Wednesday, 24 December 2008

Ray Quinn


sometimes a vasectomy is the only answer

Sunday, 21 December 2008

All Change....

I have no more roots in the Northern Kent/Southern London lego block part of the world that is Downham. Gone. Zilch. No more will I be called 'faggot' at a bus stop. No more will I see the giant Woolworthes (though this is for a few other reasons) set ablaze. No more will I see the 2 hollow shells of the decaying Green Man and The Tigers Head pubs, the former set a fire by gypsies. No more will I see the Food Hall M&S and actually wonder why it is there.

My parents have left southen London or a suburban life in a part of the world that might still consider me queer, but wouldn't do it with such an instant and determined ideal of violence - they may just set me on fire late at night in one of the many adjoinging fields that back onto the new abode.

There's deer. There's rabbits. There's geese. There's no ethnic minorities. It's certainly going to be a white xmas folks.

And I enter my flat everyday to the same orchestral strains of the same tramp asking for the same pound coin in Brockley.

I'm also off to New York for New Year. I hope I don't come back.


Wednesday, 10 December 2008

Please Watch This....

Tuesday, 9 December 2008


Every single day I open the same door at the same time and see the same tramp asking me for the same amount of money.

Monday, 8 December 2008

February 20th

Kurt Cobain and Phil Neal.... my idols


Monday, 24 November 2008

Crocodile Dundee and the Enhancement of Life with a Kukri Knife

I think it was Crocodile Dundee who (faced with an incompetent pen knife wielding mugger) exclaimed in his irksome Aussie strain, ‘Ya call that a knife? This is a knife!’ Instantly pulled from his thick leather knife holder was what Nietzsche might have referred to as a ‘fuck off stabber.’

Hearing daily news of the young being stabbed at a pretty consistent rate, I begin to wonder where are all the Crocodile Dundee’s of the world are at to sort the trouble out? But then I think, maybe that’s the trouble, there’s just too many of them.

Anyway. Earlier this year I was at my grandparents house and while watching the usual Deal or No Deal/Countdown head burp, my granddad starts talking about the amount of people getting stabbed in the world. Though trying hard to solve the Countdown Conundrum and not conjure up any sticky images of Carol’s Voderman (brains are nice), I am drawn into my granddads sudden talk about knives. I enquire. It continues. He is now talking, from what I can recall, about the First World War and the Gurkha Knives that his brother had given to him. I enquire again. My nan then says she wants them out of the house. Confused, I then see my granddad leap up from his chair and go upstairs.

My granddad died not long after he brought these down the stairs at their small home in Hammersmith. It annoys me so much that I can’t exactly recall where each one is from or how he managed to acquire them.

When he died I knew my nan didn’t want them in the house so I asked if I could have them. She gladly gave them to me wrapped in a suspicious plastic bag along with the medals he received from the Navy in the 2nd World War.

I’m doing research on them at the moment. The amazement when I first saw them was tempered when on further inspection, there was still lots and lots of blood vaselined onto them.

The Kukri -

This is the one I’m annoyed with the most because I can’t remember the actual story behind it. I can’t remember if it was found in a gurkha’s head or in a German’s or not.




Now, this little one I do remember something about. It was found in the gut of a German, but was bought at a market by my Granddad for a rather cheap price. It has an ivory handle. Though I don’t know its make. Nike perhaps.



I wish I found out more about them, because finding out about them is finding out about him. I’m not a fan of knives or their masculine posterity, but these bloody slices of history fascinate me because of their ridiculous passage into my granddads hands. Which have now reached mine. They are from a time that I hope I’ll never see, but seeing them is a reminder of how survival and living are our most feral instinct.


Monday, 15 September 2008

Certainly the End of Something or Other - David Foster Wallace 21/02/1962 – 12/09/2008

I can’t remember why I bought ‘A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.’ Maybe someone recommended me it or it was one of those hideous Amazon recommendations you get when you buy a ‘similar’ authors book (like writers fit in genres like the shelf guides in music shops).

