If you already know about Come Dine with Me, you may wanna skip the first two paragraphs.
Reality TV is the programming equivalent of being slapped in the face by an octogenarian ballbag. Similarly, cookery shows are a bit like RE lessons in school; anyone who gives a fuck knows it all already. So, what happens in the event of a crossover?
In a remarkable instance of two wrongs making a right, we’re given Come Dine with Me. The show in which random plebs compete for a grand by being two-faced about each other, passive-aggressive and generally unpleasant. All set to gloriously snarky narration by Dave Lamb. There’s even a celebrity version. What’s more, I’ve even heard of some of the celebrities in the celebrity version. Here’s five things I learned from watching it;
1)Picky eaters are everywhere. Seriously. Every goddamn week, one of them is gonna refuse to eat something. Rarely for a reason, as vegetarians are usually catered for. This is another example of why people should be exterminated for being annoying. Don’t like it? It’s fucking food. Eat it, enjoy the sustenance, then give the cook a low score. Don’t kick up fuss at the dinner table like a stupid motherfucker, because then everyone hates you.
2)‘Real people’ are every bit as vapid as celebrities. When Big Brother oozed into the national consciousness, Channel 4 realised they needed a selling point for that shitfest. It was touted as being ‘real lives of real people’ and therefore more interesting than celebrities. Hence, ‘reality TV’ instead of ‘retina-burningly shitty TV’. Anyway, as if Big Brother wasn’t enough proof, the contrast between the celebrity and civilian Come Dine with Me is simply that the celebrities are prettier. That’s it. So, the choice is watching a bunch of boring, shitty ugly people or a bunch of boring, shitty passably attractive people. No-brainer, innit?
3)Talentless camp men are the most annoying thing on the planet. I forgive Louis Spence and Gok Wan (among others), because they have talent (be those talents dancing, or lying to fat people) and they’re fucking awesome at what they do. However, when a dude with that ‘tude (sorry, couldn’t resist the rhyme) and no skill to back it up appears on TV, it sends me into fits of rage. But Nick, I hear you cry, he’s just being himself! Yeah? Well himself is a cunt and should work on not being so annoying. That might make up for his lack of redeeming features. Hell, if he wasn’t such a pain in the ass, he wouldn’t need redeeming features.
4)Keith Buckley improves everything. No, Keith hasn’t been on Celebrity Come Dine with Me, but wouldn’t it be brilliant? Just picture the BBQ scene from the Party Pooper DVD, only with three added confused people who used to be famous. Don’t you grin just thinking about that? I seriously think Keith would rule at it, too. The dude’s ferociously intelligent and talks about being an attentive host like it’s something to be ashamed of. Man, I want an ETIDine with Me (Every Time I Dine?) to air now. I’ll start petitioning them on Facebook.
5)Don’t leave your stuff lying around. Every freakin’ episode, someone’s underwear draw in ransacked and a discovery is made. Be it a dildo, sexy lingerie, or full-on bondage gear, it’s there in front of the watching nation. You’d think people would be prepared for that shit. Sure, maybe you have specialist tastes and need to advertise or else spend your life alone, but for fuck sake have some class. Lock up the really crazy stuff, just drop a few hints. Leave the power tools on display, but clean up a bit and hide your nephew’s corpse somewhere a snooping dinner guest won’t find it.
So, that’s five things I learned from C4’s greatest reality show (although it’s pretty much the only good one ever), Come Dine with Me, although I pretty much suspected number 4 anyway.
Party pooper extraordinaire,
Nick
Tuesday, 4 January 2011
Woe returns to Liverpool!
So, as Whoa Whoa Woe enters its second month of being written, I thought I’d interrupt my more expansive musings with a few personal anecdotes of what I’ve been up to in the past year.
That’s one thing I like about doing a blog. If I was writing for a website or one of those archaic institutions the old media calls a magazine or newspaper, my personal life would be considered a no-go zone. And with good reason—it’s really bloody boring. But I have no editor to reign me in here, so I’ll persist in deluding myself that people give a crap about how I live on a day-to-day basis.
Let’s start winding up the last year. In 2010, I was in a band called Chelsea Star. We were alright, really. A sort of grungy-punky outfit with occasional geetar solos. We split up, sadly. Joey and Rach (possibly also Rich, I dunno), have gone on to form a classic rock band. If I carry on making music, it’ll probably be in a Conor Oberst-esque manner. Chelsea Star sounded a bit like Jawbreaker, so I guess I’m looking for my Jets To Brazil.
