$^!
We must be the only country in the world to find our own flag to be offensive. Though the glory days are long gone, I still feel proud to be British, but this was hard to swallow. I'm trying hard to avoid the the R-word, but I'm fairly sure that the influx of nationalistic and devout muslims immigrating from the east are the root of this travesty and loss of British identity. However, this perhaps is only a contributor and not the main cause, which I would blame on our saturatedly polictially-correct society which says all peoples beliefs should be held equal, which is fair enough, but people are so afraid of causing offense to minorites that they would rather offend the majority. This is something that we have grown immune to and is seen as standard practice; thus British identity is left by the wayside in favour of other groups. Thank God British music is still going strong.
Speaking of British music, one of the posters on the aformentioned article posted a youtube link which neatly summarised my feelings, to the tune of the Kinks' Living on a Thin Line.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_IIzNmLDvb8
Monday 15 June 2009
Several months late, heres blog 5!
Right, so last weeks Electronic Entertainment Expo, otherwise known as E3, gave us an insight into the future of gaming, namely motion control, as pioneered so successfully by the Nintendo Wii. However I say "fuck you!" to Microsoft's Project Natal and the more rubbish PS3 version, some of us like using boring old school controllers! The idea of waving my limbs around in the living room and talking at the TV and no doubt sub-consciously making accompanying sound effects somehow doesnt appeal, especially when other people are there too, silently judging...
"The tyres are toast, go to the pits!", "Alright, I'm going in!"
Admittedly the concept does seem pretty cool and I'm sure it will be put to better and less...sad? lame? gay? use than as seen in this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oACt9R9z37U . Could they have found worse actors if they tried? And noone smiles that much. NO ONE. Frankly the whole family involvement thing they've got going on is going to work in only about 0.02% of families.
The PS3 one can be seen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiX-26VL4bM . On second thoughts I've decided the Ps3 one is better, not least because its less annoyingly american, and also because it was a live presentation.
"The tyres are toast, go to the pits!", "Alright, I'm going in!"
Admittedly the concept does seem pretty cool and I'm sure it will be put to better and less...sad? lame? gay? use than as seen in this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oACt9R9z37U . Could they have found worse actors if they tried? And noone smiles that much. NO ONE. Frankly the whole family involvement thing they've got going on is going to work in only about 0.02% of families.
The PS3 one can be seen here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qiX-26VL4bM . On second thoughts I've decided the Ps3 one is better, not least because its less annoyingly american, and also because it was a live presentation.
Sunday 8 March 2009
Right, so for English I had to find a hole in 1984 and elaborate on it; I chose to centre it on Mr. Charrington, the antique shop owner. To make it more authentic i lifted some conversation and actions and characters straight from the text.
Daniels allowed himself a wry smile at the irony of it all. It was only when he had undergone the transformation into Mr Charrington, aged antique-shop owner and relic of a bygone era that he was free to be himself. His smile faded as he remembered his purpose. 6079 Smith W had broken every code imposed by Big Brother – he had committed thoughtcrime, sexcrime and harboured desires to overthrow the Party – the only reason he hadn’t been taken in already was his value to the Thought Police. Minds as free as Winston’s were rare and offered a way of honing the Thoughthear, the device used by the Thought Police to hear people’s thoughts.
At the back of Mr. Charrington’s dusty old shop was a door, and behind that door was a room quite out of character from its antiquated surroundings. A bank of screens displaying feeds of the various telescreens trained on, among others, Winston Smith was fitted to a wall. Although the screens were numerous, it was in fact just one small section of a much larger organisation which scrutinised the thoughts and actions of those deemed to be threats to the Party. The whole contraption sickened Daniels to the pit of his stomach.
At present, Winston was in Victory Square, waiting for Julia. Winston had positioned himself sufficiently far from nearby telescreens to avoid being in their audible range, however, to rely on telescreens would be folly; they were an imperfect technology. Daniels had wired-up several informants to merge into the thronging crowd and co-ordinate passes past Winston, allowing the conversation to be heard more-or-less uninterrupted.
The convoy of trucks carrying the Eurasian prisoners began to make their way through the square and the din of the crowd increased. The first informer moved into position. He was an obnoxiously fat man, with an equally obnoxiously fat wife.
“Get closer, Rhys,” Daniels said into his mouth-piece. “We need every word.” Rhys moved towards Julia, forcing Winston to shoulder his way between Rhys and his wife, the hidden mic relaying a sequence of muffled pops as it rubbed against the inside of Rhys’ jacket.
“Can you hear me?” said Julia.
“Yes.” Winston.
“Can you get Sunday off?” Daniels had a day.
