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Wednesday, December 29, 2004
I don't often do serious on this blog. MarkCity is a fun, frivolous place, where reality TV is of greater import than elections; where the antics of a pair of rats take precedence over discussions about the meaning of life. This first post-Xmas post was supposed to be all about what presents I got and the amusing things grandad/small nephews did on the day. But the tsunami has made me feel as if all that's pretty unimportant. My concerns are centred in Phi Phi, where Butter and I holidayed a couple of years ago with Sue and Darren. You can see our pictures of this beautiful island by clicking on the left. The hotel, the bamboo huts, the swimming pool, the rows of dive shops and cheap restaurants; the little cafe where I befriended the 'lemon shake' girl; the jetty from which we embarked on a near-fatal snorkelling trip; the deckchairs where I read Harry Potter books and tried not to get sand in my iPod. All gone, including many of the people who lived and worked there. Phi Phi was the place where The Beach was filmed. After that, we all thought tourism was going to wreck that tropical paradise. Nature got there first. I've just dug out my journal from that holiday. These were my first impressions of Phi Phi: "It's heaven here. Sand as white and fine as castor sugar; water that's so warm you could bathe a baby in it. Phi Phi is beautiful. Full stop. The sea, the sky, the sand, the rocks and cliffs that frame the horizon. I keep expecting to see Leonardo DiCaprio turn the corner; for a boatload of bounty hunters to fetch up on the shore, looking for paradise. We're staying in the PP Princess Resort: shamelessly package-touristy; a collection of wooden bungalows crowded into a mini village that touches the beach. Our bunglaow is great, with a big white bed and matching drapes that make it look like something from the Save a Prayer video..." It goes on for pages, and is pretty mundane, typical-holiday stuff (well, apart from the near-drowning and watching a girl get attacked by monkeys). Now, though, it seems imbued with pathos. You don't know what you've got till it's gone. All that kind of stuff. I just hope that the people we met while we were there are okay. I'll never know, though. Friday, December 24, 2004
As a contributor to Stylus I had to compile a list of my Top 20 Albums of 2004. So here it is: 01. Embrace - Out of Nothing 02. Scissor Sisters – Scissor Sisters 03. Franz Ferdinand – Franz Ferdinand 04. Kings of Leon – Aha Shake Hearthbreak 05. Morrissey – You Are The Quarry 06. The Streets – A Grand Don’t Come For Free 07. Interpol – Antics 08. The Killers – Hot Fuss 09. Keane – Keane 10. Air – Talkie Walkie 11. Thirteen Senses – The Invitation 12. Razorlight – Up All Night 13. The Concretes – The Concretes 14. Auf Der Maur – Auf Der Maur 15. The Stills – Logic Will Break your Heart 16. Graham Coxon – Happiness in Magazines 17. The Libertines – The Libertines 18. Green Day – American Idiot 19. Estelle – The 19th Day 20. Courtney Love – America’s Sweetheart The Kelis album would be in there too but I think it was actually released right at the end of 2003; and I'm hoping to get Gwen Stefani's CD for Xmas, and on the strength of the single I'm sure that would merit a Top 20 placing. My top singles were: 1. Franz Ferdinand - Take Me Out (by a mile) 2. Scissor Sisters - Take Your Mama 3. Morrissey - Irish Blood, English Heart 4. Kelis - Milkshake 5. McFly - Obviously (yes, seriously) 6. Embrace - Ashes 7. The Stills - Lola Stars and Stripes 8. Gwen Stefani - What You Waiting For? 9. Embrace - Gravity 10. The Streets - Could Well Be In It was a very indie year this year, with very few stand-out hip hop records, unless you count The Streets. Man of the year, as already announced, was Morrissey, for making an astounding comeback. I think Woman of the Year has to be Nadia, partly because she won me £100, but also because the climax of Big Brother was one of the most fabulous events of 04. Best sporting moment was Kelly Holmes winning her first gold at the Olympics (worst was England's shameful exit from Euro 2004). Best film was Kill Bill Vol 2, and best book was 'Out' by Natsuo Kirino. Syd and Nancy win animal companions of the year and Butter takes the award for best girlfriend. Sunday, December 19, 2004
Remember how, last week, Syd started glue sniffing? Well, this is what it's done to her. She's become deranged; a monster. This was taken a second before she launched into a vicious attack on Butter*. Meanwhile, her sister, Nancy, continues to be a sweet little rat. Here's a shot of her coming out of her new house, which was their Christmas present. 
