My Addictions #457-459

In Which: Our Hero Delves Into Yet More Narcissism, Albeit Narcissisum With A Fantastic Soundtrack.

Given recent circumstances I decided it would be better if I cut down on a few things, including beer and CDs, which seem to be my largest expenditure. Which I suppose is odd; I must be one of the few people remaining in the world that still buy real copies of albums.

Anyway, having thought about this, I thought I'd do a quick investigation and see exactly to what extent my CD-problem runs. As yet, I have not decided to investigate the depths of my beer-hobby, I know the results will be more frightening than my CD report, and that was scary enough.

Here are the CDs (and a couple of vinyl) I bought throughout October of this year, in chronological order:

Elgar/Stanford - 'Great Is The Lord'

Copland/Tavener/Vaughn Williams/Messiaen - 'Mass in G Minor and other A Cappella Works'

Nitkowski - 'Chauffeurs'

Hreda - 'Minnows/Dead Horses'

Tubelord - 'Propellor' single

Clark - 'Totems Flare'

and the accompanying 'Growls Garden' EP

Kong - 'Snake Magnet'

Fuck Buttons - 'Tarot Sport'

Oceansize - 'Home & Minor' EP

Tubelord - 'Our First American Friends'

Blakfish - 'Champions'

I bought all of these from Amazon or direct from the bands, except for the first two which came from the second hand CD shop on Notting Hill High Street. Possibly more worth commenting on is that they're all, without exception, British.

I'm not sure if any of this is interesting at all, I just felt the need to share it. Admission is the first step to rehabilitation.

Choons And That

In Which: Our Hero Discovers An Amazing New Website

Yeah so the days of Myspace are mercifully numbered. Found Soundcloud, which is incredibly useful, user friendly, and let's you store a huge amount of music for free. Sorted.

Worthful Loud by CarpetTheCeiling
Waltz For The Complacent by CarpetTheCeiling

Thanks Mum, Thanks Dad, Thanks Google

In Which: Our Hero Tires Of Repeated Error ID:0x800CC0fuckingE, Attempts To Set Up A New Email Account, And Quickly Tires Of His Confusingly Overused Name.

Given that my tiscali email is constructed of pure eShite, I have decided to take a step into the twentyfirst century and get myself an email address that actually enables me to send emails from an email program rather than the tiscali website, which is constructed from pure eWhiteNoise and adverts exclusive holidays in car insurance call centres and £10 a minute celebrity news updates. I am told that Googlemail is the best around, so I popped onto their website, and indeed, it has to have been about the easiest set-up procedure on the web. Except for the age old problem of what email address to create. Given my almost unbroken record for being three years behind everyone else, pretty much any permutation of my name has already been taken. For example, on trying benjamin.thompson, google suggested to me:

thompson.benjaminthompson.benj
or
benjamin.bthompson.thompson04

Presumably this means there are already three other 'benjamin.bthompson.thompson's out there. Anyway, having decided against using all my names (benjaminandrewhugothompson@googlemail is brutally long, and trust me, this gets very tedious very quickly - I should know, I have been battling with the terrible decision that lead me to create i_dont_like_jamie_theakston@hotmail.com for years) and several abbreviations of my middle names Bah! Thompson! or Benjaminah Thompson being both stupid sounding and ridiculous.

So I went with my old 'clever' avoidance of including chains of numbers and half names - ben.mcthompson. Not stupid or inappropriate at all, I think you'll agree.

So please, help me celebrate and send me an email, you can henceforth catch me at ben.mcthompson@googlemail.com

Jazz - Delicious Hot, Disgusting Cold

I bought some apples in Tesco today. I bought them purely for the reason that they are called 'Jazz' apples, a variety I've never seen before, and I'm pretty sure it doesn't exist. That and they were two packs for £2.00. Let's hope they're disgusting hot and standard cold. That's the very least I expect Tesco to do for me.

It reminded me of the following.



Fucking brilliant album.

Nothing fills a hole like a double decker

In Which: Our Hero Tries To Make A Difference To Global Warming But Is Shot Down In An Altercation With A Bus Driver And Instead Walks Home Angrily In The Rain Until A More Accepting Driver Is Found, At Which Point He Is Driven Home Angrily In Something More Akin To A Paddywagon Than A Public Transport Vehicle.

By the magic of iPhone, I am writing this from the comfy surrounds of a Norwich Bus. I have been inspired by a recent trip to Manchester in which I (asides from visiting the worst club I have ever been to in my life - we're talking airport style security on the entrance, replete with boxes of confiscated guns, an £8 entry fee, which bought you the privilege of hearing some prick play a best-of-90s-dance-club-hits CD on repeat at ear collapsing volume surrounded by other, sweatier pricks, and the only consolation of getting mindlessly drunk soured by the fact that even the rottenest, cheapest booze cost seven pounds fifty for a 550ml bottle. So surprisingly fun.) utilised a bus for the first time in years. This is a necessity in somewhere like Manchester, which uses the term 'city' in its strictest sense, rather than the 'large village' definition that Norwich employs. Buses seem to me like a good idea; they are brilliant if you are lazy or if you stupidly left your trumpet at the LCR on Sunday and have to travel right across the other side of the city to retrieve it, they're cheaper than taxis, better for the environment than travel by car, they speed past traffic in their own lanes. It had been so long since I had been on a bus, I had quite forgotten why I disregard all this and never use them. I now remember:

1) They smell
2) They're uncomfortable
3) They're full of pricks.
4) And mentalists
5) And chavs
6) I was refused entry because I only had a tenner, which apparently is not legal tender in the United Independent States of First Great Eastern
7) It cost me £2.20 to travel for literally five minutes. There are prostitutes out there cheaper than that.

Take heed friends, take heed.

La Cuisine Des Indiens

I just made myself a curry. It came out looking like tar. I honestly don't know where I went wrong.

Mercifully I put enough chilli in for it not to taste like tar. Or, in fact, anything at all.

Was gonna post a photo but I think it probably would have made you throw up.

Home, 1st October

08.30
Feel dreadful.

09.00
Worry not though, a good old reliable Premier Inn repast sorts me right out.

10.00
Wander round York. All buildings seem to be let by companies in London who refuse to answer the phone. I suppose it’s too far away for them to actually care.

10.30
Starving again. I don't usually eat anything in the mornings as I'm never up in time, so by about 11 o'clock I'm so hungry I feel sick. I would expect that a massive six course everything buffet breakfast would keep me going longer than usual, but it just doesn't bloody work. At least I know never to waste time and money on breakfasts again.

12.00
Find an amazing site, but it is literally three times the rent of anywhere we’ve seen that size. You could literally buy a house of exactly the same size every year you paid rent on it. Probably two if you were in a rough part of town.

15.00
Give up and go home. The north is tiring and I feel terrible. Will probably ask the people at York Minster if they'll let us build a club in their cathedral - it seems fairly nice. If they don't we'll probably just forget about it.

York, 30th Sept

08.30
Another delicious Premier Inn breakfast.

09.20
Head into Hull, we make appointments for the two best buildings we have found, and ask if burtons would be willing to give up another. I look for Wifi, but can’t find it anywhere, not even in cocking Starbucks, who supposedly have it (for free). End up having to go into a hotel that is still situated in the 1950s.

