Sunset Over Slawit

PJANG #3… it’s the end of the world as we know it!

2009-07-18T19:24:00.005+01:00

It's here!

The third issue of my self-published comic PJANG #3 is now available to buy over at my website.

Featuring three all new stories written by me, with art by Andrew Cheverton, Nige Lowrey and Davey Metcalfe, this really is our best issue yet. No hype, honest.

Included in this issue… it’s the end of the world as we know it (and nobody feels fine), adolescent power realities, and the true story of how a teenager’s life was saved by both Morrissey and Bruce Springsteen. (You don't have to be a fan of either to enjoy the story.)

Preview pages from all three strips are available to read here, here, and here.

Top Ten Movie Characters

2009-07-17T12:39:00.000+01:00

With thanks to Dan, here's an irresistible movie meme. My top ten favourite movie characters. Unlike Dan, I imposed a little rule - all my choices had to be characters who originated in film, they couldn't have appeared in another medium first. This immediately disqualified Tyler Durden, Rob Gordon, Holly Golightly, Norman Bates, J. Jonah Jameson and that bloke in the webs, and made it a little easier to limit my choices to ten.

I got a great deal of help in compiling this list from consulting My Life In Movies, though I also had to think back before 1972, and may not have thought far enough in that regard. Apologies in advance then for any kick-myself-later omissions.

Runners up included William 'D-Fens' Foster, Han Solo, Clarence Worley, Keyser Söze, George Bailey, Indiana Jones and Willie 'Bad Santa' (who doesn't appear to have a surname). But there can be only ten, and so...

10. Blake.

Now before you all jump up and down screaming "but Glengarry Glenn Ross was a play first, doofus!"... as I understand it, the character of Blake was created by David Mamet specifically for the movie screenplay (and specifically with Alex Baldwin in mind?) and did not appear in the original play. And yet, though the character only appears in one scene, for less than ten minutes screentime, he went down in history. It's as simple as ABC... Always Be Closing.

You see this watch? You see this watch? That watch cost more than your car. I made $970,000 last year. How much you make? You see, pal, that's who I am. And you're nothing. Nice guy? I don't give a shit. Good father? Fuck you -- go home and play with your kids!! You wanna work here? Close!!

9. Inspector Harry Callahan

Maybe it's not Clint Eastwood's best role or finest hour, but Harry Callahan is his most iconic creation. Can you imagine if they'd gone with the original casting of Frank Sinatra?

I know what you're thinking. "Did he fire six shots or only five?" Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement I kind of lost track myself. But being as this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world, and would blow your head clean off, you've got to ask yourself one question: Do I feel lucky? Well, do ya, punk?

8. Lena Leonard

I fell in love with Emily Watson's character in Punch Drunk Love because she's cute, feisty, and unbelievably understanding (she'd have to be, in a relationship with Adam Sandler's hugely neurotic Barry). And yet she has a dark side too...

I want to chew your face, and I want to scoop out your eyes and I want to eat them and chew them and suck on them.

A wonderful, rounded creation of Paul Thomas Anderson, you can tell Watson is having a ball with this role.

7. Melvin Udall

Speaking of neurotics, here's the Moses of Neurosis himself. A hero to hypochondriacs everywhere. You've got to feel sorry for Melvin right now. I mean, what are the chances that he and Carol are still together? And you just know he's refusing to leave the house for fear of swine flu. Poor bloke. I bet even Verdell left him.

6. John McClane

Because if your office gets taken over by terrorists, you couldn't do any better than to find John McClane hiding in the loos. Well, Jack Bauer would be useful too, but in many ways I see McClane as a big influence on Bauer. That "do anything to get the job done - and damn the red tape" attitude - that's what you want from your action heroes. He's hardly indestructible though, and not afraid to show his emotions. Somewhat defanged by the time we get to Die Hard IV, but that's sadly the case with all our PG-chasing good guys these days.

I promise I will never even THINK about going up in a tall building again. Oh, God. Please don't let me die.

Oh, and yes, Die Hard was based on Roderick Thorp's novel Nothing Lasts Forever, but the hero in that book was called Joe Leland, and was quite different from McClane as I understand it.

5. Clementine Kruczynski

Who could forget Clementine - even after they've had their memories wiped? So wonderful, she even made Jim Carrey seem sympathetic. Cute, confused, bold, insecure, funny, full of childlike wonder and vulnerability, and a sexiness that's more real than any plastic Hollywood bimbo will ever pull off. Kate Winslet's my favourite actress, this my favourite performance.

Too many guys think I'm a concept, or I complete them, or I'm gonna make them alive. But I'm just a fucked-up girl who's lookin' for my own peace of mind; don't assign me yours.

4. Marty McFly

Because I was 14 years old the first time I saw Back To The Future, and what 14 year-old boy didn't want to be Marty McFly in 1986?

What if I send in the tape and they don't like it? I mean, what if they say I'm no good? What if they say "Get outta here, kid. You got no future."? I mean, I just don't think I can take that kind of rejection. Jesus, I'm starting to sound like my old man!

3. Amélie Poulain

If I was smart, or I'd paid more attention in French lessons, I'd be able to write you a glowing appraisal of the wonderful Amelie of Montmartre in her native language. Unfortunately, the best I can manage is 'elle est magnifique!', and even that I had to babelfish (which means it's probably wrong).

On September 3rd 1973, at 6:28pm and 32 seconds, a bluebottle fly capable of 14,670 wing beats a minute landed on Rue St Vincent, Montmartre. At the same moment, on a restaurant terrace nearby, the wind magically made two glasses dance unseen on a tablecloth. Meanwhile, in a 5th-floor flat, 28 Avenue Trudaine, Paris 9, returning from his best friend's funeral, Eugène Colère erased his name from his address book. At the same moment, a sperm with one X chromosome, belonging to Raphaël Poulain, made a dash for an egg in his wife Amandine. Nine months later, Amélie Poulain was born.

2. Ferris Bueller

If you were a 14 year-old boy in 1986 and you didn't want to be Marty McFly, chances are you wanted to be Ferris Bueller instead. The ironic thing is, if I'd known Ferris in real life, I'd probably have hated him, the smug fucker. Credit to Matthew Broderick for making him so lovable despite this.

I do have a test today, that wasn't bullshit. It's on European socialism. I mean, really, what's the point? I'm not European. I don't plan on being European. So who gives a crap if they're socialists? They could be fascist anarchists, it still doesn't change the fact that I don't own a car.

1. The Dude.

Because sometimes there's a man... I won't say a hero, 'cause, what's a hero? Sometimes, there's a man. And I'm talkin' about the Dude here - the Dude from Los Angeles. Sometimes, there's a man, well, he's the man for his time and place. He fits right in there. And that's the Dude. The Dude, from Los Angeles. And even if he's a lazy man - and the Dude was most certainly that. Quite possibly the laziest in all of Los Angeles County, which would place him high in the runnin' for laziest worldwide. Sometimes there's a man, sometimes, there's a man. Well, I lost my train of thought here. But... aw, hell. I've done introduced it enough.

