Look at this
It makes me think of the idea that there are things that just want to be made, and people have been trying to realise them with the technology they have available, like the helicopter.
It's strange how coincidences like this appear from time to time, although it's not as weird as a group of film makers in America inventing a name (Napoleon Dynamite) that, unkown to them, had been used as a pseudonym by elvis costello on a couple of really obscure tracks in the late 70's.
anyway, I'm off to canterbury tomorrow morning so I'll not be posting on this for a while, unless I can be bothered to go up to the library and fight off the freshers for a space in front of a computer.
-Ben
Thursday, September 22, 2005
Sunday, September 18, 2005
Pleasing
I was looking at a computer catalogue today (it fell out of a newspaper and I couldn't find anything else to read*) and I was marveling at how cheap computers are getting now, my dad explained the reasons for it but I can't remember what exactly they were, something about 'the hardware ceiling' and the arrival of cheap, imported cakes. However on the net I have found a much better looking alternative to the grey boxes.
I'll get one, one day, and it can go with the elaborately carved speaker cabinets I'll have for my bass amp** in my evil lair. Alas though, these are just idle dreams, I really need to get an evil internship or something if I'm ever going to make it as evil genius and I just don't have the time.
-Ben
*After I'd read the paper obviously, I don't just throw that away and keep the dropouts.
**Also elaborately carved. With a mini fridge in it.
I'll get one, one day, and it can go with the elaborately carved speaker cabinets I'll have for my bass amp** in my evil lair. Alas though, these are just idle dreams, I really need to get an evil internship or something if I'm ever going to make it as evil genius and I just don't have the time.
-Ben
*After I'd read the paper obviously, I don't just throw that away and keep the dropouts.
**Also elaborately carved. With a mini fridge in it.
Saturday, September 17, 2005
Friday, September 16, 2005
Marrows
I was reading this article today and thinking how I've had to learn so much American pop culture and language over the years in order to understand films and TV. I suppose it's because Americans have all the money,* but you never hear of things being changed for UK release because the American wording wouldn't make sense to us. I think here they assume that we'll just guess at what it means and leave it in. American publishers and film distributors seem to have a staggeringly low opinion of the American public; things like The Madness of King George III being renamed just 'Madness of King George' because they thought people would wonder why they hadn't heard of the first two episodes**. They seem perfectly willing to release a film like Memento or LA Confidential, confident that people will be able to keep up with their twisty turny narratives, but they don't trust the same people to be able to figure out that this is a squash preferring, bafflingly, to call it a melon.
It's especially baffling seeing as it's a very English film, and you can't grow melons here. But hey, we are a small nation film revenue wise, although if they were only interested in the big markets then they'd do well to shoot their films in Hindi as well and put in elaborate musical numbers.
-Ben
*When it comes to film making and distribution, I don't want to get into the broader argument again.
**There are much better examples than this but I can't be bothered to find any, sorry.
It's especially baffling seeing as it's a very English film, and you can't grow melons here. But hey, we are a small nation film revenue wise, although if they were only interested in the big markets then they'd do well to shoot their films in Hindi as well and put in elaborate musical numbers.
-Ben
*When it comes to film making and distribution, I don't want to get into the broader argument again.
**There are much better examples than this but I can't be bothered to find any, sorry.
Summer
I think that with the fact that Eddie has gone back to Plymouth, my imminent return to UKC and the bloody awful weather, the summer can be said to be officially over now.
I've been wondering what exactly I've done this summer, how does it compare to other summers?
As for how it compares to other summers I really couldn't say, it's hard to give a Fun-rating.
it's not been a huge amount of fun for fairly obvious reasons, well, obvious to the only person who reads this and that's good enough for me to not bother to explain what I mean.
sorry, bit of a fatman emo moment.
I've been lurking with the same group of friends that I've been kicking around with since I was 16 and, on the whole, I'd be happy to spend another couple of years hanging around with them. They are still froody and even those that seem to have spent their time at uni exaggerating their existing foibles are still entertaining enough.
I didn't go to the reading festival this year, which is a shame, but I did see the queens of the stone age, which ruled (although I still owe pat big time for those tickets). Bizarrely I appear to have managed to pick up a few reading-isms this year despite not actually going, yay for getting drunk with festie veterans.
