Failure is an Artform...

Right, last week I touched briefly upon the rejections you face as a writer. I may have described my one professional 'achievement' (although I hesitate to use that word), but I could spin many, many more yarns about my professional failures.

It's hard to put into words (but that won't stop me...) the gut-punch of someone turning down something you've spent hours/days/weeks/months/years on. 'How dare you do this to me!' you think, 'I've seen telly and things and I know that this is better than some of that'. You feel the rage of every embarrassment and failure swelling inside you until this tumescence of seething hatred bursts out like an alien life-form (or is filed for use at a later date).

In the initial stages you can harness that fury to fuel creativity, but rejection's a crafty bugger and it slowly wears you down to the point where, instead of rattling off a furious and hastily-crafted Phillipic aimed at your tormentors, you simply fall face down in your bed and think that perhaps spending all that time coming up with an awards acceptance speech may have been somewhat premature.

You never quite get used to it... well, until the point when you are dulled entirely to emotion by the sheer volume of rejections. You have to try and not take things personally, which is astonishingly difficult but I imagine you're untouchable if you can manage it. You can laugh about it (even though every laugh is like a stab on in the inside...) and satirise your own misery. However, my attention was drawn to a fairly novel way of conquering failure- By celebrating it.

Dazed and Refused showcases work rejected by the panel of the BP National Portrait Award (and on the website you can view a classic catch-all rejection letter, much like the ones I mentioned last week).

It's a tough point to argue, producing a showcase of failures. As much as rejection hurts, in some cases (many, in my own experience) they're sparing you the blushes of public embarrassment. And yet, something about it really appeals to me. There's a kind of downtrodden yet defiant chutzpah about it. Why shouldn't us failures be given an even break? Let the public judge for themselves instead of aloof, highfalutin successful types. Yet, this is tempered by a niggling little feeling of reservation. With the greatest of respect (and some of them are fantastic paintings), as I mentioned earlier, there is often a valid reason for any rejection and sometimes, just sometimes, judges know what they're doing and that, no matter the quality of the brushwork, no-one really wants to see a portrait of Brian Belo...

But good luck to 'em. Never say never. (Hey, it worked for Justin Bieber... even if the pre-pubescent scrote wouldn't know professional failure and hardship if it smacked him on the bonce with a euphonium...)



Now, some quick pieces of housekeeping...

Lifestyle Rule #1
If you're name is Weiner, at no point shall you do anything embarrassing involving your penis.

Also...
I feel I should come clean about something. I know you think I'm a 20 year old English writer, but I am, in fact, a Syrian lesbian.

That Was That Was The Week That Was...

The title doesn't really relate to the content. You're more than welcome to ignore it.

Last weekend was quite interesting. But permit me to take you back yet further than that, to May 6th. It's roughly 1.30 AM and I'm in bed, but unable to sleep. A repeat of Just A Minute from the early 90s is on. Paul Merton is rambling on with his easy, natural humour, Clement Freud is listing things and then just petering out before being challenged by Derek Nimmo and I'm rolling around. For a bit more context, I was having doubts about myself and my ability in my chosen field.

The most recent of a slew of rejections had come way back in March, but the long period where I realised that I had nothing out there was perhaps even worse. If you don't buy a ticket, you can't win the lottery (obviously, if you do buy a ticket you've still got a greater chance of being struck by lightning than winning, but at least it's not factually impossible). My initially prolific work rate (1 full-length play, 3 half-hour one acts and 2 15 minute shorts in 6 months or so ((not to mention a sitcom pilot and several unfinished bits and pieces)) - not necessarily good, but in existence, at least) had completely tailed off. I had no ideas and little inclination to write even if I'd had any.

I was at a very low ebb, both professionally and personally. I'd been undergoing counselling and was unable to shake myself out of the funk I was in. For the above reasons, I had not checked my Gmail inbox with the feverish regularity of old for some time. But, as I listened to Nicholas Parsons struggling to keep his panellists in check back in the 90s through the magic of radio, I thumbed the email icon on my phone and left it thinking, the arrow chasing its own tail round and round.

I rolled listlessly for half a minute or so, before being disturbed by the vibration of my phone indicating the recognition of a number of emails which I had already looked through on the laptop earlier and was preparing to simply check off one-by-one on my phone. However, up popped an email in my professional account from Mark, the organiser of the Bristol Folk House's Saturday Shorts competition for writers in the South West to which I had submitted one of the aforementioned 15 minute shorts (Chess with Vasily). My heart jumped with nervous anticipation (of yet another failure- I should add- not the good kind). I began to read the brief extract of the email afforded by the mail client "Dear Samuel, Thank you for your entry to Saturday Shorts. Sorry for the-"

I sighed. I'd heard of it all before- the platitudes, the 'we really enjoyed your play...', 'we felt your submission was very strong, but...'s. Nonetheless, I figured I should at least finish reading the email (they'd bothered to read 14-odd pages of my drivel, after all). I prodded the email and it filled the screen. I flicked my eyes back to the 'sorry', as painful as it always was. 'Sorry for the long delay. There were over 100 entries so it's been a hard job to decide.'. Don't be nice to me, Mark. It's always worse when they're nice to you. This is probably a lie, but in many ways as a writer you want to know that your piece wasn't picked because it was derivative shite rather than in a 'substantial amount of strong submissions'. I sighed and felt that familiar, horrible knotted weight in my stomach- I know it passes... eventually, but it's still utterly demoralising for that moment.

I eventually resolved to carry on. '... But we were very impressed with 'Chess with Vasily' and would like to put this on...' Yadayadaya- Hang on. What?! I read it again. And again. And still it hadn't sunk in. 'This can't be correct' I thought. The message asked for me to email back to confirm they had my permission to put on the play. I hurriedly tapped out a fawning, sycophantic email, as much to make sure that it was true- that the email wasn't meant for someone else, that it wasn't some kind of mistake- as to allow them to put it in the showcase. I was emailed back asking for any biographical details I wanted them to use in publicity. I hate writing bios. I can't write them without feeling like a cock, obsessed with his own achievement and thoroughly arrogant in his belief that he is of significance. To that end, I gratefully accepted the help of the quite staggeringly brilliant Dr. Simon Best, who was able to spare my blushes and turn a list of minor successes (swimming badges, deputy head boy etc.) into a professional sounding bio. [That's a joke. I never did the swimming badges...]

I hadn't revealed why exactly I'd needed the information. In fact, I sat on the news for most of the next day before telling even extremely close friends and family. I still felt as though it was ludicrous and that at some point Mark was going to turn up at my house with Mr. Blobby and reveal it had all been a Noel Edmonds Gotcha; that it was going to be taken away. Even when I did tell my family, I said that it's probably some subversive Eurotrash thing where they take the worst 6 entries and display them exclusively to cater to a select group of hipsters and their love of schadenfreude.

I read back through Chess with Vasily (or Chess as I now refer to it, purely for tax purposes), cringing at every typo or bit that didn't work as well as it could have done and seriously struggling to comprehend how what I'd written was capable of being in the top 100 of their entries, let alone the top 6. Around this point, I desperately sought assurance from people, which consequently led to me going public about the performance on Twitter. The cat was out of the bag, the only question was whether it was the kind of cat that purrs and curls up on your lap or the kind that scratches at your settee and pisses everywhere.

Details of rehearsals and suchlike were sketchy, but it was eventually revealed that on the Friday before the Saturday performance one would be taking place at the Folk House. So at 6:30 on Friday morning I got up, showered, donned my blue jumper (complete with geography teacher elbows) and hopped on the train for Bristol Temple Meads (on what turned out to be the hottest day since records began [that may not be true] - the jumper lasted all of the 22 minutes it took to walk to the venue from the station but no longer).