Oh, don't look so surprised. You knew there was no competition. The Dude abides. That rug really tied the room together. Nice marmot. Hey man, there's a beverage here!

Let me explain something to you. Um, I am not "Mr. Lebowski". You're Mr. Lebowski. I'm the Dude. So that's what you call me. You know, that or, uh, His Dudeness, or uh, Duder, or El Duderino if you're not into the whole brevity thing.

Short Reads

2009-07-16T09:39:00.000+01:00

The move hasn't left me with much time for reading over the last few weeks, though I finally seem to be settling back into a proper book routine now. Here's a couple of things that deserve mentions for one reason or another...

I'm a huge Chuck Palahniuk fan. Fight Club is one of my favourite books and movies, and I've enjoyed everything else he's written (though the film adaptation of Choke didn't really work). But all your heroes eventually let you down (which in a way might be a good thing; it makes them more human) and Snuff was the point at which Palahniuk lost his crown.

It's not the subject matter, though you'd be forgiven for thinking it might be. Snuff tells the story of an Annabel Chong-style porn movie gangbang from the perspective of four of the participants, three performers and an assistant. I'm not a prude, and I actually think there's a lot of scope for both comedy and perspective analysis of the human condition in a novel about the porn industry; unfortunately Snuff displays neither - which was a real surprise, coming from Palahniuk. His novels usually make me laugh out loud, but here the best he can manage is a list of done-to-death spoof porno names ("Much Ado About Humping", Chuck? Really?). He's also one of those subversive writers that normally makes you think about things or see the world from a completely different angle, but the only thoughts I had while reading this book was how I didn't really care about any of the characters and I couldn't even be bothered to go on. I never thought I'd find a Chuck Palahniuk novel boring, but I guess anything's possible. Hopefully it's just a blip and he'll be back on form with Pygmy.

Another surprise, but a much pleasanter one, comes from Dr. Who writer Paul Cornell. I don't review comics here as often as I might, but Fantastic Four: True Story was such a refreshing read that I couldn't help but give it a little space. I've read Cornell's work on the shortlived Captain Britain & MI13 book, but as enjoyable as that was, I hadn't yet marked him down as a writer to watch (though his Human Nature two-parter was one of the better stories from new Who). FF:TS boots him up a couple of leagues though. The premise seemed a little troublesome - the Fantastic Four journey into the world of fiction to save it from the invasion of old Dr. Strange foe Nightmare, teaming up with everyone from Ivanhoe to Dante to the Dashwood Sisters from Sense and Sensibility along the way. It's the sort of concept that in the wrong hands (Neil Gaiman) could have come across as twee, contrived, or just plain bollocks... yet Cornell makes it work. He also has a wonderful grasp of the FF themselves, demonstrating an understanding of the characters far better than anything Mark Millar managed in his current typically brash and overhyped run. The very fact that the final chapter is titled 'Johnny Storm Saves Books' says it all. Trenchant, subversive, fun. If you only read one Fantastic Four comic this year...

Reader's Wives

2009-07-15T07:43:00.000+01:00

No, don't worry, I'm not putting out a call for you to send me pictures of your other half in the altogether. Seriously, I've not stooped that low yet. (Especially as it seems I now have more female readers than blokes - or perhaps women just like to comment more. ;-)

Occasionally, something happens that makes all the time I spend writing this blog worthwhile. Mostly it's in the comments that people leave, or in the links from other people's blogs... but sometimes, I get actual genuine freebies. One of the best examples yet came from the band Reader's* Wives. I read a review of their music on another site (can't remember which now, sorry) and left a positive comment. A few days later Niall from the band emailed me direct, offering to send me their entire debut album on mp3 to listen to and review. It's been on my hi-fi ever since, though the move has prevented me from listening to it as much as I'd have liked (still haven't got the music system set up properly!) or from writing about it here. Until now.

Reader's Wives are an Irish 4-piece - a little bit indie, a little bit folky, a little bit rock, a little bit country - who count among their influences James Joyce, Peep Show, Jarvis Cocker and Aesop. They write witty, wry and literate kitchen-sink dramas / social commentary vignettes with titles like Advertising Heroin, Sexually Attracted To Myself and I Don't Need To Be Seduced. Their self-titled debut album was voted one of the Top 10 Irish Albums of 2008, and yet it's a bugger to track down a copy to buy. I couldn't find it at all on Amazon, though it is available to download from Play.com.

In describing the debut, Niall says on his myspace page:

A record that's of it's time with a track list that reads like the best kind of stand up-comics' set list. If you're aware of any subject that's previously been deemed unsuitable for song, let me know & I'll have a crack at writing a song about it for you. The sort of sounds I have in mind is what you might call Americana, for Europe. Its materials, subjects & targets relate to European history, folklore & European geography, & my songwriting ingenuity, for what it's worth, hinges, I think, on both agreeable melody & topical lyrics that aren't afraid of making concessions to humour, dark or otherwise.

And if that doesn't make you want to hear more, I don't know what will. Here's a video based around one of my favourite tracks on the album, Are You Coming For A Drink After Work, Princess?

*The placing of that apostrophe appears correct, suggesting one reader with many wives. Which kinda fits this band perfectly.

Hitchin' A Ride

2009-07-14T07:37:00.003+01:00

Driving in to work this morning, 6.35, I see a young girl (late teens at a guess) on a quietish country lane. As I slow down to pass her (she's standing right where the road bends), she turns and faces the car, thumbing a lift. I drive on.

You don't often see it nowadays, or at least not as much as when I was growing up. I guess stranger-danger has put a lot of people off hitching, and a similar fear puts me off stopping. There's the fear that the girl's just a lure, that hiding over the wall is her violent boyfriend, fresh from Bonnie 'n' Clyding it all over Marsden. There's the fear that the girl might be psychotic herself, or looking to make an indefensible accusation of an innocent, unsuspecting motorist. There's a world of urban legend and sordid stories, from young people offering relief to frustrated truckers to pay their fare to prowling serial killers (both drivers and pedestrians) to unhinged nutjobs who simply won't get out of your car, or insist on listening to Sarah fucking Kennedy on the radio for the whole of the journey. Not to mention Rutger Hauer. It seems far too risky for either party.

But then I start to think, really, what are the odds? Are there really that many murderers, rapists and lunatics out there? And are we giving them power by exaggerating their menace? Wouldn't a little more trust make the world a better place... yada yada yada? Would you hitch? Would you stop for a hitcher? Or would you just floor that pedal and watch them disappear, scowling, in your rear view mirror?

Ten years ago, I wrote a short comic strip based around a true experience, not of hitching, but of a stranger stopping to give me a lift when I was a kid. You can read it online here - it's the second story down, 'Trust', click on the thumbnails to enlarge.

Birdwatchers Of The World Unite!