12.50
Look around shop on Whitefriargate in centre of town. Perfect. If it wasn’t surrounded by scummy pubs and boozers.

13.45
Go for lunch in Prezzo. Have to leave due to gas leak.

15.50
Head to York.

16.30
Enjoy one of the fruit teas I stole from the breakfast bar this morning in our fresh Premier Inn room.

16.34
Fresh Premier Inn wears thin. I leave the tea and head into town. Bump into Sam and Stuart as I am hanging around outside Sam's place of work*. After a bit of faff we go for drinks and dinner and plenty of drinks and some drinks. York seems to be based on the concept of two for one cocktails. Or 2-4-1 as it’s correctly written. There are plenty of really actually nice bars in York. A genuine treat after fucking Hull. Or “Dull” as I have hilariously called it.

*I do actually know these people, it should be pointed out – I don’t (regularly) make a habit of hanging ‘round with people I meet arbitrarily on the streets.

11.50
I leave Stuart and wander round for a bit. Find a couple of flat roofed premises next to drinking areas, and so celebrate by accidentally stumbling-into-a-bar-and-ordering-the-most-expensive-drink-I-have-ever-ordered-in-the-shape-of-a-£9-martini. IS A MARTINI NOT JUST A MIXTURE OF GIN AND VERMOUTH?!!! Surely that means each shot of alcohol is over £4 in value. Unless they put premium olives in. Premium-three-pound-each-olives. Imported directly from Tuscany.

01.30
Stumble out and try to find way home. Find couple of late night clubs, a little bit out of the way. Somehow muster the wherewithal not to go in and see. York seems to just be a Northeners version of Norwich. The hotel we are staying in is obviously the Magdalen Street side of town. I get chatting to the bouncers outside what transpires is the only gentlemen’s club in town. Stumble home and battle with the three door swipes I have to get through

Hull, 29th Septepmber

8.30
Tremendous Premier Inn breakfast. I go for one of everything to make sure I make the most out of it.

9.30
Go to Starbucks to take advantage of free wifi advertised. On application I learn you need a card to access internet. It costs £5. Maybe I got mixed up when I was at school, but as far as I know, THAT’S NOT FREE.

10.30
Spend the day searching fruitlessly around Sheffield. Literally nothing for sale or let.

13.30
Disastrous meal in Cafe Rouge. Have glass of champagne though, so salvageable. We are in Ecclstal road, which is supposed to be the vibrant student barry area. It is somewhere between Unthank Road and Ilford High Street. Not a bar in sight.

14.15
Head to Hull

14.40
Drive past Humber Bridge. It’s fucking enormous!

14.55
Check into second Premier Inn. It’s in the middle of an industrial estate.

15.30
Head into Hull. It seems to be populated entirely by cheap old-man boozers. We walk past a pub selling £1.30 pints. There really is no-where decent in the centre of the city. I ask a girl in the place we eventually eat, and apparently it gets busy every Wednesday when the Casablanca Boys play at the Mint. They have been playing there every week for the last forty years. “They write their own material and all”.

Since there is absolutely nowhere inviting to drink in the city we decide to walk to the student area – normally pointless because they aren’t vibrant enough to support a late night club, but we can’t stand the thought of drinking in town.

Surprisingly we discover that this is the main drinking area in Hull. There are some very nice bars, and a couple of late night places round the corner. This is evidently where the students spend their time and money. Having asked a few people, the middle of town is solely inhabited by scummers and cunts. Very strange. I suppose it probably has something to do with the fact that hull is semi-circular, and only has residential areas on one side of the ‘centre’, the other being cut off by the Humber.

There is nowhere to let or for sale. Lovely place, but an absolute no go.

Sheffield, 28th Sept

In Which: Our Hero Sets Off On The Second Cross Country Expedition To Find Potential Bar Venues...

9.57
Catch train. Surprisingly no changes needed. Am on one of the two existing train lines out of Norwich.

13.05
Arrive at station. Am propositioned by young man with haggard face in a tracksuit. I cannot understand a word he says, but I know he means me harm. Place is teeming with students. Not real ones though, it is only Sheffield Hallum next to the station.

13.10
Have found directions to Premier Inn. Start walking to hotel. It is of course very grey here, but somehow still incredibly warm.

13.20
Wrong Premier inn.

14.00
Found correct Premier Inn. Definitely the worse of the two. Despite having to check in myself on digital machine, there are at least twenty members of staff hanging around. They all make the assumption that I am gay. I don’t feel I need to correct them, considering how outnumbered I am.

14.20
Finally get into room, and sit down for a celebratory poo.

14.25
There is no sink.

14.26
Found sink next to cupboard in main room. There is no soap.

14.30
There is no electricity.

14.35
Fuck this, am going out.

17.50
Have walked round Sheffield all afternoon rather unsuccessfully. Have not found any appropriate buildings, nor have I found anywhere that sells laptop bags (bought one just before coming away only to discover it is two inches too small for bloody laptop). Finally find a starbucks where there is internet.

17.55
You have to have a card to use the internet. Starbucks closes at 18.00

18.00
Down coffee and get thrown out on arse.

19.00
Walking around unable to decide whether to go for a pint and find some internet or go back to the hotel for coat. Meeting Hana at half seven so decide on pint option.

19.30
Dinner with Hana and friends. Decamp to Bear and Bungalows, good bar in an old fire station who put on free gigs, I inadvertently watch Sky Larkin. Alright.

22.00
Meet Mark (fellow explorer) and go to the Bowry – club set up by ex-member of Arctic Monkeys. From what I can see this man has made two terrible decisions in his life, and one excellent one. The terrible decisions are obviously 1) joining the Arctic Monkeys, and 2) opening a bar. The excellent choice was leaving the Arctic Monkeys. Presumably another excellent choice will follow in a few months time when people get bored of the free potato smileys provided at the bar and bored of throwing them up seconds after eating, purely because of the disorientating and lurid multicoloured walls.

23.00
Go looking for other clubs, but can’t find anything - are they all in the back streets?

REAL FAMOUS PEOPLE DESCEND UPON NORWICH

In Which: Our Hero Drinks Too Much On An Empty Stomach And Wobbly Legs, Makes A Prick Of Himself In Front Of An Assembly Of Filmmakers, Then Complains A Bit.

A strange thing happened to me the other night. I ended up presenting an award at the Norwich Film Festival award ceremony. Having spent the whole day running around furiously trying to sort everything out, literally sweating constantly from about nine in the morning to ten o’clock in the evening, I didn’t even care to think about checking up on all our special guest presenters, one of whom didn’t turn up. Kel pointed this out to me just before we were due to start, when I’d already poured the best part of a bottle of the crappest Prosecco I’ve ever tasted down my throat. I gave the presenter a call, only to find that she’d completely forgotten about the whole thing. So for some reason, the buck was left with me.

Most people that presented awards [including the world-reputed Loui Bately orf the telly, and highly regarded film method actress Georgia Groome - neither of whom I've ever heard of before in my life] duly read out their brief script, listed the nominations, and then after seeing clips announced the winner. The whole thing took about five minutes.

I started okay, reading the brief script, but then got bored and went a bit off-piste, for about fifteen minutes, talking about myself, how amazing it had all been, myself, poo, how great I am and how much work I’ve done, how crap everyone else is, how I hadn’t been bothered to watch any of the films, and then systematically went down the list of nominees taking the piss out of their names. Prick.