This all does, of course, make the assumption that I’ll still be making music. I don’t know if I really want to at this point. Obviously, I’ll remain an avid fan of music, and the camaraderie of being in a band is something I’ll always remember as beautiful, but I’m getting older. One thing 2010 did was make me face up to this. I mean, this year (2011), I’ll graduate. I’ll need to get a job, maybe even a career. It’s probably time to pack up the whole idea of fronting an awesome rock band. I can just sing to myself quietly in my room.
I can still write, which is a bit of a double-edged sword because it’s a constant reminder of what musicians can do that writers can’t (express an inarguable emotion, command a room, get laid, etc). Although I’ve still been writing stories, all my best verse has been lyrical and not poetic (I’ll maintain until death that there’s a fucking difference). To be honest, fuck poetry. Poets are just musicians without enough friends to form a band. I’m aware of the irony.
So, that’s my writing life dealt with. What else went on? Well, a lot of drinking. Is it a problem? No, it doesn’t rule my life. It just makes up a large proportion of it. Most of my social interaction is performed drunk. Mostly because my social interaction generally takes place in bars, clubs and pubs. Just about every event that’s not in uni is in some kind of alcohol-serving venue, and I never see a reason to not drink.
In terms of the kinds of places I go, I’m usually somewhere artsy. For some unknown reason, this pisses me right off. I guess the atmosphere is meant to make people feel elite and cool, like ‘Hey man, we’re underground poets. We’re too awesome for mainstream stuff like everyone else.’ Really, I just feel like a failed musician in a room full of failed musicians. Maybe that’s how Kerouac felt. I dunno. I guess Kerouac was lucky, because there was no Blake Schwarzenbach for him to wish he was.
I made my modelling debut in 2010. I felt conspicuously heterosexual.
I like vintage clothing, and I went to a lot of vintage fairs last year. Kukoo is rad, and anywhere Geek shows, I usually buy a shirt or two. I’m a sucker for vintage Ts. I guess that’s more fuel for the rumour that I was sucked into the present day through a wormhole that opened up at a Promise Ring show in the late nineties. A rumour which I may or may not have started myself. I plan on going to a lot more vintage fairs, and maybe getting to know some of the people involved.
I got tattooed a lot, thanks to Jayne (former Chelsea Star singer, too. Boom!) She’s taking a run at a career in tattooing, and I’m totally up for being a living sketch-pad. It’s permanent, but it doesn’t really matter. I’ll just keep it off my neck, hands and face and I’ll still be employable at most places, thanks to people being less stuffy about individuality in general and tattoos in particular. That’s something that’ll be ongoing until I run out of skin.
I also had a girlfriend for a few months. Sounds kinda sad to say it that way, but while I tend to make-out a lot, steady-steadies are few and far between for me. So, yeah, I had a girlfriend for a while, then it ended. Thinking about it still bums me out, but not so much as realising that my love life works on a kind of eight-month cycle where three months are great and five months are lonely and ripe with the risk of STDs. One of my New Year’s resolutions is to break that cycle, though I’m not sure how I’ll manage that.
Aw, what else? Lessee, music, writing, social … That’s about it. Except my family, or what would have been my ‘home life’, were I still living there. They’re ticking over alright. Joe’s got his A2s this year. He hates me. Helen and Mark are still doing fine. The cat’s still a massive pain in the arse. The rabbit died. He froze to death (or just died of old age, he was a right geriatric ol’ bunny) a few days before Christmas and I buried him. Could’a been worse, I s’pose. The ground could have been frozen too.
So, that’s my wind-up of 2010. I did some other stuff, to but it wasn’t really important, or I forget what it was.
Normal service will be resumed in my next post,
Nick
That’s one thing I like about doing a blog. If I was writing for a website or one of those archaic institutions the old media calls a magazine or newspaper, my personal life would be considered a no-go zone. And with good reason—it’s really bloody boring. But I have no editor to reign me in here, so I’ll persist in deluding myself that people give a crap about how I live on a day-to-day basis.
Let’s start winding up the last year. In 2010, I was in a band called Chelsea Star. We were alright, really. A sort of grungy-punky outfit with occasional geetar solos. We split up, sadly. Joey and Rach (possibly also Rich, I dunno), have gone on to form a classic rock band. If I carry on making music, it’ll probably be in a Conor Oberst-esque manner. Chelsea Star sounded a bit like Jawbreaker, so I guess I’m looking for my Jets To Brazil.
This all does, of course, make the assumption that I’ll still be making music. I don’t know if I really want to at this point. Obviously, I’ll remain an avid fan of music, and the camaraderie of being in a band is something I’ll always remember as beautiful, but I’m getting older. One thing 2010 did was make me face up to this. I mean, this year (2011), I’ll graduate. I’ll need to get a job, maybe even a career. It’s probably time to pack up the whole idea of fronting an awesome rock band. I can just sing to myself quietly in my room.