I'd had a brief phone exchange with my director, the very capable Duncan Bonner, but I would be meeting him in person and my two actors for the first time. They'd begun setting up (which predominantly involved rigging a game of KerPlunk), so I quietly took a seat at the back of the room and watched the words I'd written spoken by actual, real people who say other people's words for a living. I'd brought a notebook- best to at least look like you know what you're doing- into which I wrote the words 'Practical implications of KerPlunk?' and very little else over the course of two hours. I gave one directorial note, but otherwise let Duncan have free reign (and probably afforded him the only opportunity to say "the balls drop on page 9" of his directorial career. I'm not one of those writers who consider slight dialogue alterations personal attacks (or at least I can do a very good job of pretending that's the case...).

I made the trip again on Saturday and, before I knew it, I was shuffling into the main hall of the Folk House to witness the showcase; to witness the maiden performance of Chess... Something struck me about the other plays in the showcase- they had messages or morals; they were plays about real issues, from a light-hearted look at a dystopian future in which the government has collapsed to a harrowing monologue delivered by an abusive immigration officer. Mine was ostensibly about two grown men playing KerPlunk.

But you know what? I made an entire hall complicit in watching two grown men playing KerPlunk and they enjoyed it. The two actors were brilliant and Duncan (who had a cameo appearance himself) had done a great job of bringing it to life. It got laughs in all the right places and a hearty round of applause, which I enjoyed (I got a second round of applause later when us playwright's were made to stand up, which I enjoyed less - goes back to the thing about the bios, I suppose). Later in the week I received an email from Mark thanking me and saying that he'd received some correspondence from someone citing 'the kerplunk one' as their favourite. My work here was done.

It was a crazy experience. In many ways, I still can't quite believe it- that someone actually put my play on and that in excess of one person actually enjoyed it. The hard bit, though, is to go back from having your work on to being just another failed writer. Unless there's something out there, someone breathing life into your words, then it's very hard to feel like you're making progress. I can't say I've been blessed with an embarrassment of riches in the ideas department since either. But what seeing my work up on stage, hearing people laughing at jokes that I'd written and seeing the projected sales figures of KerPlunk skyrocket (I can't corroborate this... this is all conjecture) has done is given me faith again; In myself, in my choices, in my ability to write something that will actually bring some degree of pleasure to other people. And for that, I cannot thank Mark and the Folk House enough.

(Right, that's very long. Well done if you made it this far. Sorry it all turned a bit Nikki Sixx Heroin Diaries for some reason, but, if you have been, thanks for reading).

X-Men: First Class

I went to see this last night and the only broadsheet review I've read was what can best be termed as 'lazy' (not to mention that it spoiled one of the best moments of the film), so I've decided to run up a few paragraphs about it myself, but in the style of one of those reviews.

The Kick-Ass pairing of Jane Goldman and Matthew Vaughn attempt to breathe some much-needed life back into the X-Men franchise, but will it be a case of go to the top of the class and kiss the teacher or simply detention for the latest offering?
[This is what the sub-editor will put at the top of the review to make it seem like I came up with those cliches]

We've had three canon X-Men films of varying quality and an underwhelming origin story for Hugh Jackman's Wolverine and now we're presented with another origin of sorts, X-Men: First Class. The tale of a young Charles Xavier and Erik Lensherr- how they became friends, how they became Professor X and Magneto respectively and how, eventually, they became enemies. [This is to make me sound knowledgeable. Trust me, I review films and have seen and understand all of the X-Men ones to date... Although I genuinely have]

You may remember, if you cast your mind back to the beginning of the millennium (and I mean 2000, not 2001, for the purposes of this piece... We've been through this, let's not discuss it again), how X-Men began with a young German Jew thrust into the horror of a Nazi concentration camp and who, upon seeing his family taken away from him, twists a metal gate as if by magic, before being clubbed by a rifle butt. This boy would become Magneto and it wasn't sorcery, it was a mutation, the manipulation of magnetism. Well, X-Men: First Class starts in exactly the same way. It is necessary, of course, to remind us (or even show us for the first time, if you're new to the series) of the terrible hardships young Erik Lensherr suffered as a boy, as they are so key to his politics and actions in later life, but these earlier scenes (along with a young Charles Xavier meeting Raven Darkholme) seem to lack something or perhaps could have been handled with greater subtlety. [You have to say something bad at some point. People want to get angry, either with what you're mocking or simply at you for mocking it, you big twonk]

But this is one of very few criticisms I can make of 'First Class', a bold tale of politics, eugenics and the inception of the X-Men told with great confidence by Vaughn. The action picks up very quickly as we follow the older Erik (played with enormous presence by the terrific Michael Fassbender) on a Boys From Brazil-style hunt for the Nazi scientist that made his life a misery, which ultimately leads him to meeting brilliant young professor of Genetics, Charles Xavier (portrayed with a compelling nervous charm by James McAvoy), who himself has been enlisted on a hunt for the same man- now known as Sebastian Shaw (Kevin Bacon), leader of the mysterious Hellfire Club- by CIA agent Moira McTaggert- in somewhat of a departure from her role in the graphic novels. [Always try and slip in as long a sentence as possible]

The two are tasked with recruiting a crack team of young mutants (in a montage which contains several neat references and a stellar, perfectly-pitched cameo [note how I haven't ruined this bit, like Peter Bradshaw did (it was hurriedly retracted)]) and training them to hunt down Shaw. We are privy to an engaging bromance between Xavier and Lensherr, who put their highly different approaches aside to avert the greatest threat the world has ever faced (this is the 60s, remember. Well before everything starts going a bit mental in 'Last Stand').

From then on it's full-steam ahead. There are occasional lulls (to be expected in a film 2 hours plus), often where the young mutants are involved (the same scenes have a small dip in the quality of the writing too), but the film never has you checking your watch. The 60s setting works perfectly and imparts a sort of stylish kitsch on the whole thing and Henry Jackman's thunderous score drives everything on to a tense final standoff. But perhaps the film's greatest achievement is the character development of the two leads. It's a credit to both Fassbender and McAvoy that you can see exactly how they become Sir Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart [see, I've done this in a slightly flippant, funny way]. You're aware, in no uncertain terms, of how bumbling, would-be womaniser Xavier becomes hardened to Cuban Missile Crisis-era America and humanity's tolerance (or otherwise) of mutants; And of how tortured Erik, consumed by hatred and rage for his creator Shaw, ultimately becomes the very thing he seeks to destroy and takes on the mantle (actually literally, along with the legendary helmet) of Magneto. More importantly both characters are understandable. Magneto is undoubtedly a product of the cruelty he endured and of the knowledge that that is the case. In many ways he can be classed as an anti-hero and, for the most part, this is how 'First Class' chooses to portray him.

It spins a tale that has great historical significance and parallel and even though you know going in how things will turn out (if you've seen the other films), it still packs a not inconsiderable [everyone loves litotes] emotional punch. It is what all great fantasy/sci-fi/comic book tales should be - symbolic of and reconcilable with real world issues.

There are plenty of nods for the hardcore fans and, dare I say, a fair amount of fan service, most notably arising [double entendre ahoy!] from the presence of Emma Frost, played here by January Jones, though I can't help but feel Alice Eve (who was originally announced for the role) would have brought a greater wit and air of intellect to the role. The performances are strong all-round, although it certainly hinges on its two terrific leads. Jennifer Lawrence (playing shapeshifter Mystique) and Nicholas Hoult playing shy intellectual Hank McCoy (yes, he of Skins and About a Boy fame, playing Beast - I mentioned that one could easily see Fassbender and McAvoy turning into their older counterparts, but I found it a little harder to see Hoult becoming Kelsey Grammer) find a touching emotional depth (even if the latter's accent can be a little suspect). [Lots of brackets is the secret to good writing... ahem...] Speaking of suspect accents, Fassbender (a German Irishman) admirably deals with lines in English, German (something Kevin Bacon handles with considerably less success, but a bold effort nonetheless) and South American Spanish, although as the action ratchets up German via Poland Lensherr seems to bark orders with an Irish lilt. But this is a very minor hitch indeed in what is a brilliantly compelling central performance from Fassbender.

