The New(ish) Journalism

Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. On Telly.

2008-07-03T02:09:00.005+01:00

I was planning a nice quiet night in Friday. Such sensible/boring actions have been made all the more inviting by the knowledge that Friday night is Nick Cave night on BBC Four. Festivities shall commence at 9.30pm. The main portion of the night will be an exclusive performance with the Bad Seeds in St. Luke's in London. It looks to be a damn impressive set.

There will be a "brisk version" - the man's own words - of "Into My Arms":

The less epochal "Moonland" will also get a whirl:

There shall also be the presentation of some archival footage of the Seeds and an interview with Mister Cave himself:

The man is a legend. The Late Late will be given a miss.

The Arrested Development Movie. It's On. Probably.

2008-07-01T20:52:00.008+01:00

Arrested Development was one of the most impressive American comedies of the past few decades. Its cancellation after three seasons was quite silly. An aberration only possible within the asinine doldrums of Fox, or so the conventional indie rhetoric would decree. To be honest, the reasons for its decease are inconsequential. Whatever they are, it is gone and our televisual viewing has been all the less for it since... However there is good news for fans of the show as it seems that its long rumoured return in movie form is all but confirmed. Jeffrey Tambor - the hilariously immoral patriarch George Bluth Sr. - had this to say (from Entertainment Weekly):

“After months of speculation, I think we have finally figured out for sure that we are indeed doing an Arrested Development movie," Tambor told EW.com at the premiere of Hellboy II on Sunday. "I am very excited about that. I love that cast and crew and I felt like we had more to say."

Huzzah! Now I fully realise that movie adaptations of television shows are generally quite bad. However, I suspect an AD movie would deviate from the norm on this one. For one thing, the makers of the show have never hidden their contempt for the cancellation:

And that was included as a DVD extra! You see, a successful AD movie would be the cast and crew's chance to show those responsible how wrong they were to cancel. Motivation will not be wanting. The end result? Who knows? It could be woeful, a needless blight on the show's ever burgeoning cult legacy. It could be a sporadically adequate titter inducer, something akin to The Simpsons movie. Or it could soar, a hilarious smash hit bringing it to previously unknowing worldwide audiences and bringing about a fourth season.

Then again, it could all just be another rumour. Bloody internets.

A Galway Film Fleadh Trailer Compendium

2008-06-30T23:11:00.009+01:00

The Galway Film Fleadh is almost upon us once again - running from the 8th to the 13th July, to be exact - and audiences appear to be in for a delectable cross section of the cinema this year. Allow me to present you with a few choice trailers.

First up, the quixotic Surveillance, directed by David Lynch's daughter Jennifer Lynch. Need more be said? It shall be visible Thursday 10th, 21:00, at the Town Hall:

Next, Taxi To The Dark Side, a concise and harrowing exploration of the suspicious death of an Afghan taxi driver at Bagram air base in 2002. The Oscar winning doc screens at 13:30, Friday 11th, in the Town Hall. Also, in association with Reprieve, immediately following the screening there will be a discussion with director Alex Gibney, Reprieve Staff Attorney, Cori Crider, and released Guantanamo prisoner, Moazzam Begg (tbc). Not to be missed:

The English Surgeon. Henry Marsh, one of London's foremost brain surgeons, has been going to Kiev for over 15 years in an attempt to improve upon the archaic brain surgery he first witnessed there in 1992. And yet he refuses to be cast as the faultless savior of the West. Instead, he openly confronts the problems of the doctor-patient relationship in such circumstances, his own selfish instincts, their dire need:

A slight change in tone next with J.C.V.D. A Jean Claude Van Damme movie. Yup, at a film festival. The plot? Jean Claude Van Damme, an aging star of bargain basement actioners returns to Belgium after a lengthy court battle that has cost him the custody of his daughter. He is broke. He 'dabbles' in coke. He is Van Damme doing nuance and introspection. Essential viewing really. Friday 11th at 21:15 in the Omniplex:

That's all for now folks. A minuscule snippet of the gems in store over the festival. The acquisition of a programme would be most advisable.

A Fitting Epitaph To A Particularly Wasted Weekend Via The Tube Of You.

2008-06-29T22:35:00.007+01:00

A monkey artfully riding a sheepdog at a rodeo:

The rather Woodian trailer for Roger Corman's interpretation of The Fantastic Four:

That's all from me folks. Blissful oblivion beckons from beneath the duvet.

Gonzo. The Trailer.

2008-06-25T01:32:00.007+01:00

Gonzo: The Life & Work Of Dr. Hunter S Thompson... Directed by Alex Gibney - the man behind the superb Enron: The Smartest Guys In The Room - this documentary looks like it shall be quite the trip. The twisted dynamic between the writer and his Hell's Angels, Muskie and his 'alleged' Ibogaine addiction, the truths behind the Fear & Loathing phenomenon, his brief flirtation with real power in Aspen... The Good Doctor, as narrated by Johnny Depp. Click here for a high-def version of the trailer or below for some grainy Youtube goodness:

Thompson once declared that he who makes a beast of himself takes away the pain of being a man. Hardly an empty proclamation from a man of his particular experience. A lot of his mania was undoubtedly narcissistic and egotistical, but this matters not. The 'beast' was so very right about so many things.

"I'm sick and tired of old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in." A George McGovern quote about Vietnam, yet it could so easily be the hopeful vision speak of Obama. I do wish HST was alive today so we may have known what he made of the current stew brewing across the pond.

"I'm so post-modern..."

2008-06-24T22:07:00.009+01:00

The Bedroom Philosopher. A Melbourne based folk comedian who is so post-modern that he writes reviews for funerals and heckles at weddings from inside a suitcase. The ironic cad:

My thanks to Tess for the heads up.

Adam, Joe, Pirates & Bicycle Helmets

2008-06-22T12:35:00.011+01:00

Mr Graham Linehan mentioned this the other day. It is an ode to the 'dangers' of video piracy. An ode born of the mind of Adam Buxton, one half of comedy quirksters Adam & Joe. It is rather humorous:

I was quite the fan of The Adam & Joe Show in the late 1990s. Never being a teenager for tortuous self-loathing and interminable angst, their marriage of cheeky irreverence, cuddly toys and novelty hats appealed to me greatly. That piss up in a brewery and Furends... Smashing stuff.

Adam's blog is also worth a perusal. For example, it turns out that he got a bit of copyright grief from YouTube for uploading the video that he and Garth Jennings directed for Radiohead's "Jigsaw Falling Into Place". Which is a legal grievance of startlingly retarded proportions really, seeing as he, like, you know, made the video. A great video too. Bicycle helmet cams are definitely the way forward:

Oh yeah, Adam's new show MeeBOX starts tonight on BBC3. It should well be a larf... I'm not on commission. Honest.

Sporto Kantès. A Summer Vibe.

2008-06-20T01:50:00.019+01:00

Sporto Kantès are a French group with an inclination toward funky retro electro. A French group whose most recent album is entitled 3 At Last. Be it the quixotically cheerful pastiche of "Whistle" or the more laid back rhythms of "Concrete", there is something here to grab the ear of most listeners. That said, it would be advisable that whilst listening, said listeners should be basking in glorious evening sunshine, on their fourth Corona and lime, carefully avoiding the gaze of their sensitive host as they slyly discard their soggy burger in the dirt... Yes indeed, this is unashamed summertime fun.

Here is "Whistle". Cute video too:

Scientology & Superheroes

2008-06-20T01:44:00.011+01:00

Apparently, in his new movie Hancock a drunken, superhuman Will Smith knocks a girl clear across a room with the superhuman strength of his ejaculation.

My word. Such is the asinine Hollywood brainlessness of the whole enterprise that no sarcastic tirade I could muster would be sufficiently damning. So without further ado, take it away comically incomplete movie poster:

2084 - A Vision Of A Post "Yes" Europe

2008-06-19T19:26:00.008+01:00

It was a fierce mild day in September and the hover-clocks were indicating thirteen. The New(ish) Journalist, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile drizzle, slipped quickly through the portal of Consensus Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent the laser scanners piercing his aged retinas.

The hallway smelt of damp croissant and cheap Bulgarovian wine. At one end of it a plasma fusion screen hovered two metres above the floor. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a newborn baby of about twenty five minutes, with the virgin inclinations of a smile. As always the face slowly began to fade away, the inclination vanquished, to be replaced by the mantra - NOT IF WE CAN HELP IT. The Journalist made for the lift. It was no use trying the instant teleportation matrix. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the wireless electric flux was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was fifty flights down, and The Journalist, who was one hundred and one years old and in constant agony, cursed the fifteen seconds he had to wait. All those seconds he waited, from each panel of the fusion wall reverberated the reminder, BRUSSELS IS WATCHING YOU.

Inside the flat he turned on his fusion screen. The communal leisure pursuit (or hurling as he once knew it) was on. The Northern Quadrant were leading the Eastern Quadrant by 3-16 to 2-10 in the All-Eurotopia Communal Leisure Pursuit Championship Final. The Easterners seemed completely indifferent even though there was nineteen minutes plus stoppages remaining. The Journalist sighed. The game was never the same once the players started getting paid. He moved over to the window: a decrepit, pathetic figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the constant tears smearing his gaunt cheek flesh. Damn leaky retinas. Damn lasers.

The Journalist reached for his eye ointment. He stopped. He gazed at the fusion screen once more. There was no change in the score. Northerners coasting to another triumph in the communal leisure pursuit. How surprising. "Ah fuck 'em! Just like those ould bastards from Kilkenny!" he muttered, as he turned once more for his ointment. He froze instantly, paralyzed by a long ingrained terror. How could he have been so stupid? Mentioning the forbidden ways out loud. Stupid, stupid old man. After all, his flat, like all others, was saturated with Ministry of Remembrance surveillance equipment. It was now only a matter of minutes.

New tears were forming. However these were not born of gappy retinas, but of regret. All of this suffering could so easily have been avoided. The stale hell that was Eurotopia would never have been if he and others like him had stood tall and done their diplomatic duty all those years ago... There would have been no mandatory decade of service in the Eurotopia Corps... There would have been no thirty year war with the Hated Chinese... There would have been no obligatory abortions in the aid of the communal fuel consumption... There would still be some ice at the North Pole... There would still be a Christmas... Damn it, there would still be hurling... If only he and others like him - the Irish, yes, that's what they were called, the Irish - had voted no in The Glorious Treaty. The callous benefit of hindsight, the ferocity of the lessons learned.

He heard the sirens outside Consensus Mansions. This was it. It was off to The Correctional Booths for him, to suffer for as long his rotten body would permit... Unless... He dived under his bed. He searched frantically for a few moments until he pulled out what he was looking for. A rudimentary homemade bodhrán, fashioned from a commemorative Consensus dish cloth won in a raffle many Hate Weeks ago and an antique smart car wheel. He began to bang on the bodhrán, weak yet insistent. It seemed time for one last wild one. He summoned every ounce of strength... "Yeeeeeeeeeooowwww!" The Banner Roar, alive and well in the Western Quadrant. He smiled broadly. He continued to beat the bodhrán, the rhythm emboldening him further. It was time for a song.

"Sinne Fianna Fáil,
A tá fé gheall ag Éirinn,
Buíon dár slua
Thar toinn do ráinig chugainn
Fé mhóid bheith saor,
Sean tír ár sinsir feasta..."

The hallowed couplets were being bellowed out for all to hear, at a volume which surprised even The Journalist himself. He stopped. He had caught his reflection in the window. A collection of small red dots were slowly making its way up his chest. There would be no booth for him. Not now. Not with such a large threat of remembrance amongst his neighbours. He needed taking down, and fast. He was glad his life was not flashing before his eyes. Why? Most of it was a twisted maelstrom of shite caused by his own indecision. Who needs to be reminded of that at their moment of passing? His smile grew broader still.

The dots were between his eyes now. There was a flash. The body of The New(ish) Journalist slumped to the floor, the bodhrán falling in unison. The instrument hit the ground and rolled clumsily away from the corpse, not stopping until it was once more concealed beneath the bed.

The drizzle continued unabated. The Remembrance Police cursed their luck. A soggy body was harder to burn.

Bob Dylan + Neil Young = €80 Admission

2008-06-18T11:12:00.008+01:00

Where is such wondrous value possible you might ask?

