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Sunday, December 28, 2003
Dah-dah-dah-daaaaah-da-dah... Laydeez and gen'lemen, it's the inaugural, slightly-rushed and not-at-all-pointless MarkCity Awards 2003 aka the Markies. Even though that sounds like a make of dog biscuit. 2003 has been packed full of more fun than a bag of fun-sized Mars bars. It started beside a temple in Kyoto and will end (probably) in a flat in Tunbridge Wells. Hey, that's not our flat I'm talking about - we're not sad enough to stay in on New Year's Eve. Not this year anyway. We shall be raising a toast to all the marvellous things that happened in 2003: coming home, spending two months on the dole, new jobs, the patter of tiny rat feet, Wife Swap, parents splitting up, failed Mars missions, war, worldwide death and mayhem! Hurrah! So without any further preamble, let's start awarding the, um, awards. Starting on a musical note. The Spandex Catsuit Award for Best Band: There's only one contender - they came, they saw, they sang in shrill voices. They believed in a thing called love. They are The Darkness. They started the year as no-hopers and ended it astride the globe. Well, at No.2 in the UK singles chart. They're all about 45, proving that I could still be a rock star if I wanted to be! The When I Hear Music I Just Can't Make My Feet Behave Award for Best Single: No longer will we ever have to sing 'Happy birthday to you'. Instead, we can chant, 'Yo shorty, it's your birthday/We're gonna sip Bacardi like it's your birthday'. The single of 2003: 'In Da Club' by Fiddy Cent. The Tinnitus is Great Award for Best Gig: Suede at the London Astoria. But don't get me started on it coz I'll start blubbing again... The That Dog Don't Give a F*** Award for Best Album: Yes, it's the Lowestoft rock gods again. Just pipping Belle & Sebastian and The Strokes to the title, the top album of 2003 is 'Permission to Land' by The Darkness. Bringing big hair and bigger choruses back to music and not being at all ironic. He said ironically. The Phil Collins Award for Crimes Against Ears: As always, the charts this year were clogged up with crap. But who was the worst offender? Phil didn't do anything this year - apart from getting mugged (tee hee) - so he's ruled out. The biggest pile of musical poo this year was probably the appalling 'Make Love' by Oliver Cheetham. Closely followed by Westlife's 'Mandy'. Even they hated it. But not as much as the rest of us. And the rest... The Wot No Hobbits Award for Best Film: Yes, yes, the Return of the King was pretty fab, but it's ruled out because it hurt my bum too much watching it. And because The Two Towers was better. Best movie of 2003 was the sublime Lost In Translation, which just beat Kill Bill and the Rules of Attraction. BTW, the biggest cinematic disappointment of the year had to be the Matrix follow-ups, which were so awful that one of the Wachowski brothers is having a sex change so no-one will recognise him. The Mmmm...Pink Knickers Award for Top Foxstress: Of course, my girlfriend (who owns some rather fetching pink knickers herself, courtesy of Kylie and Agent Provocateur) has had to be ruled out of this award in the interests of fairness. So, narrowly beating Eliza 'Faith-out-of-Buffy' Dushku, this honour goes to Scarlett Johansson. Sophie Ellis-Bextor ruled herself out this year by having a dodgy hair-dye job and releasing a rubbish 2nd album. I'm sure she'll be mortified. The One For the Ladies Award for Superbuff Hottie: Just to show you that MarkCity is not one of the last refuges of the sexist, I've allowed Butter to name her own object of desire. She insisted it should be me, but I persuaded her to name someone else, so she reluctantly nominated Orlando Bloom (the elf-bloke out of LOTR). Hmmm, he's so dreamy... Actually, I wish my name was Orlando. The Not Vernon God Little Award for Best Book: It hasn't been a vintage year for books, despite JK Rowling's best efforts. It was the year of the teen massacre in fiction, with DBC (Dull Bloody Crap) Pierre's Booker-winning debut and my own winner - Twelve by Nick McDonnell. Waddya mean, it was published in 2002? Damn. But that's the kind of year it's been. The I've Just Got Something In My Eye, Honest, Award for Saddest Farewell. Sniff. Parp. Sob. This year we sang a rousing chorus of 'We'll Meet Again' for Japan, Buffy the Vampire Slayer and - no surprises - Suede. Well, it made me sad, anyway. The Squeeeeeeeaaaaaaaak!!! Award for Rat of the Year: Hey, I'm not going to show favouritism. This award is shared between Nancy and Syd. I love both those little critters. The Jim Davidson Award for Most Despicable Tosspot (Um, As Opposed To Lovable Tosspot?) Award: Whew, this is a tricky one... there are so many candidates, from the obvious (hi George) to