I'll come clean, I loved X-Men as a kid (and I still do). I watched hours of the 90s cartoon series and have stacks of comics in a plastic crate in my house and I've been waiting for an X-Men film that delivers [this is to make me sound cool in a geeky way... but is also true] and boy oh boy does 'First Class' deliver. ['cause it's a joke about stamps, see? ... OK, so I earned that sub-editor's strapline...]

Apprentice Preview...

Right, there hasn't been one of these for a while (busy, busy, busy etc.), but I shall attempt to provide a brief look ahead to tonight's Apprentice (BBC One, 9 o'clock).

As you may remember, last night saw accountant (but don't let that sway you) Edward- a sort of squashed Jamie Lester from last series, but with the approach to the head/facial hair ratio of South African opening batsman Hashim Amla, who talks exclusively in bullshit-based riddles (that's Edward, not Amla. I've never seen Hashim do a presser)- unceremoniously sacked for clearly not having seen any of the past 6 series of The Apprentice and putting himself up for the role of project manager... Or perhaps it was just because when teammate Vincent (a sort of poor man's George Lamb, if you can imagine such a thing...) asked whether the fruit he was holding was an orange, poor old Edward was unable to pass judgment to the affirmative or negative. Or effectively juice oranges. Or answer very simple questions without trotting out footballer-level cliches.

But at the end of the day, it's a game of two halves (probably) and tonight's second episode of the week sees the sorry fools take a step into new media and design a smartphone application. Being an appalling business tosser? There's an app for that... apparently...

From the brief sneak peak at the end of last night's offering, it looks promising, with one industry panelist effectively and almost certainly unwittingly summing up the entire Apprentice equation in one pithy, throwaway observation - "There's just a basic issue of taste here."

Dont Shade Your Eyes...

In Tom Lehrer's tale of a student of the great Russian mathematician Lobachevsky, he explains 'the secret of success in field of mathematics... PLAGIARISE'! And that's sort of what today's blog is about (plus some stuff about a stupid advert I heard on the radio and perhaps some things I saw on telly or something like that).

Essentially I was tasked with writing a short story. It was more a vanity project than anything, trying to get me out of an inspiration slump and I was aware that, in part, the idea owed a debt to a German short story called 'Dr. Murkes gesammeltes Schweigen', however during my research I inadvertently discovered that my idea was also very similar to yet another, English short story from a collection published only last year and long-listed for the Orange Prize. Now, I've never read Jennifer Egan's 'A Visit From the Goon Squad' (has anyone here? Any good?) and yet presumably someone who had would recognise certain elements of one of its short stories in mine. So, where do I stand?

Now, obviously this doesn't really matter as the story was just for my personal use. But say I'd submitted it to something or posted it somewhere (might have been worth a go, it was described by its only other reader as 'somewhere between Mark Watson and Bunny and the Bull). Would people flock to accuse me of stealing intellectual property? Despite the fact I've never read the original source? The similarities are few and any that do exist are superficial. My understanding is that similar themes and references are used but in completely different narratives- Egan's plays out like a Wes Anderson film and mine like an episode of the Twilight Zone- but are there still grounds to accuse me of plagiarism?

Reading back through it, Patrick Sueskind might want a piece of the action too for a couple of moments that bring to mind his 1985 novel Perfume (with its hilarious/ridiculous finale) and the subsequent film. Again, I've never read the novel (though I have seen the film - I think it's on iPlayer at the moment if anyone's interested. It's a very interesting idea and wilfully strange ((in a good way)) but the novel doesn't seem to lend itself to film particularly well. A flawed but nonetheless very worthy effort, mind) but is that a barrier these days? Has every idea been done already anyway? And if so, isn't everything plagiarised? Will we prosecute everyone? How many questions am I going to ask in this blog?

Well, that's it really, now onto the other gripes. I heard an advert on the radio earlier (I generally try and avoid commercial radio - this was in a cafe, I'm not going to demand them to change stations...) for a certain Carvery chain. It essentially consisted of James Corden doing his best Henry V over Elgar's 'Nimrod'. I hate these faux-patriotic adverts- You're a chain pub not a fucking Lord Kitchener recruitment poster! Honest to God, Corden(!) doing a Crispian's Day speech about carved meats over one of the most moving and powerful compositions of the 20th century, if not any century. Don't you dare! Don't you dare do this to that piece of music! How dare y-! Actually how dare you! ACTUALLY how dare you!

Also, a quick anecdote. Word reached Or So I Thought... HQ of a parent coming into the local Primary School to query their children being given the day off school for the Royal Wedding. Now, I'm not exactly a fervent Royalist but come on! They're just kids! They don't assign meaning to not having to go into school. It's just a jamboree of sunshine and running around in circles until you feel sick. Actually, no, you know what? Fine. Just your kids can come in and we'll draft in a Republican supply teacher so they can explain to a pair of crying 5 year olds why they're in school while everyone else is outside having fun. Giving them a NATIONAL HOLIDAY off school is not the same as indoctrinating them into supporting the Royal family.


This week Sam watched...
The Crimson Petal and the White, which was, well, weird. Sort of simultaneously a bit sexy and entirely the opposite. A bit like one of those dreams where everyone's naked but when you try and run your legs melt.
Campus - There's potential there but it needs a bit of work. I've a list but I won't bore you with it (unless you work on it and fancy listening to suggestions)

Hell in a Handcart Watch
I read a story from the Press Association titled thusly: 'Camerons fly to Spain for mini-break in Spain'. I won't bother to list the myriad faults with this, I'm sure you're all smart enough to recognise them without me.

An Open Letter to the Makers of Lynx...

Customer Care

Unilever UK
FREEPOST
Admail 1000
London
SW1A 2XX

Dear sir/madam,
I recently undertook to purchase what one may well term a 'can' of your Lynx Excite product - I, a congenital imbecile, found your flashy advert with its Italian setting, bellicose operatic score and attractive, winged woman falling from the very skies utterly impossible to resist. Lynx Excite: Even Angels Will Fall. What on earth could possibly be more exciting, I ask you? A look at the can assures me in diagramatic form that should I combine the corresponding shower gel with my recently purchased spray, I will receive bikini clad women to the power of two. I'm no mathematician, but even I can well see that this represents a frankly unbelievable exponential return. Fibernace would indeed be proud.

So, what, you may be wondering is the problem with said body spray? Now, I have always been taught not to take adverts too literally, so you can well imagine my surprise when, after a liberal application of your fragrant chemicals, in fact an angel did tumble from the heavens. So far, so good, you may be thinking, but you can imagination my current consternation when I go on to explain that the previously mentioned celestial being landed square on top of me, having reached something approaching terminal velocity. She made no attempt whatsoever to utilise the wings that were gifted to her by God, presumably to avoid exactly this kind of eventuality.

I have sustained what my lawyers have asked me to refer to as 'not inconsiderable bruising', 'minor lacerations' and 'a nearly slipped disc'. Even writing this letter of complaint results in a shooting pain around the knuckle (is it a knuckle?) of my right thumb, which was badly sprained as a result of your celestial tomfoolery. Needless to say, I shall be commencing legal proceedings but felt compelled to provide a letter, in addition to my solicitor serving you court summons, allowing me to express some suggestions for a new marketing and indeed product creation direction.

I ask that you immediately rethink your advertising campaign. Perhaps have a single figure with a white backdrop simply explain to the audience that the humble act of spraying a mixture of potent hydrocarbons onto one's sallow flesh will not make one irresistable to women and may even result in what my solicitor and medical practitioners have termed 'intermediate discomfort'. Spraying something not entirely removed from simple natural gas onto oneself will not transport one to Italy and while it may well cause a phenomenon not dissimilar from your 'angels will fall' scenario, it is certainly a far less attractive proposition. Furthermore, I suggest that your lab produces a new product - perhaps call it 'Lynx Chemical Spray'- that in no way makes an immediate connection between spraying said concoction and dozens of models literally sprinting from far and wide to service your every sexual need. Nor shall you imply that the inocuous act of applying the spray will result in any women in the direct vicinity losing their clothes.