It took me a while to get into it. I mean, I had not seen anything like it. I was immature, the titles were complete sentences and the language so detailed I longed for something easier. That was until I read the essay ‘Tennis Player Michael Joyce’s Professional Artistry as a Paradigm of Certain Stuff about Choice, Freedom, Discipline, Joy, Grotesque and Human Completeness.’ To read in utter detail the way the mechanics of Joyce’s serve, without pause, worked, changed the way I would view structure, grammar and influence the overall way I would write. It screamed of love, utter love for language and the subject that he was covering. I couldn’t put it down. I couldn’t put ‘David Lynch Keeps his Head’ down (I read it three times in a row). I recommended him to everyone. I knew I couldn’t, but I wanted to love writing as much as this guy.

When I got into work this morning and habitually skipped the data entry by venturing onto the Guardians website, I was speechless when it said Foster Wallace had committed suicide. It was only yesterday I tried to find out whether he had any new work coming out and only a month ago that I ordered ‘The Best American Essay’s of 2007,’ just because he edited it.

Being an admirer of a writer is a strange one, say, compared to a musician, band or whatever. It’s myopic. Nobody can hear what you’re reading, it’s you and this person’s language taking you on a journey nobody on the outside of the cover can imagine at that moment. Unlike an Ipod, you have to work for it. It’s intimate. But reading his work also made me want to write.

Not that some of his work couldn’t be difficult. His short story collection ‘Oblivion’ was in some parts intrinsically detailed hard work, but in others phenomenally beautiful. Most encountered the fragility of the human position and each character’s struggle with life, but the most tragic story, ‘Incarnations of Burned Children,’ moved me so much I dedicated a poem of loss to it during my final year poetry dissertation.

His breathless way of creating a gasping narrative to encounter the situations of the protagonist and the humour in his essays and stories helped me to form my own use of, what I thought was, unique grammar and structure during my degree. I wasn’t sure why I was at Uni but reading his work made me understand that working creatively was the only way forward, even if I fucked up my first year. I can specifically remember skipping my English Lit class to go to Borders on Charing Cross Road with my last ounce of Student Loan to purchase his newest book. It was called ‘Consider The Lobster,’ and I remember reading ‘Big Red Sun’ (his essay on the American Porn industry) on the 188 crossing Waterloo Bridge back to my university for the creative writing class I was only really there for. I laughed all the way.

I’m sure there will be a lot more interest in David Foster Wallace’s writing now. I’m sure people will pour over his work looking for theories into his death. I’ve read some blogs saying he was the ‘greatest writer of his generation.’ I’m not amazingly read so I’m not too sure about that, but he was and still is definitely the most forward thinking and inspirational one in my life.

In a writer you can build up a picture of that person through their language you read. Reading the obituaries today, the universal praising and messages of mourning, I came to the conclusion that everyone came to the same close – he was just an intensely intelligent guy, without pretensions, who was constantly trying to understand a way to write about and comprehend life.

That is why I don’t understand his death at the moment, the violence in it, and the way he’s now going to be almost, fictionalised. But then again, maybe his ambition to question his existence, to be this huge brain coupled with depression and this celebrated prodigy was all too much. That’s not for now. Or maybe ever.

I want to remember the endless footnotes. The way he made me understand American politics and McCain in particular in ‘Up, Simba – Seven Days on the Trail of the Anticandidate.’ The way he wrote without sides, not forcing his opinions on the reader. About his clear passion for tennis and the absolutely funny and brilliant ‘Hail the Returning Dragon, Clothed in New Fire,’ a short essay about Aids I had to order a while back from America.

On the snide, I’ve just printed out his 2006 essay about Roger Federer and I’m going to read it on my way home from work. To not be able to read and be set the challenge of his new piece of fiction or non-fiction is a terrible thought, but I still haven’t read his supposed 1,000 odd word masterpiece ‘Infinite Jest,’ so I’ll hold that thought. Like I said before, the highest accolade I can give him is that he made me want to write. And he will continue to do so.