2009-07-10T07:21:00.001+01:00

I'm not familiar with the work of TV presenter Chris Packham, but considering what an obvious Smiths fan he is... perhaps I ought to be. Give that man a golden gladiolus.

The Longest Week (Part 2)

2009-07-09T12:56:00.000+01:00

So I picked up the keys for the new house last Tuesday from the solicitors. They were handed to me in an envelope with the address scrawled on the front. I got back in the car, tore open said envelope with my sweaty little fingers, and discovered two identical house keys. Not one for the front door and one for the back, just the same key twice.

I drove to the house and discovered that the key was for the back door. Hmm, I wondered - where's the front door key? I searched the house in case the previous owners had left it somewhere for us, but there were no keys to be found. In the end, Louise rang the solicitors. They called back a few minutes later.

"Oh, the previous owners said they lost the front door keys years ago, so they just used the back door." (It was a Yale lock on the front, so it could be opened from the inside... you just couldn't let yourself in that way.)

Thankfully, though I have no practical DIY skills myself, I come from a family of skilled craftsmen. My brother is a builder, my nephews are a plumber, a joiner, and kitchen fitter respectively, and my dad was a joiner trained in "the old ways". There is nothing more valuable than a skilled family (if you can get them to turn up!) I always feel worthless that I'm the only one without any practical use. Hey, I could write them a comic if they wanted, but other than that...

So my dad came round and fixed a new lock. One of my nephews put up some shelves. Another offered to fix the windows that don't shut properly (!) My brother and nephew #3 helped me move the bigger items (nephew #3 carried a double mattress up the stairs one-handed on his shoulder... ah, to be young and strong).

A few days later, I'm unloading more boxes from the car when the postman stops and asks if I'm moving in. Yep.

"Oh, I better give you this then." He pulls a key from his key ring. "That was my mum and dad's house, I used to pop in for a cuppa when I was on my round. Guess I'll have to find somewhere else for me elevenses now."

Sadly, it wasn't the missing key to the front door. That would have been just too contrived.

The Longest Week (Part 1)

2009-07-08T16:35:00.000+01:00

And so ends the longest week of my life. I don't think I've ever worked so hard, for such long hours, and put in so much physical labour. The closest I can remember was when I worked for a couple of weeks on my brother's building site after my A Levels - and that nearly killed me. Clearly I am a wimp of epic proportions, and deserving of neither your respect nor pity (contempt, perhaps), but the good news is that I survived without it affecting my health. My biggest worry going in was that the old nasty Gilbert's Thingy would rear its ugly head (as it did the last time Louise moved house, preventing me from being any use at all) and I wouldn't be able to get done everything that had to be done. Fortunately, it stayed away, and the adrenaline kicked in to keep me going... though I did question (for the first time in my life) whether I really needed all those books, especially after carrying box after box up two flights of stairs over the hottest three days of the year. I started to see the appeal of those bloody Kindle things - and this from a die-hard believer that "the printed word will never die".

We certainly picked the right days to move, didn't we? As everyone else lazed around in beer gardens or sunbathed in their hammocks, Louise and I teetered on top of step ladders with paint dripping in our eyes, sweat dripping from our foreheads, and the will to live dripping from our souls. Of course, it was all worth it in the end... but it was a long, hot journey getting there.

The workload was tripled by all my possessions. All those books, comics, CDs and jabberwocks. Lying in (my old) bed on the night before the move, I was overwhelmed by the size of the expedition ahead. "You'll never move all those without help - it'll be the end of you!" Well, I did, and it wasn't, and there's an enormous satisfaction to see them all up on the shelves in the (new) attic... but again, two flights up? Next time we move in cooler weather.

And yet, tired as we were, we both found it difficult to sleep over the course of the move. It's impossible to switch off your mind from "I've got to do this, how am I ever going to do that, I must remember this (a kiss is still a kiss)". You end up lying awake at 3am mentally putting things in boxes and working out where this goes and which bag you put your flippers in and how on earth you're going to get that mendicant up the stairs into the attic.

I'm sorry, as you'll see my brain isn't quite working yet. Words, as FR David once sang, don't come easy to me right now. More tomorrow - lucidity not guaranteed.

The new house is wonderful by the way. And I did laugh at the Frost Lynch Estate Agents gag in Torchwood. Ask me tomorrow about the keys.

Sunset Over... Meltham?

2009-06-30T08:39:00.001+01:00

And so I bid you all a fond farewell from SOS Towers, as I post my final Sunset before moving house. There was some suggestion (mainly from Dan) that as I'm leaving the Colne Valley and sliding over the hill into the Holme Valley, technically I should change the name of this blog. But Sunset Over Meltham just doesn't have the same ring to it, and at heart I'll always be a Slawiter. Besides, were I to stand on the roof of the new house and look due west, I'd still be able to see the Sunset Over Slawit... I just wouldn't actually be able to see Slawit itself. Then again, I couldn't actually see Slawit from the old house either, so really nothing's changed.

I'll be back next week with tales of painting and moving furniture in a heatwave, and hopefully news of PJANG #3. As a teaser for that, here's the full colour back cover by Dangerous Davey Metcalfe...

Wish me well.

A Scaremongers Saturday

2009-06-29T09:51:00.002+01:00

Saturday night, in a small, hot, cramped, hot, overcrowded, stuffy, hot upstairs room of a ~~crummy dive~~ stylish entertainment venue in Hebden Bridge, on the hottest night of the year (did I mention the heat already?), the Scaremongers rocked the house.

I've written about shouldbe Poet Laureate Simon Armitage's locally based band before, but I've missed their hometown gigs, so a trip to the hippy-cultural-arty-Fair-Trade capital of Yorkshire was a necessity. I'll save my moans about the idiots in the audience for another post... though I'm not blaming the locals since I know for a fact that the biggest of the idiots - the one who stood on my feet, so desperate was he to be exactly where I was, and then proceeded to invite his entire family / old school posse to come stand with him (one on each of my toes) - was an out-of-towner due to the fact that he was taking the piss out of the Bridge for being "full of wankers". Takes one to know one etc. etc. Oh, sorry, I said I'd save the moans, didn't I? On with the gig...

Seven men and one woman strong, the Scaremongers have an impressive and tight live sound, but it's Simon Armitage's witty northen poet lyrics that make the songs so appealing.

(Boy)
You took me in -
with pillow talk and Bombay gin.

(Girl)
You walked me home -
I woke up naked and alone.

(Boy)
I plucked a rose -
and strew the petals on your clothes.

(Girl)
That rose was dead -
It passed away behind the shed.