A bizarre mixture of false and some slightly (unpredictably, in fact) less false advertising have conspired to cause me not un-serious medical harm and I urge you to take steps to prevent further tragedy.

See you in court,
Outraged (and limping) of Marston Bigot

Still Got the Blues...

Allow me, if I may, to discuss somewhat of a passion of mine. I can't quite pinpoint the first moment that I realised I loved this genre. Whether it was Clapton's uptempo interpretations or that first thundering riff of Muddy Waters' 'Mannish Boy' or the folky, bellowing sound of Lead Belly belting out 'Midnight Special' or perhaps even the exoticism of the idea of Robert Johnson selling his soul to the devil at a lonely crossroads in return from becoming the greatest bluesman in history, I'm still uncertain. What I do know however is that the blues never fails to sweep me up in its fervour and power. To hear Blind Willie Johnson humming in unison with his Open D-tuned acoustic on 'Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground' is to hear the very 'soul of a man' (another of his compositions, incidentally). That moment of intense spiritual torment met with raw bottleneck slide guitar cuts a fine line between blues and gospel but the blues is all the better for its versatility. From throaty anti-recession shouts on Jimmy Witherspoon's 'Times Gettin' Tougher Than Tough' to the wailing, aching guitar licks of the late Gary Moore to the innuendo and raucous comedy of Wynonie Harris' 'Quiet Whiskey', the blues covers the full gamut of human emotion. Many see the blues as a music of pain or tragedy, but, at its heart, the blues is about having the last laugh over adversity.

So what, you may be wondering, does an Oxbridge-educated English comedian who went on to become the highest paid actor on American television have in common with a Depression-era preacher blinded by a handful of lye flung in anger or a Chicago Blues innovator dogged by alcoholism until dying penniless some 50 years after recording his first hits or the ex-con with the booming voice who died of Lou Gehrig's Disease before he ever saw the fruits of his extensive influence or the Texas boy who brought the blues kicking and screaming into the 1980s and was just free of his crippling drug addiction when he was killed tragically in a helicopter crash? Well, our very own Hugh Laurie has recorded a blues album and on Wednesday afternoon he performed several tracks from 'Let Them Talk' for a live-stream on the Guardian website.

Yes, Hugh Laurie out of Jeeves and Wooster and 'A Bit of Fry and Laurie'. He's done a blues album. Of blues songs. Yes, out of Blackadder and the... ahem... Stuart Little films. He's done an album.

Now, if you're expecting me to rant and complain about why a successful English actor and comedian shouldn't be recording a blues album, you're actually going to be disappointed. There's no doubt that Laurie is a talented musician, a multi-instumentalist in fact. Anyone who's seen 'A Bit of Fry and Laurie' will remember his brilliant parody and comic songs...

Actually, permit me to go off on somewhat of a tangent. It worries me that there will soon, or perhaps already is a generation of people who only know Stephen Fry as the convivial and intensely knowledgable host of QI and a foremost tweeter and technophile and Hugh Laurie as an American diagnostician. For my money, 'A Bit of Fry and Laurie' contains some of the greatest sketches ever committed to celluloid. From the louche critics running the rule over their own work to the brilliant piece of high concept comedy resulting in a magnificent topper about the comic timing of Paul Eddington, the four series are all packed with absolutely stunning pieces of wit and silliness. Ooh, Peter and John, how could I have ommitted them... and the voxpops! Ah, basically just buy the DVD boxset...

Anyway, back to the subject. Naturally Laurie has come in for some criticism for his latest venture. A quick glance at the comments made during the live streamed gig reveal that his latest career turn could best be described as... divisive. Many take the Onion-style 'affluent white man enjoys blues' angle, but the wonderful thing about blues is it's an ownerless concept. If you can hear anyone from Skip James to Stevie Ray Vaughn to Joe Bonamassa or Joanne Shaw Taylor and have that music resonate within you, it's achieved its aim. The blues will be there for you at your lowest to help you conquer that grief.

But the blues isn't afraid of challenging major socio-political issues too. J.B. Lenoir's 'Eisenhower Blues' album covers issues including but not limited to the Vietnam War and Civil and Women's Rights. And while we cannot all directly relate to songs like the heartbreaking 'Strange Fruit' by the unparallelled Billie Holliday they remain as tangible cultural edifices representative of the outpouring of grief at the time. Naturally for someone like Hugh Laurie to claim to be able relate to that literally would seem crass but he's not doing that. He's in the fortunate position of being able to record music in a style that he loves without having to worry about the figures. Very few Bluesmen have lived to see their records make money, but finance was not chief among their motivations. They had something to say or they wanted to move people or even just wanted to spin a good old yarn.

Laurie openly acknowledges his 'trespassing on the music and myth of the American South' but to criticise a blues musician for being a white, middle-class Englishman is utterly ridiculous. Are we to brand Eric Clapton and Jimmy Page 'shameless thieves of African American culture'? Blues is infectious- it makes your feet tap, your hands clap and brings a smile to your face if it wants to and that effect does not discriminate. Laurie isn't asking us to lie down and proclaim him the new Mississippi John Hurt. The blues survives thanks to new blood, new interpretations of classics, new songs entered into the great tome of the Delta but most of all it survives through being played. By anyone. From a poor Alabama slave boy to a fat, middle-aged axe-man in a working men's club in Bolton. Laurie wants to use his influence to keep the blues alive and disseminate its power to as many people as possible. And what, I ask you, is wrong with that?

A Couple of Words, If You Don't Mind...

Well, hasn't the world changed since we last met, eh? Murdoch's intolerable expansionist endeavours have been enabled by Jeremy Hunt, the Culture Secretary (that's his name, isn't it, James Naughtie...?), Kolo Toure has tested positive for Charlie Sheen and faces suspension (or at least I think that's what's happened) and everyone's favourite melty-faced dictator Colonel Muammar Gaddaffi has clung onto his stranglehold of the Libyan people with renewed vigour and ever more dodgy soundbites... and TV appearances where he sits in a car with an umbrella. Oh! And the Lib Dems lost their deposit in the Barnsley by-election (finishing 6th behind the BNP and an independent no-hoper).

But instead of musing on whether troubled actor Charlie Sheen (as we're contractually obliged to call him- a bit like 'The Actor Kevin Eldon') is a tragic case of celebrity excess taking its toll or a ludicrous genius finally saying the things we're all thinking; or whether the people of Libya will ever know freedom, I'm going to bring up a couple of personal causes (well, sort of personal).

Winning!: The rantings of a lunatic or the single greatest philosophical statement of the century so far?

First cause. For some reason Auntie Beeb (who is incidentally involved in both of these) has seen fit to axe the sitcom Whites. You remember Whites. It starred Alan Davies as a thinly-veiled parody of semi-celeb chefs (the kind you would see on Great British Menu) and was notable for its marvellous characterisation, super-sharp script and scene-stealing cameos from co-writer Matt King. Well, for some reason, BBC Comedy has decided that Whites was less able to inform, educate and entertain than, say, BBC Three's Coming of Age or Lunch Monkeys. Just muse on that for a while. Anyway, if you happen to be on Twitter then you can hurl abuse (but in a sort of semi-constructive way) at @bbccomedy with the hashtag #bringbackWhites.

Second cause. If you're a radio-loving insomniac like me, there's a good chance you will have heard some of 5Live's Up All Night with Rhod Sharp/Dotun Adebayo. A marathon of global news, features, phone-ins and everything you could ever want between the hours of 1 and 5 in the morning. On Tuesdays at 2.30 is the American TV slot and Rhod goes live (via the magic of Skype) to the living room of one Cash Peters, TV swami, author and alternative health guru who delivers a wonderful half hour of badinage, results of his latest health experiments and even some TV reviews if we have time. Now, what does this have to do with anything? Well, there's specualtion that Cash may have made his last utterance of the brilliance of Oprah's TV station on 5Live.