On Updike’s protagonist in the novel ‘Toward the End of Time’ –

‘Updike makes it plain that he views the narrators final impotence as catastrophic, as the ultimate symbol of death itself, and he clearly wants us to mourn it as much as Turnbull does. I am not shocked or offended by this attitude: I mostly just don’t get it. Rampant or flaccid, Ben Turnbull’s unhappiness is obvious right from the novel’s first page. It never once occurs to him, though, that the reason he’s so unhappy is that he’s an asshole.’ – David Foster Wallace – ‘Certainly The End of Something Or Other (1998).


Sunday, 14 September 2008

The Trouble with British Politics….

.... is that it is too damn stuffy. Not only is there a tiny percentage of non-white politicians gracing the planks, there is a huge percentage of middle England representing our values.

British politics has had its hand in colonial means for centuries and as if feeling shame was an after thought, those imperialistic values still seem to exist within the walls of the Houses of Parliament. The grand palace of argument is decorated with gold raped from the black hands of the people we overtook, forever in the background when the two political forces have their weekly battle of good vs evil. But how that line has now blurred too! As the Presidential race in America hots up with side splitting inaccurate yarns posted on various television networks and websites, our very own Prime Minister looks like the sort of person who would struggle to work a toaster. It does not inspire. I’m not the fulcrum of political matters, clued up to every single tax cut promise and heating allowance for the old, but I know I like a politician who can make my toast. It’s easy to say British politics is boring and uninspiring, but my god, compared to America’s WWF extravaganza, our politicians seem like the wrestling equivalent of the Dinner Lady Saturday’s at Lewisham theatre.

It’s easy to blame the politicians themselves; their suits, Brown and his plumy Scottish accent trying to tell me ‘everything’s alright.’ But I want glitz and glamour. I want (insert fairly big British Band) playing the political hits before my next Prime Minister promises me and my other 79,999 fellow screamers, ‘CHANGE!’ Maybe it’s because we just haven’t got the facilities. I mean, it would be pointless Milliband walking tall somewhere up North, walking out at Derby’s County’s Pride Park in front of some 3000 farmers, with a bit of a shit PA and Girls Aloud doing that ‘Underground’ song. It would just be a bit pointless. It wouldn’t be like Obama striding out, would it? You’d get this skinny white, posh, frail First Class Accounts Graduate holding onto a rail promising the farmers that mad cow disease isn’t really ‘real.’ It’s all just a bit crap.

Sadly, we know Labour has as much chance of winning the next election as I have, so we have to rely on David Cameron for our futures. He is, sadly, the most charismatic politician in the race even if, by his class, accent and ‘hug a hoodie’ love, his distant family undoubtedly had their hands bloody somewhere in Africa. Brown makes this prick look like JFK or something; just by his complete ineptitude of grasping the fact that politics has evolved since Labour was for the working class.

That disaffection just doesn’t exist anymore. I just can’t see many people caring enough in this country to vote for someone even if they offer free blowjobs with every X. There is a weirdo apathy within our youth culture that doesn’t relate to issues outside of the family. You could tell by the Mayoral elections. Most of the votes came from the borders of London (fuck knows why they’re included but hey ho); white, middle class places full of middle aged conservative strong holds that actually cared enough to spot the fact that people are apathetic and voted. And look what got in!

Politics needs a make over. At the moment it’s a Sunday supplement where we see some party members we’ve never heard of ramble and stutter on and on about the war in Iraq. It’s done, get on with it! At least you can pick the three or four villains out of a criminal line up when it came to the Republican’s latest rein: Bush, Cheney, Rice, Rumsfelt, Powell…. These guys were great. It’s like the fucking Addams Family or something!

I’m not even sure now if it is a class thing. Get them all on Big Brother. Get five Conservatives and Labourites (No Liberals) to discuss policies, sleep, smell each others shit and shag for 60 weeks or for however long it lasts. It’s going to be massive! It might just make a kid somewhere want to vote.