(Boy)
But like Humberside is Yorkshire still
and Lancashire is over the hill
and loneliness is Gaping Ghyll,
we never fought and we never will…

(Both)
‘Cos you can do nothing wrong in my eyes.
You can do nothing wrong in my eyes.
(Boy)
Some go looking for tabs and wraps,
(Girl)
and some go loafing with lesser lads,
(Both)
but you can do nothing wrong in my eyes

At one point, after introducing the full line-up, from co-songwriter Craig Smith through to co-vocalist Sue Roberts, Armitage prepared to launch into the next song as some comedian in the audience shouted "and who are you?" He replied, with tongue firmly in cheek, "I'm Carol Anne Spall", prompting cries of "get over it!" and "you wouldn't let it lie" from his fellow 'mongers. "I'm not bitter," he smiled. Frankly, Simon, that post seems like a whole load of unnecessary hassle - you're better off without it... especially if it gives you more time to write songs like Cardigan Girl and Less Is More.

With one album and a couple of singles to their name, the set featured the band's complete recorded output. They seemed surprised by how well it all went, and the calls for an encore, ending up playing two tracks over again - Derailleur and Tea Leaves, which Armitage announced would be featured on next month's cover-mounted CD from The Word magazine, "a small thing - but it means the world to us". They finally left the stage at 11.20, and I dashed out into the night for my first gasps of oxygen in over two hours. Nevertheless, a gig well worth the asphyxiation.

Born In A Barn, the Scaremongers debut record is now available on both iTunes (boo!) and emusic (yay!)... just in case you want to hear more.

Superfolks

2009-06-28T09:04:00.000+01:00

An aging, flabby, power-fading super-hero is forced out of retirement by a government conspiracy and deadly threats from his past, only to discover that the world is a much darker, more cynical and dangerous place that the one he remembers from his heyday. Lashings of sex, violence and cod-psychological drama... any comic fans who grew up in the late 80s and 90s will now be crying "been there, done that, bought the T-shirt".

But wait - Robert Mayer's novel (minus the graphic) was originally published in 1977, back when dark, gritty, adult superhero comics looked like this...

Long before the Dark Knight, Miracleman, Watchmen, or even Frank Miller's arrival on Daredevil, Robert Mayer broke serious ground in the world of adult superheroes with his debut novel Superfolks. It's hard to believe that a novel from outside the comic book field had such an uncredited influence on some of the biggest comics of the following decade, yet reading it now there's no doubting that Alan Moore, Frank Miller, Grant Morrison and co. were well aware of it. If Morrison's foreword to this, the 2005 edition weren't admission enough, I'd direct you to Indigo's final showdown with Mr. Mxyzptlk-alike arch foe Pxyzsyzygy in which the impish elfish dissolves away into an all-too familiar yellow smiley face button.

It feel strange, reading this novel for the first time in 2009. So many of its ideas, plotlines, characters and jokes seem over familiar, trite and hackneyed... until you remind yourself that it was written long before the cliches you recognise became commonplace. But it's not just a satire on superhero comics, it takes serious swipes at 70s era politics and social attitudes too. Some of these now seem quite old-fashioned as well, particularly some of the sexual references, but Mayer seems ahead of his time in recognising and lampooning the behaviour and prejudices that his contemporaries probably took for granted. The majority of his comic book references are a little too DC-centric for my own liking (lots of direct mentions of Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman - plus major characters based on the Marvel Family and others), but the fact that Stan Lee gives this novel the thumbs up is no surprise. Mayer just took what Stan had been doing for 15+ years by this point and turned it up to 10, adding an X-rating for fun.

Frankly, I'm just amazed it took me so long to discover this book...

Woo-hoo!

2009-06-27T11:57:00.000+01:00

If you're planning your weekend around Glastonbury on the telly, I recommend you check out Sunday* night's headliners - the reformed, back to full strength and lovin' it Blur.

I was lucky enough to be in the audience for their pre-Glasto warm-up gig last night at the Manchester Arena and my ears are still ringing. Whatever you may think of Damon Albarn or Alex James or the drummer**, the return of wayward son Graham Coxon has confirmed Blur's position as one of our greatest living pop bands. (Is there some irony to the fact that the Blur member least likely to get called 'a bit of a cock' is the one called Coxon?) Last night proved they're enjoying the hell out of being back together, and unlike a lot of artists with 20 years under their belts, they're shamelessly embracing every part of their back catalogue.

Starting the gig with debut single She's So High, the revitalised foursome tore through one of those amazing greatest hits packages that has you constantly thinking, "Wow, I forgot they had so many fantastic songs". Highlights included a makes-you-feel-twelve-years-younger Girls & Boys; a neverending choir & brass section boosted Tender; yer actual, genuine Phil Daniels guest appearance for Parklife; the classic Madchester-influenced There's No Other Way*** (complete with Damon's surprising confession that when the band were starting out, "Manchester was the only place on the planet" as far as they were concerned); and a closing hat trick of three of my favourites: End Of A Century, the heartbreaking To The End, and a surprising - but hugely welcome - This Is A Low.

But obviously they weren't done yet. Two encores followed, first the thrill-filled trio of Popscene, Advert, and the inevitable, show-stopping, bring-the-house-down-as-the-crowd-goes-mental Song 2.

Yeah, they saved their best two songs till last. Because once the crowd had finally calmed down from getting their heads checked by a jumbo jet, Blur returned with choir, brass and kitchen sink for their most uplifting anthem, The Universal. Yes, it really, really, really could 'appen...

Last night, it did.

*Obviously I'd also recommend you check out tonight's headliner too, if I thought I could persuade anybody who wasn't already a Bruce fan to give him a shot.

**Yes, I know the drummer's name, but he's the drummer. Apologies to any drummers out there, but noteworthy personality isn't often a strong point in that profession.

***If you only watch one video on this page, you have to check out Damon's haircut in this one.

Scrap Metal

2009-06-26T13:11:00.000+01:00

Surely there comes a point in an actor's career where you've got to wonder, "what the hell am I doing this for?"

There certainly comes a point as a filmgoer when I ask that question, and half an hour into Transformers: Revenge Of The Fallen is that point.

I didn't mind the first Transformers film. Yes, it was stupid. Utterly, utterly stupid... but it was also fun. I was never a Transformers fan, and the best bits of that flick were the bits where the robots were off-screen, but it made you believe a giant robot could turn into a truck and back again, and that's all it ever claimed to do.

Sadly, most of the things that worked in #1 have been marginalised in the sequel - while everything else has been turned up to eleven. Two and a half hours of scrap metal porn, only brightened by fifteen minutes of prime ham from John Turturro who's mugging for all its worth. He doesn't save the film, but he kept me from walking out. I hope he was well paid. I hate to think what was going through his mind while he made this.

Chloe Flies Conchord

2009-06-25T10:02:00.000+01:00

The new series of Flight Of The Conchords has been just as enjoyable as the first, with one exception. The songs. I'm not sure there's been anything yet that stands up to repeat listenings quite as much as Business Time, The Most Beautiful Girl (In The Room) or Hiphopopotamus Versus Rhymenocerous from Season 1. I guess the Conchords are suffering from classic Second Album Syndrome - a whole lifetime to write the first bunch of songs, six months to write the second. I'll be interested to see how well songs like Sugalumps (which I could swear features a cameo from the wonderful Denis Franz in the video), Carol Brown, and Too Many Dicks On The Dancefloor work on record, and whether they'll stay on my music player as long as tracks from the first record did.