It's difficult to understand the magic of the Cash/Rhod relationship without actually listening to it, but suffice to say it's brilliantly entertaining and one of few things that can make me laugh out loud at near enough 3 o'clock in the morning. Broadcasts aside, Cash is somewhat of a cult hero inspiring fierce loyalty in members of The List (you may not know what that is, but I know for a fact you want to be on it now) and providing marvellous blog posts on his website (www.cashpeters.com), as well as providing spiritual guidance to those in need (myself included). His jolly and yet grizzled tones have helped people through exams, dissertations and probably even childbirth (almost certainly... probably). The fact is that Up All Night, 5Live and indeed all British late-night radio will be a poorer place if Cash has in fact made his last appearance.

So, I urge you, do what you can to keep Cash Peters Up All Night!

The AV Club...

[Note how I resisted calling it 'You're AVin' a Laugh' or something.]

The big news issue of the day is, of course, the debate surrounding the forthcoming referendum on the Audio Visual method of electing our MPs and many publications/websites etc. seem to be focusing on the battle lines being drawn not only between parties but within them too, not to mention between coalition partners.

Alternative Vote is a simple idea, albeit in a fairly complicated way. You select not only your first choice but also your second choice meaning that if your first choice is eliminated due to no-one reaching the 50% threshold your vote carries over to the second choice until eventually the least hated party/person ends up in power. Clegg, who had originally called AV 'a miserable little compromise', now leads the charge in support of it only to be turned on by David Cameron (trouble in paradise?) who claims it is 'inherently unfair' and went so far as to say that under AV we could end up with a party in charge that no-one wanted or even actually voted for. Well, phew, Dave, just as well that didn't happen in the last election, eh?

The main point is however that this is an issue where party politics has almost gone out of the window, where PM and Deputy can face off against each other, where cabinet ministers can disagree, where Prezza can be furious with Ed Miliband. The best analogy I can think of (in my tiny, nerd-culture addled brain) is Marvel's Civil War crossover comics from 2006/7, written by the incomparable Mark Millar. A government initiative demanding the registration of superheroes leads Captain America to abscond from his duty to round up the rogue masks and fall in with an anti-registration group, quickly becoming their figurehead along with other prominent figures such as Luke Cage and Cable. Meanwhile Cap's old friend and co-Avenger/Ultimate Tony Stark thinks it impossible in the current political landscape to resist this change and continue to self-police and gathers his own team of higher-profile heroes (She-Hulk, Mister Fantastic and even Spider-Man who unmasks especially) to hunt down the resistance.

As the plot develops amid much tragedy, the Human Torch and Invisible Woman side against their intrepid leader Mister Fantastic, Spider-Man turns coat after discovering some of the more unpleasant features of the act and ultimately they all cause more damage with their 'Civil War' than either the Registration Act itself or any resistance to it would have done in the first place... oh, and Captain America is assassinated on some courthouse steps.

Now, what does this have to do with AV? Is Prezza a Luke Cage, punching his way against the reform, or is he more of a Ben Grimm trying to protect the interests of civillians and keep himself in pies and insurance comparison ads? Will Cameron be gunned down on some stairs by Crossbones? Is Clegg going to don a suit of fictional metal and laser his way to some actual power?

No... or at least I'd be very surprised. The main point is that it's interesting to see individuals pitched against each other within their own groups. Public hostility to politics (like public hostility to heroes in the wake of Hulk's smashing of Las Vegas or Nitro's explosive murder of 600 people) is likely to lead to a 'yes' vote, argue some commentators, but then there are surely many who think FPtP flawed but that AV is just a way of keeping things much the same but different enough to fool most people into thinking there doesn't need to be a proper change for another 400 years.

In any case, it looks like this one will run and run (and I am in no way qualified really to talk about any of it or discuss any ramifications).

Just as a quick straw poll/trial, please comment on how you would vote (1st, 2nd and 3rd choices please) in the referendum.

1) Yes to AV
2) No to AV
3) What does it all mean? Why can't we just go home?


This week Sam watched: True Grit. A masterpiece. Towering performance from Bridges, fantastic script from the Coens and if Deakins doesn't win the Oscar for cinematography it's a crime. A masterclass in film-making.

Ill Informed TV Reviews: I...

Right, here's a sort of accidental idea I've had whilst shambling around today- review TV shows, having missed the first 3/4 or so. Basically, I caught the tail end of Cookery School, Channel 4's answer to the BBC's cook-off monopoly, if the question was "can you make a sort of low-rent Masterchef in what appears to be a brick high-rise in Acton?"

Now Cookery School is much like an ordinary school: There's an overwhelming pressure placed upon the students and at the end of tomorrow's episode someone gets evicted... Oh hang on, that's not schools, is it? That's reality television... always get those two mixed up. Not schools at all really. (Well, maybe after Gove's finished tinkering: "Once you've bought and funded your own free school, you can kick the weakest students out at the end of every week...")

I watched the last quarter as the 'students' were tasked with cooking risotto with mussels and then chastised in front of one another by chef Richard Corrigan (out of off of Great British Menu) and 'cookery mentor' (or 'chef') Gizzi Erskine. Graduate (it's what we call them now that none of them can get actual jobs) Bram (who knew people weren't only called that in the 19th century?!) was complimented on the texture of his risotto. Clearly there was a bit of history with Bram, as Corrigan was forced to reconsider his opinion of his cookery abillities. Bram, clearly a bit of a 'character', did an impression of Corrigan, explaining that he expected the Irishman to deride his humble rice dish when in fact he had let out a gutteral "mmmmm", in the post-cookery interview segments that take place on the balcony, complete with black, spiralling fire escape stairs as if the students had all popped out for a cheeky fag break.

It's the classic format. Plucky amateur cooks try and make it big and learn a few things along the way. Like Masterchef. Except not really Masterchef, shh, what did you go and mention Masterchef for?! Well, I guess it's because Masterchef have a flash new studio complete with Time Commanders-esque surveillance balcony for Gregg and John to eye the incompetence of the contestants like dodgy food emperors at an amphitheatre. "Tougher challenges" claims the voiceover... and yet I thought that Imperator Greggus Wallacius had decreed that "cooking doesn't get tougher than this" every episode for about 4 whole previous series.

Anyway, the thing about Cookery School is that it's almost a throwback to the late nineties, early noughties heyday of Channel 4, where BBC formats were slightly altered and then shoved in brick studio space in Hounslow. Who can forget the seminal RI:SE or... you know... the educational things they used to do... sort of edgy stuff... about sex and drugs? Even the camera work is reminiscent of that Golden Age of television where top media luminaries like Kate Lawler and Mark Durden-Smith could run the rule over the day's news in an edgy early morning formats... no, not like Daybreak, even edgier (if you can imagine such a thing...).

But, I only saw the last 15 minutes, so the first bit could have been shot as a Bergmanesque character study of some tragic but loveable amateur cooks set in Malmo. I don't know. Next: Outcasts, the last 15 minutes of Episode 2... possibly.

Denial's Not Just A River in Egypt...

Right, yesterday saw under pressure national hate figure Hosny Mubarak pull an audacious switcheroo on the furious public assembled in Tahrir Square. A press conference was called, rumours spread that the 82 year old was about to step down. When the time of the conference arrived, Mubarak kept the world's media waiting while he stood backstage giggling. Eventually he arrived on stage and declared that, actually, the conference was all a big joke and he wasn't stepping down at all. HA! Jokes....

You see? It was all a big prank. He's going to be there for ages yet... at least until September and by then this whole Tahrir Square revolution thing will have blown over, probably and he can cling on for another 30 years...

Or perhaps not. I don't know. I try and avoid big stories like this that lots of people seem to have opinions about, frankly because it takes a lot of time and effort to get oneself to the required level of knowledge and expertise to be able to offer a valid journalistic opinion. Which is actually what today's blog is about...