Why, at Optimus Alive, of course. It is that most current of indie necessities - a 3 day festival in Europe - and many other bands shall be plying their musical wares. They include:

Rage Against the Machine, Bob Dylan, Neil Young, The Hives, Nouvelle Vague, Within Temptation, Peaches, The National, The Gossip, Tiga, CSS, Gogol Bordello, Vampire Weekend, MGMT, MSTRKRFT, Uffie, Spiritualized, Róisín Murphy, The John Butler Trio, Donavon Frankenreiter, SebastiAn, Ben Harper & The Innocent Criminals, Boys Noize, DJ Mehdi, Midnight Juggernauts, Xavier Rudd, Busy P, The Juan Maclean, Vicarious Bliss, Hercules and Love Affair, Feadz, Krazy Baldhead, Galactic, Mr Flash, Buraka Som Sistema, Brodinski, Sizo, Kumpania Algazarra, Banda Soundtribes.

As stated above, all for a paltry €80. It is on the same weekend as Oxegen so if interested the putting on of one's skates would be advisable.

The only catch? It's on in Lisbon. Yes, that Lisbon. Grrr. Etc.

"What's the capital of Dallas?"

2008-06-18T10:09:00.004+01:00

With The Internet you can now find out in a matter of minutes:

Very Kip Smithers.

The Sublime Idiocy Of The Valued Customer # 2

2008-06-16T23:25:00.006+01:00

INT - Any Ubiquitous High Street Entertainment Outlet. Again.

A valued staff member carrying a clipboard is quite clearly performing some sort of inventory check, again. He is wearing a company t-shirt and wearing a glaringly obvious name badge, again. A valued customer approaches him, again. This one is holding a copy of Now 69.

Valued Customer:
Sorry now, but this might seem like a silly question.

Valued Staff Member:
Yes?

Valued Customer:
(pointing to her copy of Now 69)
Was there one of these before this one?

Valued Staff Member:
(with a Herculean lack of sarcasm)
Well miss, there were actually 68.

This Sublime Idiocy Of The Valued Customer... It may very well become a series folks.

Glenn Wool. In Galway & Dublin.

2008-06-15T18:37:00.009+01:00

Glenn Wool... A Canadian comedian who currently resides in London... A Canadian comedian who plays ice hockey for the London Devils in his spare time... A Canadian comedian who mines humour nuggets from topics as varied as Islam in China, sexually transmitted diseases and his moustache... A Canadian comedian who is coming to Ireland this week... Here he is on the redundancy of modern swearing:

Oh yeah, NSFW... Catch him at The Laughter Lounge of Galway in the Róisín Dubh this Wednesday, 18th June. Or do likewise in The Laughter Lounge of Dublin in, well, The Laughter Lounge this Saturday, 21st June.

The Peculiarities Of The Irish Sporting Summer. On Television.

2008-06-09T12:26:00.011+01:00

Yesterday afternoon, as I sat nursing an angry stout hangover whilst watching Tipperary beat Cork in the Munster Hurling Championship, a profound sense of national identity threatened to overwhelm me. The cause of this impulse? The following nuggets of punditry by Michael Duignan and Cyril Farrell.

Duignan praising Eoin Kelly's first half goal:

"That's brilliance at its best Marty."

Farrell discussing the proximity of an Eoin Kelly free to the Cork posts:

"Sure that's like throwing nuts to a monkey."

Of course it is, Cyril. Of course it is... Now, I realise that sport is ordinarily not the remit of The New(ish) Journalism, but I felt that I must use this forum of mine to give props to RTE's televisual GAA commentary and analysis. There is a unique and vibrant poetry to it all. Is there another land in which thirty men attempting to decapitate each other with sticks would glibly be referred to as a "schmozzle"? Is such a colloquialism the result of a wild and pagan Celtic idiom at odds with the colonial structure of the Queen's language? Or is it merely a load of rural ráiméis? I suppose the answer to that question depends on you and your connection to The Parish. Or lack thereof.

A connection. Something that is once again missing at a major international soccer tournament. Euro 2008 is upon us, no Irish presence, and yet RTE still insists on getting Pavlovian on our asses. Advertisement and analysis seep forth at every opportunity, a constant bell ensuring our constant salivation. Yet there will be no food, no substance. Instead, a maelstrom of the inconsequential. Germany will win a match on penalties. Cristiano Ronaldo will cry. The Beeb will vacuously fawn and/or bemoan the lack of an English presence. Giles and Dunphy will self-contradict lyrical about the death of the game, the lack of "great players" and work ethic. You already know these things, and you don't really care.

Face it. The Irish people need a parochial interest in their summertime sport. Celebration of artistry is all well and good, but an emotional edge is our necessity. It comes with the involvement of your county team in the autumn. It comes with the well intentioned stutterings of our soccer team in the group stages and subsequent moral victory married with demented binge drinking. It comes with the glorious and hypocritical schadenfreude enjoyed when observing the pantomime that is Team Eng-Ger-Lund in such competition. Alas, it just ain't coming from Austria or Switzerland.

Still, at least Aprés Match is back on our screens. In celebration, the very first glimpse of the group's parody stylings on Irish television... A sketch on Barry Murphy's Friday night version of The End in 1994... Memories:

Yes indeed, glorious memories.

Donkey Kong. A Hard Ass Game.

2008-06-06T19:00:00.004+01:00

Team Genius. A motley crew of lighting experts and velociraptors, apparently. Very funny though. The following ode to the difficulty of that level in Donkey Kong Country 2 with the "thorns and shit" is a geeky delight:

Via The Fabulistas.

Whilst on the subject of everybody's favourite barrel chucking simian, a quick glance at the following trailer would be quite fitting:

Donkey Kong, "sort of like the abortion issue". Well, according to Billy Mitchell. Who? You know, Billy Mitchell; the undisputed Donkey Kong world record holder and questionable star of The King Of Kong: A Fistful Of Quarters... It's Rocky with nerds, and I cannot wait to see it.

The Random Observations Of A Jaded Cynic. Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Accept The Truth As I See It And As Everybody Else Should Too. #2

2008-06-06T18:42:00.005+01:00

Dallas - Oil + Shoes = Sex & The City

The Sublime Idiocy Of The Valued Customer

2008-06-06T18:19:00.004+01:00

INT - Any Ubiquitous High Street Entertainment Outlet.

A valued staff member carrying a clipboard is quite clearly performing some sort of inventory check. He is wearing a company t-shirt and wearing a glaringly obvious name badge. A valued customer approaches him.

Valued Customer:
Sorry, do you work here?

The valued staff member slowly turns around. A weary exhalation of breath punctuates this cautious pirouette. There is a glazed look in his eyes, a curiously simultaneous marriage of indifference and vitriol.

Valued Staff Member:
Yes... Can I help you?

Valued Customer:
Yeah. I'm looking for a Jean-Claude Van Damme movie. You know, the one where he hurt his finger.

Valued Staff Member:
Erm.

A Russian Boy Band. A Music Video.

2008-06-02T12:40:00.006+01:00

Ye Gods! It may be something of an oldie, yet until yesterday I had remained joyfully oblivious. Observe to the end:

A gracious hat tip to Ronan, the ultimate purveyor of all things Parmesan. With added critique of post Soviet malaise. Possibly.

Watch this one too. A slightly more subtle exercise in this particular brand of awfulness, although one of them is wearing a Wrangler t-shirt. Really. In retrospect, I bet he wishes he went for some X-Worx.

Dan Deacon. Talking About New Album.

2008-05-29T09:55:00.005+01:00

In a recent interview with Pitchfork, Dan Deacon speaks candidly about his new album. Titled Bromst, it is due to be released later this year. It promises to be a "much darker", more "mature" and "organic" proposition than his Spiderman collection. The electronics, MIDI, voice combo will not dominate this time round. Live instrumentation and sampling will be central. Most of the tracks will be heavily percussion based, with sporadic smatterings of marimba, xylophone, glockenspiel, and vibraphone. Intriguing. However, due to this aesthetic deviation there will be no place for the euphoric "Silence Like The Wind" on the album. A pity really.

Dan also rails against the predilection amongst music critics to label him "wacky". It denotes a lack of seriousness about his work that pisses him right off. He hints at drastic changes to his live show to coincide with the more organic timbre to this album. Dan Deacon, with a band, on a stage. Say it ain't so! Yet before this causes a ripple of panic amongst those of you who have purchased a ticket for Dan, Jape et al as part of the upcoming Future Days buzz in Vicar Street, fear not. The changes are not due until 2009.

In celebration of his burgeoning album and upcoming appearance in Dublin, do enjoy the (relatively) new video for "Okie Dokie":

It must be said, the Future Sounds line-up is really rather good. Y'all got your tickets?

Wristcutters: A Love Story

2008-05-28T13:10:00.003+01:00

Wristcutters: A Love Story... The premise? A heartbroken man commits suicide only to find that the afterlife is just like this one, only slightly worse. He gets a job in a pizza joint. He cannot smile. Nobody can... The trailer:

Fascinating, and it has just been released on DVD on these shores. Oh yeah, if the hipster chic quotient wasn't already high enough, a certain Tom Waits appears as a spirit guide. The money grabbing bastard!

The New(ish) Gaming Industry Tycoon

2008-05-27T19:03:00.010+01:00

String Quartet for XBox 360. The must have gift this Christmas.

Good evening folks! Fancy a bit of gaming industry gossip? The New(ish) Journalist is on the cusp of a major contract with the makers of Rock Band. Inspired by the screaming relevance and intelligence of said game, I approached said industry folks with the following two words: String Quartet. "Imagine the joy", I said, "as you and a couple of mates rock out to some nuanced Gustav Mahler compositions over some Merlot and hazelnut foie gras!" Sacks of cash were instantly flung in my direction. A Christmas deadline now looms ominously on my horizon.

They also responded positively to a few of my other ideas. Accordion Hero was greeted with a particular rapture. Unfortunately the proposal hinges utterly on the acquisition of the entire back catalogues of Sharon Shannon and Foster & Allen. We're hopeful. In addition, Jew's Harp Hero and Barbershop Quartet are being focus grouped. Initial feedback is promising.

What can I say? I'm an ideas man. Always have been, always will be. I don't just think outside the box. I tear the box asunder, make a paper/cardboard airplane out of the remnants, and then fling it directly into the corneas of my competition. Their tears please me.

A Suicidal Kermit The Frog

2008-05-26T19:54:00.005+01:00

Sad Kermit plays a beautiful Elliott Smith number, throws something of a wobbler and goes all Richie Tenenbaum. A truly bizarre one this and more than a little unsettling. Observe:

Careful Now! Galway In Illegal Sexy Cinema Shocker!

2008-05-24T11:00:00.003+01:00

For those of you who may be unaware, there has been a bit of fuss recently in Galway about the owners of a sex shop who are allegedly misusing their premises as a cinema. A dirty cinema. For the full depraved tale, click here.

However, the story as I see it is really all about this quote from suitably outraged Galway city councillor Padraig Conneely:

"There are already two of them in the city, they have planning permission for a shop but not for a cinema. A lot of the business they do is for things like hen parties. When I went up for the look myself, I saw two young women coming out with bags of stuff, you know, the dildos and blow up dolls and all that type of thing. It's done all over the country."

Magnificent.

The Tom Waits Ticket Price "Issue".

2008-05-22T11:20:00.004+01:00

My take on the matter.

As the grotesquely knowledgeable Jim Carroll pointed out yesterday, Tom Waits is playing three shows in Dublin this summer. These will be in The Ratcellar, an all-seated marquee in the Phoenix Park. Tickets will be €116.25 and €131.25 and are available from Tuesday next at the ninth bell in the morning.

Obviously, these are rather expensive prices. Yet before one drowns in a stew of righteous indignation, one should take a step back from one's creaky pulpit. Take a breath. Consider. Tom Waits is a professional artist, surrounded by evidently skilled professional business people who want to make as much money as possible. The man has an utterly devoted fanbase and he never performs here. The demand for tickets will therefore be stratospheric so it makes sense that the price should soar in tandem.

Personally, whilst being a big admirer of the man's music, I don't think it is worth it. For that much cash I would have to be seeing Tom in a basement jazz bar in Paris, quadruple gin in my hand, saturated in cigarette smoke. His heavy delivery reverberating around the room as I weep silently for my recently departed Brazilian lingerie model with a PHD in metaphysics. After the gig Tom will sidle up beside my in my poorly lit booth, throw an arm around my shoulder, a torn packet of Gitanes on the table. With a click of his fingers Anna Karina walks straight out of that scene in Vivre Sa Vie and starts to sway, demure and interested. That devilish grin will linger a bit, "Johnny Boy, it's all gonna be okay!"

Probably not gonna happen in a tent in Dublin. Therefore, I'm not going to buy a ticket. As a consumer I have made a conscious and informed choice about a product. Boo! Hiss! Tom Waits is above capitalism and all those evils! Erm, clearly not. It is up to you then, Adult Consumer A, if you are willing to fork out. If you are sufficiently devoted to the Tom Waits legend then buy a ticket and go see him in concert with 6,000 like minded folks. If not, then shut up. Your whining is ridiculous.