All that said, the episode we got this week was a classic. Two of my favourite TV actors together in the same show - Jermaine... and the excellent Mary Lynn Rajskub (aka Jack Bauer's deliciously obnoxious, socially maladroit sidekick Chloe from 24). Perfectly cast as Jermaine's psychotic, Art Garfunkel-obsessed girlfriend. No wonder she inspired Jermaine to go all Cliff Richard on her...

Packing Up

2009-06-24T08:57:00.000+01:00

If you're wondering why I'm not writing more about the fact that in seven days time I will, for the first time in my life, be a homeowner / mortgage slave / responsible grown-up... well, it's not through want of trying.

This is a very exciting time. It's also quite scary. And I think I'm just a little too close to all the emotions I'm experiencing right now to properly put them into words. I have great respect for those bloggers who can write personally, intimately about the big events in their life as they happen, but I don't think I'm one of them. I need a little distance, a little perspective. So I'll write more about the move once we're settled. In the meantime, it's business as usual. (Until I disappear for a week to pack boxes, paint ceilings, and move furniture. That'll be happening very shortly, so don't worry if I'm not around for a while. I will be back.)

In the meantime though, it's almost as though our current homes know we're about to leave them for another, and they're throwing a strop in revenge. Louise's toilet packed up the other day, and this morning I was awoken at 5am by my freezer. We've never been on the best of terms, my freezer and I, but lately it's been getting worse. One of the drawer doors broke off and since then it's been icing up more than it should - I've literally had to snap away icicles to get at my petit pois. Today I awoke to a loud beeping noise telling me the ice-levels have got too much - it's like a Wampa's cave in there, and I've no choice now but to switch the damn thing off and defrost it.

It couldn't just have lasted one more week, could it?

And I fully expect the house tantrums to continue. I'll probably come home tonight to find that my wardrobe has taken a pair of scissors to my favourite work shirts or something.

In other news, I have a Twitter account. No, I don't know why either, as I object to the very concept of Twitter on a fundamental level (word count?!?). However, it's there, it's free, and I'm scared of missing out on something. (Even though I've only ever written 4 actual tweets, and most of them were about how rubbish Twitter is.) I do find myself in a bit of a dilemma though as a result of my ridiculous 13 superstition. You see, I now have exactly 13 Twitter followers. (Why do I want to call them Twats? That's just awful. No disrespect to any of them, they're a fine bunch. Even Chev.) And this is making me very edgy. So please, if you have a Stupid Twitter account yourself, do me a favour and follow me will you? I promise not to clutter up your inbox with unnecessary tweets - or any tweets at all. I just can't cope with 13s. I promise to return the favour, for whatever that's worth.

Bad Vibes

2009-06-23T14:56:00.000+01:00

Luke Haines's Britpop memoir Bad Vibes wasn't exactly what I expected. That's not to say I didn't enjoy it; Haines is a witty, intelligent storyteller with a stubbornly individual streak, and he well deserves his Grumpy Old Man of Britpop crown, even though I never actually considered the Auteurs a Britpop band myself... then again, neither did they.

Britpop became the albatross around Luke Haines's neck. The Auteurs released their first album in 1993, in time for the music press to cheerfully lump them in with Suede and Pulp as the next big thing that was going to pop over the Atlantic and kick the arse of grunge. This was long before Oasis, way before Blur decided to drop the trippy shoegazing of their debut album and go all chirpy cockernee guvnor, years before Menswear and Echobelly and Marion and Cast.

The problem was, Luke Haines didn't want to be part of a scene, especially not one as contrived as this. He didn't want to write sunny, singalong indie anthems. He wanted to record songs about Unsolved Child Murders, Chinese Bakeries and Light Aircraft On Fire. He wanted to record a concept album about the Baader Meinhof terrorist group. He wanted to piss off his record company, fire his US management, and tell obnoxious DJ / TV personality Chris Evans to go fuck himself.

He did all of these things.

On the other hand, he didn't want to play third on the bill after The The and a rubbish Fast Show comedian. He didn't want to break both his ankles jumping out of a European hotel room window. He didn't want to land a cherished support slot with Nirvana only days before Kurt Cobain's final bow. And he certainly didn't want to make "friends" with Noel Gallagher.

And yet, he did all these things also. (Sort of.)

One of the big themes of Luke Haines's more recent songwriting is celebrating and decrying Britishness. Although he hates the term Britpop, and wants nothing to do with the scene, he's actually become one of our most British artists, with songs like Bugnor Bognor, Leeds United, and England Made Me. There's a certain irony to that, and the fact that back in the height of the 90s he was more interested in writing tracks called American Guitars, New French Girlfriend and Mogadishu. But while Morrissey jetted off to LA and Jarvis decamped to Paris, Luke Haines holed up on the south coast and continued releasing songs like All The English Devils and Here's To Old England, a tongue-in-cheek savaging of his homeland that only Haines could have written...

God bless football hooligans and 1966
The three-day week and half-day Wednesdays
The spirit of the Blitz
Well kept lawns and little gnomes
Dressing up in women's clothes
Two world wars and pubs that always close

Raise your glass to the Great Train Robbers
(Even though they lost the lot)
Stick it to the bloody Bosch
And stick it to the Frogs
Irish accents = terrorist bombs
Queer villains who love their mums
Look out kids, it's another summer of love

Here's to old England
Currant buns, the bulldog breed
God bless Enoch Powell
Rickets and TB
Here's to old England
Morris dancing knobbly knees
I promise to do my bit
And cheer the home team on to victory

But all this is what you'd expect from Luke Haines - so what surprised me about Bad Vibes? If anything, it was how likable and easygoing the author appeared. How at ease. How lacking in venom. I'd truly expected his peers in the music industry to come in for a savaging, yet for the most part Haines has only good things to say about Suede, Pulp, Blur and many of his contemporaries. OK, he's more eager to stick the knife into Oasis (deservedly so), but even then he can't bring himself to twist said knife and pour salt into the wound. Which is what I expected. He's funny, sarcastic, at times cutting - but also not afraid to praise his fellow artists when he feels they deserve it. For all the essential pop star ego, he never comes across as arrogant. He's the first to stick a pin in his own pomposity and laugh at how it all turned out.

I liked a lot of Britpop. Even though I was in my 20s when it hit, in many ways it was the music of my youth. Curiously, I didn't get into the Auteurs - or Haines - until Britpop was over. It was Black Box Recorder that turned me on to his work, and I worked my way back from there. With that in mind, the only part of Bad Vibes I didn't like was the conclusion. Haines ends his story with the death of Diana (in many ways the deathknell of Britpop), just as the first Black Box Recorder album is released, with no mention of the fourth and final Auteurs record (my favourite) or any of his solo material. I can only hope he's already working on a sequel (along with the rumoured BBR revival and more) because British pop - and Britpop - needs Luke Haines now more than ever.