Bizarrely I went up at the end for round two. Proclaiming myself to have unanimously won the Norwich Film Festival Best Speech 2009 Award. Oh dear.

Apparently there is, in existence a recording of said speech, and there are definitely many photographs; I will post these if I can find them.

I have to say, it’s a fucking relief to have the whole thing over with for a while. Seriously, organising a black tie event for an unspecified amount of people most of whom don’t own a dinner suit, which can’t be advertised because despite how much you spend getting posters designed and printed, there is no work force to pin them up, and no supporting organisations to publish them, and has no budget behind it whatsoever due to all the funding falling through due to a hilarious mix up with an orphanage and vodka, is surprisingly stressful.

My legs still hurt from running so much, and it is now three days later. Which, if you are interested is exactly the kind of damning result that exercise gets for you. ‘What, you still hurt, god Ben you’re so unfit, maybe you should exercise more.’ Bollocks. This is exactly what happens when you exercise. Pain, suffering. I am happy without all that, thanks very much.

Oh, and, briefly, I killed something the other day. Not sure how I feel about that. Driving along wildly in the car, not really unterrified enough to be in control, a bird did not move, when my instructor said it would. Seemingly not such an infallible teacher! Should I take heed from his mistake and extrapolate it to ignoring his advice about changing gear before sharp corners? Yes I should. Chevrons or no, I cannot be arsed to change gear.

That is all.

Trumpet III

In Which: Our Hero Finally Gets His Hands On a Half Decent Horn To Blow, Swerves And Stalls A Bit, Runs Around Aimlessly All Day, And Swears Shamelessly At Children Whilst Introducing A Family Event In The Park

I totally got a new trumpet yesterday. It's amazing. I managed to get it in almost mint condition for about a third of the price of a new model. It has a mellifluously rich tone and is a delicious change from my old Boosey student pile of crap which was permanently out of tune with itself. Alas I can't be at home playing it because I'm out organising the disasterfest that is the Norwich Film Festival. We planned to show Top Gun for free in the Castle Gardens last week, however the licence for it was overturned due to short notice. The people at the council told me it'd be fine when I spoke to them on the 1st because you only need ten days to send the licence application off, and the screening was on the 12th. That is until after I'd submitted said application, at which point they told me that it was ten working days before, not including the day of the event or the day of submission. So we moved it back a week to today. And then yesterday I was told by the people who were supplying the screen and projector that actually they'd booked it out to someone else. Great. So after hours of frantic calling yesterday, I managed to find a company who had a screen available. I then learn, today, that our agreement with the castle mall was literally just that we were allowed to do it, not that they'd help us. As it transpires, the maintenance team do not work on a Saturday, nor any of the managers, nor indeed anyone that has screened a film in a park before. So here I am with a couple of blokes and a mobile cinema that together cost two grand for the day, and nowhere to put it or plug it in, and no-one to help except for a couple of fucking useless security guards. Obviously my day has flawlessly glided past like a dream.

I also had my first ever in the world ever driving lesson ever this morning. Although the less said about that the better. I'm pretty sure I was still quite pissed from drinking whiskey at Rhys's leaving do last night at three I'm the morning.

Start as you mean to go on.

If anybody else out there has £2000 and incredibly bad taste in films, this is definitely what you should be aiming for.

Kinema rides again

In Which: Our Hero Raises From Deep Slumber And Hibernation That Mythical Beast Of Yore In A Twisting Fit Of Stupid Time Signatures And Unnecessary Shouting

Kinema played a gig with the wonderful Hreda last night. It has been a long time coming, we were supposed to play with them last November, but Tiny Eyes in his infinite wisdom booked a Reggae night on the same date. Which obviously took precedence. Having just got my camera fixed (thanks Gary), I was going to take loads of photos, but I forgot to give it to anybody, so unfortunately our show is lost to the recesses of the collective mind of those present. Which is a shame, because we spent weeks organising the firework display, and I don't think we'll ever do that naked dance finale again.

Lots of people were super-nice afterwards, and Jamie from Hreda said he liked our chords, which is about as nice a compliment as you can get, in my eyes. And Alex was genuinely surprised at how tech we are because we look like a strummy indie band. I'm not sure how to take that. I guess it is a compliment really.

So yeah, no photos of us, but here's a photo of Hreda instead:


And a photo of some people in the pub afterwards:


Happy times.

Leicester: home of Premier Inn, Nottingham: home of shooting, Edinburgh: home of the burger. No, honestly.

In Which: Our Hero Makes The First Of His Quests Into The Unknown To Find Transformable Bar Space, Spends More Time 'Acquainting Himself With The Competition' Than Property Hunting, Walks Around So Much That He Falls Asleep On His Legs/Gets Confused About What Time Is/Loses The Ability To Eat, And Drinks So Much That He Accidentally Watches An Entire Documentary About Personalised Number Plates. Big Shout Out To N2GEL!


Right, so in the last week I was in four different cities in the space of two days, looking for places to build a bar. Leicester is a complete dump, with rows of empty Subways Sandwich shops punctuated occasionally by a dead fat lady or a road. We stayed in the Premier Inn, which is not only the highest building in Leicester, but also the most blue, red and yellow. Except when you are inside, in which case it is the most emetically purple building you could possibly imagine. Yes, even worse than those horrible dreams about Prince's boudoir you've been having lately.

We left Leicester on Thursday morning to drive to Nottingham, wandered round for an hour or so, and then immediately found the building we wanted, which has stunning views of the city centre. Job being done, we left within three hours of arriving, stopping only to have a Wagamama chili ginger chicken rope salad soup on the way.

This, I'm afraid, is where I am going to have to digress slightly. You see, we flew to Edinburgh from West Midlands Airport. We flew with BMI Baby. Both of these were a lapse of judgement. Given that I woke up at five o'clock on Wednesday morning to drive to Leicester, it didn't really cross my mind not to pick up a fresh bottle of shampoo and conditioner to shove in my bag along side the can of deodorant and pair of nail scissors. What annoys me is that even when one doesn't cross international borders, when one doesn't even need a passport, one still is strictly not allowed to carry over 100ml of fluid.

As a trained chemist, I would hereby like to kindly assure all concerned potentially-foiled-terrorists or fearing-for-national-security-morons that any explosive making kit that consists of fluids of 101ml or more, can just as easily be made with 99ml. Especially if you are allowed up to 10 separate 99ml containers. Anyway, having had to endure the embarrassment of transferring as many toiletries as possible into pointless clear bottles, and then throwing the other perfectly good 90% away, I was faced with this sight at the Boots on the other side of security:

Apologies for the terrible blurred photo; I was literally quaking with rage.

They must do that just to annoy you. Highlight the absurdity of the whole scheme by offering you full bottles of shampoo to buy (that you will have to dispose of on your return). And right next to the plastic bottles too, which you no longer need at all because you're on the side of security where fluids are allowed. Wait, no, but they're not allowed. But you can still buy them.

I must say I was sorely tempted to high-jack the plane by squirting shampoo in the pilot's eyes.

"It smarts! IT SMARTS!!" he'd cry.

Anyway the whole object of confiscating liquids has three delicious consequences:

1) Stupid people think the government are taking action against the threat of terrorism.
2) Airports can make thousands of pounds a week by charging for little plastic bottles and clear plastic bags.
3) I am even now extremely fucked off.