I've had no great personal revelation, no James Joyce style epiphany has struck me and made everything clearer. I doubt one ever will, I think that in reality people have to spend their time permanently slightly confused and unsure; never getting that great moment of clarity that they'd like, it certainly seems to be how things are going with me. No emotional music has played at any point, the soundtrack to this summer has mostly been leaning more towards the heavy side of things, and always upbeat, occasionally dangerously so.
I went to the cottage and that was ace, but it wasn't the 5 day depravity and badminton binge that it used to be. What it has become though was also fun, although not the same sort of fun as perhaps the newcomers had been led to expect.
I've put on quite a bit of weight, which is a bad thing, however I've managed to grow a beard that is visible to the naked eye, which is a good thing (at least I think so)... Perhaps the beard is contributing to the weight gain... I think I've got uglier but my self image has got prettier so I'm not afraid of mirrors anymore.
I've not really got any better on the bass, and the condition of my instrument is decreasing worryingly; I've done well to hold it together for so long. I think with the help of some people who know more than me I'll be able to keep the old gal going at least until next summer. But I can now play the guitar to a reasonable extent, well, I can play chords and have advanced song wise from the usual pop punk stuff.
The fact that Eddie barely seems to play geetar anymore is quite distressing though, I hope he's not going to give up on it all and become a square.
Seems pretty unlikely though.
I've not gone mad and beaten anyone up, although I did come fairly close to braining john at the cottage. But I do still swear at SUVs and off roaders in cities though, so I've not reached zen style inner peace yet. Just today in fact I was waiting outside Issie's school and marveling at the fact that the fat women (they always are)in huge off roaders always put 'child on board' signs in their back windows. Presumably afraid of their child getting injured when they run over one of those notoriously solid-and-dangerous-to-vehicles small children while driving around the narrow streets outside the school in their amoured personnel carriers.
meh. I digress, although I suppose you can't digress if you didn't actually have anything to say in the first place.
I think I've run out of things to say now. Well that's not exactly true, it's more a case of me getting bored with writing and needing to try and comfort issie who is all upset about the whole no-Eddie thingy. I'm not very good at comforting, I'll probably just provoke her into attacking me, that always cheers her up.
-Ben
I've been wondering what exactly I've done this summer, how does it compare to other summers?
As for how it compares to other summers I really couldn't say, it's hard to give a Fun-rating.
it's not been a huge amount of fun for fairly obvious reasons, well, obvious to the only person who reads this and that's good enough for me to not bother to explain what I mean.
sorry, bit of a fatman emo moment.
I've been lurking with the same group of friends that I've been kicking around with since I was 16 and, on the whole, I'd be happy to spend another couple of years hanging around with them. They are still froody and even those that seem to have spent their time at uni exaggerating their existing foibles are still entertaining enough.
I didn't go to the reading festival this year, which is a shame, but I did see the queens of the stone age, which ruled (although I still owe pat big time for those tickets). Bizarrely I appear to have managed to pick up a few reading-isms this year despite not actually going, yay for getting drunk with festie veterans.
I've had no great personal revelation, no James Joyce style epiphany has struck me and made everything clearer. I doubt one ever will, I think that in reality people have to spend their time permanently slightly confused and unsure; never getting that great moment of clarity that they'd like, it certainly seems to be how things are going with me. No emotional music has played at any point, the soundtrack to this summer has mostly been leaning more towards the heavy side of things, and always upbeat, occasionally dangerously so.
I went to the cottage and that was ace, but it wasn't the 5 day depravity and badminton binge that it used to be. What it has become though was also fun, although not the same sort of fun as perhaps the newcomers had been led to expect.
I've put on quite a bit of weight, which is a bad thing, however I've managed to grow a beard that is visible to the naked eye, which is a good thing (at least I think so)... Perhaps the beard is contributing to the weight gain... I think I've got uglier but my self image has got prettier so I'm not afraid of mirrors anymore.
I've not really got any better on the bass, and the condition of my instrument is decreasing worryingly; I've done well to hold it together for so long. I think with the help of some people who know more than me I'll be able to keep the old gal going at least until next summer. But I can now play the guitar to a reasonable extent, well, I can play chords and have advanced song wise from the usual pop punk stuff.
The fact that Eddie barely seems to play geetar anymore is quite distressing though, I hope he's not going to give up on it all and become a square.
Seems pretty unlikely though.