Telstar

2009-06-21T10:43:00.000+01:00

There were seven of us in the cinema on a Saturday afternoon, which is perhaps not the best of omens for Telstar's chances at the box office. Normally I love it when the cinema's so quiet, it usually means everybody's there to see the film. Not so the couple on the back row who remained silent throughout the adverts and trailers, then began a loud conversation as soon as the film began. This went on for about ten minutes, but just as my patience was reaching an end, they shut up.

Midway through the film, they started up again. Only this time it appeared they weren't just talking, they were having a row. Then the woman started crying. For god's sake, if you're going to dump your girlfriend, don't do it in the bloody cinema! Finally, they got up and stormed out, just as - up on the screen - Joe Meek's life began to spiral out of control.

The ironic thing is, if any of their friends had asked them afterwards what they thought of the film (and I doubt that would be top of the discussion list), they'd probably have said it was a chirpy Brit-com, evocative of the 60s in a way that The Boat That Rocked only dreamed about. Telstar is very much a film of two halves, the first light and breezy (with only brief moments of foreshadowing) - the second increasingly dark, paranoid and bleak. The uneven tone is a difficult balancing act that - for the most part - writer / director Nick Moran pulls off well. There are unfortunate occasions when he shows his Lock, Stock roots with an over reliance on sweary lad comedy or unnecessarily flashy Guy Ritchie-influenced visuals, but for the most part he's smart enough to keep the film anchored to the central performance by Con O'Neill.

As "the British Phil Spector", maverick record producer Joe Meek, O'Neill is magnificent: all flashing temper, preening ego, predatory leer and obsessive genius. He's not a likeable character, but he certainly is admirable. O'Neill's performance, and the fascinating 'couldn't make it up' story of Meek himself make Telstar a success, despite Moran's best efforts to lad it up. For all his arrogance, anger, and ill-considered business decisions (that shot of a Beatles demo in Meek's bin isn't exactly subtle, but it does the job), we can't help but care about what happens to Joe Meek, and want him to succeed. Who knows where his career would have taken him if he'd just stuck around a few more years... you can pretty much guarantee that bands in the 70s and 80s would have been queueing up to work with him, and if he'd lasted till Britpop, they'd have been knocking down his door.

With some reservations then, I enjoyed Telstar. But I couldn't help wonder what the biggest Joe Meek fan I know would think of it... over to you, Matthew.

A Good Mix

2009-06-19T15:47:00.000+01:00

I don't often talk about the playlists on my music player (can we just drop the mp3 - as mine doesn't actually play mp3s?) but the current one caused me to think, while I was driving home last night (I bought my current car specifically because it has a socket to plug said device into), "y'know, this is a really good mix".

Generally, I have a playlist which I listen to in the car of about 100 songs. That's usually made up of my current favourite albums, a few choice oldies, and odd tracks I've picked up elsewhere that I'm roadtesting to see if I need to investigate those artists further. Sometimes the mix becomes a bit samey, or I get bored of certain parts of it and want to freshen it up... but every now and then, I'll hit on the perfect mix. Ideally that'll be a varied selection of stuff that - if the player is shuffling correctly (rather than clumping together 4 or 5 songs from the same record as it sometimes does) - makes for an exciting, unpredictable, singalong and learn-a-song half hour / fifty minutes. It's times like that when music does all the hard work for you, and the commute becomes a joy... or as close to a joy as any rush hour journey could ever be.

Here's a selection from my current playlist, with notes...

Jarvis Cocker - I Never Said I Was Deep

The reviews for Jarvis's new record have been mixed. One of the biggest complaints from the haters is that he's back to singing about sex again, but at his age it just comes across as a creepy old man leering at young girls. Which is funny, because I swear those self-same critics were falling over themselves to praise Nick Cave's Grinderman album, which was even more pervy than this. But while the Grinderman LP had a couple of excellent songs holding up a load of not-so-good filler, Jarv's new record is uniformly good, without any real stand outs. Unlike on the last album, where Running The World overshadowed everything else to the extent that he had to hide it away as a hidden track. Further Complications is a grower, though I would agree that some of the rockier tracks come across a little stodgy on record, which is odd for two reasons. Firstly, that certainly wasn't the case live. And secondly, they're produced by Steve Albini, the thinking rock star's Jeff Lynne. Who should know better.

Still, the important stuff is still present and correct, and that's the irrepressible Cocker wit. Who else could sing, "I've heard it said that you're hung like a white man" (on Caucasian Blues)? There's only one Jarvis.

Manic Street Preachers - Jackie Collins Existential Question Time

Speaking of Steve Albini, here he is again, with the new Manics album. I go against the Manics-fan grain somewhat in that The Holy Bible is my least favourite of their albums, so I wasn't looking forward to Journal For Plague Lovers with its promise of exhumed Richie lyrics (especially considering how much I enjoyed their last record, Send Away The Tigers). Musically, the record's turned out fine - the Manics are still on fine form after ...Tigers, and doing their best here to pop up what they know is difficult material. Lyrically though, you can tell these are scribbles from the notebooks of a disturbed mind, and at times they come across as so much Sixth Form poetry. Even James and Nicky have admitted to not knowing what these songs are about, so they're open to as much interpretation as you want to give them. Still, I like the questions asked by this first single, particularly...

Oh mummy, what's a Sex Pistol?

Dolly Parton & Kenny Rogers - Islands In The Stream

Saw Rob Brydon's live stage show recently. He's a very funny bloke with a dark, cynical eye and a cheeky little boy's wit. Apparently he recorded a version of this song with Ruth Jones for charidee, so he finished the show with it (accompanied by a surprise guest appearance from Peter Kay). It reminded me of the original, and of what a great songwriter Dolly Parton was in her prime. Really. No, get a way from me with your country-phobic ignorance, you're wrong.

Luxembourg - Single

Sometimes you just don't discover a band till it's too late. I owe this one to Anglopunk Larissa over at Condemned To Rock n Roll who introduced me to the track Single in one of her recent Everyday Is Like Sunday... mixes. It's a classic widescreen woe-is-me, thwarted ambition whingeathon that a few years back I'd have embraced as a theme tune...

You can shove your degree from the University of Life
You can stick your BSc from the hallowed hallways of the College of Firth & Fife
But i can’t spend another summer burning copies of my debut single in my bedroom
I can’t spend another Sunday on the sofa crying as another opportunity passes me by

I wouldn’t wish my life upon anyone
So let’s abstain
I couldn’t share this life of grime
This doing time
So let’s refrain

My twenty-fifth birthday was melancholy but i wasn’t surprised because
My seventeenth birthday was melancholy but i wasn’t surprised because
My fifth birthday was… sad and lonely
Oh, well don’t they start so early these days?
Yes, they do!