Scarlett Johansson's Tom Waits Album. Utterly Pointless Really.

2008-05-20T00:30:00.008+01:00

Don't get me wrong. This is by no means the worst musical vanity project ever bestowed upon us by Hollywood. Actually, the music itself is inviting. TV On The Radio dude Dave Sitek's production is typically dense and some of the arrangements are quite pretty.

My gripe is with the artiste. A fine actress she may be, but Scarlett ain't got the lungs for a Tom Waits number or ten. The gravelly Galoises engraved lungs. The joy of a great Tom Waits song is in the conviction of his expression. By turns world weary, demented, angry or crestfallen, the man always growls from experience. His is a life fully lived. And he is all the cooler for it.

Scarlett is 23 years old. She does not growl. She whines. Her lower octaves and breathy delivery operate purely on an aesthetic level. There is no passion, no evidence of emotional devastation. Uncomfortable and self-aware, she never once makes the listener believe. Whilst never sounding horrible, the album is ultimately a soulless exercise. An achievement in itself considering her accomplished wordsmith.

As relevant as a Bella from Fair City album of Tommy Fleming covers.

By the by, if you want to hear some worthwhile music from a Hollywood actress then check out She & Him. The delectable Zooey Deschanel and M. Ward make with the Juno loveliness buzz. "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" is on heavy rotation at the moment. Give it a whirl.

The Happening. A Promising Premise.

2008-05-19T20:38:00.005+01:00

A decidedly morose trailer too:

All rather intriguing. The question then is can M. Night Shyamalan finally deliver a satisfactory end product with The Happening? Can this film, unlike any of his previous attempts, truly do justice to the ingenuity of his premise? Or shall we be assaulted once again with a contrived maelstrom of self-indulgence and "metaphor"?

Honestly, if it were any other director attached to this project then I would be genuinely excited by the above. Alas, cynicism must be my reflex... I mean, the aliens were killed by water. Water. 71% of the planet is covered in something that kills them slowly and painfully. So they invade it. Morons.

The Subtle Art Of Music Criticism. Or Nothing Like It.

2008-05-11T18:40:00.005+01:00

We Versus The Shark. Sound like hitting a girl in the stomach. Apparently.

Just the other day a mate of mine came to me with an old copy of Hot Press - Vol. 32 Issue 6, Nick Cave cover - that he had picked up in Róisíns for free. Ahem. He told me to flick to the 42nd page of the publication. There was a sidebar concerned with burgeoning bands at indie spectacular SXSW. I read the following gibberish in said sidebar:

We Versus The Shark.

The pitch: an Athens, Georgia combo who sound like The White Stripes being punched in the stomach by Metallica.

Ok then.

What does that even mean? Not only does it give you no clue as to the musical inclination of the band - except maybe a tendency to be loud - but it also condones violence against women... Run Meg White! Run for the hills! There are incongruous and lazy metaphors on the rampage!

Not cool. However, I nevertheless understand that it can be hard for journalists to keep making with the pithy and the ironic on a fortnightly basis. I really do. And so I have decided to be kind to those of you in such a predicament. Feel free to borrow any of the following witticisms, each one more illuminating than the last:

The New(ish) Journalist's Glossary Of The Incongruous and Lazy. For Music Journalists.

1. Sounds like BAND NAME never calling BAND NAME back.

2. BAND NAME sound tighter than putting on your girlfriend's skinnies. Backwards. On Hill 16.

3. BAND NAME, as angry as a drunk Tony Soprano in an episode of Sex And The City.

4. Sounds like BAND NAME getting a reach around from a mustachioed George Formby.

5. Imagine BAND NAME alone on a broken down ghost train in Mullingar.

6. A soundscape as bleak as Bosco on smack. Smack supplied by BAND NAME.

7. BAND NAME, BAND NAME, and BAND NAME all walk into a bar. It's not funny.

8. If Disney made a porno, this would be the soundtrack.

So there you go folks. Pilfer as you please. Indeed, if anybody is still stuck then feel free to email me for pointers. Consider me the Robert Towne of Irish music journalism.

This glossary is also suitable for aspiring indie kids. One of these bombs would garner much chin stroking and smugness dropped barside in Whelans. You might want to learn them off though. A printout would cause an unsightly bulge in those Topman skinnies.

The Great Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip Review. Episode # 2: The Galway Gig.

2008-05-10T11:43:00.010+01:00

Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip - Stress! @ De Burgos, Galway, May 8th.

Outside. Some greasy steps on Augustine Street. The drizzle is incessant, merciless. Well, as merciless as drizzle can be. And yet despite such meteorological pettiness, the queue continues to grow. Cheeky cans are quaffed and whimsies are spun, and the queue continues to grow. A peculiarly menacing gentleman in a floral umbrella, shorts, socks and sandals combo passes by. The queue continues to grow. The doors open suddenly. The queue shall grow no longer. There are no tickets left. Clutches of Galwegian musos meander home disappointed. There will be neither Dan Le Sac nor Scroobius Pip for them tonight, on this the first completely sold-out date of their Irish tour. The gentlemen responsible at Stress!! look content. As do the ticket holders.

Inside now. Damp do and sweaty Tiger beers. The breeze is shot to pieces. In the cosy confines of De Burgos, proximity to the artiste is paramount. Haste is required. We venture towards the stage. Whereon we witness the beginning of the support set. A comically hirsute Vince Mack Mahon are ripping it up. This foursome - Deviant, Hideous Penguin, Mikey Fingers, and DJ Tweek - now call Galway their home, having arrived here from corners as wonderfully disparate as Cork, Killarney and Roscommon. Their buzz is scratch perversion and those in attendance are really rather enjoying it all. It goes a little something like this... Sans Mantua '07 environs, of course.

Evangelical seems to be an adjective of choice when Master Scroobius Pip is discussed by critics. Apt. The crowd's reception of him and his suitcase of tricks is no less than rapturous. The niceties are kept to a minimum as he and Dan Le Sac launch directly into "The Beat That My Heart Skipped". The tempo is set. Then swiftly re-aligned. "Magician's Assistant" is next up, bringing it with it all the merriment and body movin' that a song about suicide can. Cue an ironic grin and self-aware joking from Scroobius. Is it enough?

More tunes. Chronology fails me now. "Development" sounds fuller and punchier than on the album. The props may have something to do with this. A lesson in entertainment from the bygone Tommy C perhaps? "Angles" is particularly impressive with Scroobius relishing in the visceral delivery of his parable. A Blair and Bush baiting piece of (un)spoken word poetry elicits one of the biggest cheers of the evening. An emphasis of the talent in our midst. Pip demands an instant frenzy for the thumping "Back From Hell". The neon brigade front left comply completely.

The best saved for last? "Thou Shalt Always Kill" is obviously glorious. The zealotry with which Pip's commandments are bellowed back at him makes it all the more enjoyable. Radiohead and Le Sac soundtrack the closing opus. "Letter From God To Man" exists as a definition of literate and socially aware hip-hop. Guns, bitches and bling pale into insignificance when in ironic discussion with a deity. Thomas Hobbes, bile from the Big Guy, a fucked up state of nature. With dancing. Which is nice.

Alas, that perpetual niggle of the hip-hop gig, it all seems like it is over too soon. Yet there are no complaints as the crowd begins to disperse, amiable and content. Dan Le Sac and Scroobius Pip seem quite satisfied themselves. As well they might. Job done. Sporadic flashes of brilliance. Tour finished. Their place on quite a few pedestals in Galway assured.

The Great Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip Review. Episode #1: The Album.

2008-05-10T11:12:00.008+01:00

Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip - Angles.

Let me get the versus issue out of the way from the get go. There is only one winner in the battle between Dan Le Sac and Scroobius Pip... And it is most certainly Master Pip. A poetic soul, an inquisitive inclination, an ear for a punchline. A discourse encompassing the evils of warfare, the hypocrisies of the NME brigade, and lurve. Impressive, no? Do not misunderstand me, Dan Le Sac is an artist of no little talent. However, would he ever have permeated the indie consciousness to such an extent without his able MC at his side?

The lyrical agility of Scroobius Pip is something to behold. Whilst he may not be the finished article in terms of flow, his keen intelligence more than makes up for this minuscule grievance. He tears the zeitgeist asunder on breakthrough hit "Thou Shalt Always Kill", hilariously underlining the many inanities of our very particular generation. A quote would be redundant at this stage, surely. He is prepared to examine the deeper issues too. Self-harm and alienation on "Magician's Assistant": "But then... what about me? / What kind of boyfriend am I? / Instead of living a life I was a big part of, you would rather die. / Instead of fighting through together and turning things around / You decided the grass was greener on the other side of the ground." "Reading My Dreams" is an exercise in subtle love poetry, an album closer of touching beauty and fragility: "I adjust to rest upon her sweet breast / And on her torso more so / In each others arms and with interlocked hands / Lay two smiling faces and one set of plans." And we return to the humorous once again, with this snippet from "Rapper's Battle", one of many examples of Pip's way with a punchline: "You can hear her every word, you would still never know me / Like Sean Penn could win 10 Oscars but he'll still be Spicoli."

There are moments of brilliance on this album during which the skills of both artists operate in dexterous and harmonious union... The thundering exclamation of Le Sac's beat on "Thou Shalt Always Kill" is the perfect foil to the urgency of Pip's proclamations. Le Sac's staccato composition on "Angles" deftly reinforces the uncomfortable lyrical narrative. Unfortunately it is not consistently so. There is a messiness to Dizzie Rascal nod "Fixed" that weakens Pip's sarcastic tirade. A confused pity. "Rapper's Battle" is a few edits away from a complete tune, Pip's vocals oscillating wildly throughout the mix. And whilst "Letter From God To Man" is quite the indie/liberal anthem, it would have benefited from slightly less noodling. Only slightly.

Angles is not perfect. There are flaws. However, these can and should be ignored. For this album is imbued with a freshness and urgency that leaves many contemporaries in its wake, be they within the realm of hip-hop or otherwise. Via the dexterity of Scroobius Pip the listener can be transported to a unique oasis of wit and inarguable potential. Once there the body pops are enabled by Monsieur Le Sac. Really, what more could one ask from a debut? They are, after all, just a band.

I'm not very good at this blogging lark.

2008-04-30T21:19:00.007+01:00

Ahem.

The decidedly eagle eyed amongst you may have noticed a significant drop in posting round these parts over the past few weeks. A most bothersome state of affairs for which I apologise profusely. Yet it could not be helped. A temporarily decrepit laptop and two separate cowboy attempts at repairing said laptop saw to that. However, the third attempt seems to have been successful, so far anyway.

I've missed my wee soapbox in the interim. So much reactionary sarcasm, such disinterested and immune friends. Truly, those guys stopped listening many moons ago. I can't even remember the last time they really listened... Sigh... Those carefree guys. Those endless summer nights down by the jetty in Mr. Stephenson's dinghy. Blueberry soda in one hand, swish stick in the order, guffawing loudly as the smooth pebbles flit gracefully across the still water and off the forehead of a retarded heron... I often wonder if I'll ever have days like those again. Christ, will anyone? Is it possible that we have all changed that much?

It is at this time of indifference then that I turn to you all once more folks. Is there a place for me still in your warm keyboardy bosom? Oh do say yes. For I am ready to fully re-immerse myself into this New(ish) Maelstrom buzz. I really do crave the validation, the communal gratification of the comment, the endless supply of chicks. I have ideas too, a few of them not crap. For example, there is another blog by yours truly ambling slowly towards the horizon. A more specific effort - very much in relation to my MA - that shall coexist in harmony with the shambles you see before you.

So there you go folks, my recent inactivity explained. A busted laptop and an unwillingness to habitually frequent the fine internet cafés that Galway has to offer. It's not that I'm a snob. Honest. It's just that I find it difficult to mine my own particular brand of blog gold dust when another panicked Spanish student has locked herself into a phone booth and a clutch of scobettes cackle at the "shtate of dat wan Tiffany" at a recent 16th birthday in Moycullen... Ah yes, the (not so) quiet wonder of the Bebo stalk.

I'm rambling now, and I must be off. Fret not however, as further narcissistic self-importance is quite, quite imminent.

Or something.

The Random Observations Of A Jaded Cynic. Or How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Accept The Truth As I See It And As Everybody Else Should Too. #1

2008-04-09T22:08:00.013+01:00

I thought I was listening to The Kooks' new album Konk the other day. It turns out I was just standing beside a freshly painted wall.

"Have you seen in your dreams?"

2008-04-07T23:33:00.009+01:00

I present to you Miracle Fortress and the wondrously lush slice of song that is "Have You Seen In Your Dreams?". It was Nialler - but of course - who first alerted me to this Montréal indie pop outfit. A fine and tasteful discovery to be sure. Yet as lovely as this song is, the video itself is almost lovelier:

Such a sweet and unashamed childhood nostalgia buzz. Such brilliant execution of the idea too. Which is nice.