I've not gone mad and beaten anyone up, although I did come fairly close to braining john at the cottage. But I do still swear at SUVs and off roaders in cities though, so I've not reached zen style inner peace yet. Just today in fact I was waiting outside Issie's school and marveling at the fact that the fat women (they always are)in huge off roaders always put 'child on board' signs in their back windows. Presumably afraid of their child getting injured when they run over one of those notoriously solid-and-dangerous-to-vehicles small children while driving around the narrow streets outside the school in their amoured personnel carriers.
meh. I digress, although I suppose you can't digress if you didn't actually have anything to say in the first place.
I think I've run out of things to say now. Well that's not exactly true, it's more a case of me getting bored with writing and needing to try and comfort issie who is all upset about the whole no-Eddie thingy. I'm not very good at comforting, I'll probably just provoke her into attacking me, that always cheers her up.
-Ben
Sunday, September 04, 2005
I Have Returned
It's strange trying to describe a week of your life in a reasonably small number of words. The cottage was fun, it always is; but, as with every trip to the cottage, it's hard to put into words why or how. I've had a great time this last week, but pinning down specific incidents is hard, it's like whole week of 'you'd have to be there' I could tell stories but they'd lack the humour and the excitement that they had at the time.
Take, for example, the language of the cottage; generally at the cottage we devolop our own strange slang, it's generally various phrases used by the group that get taken up by everyone. They are funny to us and using them again becomes a kind of in-joke, reminding us of the time we spent getting drunk miles from anyone. This year's key phrases were:
"in the Face!" - based on Colin's belief that everything sounds more painful if followed by the phrase 'in the face!' (for example 'you have cancer... in the face!').
"sexy" this was used as an adjective to describe just about everything from food to women to a good game of frisbee.
"shut up... You're a twat, aaaah, you're shit" shouted in unison when someone said something that was a bit thick, or just if people were bored, getting drunk and shouting it at foxes was a good example.
There were others but I think that is sufficient to show you that in order to understand the cottage it helps if you are there. Obviously that isn't really possible for most people I know. This means that generally cottage anecdotes fall pretty flat.
I'm sure I'll tell stories but putting them here seems like recording it somehow, which is rather against the spirit of things, what happens at the cottage isn't really for the recording. I'm sure it wouldn't be half as fun if people thought that their actions would become public knowledge.
naked chef, hornet fighting, sausage surprise... They shall all stay within the group, only to be revealed in the occasional drunken anecdote.
Now I've got to try and fight off the post-cottage downer
-Ben
Take, for example, the language of the cottage; generally at the cottage we devolop our own strange slang, it's generally various phrases used by the group that get taken up by everyone. They are funny to us and using them again becomes a kind of in-joke, reminding us of the time we spent getting drunk miles from anyone. This year's key phrases were:
"in the Face!" - based on Colin's belief that everything sounds more painful if followed by the phrase 'in the face!' (for example 'you have cancer... in the face!').
"sexy" this was used as an adjective to describe just about everything from food to women to a good game of frisbee.
"shut up... You're a twat, aaaah, you're shit" shouted in unison when someone said something that was a bit thick, or just if people were bored, getting drunk and shouting it at foxes was a good example.
There were others but I think that is sufficient to show you that in order to understand the cottage it helps if you are there. Obviously that isn't really possible for most people I know. This means that generally cottage anecdotes fall pretty flat.
I'm sure I'll tell stories but putting them here seems like recording it somehow, which is rather against the spirit of things, what happens at the cottage isn't really for the recording. I'm sure it wouldn't be half as fun if people thought that their actions would become public knowledge.
naked chef, hornet fighting, sausage surprise... They shall all stay within the group, only to be revealed in the occasional drunken anecdote.
Now I've got to try and fight off the post-cottage downer
-Ben
Tuesday, August 30, 2005
The Cottage
Well I'm nearly packed now, and I'm going to be off soon.
I'll be offline for a while so I'll talk to you in a week, unless I'm eaten by bears or killed by the psycho hose beast* but that seems fairly unlikely.
Go and be as sociable as The Man will allow you to be until october, I insist.
toodles.
-Ben
*See Wayne's World
I'll be offline for a while so I'll talk to you in a week, unless I'm eaten by bears or killed by the psycho hose beast* but that seems fairly unlikely.
Go and be as sociable as The Man will allow you to be until october, I insist.
toodles.