Tuesday, 9 September 2008

Interesting Article Alert ....

Saturday, 9 August 2008

treatment by others. These two forms of anger are episodic. The third type of anger is however dispositional and is related more to character traits..

I’ve been angry for a long time. Ever since I walked in on dad eating the chocolate hob nob Charlotte and I left with a cool glass of milk for Santa on the windowsill. I think. I’m pretty angry now. I’m angry that there is only one plug socket in the room. This means it’s either this laptop or the stereo. I’m punching the keys. I’ve accidentally underlined a word. I CAN’T EVEN SMOOTH THIS MOOD WITH BJORK!

You see, I’ve been getting these intense crippling migraines. Ones that make me blind and give me pins and needles down my left side. My speech slurs. I struggle to think straight. I’ve had to leave work. I’ve become too scared to travel in case I walk onto a train track. I tell people. They say ‘take a paracetemol.’ This makes me more angry. It’s lucky I can’t see them.

I’ve been putting it down to this anger – this complete irrational fury at the little old ladies who insist on walking REALLY slow on narrow pavements. This anger at the Pez dispenser I bought that turned out to have NO Pez’s in it. I mean they just don’t sell them. ANyWHERE! This nauseating anger at the blank cd’s that ‘mysteriously disappeared’ from my room, knowing full well that I left them at my old flat - I have often caught site of myself in the bathroom mirror PUNCHING myself on the side of the head. I have woken recently to find a few hundred stressed hairs looking up at me going ‘why are you so angry?’ I’m angry in my sleep. More than once I have had a fight with Elmer Fudd, because the cunt slurs his words when we’re chasing that ‘pesky rabbit.’

I recently lost somebody who used to regularly end conversations about me with ‘…and Matt was outraged!’ I lost this person because I was angry.

I’m angry at Bill Gates every time I place another number into the never ending Excel spread sheet I’m lost in at work. I’m angry at all bus drivers in the world. I’m angry at my bank for cutting my overdraft. I’m angry at YOU. But recently I’ve found the ultimate symbol to channel this never-ending stream of utter hatred towards. They are my new muse. You may have heard of them. They go by the name of… estate agents.

Now, it’s nothing new to think that every estate agent is an utter cocky prick, but to skin these money grabbing pigs alive with the very keys they open the shithole flat they’ve taken me to see? Is that a natural reaction?

If you think I’m coming on, let’s say, a little strong, let me set the never-ending visceral stream of inconvenience scene they have orchestrated since the beginning of the year.

Me and my future live in buddy have had some minor hitches. First it involved racism (the estate aget brought an Asian kid round to view a flat with us and constantly referred to it being ideal for his ‘large family’ and his ‘curry cooking.’ (Reside)

A second one didn’t turn up (Rocodells).

A couple of brothers turned up for the third nearly an hour late only to show us into the property, knock on the door and find it had already been rented out. Nobody told them apparently.

However, by the sixth viewing all was forgotten. I was a brand new property and had wood floors, a brand new kitchen, one of those stand up radiator things. He even said he’d get the landlord to throw in some beds! Too good to be true???? We said we’d take it. We exchanged a holding fee, signed a contract and were promised the move would take place on the Sunday. It was the Tuesday. Too good to be true???? When it got round to the next Monday, the Tuesday and the Wednesday and we couldn’t contact the bloke we began to telepathically feel the pangs of an error. Eventually, he called us in a state of apologetic beaver. There was a problem. The water wasn’t right. It wasn’t turned on. Or fitted. Or there weren’t any pipes at all? He didn’t know. This bloke couldn’t even get the answer phone message right on his mobile without forgetting who he was and without a minutes worth of silence before the beep (by that time you’ve already said your message to absolutely nothing).

It was going to take a month to fix. But did we pull out???? Did we fuck. Buoyed by the fact that maybe he was just a bit clumsy, a bit of a fool, a doughnut - we cut him some slack. We reasoned it could take us a month to find somewhere else. THIS SHIT HAPPENS.