British Long Haulage Firm. The Cartoon.

2008-04-07T23:32:00.007+01:00

Eddie Stobart is apparently the United Kingdom's most famous logistics company. Indeed, such is the company's universal acclaim that some venerable marketing folk decided that it should venture into the realm of children's entertainment. The animated mutant that is Steady Eddie was conceived:

Yup, the old "get the pre-schoolers into long haulage" dollar. Marketing strategy at its most crushingly asinine. Seriously, what kind of mongoloid would actually buy this monstrosity for their child? I can imagine the exchange running like so:

"Dad, this is shit."

"But son, it's an animated truck/corporate logo that delivers produce!"

"..."

"And look at the special features son... You can watch an actual Eddie Stobart delivery being made. At night time! But wait, there's more! Once the truck arrives at its destination you can watch the staff there tiredly scurrying about the store attempting to get the produce on the shelves before the shop opens!"

"Mum was right to leave you."

Eddie Stobart, I tip my hat to you sir. For you truly are a business man of some considerable taste and moral acumen. Why, I was just chatting to the Eddie Stobart Girls the other day:

"..."

A Catchy Wee Ditty About An American Football Team... In Glasgow... In the 1980s.

2008-04-06T21:04:00.006+01:00

Really:

Skins. The Yoof.

2008-04-04T21:07:00.004+01:00

Up until very recently I had never watched E4's Skins. Therefore, wondering what all the fuss was about and feeling slightly out of touch with my wee be-neoned brethren, I committed myself to watching an entire episode an evening or two ago.

I was amazed. The hype is thoroughly deserved. For Skins is a truly groundbreaking and searingly relevant television drama. Barrier upon barrier, preconception upon preconception, all obliterated. My socially conscious fogey mind, enfeebled, unable to deal... Honestly, these people are visionaries. Soothsayers.

Teenagers like sex!

Teenagers are often selfish and spoilt!

Teenagers take substances that are bad for them!

Teenagers go to school!

Fuck me. There was just so much that I did not know.

Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip. In Galway.

2008-04-04T19:08:00.004+01:00

Cool. Cool. Cool.

Regular readers of this blog would already be aware of the stratospheric regard in which I hold the musical duo Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip. It came as a rather pleasant surprise then to learn that Master Pip's dexterous rhymes are soon to be spat in the city of Galway... In De Burgos, on the 8th day of May. Despite a periodic aberrance of sound system at the Picnic they nevertheless put on quite the show last September. In the intimate basement milieu of De Burgos, this gig assumes the status of unmissable. Truly.

Infinite kudos to those responsible at Stress!! for getting the lads in to perform. Galwegian music types are already well aware of the quality buzz that a Stressful night entails. This addition to their roster can only strengthen the event's ever growing reputation. As will the ludicrously cheap tickets. Admission shall be €12. A pittance really.

In other good related news, the debut Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip LP shall be released on the 12th May. Unfettered glee buzz.

As another matter of interest, other folks who have performed at Stress!! and are decidedly worth checking out include: The Infomatics, Beatpoet ("Tao" is such a tune!), Chequerboard, Paul O'Reilly, Mirakil Whip, and Francis Heery... If unaware of any of the above artistes then commence with the clicking. A worthwhile tapestry of tunes awaits.

Dave Gorman's Book Launch. In Galway.

2008-03-26T11:34:00.004Z

Dave Gorman is one of my favourite comedians. His is an intelligent and insightful brand of humour that is becoming all too rare nowadays. It is a happy occurence then that he shall soon be in my town of residence, namely Galway. His reason for doing so? To launch his new book, America Unchained: A Freewheeling Roadtrip In Search of Non-Corporate USA.

Whilst the book will be available from the 3rd April, Dave shall be in the Róisín Dubh on Sunday 27th April for an official launch shindig. His appearance comes as part of this year's impressive Cúirt programme. Literature and comedy enthusiasts take note, it shall all commence at 4pm and tickets are a trifling €8. Acquire them here.

I'm really rather looking forward to this. The documentary of the same title was very interesting indeed:

I Am Cuba

2008-03-22T19:59:00.008Z

Mikhail Kalatozov's Soy Cuba (I Am Cuba). An absolute miracle of the cinema. An epic and poetic homage to the tenets of communism. Four almost wordless vignettes are dexterously woven; each one meant to underline the dichotomous and immoral nature of Batista's pre-revolution regime in Cuba. Grinding poverty versus mindless excess. Be under no illusion, this is propaganda at its most potent. However, not even the most apolitical amongst us could fail to be moved by the beauty and mobility of Kalatozov's direction... The funeral procession sequence blows my mind every time:

Film criticism can but flounder when attempting to adequately discuss genius such as this. Even so, this is my compendious take on the subject: I Am Cuba is irrefutable verification of the cinema's existence as an art form. Utterly peerless.

Why the random hyperbolic praise of Soviet cinema? Well, I finally picked up a copy of this film on DVD yesterday. Anyone with even a passing interest in the medium should do likewise. Click here, it being quite ludicrously cheap. Go now comrades!

Lawrence Of Arabia. In Topman.

2008-03-20T20:44:00.007Z

INT - A Trendy High Street Mens Clothing Boutique. By The Accessories Stand.

A man dressed entirely in white robes strides up to an immaculately coiffured but quite vacuous shop assistant. The man in white robes is none other than T.E. Lawrence, a man perhaps more popularly known as Lawrence Of Arabia. He carries himself with an unmistakable air of dignity and decorum. Derek, the assistant, is texting somebody with unerring rapidity. He does not even glance at his newest customer.

Lawrence Of Arabia:
Good day to you sir! I was wondering if you could be of assistance.

Derek exhales slightly. He still refuses to look up. He tosses his fringe in a spasm of misguided nonchalance. His thumb is a blur.

Lawrence Of Arabia:
Indeed... You see young man, I am about to embark on another military expedition with my Arab cohorts - their rebellion being most dear to me - and I wish to acquire some much needed clothing and supplies... First off, where do you keep your keffiyehs?

Derek:
Our wha?

Lawrence Of Arabia:
You know, your keffiyehs. I saw some youths gathered outside the local phonograph emporium. They were all wearing keffiyehs. And when I inquired as to where they obtained them, they said to come here.

Derek:
Wha?

Lawrence Of Arabia:
Damn it man, do you not even know what a keffiyeh is?

Derek:
Afraid not bud.

Lawrence Of Arabia:
How bastard tiresome of you!

Lawrence then storms out of the shop, knocking over a basket of checkered neon belts and string vests on sale for €2. Derek is about to settle back into his texting groove when another customer slowly enters the shop... It is Yasser Arafat.

Derek:
Alright Yasser man! Those new scarves you ordered came in! They're deadly, go really well with me scruffy Cons.

Yasser Arafat:
Sweet.

Go Away Muse!

2008-03-19T00:37:00.006Z

Please.

Your new live CD and DVD is terribly irritating. You are not Queen. This is not bombast. It is an excessive ego wank. Seriously, a room at a Holiday Inn, a roll of Bounty and some old Q reviews would have been way cheaper lads.

Muse... Bon Jovi for teenagers who wish they were only children.

In Bruges. A Review.

2008-03-18T23:58:00.009Z

Martin McDonagh. A bona fide gifted playwright. Martin McDonagh. An Oscar winner. Martin McDonagh. A man whose scripts are prone to the odd expletive and even odder socially irresponsible diatribe... In Bruges. Martin McDonagh's debut feature as both screenwriter and director. In Bruges. A very satisfying and worthwhile cinematic experience indeed. Which is nice.

The buddy/crime/hitman templates have been well battered by mainstream movie makers over the years, yet they still permit a talented scribe a lot of room in which to maneuver. Thankfully, McDonagh is such a scribe. Theatre enthusiasts will already be aware of his effusive dialogic style - the Aran Islands trilogy, The Pillowman. The question is then, how his distinctive style translates to a tried and trusted cinematic (sub)genre. Allow me a brief digression, if you will... Thomas Schatz, a film theorist, once wrote that genre is both "a static and a dynamic system". There are tenets and conflicts within a genre that must remain constant throughout a genre's development. Yet the techniques with which the writer/director tackles this essential conflicts can change. Fluidity is key... Old Tom was spot on really. Basically, it is up to the writer/director to prescribe to or fuck with generic rules as he sees fit. A craftsman will always attempt to do both. As does McDonagh here.

Take the setting for example. Crime films and Belgian towns do not make for common bedfellows. Therefore the intrigue is instant. As is the subtle majesty of Bruges. The medieval architecture is bewitching and ethereal. It helps to lift McDonagh's narrative out of the dregs of genre - casinos, inner city whorehouses, country clubs - and allude to something more substantial. Yet the fairytale aesthetic constantly reinforces the fiction of proceedings. Is this meant as a parable? Entirely up to you.

The most important thing is that this is a bloody entertaining film. For me, McDonagh's dialogue here is on a par with any of his previous creations. His ear for the intricacies of Irish camaraderie/vulgarity remains unparalleled. The "fucks" and belly laughs are plentiful. This film is a twisted equal opportunities offender, yet is nevertheless in possession of an insistent heart. That heart's beat is supplied by the chemistry between the two leads. Ken (Brendan Gleeson) and Ray (Colin Farrell) are two lovingly drawn characters, but McDonagh would have been stranded without the pitch perfect realisation from both actors... Gleeson is brilliant as the withered and worldly Ken. His hitman-beginning-to-see-the-bigger-picture is one that effortlessly sidesteps the clichés normally associated with such roles. However, it is Farrell that steals the show. His is a blistering performance, alternating rapidly and seamlessly between slapstick comedy, vicious outbursts of violence, tender sweetness, and an all consuming depression. Ray is an idiot at times, but he is always a relatively well-intentioned sort. A man who is perhaps not really cut out for his current line of work.

Alas, it is time for a complaint or two. Whilst an impressive debut, there are still a few faults to be found in Bruges. McDonagh displays some moments of inspired directorial ability - the coke scene, the playground scene. However, he also quite often highlights his relative filmic inexperience. There are some occasional shifts in tone and pace that just don't sit right. Especially in the final reel. Which brings us to the ending. It is a very fine exercise in screenwriting technique and formalistic invention, but it grates somewhat with the breathless and irreverent messiness of what goes before it. The fervent machinations (and characters) of McDonagh's mind seem to have been reined in by the need for an oh-so-clever denouement. The result? A serious bang of contrivance. A pity. It's a confusion that often permeates a first feature. A narcissism on the part of a fledgling director coming from a sphere of prior adulation? Perhaps.

Ultimately, however, these are only minor quibbles. Any late upsets - and slight ones at that - are completely overshadowed by the fiercely enjoyable and energetic first two acts. This film is hilarious, yet there are also moments of visceral pathos and emotion. As the strength of the relationship between Ken and Ray becomes more apparent, one cannot but be touched by their respective moral dilemmas and existential ennui. A sense of decency and a nagging moral compass, "gay beer", and a contractual obligation to murder... Never easy is it?

"I had no time for shenanigans! No time!"

2008-03-18T23:10:00.006Z

Good day to you all. Posts have been appallingly scant over this past week or so. Please accept my sincerest apologies for this blogospheric aberrance. The reasons for this lack of activity? I would like to say that it was due to some higher pursuit on my part, a bitchin' Zen quest to inner fulfillment and what not... It wasn't.

The truth is just that work was quite busy. I simply had no energy in the evenings. Especially not for the vaguely vitriolic ráiméis that usually seeps forth around these parts.

This lack of energy can also be attributed to the fact that I was quite sick last week. Which was something of a pity as it was my birthday at the weekend.

Yet fear not dear readers, as this ailment did not stop my frenzied oscillation betweens the craggy plateaus of chemical dementia and chemically induced guilt... And whilst it was all incredibly entertaining, I have come to realise the I am the Danny Glover of Bucky drinkers. Never again.

There are pictures. Apparently. Facebook. Bollocks.

Sorry again folks. It's just, like, that I was really, really, really sick:

"Come on, look, who cares about tomatoes?"

2008-03-12T21:25:00.004Z

One cannot begin to even guess as to the reasons why, but apparently a remake of seminal cult "classic" Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes is on the cards. Kent Nichols and Douglas Sarine, creators of the hit interweb series Ask A Ninja, are penning an adaptation of the 1978 original. Apparently, the basic premise shall remain unaltered. That is to say that there shall be killer tomatoes, erm, like, killing people. And stuff... The theme song was moderately amusing I suppose. Sort of:

Sigh. For those of you who may be unaware, it was in Return Of The Killer Tomatoes - the somwheat aptly monikered sequel to Killer Tomatoes - that a certain George Clooney got his first big break. He was fairly shit in it though.