Journos famously cut it fine when offering their two penn'orth on topics by not actually reading/watching/doing what it is they're writing about. It happens to all of them at one point or another. They'll drop a bollock and say something silly about an episode of The Tudors or cooking Risotto or something. Just you see if they don't. Yesterday this issue reared its inelegantly-coiffured, empty lens glasses-clad head once more after this article by Deborah Orr was printed in the Guardian G2. Now, while I don't necessarily agree with the content - while I don't think 10 o'Clock Live is the perfect vehicle for Lauren Laverne, she is nonetheless a very talented presenter and at no point have I ever heard her touted as our answer to Tina Fey before this piece - there is an obvious boob... well obvious to anyone that saw the episode of 10 o'Clock Live in question, in which a PRE-RECORDED, STAGED PIECE ABOUT CHARLIE BROOKER AND LAVERNE COCKING UP A LINK was aired and then mocked by the presenters themselves.

But hey, it's just a bit of lazy journalism, happens to the best of us, right? Wrong. Twitter went 8 shades of mental about this. First with some quite personal attacks on Deborah Orr, then people defending Orr, then people attacking the people who attacked Orr and then people who attacked Orr attacking the people who defended her on the basis of their defence. Now, aside from a cheap dig at the format which might concern the production staff and presenters, the only person who should really have been 'offended' by the article is Laverne herself. I can sympathise there. I hate reading criticism... and as a writer, that's, well, a bit of a massive pisser. In fact, if you leave a comment, there's a good chance I'll track you down/humiliate you with my lucid prose... or just cry... one of those two...

I'm sure that after reading my spot on dig at Mubarak at the start there you will have realised that I didn't even watch the press conference- I was busy writing something else at the time- but you have to fill the column inches somehow. And that I suspect is what happened to Orr. She wanted a quick piece to demonstrate that she too loved critics' darling 30 Rock (which is very good, to be fair) as well as having a quick pop at the fairly divisive 10 o'Clock Live.

It was Brooker himself who first drew my attention to the article in question via Twitter. Now, I love Brooker, the man is massive influence on my writing and general miserable approach to life, he has magnificent hair and all he did was indicate the mistake, but in doing so he inadvertently created somewhat of a monster (at least on Twitter between about 10 o'clock and sort of late lunchtime-ish) where people got really quite angry about this little journalistic slip-up.

The article was just a clear opportunity to make a cheap snide, which we all love as writers, let's face it. I made a cheap snide about Mubarak, perhaps the week's most obvious target, at the beginning of this very column. Orr, a respected social and political commentator, was just padding out her double-page spread in the G2, it was an honest mistake, she's not an abominable, controversy-hungry, bile-spouting harridan like Melanie Phillips or Jan Moir, she's just an ordinary journo. I honestly think that in a world where the Daily Mail continues to be published there are journalistic issues that people should be more worried about than one columnist cocking up side-piece about Tina Fey/Lauren Laverne.

I'm not entirely sure why I'm defending Orr- she's doing a job for actual real money, that I've been doing free for what seems like an eternity- but some of the things that people Tweeted about it were needlessly offensive. Many of the commenters, I suspect, had not even read Orr's article in the first place and were operating by hearsay. I love Twitter, but we Tweeters are, all of us, guilty of some quite staggering hypocrisy sometimes- whether it's denouncing racism on Question Time and then laughing at some gypsies getting married (which I'll happily admit I've never watched and will never attempt to write a piece about) or attacking a journalist that wrote an article they've not read about a show that she hadn't watched. Not to mention whoever was subbing that day let this mistake slip through the net, but then they might/probably have better things to do on a Thursday night than watch live topical comedy shows, I don't know.

So maybe we can cut people some slack. It must be bad enough being a Guardian journo where every Tom, Dick and Harry can take the phrase 'comment is free' a little too literally and leave a borderline-insane/worthless opinion on your piece for all to see on its website... in fact, my favourites are those like John Harris who go after malicious commenters and keep commenting on their own pieces getting angrier and angrier or Sarah Ditum's games reviews where she isn't afraid to embarrass commenters for being overly dramatic with their sort of half-critical arsey remarks. Because these people only leave these narky, niggling little nuggets of criticism (probably born out of self-hatred in what I believe is known in the trade as 'the Frankie Boyle Method' of being funny) because they think that the authors will somehow not care enough about their work to take issue with them.

I can't speak for the writers I've mentioned, but I certainly take some pride in my pieces (I mean, not all of them, obviously, some of them were bordering on utter shite - as is this one, some would say) and it hurts to see them attacked by angry office workers trying to avoid having to fill in a spreadsheet about the Hamburg files. Writing in the G2 in an extract from her book on the very same day as Orr-gate, screenwriter/director Nora Ephron described the pain of seeing your work flop. It's 'mortifying', 'lonely' and 'sad'. And that's from a triple Oscar nominee, so imagine how shite it is for us downtrodden hacks.

So maybe, if you don't have anything nice to say, don't tweet/leave a comment on the Guardian website... Mkay?

Everything That's Wrong With...

There comes a time when every right thinking columnist must write his/her 'everyone else is basically an idiot' column. This was perhaps most brilliantly illustrated in the seminal satire of modern idiocy 'Nathan Barley' when put-upon, jaded hack Dan Ashcroft (portrayed with stunning ennui by Julian Barratt and, one suspects, heavily based upon writer Charlie Brooker) pens his legendary 'Rise of the Idiots' polemic, only to be beatified by the very idiots he sought to shame. Well, I have a strong inkling that this week is the time for my 'Rise of the Idiots' (see, it's a bit like Brooker's 'Dawn of the Dumb', you see where I'm going with this?).

There are two main triggers for this vitriolic brainsplurge that I will be inflicting upon you all today: The first is the maiden series of Channel 4's living sexual health nightmare The Joy of Teen Sex and the second is this article by John Harris, appearing in yesterday's G2 (think of it as further reading... you don't have to read it all... even just the title will do)

"So, what on earth could be wrong with a show titled 'The Joy of Teen Sex'?", you may well ask. Now, I'm no prude, I've cracked many a hearty innuendo and penned thoughts (admittedly for comic effect) that would make the Marquis de Sade... well... I don't know... have a sly wank(?)... but one that he felt really guilty about afterwards...; I have no issue with graphic nudity or a heavily trussed-up 'sex coach' removing a frankly terrifying looking piece of carnal paraphernalia from a chest of equally daunting vibrating trinkets; but what I do have a problem with is a ludicrously trite television show. Teenage sex is doubtless an issue worthy of exploration and is certainly worthy of a far less flawed format than 'Joy', which somehow manages to treat fairly harrowing issues with a childish contempt and light-hearted frolicking with a kind of po-faced nagging. Some moments leave you expecting Graham Chapman to march onto screen and halt proceedings for them becoming 'too silly' whereas others have perfectly innocent, balanced young women having rancid A2-printed genitals thrust in their faces until they cry.

Now, what does this have to do with 'the rise of the idiots', I hear you cry, well aside from the people frequenting the 'Sex Advice Shop' and the voxpops which wouldn't look out of place in 'A Bit of Fry and Laurie', a regular feature is the thoughts of 'teen journalist' Billie JD Porter. [deep intake of breath and sigh] There's nothing particularly wrong with Miss Porther per se... but I can't help but feel that she's a 'journalist' in the way that I'm a Hollywood actor... Yes, she says fairly sensible things when being pressganged into watching someone get a Prince Albert or a 'vajazzling', but then so would any sane person faced with watching a man have a needle thrust down his urethra and, yes, she seems fairly game, posing for a slightly dodgy middle-aged 'glamour model photographer' and venturing onto Chatroulette (which, incidentally, if the latter makes you a journalist, makes me eligible for last year's Pullitzer...) but I want to see her pen 2,000 words on Tahrir Square and hand it into me by the end of the week, you know? I've trawled the internet for evidence of 'journalism' but her blog (http://www.billiejd.blogspot.com/) doesn't offer any clues (I won't link properly in case she sues for defamation... after all she seems like a modern woman... one who would sue for defamation...).