As the four weeks encroached on us like my inherited Alzheimer’s, we began to worry yet again. TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE???? With only sporadic news from our hero throughout the month, we were anxious to set a date to move in. After leaving three text messages, an angry voicemail and several unanswered calls we were informed that it wasn’t the water (!) but the electricity (!!) that was the problem. It was going to take another week. Now, these seemingly polar opposites of the energy worlds can be merged sometimes we figured somehow so, ya know, we cut him the last bit of slack.

A week and no calls later we get the news that it ACTUALLY WAS THE WATER and the flat had changed owners. ‘It may take another few weeks,’ he croaked.

We are now still trying to get our money back off him (Bambos – Sirus Lettings).

My heart pressure rises every time I think of his bald fat head. But there is room for one last gemstone in these shit thick rent islands. Completely disheartened by our previous experiences we found another place in deepest Brockley. From the outside it looked pretty grim, but we’re both working class heroes so we gave it a go. The rest happened in this order -
- Guy turns up without keys.
- Guy has never even set foot in the flat.
- Guy doesn’t even know how many bedrooms it is, what number it is, what floor it’s on, how much it is a month.
- Guy precedes to tell us that they only do long term lets (18 months), says we should higher our budget because this is the best we can hope for with our ‘small’ budget (we’ve seem 6 other flats that are better and for the same price), wants us to give him a £500 holding fee, then a £300 admin fee for a flat we just said to him looked like someone had died in it. Someone had died in it. There were bags of the dead woman’s clothes tied up in some spare room.

He then claimed the place was completely wood flooring while we are standing in a room with carpet (Ludlow Thompson).

Some people say anger is the strongest emotion. That it is a purer more real expression. That in display it must be aimed, because it can be so irrational and spontaneous. But however pure it is, I don’t want to die of some brain aneurysm, completely bald on a bus quietly exploding my brain in swear words because some kid won’t turn his phone down.

It either isn’t suppressed anymore (and I turn into that MENTAL FUCKING NUT BAG OF AN IRRATIONAL FRUITLOOP from the Greyhound bus in Canada and hack some kids head off and start eating his fingers because he’s fallen asleep and the song he’s listening to is REALLY QUITE LOUD AND ANNOYING!) or I calm down and shrug a lot more. I ignore these fools, these money grabbers, these rogues of capitalist Britain and give them an ironic high five on my way through.

Either this or I lose more people.

So coming to a bus near you, turn your phones with your home made MCing UP, UP, UP….

I’ve chosen the latter.

Tuesday, 24 June 2008

Dirt McDirt

Being mugged at knifepoint isn't as stressful as first feared.

Exasperated at news coverage containing various identical incidents of knife crime around (semi-near) the places I like to wander in the hours of the feral/mad/drunk/crack-head/insomniac/dogwalker, and being the stoic lefty of a passive household; I believed Michael Moore, the Guardian, Obama, Starsky and David Milliband when they said 'crime doesn't exist.' Knowing that I have, on occaision, been attacked in various indie cred-shops with language or bottles still made no weight with me as I have always put it down to my dislikeable face.

This all changed when I encountered fear in the shape of a kitchen knife weilding skin head engineering my robbery with the elite grasp of the English language -

CH: 'Gis is Yer Stuff....'

Me: 'Ok...'

It was the easiest pickpocketing he'll ever do, but when he had my bag and wallet he was sure to have left the most disappointed. Around 5am on a Sunday morning I thought I heard his very sigh.

As I didn't initially report the crime I'll never add to that 20 odd percent who claim to be a victim of knife crime. I'm sure it can be traumatic and I'm sure that losing that laptop covered in your house insurance is agitating but.... druggies need to pay for their shit too. I mean who would supply London with its cold stream of white talc if these people weren't funding it by robbing weedy fucks like me....

I was dressed like this


Tuesday, 27 May 2008

Boris, Boris, Boris....