Then he slept with his pet pig. Then Lisa Snowdon. Then he won an Oscar.

The End.

Predator: The Musical

2008-03-10T12:30:00.007Z

Mr. R. Kelly, you can stay firmly trapped in your closet sir. For the following work illuminates the true path to a successful merger of the rules of narrative progression and the tenets of hip hop. Or something like it:

Apparently this opus took two years to complete. An impressive feat?

State Magazine. Sweet.

2008-03-10T12:28:00.005Z

Having spent the weekend sporadically delving into the new Irish musical payload that is State Magazine, I would like to take this opportunity to offer a "bloody good show" to all concerned... A fresh and clean design, smells lovely too... An eclectic range of content, offering insights into the REMs of this world as well as the !Kaboogies... And most importantly of all, a talented and engaging pack of scribes.

I await the second issue with considerable interest. Until then, I shall make do with the second State podcast. Starring Choice winners Super Extra Bonus Party, a click forth would be quite worthwhile.

As is this fantastic blog, the Dalston Oxfam Shop. It is a treasure trove of nostalgia, bygone cool and kitsch. It is a library of old cassette tapes found on the dusty shelves of charity shops. The nuggets are numerous. And all available for download... The requisite hat tip must go to Nialler and his exceedingly high Blog Standard buzz.

Sweet find dude.

Patrick Boivin et la fin du Néolibéralisme. Un auteur prometteur.

2008-03-07T19:45:00.008Z

Recently I have been quite unable to get enough of the work of Patrick Boivin. This writer/director's style could be best described as the fulcrum around which the aesthetic inclinations of Chris Cunningham and Michel Gondry pivot. He's never as obliquely surrealist, nor as sentimental, nor nearly as accomplished as the aforementioned duo... Yet in this dude's mind lies a sizeable reservoir of imagination and technique.

First up, "Happy Meal", a vitriolic micro short denouncing the tenets of neo-liberalism. It stars a clown whom you may recognise:

Secondly, a pissed off Bumblebee wreaks his own brand of FM havoc upon an unsuspecting Optimus Prime. Listen out for dialogue from a certain Mister Alan Ford:

If you ain't made the connection yet, he's also responsible for this well Dugg homage to the Evolution Of Dance dude... Worth keeping an eye on is this one.

"We call upon the author to explain!"

2008-03-06T01:35:00.007Z

Well, actually, no. We don't.

Nick Cave... Genius... Lyricist... Gentleman... Sporter of one mean moustache... Now, there are those amongst you who may not find his new album to be quite as impressive as some of his back catalogue. And I would be inclined to agree. However, that said, a marginally sub-par Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds release is still infinitely superior to the vast majority of indie alternatives. Some would slit throats for a lead single of such seamless magnitude:

You got me, I'm a fan. Your thoughts on the Lazarus buzz?

Mongrel. RIP.

2008-03-06T00:01:00.004Z

This is the cover of the very last copy of Mongrel Magazine:

A sad time folks. Despite my very real grief, I now present you with my epitaph for the publication. Composed in the idiom of their famous music reviews:

86%

Mongrel Magazine.
Mongrel Press Ltd.

Oh, the merriment. A bunch of Trinners types with delightfully pointless humanities degrees - probably - decide to festoon their witticisms and scorns upon Joe Public. Whoever the fuck he is. They nestle ironic editorials and willfully obscure slices of investigative journalism into a carefully manicured hedgerow of hipster ads. Who cares if the shops aren't even to be found in the country? Get with the times you square. Get the in-jokes too, or expose yourself as a retrograde culchie with damp turf for teeth. Where's your keffiyah, Snack Box? This really should be an annoying pile of shite. Trouble is, the writers are brilliantly funny. And namedropping it makes you cool... Bastards.
Cav.

The cur is dead! Long live State!

There Will Be Blood. A Review.

2008-03-05T21:16:00.008Z

My word. What a brilliant piece of cinema. A magnificent and strange beast. An insistently grim and austere glance into the true depths of humanity. Depths that are seldom entertained. Depths that defy scrutiny. Depths that are nonetheless laid bare with a gripping level of exactitude and care by P.T. Anderson. A director at the very height of his considerable powers.

First, the technical stuff. The script? Measured and brilliant, the work of a scribe completely in tune with the possibilities of his medium... The direction? Utterly unequivocal. Anderson knows exactly where his film is going, exactly why it shall reach its crushing destination, and exactly how uncomfortable/entertained his audience should be. Those opening fourteen minutes without dialogue are mesmerising. I honestly cannot remember the last time I witnessed such exposition of character with such economy of technique.

The cinematography? This film is a collage of some of the most ruggedly gorgeous shots I have seen in years. Robert Elswit is a genius. Utilising only the listlessness of the harsh Texan terrain and the murky gloom of oil spurts and wood shacks, he weaves one hell of a tapestry. The verve with which that first explosion was orchestrated left me breathless. It sears itself into the mind of the viewer; the fire a moment of exponential beauty amidst the consuming darkness. Vivid, visceral.

The music? Atonal, challenging, yet always operating as an invaluable aid to the characters on screen. In my humble opinion, Johnny Greenwood has gone as far as to re-invent the motion picture score. His work here really is that good.

And now onto the main event... The performance. Daniel Day-Lewis will never better this. Consider those words again. I mean them. His Daniel Plainview is a creature for the annals. An elemental and brutal force, the very embodiment of hate and desire. So twisted is Plainview's soul that it manifests itself in his physical appearance. The further he strives to disconnect himself from all that is basically human - "I want to earn enough money so I can get away from everyone" - the more golem like Day-Lewis' Plainview becomes. Eventually, he will limp, he will stagger, he will cough, yet importantly he will never relent. His voice will never quiver. And what an assured and charming voice it is too. Rich and textured, the vessel through which Plainview imparts many witticisms and wisdoms. Yet it never successfully disguises the viciousness within.

So what does it all mean? Who is Daniel Plainview? What is the point of There Will Be Blood, his story? Why should we care if he is just an evil bastard? Daniel Plainview is a metaphor. Daniel Plainview is greed. He is capitalism taken to its logical and unemotional conclusion. In fact, he is the very definition of meritocracy. Whilst intrinsically violent, he is nonetheless an impressively skilled and meticulous oilman. Be it through violence or trade, he will take what he is able to. Though you may wish it to be some form of quixotic nightmare, Plainview's course is clearly plotted via the core fundamentals of the American Dream. He is Horatio Alger, mutilated or not. His resplendent physical ends justify his murderous means. Always.

Some people may find this excess to be offensive, even tedious. Some people may argue for a lack of redemption, a lack of soul. They will ask why Plainview is the man he has become. Why does he hate his fellow man to such an extent? What are the Freudian implications and subtexts to his misanthropic ways? Where is his back story? Did his mother not hug him enough?

Rubbish. Plainview's is not a world that permits such emotional and intellectual considerations. They are meandering follies drowning in his ceaseless vitriol. They are like the grandiose and delusional Eli (Paul Dano, also astounding). They too shall perish; screeching, limbs flailing in attempted escape from the incessant demon Planview. Curiosity is ego. Ego is humanity. And it is totally redundant... Uncomfortable yet? Yes? Then ask yourself why this is so.

The answer is simple. You are uncomfortable because you have done exactly what Anderson intended you to do. You have peered into a fragmented mirror of your own soul. You have recognised your inner Plainview, your own aberrant wishes and dreams... And uncomfortable as it may be, you must scrutinise him too. Remind him of your control over him. For in us all lies that potential for unfettered evil. In us all lies that untapped and immoral charisma. There is no reason for it. There is no structure to it. It has no narrative. It simple is, as it always has been, since first we came forth from the slime.

It cannot be ignored. Plainview cannot be ignored. This film is a total mindfuck. This film is an absolute masterpiece. I'm finished.

Casiotone For The Painfully Alone. Go.

2008-03-04T23:50:00.011Z

Casiotone For The Painfully Alone, coming to Ireland for a few gigs this week, and certainly worth checking out. Owen Ashworth's is an often ramshackle but always engrossing style. He is a creator of minute yet tender vignettes, his mild baritone countering the melodic insistence of his battery powered electronic soundscapes. For those unitiated, the gorgeous video to "Nashville Parthenon":

These are the places and times during which you can observe said vignettes:

Róisin Dubh. Galway. Friday, March 7.
Black Box Cafe. Belfast. Saturday, March 8.
Whelan's. Dublin. Sunday, March 9.

If you find yourself in attendance, then do keep your fingers crossed for a performance of Springsteen's "Streets Of Philadelphia". A mean cover, it is easily located on his MySpace. Go forth, via yonder above linkage.

An Inner Monologue Through Which Justin Timberlake Realises The Grand Folly Of His Musical Repertoire. Or Something Like It.

2008-03-04T23:06:00.008Z

INT - A Utopian Record Store Situated Deep Within The Mind Of The New(ish) Journalist.

Pop star Justin Timberlake slowly makes his way to the cashier's desk. He is fidgeting, nervous. He puts both hands on the counter whilst rubbing the back of his neck. An impressive feat.

Justin Timberlake:
Hey! I'm bringing sexy back!

Cashier:
Yeah? Do you have a receipt?

Justin Timberlake:
What? Actually, no I don't.

Cashier:
Oh, right. That could be a problem.

Justin Timberlake:
Well, it's still in its packaging. I never actually used it.

Cashier:
Oh, okay. Well, I suppose you could exchange it for something else.

Justin Timberlake:
Awesome dude! You got any coolness or credibility?

Cashier:
Nope. Fresh out of those.

Justin Timberlake:
Golly gee. Well dude, what do you guys have?

Cashier:
Let me see... Erm, we just got in some brand new sense of humour.

Justin Timberlake:
Oh gosh! A sense of humour? That all you got?

Cashier:
Yup. The ladies love it.

The cashier then proceeds to take a cream pie from underneath his counter and smacks Justin Timberlake right in the kisser. Both men remain rigid whilst the Benny Hill theme tune builds to a deafening crescendo in the store. With a polite insistence a newly formed tear struggles through the opaque dairy produce atop Justin's left cheek. He had just exfoliated that very morning.

Huzzahs & Bloggies!

2008-03-04T00:46:00.005Z

My First Irish Blog Awards. Thoughts? Well, I must first express my surprise at this dignitary's appearance. What blinding gravitas and wit:

"Savage." I had such a good time on Saturday night. Such an orgiastic stew of pleasantries. Such a welcoming and friendly buzz. Such a surprise to witness the sweetness of Twenty in person. The necessary shoutouts then to the following: the awesome duo that is Nialler and Aoife, Ian the gentleman photographer, the Arts & Culture behemoth that is Sinead, Eddie Sans Clarity, a tequila slamming Una, and The Humblest of Housewives... There are many more people with whom I would have liked to shoot the breeze, but I was unfortunately unable. There were many shiny things in the room and somebody had swapped my Ritalin for stale orange Tic Tacs. Bastards.

Hearty congratulations to the deserving winners. A wizard show all round. Take a bow Mister Mulley, take a bow!

A Letter To Sheryl Crow

2008-02-29T20:43:00.011Z

You either get this or you don't.

Dear Miss Crow,

I am writing to you in relation to your unspeakably dire new album Detours. I find it to be a most rotten dirge. A pus ridden inflammation on the cornea of decency. Every second of its duration is an offence. However, there is one song in particular that annoys me more than the others. It is called "Gasoline".

In depth criticism of your efforts here could go on forever, so I shall be swift... What in the name of Gandhi's crusty gooch is that chorus about?

"Gasoline will be free, will be free! Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" (Repeat 4 times)

Ok then. Sheryl, I'm imagining that this is your feeble attempt at some sort of socio-environmental commentary. If so, please have another glance at your lyrics there petal. A few problems lie within, don't you think?

First off, if gasoline was to somehow become a magically gratis natural resource, how would this be a good thing? Let us ignore the immediate and devastating collapse of the world's economy for a moment, and deal with your proclamation on a purely ecological level... You are, or are you not, an obsessive enviromentalist? So, if gas - or petroleum as it is known in the evolved English - was suddenly the cheapest natural resource on the planet, what would that instigate? Oh yeah, its consumption on a heretofor unprecedented scale! Excuse me if I'm incorrect here, but wouldn't that completely fuck up Auntie Earth quicker than we're managing already? However, I suppose you could use as many sheets of bog roll as you'd want in this apocalyptic eventuality. Every acid rain cloud has its sulphuric lining, wha?

Secondly, in case you counter with an argument for the chorus' resonance on a metaphorical level, I shall just say this... The freedom of gasoline as a metaphor? The intensely distilled and fossilised remains of extinct creatures... Ok... Which whereupon the surface of the earth shall be set free - your words - to wreak their well documented devastation on every biological milieu they infiltrate... Right...