Which leads on to the next bit of mindless profiteering - I was charged £35 because the name I was booked under (Ben) was different to that on my passport (Benjamin). They knew this since they had seen my passport details (before I even entered the airport), and yet chose to raise the issue only at the departure gate, when I had no choice but to miss my flight or pay the fine. I know they already knew about it because they told me they were looking out for me. And then subsequently denied it. And when I asked the chap's name who was taking the money from me, he wouldn't give me his surname for security reasons. Which would have been a convincing idea had I not been able to read it from his name badge which was hanging literally inches below his stupid piggy face. What was the £35 for? There was no administration, they just took the dollar and let me on the plane. If it was a security risk that my name didn't match my passport, how does £35 remove the risk?! I suppose really we could just charge everybody thirty five quid to enter a plane, and then no-one would be a security risk at all and then there wouldn't be any terrorism, EVER. PROBLEM SOLVED. WHERE'S MY NOBEL KNOBBING PEACE PRIZE?

That money went straight into some airport fuck's bulging pocket.

And this was after a forty hour delay, I kid you not.

Anyway, rant over. We flew to Edinburgh, stayed in the nicest hotel I've ever been in (a suite of three rooms replete with iPod docking stations next to every TV, mirrors that magically de-steam, a leather sofa the size of a bus, a doorbell with a built in camera, and a dedicated butler to fetch anything we needed). There was a TV built into the wall above my bath. I sat in it, in my top hat, with a cigar and a glass of champagne. I watched the Chuckle Brothers. I was pimp.

Edinburgh [property] is expensive, and confusing, but ultimately beautiful. On the first night we ate in Oloroso, I had steak, some Chateau Palmer 1998, and Cain Vineyards 'Five' 2000, it was very grand.

The watch word for the trip was 'FUN'.

On the second day we found a property overlooking the entirety of the city, I had the best burger I have ever eaten in my life (in the Oxford Tavern - check it), drank ten pints of beer in as many bars, visited a brothel, immediately left said brothel feeling quite sick, went home and drank one of the Coronas we had ordered the previous night but not had the inclination to delve into. THIS WAS A MISTAKE.

I felt like this.

We missed our flights and had to get the train home. This took eight hours, and four changes. I cried three times. My legs ached and my feet were blistered.

I am currently eating one of the home-made French blueberry yoghurts I stole from the fridge in our hotel room. I don't think it was designed to survive an entire day stuffed in a warm bag on a train. It tastes rather rancid.

If you'll excuse me, I am going to go and vomit.

They don't have September in the Americas.

In Which: Our Hero Travels Home To Enjoy The Bank Holiday Surrounded By Devonshire Rain, Having Had More Than A Few Pints During The Day And Thus Not Coping Too Well With His Handheld Gadget's Less-Than-Accommodating Approach To Creative Punctuation And Colourful Language.

Well several things. First I am writing this from an iPhone, or 'cocking iPhone' as I like to call it. So forgive me if the letters don't make sense, but the touch screen is literally a fifth of the size of my normal keyboard. I must say though, I'm genuinely chuffed to have the pointless addition of interminable connectivity in my itchy hands.

At the moment I'm on a train, heading down to Devon for the weekend. As disinteresting as this may sound, there are a couple of noteable points to the journey.

1) I've just whitnessed the most magnificent of rainbows on the train. The weather today has been unusually what-the-eighteenth-century-barometer-on-my-grandmother's-wall-would-describe-as changeable to the extent to which, the conditions were swapping between blistering sunshine and dismal grey spit so promptly and repetitively that at one point there was a huge high contrast divide-line diagonal across the sky. I suppose that's pretty useful if you're a mild conversationalist or a rainbow.

2) I'm going down to my aunt and uncle's house, which is effectively a smallholding in Devon. They bought a crappy delapidated barn and lived on squalor for eight years whilst they made it habitable. And when I say squalor, I mean, they lived in a grotty little caravan that is smaller than my kitchen now, and had three rooms. If that's nor valient I don't know what is. The sacrifices you make for the perfect pad.

I'm quite excited about it because I visited five years ago, when the barn was far from complete, to build a 'Devonshire bank' - a wall built into the side of a small bank along a path. The idea in this is to stop erosion and crumbling from flood water or leaping animals. Considering my skills as a manual labourer, I will be most surprised if it is all still standing.

I'll let you know.

I should probably explain that I'm quite pissed right now, having spent the afternoon drinking in the pub for someone's leaving do. Good way to end the first week at Global Patrick Industries Incorporated, I think. Especially given how all over the place it's been since Monday.

Hair Traffic Control played a genuinely tremendous gig in London for the 405, which came with plenty of good music from the likes of Elks, hundreds of very nice people saying very nice things, and an accompanying scandalous interview. I went trumpet shopping, only to find out that trumpets are expensive and second hand ones not readily available. Bollocks. Drank some Chapoutier Hermitage 'Sizeranne' 1996 (intensely strawberry and blackberry like) and Jaboulet Hermitage 'La Chapelle' 2000 (like coal/wooden boxes). I learnt that my job is probably going to involve opening up new Havanas accross the country (ten cities to be exact), so I'll just be travelling around choosing properties and talking to solicitors and estate agents and builders and designers and finding staff and all that sort of exciting thing. And also I'm to be chief in charge of the Norwich Film Festival, which is three weeks away, and there's fucking loads to do, such as booking the awards ceremony, making sure people come to the awards ceremony, printing all the advertising material/tickets, getting licences, and so on and so on.

So to start things, I phoned Take Five on the way to the station, in order to be vaguely racist to one of the staff (Canadian it turns out.) If you ever want to do this yourself, always phone a hippy establishment, they tend to employ 'others'*. We are going to have an amazing afterparty to the awards ceremony there, in the underground, through a pub. The celebrities will love this because it gives them a chance to mingle with commoners they might otherwise not see.

So yes yes, I think that takes us roughly to the present. I am officially on my way to becoming a callous yuppie cunt.



*technical speak for foreignies.

Goodbye Buy The Case, hello... something else which isn't Buy The Case.

In Which: Our Hero Excuses His Last Absence Of Wine, Drinks The Most Expensive Wine He Has Ever Encountered (And Possibly The World Has Too), Moans About It, And Gentrifies The Situation In These Things Called 'Words'.

Today I worked my last day for buy the case. It was entirely unceremonious, given that I had to deal Wight the same things I had been all week. Trying to extract money from people who for the most part hadn't had invoices. Al somehow seemed to miss the fact that all these 'cunts' probably weren't paying simply because they didn't have any paper work (and indeed probably didn't know who to pay given nobody had told them that their wine supplier was going into administration in order to avoid paying any wine bills, and rebranding). Just because BTC never kept accounts, doesn't mean everyone else doesn't need their invoices. Hilariously we lost yet another account due to the fact that we had no wine to give them. Oh well. I ended up walking some wine round to franks as they were so desperate for it, having not had a delivery all week. And later on when I went to the rose for a quick pint, I was moaned at because they too had no wine. "Ha, fuck you!" was my quick riposte. "I no longer care! I am free!" Makes you wonder though, doesn't it.