I'm sure there are many, many bloggers in london who have whinged at the prominent notice that Boris Kerfaffle (?) Johnson will be running London for the next 3 years or so. I'm sure people who harboured a faint wet dream, that some lefty with communist ideas might get in in the form of some weak Independant/ Green type Party, ripped their genitalia off as the massive margin of error was announced. I shook my head. Then went to Italy.

Coming back from a country that is run by a 'dictator' in the shape of Silvio Berlusconi really does throw it all into perspective. The young I met in the suburbs, the cities and cow laden narrow streets of South Eastern Italy all agreed it was pretty damn shit. Whinging about mayor who has about as much power to decide how much I pay for the bus doesn't quite seem to cut it. Not when there's an actual rich 'corrupt facist' running a large economy in Europe.

But on my arrival back I did expect a little change. Like free umbrellas or the end of the bendy buses. Maybe a policeman on every street corner or horses instead of cars. But I'm still occaisionally paying 90p to travel on the bendy bus to NX.

HINT: Make sure you have at least 90p on your Oyster. Stand/sit near the scanner thing. Then only when you see the transport gestapo do you scan it. It'll save all the worrying and save you a few bob.

Sadly sometimes change is needed to spark something spectaular. The Conservatives will win the next general election hands down. This is sad, but maybe after a few years of few discernable policies and the drafts reinstatement, middle class suburbia and the tennants of Tennants will forge an unlikely revolution.

I doubt it.

If the general British public was in charge it would still be a tuppence to get on the bus and the routemasters would be taking you to work. Long live capitalism, I'm too content for a revolution.

Thursday, 24 April 2008


What are the rules for writing a funeral speech? How many cliches like 'He was a good person....' or 'He was loved by many people...' do you need to add to make it viable?

I've never been to a funeral before and certainly haven't read a eulogy in front of the people who miss him immeasurably.I sort of feel a little guilty for volunteering because I almost feel vulnerable to accusations of 'being shit' at it and taking over the whole proceeding as a personal triumph of confidence....

I'm doing it as no-one else would and I can't have him going to some Vicar's hollow template.

It's going to be very hard. But I'm not worried about breaking down, I'm more worried about fucking it up, shakeing uncontrollably at the altar or losing speech. I sometimes feel like a monotone. This isn't the time for nerves.



Tuesday, 22 April 2008

The Bell Curve

I was told a little while ago that my granddad died of Alzheimer’s. I couldn’t quite work out how he actually died. Did he just forget to breath? Keep forgetting to eat until his final emaciation? It’s still never been explained to me fully, but in a long line of mental degradation on my father’s side I stand to inherit it, along with the richness of gout.

Although Alzheimer’s isn’t a mental illness, it is the saddest of declines in dignity that affords your lasting days are fraught with guilt and embarrassment. To dementia and on to manic depression, society’s longing to ignore the decay of people who have paid taxes, killed Nazi’s and who held you on their knee is now hushed into terrible care via the NHS, where being left to die next to the mentally deranged is pretty much routine.

Around 300 people out of 1,000 experience mental health problems every year in Britain, where 9.2% of our entire British population suffer from depression with anxiety. Depression is still seen as a bit of an ugly word, an easy excuse because it is a disease that is physically unrecognisable in its distortion of the human body. It can be hard to define, and is stuck with verbal stigmas like it can be ‘run off’ down the park or cured with a healthy diet.

The most recent available survey shows that in 2006 31million prescriptions of antidepressants were rightly or wrongly issued to the masses, where in well over 600,000 were issued to children . Recently some research has suggested that ‘anti-depressants have little clinical benefit for most patients’ and that ‘only the most severely depressed patients’ should be prescribed such drugs, likening certain pills with a ‘placebo effect’ it gives the patient.

My Nan is what can be safely called a manic-depressive. My dad has had this constant ache since he was born knowing that at any time his mum could have a ‘funny turn’ (‘funny’ means ‘full scale manic episode’ in SE London). But if your family member is ill, diseased, whatever, please leave the London borough of Lewisham. Apparently it has a mental impatient wing. Less surprisingly, it’s pretty rank. Not renowned for being the most pleasant hospital, for it treats the whole of SE London’s ill, it is by far one of the biggest in London, by far the biggest in South London, but probably lacks the beauty of sitting in a nice wealthy area to extract that type of budget from the government.