You're one mad twit Sheryl. With one terrible new album.

Yours apoplectically,

The New(ish) Journalist.

Super Extra Bonus Party. Choice.

2008-02-28T21:50:00.004Z

Super Extra Bonus Party are the winners of this year's Choice Music Prize.

Congratulations to the band, for theirs was quite certainly the most impressive Irish release of the past year. Congratulations to the judges for being willing to award such an eclectic and vibrant mix... Hip-hop from Kildare via Brazil. A precedent? Let us all hope so.

Those of you who experienced these guys for free in Róisíns on Saturday, I hope you appreciated it. It could be some time before admission is gratis again.

The Greatest Album Cover Album Ever

2008-02-27T19:26:00.008Z

I know it's an old one, yet I believe this oddity is easily deserving of the above title. Hands down. Pun inconsequential:

Surprisingly, my mates do not agree. What say you? Alternatives?

Boredom is a bitch.

The Róisín Dubh Buzz in May. Impressive.

2008-02-26T19:46:00.005Z

Check out the following triumvirate of gigs that shall be staged in the bosom of Róisín in May:

Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. Tuesday 13th May. €28 in.
Saul Williams. Wednesday 14th May. €22.50 in.
Jens Lekman. Saturday 24th May. €18 in.

What fantastic news indeed. Huzzahs all round to Gugai & Co! Expect tickets to be like gold dust - especially for Saul and the BRMC - so do act with steadfast rapidity if you are interested folks.

By way of celebration, here's Saul's "List Of Demands":

And then Jens Lekman get busted:

It shall be a fun few days.

The Oscars Make Me Smile. For Once.

2008-02-25T20:20:00.003Z

A truly terrible pun folks. I do apologise. Yet today my cynicism reflex was paralysed by happenings at last night's Academy Awards ceremony. First off, we had an Irish winner that proved to be by far the most popular on the night:

An avalanche of huzzahs to Jon Stewart there. What a thorough gent.

Secondly, the Coen brothers finally received a statue for Best Director. And Best Picture. Apart from Tim Burton they are possibly the only true auteurs currently operating in mainstream Hollywood cinema and it delights me to see their peers finally recognise that fact in award form. The absolutely mesmerising film probably didn't do any harm either.

P.T. Anderson, as stunning and all as your oil opus seems to be, you can console yourself with the fact that none of these chaps ever brought one home either:

Alfred Hitchcock
Stanley Kubrick
Robert Altman
Ingmar Bergman
Orson Welles
Akira Kurosawa

They probably would have won one if they were Irish.

And I'm not being sarcastic. Honest.

A Galway Girl & The Donahue Sisters

2008-02-25T19:32:00.004Z

Saileóg O'Halloran and Brendan Ryan in A Galway Girl.

I reviewed this Geraldine Aron double bill on this very blog before. I was highly impressed by all involved. Zelig Theatre, take a most deserved bow. Theatre enthusiasts, take note. At the moment the show is currently in the midst of another run in the Town Hall Studio in Galway. I would strongly recommend that you attend.

Galway Girl Maisie is a working class mother struggling to keep her marriage, family, and life from disintegration. Dermot, her husband, is an abusive alcoholic, a man with "poetry in his soul" yet with precious little in his demeanour. Maisie loves him but hates staying with him because of his unjustified behaviour.

Annie, Rosie, and Dunya are The Donahue Sisters. Life is not what each of the girls had hoped for as tales of unruly children, sham marriages, and flatulence problems slowly come to the fore. Their frustration is epitomised in a re-enactment of a childhood event that has disturbing consequences.

Geraldine Aron's writing is effortless. Hers is a firm grasp of tone, theme and character development. The five performances are uniformly excellent; the actors creating visceral characters of humanity and definition. The direction is subtle and knowledgeable. One can only applaud the technique with which both tales oscillate between witty one-liners and unsettling malevolence. Pathos and grand guignol often make for difficult bedfellows. Yet not here.

Be entertained. Be at the Town Hall Studio at 8.30pm from Tuesday 26th February to Saturday March 1st... That's when and where the play is on.

Dee Dee Ramone. Rapping.

2008-02-23T16:31:00.006Z

I'm afraid so:

I truly hope that this monstrosity does not set the tone for your weekend. Ghastly stuff... So why in the name of Jehovah can't I stop watching it?

Right so, that's me. If you're out tonight, enjoy. If you're out in Galway tonight, then be sure and make it to the Super Extra Bonus Party in Róisíns. Then enjoy.

And if you're staying in this evening, do check out this beatboxing dog.

Another Robot Sunset & Me

2008-02-20T19:37:00.003Z

Honestly, I do not think that I have stopped smiling since watching the very fine Ellen Page in the very fine Juno. That movie is just such a mesmeric and succinct collage of life affirmation. Beautiful and intelligent. The holy grail of combinations.

Anyways, such was the emotive power of the aforementioned Juno that I find myself suddenly receptive to recently unacceptable levels of sweetness and light. My inner Scrooge has been vanquished. "Oh my", you probably don't say, "could this be the end of the misanthropic waffle that saturates these pages?" Certainly not. However it has lead to me listening to quite a bit of Nashville indie hip-hop outfit Another Robot Sunset. Theirs is a most lovely buzz. This is a delightful song called "Angels In Airplanes". Be sure to watch the vid until the very end:

Everybody.... Awww! "Death Of A Robot Doctor" is also very worth checking out on their Space Of My. If what they claim is true and they are "all just making this up" as they go, then fair play to the boys.

Once again, via Fabulist. Blogroll add anyone?

New Kids On The Block. The Comic Book.

2008-02-19T01:52:00.006Z

With added Richie Rich:

My word, such an orgiastic maelstrom of the tenets of capitalism! The power of Klein compels you! Seriously, what kind of twisted message would this send to an innocent child? What coke addled mongoloid would give such a sinister union the green light?

Despite the animated promise of harm to those rotten bastards, this cover has genuinely unsettled me. I crave a return to the purity of my Saved By The Bell epoch. Formative and oh so very hilarious. But most importantly of all, those kids always knew when to just say no.

Charlie Brooker. Right About Everything?

2008-02-18T23:35:00.004Z

Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe is one of those rarest of beasts... A television show that is both absolutely hilarious and actually quite informative.

On said show Charlie was right about cocks in advertising.

He was spot on about the intrinsic manipulation involved in editing reality television. (An obvious one in fairness.)

He offered his own Freudian insights into the ridiculous notion that Phil Mitchell is hard.

Introspection is also a talent of Charlie's as he considers what it is to be "The Talent" on a television show.

In fact, Charlie is apparently so preposterously wondrous that English band types The Attery Squash have seen fit to compose a song in his honour. It is called "Charlie Brooker Is Right About Everything":

Erm, sorry, what? Did irony just have a nervous breakdown?

The Best Little Bookshop In The West

2008-02-18T19:35:00.011Z

I bought these books today:

Bunker 13 by Aniruddha Bahal
The Columnist by Jeffrey Frank
Please, Mr Einstein by Jean-Claude Carriere

I also picked up a collection of short stories by a certain Bertolt Brecht. All four together cost me a woefully exploitative, wait for it now, €5.

Huzzah for Charlie Byrne's! A truly impressive literary smorgasbord. In the midst of an exceedingly generous sale. A most alluring and satisfying buzz all round really.

That's all for now. I shall leave you with this snippet of Brechtian wisdom:

From the cradle to the coffin, underwear comes first.

Quite.

A Voyage to the Inner Circles with Ronald.

2008-02-17T15:54:00.010Z

Seriously, what twisted freak devised this mess? The easily rattled amongst you should look away now. Those brave enough to actually watch it all, ask yourself this one question... Why?

They're currently building a McDonald's in Ennis. On the Gort Road. Hear that Dublin? The West's awake!

Hat tip to The Slurkid for the vid.

Free Dan Deacon Stuff

2008-02-15T18:44:00.006Z

Greetings friends! You find me in a most jovial mood this afternoon. What is the cause of this levity of inclination? A certain Mister Dan Deacon. He has only gone and made a considerable number of his old releases available for free. Download them here.

The legend continues unabated. Express your gratitude to the man here.

By way of footnote, and as the parties of the weekend loom forth, there resides a filthy (and fairly old) Dan Deacon Vs Khia mash-up right here... Enjoy?

Be Kind, Rewind. Then Get Sweding.

2008-02-14T18:08:00.006Z

Be Kind, Rewind is the burgeoning movie picture event that has excited me more than all others these past few months. Michel Gondry, Jack Black, Ghostbusters, Robocop, an inventive and inspiring story... This should well be the shiznit. Its primary narrative device is the act of Sweding.

For those unitiated; to Swede something - ideally a favourite movie of yours - is to re-imagine it in a cheap, brief and nonchalant manner. However, it must be funny and imbued with a creative grá for the story. And you have to be in it. Need an example of a Sweded piece? Observe Michel Gondry Sweding the trailer to this very movie. The man is one freaky genius:

Brilliant stuff. Most achievable too. Which is a good thing as Filmbase are currently running a very cool competition in conjunction with Pathé, Darklight Film Festival, Eclipse Pictures and the Irish Film Board... Basically, a rather magnificent prize awaits the person(s) who makes the best Sweded version of a classic Irish movie. Details of entry are available here.

It may not be a classic, Irish, a favourite of mine, or actually even made yet, but I have already written the screenplay for the ultimate Transformers 2 Swede. Here it goes:

INT - A Large Room.

A young man in his early twenties walks into a large room. He is rather inexplicably wearing a Saw Doctors t-shirt. He walks over to a wall in the room. There is a large sheet of plywood leaning against this wall. It has been painted neon green. He coughs politely. He looks around the cavernous room.

(Considerable Pause)

The young man continues to look around the room. He seems nervous and confused. This confusion is probably brought about by a complete lack of narrative structure. Slowly and with considerable embarrassment, he begins to touch himself through a hole in one of his pockets. His efforts continue for roughly two minutes before he breaks down in tears. He is an empty shell and he knows it. Devoid, meaningless.

THE END.

Wow. I'm actually not quite sure how this became a jibe at Michael Bay. I fully realise that I should not despise his films so. Each to their own and all that jazz. Yet their spurious venom swims in my blood now. Their needless CGI embellished explosions springing forth minute bubble after bubble. Incessant. Frightening.

Are you still here? Why aren't you Sweding?

Indiana Jones. In A Brand New Trailer.

2008-02-14T17:14:00.005Z

Cynicism and indie rhetoric be damned, I simply cannot wait for this:

What say you on the matter?

Scroobius Pip. The "Astronaut".

2008-02-13T00:04:00.005Z

Monsieur Pip's talent frightens me at times. It truly does. This is him adding some sublime rhymes to "Astronaut", the beats supplied by Yila. This kicks posterior:

A most gracious hat tip to Mister Jim Carroll. He also brings word of a (probable) May release date for Dan Le Sac Vs Scroobius Pip's debut LP. Glee!

Mongrels.

2008-02-13T00:03:00.007Z

There were recent rumours that the much beloved Mongrel magazine had ceased to be. Whilst it has been aeons - well, just over a month - since last an issue of this fine publication graced the hipster milieus of Ireland, it simply is not the case. A new issue is due by the end of this month. (A quick nod to Aoife and David.) I am very glad that the magazine shall endeavour onwards, ever onwards. I would rather have missed the music reviews:

92%

James Blunt

All The Lost Souls

Atlantic

It’s become very fashionable to dismiss James Blunt’s music out of hand, just because "You’re Beautiful" got perhaps a little bit overplayed on the radio. But if you do the guy the service of actually listening to more than one of his songs, you may come to realize that he is a songwriter of incredible range and ability. I’m joking. Of course I’m joking. The guy is a wibbly voiced fool and I hope a bird shits on his head. My real score is 0.01% And even that’s being kind. Cunt.

Butler

Two friends of mine met James Blunt in the airport in Barcelona once. Apparently he was quite approachable and mannerly. He was on his way to his recently acquired villa in Ibiza. Fair play to him. I got the bus from Galway to Ennis yesterday. The heating was broken and a deranged Lithuanian woman kept stroking my knee. She had the aberrant, asymmetrical eyes of a Baltic knee stroker. I had no mp3 player, no reading material, and no machete... I was not on my way to a villa in Ennis.

There's a metaphor in there. Somewhere. Possibly.