“Yes.” A shift in the crowd separated Winston and Julia from Rhys, and the second informant swiftly moved in. He was a tall thin man, and was giving the prisoners hell, loudly and vociferously.
“Contain yourself, we need to hear them!” barked Daniels down the line. A surge in the crowd swept the informant close to Julia. The exchange between the two was brief, and inwardly Daniels was impressed at the lengths they were prepared to go to escape the watchfulness of the Party as Julia outlined the route.
“You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gates got no top bar.” said Julia.
“Yes. What time?” Winston replied.
“About fifteen.” That was all Daniels needed. He logged the audio and began preparations for the next meeting.
Winston’s time was up. He and Julia were in the room above Charrington’s shop. The Thought Police taskforce was ready. It was just a matter of timing.
“And by the way, while we are on the subject, ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head!”’ Daniels said to Winston, via the telescreen. A crash sounded above him – that was the taskforce bursting through the window. Another squad came in through the door, who Daniels – and it was Daniels and not Mr. Charrington – followed up the stairs. It was a sorry scene which he entered into. Julia was writhing on the floor beside the smashed remains of the coral, all the while Winston stood stock-still, unable to react, though his eyes widened when he recognised
Daniels.
Daniels looked Winston full in the face, but was forced to look away. He was sickened at the destruction to he had wrought on Winston’s life, though he let no hint appear on his face. The Party well knew it could not be overthrown, so where lay the harm in letting one man conduct his futile resistance?
Daniels allowed himself a wry smile at the irony of it all. It was only when he had undergone the transformation into Mr Charrington, aged antique-shop owner and relic of a bygone era that he was free to be himself. His smile faded as he remembered his purpose. 6079 Smith W had broken every code imposed by Big Brother – he had committed thoughtcrime, sexcrime and harboured desires to overthrow the Party – the only reason he hadn’t been taken in already was his value to the Thought Police. Minds as free as Winston’s were rare and offered a way of honing the Thoughthear, the device used by the Thought Police to hear people’s thoughts.
At the back of Mr. Charrington’s dusty old shop was a door, and behind that door was a room quite out of character from its antiquated surroundings. A bank of screens displaying feeds of the various telescreens trained on, among others, Winston Smith was fitted to a wall. Although the screens were numerous, it was in fact just one small section of a much larger organisation which scrutinised the thoughts and actions of those deemed to be threats to the Party. The whole contraption sickened Daniels to the pit of his stomach.
At present, Winston was in Victory Square, waiting for Julia. Winston had positioned himself sufficiently far from nearby telescreens to avoid being in their audible range, however, to rely on telescreens would be folly; they were an imperfect technology. Daniels had wired-up several informants to merge into the thronging crowd and co-ordinate passes past Winston, allowing the conversation to be heard more-or-less uninterrupted.
The convoy of trucks carrying the Eurasian prisoners began to make their way through the square and the din of the crowd increased. The first informer moved into position. He was an obnoxiously fat man, with an equally obnoxiously fat wife.
“Get closer, Rhys,” Daniels said into his mouth-piece. “We need every word.” Rhys moved towards Julia, forcing Winston to shoulder his way between Rhys and his wife, the hidden mic relaying a sequence of muffled pops as it rubbed against the inside of Rhys’ jacket.
“Can you hear me?” said Julia.
“Yes.” Winston.
“Can you get Sunday off?” Daniels had a day.
“Yes.” A shift in the crowd separated Winston and Julia from Rhys, and the second informant swiftly moved in. He was a tall thin man, and was giving the prisoners hell, loudly and vociferously.
“Contain yourself, we need to hear them!” barked Daniels down the line. A surge in the crowd swept the informant close to Julia. The exchange between the two was brief, and inwardly Daniels was impressed at the lengths they were prepared to go to escape the watchfulness of the Party as Julia outlined the route.
“You turn left, then right, then left again. And the gates got no top bar.” said Julia.
“Yes. What time?” Winston replied.
“About fifteen.” That was all Daniels needed. He logged the audio and began preparations for the next meeting.
Winston’s time was up. He and Julia were in the room above Charrington’s shop. The Thought Police taskforce was ready. It was just a matter of timing.
“And by the way, while we are on the subject, ‘Here comes a candle to light you to bed, here comes a chopper to chop off your head!”’ Daniels said to Winston, via the telescreen. A crash sounded above him – that was the taskforce bursting through the window. Another squad came in through the door, who Daniels – and it was Daniels and not Mr. Charrington – followed up the stairs. It was a sorry scene which he entered into. Julia was writhing on the floor beside the smashed remains of the coral, all the while Winston stood stock-still, unable to react, though his eyes widened when he recognised
Daniels.