I can still write, which is a bit of a double-edged sword because it’s a constant reminder of what musicians can do that writers can’t (express an inarguable emotion, command a room, get laid, etc). Although I’ve still been writing stories, all my best verse has been lyrical and not poetic (I’ll maintain until death that there’s a fucking difference). To be honest, fuck poetry. Poets are just musicians without enough friends to form a band. I’m aware of the irony.
So, that’s my writing life dealt with. What else went on? Well, a lot of drinking. Is it a problem? No, it doesn’t rule my life. It just makes up a large proportion of it. Most of my social interaction is performed drunk. Mostly because my social interaction generally takes place in bars, clubs and pubs. Just about every event that’s not in uni is in some kind of alcohol-serving venue, and I never see a reason to not drink.
In terms of the kinds of places I go, I’m usually somewhere artsy. For some unknown reason, this pisses me right off. I guess the atmosphere is meant to make people feel elite and cool, like ‘Hey man, we’re underground poets. We’re too awesome for mainstream stuff like everyone else.’ Really, I just feel like a failed musician in a room full of failed musicians. Maybe that’s how Kerouac felt. I dunno. I guess Kerouac was lucky, because there was no Blake Schwarzenbach for him to wish he was.
I made my modelling debut in 2010. I felt conspicuously heterosexual.
I like vintage clothing, and I went to a lot of vintage fairs last year. Kukoo is rad, and anywhere Geek shows, I usually buy a shirt or two. I’m a sucker for vintage Ts. I guess that’s more fuel for the rumour that I was sucked into the present day through a wormhole that opened up at a Promise Ring show in the late nineties. A rumour which I may or may not have started myself. I plan on going to a lot more vintage fairs, and maybe getting to know some of the people involved.
I got tattooed a lot, thanks to Jayne (former Chelsea Star singer, too. Boom!) She’s taking a run at a career in tattooing, and I’m totally up for being a living sketch-pad. It’s permanent, but it doesn’t really matter. I’ll just keep it off my neck, hands and face and I’ll still be employable at most places, thanks to people being less stuffy about individuality in general and tattoos in particular. That’s something that’ll be ongoing until I run out of skin.
I also had a girlfriend for a few months. Sounds kinda sad to say it that way, but while I tend to make-out a lot, steady-steadies are few and far between for me. So, yeah, I had a girlfriend for a while, then it ended. Thinking about it still bums me out, but not so much as realising that my love life works on a kind of eight-month cycle where three months are great and five months are lonely and ripe with the risk of STDs. One of my New Year’s resolutions is to break that cycle, though I’m not sure how I’ll manage that.
Aw, what else? Lessee, music, writing, social … That’s about it. Except my family, or what would have been my ‘home life’, were I still living there. They’re ticking over alright. Joe’s got his A2s this year. He hates me. Helen and Mark are still doing fine. The cat’s still a massive pain in the arse. The rabbit died. He froze to death (or just died of old age, he was a right geriatric ol’ bunny) a few days before Christmas and I buried him. Could’a been worse, I s’pose. The ground could have been frozen too.
So, that’s my wind-up of 2010. I did some other stuff, to but it wasn’t really important, or I forget what it was.
Normal service will be resumed in my next post,
Nick
Wednesday, 29 December 2010
Pal Challange #3
So, Pal Challenge returns! Mostly because I was out of ideas and I wanted to update. Since I blogged yesterday, it's probably too fast. But, my pals have been good to me and given me these delightful subjects to yammer on about:
1)'Can I justify eating the 3 1kg tins of chocolates I was given this Christmas? Could anybody?' from Criss.
&
2) 'Indie becoming the new mainstream.' From Lydia.
Let's rock this shit! Woo! That's my enthusiasm for the day.
First thing's first, three kilograms of chocolate? It's do-able, I'm sure. Well, I'm pretty sure that if I tried that I'd vomit, but if you can stomach it that much chocolate, go for it!
See, it's the opportunities you pass up that you'll regret. Except the opportunity to see Uncle Martin's magical snake. Boy, do I regret that one. But paedophiles aside, if you're presented with three kilos of chocolate I think it'd be spitting in the eye of Fate (which now has an eye. And a capital 'F') to not eat it. This is how I justify chocolate, cocaine and mass murder.
Chocolate quality's probably a factor, too. If it's your favourite, guzzle away. If it's poo (metaphorically or otherwise), I wouldn't bother. Unless that's your thing. I'm not here to judge that. I'm only here to judge people who have sex in the missionary position and mean it when they say 'I love you.'
As for any actual health risks, I don't have a clue. I'd say drink plenty on your choc binge. Staying hydrated is important. And make sure you don't eat much else that day, or you'll just feel ill.