Take this week's episode. Porter appeared, flanked by two impossible hipsters, all with vacant expressions on their faces, staring into the abyss of depravity that is Chatroulette (for when you stare too long into the Chatroulette, it too stares back unto you...) and gurgling various childish platitudes into the webcam (not to mention later making 50 dirty internet pounds by not adhering to age-old ((albeit very flawed)) internet rule of 'tits or GTFO'). And it is exactly these people that I'm beginning to struggle with. You know the sort, the kind of people who say they're 'dressing ironically' and button their shirts all the way up, who think/know they're better than you because they have the right connections to make into television/fashion/journalism, whose voices resemble a mixer-sodden whinge with a rising inflection. In Ashcroft's 'Rise of the Idiots' he points out how the idiots are "oblivious to the paradox of their own uniform individuality" and that is just it- you're not being ironic anymore when everyone is doing it. Just admit that you actually like bowties and Neil Diamond and that you do actually need those NHS spectacles and that you're not really a 'journalist'. It's fine, you know, you don't have to be a 'journalist', it's ok just being on television because you're a hipster and your parents know some people... mostly... yeah, it's nearly almost fine as long as you accept that that's the case. I know what you're thinking: 'Oh, Sam, you can't cut everyone down to an archetype, some of them are probably fine... what are the underlying causes, why can't you explain all that? EH?', well I'm getting there, ok?!

Essentially the underlying causes are those raised in John Harris' article. It's suddenly become acceptable to be Tory in pop culture. Well, I'm here to echo Johnny Marr's sentiments. It's not 'ok' to be a Tory creative, because creativity is our only defence against them in the first place. The arts are ours, dammit. Why can't you go back to your braces and stock-broking and leave our arts alone?! I don't need both Gary and Ken Barlow telling me how good Cameron is, I don't want to hear it anymore. They're selling off our forests and now their taking our arts from the inside. I didn't absorb all the social realism I could so Gilbert and George could tell me 'socialism wants everyone to be equal. We wanted to be different...' (a factually inaccurate statement anyway... the two aren't mutually exclusive) or for some Harrow/Eton/Russell Group University tosspot could tell me that they shouldn't have to apologise for their privilege. Yes. Yes, they should. 'Oh, but I was born into millions and millions of pounds' doesn't really cut it excuse-wise with me. You should have to apologise because there are millions with the same aspirations as you who have had to work a thousand or more times harder to get any closer to realising it and even then, bar a handful of notable exceptions, remain more distant from it than you would ever experience. Ok, so you might argue that they, on some level, must want to better themselves in the same way that you do by going to Oxbridge/JP Morgan etc., but there is just an inherent value in actually working to get there. Using your rationale, let's imagine a child in Ethiopia born into poverty. That's fine is it. We shouldn't bother offering help to that child because it's been born that way, is that it? Yes, you should have to apologise, because you are responsible, at least (if you insist on the excuse of birth allowing you to be non-culpable) for the fact that many a decent, hard-working, ordinary employee has lost their job/missed out on promotion/achieved so little of what they wanted in life that they've been driven to suicide, you short-sighted, self-serving oik.

Ahem...

Anyway this is more about arts and less about me being a bit like Geldof...

As several commenters on the article point out 'oh but Thatcher was good for the arts, Sam, wasn't she? Look at all the arts we done under Thatcher, eh? What about music and drama... all that we done under Thatcher, eh?'. Here's the rub- yes, The Smiths happened under Thatcher, yes, Boys From The Blackstuff happened under Thatcher but they were both epics of utter despair but also of steely defiance under a regime attempting to choke originality and creative freedom as well as handily getting rid of all the actual jobs that would otherwise have been available too. To credit Thatcher with Bleasdale's magnum opus or Strangeways Here We Come is like crediting Hitler with 'the marvellous courage shown by the French Resistance'. They existed as anathema to the Tory government, reminding them just how much we hated what they stood for and exactly how we can overcome it.

Speaking of Boys From The Blackstuff, Liverpool City Council is fully aware that it doesn't want another generation of Yosser Hughes'- beaten by police, battered by the despair of the Dole and all but killed by the government- and has pulled out of Cameron's Big Society, already denounced on this very blog last year as basically 'don't like how things are? Then you sort it out and we can blame you when it inevitably goes tits up' politics.

Now, as bad as 'Uncool Britannia' is, I wasn't particularly enamoured with Cool Britannia either (It's responsible for Damien Hirst, after all, who is responisble for making obscene amounts of cash from extortionately priced botched taxidermy or human remains), perhaps it's wrong to make this a political thing as Harris has done, but it just so happens that you're friendly neighbourhood over-privileged pop-culture figure (surprise, surprise) just happens to be a Tory more often than not.

I don't wake up in the morning with the sole aim of inciting class warfare, honestly I don't. This was supposed to be about the arts and about terrible, privileged ironically-dressed hipsters and I've turned it into a massive go essentially about how I've put in actual effort into the things I've wanted to do and got zero reward like so many honest people, who would be part of the appallingly patronisingly-titled 'Alarm Clock Britain' if they didn't lie awake at night despairing over whether cuts are going to lose them their jobs or wondering how they're going to keep the electricity bill paid and sleep through their alarms until they awake in a cold sweat, cursing the fact that they're still alive and still doomed to the daily grind in Cameron's Britain.

Phew...

No Sexism Please, We're British...

Right, anyone who saw 10 O'Clock Live last night will notice that Charlie Brooker somewhat stole my thunder. Since Sexismgate broke earlier this week, I've been accumulating thoughts, jokes etc. for the Friday blog and what should happen on Thursday evening? Well, only one of my heroes making very similar jokes about the same subject to an audience of millions. So, instead of banging on about it, I'll give you a quick rundown:

I was going to discuss the details (briefly, I'm sure you all know basically what happened... but, y'know, with sparkling wit and artistic flair), then I was going to make the point (that several others have made by now) that is struck me as strange that Gray, who happened to be going through the courts to gain damages from Murdoch's News International, was the one to lose his job when the surprisingly hirsuite Keys (who ultimately walked anyway after a bizarre hour-long Partridge-esque interview on talkSPORT... where he will probably be plying his trade in 6 months time, given that his opinions are not so far removed from a good percentage of the active listnership...) received only a warning.

After all that I would go on to summarise the headlines about the story in the Murdoch press, particularly on the startling hypocrisy of the Sun (again, I was beaten to this point by Brooker) whose spread consisted of: Front page- Andy Gray is a sexist pig; and then over the page, 'oh look, some tits'. I was then going to go on to point out that the media storm over this story has quite possibly harmed Sian Massey's career a good deal more than any cheap snides from two men who should know better but were probably only saying what Massey will sadly hear from the terraces every time she makes a key decision. The ensuing media scrum has resulted in Massey missing several games in which she would be officiating, whether as an assistant or as the referee in lower league fixtures, all of which would have been occasions to impress the powers at be and appear more regularly in the officials line-ups for Premier League games.

Anyway, just as we were all being reminded that there is no place for sexism in modern society, who should crop up on Question Time but the bafflingly banal, attention-seeking harridan Katie Hopkins...

So... swings and roundabouts, I suppose...

Political Turmoil...

It's fair to say I've learnt a few things this week. Not only did I learn what vajazzling was, but I (as did we all) discovered a few home truths about politics. Firstly, I learnt that (and frankly we should all have taken note from Costner) it is never advisable to trust your bodyguard with a woman. Yes, poor old Alan Johnson, struggling to get to grips with his new role as Shadow Chancellor had to put up with the alleged hanky panky between his wife and his personally assigned security official. So, it was Johnson out/Balls in (and believe me, I'm on Twitter, I've heard every joke going about this, so you can all just imagine your favourite one here). And from one heavy-handed reference to a cock to another - Andy Coulson resigned as Communications Chief in the Coalition Government earlier today. Perhaps, nugget of advice number 2 is it is never advisable to award a man allegedly repsonsible for the illegal tapping of the phones of pop culture luminaries such as Sienna Miller and Andy Gray a key position in government.