The one good thing about my day was the champagne Al opened to celebrate, some of Bollinger's Vielles Vignes Blancs de Noirs. It's made from some of the oldest vines in Europe, and certainly some of the only ungrafted. Not even an acre's worth of vines, it stands with maybe two or three other vineyards in bhaving survived the Phylloxera plague that wiped out almost every other vine in the Western World. It is the only window we have to what wines may have tasted like in centuries gone by. We've never sold any (for obvious reasons) and I've never seen it anywhere else, so I can only guess that it sells for about £500-600. So it was rather an honour for Al to have bestowed that upon me. Except, no, wait, he didn't actually pay for it.

Anyway, I figure it's time for me to change the heading on this blog. No longer shall it say:

Like the Antichrist of the recordshop world, I sell wine for money and make music for pleasure. This is the frightening and unsavoury result of the two.

I would henceforth like to inaugurate the following header, and take great pleasure in wishing it a long and fulfilling reign over my page.

Wine could not contain me, nor the black hole of crumbling businessmen stand in my way, thus I escape the world of wine, to embark upon travels oe'r hill and dale, planting late night clubs (and all that follows in their wake) and on occasion clattering multi-instrumented franticism in small dark music parlours, in hitherto attractive and unassuming small cities. This is the unlikely and frankly quite disappointing result of my continued adventures.

To Cure A Weakling Child

Following Dan's and my foray into Adem videos on the intermanet last week, I would like to draw attention to this video, not found on YouTube due to it's being hidden in the depths of Myspace. It's not the best Adem song ever, but it is very nice to see his big smiley face. Unfortunately you have to endure a little bit [but still too much] of mindless babble, and it's slightly to the punch-inducing side of twee, but there we go. Don't let that put you off!

Welcome to our TV Show the 7.1: Adem/Jeremy Warmsley

There are many things out there I do not understand...

This is one of them. I'm not sure if this is meant to be arousing; it's just so ridiculous that I can't suppose it is really. What I find the most utterly bizarre is just how incestuous it all is. Did the person who sat down to draw these not at any point stop to consider that not only is this highly sad, it's also channelling something deeply emotionally disturbing from the depths of their brains...?

Anyway, check these out if you have negotiable tastes or standards.


Simpsons

Simpsons

Family Guy

Beauty And The Beast
This one is especially upsetting for me, considering the esteem in which I once held Belle.

We Have Been Here Longer Than We Realised

Michelin star already in the post, apparently

In Which: Our Hero Toils For Days To The Rapture Of Norwich's Formerly Moribund Culinary 'Scene', Storms Up A Cook, And Stoves A Hot Slave (In The Face).

I spent the last week or so working in a kitchen. Unfortunately The Wine Cellar lost two kitchen staff in the space of a week (either because they weren't paid on time or because they cannot stand Alistair, or more likely both), the same week that the head chef went on holiday. There was literally no-one around to cook the food, so Alistair and I stepped up to the task, despite neither of us having every worked in a kitchen before. I stepped foot in one a couple of times, but only to try and steal food so I don't think that counts.

Proof.

Surprisingly it was quite fun, the food went down well enough, and to my knowledge, nobody has died as a result. Working in a commercial kitchen is pretty good because everything you could possibly need is lying around in droves around you, which is splendid if, like mine, your style of cooking generally involves chucking as many ingredients at as many utensils as is humanly possible. And then some chump cleans up after you! Brilliant. Cooking in a commercial kitchen sucks, because everything is slightly hotter than you expect or want it to be. I've never sweated so much for so long in my life. My hands are now hairless rubbery blistered wrecks, because the ovens are just carved out of huge blocks of steel, so as soon as one is turned on, the whole sodding thing becomes a million degrees.

Here's the menu we cooked:

Soup de Jour - my favourite soup. Shame no-one knows French in a restaurant pretentious enough to bill itself as making french infused cuisine...

On top of which I added my amazing special of spiced tomato and red pepper soup, acclaimed by some to be the best soup to ever leave the kitchens. I also cooked spaghetti carbonara, although this didn't quite work out as anybody planned.

Al wrote on the menu 'Chicken and bacon spaghetti carbonara in a creamy sauce.' Firstly we didn't have any fucking spaghetti lying around at all. The only pasta we had was Penne. Useless wrinkly tubes of Penne.

One of the weird things about working in a kitchen is that everything needs to be sort of half cooked, and left there so that it can be quickly finished off if someone orders it. This presents a constant challenge because half cooking pasta involves somehow, at precisely the right moment, swapping all the boiling water in the pan with ice cold water, leaving the pasta in tact, and not down the sink. Something which I spectacularly failed to do by virtue of the fact I forgot about the pan until all that was left was a vat of boiling squelch.

Al asked me how I was going to time cooking the dish, and the following conversation ensued:

“Well I'll fry the bacon and chicken with some onion, now, and when it gets ordered, I can chuck it in with the pasta and add the cream and eggs and just-”

“Eggs?"

“Well yeah, I'll put them in at the last minute and gently warm it through so it gets hot but doesn't cook too-”

“You're putting eggs in?”

“Well yeah, it's carbonara...”

“What, so...”

“Do you even no what carbonara is?”

Pause

“Not really, no.”

“Well for a start, it doesn't have cream in it. Or chicken for that matter. Or Penne.”

“Shit.”


After all that, no one fucking ordered it anyway.

An absolute triumph. Kitch levels went through the roof when I was asked to make duck wraps for 50 people. Not sure my tacky Chinese vibes fit into the middle class winebar theme though. At least it's authentic though, right?

Kinema

In Which: Our Hero Discovers Old Videos Which Are For The Most Part Very Embarrassing And Thus Posts Them On the Internet.


Check it out.

I do miss my old white shoes. I used to write people's birthdays on them. Otherwise I forget them. BECAUSE I DON'T CARE.

Prehensile Dream

I found some excellent videos of The Bad Plus on YouTube today, there's pretty much a whole concert here. Watch them all. Here's a highlight: the comparatively restrained Prehensile Dream which is from their brilliant 'Suspicious Activity?' album. Unbelievable texture and variation from what is essentially the same thing over and over again. I like the ridiculous scales and contra-motion underneath the melody when the piano gets going.






The Bad Plus are one of my favourite bands in the world and certainly one of the most inspirational. Their compositional technique is unrivaled in its ability to simultaneously experiment with rhythm and tonality, let alone genre and style, whilst aways firmly clasping aesthetic melody and almostsexuallygratifying harmony unrelentingly by the testes.

Accidental 7/4 Reggae Vibes

In Which: Our Hero Spends Hours With A Loop Pedal, A Shiny Guitar, A Trumpet And A Frustrated Drummer...

Frolicking through the mint fields with a bottle of Bacardi

In Which: Our Hero Drags Himself From Restful Slumber Within Minutes Of Having To Be Smartly Attired And Waiting For His Chauffeur, Drinks Heavily, Sees The Glory Of The Lord, Drinks Heavily, Smuggles Cider, And Ends The Evening At A Party (Apparently).

I went to a wedding on Saturday. It was in the middle of the countryside, and the weather was rather nice. It was single-handedly the strangest ceremony that I've ever seen - Rob 'The Dazzler' was ordained for the occasion, so the ceremony was quite unconventional, having none of the restricting shackles of religious tradition. The strange bit, however, was not the fact that we were all standing in the middle of a field listening to a ceremony that was erring more towards a comedy routine than a church service - no, the most surreal bit was when we all had to sing, A Capella, all four verses and refrains of 'Glory Glory Hallelujah', the famous American abolitionist hymn.