Now, I'm sure that chocolatey goodness has left you asking 'Is indie the new mainstream?' I sure know I'm think that. So, without further ado, let's dive in. Remember, it's not ironic to dive into water, so wear a helmet.
So, indie culture (as far as it can be called 'culture') is massive right now. We're talking really fucking huge. I mean, like, twenty beers and you'd still think it's a bit on the big side. Anywhere you go there's bound to be some ironic facial hair with an idiot hanging off it, screaming in terror as he realises too late that the hill is steep and his fixie has no brakes. So, indie is now mainstream, right?
Well ... kind of. That's honestly the best I can do. While the fixed-gear-dickheads are now all over everywhere like herpes on Taylor Momsen, it isn't strictly speaking indie. I'm gonna take a moment to regurgitate some of the hipster dictionary (hiptionary?) I swallowed and enlighten y'all:
'Indie' is a contraction of 'independent'. As in, independent bands and record labels, independent shops, independent films ... You get the idea.
I guess this means indie will never be mainstream. It's just the definitions of what is or isn't indie will change. Same for the mainstream. It runs in cycles. First something's indie, then it's mainstream, then it's unpopular, then it's retro and the indie kids love it again. You'll notice that, now they've been exposed, you see fixie-pricks (this is my name for them as of now) in Topshop more than you see them in, say, Geek Vintage (just thought I'd plug my favourite T-shirt stockists. You're welcome, guys).
So, now the fixie-pricks and their dull-as-fuck music (Yeah, I went there) are mainstream, what gets to be indie? I'm hoping skramz will get indie-fabulous (this isn't an actual term.). Think about it, it makes perfect sense. It's underground as fuck, aggressive enough to never be mainstream and as an added bonus the indie kids get to keep their thick-rimmed glasses. Not to mention, Liverpool's already representin' the music side with We Came Out Like Tigers, who are fucking brilliant if you haven't heard them (They only have one song on the link, sadly). If I was any kind of cool, I'd be petitioning on the streets for everyone to stop playing synth and start making sounds like four dogs locked in a burning shed.
Writing haikus about cannibalism in your yearbook since 1989,
Nick
1)'Can I justify eating the 3 1kg tins of chocolates I was given this Christmas? Could anybody?' from Criss.
&
2) 'Indie becoming the new mainstream.' From Lydia.
Let's rock this shit! Woo! That's my enthusiasm for the day.
First thing's first, three kilograms of chocolate? It's do-able, I'm sure. Well, I'm pretty sure that if I tried that I'd vomit, but if you can stomach it that much chocolate, go for it!
See, it's the opportunities you pass up that you'll regret. Except the opportunity to see Uncle Martin's magical snake. Boy, do I regret that one. But paedophiles aside, if you're presented with three kilos of chocolate I think it'd be spitting in the eye of Fate (which now has an eye. And a capital 'F') to not eat it. This is how I justify chocolate, cocaine and mass murder.
Chocolate quality's probably a factor, too. If it's your favourite, guzzle away. If it's poo (metaphorically or otherwise), I wouldn't bother. Unless that's your thing. I'm not here to judge that. I'm only here to judge people who have sex in the missionary position and mean it when they say 'I love you.'
As for any actual health risks, I don't have a clue. I'd say drink plenty on your choc binge. Staying hydrated is important. And make sure you don't eat much else that day, or you'll just feel ill.
Now, I'm sure that chocolatey goodness has left you asking 'Is indie the new mainstream?' I sure know I'm think that. So, without further ado, let's dive in. Remember, it's not ironic to dive into water, so wear a helmet.
So, indie culture (as far as it can be called 'culture') is massive right now. We're talking really fucking huge. I mean, like, twenty beers and you'd still think it's a bit on the big side. Anywhere you go there's bound to be some ironic facial hair with an idiot hanging off it, screaming in terror as he realises too late that the hill is steep and his fixie has no brakes. So, indie is now mainstream, right?
Well ... kind of. That's honestly the best I can do. While the fixed-gear-dickheads are now all over everywhere like herpes on Taylor Momsen, it isn't strictly speaking indie. I'm gonna take a moment to regurgitate some of the hipster dictionary (hiptionary?) I swallowed and enlighten y'all:
'Indie' is a contraction of 'independent'. As in, independent bands and record labels, independent shops, independent films ... You get the idea.
I guess this means indie will never be mainstream. It's just the definitions of what is or isn't indie will change. Same for the mainstream. It runs in cycles. First something's indie, then it's mainstream, then it's unpopular, then it's retro and the indie kids love it again. You'll notice that, now they've been exposed, you see fixie-pricks (this is my name for them as of now) in Topshop more than you see them in, say, Geek Vintage (just thought I'd plug my favourite T-shirt stockists. You're welcome, guys).