Morrissey was fantastic last night - he somehow managed to make the aircraft hangar that is Earl's Court seem like an intimate space. He tore through most of the new album and several old Smiths songs. The highlight was 'There is a light that never goes out'. I hereby name Moz as my Man of the Year 2004. From the sublime to the journey home: never ever choose the seat by the toilets on the last train home. It's a fuckwit magnet, especially when it's out of order. *Not really. Saturday, December 18, 2004
Together again - Bert and Bernie I'm two-thirds of the way through my pre-Christmas social blitz, which started on Thursday with The Tears gig at Heaven, a nightclub beneath the arches at Charing Cross. The venue itself is a very unheavenly, with metal detectors on the doors and a long thin room with poor acoustics. I decided to stand at the back, not wanting to risk mangling my leg further, and found myself standing among one of that annoying breed of half-wit: the incessant chatterer. I've ranted about this before, but what is the point of going to a gig and yakking all the way through it? The two women in front of me didn't pause for breath once. But let's put the moans aside and talk about the music... Brett and Bernard haven't been on stage together for 10 years, so for a long-term Suede-worshipper this was a very exciting event. They looked great and Brett's voice was fantastic as always. They didn't play any old songs - this is the Tears, not Suede - so it was quite a strange atmosphere. There was little movement in the crowd and no singing along because, duh, no-one knew the words. However, the new songs sounded very promising on first listen and I can't wait to hear them again when they release the album. Oh, and I had a rather bizarre experience - I was recognised by a MarkCity reader who came up to me and asked how my knee is. So hello Sherpa if you're reading this. Last night was our work office party. I actually found it hard to get into - not sure why. The highlights were winning a bottle of champers after being awarded the prize for the biggest mistake of the year (drinking an interviewee's water during a job interview; the poor girl asked me for a glass of water, I put it down in front of her then unthinkingly started to sip from it) and singing karaoke. I only did one song though - 'Hound Dog' - before the machine stopped working. After that, I came home reasonably early, to prepare myself for tonight's Morrissey gig. The real highlight of the week was getting a short story published in Zembla Magazine. It's a proper glossy mag that you can buy in WHSmith and everything! Every issue they run a competition to write a 300 word story on a certain theme. Mine was 'What I wish I hadn't seen at the beach' and I won first prize, £250 of rare books. I'm still waiting for it though. I'll post the story on here soon: perhaps as a Christmas treat! Sunday, December 12, 2004
We almost had a ratastrophe yesterday. Syd got hold of a tube of glue and chewed it open. It made a horrible, sticky mess on the carpet but we were far more worried about our rat's health. Was this the first sign that she was becoming a rebellious teenager, sniffin' glue - glue which she'd stolen!? Still, I suppose she's just trying to take after her near-namesake, Mr Vicious, and animal lovers will be pleased to hear there were no ill effects. I've got a new addiction: designer toys. I've been into Gloomy Bear for ages - that page still brings more people to this site than any other - but have discovered a weakness for toys like the one above. It's a Dunny. Isn't it fantastic? Plus there are Smorkin Labbits (see below) and I really really want an Uglydoll for Christmas. Butter is thoroughly disapproving and gives me that 'I'm very disappointed in yourself' look whenever I bring one home. But I can't help it. I feel a physical yearning whenever I see a cool new toy and my inner 8-year-old starts chanting, 'I want I want I want.' 