Kind of like the awkward half singing that characterises Happy Birthday around the globe, everyone started off in their own key, and then arranged themselves into factions, grouped together in three or four different keys, singing parallel to each other, with a few floaters in between, undecided and liberal with their tonal affections. This is a rare and special form of harmony which rarely sees light except for on these special occasions, and always brings a tear to my eye.

Anyway, the ceremony was all over by about three o'clock, from which point there was studious drinking seen from everyone. I tried my darnedest to get through all available options, but in the limited time before I got a lift home at twelve I could only get through the ale, lager-beer, both white wines, rosé, three reds, a bottle of Prosecco, a couple of mojitos, and a gin and tonic. By the time I left I realised there were a few more bits for me to try, so I had to smuggle all I could into the car with me, which unfortunately amounted to little more than a Magners, which looked pretty good in the dark behind the bar, but I have to say was very disappointing. Not the best way to end the evening.

I think I went to a party afterwards and probably just shouted at some people. I don't really remember.

As with most photos it would be much better if there wasn't someone else clogging up the frame. Unfortunately this picture comes courtesy of May-Kui, and she only posted photographs with her in them, stupid woman. I also think this would be better if I was wearing the hat, but unfortunately my head is so massive and unwieldy it didn't fit.

Put a fucking donk on it mate.

In Which: Our Hero Traverses The Country, Eats A Burger After All The Chip Shops Closed Early Due To Potato Shortages, Enjoys The Irony Of Inland Wigan's Pier, Untraverses The Country, Melts A Bit, And Sleeps.

We played a gig in Wigan yesterday. It was genuinely awesome. The guys from A Bear came all the way from Manchester to see us, which was an absolute treat. All the guys there were super nice and helpful, so thanks Wigan/Drew/Neil.

The Tudor is a pretty inauspicious looking place from the outside, but it's a really nice little pub, and all the drums were mic'd up to the point where the floor was vibrating, as in this little video of our soundcheck.

All the other bands pulled out from the night, so we were even treated to some emergency techno courtesy of some weirdo, who quite aptly summed up everyone's reaction to him by reminding us: "next time you see this face - FUCK OFF". Nice of him to recommend avoidance strategies for us.

As I had to get to a wedding the next day, Chris kindly drove us back to Norwich that very night, a delightful five hour journey through the burgeoning daylight. There was much energy drink, chicken tikka sandwiches, wine, winegums (aka Tesco jam doughnut), beer (aka Tesco iced doughnut) and endless fags consumed.



By the time we reached home, in the cold and surprisingly bright light of day, I think we were all a little madder than we had been when we left, to the point where I had an argument with Dan about infinity and how maths is NEVER BUILT ON ASSUMPTIONS. Maths is in fact based on truths. That's why it's awesome. Maths is one of the very few subjects where there is no fudging, no flim flamming, and no corner-cutting. And, for the record, 0.9999 recurring is exactly equal to 1.

Proof:

If               x = 0.99999999.....
then     10x = 9.999999.....

Subtract one from the other:

10x = 9.99999999.....
-   x = 0.99999999.....
  9x = 9.0000000.....

divide by 9:

9x = 9     =>     x = 1
9       9

So whenever x = 0.99999...,     x = 1

i.e.   0.99999.... = 1

QED

Internet speed dating

You
You've seen your whole life
Laid out in front of you
Spread out so evenly
Over your table but
Does it feel as real as

You
You've seen the whole world sat
there in your hands and it
Springs up and shoots at the
Click of a finger but
Does it feel as quick?

We spent the whole day
Here in your room, inside this box
It was a window
To all our friends who were outside
We could have stayed here
Right 'til the day that we both died
We've got the whole world
Right where we need it, in this box.

We've got the whole world
Right where we need it but we can't
See for tubes and wires.

Marseille

In Which: Our Hero Inadvertently Finds Himself In The Third Biggest City In France, Finds Somewhere To Stay, Finds Somewhere Else To Stay, And Finds Himself Grumbling In A Carpark To Which All Roads Unavoidably Hurtle.

I went to France last week. I stayed in Paris for a few days, and then, after a mighty reorganising stint and several fruitless hours of stressful booking, moved down to Marseille for the end of the week. I have lots of nice stuff to say about drinking wine and wandering around Paris, but before I write a blog about that, I would like to detail just how utterly shite Marseille is.

1) First of all it's really grubby. Most of it looks like the level of upkeep of a Ghanan village. Despite my keen style and charming looks, I am not usually a superficial person, but really. They obviously do not often entertain guests.

2) Everyone drives like a maniac. Motorcyclists regularly use the pavement when there is heavy traffic, cars in general ignore pedestrian crossing lights (and then honk and yell at you because you've had the indecency to get in their way by crossing when they're trying to cruise through a red light thus almost getting knocked down by them and nearly denting their car which is already hammered to the point of falling apart because they're all such COCKING BAD DRIVERS).

We were staying on 'Rond-Point Prado', a rond-point being a round about. This roundabout however had a road straight through the middle of it. What's the point? Honestly, what's the point in having a sodding roundabout at all if you don't even have to drive round it?

They don't have road markings in France, so people just park wherever they feel the need to. Such as on the pavement, or indeed, on a rond-point.

3) There's absolutely NOTHING to do there. We stayed for three days, and had resorted to sitting in cafés smoking after the first afternoon. The 'Major Cathedral' is literally surrounded by wasteland, the 'Champs Elysées of the South' is more akin to the grubbiest parts of East London minus any interesting shops, and the Museum of the history of Marseille is, de facto alone, a gaping void of interest. And yet somehow it is to be the European Capital of Culture in 2013. Hopefully we will all be dead by then.

4) What are described on the map as parks it actually turns out are car parks. Whilst Marseille is not necessarily the greenest city in France, it can certainly boast an impressive collection of vast, empty concrete fields.

5) There is nowhere to stay. And when we went, everywhere that did exist was fully booked because there was a music festival going on. We booked ourselves into a hostel which seemed nice enough on the website. We got there to discover it was this guy called Sam's shabby little flat with some bunk beds in. I've never seen such a poor effort at disguising a flat as a business. To the point where he insisted we took our shoes off inside. We didn't have any lockers or safes, and Hannah walked in on Sam stark naked in the unlocked bathroom.
We immediately left, cried a bit, and lugged around Marseille for a couple of hours until we found a real hotel. Sam seemed genuinely offended. I kindly detailed for him exactly where he was going wrong in his scam, and his life in general. I don't really think that made things any better.

6) The music festival was a crock of pointless turd.

I think that about rounds it up.

BBC Tree

In Which: Our Hero Blags His Way Into An Opening Ceremony, Watches Some Bands Trying To Be Professional, Decorates His Person With Sparkles, And Enjoys The Dappled Shade Of Inside Lighting.



I went to the BBC Norfolk Introducing 2009 opening party thing last night. It was a viewing of the videos in this year's festival in conjunction with Hot City Sounds which starts officially at the end of this week. It was at the Forum, where BBC Norfolk is based, in 'The Curve' which is the largest high definition screen of its kind in the known universe. Which is useful if you're showing a series of 3 pixel by 3 pixel cameraphone videos taken by a bunch of shitehawk bands in and around the wintry carparks of Norwich.