I wouldn’t wish my life upon anyone
So let’s refrain
I couldn’t share this pantomime
This doing time
So let’s refrain

Now my friends are starting families
I’ve barely started on mine

Having fallen in love with this track, I went out and hunted down a copy of Luxembourg's album Front, which is full of similarly Morrissey-esque moans and the kind of epic indie you thought they'd stopped making years ago... only to discover that the band split up last year. That's the bad news.

The good news is that they've made their entire back catalogue available to download free on their lastfm page. Meanwhile, the individual Luxembourgians have started up new projects such as The Melting Ice Caps, The Soft Close-Ups and Jonny Cola & The A-Grades, and more free songs are available if you click on the appropriate links. It's worth the effort.

Pink - So What

I know, I know, I really shouldn't like Pink. I mean - it's Pink, for fuck's sake! And yet, of all the contemporary pop divas (Britney, Christina, Beyonce et al.), Pink's the only one I find remotely interesting. I like her spunk. She reminds me of early Madonna crossed with Cyndi Lauper crossed with... dare I say Wendy James? And yes, I know it's often big budget Linda Perry-written bollocks, but I can't help but fall for her hits. I first heard this one - which I still think should be called Rock Star, and balls to Nickleback - at a recent Royal Exchange production of Macbeth, and just like Trouble, Don't Let Me Get Me, and Just Like A Pill, it lodged in my brain like a bolt from a crossbow. I'm not ashamed. This is the best use of Na Na Nas since King's 80s cheese slicer Alone Without You. I know, my cred is officially dead. Who cares?

The Handsome Family - My Friend

I've written many times about my love of the dark gothic country of the Handsome Family, and my deep admiration for lyricist Rennie Sparks. Her new album (with hubby Brett on vocals, as always) is a slow burner, but one that I've been listening to for weeks now and shows no sign of tiring. Unlike previous records where the songs have featured short stories and vignettes set to music, this one is much more about place than people. It's an album filled with haunting, evocative description - I want to say pastoral, but I don't think that's exactly the right word. There are stories here, but their settings are as important as the vague characters who wander through them.

My heart is a beating compass pointing to the pole
The great expanse of stillness, the true magnetic north
I know the sky blue longing of a cloud of spiraling birds
All turning in an instant, a perfect spinning whirl

I feel the loneliness of magnets and the tides across the sea
I am the dark valley calling to the trembling mountain peak

Just beautiful songwriting. It's as simple as that. Which is my cheeky DJ link way of moving on to...

Huey Lewis & The News - I Want A New Drug

I've said more than enough about my recent Huey Renaissance, so I'll keep this short. This is from Sports, the album that preceded the multi-million selling Fore! (I'm working my way backwards), and it's the song that "inspired" Ray Parker Jr. to write Ghostbusters. Recognise that bassline? Huey sued, Huey won. I wanted to link to the classic Bad Is Bad, but sadly I couldn't find it on youtube.

The Scaremongers - From The Shorelines Of Venus

Still loving Simon Armitage and Craig Smith's debut. This is the epic closing track (apart from the short coda Porch), and it features a fine Armitage megaphone rant towards the end that reminds me of Tim Booth. Could this be my album of the year? Too early to call.

Lucky Soul - Whoa Billy!

"Dark times ahead," sings Ali Howard on the debut single from the band's forthcoming second album, though you wouldn't know it from listening to this the exuberant blast of 60s/Motown style pop.

Thea Gilmore - It Takes More...

A Miss Dynamite cover (yes, really) given heartbreaking acoustic treatment by the UK's greatest contemporary female singer songwriter. Given away to fans on her website a few months back, I can't find it anywhere online to link to. But believe me when I say it's a belter.

Todd Snider - Is This Thing Working?

It struck me today that Todd Snider is as close as the US gets to its own Billy Bragg. A ranting, witty, politically-charged have-guitar-will-kill-fascists songwriter. This is from last year's Peace Queer mini-album (a new one will be along shortly), the tale of a school bully who gets more than he bargains for when a worm turns. Check out the lyrics - another born storyteller.

Anybody still reading? I doubt it. Still, at least I got all that off my chest.

This Book Will Save Your Life

2009-06-18T13:01:00.000+01:00

A few months back I reviewed The Book With No Name, a novel that promised "anyone who reads The Book With No Name ends up dead".

Well, I survived, but being the superstitious type I am, when I saw A.M. Homes's This Book Will Save Your Life sitting on the shelf in the bookshop, I didn't think it'd hurt to pick it up. Just in case.

As it turned out, TBWSYL is about as far away from TBWNN as you could possibly imagine. Whereas the latter was a page-turning pot-boiler with OTT stock characters and its tongue firmly in cheek, the former is one of those seemingly plotless meanderings that's held together by the strength of its characters and a light, quirky sense of humour. It's still immensely readable, and by far the better book, though there are times it strays a little too close to kookyville.

Richard Novak is a modern day everyman...

...claims the dust jacket, and straight away I'd have to disagree. Actually, what makes Novak's character so interesting, and his adventures so compulsive is that he's anything but an everyman. For a start, he's independently wealthy and doesn't have to work (apart from occasionally dealing stocks and shares to top up his fortune - Homes obviously wrote this before the financial crash), all of which gives him plenty of time to rescue horses from sinkholes, save lonely housewives from their uncaring families, and thwart psychotic kidnappers. Hmm, all that makes it sound like an action-packed romp, doesn't it? Well, I suppose it is, in a way, and it isn't.

This Book Will Save Your Life beautifully capture the strangeness of life through its depiction of the weirdness and physical instability of LA, a surreal city of earthquakes, wildfires, mudslides, feral chihuahuas and donut sellers with big dreams...

...continues the dust jacket, rather overdoing the strangeness / weirdness synonyms...

And it reveals what can happen if you are willing to open up to the world around you...

...which is the key to Homes's plot, and Novak's journey from housebound loner to heroic philanthropist. It's an old-fashioned feelgood story, but never sentimental, full of likeable characters and amusingly realistic dialogue. It might not save your life, but it certainly won't harm it.

Come Home

2009-06-15T12:37:00.003+01:00

Apologies if I neglect my blogging duty over the next couple of weeks, or if I'm not by to visit your own blogs as often as I normally would. We're moving house in just over two weeks now and my head is all wrapped up in that. There's so much to think about. (And to be honest, Louise is doing most of it, so imagine what I'd be like if I had to be an adult and take responsibility for something myself!) It'll be great when we're in.

More Comics Songs

2009-06-10T11:57:00.002+01:00

Having recently completed mammoth posts on both DC Comics Songs and Marvel Comics Songs, you might have hoped I'd be done with that subject for a while.

Well, I was... until I discovered an old playlist I'd compiled years ago containing a few more interesting examples that have since slipped my mind. So here, for your listening pleasure, are a few superhero leftovers...

Let's start with a couple of Superman references, from Bruce Springsteen ("You were born with the power of a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound"; For You) and Billy Idol. Personally, I think Superman would be waaay more interesting if he actually was Billy Idol.