Steve won the X-Factor. Yes! Take that Sharon, you vindictive cow, and Louis, you insipid cretin. Go Steve! Go...oh hang on - his first single is a cover of 'Against All Odds' by Phil Collins. Nooooooo! Come back Tabby, all is forgiven. I've got a really busy week coming up - meeting someone to talk about a film on Tuesday, then The Tears gig on Thursday, office Xmas party on Friday (which might have karaoke!) and Morrissey on Saturday. Fortunately, my leg is a lot better and I can walk around almost normally, though I still can't go downstairs properly. The Christian physios have been fantastic - performing miracles and allsorts. Anyway, I may have a bumper crop of tales to tell next week. Or I may be too exhausted. Got to go - Syd's just cracked open a can of beer and nicked a fag from the Smorkin Labbits... Wednesday, December 01, 2004
It's been 11 weeks now since I was last able to skip and jump, and yesterday I got up at 5am and did something I haven't done in a long time: I caught a train. It was just as marvellous as I remembered it. Fortunately I was able to get into the disabled seat, waving my crutch (which I no longer need) to demonstrate that I deserved said seat. Then a guy in a wheelchair rolled up... Later in the day I caught a bus. It was just like being a normal person. I can still only bend my leg 95 degrees, and walk like an arthritic old man who's just pooped himself, but apart from that I'm fine. Looks like it's back to work full time next week. I've been meaning to vent my spleen about The X-Factor on here for a while now. For those who haven't seen it, it's the latest Pop Idol style TV 'talent' show whereby Simon Cowell and chums take members of the singing public and turn them into stars. Yeah, like Hear'say and Michelle 'I wonder what my toes look like' McManus. Or Rik Waller, who recently sold one ticket for a show in Torquay. I love such shows, and this one is spiced up by the rivalry between the judges, who are each responsible for some of the acts. Each judge has, at present, one act left, after Rowetta, the former Happy Mondays backing vocalist, was cruelly ditched on Saturday and consigned to the dumper. Here's what I think of them. First, Simon has Steve, a twinkly-eyed white soul singer who never stops smiling. I like Steve. I mean, I wouldn't buy his records, unless he was given some amazing material, but he seems like a genuinely nice bloke who doesn't beg for votes like the other desperadoes. He reminds me of an older Will Young. He even does the teapot dance. I should also point out that Simon Cowell is by far my favourite judge. Secondly, Louis Walsh has G4. I don't know where to begin. Let's take Louis Walsh first. The man responsible for bringing Boyzone to Britain (shame the ferry didn't sink en route), Louis has confounded doctors by managing to walk despite having no spine. It's amazing. He simpers and begs for sympathy, and even stooped to describing one act, who happens to be blind, as a 'poor boy', which was one of the most cringesome moments on TV for a long time. His best act, Voices With Soul, got voted out because, lets face it, the great racist British public don't like voting for black people in these talent contests. So now he's left with G4, who couldn't be any whiter. G4 are a bunch of middle-class choirboys with angelic faces whose gimmick is to butcher rock classics in the style of the King Singers. It's almost too horrible to describe - I mean, we're venturing into Stephen King territory here. "I'm a kur-reeeeeep," they warble in their monstrously posh accents. The nadir came this week when Jonathan, the good-looking one (the others look like junior accountants who've had one too many business lunches), started blubbing on air because he was so worried about his bedridden mummy. What life-threatening illness did mater have? A cold. Last and least come Sharon Osbourne and Tabby. No, tabby is not a cat, though it might be for the best if he were put down. But let's concentrate on Sharon first. What is it that the public love about Sharon? How has she fooled people? She's successful because a) she married a famous rock star and managed him, and b) appeared on a reality TV show on which she demonstrated less dignity than Paris Hilton and the child-rearing skills of a she-jackal (I mean, look how Kelly and wotsisname turned out). In a magazine interview recently she said that all Japanese people look the same, her hubbie used to collect Nazi Memorabilia and she wears fur. Lots of it. I really hate her. But not half as much as I hate Tabby. With a face that was made for slapping, the devastingly dense Tabby comes on stage each week and pretends to play a guitar that isn't plugged in while grimacing his way through some piece of soft-rock shit, often depending on the audience to sing for him while he prances about and shouts 'Come on' like a karaoke Jon Bon Jovi. His low point came when he displayed pictures of his baby while singing Sweet Child of Mine. Speeeeeew. He is utterly, utterly talentless and cretinous and just makes me want to...to...KILL SOMETHING! Phew. Rant over. But if either G4 or Tabby win I might start ranting again. |