So, now the fixie-pricks and their dull-as-fuck music (Yeah, I went there) are mainstream, what gets to be indie? I'm hoping skramz will get indie-fabulous (this isn't an actual term.). Think about it, it makes perfect sense. It's underground as fuck, aggressive enough to never be mainstream and as an added bonus the indie kids get to keep their thick-rimmed glasses. Not to mention, Liverpool's already representin' the music side with We Came Out Like Tigers, who are fucking brilliant if you haven't heard them (They only have one song on the link, sadly). If I was any kind of cool, I'd be petitioning on the streets for everyone to stop playing synth and start making sounds like four dogs locked in a burning shed.
Writing haikus about cannibalism in your yearbook since 1989,
Nick
Monday, 27 December 2010
Seven Fragrance Adverts you Didn't See this Holiday Season
Seriously, fuck perfume ads. Few things fill me quite as much misanthropy. No matter which advert it is, I invariably end up drowning in my own vitriol (a rare phenomenon, the only outward sign of which is a sarcastic remark). If I were Hitler, fragrance adverts would be my teachers in art school. And fragrance marketing executives would be my Jews, travellers, blacks, gays, non-Aryans, people who looked at me funny etc. I’d like to say I won’t do any more genocide jokes, but I’m not going to lie to you. It doesn’t get any better. Not even a little bit.
Anyway, after I’d awoken from a rage-induced coma to find that my pancreas had developed its own sub-pancreas in order to produce twice the bile, I decided that the best way to bring down the perfume advertising industry was to attack from within.
To this end, I created seven new pilot ads for fragrances yet to be created. I hope you enjoy them. At least they can’t be more disturbing or grossly misogynistic than a Lynx/Axe commercial.
1) Gucci Jihad. Interior, night. A boudoir-style apartment, curtains, drapes etc. A woman strikes a ‘come-hither’ pose on a silk-sheeted bed. A man approaches. Close up of their faces about to kiss.
Crash zoom out. The man explodes, killing the woman and taking out a large chunk of the building.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Jihad. The devastating new fragrance from Gucci.’
2) Republican by Diesel. Interior, night. A well-dressed man acting out of place at a party full of well-dressed people. He moves through a lot of glamorous people, to an antique telephone. He dials a number, and announces in an Irish accent; ‘There will be an explosion on Park Lane at midnight.’
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Republican by Diesel. For independent spirits.’
Bigot, by Nick Griffin. Interior, whatever time. Montage of white dudes applying fragrance. Finally, an Asian dude applies same fragrance and melts, screaming.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘For Aryans only. Bigot, the debut fragrance from Nick Griffin.
Proud sponsors of the BNP.'
Entitlement Complex by Paris Hilton. Everywhere, last Thursday. Close up of a mouth gobbling luxuriant foods and chugging champagne. Strobe-montage of sexualised imagery. Zoom out to Paris Hilton stuffing the planet Earth into her vagina.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Entitlement Complex. The last-ditch attempt at saving Paris Hilton’s career in fragrance form.’
Melanoma by Calvin Klein. Interior, time is a human concept and has nothing to do with the cold, impersonal drones in the fashion business. A lone woman stands in a spotlight in a dimly lit room. She’s nude, but her modesty is preserved by bits of silk blown around by off-screen fans.
Camera pans around her body.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Beauty. The final truth. Overcoming time. Breaking the barriers between sight, sound and scent. With it comes conviction. Hope. The promise of a better future.’
Camera stops on an asymmetrical mole.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Even in the face of the worst thing that can happen. Melanoma, by Calvin Klein.’
Futility by Davidoff. Interior, night. An average-looking young man applies fragrance and leaves a bathroom, entering a fashionable bar. He enters an animated conversation with an attractive young woman. After a short time, a handsome young man joins the conversation, then leaves the bar with the young woman in short order, leaving our hero on his own.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Futility by Davidoff. Because no matter how nice you smell, she’d rather get ploughed by the cute guy.’
Chloroform by Gary Glitter. Your house, October 1991. A well-dressed man walks through a high class party. People faint in his wake. He climbs some stairs, as people collapse (some plummeting over the side). The man continues, as if drawn by something. He reaches the door to a child’s bedroom. A nanny rushes at him, but collapses when she gets within a yard of him. The man continues towards the child’s bed.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Chloroform. The incapacitating new fragrance from Gary Glitter.’
So, I hope you enjoyed my take on fragrance marketing. It may be offensive, but I'll come smelling of roses anyway. Or at least of Futility by Davidoff.