Coincidently or not, my dad’s favourite film is ‘One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,’ so he can see the sense of absurdity in these visits (once my dad had a full scale conversation for an hour with a smartly dressed woman claiming responsibility over his mum – she turned out to be a patient), but humour probably gets lost when you’re probably sharing a corridor with someone who’s just killed the next-door neighbour and ate them.

As well as the Prozac, sadly my Nan has had a penchant for electroconvulsive therapy (loves the stuff), but gladly they’re phasing it out (Probably because of the huge bill rise by Npower - Or the fact that it isn’t the 40’s anymore - Or the fact that evil demons don’t live inside your skulls nowadays). To believe that in the 21st century people were still strapped into beds, a plastic gum shield inserted between their teeth and blasted with fuck knows how much voltage makes me wonder how advanced our medicines have actually become.

Similarly, these famous people also had ECT - Ernest Hemingway, Sylvia Plath and Francis Farmer. So glad to see it worked out well for them.

I remember when I was a little skint and decided to work with my electrician father for a week at an old people’s home. It was the first day of the first test of the Ashes Series when England beat the Australians, but that isn’t the reason I remember it. I remember it because of the bitter taste of urine you’d get by breathing when entering the front reception area. It still upsets me to this day thinking of when I was doing some random bit of light bulb screwing, I’d look to my left and see these faces distorted in dementia, like moving pictures of Munch’s Scream, carrying cabbage patch dolls, talking to them in hushed voices like they were their children. It was like some weird roll reversed nursery school, but you wouldn’t let your children play in the conditions.

We try and forget these people, tut or laugh when we see someone out of our norm acting a tad ‘difficult’ on the bus (if you’ve just moved from nowhere-shire to Goldsmith’s and a morsel sceptical, let me recommend the 136 bus route to Grove Park for the most scenic tour of mental institutions). Society is keen to wash their hands of these people; they want people to make them money, not cost them.

Matt Gilbert

The Guardian - University of Hull - Professor Irving Kirsch
(ECT) Shock Therapy to you and me

Sunday, 17 February 2008

The One and Only

I rarely have the privelige to sit back and view the delights of Saturday night television, but last night in a state of terrified boredom I managed to break the mould and view the stunning, thought provoking, expensive televisial bliss.

Saturday night really is the Special Olympics of television. What I encountered was a sort of, believe it or not, shitter version of Stars in their Eyes. It was like being in an alternate reality for an hour where people neither looked, sounded or acted in any way like the projected 'star' they were desperately yearning to resemble. There were also issues of mental health involved, because each contender was constantly refered to by their 'stars' Christian name. I didn't catch it all, but I think there was a ginger white guy who blacked himself up to resemble Lionel Ritchie. The deflated, hollow essence that was once Graeme Norton's career stood there and constantly called this bloke 'Lionel.'

As 'Elton, 'Dusty,' 'Rod,' 'Frank,' and 'Britney' et al looked on desperately trying to ignore the mental health implications of suddenly having two names and now forever being known as 'that shit (insert star name here)' whenever they appear in the street/Butlins, it reminded me what being out on Saturday night was all about, even if it's raining, minus 10c outside and I can't afford to get on a bus.

And what the ufkc was a guy doing on it impersonating Robbie Williams? The premise of the show, I have now been reliably informed, was to win a chance to perform in Las Vegas as a tribute act to said 'star.' Who the fuck thought being Williams was a sure on bet? The cunt isn't even known in America! Now that's a big gamble, even for Las Vegas.

It's yet again people screaming 'Look at me' through the television, but with the weird notion of being somebody else. Someone better and more talented then they'll ever, ever be. I don't get it either.


A couple of blokes doing shit impersonations. Apparently that's Sinatra.