Super Extra Bonus Party Newsflash Buzz

2008-02-12T23:57:00.007Z

The sweet - in both the traditional parlance and the parlance of today's yoof - new video to "Everything Flows" by the most excellent Super Extra Bonus Party:

The SEBP posse are currently meandering throughout the hills and dales of Ireland promoting the recent release of their Everything Flows EP (12"). It is quite the belter and features remixes from Cadence Weapon, Jape and Nouveaunoise... The Jape remix currently sits proudly on their myspace. Well worth the 02:49 of your time.

As will be their upcoming gig in the Róisín Dubh. Their live shows are adrenaline fuelled delights so if in Galway on Saturday 23rd February, then be sure to make yourself present and correct. (Hurleys and full Kildare kit optional.) Need further convincing do you? It's a free gig. Almost unethical really.

Moi? On an Irish Blog Awards shortlist? Get thyself out of this town post haste!

2008-02-11T22:56:00.000Z

Wow.

I really cannot get my head around this one at all. The New(ish) Journalism has somehow made the shortlist for Best Arts & Culture Blog at the Irish Blog Awards. A most intrinsically validating, surprising and deadly buzz. I mean, just check out the high standard of my fellow nominees:

Seriously, thank you so much to everybody who voted for this blog in the first place. Also, a massive thank you to those judges who then deemed the petulant ramblings of this New(ish) Misanthrope shortlist worthy. Finally, thanks to Don Mulley, Poetry Ireland - sponsors of this particular category - and all the other sponsors for making this whole awards shindig possible. Mesmeric legends, one and all.

Congratulations and good fortune to everybody in the running and I shall hopefully see most of you on the night... My frock is already in order so I'm off now to the unisex salon to get my teeth sculpted and eyeballs massaged. Or something.

The Salvador Dali Gameshow

2008-02-10T16:01:00.001Z

Welcome back once again to Surrealism Sunday! And who's our guest this evening? Why, it's Salvador Dali. So moustache wax at the ready folks and prepare yourselves for the agreeable nonsense ahead... But first, a word from our sponsors (popular 1960s televisual gameshow What's My Line?):

Also worth a peek is this gleefully demented televisual chocolate advertisement starring the very same Mr. Dali. An oldie in interweb terms, but decidedly mirthful all the same.

I Hate Jerry Seinfeld!

2008-02-06T12:18:00.000Z

Actually, no. I don't hate Jerry Seinfeld at all. However, this angry chap feels quite strongly about everybody's favourite Jewish Scientologist. And Bee Movie. Observe:

Amazing stuff, a genuinely worthwhile addition to the lexicon of film criticism. Quite reminiscent of early Cahiers du Cinema era Bazin. Huzzah my young freak! Huzzah!

Also worth checking out is his wondrously insightful review of the new Rambo debacle. Wow McWowser.

Hot Press. The very last bastion of decency and virtue in these troubled times of ours.

2008-02-03T21:50:00.000Z

Praise to ye gods! Praise to thee for blessing us with the selfless crusaders that populate the halls of Hot Press. For without these intrepid souls how else would the Irish people have learned about the crippling talcum powder and botched make up job epidemic that is sweeping the nation:

Niall Stokes... Defender of baby arses everywhere. What a man.

Irish Blog Awards Nominations

2008-02-02T18:38:00.000Z

Aw shucks! I currently reside equidistant between the conditions of totally chuffed and perfectly bemused. Apparently there are enough benevolent souls amongst you to have garnered me a place on the (considerably) longlists for both Best Newcomer and Best Arts and Culture Blog at this year's Irish Blog Awards.

Although decidedly inferior to many of my fellow nominees, I shall take this opportunity to thank everybody who voted for The New(ish) Journalism. Seriously, you guys! I also want to take this next opportunity to apologise to all y'all for the sizeable cessation of activity here over the past month or two. Less daily buzz, more fortnightly buzz, at best. It truly has sucked, being unable to fully exploit this twisted soapbox dynamic. It is also going to change post haste. Distractions have been removed and things have fallen into their appropriate ass grooves and what not. Huzzah!

Oh, just in case you are wondering how I got to be so damn good, I owe it all to this baby right here:

Thanks again folks! And best of luck to the multitude of blogospheric legends also in the running!

"I've lost my equilibrium, my car keys and my pride..."

2008-01-21T16:04:00.000Z

Tom Waits, lyrical genius... "For No One", a lost animated Waits video from 1979 in which a growling Tom lazily serenades a sensuous stripping lady on a sidewalk... They really don't make them like they used to:

This delightful nugget comes via Fabulist. Huzzah to thee girl(s)!

Interesting Bit Of Trivia About This Video #1 (And Only):

The chief animator on "For No One" was a certain David Silverman. If his name seems familiar it is because he directed last year's The Simpsons Movie. He also co-wrote the ubiquitous "Spider Pig". There were however less strippers in those particular pieces.

Eddie Griffin's Irish Jam

2008-01-21T15:24:00.000Z

Some things are so bad, they're good. Other things are so bad they make you want to stab yourself repeatedly in the forehead with your own eyeballs:

Strangely enough this one went straight to DVD in 2006... In the US and, erm, Serbia. Worry not however, as it's now also available in Ireland. Phew!

Ruth Negga. Ireland's Loveliest Actress.

2008-01-20T20:19:00.000Z

Yup. According to a poll conducted by Film Ireland, Miss Ruth Negga is the sexiest actress to hail from these shores.

The poll is actually part of a wider survey conducted by the magazine for their January/February issue. An issue that fittingly enough deals primarily with sex and Irish cinema. (I merely thought that the lovely girl angle would reel in more punters. Cynical?)

The issue is quite a fascinating read. Paddy Breathnach, Lenny Abrahamson and Colin McCarthy all talk about shooting Irish sex. Mark O'Halloran and Niamh Creely discuss the results and implications of the various polls. Mairead Whelan contemplates the murky depths of Irish porn, or Lepreporn. Irish Film Censor John Kelleher offers some interesting insights into Irish film censorship in our new era of atheist perversion and skiing holidays. For example:

"By the way, it is not an offence for a retailer to sell an over 18s film to someone under 18, that's not a crime. It's absolutely crazy... If we made a porn film available as an 18s to a kid, it wouldn't be illegal."

Oh, yes, lest I forget. Colin Farrell topped the poll as the sexiest Irish male actor alive today. In other earth shattering news, most footballs are spherical and gravity still works.

No Country For Old Men. A Review.

2008-01-20T17:02:00.000Z

It is the wont of this blogger to be excessive in his appraisal of certain creative endeavours. And for that tendency I shall never apologise. A good thing too, because without an excessive superlative or two one might struggle to adequately describe No Country for Old Men.

Put simply, the Coen Brothers are back on form with this one. Their quirky and often glib cinematic idiom resonates throughout, yet it is reinforced with a thematic certainty and pathos not seen in a Coen flick in many a year. Since Fargo, to be exact. The gritty prose of McCarthy's novel is the perfect partner for their filmic intelligence.

This one had everything for me. Glorious dialogue, obviously... A collection of pitch perfect performances, at turns gripping and whimsical... A certain narrative unafraid to develop at its own pace, or to treat its audience as creatures of intelligence... Sumptuous cinematography in awe of the harsh beauty of its surroundings... In Javier Bardem's Anton Chigurh we witness a behemoth of malevolence, the photo negative of humanity as we like to imagine it... That silenced shotgun.

Sure, this film is often gory. Sure, it is primarily a chase/suspense narrative. Sure, there are many lines lifted directly from the lexicon of Western sheriff simplicity. Yet it is the exactitude of manipulation of every aspect of this movie that makes it such a resounding success. Through their marriage of generic cinematic conventions and McCarthy's thematic concerns, the Coens have produced cinematic poetry. No Country For Old Men is a lament for bygone times, real or imagined. It questions the existence of men of decency and duty. It is also damn entertaining.

Finally, for those plebeian rows on Friday night who questioned the restrained tone of the final act, allow me a brief rebuke. You did not get it because your desire for a wham-bam generic resolution is exactly what the Coens are so keen to critique with this movie. Immediacy and petulance are now deeply ingrained in our society. And with them will always come immorality, incessant and impure. We crave something, therefore we must own it. After all, "you can't stop what's coming." The question put to the audience is how can any man - be he indeed old or young - live in such a twisted milieu?

This is not to say that inside every man there resides a miniature Shigurh, armed and ready to explode. Shigurh is a cinematic psychopath for the ages, yet he is primarily a symbol. This story is a parable folks. Michael Bay doesn't do them.

Hear The Puffincat, Erm, Roar?

2008-01-08T17:28:00.000Z

The Call of The Puffincat.

That is the title given to the new blog of Dublin sketch comedy troupe Diet Of Worms. It is quite the worthwhile smorgasbord, mirthfully randomized. As are their hilarious Dublin Stories:

This gang shall be performing in Róisín Dubh on the 16th of this month. It all kicks off directly after the ninth bell.

Rathmines... The Funniest Place On Earth!

2008-01-08T14:34:00.000Z

My word, how sincerely do I jest.

What in the name of Jehovah was that? Seriously RTÉ, what did we license payers do to be yet again afflicted with such a monstrosity? In case you did not see it last night, The Roaring Twenties, the latest shitcom that you paid for, is every bit as appalling as that bizarre trailer suggested.

Derivative and lazy muck, bereft of even a sliver of originality... When a main character in a sitcom is described as a business student who plays tag rugby - and that's intended as a punchline - then you know difficulties are imminent.

And yet, as spectacularly woeful and all as it is, I must say that I find the broadcasting of The Roaring Twenties oddly inspiring. If that can get made, then anything can... I'm actually working on a treatment for a new sitcom as I type.

It shall be called "Chuggers" and it will be set on Grafton Street. And in Rathmines, obviously. It will be about a group of twenty-something chuggers who live in a crappy Rathmines bedsit and spend their days annoying strangers on Grafters; thereby making them as likeable as those Twenties gits. There will be witticisms galore as an enraged public continuously tell them to piss off. There will be unlimited pathos - a post-Gervais comic necessity - as the gang fester in self-loathing and denial over a shared pint of Erdinger down their local. There shall even be elements of slapstick as Timmy Midlands (our main protagonist) berates the wrong Northsider on a particularly rainy day near the Green... Oh, the myriad chuckles presented by Timmy finding himself unable to move properly in a cast! Such a fresh and untapped comic resource that!

All I'll need is a budget similar to that of The Roaring Twenties: a moist packet of Tic-Tacs and the thumbs up from a dyslexic tramp. Heady times.

Just one last question of you then RTÉ... Why? Why did you make me lie on New Years Eve? I told everybody it was going to be a happy new year. Now it's already a write-off. Roll on 2009.

Musicophilia

2007-12-28T00:25:00.000Z

This book is certainly the best Secret Santa gift that I have ever received. A mean tome. Mr. Sacks, a gifted neurologist, explores the complex relationship between music and the human listener. Why is it that we listen? Why is it that we are affected in such countless ways? A melody contains no tangible concepts or images, yet as we listen the bombardment of memory is oft visceral. Curious, no?

Myriad theories, a smorgasbord of cracking and compassionately spun tales. Well worth checking out is Musicophilia.

Cascada & Interpretive Dance...

2007-12-26T16:40:00.000Z

... Are two of the most repulsive things on the face of the planet. I would be suitably disgusted if I wasn't so busy laughing my bottom off:

Huzzah to all concerned (except that Cascada wench)! The Festive Ennis Seisiún is upon us tonight and the busting of some of these moves is a wretched possibility. Oh well. Hope you are all having a wonderful Christmas folks. Outty.

The Book Of Wrong

2007-12-22T15:45:00.000Z

You may be already aware of The Book Of Wrong, a work otherwise known as Irish Love and Marriage Jokes by Des MacHale. If not, allow me to present you with a choice selection of the witticisms from this peculiar tome from the year of some folks' lord 1977 AD:

An Irishman has been defined as somebody who would trample over twelve naked women to reach a bottle of Guinness.

Definition of an Irish queer - Somebody who prefers women to drink.

Bridget had twenty children.

"You must love children a lot," a friend remarked.

"Love them?" said Bridget, "I don't even know half of them."

"He was a good husband to me," sobbed Bridget after Pat had died, "he always hit me with the soft end of the mop."

Definition of an Irish gentleman - One who never strikes a lady without provocation.

Pat was telling Bridget off because of the size of the household bills.
"Look at this gas bill," he roared, "you and your unsuccessful suicide attempts!"

Well holy God there Des, but racist stereotypes, homophobia, blatant misogyny, and a mockery of suicide and depression thrown into the pot... Aren't you a grand ould laugh all the same, a mhac!

"Different times". Total arsehole.

Happy Christmas (At Last)

2007-12-13T15:25:00.000Z

Work has been biting the big one these days. I've really not been feeling the festive buzz at all. Think Buddy in Elf after the divorce, buggered with an intense predilection for the ould smack... That is until I saw this utterly legendary Christmas tree. Decided kudos to the Madridinites of Madrid!