-Ben
*See Wayne's World
Friday, August 26, 2005
Exams
In the UK about this time of year the press are grabbed by an exremely boring form of madness. The combination of parliament having been on recess for a few months and all the papers tiring of the usual celebrity holiday photos has unfortunate consequences. That's right, it's results time. A time when mad professors and pushy parents unveil their 9 year-old freaks who've already got an A in GCSE canoeing or whatever, when retired school inspectors with delusions of grandeur make statements about how "it's not as good as when I was in charge" and when politicians who think they have some understanding of education ooze out of the woodwork and start spouting their political agendas over the achievements of people younger and prettier than them.
The papers lap it up though, the steady stream of people dying which has sustained them up to this point appears to have dried up, so now they've got nothing else to do but glue their own interpretation onto the results, pressing whatever agenda they feel the need to press.
I'm sure I've ranted about this on more occasions than I can remember so I'm sorry if I'm being boring, but when some paper takes up the story that a 9 year old has passed GCSE IT* as conclusive proof that the exams are too easy I need to get ranty. Sorry to break the parents' bubble, but the child is weird and probably borderline autistic. What this shows is that with a great deal of effort a single exam can be passed, this doesn't mean that the system is easy, from when I was 15 to when I was 18 I took 52 (That took a while to figure out) proper hardcore exams and nearly went mad on a number of occasions. On their own they might be something an exceptional 9 year old can do, but they hunt in packs and most of us don't get the expensive tutoring and pushy parents (which is a blessing in my opinion).
I know that the system needs changing (roll on the Baccalaureate) but now isn't the time ot discuss it in public, for now just let the 16 year olds drink themselves unconscious and let the 9 year old wonder what use this GCSE is to him...
hmm.
I don't really know why I wrote all that.
It's not like it's something I've not said before, in fact I have a vague suspicion that I've written something almost exactly like this on this blog before.
Oh well, it passes the time and distracts me from doing the washing up even if I do sound like a whiny teenager.
-Ben
*Although considering I failed IT completely I can't really talk. but hey. I didn't fail, I got an X.
The papers lap it up though, the steady stream of people dying which has sustained them up to this point appears to have dried up, so now they've got nothing else to do but glue their own interpretation onto the results, pressing whatever agenda they feel the need to press.
I'm sure I've ranted about this on more occasions than I can remember so I'm sorry if I'm being boring, but when some paper takes up the story that a 9 year old has passed GCSE IT* as conclusive proof that the exams are too easy I need to get ranty. Sorry to break the parents' bubble, but the child is weird and probably borderline autistic. What this shows is that with a great deal of effort a single exam can be passed, this doesn't mean that the system is easy, from when I was 15 to when I was 18 I took 52 (That took a while to figure out) proper hardcore exams and nearly went mad on a number of occasions. On their own they might be something an exceptional 9 year old can do, but they hunt in packs and most of us don't get the expensive tutoring and pushy parents (which is a blessing in my opinion).
I know that the system needs changing (roll on the Baccalaureate) but now isn't the time ot discuss it in public, for now just let the 16 year olds drink themselves unconscious and let the 9 year old wonder what use this GCSE is to him...
hmm.
I don't really know why I wrote all that.
It's not like it's something I've not said before, in fact I have a vague suspicion that I've written something almost exactly like this on this blog before.
Oh well, it passes the time and distracts me from doing the washing up even if I do sound like a whiny teenager.
-Ben
*Although considering I failed IT completely I can't really talk. but hey. I didn't fail, I got an X.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Getting Jaded
I've been thinking about the differences between people in the US and people in the UK. I don't mean the political differences, the broader social context or anything like that - that's been written about plenty by every person who thinks that meeting one or two foreigners makes them knowledgeable about the politics and social mores of every country in the world. I don't have the knowledge or the patience to write about that, instead I can just ramble incoherently about what I've observed myself.