Laters,
Nick
Anyway, after I’d awoken from a rage-induced coma to find that my pancreas had developed its own sub-pancreas in order to produce twice the bile, I decided that the best way to bring down the perfume advertising industry was to attack from within.
To this end, I created seven new pilot ads for fragrances yet to be created. I hope you enjoy them. At least they can’t be more disturbing or grossly misogynistic than a Lynx/Axe commercial.
1) Gucci Jihad. Interior, night. A boudoir-style apartment, curtains, drapes etc. A woman strikes a ‘come-hither’ pose on a silk-sheeted bed. A man approaches. Close up of their faces about to kiss.
Crash zoom out. The man explodes, killing the woman and taking out a large chunk of the building.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Jihad. The devastating new fragrance from Gucci.’
2) Republican by Diesel. Interior, night. A well-dressed man acting out of place at a party full of well-dressed people. He moves through a lot of glamorous people, to an antique telephone. He dials a number, and announces in an Irish accent; ‘There will be an explosion on Park Lane at midnight.’
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Republican by Diesel. For independent spirits.’
Bigot, by Nick Griffin. Interior, whatever time. Montage of white dudes applying fragrance. Finally, an Asian dude applies same fragrance and melts, screaming.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘For Aryans only. Bigot, the debut fragrance from Nick Griffin.
Proud sponsors of the BNP.'
Entitlement Complex by Paris Hilton. Everywhere, last Thursday. Close up of a mouth gobbling luxuriant foods and chugging champagne. Strobe-montage of sexualised imagery. Zoom out to Paris Hilton stuffing the planet Earth into her vagina.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Entitlement Complex. The last-ditch attempt at saving Paris Hilton’s career in fragrance form.’
Melanoma by Calvin Klein. Interior, time is a human concept and has nothing to do with the cold, impersonal drones in the fashion business. A lone woman stands in a spotlight in a dimly lit room. She’s nude, but her modesty is preserved by bits of silk blown around by off-screen fans.
Camera pans around her body.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Beauty. The final truth. Overcoming time. Breaking the barriers between sight, sound and scent. With it comes conviction. Hope. The promise of a better future.’
Camera stops on an asymmetrical mole.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Even in the face of the worst thing that can happen. Melanoma, by Calvin Klein.’
Futility by Davidoff. Interior, night. An average-looking young man applies fragrance and leaves a bathroom, entering a fashionable bar. He enters an animated conversation with an attractive young woman. After a short time, a handsome young man joins the conversation, then leaves the bar with the young woman in short order, leaving our hero on his own.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Futility by Davidoff. Because no matter how nice you smell, she’d rather get ploughed by the cute guy.’
Chloroform by Gary Glitter. Your house, October 1991. A well-dressed man walks through a high class party. People faint in his wake. He climbs some stairs, as people collapse (some plummeting over the side). The man continues, as if drawn by something. He reaches the door to a child’s bedroom. A nanny rushes at him, but collapses when she gets within a yard of him. The man continues towards the child’s bed.
[VOICE OVER]: ‘Chloroform. The incapacitating new fragrance from Gary Glitter.’
So, I hope you enjoyed my take on fragrance marketing. It may be offensive, but I'll come smelling of roses anyway. Or at least of Futility by Davidoff.
Laters,
Nick
Saturday, 18 December 2010
Pal Challenge #2
Welcome back to Pal Challenge, where my pals give me stuff to write about. Today, I have:
1) Ass puppets: Nick Clegg VS Kermit the Frog.
2) What makes music good or bad?
So, I'll start with ass-puppetry. Thus far, it's unclear if Clegg is operated via his ass (I always imagined a marionette-style affair, with Cameron controlling Clegg, whilst being controlled by someone else- check out this classic album cover if you're confused), which immediately puts points in Kermit's favour as the superior ass-puppet.
However, that was only in the 'ass' part of the showdown. Kermit has a distinct, albeit slightly awkward, personality and a set of values that he holds true to. Clegg? Well, I can't say the same for him. So, who's more of a puppet? Well, I guess it's Clegg, despite Kermit actually being a puppet.
The winner? You decide. They're both fucking muppets, mate.
Now, part two of my pal challenge. What makes music good or bad?
The immediate and douche-y answer is 'personal taste', but that would be trite, and frankly a disappointing way to carry on, so I'm going to pull a Leo and go deeper (Inception gag's a little late, I know). This is always gonna be my opinion, and I don't wanna have to say that in every sentence. So no whining, okay?
The toughest part of writing this is that for every rule I make, there's gonna be exceptions. I don't have the patience to go into specifics of why I like everything I like, and why I hate the things I hate. I'll say this though: mainstream music isn't always gonna be bad, nor is underground music always gonna be good.