Daniels looked Winston full in the face, but was forced to look away. He was sickened at the destruction to he had wrought on Winston’s life, though he let no hint appear on his face. The Party well knew it could not be overthrown, so where lay the harm in letting one man conduct his futile resistance?
Thursday 26 February 2009
10 Reasons Why Xbox Owners Made the Wrong Decision
10 Reasons Why Xbox Owners Made the Wrong Decision:
1)Killzone 2
2)Killzone 2
3)Killzone 2
4)Killzone 2
5)Killzone 2
6)Killzone 2
7)Killzone 2
8)Killzone 2
9)Killzone 2
10)Killzone 2
1)Killzone 2
2)Killzone 2
3)Killzone 2
4)Killzone 2
5)Killzone 2
6)Killzone 2
7)Killzone 2
8)Killzone 2
9)Killzone 2
10)Killzone 2
Monday 23 February 2009
Silver Spoons and Broken Bones - The Stone Gods
The Darkness were something of a Marmite band: you either love 'em or hate 'em. People that leant more towards the 'hate them' side were usually because they couldn't stand Justin Hawkins' ear-splitting castrato and questionable dress-sense. Thus, I present to you the Stone Gods, made up of the remaining Darkness members following Justin's departure, and they are everything that you would expect 3/4 of the Darkness to sound like.
Bassist Richie Edwards has moved centre stage and taken on as the vocalist, and he is everything that Justin wasn't. His voice is deeper and raspier, think Rod Stewart during his rockier moments. Edwards knows how to summarise his feeling in a few short words, for example in lead single Knight of the Living Dead he succinctly expresses his feeling towards a lady friend: 'Fuck! You! You Liaaar!'
The Stone Gods style is a throwback to late-70s hard rock and though perhaps somewhat out of fashion it is refreshing to hear a band strip back the sound and belt out some land-fill indie obliterating riffage. There ain't no pussy shit here - the Stone Gods know how to rock like only the British know.
SSABB is at its best when the riffs and solos are flying, but the band pulls off the quieter moments with aplomb too. Magdalen Street is a predominantly accoustic strummy song about a prostitute with a heart of gold and is suited far better by Edwards' gravelly rough sounding voice.
Anyone dissapointed by the break up of the Darkness or simply looking for an alternative to the boring indie clogging the airwaves need look no further
4.5/5
Bassist Richie Edwards has moved centre stage and taken on as the vocalist, and he is everything that Justin wasn't. His voice is deeper and raspier, think Rod Stewart during his rockier moments. Edwards knows how to summarise his feeling in a few short words, for example in lead single Knight of the Living Dead he succinctly expresses his feeling towards a lady friend: 'Fuck! You! You Liaaar!'
The Stone Gods style is a throwback to late-70s hard rock and though perhaps somewhat out of fashion it is refreshing to hear a band strip back the sound and belt out some land-fill indie obliterating riffage. There ain't no pussy shit here - the Stone Gods know how to rock like only the British know.
SSABB is at its best when the riffs and solos are flying, but the band pulls off the quieter moments with aplomb too. Magdalen Street is a predominantly accoustic strummy song about a prostitute with a heart of gold and is suited far better by Edwards' gravelly rough sounding voice.
Anyone dissapointed by the break up of the Darkness or simply looking for an alternative to the boring indie clogging the airwaves need look no further
4.5/5
Sunday 22 February 2009
The First One and the Dark Knight
Whey, my first blog, and it only took an hour trying to find a URL that wasn't taken.
So, to start, three reasons why the Dark Knight is overrated:
1. The characters suck. Did anyone care when Rachel died? No, she was a whiney bitch.
2. The plot made no sense. So let me get this straight, everything that the joker did up to blowing the guy up with the mobile was orchestrated by him? That guy has some seriously good foreward planning.
3. The bat-bike sucked hugely. Despite Mr. Nolans best effort to disguise it, it was patently obvious that it had a top speed of 30mph and basically couldn't turn.
Disclaimer: I said it was overrated not bad, it still gets a 4.5/5 from me, I just think its not the like, totally the best mover everrr.
So, to start, three reasons why the Dark Knight is overrated:
1. The characters suck. Did anyone care when Rachel died? No, she was a whiney bitch.
2. The plot made no sense. So let me get this straight, everything that the joker did up to blowing the guy up with the mobile was orchestrated by him? That guy has some seriously good foreward planning.
3. The bat-bike sucked hugely. Despite Mr. Nolans best effort to disguise it, it was patently obvious that it had a top speed of 30mph and basically couldn't turn.
Disclaimer: I said it was overrated not bad, it still gets a 4.5/5 from me, I just think its not the like, totally the best mover everrr.
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