Observe the Youtubey goodness of it all.

Clipset via technabob.

Blip Festival 2007

2007-12-10T19:48:00.000Z

The Blip Festival in New York City. It finished on the second of this month, but it looked damn cool. The following is a snippet from the official blurb:

Manhattan art space The Tank and New York artist collective 8bitpeoples announce the Blip Festival 2007, a four-day music and multimedia event taking place in New York City November 29 - December 2, 2007. Focusing on the modern artistic exploration of primitive video game and home computer technology and featuring 40 musicians and visualists from around the world, the Blip Festival showcases artists adopting and re purposing familiar but forgotten hardware - such as the Commodore 64, the Nintendo Entertainment System, the Atari game console and home computer line, and the Nintendo Game Boy - exploring their untapped potential and unique aesthetic character.

Basically, highly inventive loons make some bangin' toons using old Game Boys and what not. This is what it would have been like to attend (last year):

Almost Deaconesque. A decidedly cool enterprise indeed.

The Chocolate Teapot

2007-12-10T18:50:00.000Z

Aoife Mc: She has a decidedly sweet and informed blog over at The Indie Hour. It's also the name of her music show on Dublin City FM, which is also really rather good.

Aoife Mc: She recorded an album in 2005 and 2006 with the aid of a few talented and friendly sorts. This album is called The Chocolate Teapot. Just click that ould name there and you shall be transported to the appropriate MySpace, whereon there resides four songs from the album for your perusal and downloading pleasure. It is certainly worth the trip... Sumptuous vocals, direct and heartfelt lyricism, intelligent and fitting arrangements and production, a decidedly kick ass trumpet... I'm really rather enjoying the "Laura" buzz. It's a beguiling and wry wee ditty, utterly nonchalant yet plainly emotive. A tricky combination that.

Impressive stuff all round really. A most worthwhile huzzah to thee girl!

The Singing CIA Agent

2007-12-02T15:40:00.001Z

Dave Lippman. Or is that Agent George Shrub? Either way, he knows your name. This is investigative satire at its finest:

But wait, there's more:

Huzzahs abound then as the Lippman/Shrub show is coming to Ireland very soon. He shall be performing in Dublin in Seomra Spraoi on Friday 7th December. Admission is a mere €7 and it all kicks off at 8pm.

My sources indicate that a show in good old NUIG is on the cards too. Which is nice.

Dan Deacon. Hero.

2007-12-02T15:40:00.000Z

There is a hulk of a man, down by his children,
We have his table enclosed, there is a countdown,
"Ethan Hawke! Ethan Hawke! Ethan Hawke! Ethan Hawke!"
That gibberish is deliverance, unable to talk,

Or think.

Or communicate with anybody else in the house without the widest of grins.

Dan Deacon in the Róisín Dubh, 30 November 2007. Quite possibly my favourite gig of the year. Put simply, this man is a hero. He is a singular movement, an intense benevolence. His only desire seems to be to spread some love through the medium of apeshit nonsense. And amazingly tight tunes. And one-liners that most stand ups would kill for.

"The Crystal Cat" lifts the spirits and limbs like no other tune I've heard live these past twelve months. My cohorts beside Dan's desk of goodness would surely agree. "Wham City" is an anthem unparalleled. It unites the audience completely, their collective giddiness mirrored by the transcendent ráiméis on the hymn sheets. These are passed about in a millisecond. The choir is adequate. And loving it... The human corridor works perfectly. Everyone lets go and embraces their inner spastic, and that of their stranger. We all dance through, utterly bemusing the crusty chin strokers in the front bar. Which is nice.

Alas, it was all over far too quickly. Mister Deacon, I applaud you! On your set. On your intentions and trajectory. And the fact that you are a very sound fella to boot. As is Leagues O'Toole... Name drop much?

In summary... Being in an audience of Dan Deacon's? Like being one of the backing dancers in High School Musical, but without the choreography, the gimps, or the sinister Aryan undertones.

And infinitely better tunes. Magic.

Shrooms

2007-11-27T01:58:00.000Z

Paddy Breathnach's Shrooms. A Hasty Review.

What works:

The film looks sumptuous. Whilst obviously aesthetically indebted to recent Asian mindfucks such as Ring and Dark Water, the predominantly Irish crew can be proud of their visual accomplishments in this piece... Locations, photography, post-production... Huzzah to you all on this front!
Don Wycherley and Seán McGinley are absolutely hilarious as the inbred local types. Think Podge & Rodge without the jaded cynicism.
Those Yank lasses sure are easy on the eye.

What does not work:

Those American characters sure are bloody annoying. Such preposterously cliched misfortunes - the jock, the stoner, the virginal good girl, the bitch - that it is impossible to feel even the slightest semblance of emotional attachment to them. Generic staples me hole!
Was it really necessary for them to be American? I do understand the marketing logic behind such internationalism when writing and casting. However would Irish youngsters really have been that unsettling for our overseas cousins? Such pandering to the American Dollar, whilst (possibly) fiscally sound, only serves to prostitute the artistic integrity of our national cinema in the long run... This might only be a horror flick, but it is symptomatic of a lack of self-confidence in our industry that continues to persist. There really is no need. Garage anyone?
The Irish dancing young ones in the airport. The constant talk of ancient druids. The ironic treatment of Oirishness that fell flat on its arse.
That monumentally fucking stupid, yet blindingly obvious ending!
The fact that Shrooms is not even a mite scary, dramatic, or funny (with the exception of the cow and the dogging scene). Even a stopped clock though, what?

In conclusion, Shrooms is a bit of mess. If you must, then at least wait a few months. A possible second rental, but only if you're stuck.

Alas, yet another opportunity missed.

Really Bad Santa

2007-11-26T19:13:00.000Z

The juxtaposition of headline and photo. The touching innocence/glaring stupidity of it all:

Dawn Landes & Her Young Folks

2007-11-23T12:18:00.001Z

I was feelin' something kinda rough this morning and I desperately needed some cheer. Luckily for me, this cheer was but a handful of button clicks away. It came in the form of Dawn Landes and The We Sorta Tried Bluegrass Band... A few months ago they came together to cover that most ubiquitous of recent summer hits "Young Folks", re-imagining it as an old-timey bluegrass delight. The beguiling alternating female-male vocals remain, but are now reinforced by a delicate amalgam of acoustic orchestration. Enjoy:

As a result of this tune, I started to give Dawn Landes a listen. I liked what I heard. This is her MySpace. Check it out. Y'all.

Sex In Irish Cinema Survey

2007-11-22T11:51:00.000Z

RTE's The Clinic: As about as sexy as we get. Which is very sad.

Award-winning Irish screenwriter and actor Mark O'Halloran joins Film Ireland magazine as guest editor for the January/February 2008 issue which is devoted exclusively to the topic of sex in Irish cinema and television... The complete lack of sex in Irish cinema and television that is. This issue of the magazine hopes to discern the reasons behind our prudish filmic impulses. Is it deeply engrained Catholic guilt? Or is it that we are simply more emotionally mature than our European neighbours? Are we satisfied with the (figurative) hand holding? Not that restraint has ever struck me as a typically Irish characteristic.

Personally, I think the aeons of total cultural dominance that the Catholic Church enjoyed are an obvious factor. Sex is a sin and never may we forget it. Furthermore, the antiquated values of our censorship system hardly help matters. It is getting better but the procedure remains snail paced and quite behind the times.

You can express your thoughts on the subject here. A simple, quick, and anonymous survey that will help in the compilation of what should be a fascinating issue.

One of the questions asked concerned what you believed to be the sexiest scene in Irish cinema history. I was utterly stumped. What say you?

Girl Talk. In Dublin. For Christmas.

2007-11-19T21:26:00.000Z

Ok, so I'm like a million years behind himself on this one, but how ludicrously exciting is this prospect?

FOGGY NOTIONS CHRISTMAS PARTY
DEC 13TH

GIRL TALK
DJ KOOL DROOL
PLUS SPECIAL GUESTS (You're Only Massive)
PLUS VERY SPECIAL GUEST (Intrigued)

WHELANS. DOORS 8PM
TICKETS FROM WAV, CITY DISCS, ROAD, TICKETMASTER.

I'm going to try so very hard to be in De Big Schmoke for this. It could be fair decent like:

Michael Palin. On Home & Away.

2007-11-17T19:27:00.001Z

A decidedly Pythonesque Michael Palin talking to Flathead and Marilyn about sharks and surfing. How very peculiar:

The hat tip must go to my mate Ronan. Jolly good show old boy!

30 Days Of Night

2007-11-16T13:03:00.000Z

David Slade's 30 Days Of Night . A Hasty Review.

What works:

Having vampires descend upon an isolated Alaskan town - Barrow - that endures a month of night during the winter is a simple and ingenious premise. Well done Steve Niles!
The cinematography is sumptuous; the contrast between the dark red blood and the untainted white snow resonates smartly throughout.
There are some terrific set pieces. Elaborating further would only diminish their impact.
Danny Huston is a malevolent bastard as the head vampire. The vampires as a whole are impressive; supernatural inbred gimps with a penchant for throat ripping.
Melissa George. Angel.

What does not work:

For every victim massacred by a vampire there is a plot hole. These vary from the minuscule and fleeting to the jaw droppingly stupefying... We're at Day 3 of the attack. Now we're at Day 18. How did that happen?
The romantic subplot between Josh Hartnett and Melissa George is a cliched mess that only serves to distract from the main action. The actors battled valiantly. Alas, the situation was beyond rescue.
Dialogue often as clunky and derivative as it comes. Even for a horror flick.
Be prepared to groan at that final shot.

In conclusion, 30 Days Of Night presents a fairly enjoyable horror experience. A lost opportunity in terms of the purity of the premise, but that's Hollywood for you I suppose. Only worth a trek to the cinema for the true vampire aficionados, a worthwhile rental for everyone else.

For some reason I just can't help thinking that the creators of Northern Exposure missed a trick.

Prostitutes For The Disabled

2007-11-13T17:01:00.000Z

This is a bit fucked up... A Swiss welfare group has begun recruiting volunteers to have sex with disabled people. The Basel-based Welfare Group for Disability and Sexuality already arranges erotic massages for people with disabilities. However, it is now branching into full sexual intercourse and is seeking homosexual volunteers to have sex with homosexual disabled people.

The group's leader Aiha Zemp had this to say: "It's a big taboo that needs to be broken. Having sex is a basic human need like eating and drinking and we have to fight for this right for the disabled."

At present three men and one woman offer an erotic 'touching service,' and nine new volunteers have come forward to offer sex at £65 per hour.

Yes. That's right. These volunteers are getting paid to have sex with strangers. However, Zemp insists that this does not make them prostitutes: "The big difference between the assistants and prostitutes is that the assistants show tenderness and are conscious of the needs of the disabled, rather than rushing and just taking the money,"

Erm, no. Aiha pet, they are still prostitutes. They are just good prostitutes.

Lewis Hamilton - My Book

2007-11-13T09:40:00.000Z

Lewis Hamilton... You know the guy... He's that British young lad who is good at driving incredibly quick cars incredibly quickly. His autobiography has just been released. It is entitled Lewis Hamilton: My Story. Now, for any of you who may be eager to read this story, I have a nice surprise. Below lies the complete transcript of Lewis' tome, utterly verbatim. Bask in the intoxicating relevance of it all:

Chapter One:

I'm very young. I'm really good at driving go-karts quickly. I'm not famous.

Chapter Two:

I'm still young. I'm really good at driving F1 cars quickly. I'm quite famous.

Chapter Three:

Erm... I've been famous for less than a year now. Still driving the same car.

Chapter Four:

I had somebody ghost write my book. You bought it.

Seriously, Lewis Hamilton is 22. He is good at one thing, which he has been doing at the highest level for barely twelve months. What's more, the team he was driving for have been stripped of all their championship points for the year and fined close to $100 million because they were fucking cheating! Lewis achieved what he did whilst he was driving a car designed by cheats. Wow! Lewis Hamilton, you're my hero!

I just do not see what gives this guttersnipe the right to burden us with his twelve month story. At most there is enough there to fill a generous and picture laden pamphlet... Something to distract you while you sit in your doctor's waiting room, hoping to find out just what that odd rash on your elbow actually is.

"I wonder what cream I'll need for this... Seriously, why is that pregnant woman staring at me with eyes as twisted as Dante's inner circle... Oh look, Lewis finished in the top three in some race. Again. He's amazing!"

Bah humbug.

Cultural Exchange

2007-11-11T14:13:00.000Z

There was a Polish man wearing a Chelsea jersey being ever so slightly patronised by Derek Mooney on Winning Streak last night.

He won a car and a holiday. Which was nice.