What mostly makes music good is a willingness to go the extra mile. If it's adding strings to a track, changing the whole song up halfway through or simply just making the very best music you can make. It's easy to half-ass an album, as anyone who's listened to the likes of Dead And Devine, Hidden In Plain View or Take The Crown will know (There are way more than this, these are just the first peddlers of sub-par music that spring to mind).
Sometimes, shitty bands are even unfeasibly popular. Anyone remember Limp Bizkit? When those talentless clowns were big, great bands like Mineral and Indian Summer were dying in a tragically overlooked scene (okay, enough pro-emo propaganda now).
Eh, lost my thread there. I kind of want to murder Papa Roach. And Disturbed. God, Disturbed suck.
Aside from putting in the time to do their vision justice, I like a band who writes a good lyric (post-rock bands are let off here). Honesty is preferred, but not to the extent that it becomes sappy (Say Anything's song Sappy is let off because, well, they're taking the piss a bit ...). The right lyrical sentiment can make or break a band in my eyes. You know what I'm talking about. There's a reason why Brand New are going from strength to strength when fellow Triple Crown alumni Northstar faded into obscurity in 2003.
So, I've talked way too long about music and still not really got across any kind of point. I think it's high time to wrap this up.
Sincerly yours,
Nick
1) Ass puppets: Nick Clegg VS Kermit the Frog.
2) What makes music good or bad?
So, I'll start with ass-puppetry. Thus far, it's unclear if Clegg is operated via his ass (I always imagined a marionette-style affair, with Cameron controlling Clegg, whilst being controlled by someone else- check out this classic album cover if you're confused), which immediately puts points in Kermit's favour as the superior ass-puppet.
However, that was only in the 'ass' part of the showdown. Kermit has a distinct, albeit slightly awkward, personality and a set of values that he holds true to. Clegg? Well, I can't say the same for him. So, who's more of a puppet? Well, I guess it's Clegg, despite Kermit actually being a puppet.
The winner? You decide. They're both fucking muppets, mate.
Now, part two of my pal challenge. What makes music good or bad?
The immediate and douche-y answer is 'personal taste', but that would be trite, and frankly a disappointing way to carry on, so I'm going to pull a Leo and go deeper (Inception gag's a little late, I know). This is always gonna be my opinion, and I don't wanna have to say that in every sentence. So no whining, okay?
The toughest part of writing this is that for every rule I make, there's gonna be exceptions. I don't have the patience to go into specifics of why I like everything I like, and why I hate the things I hate. I'll say this though: mainstream music isn't always gonna be bad, nor is underground music always gonna be good.
What mostly makes music good is a willingness to go the extra mile. If it's adding strings to a track, changing the whole song up halfway through or simply just making the very best music you can make. It's easy to half-ass an album, as anyone who's listened to the likes of Dead And Devine, Hidden In Plain View or Take The Crown will know (There are way more than this, these are just the first peddlers of sub-par music that spring to mind).
Sometimes, shitty bands are even unfeasibly popular. Anyone remember Limp Bizkit? When those talentless clowns were big, great bands like Mineral and Indian Summer were dying in a tragically overlooked scene (okay, enough pro-emo propaganda now).
Eh, lost my thread there. I kind of want to murder Papa Roach. And Disturbed. God, Disturbed suck.
Aside from putting in the time to do their vision justice, I like a band who writes a good lyric (post-rock bands are let off here). Honesty is preferred, but not to the extent that it becomes sappy (Say Anything's song Sappy is let off because, well, they're taking the piss a bit ...). The right lyrical sentiment can make or break a band in my eyes. You know what I'm talking about. There's a reason why Brand New are going from strength to strength when fellow Triple Crown alumni Northstar faded into obscurity in 2003.
So, I've talked way too long about music and still not really got across any kind of point. I think it's high time to wrap this up.
Sincerly yours,
Nick
Stopgap self indulgent post ahoy!
Okay, I admit it. I write songs without fully expecting to ever hear them. They're mostly for dealing with stuff that I would never, ever be comfortable putting in a poem.
See, with a song you have delivery on your side. The most mawkish sentiment on the planet becomes stronger when it's sung beautifully (although your definition of beautiful singing may vary wildly). This way, you don't have to worry so much about being clever and can just be honest.
Irony is, I mostly write poems about girls. I've written songs about snow, spiders, places, paint, girls (yeah, okay ...), Klein-Levinson's Syndrome and two about things that I'm never gonna fully explain to anyone. Even when I talk about it with the other person involved, we use third person allegories. They're not mean songs, though. I'd like if people heard them one day.