Although it was technically the first event on the calendar for this year, it was pretty underattended, as only bands involved in Hot City Sounds were invited, and a few people involved in the actual organisation of the festival. I would have thought that, since the whole festival is geared towards providing exposure to unsigned and independent bands from Norfolk, there might have been some attempt to invite someone who might not already know about all the bands that are involved; i.e. someone who isn't in one of those bands. For example, if anyone had bothered to ask for my advice, I could have happily recommended inviting some local dignitaries, the head of BBC Norfolk, the people involved in BBC introducing (they wouldn't have had to go far, remember, we are in the BBC headquarters after all), maybe even someone with a microphone that could have recorded something to play on air (as far as I know playing stuff on air = exposure). Even if it was just the crudding interns who are desperately clawing at any chance to get experience in the industry, it's better than no-one. Just something to make it seem important or like it might be worthwhile turning up to any of the gigs. To be honest, I haven't seen any advertising for it at all; no website, no flyers, no programs lying about at the Forum, and if last night is anything to go by, the rest of the gigs will be pretty badly organised and probably underattended. Why would you bother?

Having said that, there was the dubious treat of party poppers and sequins about, which everybody duly decorated my newly shorn hair with. Before we had pictures taken by Volume, the online magazine. I will post the pictures of that as soon as I get them.

They did also go to the effort of planting trees inside the Forum. Which I enjoyed, and took several shit pictures of on my 3 pixel by 3 pixel cameraphone.

The Beach and The Sea

Trumpets II

So here’s a further investigation into trumpets playing in rock bands. This time it’s really tedious and quite in depth. Double win.

PHYSICS BIT:

So the concept of tuning in istruments is based on consonance and dissonance in sound waves. Two notes sound in tune if their nodes fall in the same place and the waves reinforce each other – such as multiples of a wave (harmonics), and out of tune if the nodes fall in different places, forming deconstructive waves. With deconstruction you can hear audible ‘beats’ where the volume repeatedly drops at the deconstructive summations. I don’t think anyone’s ever proved anything, but I suppose this is the source of the notion of ‘out-of-tune’, the compared irritation of pulsing volume versus the purity of a constant tone.

Multiplying the frequency of a wave means that whenever the displacement of the first wave is 0, so is the displacement of the higher tone, so they sound in tune. Other low ratios naturally sound in tune, e.g. 3:2 (perfect fifth) as after every two fundamental waves the displacement is both 0. Obviously certain low ratios all sound nice together, but as soon as you start fiddling with higher numbers like 9/8s things start to sound a bit off, and the deconstruction is more evident to the human ear. Twelve separate tones seems to be the limit of acceptability in this, any more and it sounds out-of-tune.

HISTORY BIT

There are two archaic systems which calculate all notes from a set interval and the octaves around each resulting new frequency.

Pythagorean:
A ratio of 3:2 takes a frequency up a perfect fifth. After 12 perfect fifths we should circle round to a unison note again (e.g. C G D A E B F# C# G# D# A# E# B#=C) however based on this notation it is obvious that B# does not = C in this case, as, based on the idea that octaves are some 2n multiple of the base frequency, this would imply that where x should be some whole number; in this case 129.2463 is not quite 128 where x = 7.

Hence the notion of a perfect fifth is not something that can be used to tune an instrument.
Compared to equal temperament, major intervals here are larger, and minor intervals are smaller. Bizarrely, before anyone thought of changing this system, people’s first port of call was redesigning instruments – harpsichords were often built with two tone keys for D#/Eb and G#/Ab, depending on what key you played in. Which I suppose is along the same lines as building a new piano everytime your old one went out of tune.

Meantone:
The next system was the mean tone system, built on major thirds – although this obviously had a problem of the same nature. This was slightly overcome by calculating whole tones as the mean half of a major third and semi-tones the half of the tone. The main problems with this tuning is that perfect fifths are far from perfect.


CONTEMPORARY BIT

Just intonation is based on harmonics of fifths and thirds, and makes adjustments in some of the smaller intervals in the scale, leading to the idea of major and minor whole tones. Interestingly the whole tone in the mean tone system is not only the mean of the major third, but also of the major and minor whole tones. This system is perfect for western music in instruments that can slightly alter tuning at will, because fifths and thirds are all perfectly in tune, the most dominant intervals in Western harmonic music.

Obviously some keys will sound better than others, as not all intervals are equal up and down the scale. If you are an instrument tuned to just intonation, you sound great in C, and shite in Db major.

Equal Temperament. At some point someone had the bright idea of tuning all intervals to be equal, i.e. taking an octave and dividing it into 12 equal parts. Thus every interval is the same at every point on the piano. This is brilliant because every key is equally in tune, however it does have the drawback of most intervals being approximations of just intonation, so major chords will not sound as good as just intonation.

If you are an untuned instrument (i.e. a voice) you’re great on your own, but shite if you’re with an equal temperament instrument like a piano. Naturally when one sings, one sings in just intonation. You just do, without thinking about it, because all the important intervals are percectly in tune. You adjust when you sing along to an equally tempered instrument such as a piano, which is fine if you can, but not necessarily so fine if you’re not playing an instrument that can quickly adjust tuning and intervals. This leads to the idea of bright and dull keys – for example, one has a tendency to sing flat in F or Bb major if accompanied by a piano.

So what does this mean in terms of the trumpet?

One:
If the same valve combinations are used to take each open harmonic up by a certain interval, since, in just intonation the intervals can differ slightly depending on what note you are playing in the key (a perfect fourth from unison is not the same as a perfect fourth from the major third), certain valve combinations will be out of tune with the desired interval. This can normally be altered with valve slides or skilful mouth-shape changes. Noteably, since the intervals between harmonics decreases in higher registers whilst there are still 6 valve combinations, certain valve combinations overlap with those in a different register. These will always be out of tune with each other.

Two:
Even with skillful adaptation of wolf notes, playing with an ensemble of musicians tuned in equal temperament will undoubtedly sound out of tune, especially in certain keys. Simply because the whole of certain registers will be slightly out, on top of the wolf notes which trumpets experience within their own tuning.

What can you do?

Fuck knows.

To be continued...

Your walls are thin, your house is made of twigs, and all your 'presents' are just farts.

You would

Give away anything
Under the sky
If it meant
I would stay here
Under your roof, but
I know the
truth; you need me
Here by your side
And Lord knows you've
Tried to sleep down
Here on your own
But you'd feel alone.

O! Your walls, your
Walls aren't so thick
Your house, it seems, is
Made out of
Twigs
And I can see right through.

The things you gave to keep
Us in your hold
The trinkets, the bijous are
Made out of
Air
So we can see right through.

Such Dizzying Movement

Job Satisfaction

In Which: Our Hero Finds A Man Younger Than He Who Is Lost In The Murky Depths Of A Self Perpetuating Paradoxical Job, And Realises The Fate Of The World Is At Stake.

I just met a 22 year old career advisor. What? Something about this seems distinctly wrong. How can someone who is only 22 give advice on careers? I asked him this and he told me he just advises people which courses to go on, ‘and stuff’. Now I don’t know about you, but I along with pretty much everybody I know (with a few notable exceptions) spent vast amounts of money on completely pointless degrees – not a waste of money exactly, because obviously we all had a great time getting spectacularly drunk and talking about how amazing anarchism is, but not exactly a career enhancer. I don’t see how someone who has done exactly the same thing can preach to little kids about the best way to advance in life.