So, Coulson who resigned his leadership of the News of the World amid allegations of overseeing a culture of phone-hacking and was inexplicably rewarded for this by being allowed into Cameron's inner sanctum (I've created a notion that disgusts even myself there) and today he's resigned his position with the statement that he could 'no longer give 110%'. I'm fairly certain he couldn't give that in the first place as it is A MATHEMATICAL IMPOSSIBILITY. Classic hack soundbite, mind - you're resigning from the government, you're not on the fucking Apprentice. Reports of him defending his position with the claim that he has 'a field of ponies' remain unsubstantiated.

It's one of those periods of 24 hours where all news happens at once and it becomes impossible to work out who's trying to bury their news underneath all the others. Nevertheless, short of Blair yelling 'Alright, I knew this would happen. It all went wrong. Everything was wrong!' at the Chilcot Inquiry, Coulson is rightly the lead news story. Who will Dave replace him with? Rupert Murdoch? Robert Maxwell? Or perhaps just Joseph Goebbels...

That's it for this week, I'm afraid.

Soupy twist.

This Was the Week, This Was....

Well, it would turn out that the furore that led to last week's blog was in fact a hoax. Hoax/joke, I basically called it correctly... anyway, it would appear that shit-stirring sociopath Kenneth Tong was conducting a 'social experiment'. Now, it comes as absolutely no surprise that someone who partook in the 'social experiment' Big Brother, would have no concept whatsoever of what actually constitutes a social experiment. It would appear that in both cases, observing ordinary folk to gain insight into cultural norms and human nature lies somewhere far behind SAYING OR DOING MORALLY DUBIOUS THINGS FOR ATTENTION.

Anyway, don't worry, it's not all going to be about Tong, I just thought I'd follow up on last week's and point out that it was all, of course, a hoax for the purposes of a social experiment... Oh and spare a thought for the Independent's columnist Johann Hari who spent a not inconsiderable amount of time interviewing the wretch when we all still thought he was genuinely advocating illness as a viable means of achieving his evil misogynist aims...

Still, he's cried wolf now, so if in March he starts tweeting about how he's found Lord Lucan under a napsack in his parent's kitchen, we'll all be wise to his games...

So yeah, forget about him. Forget about the last three paragraphs... and last week's blog... just remember that it was all very funny and someone should probably pay me for this, in all honesty...

So, another week of popular culture and anotherweek where we slip ever closer to the void and all realise that Nathan Barley was, in fact, a documentary... Anyway, topicality... that's what we need here. Umm, Labour hold Oldham... um... ah, Silvio Berlusconi is now formally under investigation for 'using a teenage prostitute and abusing his position as PM'. Mais non? Not old Silvio, the lovable rogue? Abusing his position of power? Say it ain't so.

WHERE HAVE THEY ALL BEEN FOR THE LAST 15 YEARS?! ACTUALLY WHERE HAVE THEY BEEN?!

(I'm very shouty today, sorry about that...)

Silvio has done nothing with the power he's held at varying intervals over the last three decades than abuse it. I'll take an interesting standpoint here and say that, sure Silvio's had some fun with his position, but then isn't that really the ultimate aim of having any true power or influence? Just, so that you can do whatever you want with whichever belly dancers or teenagers you want? I'm certain that Italy's greatest political commentator Niccolo Machiavelli would have just loved Silvio for proving him right about absolutely everything.

He's the modern day Cesare Borgia, but instead gaining territory Silvio makes boundless sexual conquests (and is slightly less dependent on the goodwill of the Papacy). Nonetheless the authorities in Milan are now conducting investigations into the indiscretions of everyone's favourite comedy head of government. I'm now taking bets on the likelihood of Silvio Berlusconi coming out and saying "I was conducting a social experiment into how many daliances a political leader can have before people realise they're generally unsuitable for the running of a country's infrastructure".

This week also saw the discovery of a brand new starsign, the mysterious Ophiucus. Here's today's horoscope for that one.

When the Moon is in the Seventh House and Jupiter aligns with Mars, a handsome stranger will feed you some bullshit about there being starsigns, let alone a new one.

Kenneth Wrong...

Right, haven't done one of these for a while but as no-one seems prepared to pay me for it I might as well dust off the old talons of vitriol and aim them at a new target.

Twitter has been abuzz for the last couple of days with an outpouring of bemusement and outrage aimed at one person in particular following a series of controversial statements. I know what you're thinking, 'who is this idling buffoon making the biggest PR cock-up since the public failing of David Cameron's perception filter led to the reveal of a grinning Lady Thatcher brandishing a large pair of shears'? (Ok, so that hasn't exactly happened per se... YET). Anyway, the figure in question is a certain Kenneth Tong. Nope? Me neither. Supposedly he took part in the formerly perennial stifling shitsauna of mediocrity that was Big Brother and now he's starring in 'the internet' where he's playing the part of the woefully misguided and remorseless villain.

Ordinarily it's very difficult to be angry with someone called Kenneth - I'm thinking Branagh, Barlow or that dildo out of off of Peep Show - however many, many people have been willing to make an exception in the case of Mr. Tong.

Over the last few days Tong has rebranded himself as some manner of body fascist, firing out tweets such as

'Only the thin truly win. My Size Zero Pill will change lives, it's like the modern day Schindler's List. Will I be your salvation?'
'Not attempting to be controversial, simply wealthy enough to be honest in saying you're fat and credible enough to promote managed anorexia.'
'There is no excuse for a Girl not to be a Size Zero. It is perfection. Skinny is so sexy, show's self control and is the epitome of beauty'.

So, it seems that he's pushing some kind of product with a staggering lack of self-awareness. Clearly Mr. Tong, who must instantly recognisable to, oh, 3 or 4 dozen people is above our mere human boundaries of taste and decency.

Well, either that or it's a joke. I doubt even someone who's appeared on Big Brother would tweet something along the lines of:

'I quite enjoy these comparisons to Hitler, have read a few Tweets about this, you lot are too kind, I'd argue this is quite a complement.'

I'd quite like to know which facet of history's greatest villain's personality or atrocities there committed he finds to be a complement (sic). The annexation of the Sudetenland perhaps or the way in which that parting just clung to his head so wonderfully... While he assures us his verification is in the post (or something), I don't really see why Twitter would verify someone who prompted equally as many 'who is Kenneth Tong's' as 'this man is a sexist vagrant's.

Joke or not, however, the point stands that any destructive, potentially fatal 'advice' constitutes an abuse of perceived power and thousands were quite rightly astounded and enraged. Cue everyone calling him a vapid, shallow jeb-end. Which is about accurate BUT here's the catch, Tong or not, he's just seeking attention. He wants you to hate him and to call him a vapid, shallow jeb-end (in those exact terms). He wants your disgust and to be vilified as a twattish monster. Like serial killers... or Richard Littlejohn.

By the way, I am fully away of the irony of writing an angry piece about why we shouldn't give attention to this person, which is why I'm advocating a mass tweet of (and bear in mind that they never catch on when started by me... as illustrated by an early effort at the Spartacus tweet that swept Twitter... fully two days after I'd attempted to get it off the ground when someone with influence tweeted it) 'Who is this arsehole and why should we give any credence to his frankly ludicrous opinions?!' perhaps with some kind of hashtag to indicate cohesion and not just a series of perhaps 10 of my friendship circle venting frustration at some unknown figure from their own real lives. #bollockstokenneth perhaps, simply because it makes me giggle from the juxtaposition of 'Kenneth' and 'bollocks'. Alternatively you could just bombard him with @replies calling him 'a vapid, shallow jeb-end', but as we've established, this would probably undermine the cause...

Now, just as we're verging on the libellous, it's probably a good time to point out that everyone is entitled to an opinion... I'm just not entirely sure why I've had to read his and why he couldn't keep his archaic, abhorrent misogyny to the confines of his presumably equally crushingly regressive friends and immediate family.

On a semi-serious note, the fact is, if you're happy in yourself who is ANYONE to tell you different, least of all Kenneth Tong, a non-entity evidently so unhappy that he's been forced to broadcast his baffling and offensive inflammatory statements in the hope that people might remember who he is.