I have ten good sets of lyrics in total, which is probably a good time to stop writing lyrics and start recruiting band members. Time to tour the Liverpool scene with some chloroform and a net.
On a completely unrelated note, I got my first piece of glasses-related driveby abuse today. Bunch of savages in this town.
Anyway, I've recieved a new blogger challenge- to blog about ass-puppets and what makes music good or bad. That'll be my next post then.
Laters,
Nick
See, with a song you have delivery on your side. The most mawkish sentiment on the planet becomes stronger when it's sung beautifully (although your definition of beautiful singing may vary wildly). This way, you don't have to worry so much about being clever and can just be honest.
Irony is, I mostly write poems about girls. I've written songs about snow, spiders, places, paint, girls (yeah, okay ...), Klein-Levinson's Syndrome and two about things that I'm never gonna fully explain to anyone. Even when I talk about it with the other person involved, we use third person allegories. They're not mean songs, though. I'd like if people heard them one day.
I have ten good sets of lyrics in total, which is probably a good time to stop writing lyrics and start recruiting band members. Time to tour the Liverpool scene with some chloroform and a net.
On a completely unrelated note, I got my first piece of glasses-related driveby abuse today. Bunch of savages in this town.
Anyway, I've recieved a new blogger challenge- to blog about ass-puppets and what makes music good or bad. That'll be my next post then.
Laters,
Nick
Friday, 17 December 2010
The three-episode-review marches on!
So, what's my evil eye been ogling today? That would be The Morgana Show, then.
Okay, so Morgana Robinson, owner of a rad name, has come up with a character-driven sketch show. Good plan, right? Well, maybe. See, every time a sketch show is based on characters rather than straight-up parodies (Tramadol Nights is an example of parody-sriven sketches), it goes toe-to-toe with League of Gentlemen. Basically, The Morgana Show can only ever hope to be the second best character sketch show.
So, let's talk about the sketches. Morgana's sketches (and occaisional impressions) are fifty percent good, about fifteen percent shite and thirty-five percent average.
That's promising, right? Well, kind of. See, somewhere along the line, Morgana decided it would be a good idea to give the majority of airtime to her most annoying, unfunny and pointless creation, a socially inept kid named Gilbert who makes his own TV show. Wow, sounds a lot like everyone on Youtube. And sadly, Gilbert as a character simply isn't as funny as the real-life people he was created to mock (Chris-Chan, DaxFlame, Jawsus etc).
Gilbert is a massive shame, because just about everything else in this show is great. In an ideal world, Gilbert would be cut completely, and more time would be made for Madolynn, the Old Soldiers, the Redneck Family, all of whom are cleverly crafted and well-executed character sketches.
Morgana's impressions are a mixed bag, too. Her Fearne Cotton is funny, if overblown; her Cheryl Cole is annoying, and her Boris Johnson (that sounds like some kind of euphemism) is great for about half the times he's on screen.
Ultimately, The Morgana Show has potential. I just hope she gives less time to the massive, defecating albatross that is Gilbert if she gets a second series.
6/10
Promise I'll get back to writing inane shit soon,
Nick
Okay, so Morgana Robinson, owner of a rad name, has come up with a character-driven sketch show. Good plan, right? Well, maybe. See, every time a sketch show is based on characters rather than straight-up parodies (Tramadol Nights is an example of parody-sriven sketches), it goes toe-to-toe with League of Gentlemen. Basically, The Morgana Show can only ever hope to be the second best character sketch show.
So, let's talk about the sketches. Morgana's sketches (and occaisional impressions) are fifty percent good, about fifteen percent shite and thirty-five percent average.
That's promising, right? Well, kind of. See, somewhere along the line, Morgana decided it would be a good idea to give the majority of airtime to her most annoying, unfunny and pointless creation, a socially inept kid named Gilbert who makes his own TV show. Wow, sounds a lot like everyone on Youtube. And sadly, Gilbert as a character simply isn't as funny as the real-life people he was created to mock (Chris-Chan, DaxFlame, Jawsus etc).
Gilbert is a massive shame, because just about everything else in this show is great. In an ideal world, Gilbert would be cut completely, and more time would be made for Madolynn, the Old Soldiers, the Redneck Family, all of whom are cleverly crafted and well-executed character sketches.
Morgana's impressions are a mixed bag, too. Her Fearne Cotton is funny, if overblown; her Cheryl Cole is annoying, and her Boris Johnson (that sounds like some kind of euphemism) is great for about half the times he's on screen.
Ultimately, The Morgana Show has potential. I just hope she gives less time to the massive, defecating albatross that is Gilbert if she gets a second series.
6/10
Promise I'll get back to writing inane shit soon,
Nick
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