Still at DC, the Monkees find themselves struggling to get a message through to Donna Troy, Wonder Woman's niece / cousin / clone / whatever DC has decided she is this week...

The being known as Wonder Girl is speaking I believe. It's not easy tryin' to tell her that I shortly have to leave.

No wonder they gave that song an Alternate Title. (It was called Randy Scouse Git everywhere but in the UK, where libidinous Liverpudlians presumably protested.)

Moving over to Marvel, I can't believe I forgot David Bowie's anthem to the X-Men, Oh! You Pretty Things. "Gotta make way for the homo-superior!"

Speaking of the X-Men, I finally found you a Wolverine song. Well, sort of. From Pavement guy Stephen Malkmus's excellent debut solo LP, we have the track Vague Space. "Permission granted for the Wolverine States", Steve sings. That must be a state where nail clippers are outlawed and sideburns run riot.

Considering what a comic book fan Eminem is (he apparently went back to Jonathan Ross's house after a recent interview and walked off with a rare old Spidey comic), I'm surprised more of his songs don't reference the four-colour world. “Clothes rip like the incredible Hulk, I spit when I talk…” comes from My Name Is.

Which brings us back to Spidey, and to Luke Haines, who may well be a comic fan himself. He's already dropped mentions to Ditko's two greatest creations...

Billy was a Spider-man… threw himself beneath a train.

...in Johnny & The Hurricanes by The Auteurs; and...

You can call me Doctor Strange…

...in his solo track Spook Manifesto, from The Oliver Twist Manifesto CD.

And let's not forget that Haines also made a guest appearance in a comic himself and wrote the intro to its trade paperback collection.

Going back to Spidey, one of my favourite villains is old fishbowl head, Steve Ditko's greatest visual creation, Mysterio. Perhaps Paddy McAloon was a Quentin Beck fan too. Electrics Guitars would certainly suggest so, with its joyful refrain of "Mysterio-a-go-go!"

Finally, here's a superhero lyric I only just discovered - from the new Pet Shop Boys album Yes. Only former Marvel UK employee Neil Tennant could write a song (Building A Wall) that namechecks Britain's greatest hero.

Sand in the sandwiches, wasps in the tea, it was a free country...

...mumbles Neil, in a typically Coward-esque moment, prompting someone else (Chris?) to ask...

Who do you think you are, Captain Britain?

Yeah - forget Brian Braddock - get Neil Tennant in the union jack underwear and you're on to a winner, Marvel!

Medals

2009-06-09T12:57:00.000+01:00

I came across the above First World War medals while having a clean out in preparation for moving house. Unfortunately, my camera isn't very good at close-up pics (even when you switch it to close up mode), so the above image is rather blurry.

The medals belonged to my grandfather, Edwyn Hoyle; and great uncle, George Hoyle. Each is engraved around the edge with their name, rank and serial number. Great uncle George was 7-4428 PTE G.E. Hoyle DURH.L.T (a private in the Durham Light Infantry), while my grandfather was 98000 PTE E. Hoyle M.G.O. (machine gun officer).

I never knew either man, both died before I was born. My dad tells me that his father-in-law was a quiet, peaceful man - a joker who wouldn't hurt a fly. And they put him in charge of a machine gun. Mum tells how he never talked about his experiences in the war, although they obviously affected him greatly. He suffered breathing problems for the rest of his life as the result of a mustard gas attack.

The top two medals both feature George V on one side and a soldier on horseback on the other. They are inscribed Georgius V BRITT OMN REX ET IND IMP (George V, omnipotent King of Great Britain and Emperor of India).

The bottom medal is the Inter-Allied Victory Medal (awarded to great uncle George). It features "the winged figure of Victory with her left arm extended while her right held a palm branch" on one side and the inscription "The Great War For Civilization 1914 - 1919" on the other. Though WWI is famously referred to as the Great War of 1914 - 1918, I'm presuming many soldiers served well into 1919, at least until the Treaty of Versailles was signed in June 1919.

I haven't looked at these medals in years, and I know I didn't truly appreciate their significance when my mum gave them to me as a child. But seeing them again now, I realised how they could well be my most precious possessions. Not in terms of monetary value (I have no idea whether there's a collector's market, but assume these particular medals are quite common), but in terms of what my grandfather and his brother went through to be awarded them. To survive that (and if they hadn't survived it, I doubt I'd even be here) two ordinary blokes from Slawit, who were by no means career soldiers, experienced things I couldn't ever imagine.

These medals leave me humbled, but extremely proud of the men who owned them before me.

Terminator: I'll Be Cack

2009-06-08T09:59:00.000+01:00

A lot of people slagged off Terminator 3 as inconsequential action fluff. Those same people now seem to be championing the McG directed Terminator: Salvation as the saviour of the franchise. I know which film I'd rather watch again, and it wouldn't be the McG-minator.

First off, Christian Bale. So good as Batman; watchable in almost everything else he shows up for; here, he doesn't so much phone in his performance as get someone else to phone it in for him. It doesn't help that after the opening set piece, Bale's John Connor is off-screen for most of the next hour while Mr. Chekov (playing a young Kyle Reese) and the Cyborginator take up the slack. Well, it doesn't help Bale - we, the viewer actually benefit from his absence as both Anton Yelchin and Sam Worthington make far more interesting, sympathetic characters than Bale's one note JC. I never thought I'd find myself writing this, but what this film really needs is an Arnie (not just a CGI cameo), and Christian Bale (incredibly) just ain't no substitute. Say what you like about the Austrian Oak, but he brought a tongue-in-cheek humour (sometimes unintentionally) to the previous films that's sorely missing from this arid explosion-fest.

The action sequences are occasionally thrilling, though nothing to match either T2 or T3, but it soon becomes painfully clear that T4 is suffering from the same 12A safeness that hampered the last Die Hard flick and Wolverine. These movies just shouldn't be aimed at 12 year-olds (and under); the need to chase the almighty box office dollar puts a muzzle on the Terminator in the same way it sheathed Logan's claws and cleaned up John McClane's potty mouth. If all our blockbusters are now being firmly pitched at children, what's left for us adults to enjoy?

Where's Summer B?

2009-06-07T11:32:00.000+01:00

Following yesterday's post, here are some summery pics taken a little closer to home; a walk we did last weekend from Lumb Hole Falls down through Hardcastle Cragg into Hebden Bridge. Unfortunately, the falls themselves weren't as picturesque as the last time we visited due to a pissed up sunbathing camper marring the scenery slightly, but the rest of the walk was glorious...

Where's Summer A?

2009-06-06T11:16:00.009+01:00

So, following two unseasonably glorious weekends, the true British summer has arrived. Never mind, if you're stuck inside because it's too wet to play out today, here's the first of two batches of photos I took when the weather was brighter. You might also appreciate these if you're in a part of the world where it's currently midwinter. If you're basking in a heatwave in your particular locale... sod ya. ;-)

To start, here's some pics I took two weekends ago, during our trip to the north of the Lake District... including some particularly friend deer...