the more obscure (hello, New York subway cop). The winner, though, in this most prestigious category, is Madonna. I used to be a big fan of Madge's, when I was 15 and hormonal, but this year she didn't do a thing right. Her records sucked, she vanity-published two rubbish books, she went hunting, she snogged Britney (ooh, controversial), she made that Gap advert and she continued to sleep with the almost-as-loathsome Guy 'I'm really rather working class, me' Richie. Spit. This award comes in the form of a bucket of bile. And finally... The Mother Theresa Award for Most Wonderful Human Being: Fewer candidates here than in the previous category, but there are lots of people who deserve it. And no, that doesn't include any of the bloody England Rugby World Cup Squad. I was tempted to give the award to Mori Chax, the inventor of Gloomy Bear, for bringing al that joy to the world. But my hero of 2004 is Jonathan Ive. Who? I hear you cry. Jonathan Ive is the head designer at Apple. He invented the iPod. And the iMac. And the iBook. He isn't a politician or an artist (not in the strictest sense, anyway) but in his own small way, he makes people a little happier. Happy New Year - see you in 2004. Saturday, December 27, 2003
Christmas seemed to pass in the blink of a (slightly bleary) eye this year and I spent most of it with stomach pains from having eaten too much. By nine o'clock I was searching the fridge for a bottle of wine that I'd forgotten I'd already drunk. And I got bitten by one of my sister's pet rats - it thought I was a monkey nut. My grandad complained all the way through Pop Idol and I made my nephew cry after he dropped a plastic toy in my wine glass and I threw it at him - goodnaturedly of course - and the alcohol stung his eye. And Claire bought me a turntable so I can now play all my old records. Well, not all of them. I'm managing to resist my Chas and Dave seven-inches. (I've been really lazy and stole all of the above from an email I sent one of my friends. Apologies to the friend in question!) We went round the sales today, but it was about as successful a trip as the Beagle 2's. Actually, it must be nice on Mars; all that peace and quiet. I hope the Beagle 2 hasn't been captured by Martians who are right now trying to work out how to stop it playing that bloody Blur tune. I realise that these days, 'Blur tune' is an oxymoron. Anyway, back to the sales: I bought a pair of trousers from Fenwick and Butter bought nothing. I've just been working out the MarkCity awards for tomorrow - or, perhaps, the day after! Although I'll be back at work then. My word for 2004 is "gravitas". Only one person will understand this! Sunday, December 21, 2003
Waaaah! I'm so gutted! Despite, ahem, sleighing the Pop Idols single, The Darkness are NOT the Xmas No.1. Instead, it's that old, baldy Michael Stipe-a-like Gary Jules. I admit, I quite like 'Mad World', especially when it's playing in the background on Donnie Darko. But there's NO WAY it should have beaten the Darkness to the No.1 spot. It's just another example of the British public kicking themselves in the baubles. Ooh, I'm so mad. Butter has just reminded me that I actually bought the Gary Jules single as well as the Darkness one, so I'm partly to blame. Damn. Sh**. Bugger!! What if they were only separated by one sale? If I took my copy of 'Mad World' back, would they change the charts? Oh, woe woe woe... it's too late. Due to this appalling turn of events, I've decided to postpone the MarkCity end-of-year-awards - or Markies, as I think they should be known - until next week, when it actually is the end of the year, and when I'll have a few days off work. I've spent most of today wrapping pressies, including Butter's GHD hair straighteners - possibly the best a woman can get. And now I'm all set for Chrimbo, ready to feign joy and surprise at the gifts I despise (copyright The Darkness 2003), and drink lots of wine in order to remove the taste of (bah) humbug from my mouth. Happy Christmas to all MarkCity readers. Tune in next week for 2003 Markies. Promise. Unless something else terrible happens - like me getting a Phil Collins CD for Xmas. Sunday, December 14, 2003