Maybe this is the government’s way of pumping more people into university – employ a youngster who knows nothing about careers except for the merits of doing a degree or further education course. Simply by employing him he will be under the belief that a university degree is the answer to all of life’s uncertainties, and tell everyone else to take one. By the time the kids have finished their degrees and got a job in Tesco, they’ll be too old to go to the young person’s careers centre, and thus career man will never know. Beautiful.

There is an inherent cyclical irony in the fact that someone’s career path is defined by telling other people what their careers are. Surely the only career he knows properly is the career advice career. If kids go to him for advice, will they eventually end up as career advisers? Is this the fate of our planet, to all eventually become career advisers, millions of us telling each other what to do and how to achieve it?

God I’m a boring wanker.

On an entirely separate note, having written this, I realise what a brilliant word distinctly is, simply because of the cluster of consonants ‘nctly’.

Trumpets

So I've recently started hooting along to some songs by the Hair Traffic Control boys, playing at a couple of gigs, trumpeting on one or two songs, writing some new things. It has raised an interesting question in my mind - does trumpet work in a rock music setting?

The most common sighting of trumpets is in classical or jazz music. I think there is an obvious reason for this. The timbre of a trumpet is incredibly bright, narrow and piercing. And thus completely different to the timbre of guitars. So it sticks out like a sore thumb in a guitar band. As a classical or brass band player, one spends much of one's time adding melody and warmth to an overall sound. This is difficult if your sound is the most prominent and audible feature.

So should you attempt occasional trumpet lines in a guitar band; no brass no brass no brass and then a solo on top which stands out because of its loudness and textural difference? Jazz manages to blend both textural backing and prominent soloing because the timbres are all so similar, so in fact the reverse happens - there is a constant warmth of everything blended, and then when a solo is needed, everything else cuts out, leaving space.

Not to say that classical instruments are unwelcome in rock – string instruments turn up all the time and work very well (Grammatics, Nirvana, Cats in Paris, to name a few live acts), but then the timbre of a string instrument is, for obvious reasons, much closer to a guitar than a trumpet is.

I can only think of a couple of instances of trumpets in rock, and I'm not sure if any of them really work well. For the most part it's just gratuitous. The places it does work, is where there are other unusual instruments playing too, and it all contributes to a big twee mêlée, no one timbrely independent instrument sticking out over the rest. e.g. Calexico, Belle and Sebastian, Sufjan Stevens, &twee &twee...*

So with trumpet in a guitar band, is it best to stick to quiet constant playing adding warmth and subtle melody, or stick to obvious melodies over the top, punctuated bits of trumpet, to add to the 'epic' bits. The trouble with the first is that it is almost impossible for the trumpet to blend in entirely, and can easily end up as a constant unchanging horn mush at the back of the sound. The problem with the second is that it can sound crap, out of place and gratuitously baroque. Or Mexican, depending on how you play it. Or Christ forbid, you could end up with some horrible genre-fusion jazz-rock monster on your hands.

The reason, I should point out at this juncture, that jazz fusion worked (if for some reason you think it did...) was that it wasn't one jazz instrument with a rock band, or vice versa, but a mingle of equal parts of each.

This all also raises an important point. Either because the idea of a trumpet in rock, or simply the sound itself is so unusual, is it likely that a band would be defined because of its sound, not because of the quality of its music? This would obviously be a bad thing. I can think of a few people who are defined by their sound. And I'm not talking about style here, obviously I can think of plenty of people who have carved their own style, and it's a truly impressive and wonderful identity. But the Zutons? The Darkness? – a very distinct sound. I'm really just saying it's all too easy for it to be a gimmick.

Should a trumpet play in a rock band?

To be continued I suppose... I'll work on it.

*In my mind this is a hilarious pun on &c. &c.

Hommage à Picasso

Listening around today at work I discovered this, which made me extremely happy. Many sister bands to these people, most of which are all very lovely and twee Brighton folk, but these kids kick ass - really nice melodic songs. What really made me happy was that they joined in on the amazing Black Cab Sessions, which I'd neverh heard of before, but it transpires it also involves a session from Brian Wilson. Can't argue with that. Genius.

The Miserable Rich

Ce n'est pas une pipe.

Laurent Derrier

In Which: Our Hero Samples The Delights Of A Well Stocked Bar, And As Such Harps On Endlessly About His Pretensions For Champagne.

Had a bit of a boozy evening yesterday, as the pumps were installed at The Wine Cellar, all of the beers of course had to be tested. The beers we had pints of:

Staropramen
Kriek Strawberry beer
Becks Vier
Stella Artois
Stellar 4 (shit version of the above?)
Franzikran or some other such name
Staropramen (again) (lovely)

To celebrate getting through each of the beers, we opened a bottle of Laurent Perrier Rose. Now in general I don't drink beer. I will happily drink ale and bitter etc., but I can't really handle the fizz in beer, it makes me belch endlessly and of course the day after make me fart like a twenty year old datshund. It gives me horrible hang-overs and by the second pint makes me feel full, bloated, sick and angry. The only minor consolation in drinking a couple of pints of lager is the gush of relief you feel the next morning as you relieve the several atmospheres of gaseous pressure in your stomach with a deft insertion of your forefinger and a merrily eyewatering high-speed spew.

The only reason I ever say I like beer is because I once saw a video of Malcolm Gluck reporting on beer, and it was so pig-headed and fatuous in his adamant and generally uninformed hatred of it that it made me want to unequivocally support everything beer just to contradict him. Aquick google search tells me the video is here: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/video/2009/feb/06/gluck-cole-wine-beer

Hilariously Malcolm Gluck described himself along the lines of fighting for the ordinary wine drinker, against perceived snobbery and stuffiness in the wine industry. Just watch that video and enjoy what looks like a monk who's just been dragged through a Save the Children shop in 1982 wax less-than-lyrical about why he's right and everybody else is wrong, and stupid to boot.

Anyway. I can't stand lager because for the most part it is tasteless, and too fizzy. Franzikaren is a wheat beer, which I thouroughly enjoy, and the thickness of it detracts from the fizz. Staropramen is a lovely inbewteener of lager and wheat beer I suppose. Stella and Becks vier are standard, and Stella 4 disgusting. But the least appealing drink of the evening was the Laurent Perrier Rose. Strange really, considering it is about 25 times more expensive than any of the beers I tried. And I don't even like beer.

The point is, the Champagne is so designed - geared - towards young girls who want to actually taste something when they drink it, that everything about the Champagne is overblown. It's too sparkling. Interestingly it's the only Grande-Marque rosé which is made from 100% Pinot Noir that is macerated for a short while, rather than blended red and white wines.

People are so fucking stupid to buy some of this crap. There is a lot of Champagne out there which is leagues better than most sparkling wine - anyone who thinks Cava can taste as good as it is an idiot - but it's also ridiculously expensive. The problem is, there's also loads of Champagne out there which is worse than most supermarket Cava, but it's still turdingly dear.

The real quality Champagne is not overly fizzy or bright pink, it's light, enduring and subtle. Laurent Perrier is just another example of standard quality and mass production methods, with scary amounts of money behind it that can be spent on advertising.

Bleugh.