There's a ringing in my ears, and no, it's not the sound of Christmas bells or the new Darkness single (go on, go out and buy it tomorrow and make it Xmas No.1). It's the after-effect of three nights of loud music and dancing. Thursday night was the work Christmas party, which was fun, and then Friday and Saturday were the last ever Suede gigs*. Friday was great, but last night's farewell gig was explosive, exhilarating, emotional and, erm, lots more words beginning with e. Butter was in tears by the end of the last song, and the girl next to her held her hand. That's the kind of lovely people you find at Suede concerts. They played two sets: a funeral set, with loads of fans' faves, including old b-sides and album tracks; then there was the 'celebration' set, with most of the singles and anthems, like 'Beautiful Ones', 'She's In Fashion', 'The Drowners', 'Metal Mickey' and 'Trash'. We bounced, we cried, we bounced as we cried, we sweated and shouted and sang along. It was utterly f**ing glorious, the best Suede gig I've ever been to, the best gig I've been to full stop. There was a pre-show party too where all the Suedesters and Suedettes got together and prepared for the end. And my ears are still humming now, 24 hours later. Farewell, Suede. We loved you. At last, somebody is doing something about one of my bete noires. The Vegetarian Society has launched a campaign to teach people that veggies don't eat fish. Next week I'll be handing out the first MarkCity awards. What were, in my less-than-humble opinion, the best albums, singles, films, etc, of the year? Who was the biggest tosser of the year? Who should be sharing a cell with Saddam for crimes against humanity? Who will be the rat of the year? Tune in next weekend for the unveiling! And if you want to leave a suggestion, nomination, leave a comment. Arigato! *Brett said on stage that there will be another Suede record, but apparently the rest of the band knew nothing about it. Monday, December 08, 2003
Phew! Wot a weekend... I really ought to lie and say that I didn't update MarkCity yesterday because I was too shagged out by three days of excess. The truth, however, is that Blogger was down yesterday. But, but, but: it was a riproarer of a long weekend, kickstarted by those rock n roll animals Belle & Sebastian. It was such a wild gig (at the Astoria, Thursday night) that at one point, several members of the audience removed their duffle coats! It doesn't get much wilder than that. But seriously, to quote the loathsome Phil Collins (who got mugged last week in London - cue evil cackle), while B&S were brilliant, knocking out an hour and a half of beautiful little pop gems, the crowd looked like they were auditioning for a job in the window of Selfridges. Or rather, Oxfam. While Maggie - my companion for the evening - and I, and two other lively audience members, tried to dance and enjoy ourselves, our fellows stood and stroked their girlfriends' chins. The guy standing next to me, who I think was German, looked so horrified that people were moving that he left before the end. He spent most of the gig with his head in his hands and a finger in his ear. Come on, it wasn't that bad. In fact, it was rather marvellous, and I didn't even miss my train home. Friday night brought forth the Butter Xmas Party. Butter's company had paid (a lot of money) for us to go to a big corporate do in a tent - sorry, marquee - in Battersea Park. It was entitlee 'One Night In Bangkok'. And if Bangkok really was like the interior of the marquee, nobody would ever spend more than one night there. It was full of yuppie skinheads, a new breed, and I'm sure half the inhabitants of Battersea's most famous home had got in. Actually, it was a fun evening, thanks to the beer, wine, more beer and more wine, even if Butter and her compadres got stuck in a mini-bus in Purley and nearly missed dinner. We watched fat blokes dancing in a cage, whilst we shook our stuff to The Darkness and, er, Robbie Williams. Then we all went home on the bus and nobody was sick. Which means it hardly qualifies as a Christmas do. On Saturday we went to see The Strokes at the Ally Pally, which is like a big aircraft hangar with ornate bits set on top of a hill. The hill has very nice views, unlike the one Butter had when the Strokes came on stage. The poor wee thing - all 5 foot 4 of her - could only see the backs of numerous heads and the lights at the top of the stage. They were very nice lights, but not worth paying £30 to look at. I, fortunately, am quite tall and could see nearly everything. The Strokes played a bleeding blinder, banging out practically every song from both their albums. The sound cut out halfway through the second song, 'Reptilia', and when it came on again they started up again at exactly the spot where they'd left off. Now that's professional! Highlights were 'Someday' and 'The End Has No End'. We rushed out during the last song to get the first bus to the tube, which was so packed by the time we got to Leicester Square I was having Tokyo flashbacks. Then we thought we'd missed the train and Butter had a strop - 'I can't believe I'm in this situation!' - but then we realised there was another train so everything was alright in the end. Hurrah! Talking of happy endings, Expedia have refunded all our money from the Manhattan House of Horror, which is what I believe they call a result. |