The key thing I've noticed is the fact that 'extrovert' and 'arsehole' are not always synonymous in america. Sitting around with my friends from here, getting drunk and chatting away I've noticed that those who talk loudest are always those with the least to say*. With the americans (Again, not making grand generalizations here, although it may sound like that. I'm just writing about those I know - I'm sure there are millions of boring loudmouths in america) there were people who were loud but funny and interesting - I mean funny in a non abusive way and interesting in a non car-crash sense of the word. This principle is especially evident when talking about politics; the people who shout slogans and commit themselves loudly to one cause or another are generally those who fail to understand just how transitory and complicated it all is**. When politics comes up with the group as a whole, especially when drink has been taken, it's generally someone reciting the reactionary, bigoted bollocks they read in the sun and someone else shouting slogans they heard in Rage Against the Machine songs. While this is going on the people who actually read the news and have some concept of the boundaries between editorial & reportage (and read papers that know them as well) exchange embarrassed glances over their pints and occasionally try and correct the worst of the ill-informed ranting.
I think it's a culture of modesty; generally the people who have things to say don't want to make the people who don't feel stupid, while the people who don't want to prove to everyone that they do.
And the best way they can think of is to say it very loudly.
but that's enough ranting for one afternoon.
-Ben
*I harvested that from something I wrote last night talking to Sarah, I don't like to waste such rare moments of eloquence, even if it does sound like something a goth would write on his bag in biro.
**Mitch Clem puts this very well in relation to music, the blog is below the comic. (That isn't what it normally looks like)
The key thing I've noticed is the fact that 'extrovert' and 'arsehole' are not always synonymous in america. Sitting around with my friends from here, getting drunk and chatting away I've noticed that those who talk loudest are always those with the least to say*. With the americans (Again, not making grand generalizations here, although it may sound like that. I'm just writing about those I know - I'm sure there are millions of boring loudmouths in america) there were people who were loud but funny and interesting - I mean funny in a non abusive way and interesting in a non car-crash sense of the word. This principle is especially evident when talking about politics; the people who shout slogans and commit themselves loudly to one cause or another are generally those who fail to understand just how transitory and complicated it all is**. When politics comes up with the group as a whole, especially when drink has been taken, it's generally someone reciting the reactionary, bigoted bollocks they read in the sun and someone else shouting slogans they heard in Rage Against the Machine songs. While this is going on the people who actually read the news and have some concept of the boundaries between editorial & reportage (and read papers that know them as well) exchange embarrassed glances over their pints and occasionally try and correct the worst of the ill-informed ranting.
I think it's a culture of modesty; generally the people who have things to say don't want to make the people who don't feel stupid, while the people who don't want to prove to everyone that they do.
And the best way they can think of is to say it very loudly.
but that's enough ranting for one afternoon.
-Ben
*I harvested that from something I wrote last night talking to Sarah, I don't like to waste such rare moments of eloquence, even if it does sound like something a goth would write on his bag in biro.
**Mitch Clem puts this very well in relation to music, the blog is below the comic. (That isn't what it normally looks like)
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Pastafarians
This made me smile.
The Flying Spaghetti Monster
Humour is definately the best way of making political points, it's a shame I can't do it really.
-Ben
If you need to do some serious godbotherer annoyance though I suggest this.
Or This.
Or This
Wow I'm just in hardcore heretic mode today aren't I...
The Flying Spaghetti Monster
Humour is definately the best way of making political points, it's a shame I can't do it really.
-Ben
If you need to do some serious godbotherer annoyance though I suggest this.
Or This.
Or This
Wow I'm just in hardcore heretic mode today aren't I...
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
The Gig
Oh man,
Best. Gig. Ever.
It's hard to write about the gig, I think I spent most of it in a kind of trance; mesmirised by the rockin' and it's hard to put that kind of thing into words.
We met up with pat and some of his friends from uni and headed to the nearest pub for some drinks and munchies. I wasn't drinking as I still have The Fear from the other night's activities but the food and many caffinated beverages were consumed.
After we'd eaten we started towards victoria underground station, warily though as one of the groups was a medium strength claustrophobic and the tube isn't fun if you are that way inclined. When we got to the ticket barriers though we all decided that the tube was not a sexy idea, the guards weren't letting anyone on the platform, we looked up at the CCTV monitor they have above the barriers and looked at our watches and realised: It was 6pm, on a weekday, on the victoria line. The platform was crammed moshpit-deep all the way to the edge with angry commuters. So we decided that the bus was a better option.
On the bus we passed stockwell tube station, with all the boards up around it with appeals for witnesses of the Jean Charles de Menezes thing, they were IPCC (independent Police complaints comission) boards which is reasonably encouraging, at least it's being investigated by someone other than the met, who seem pretty unrepentant. I felt momentarily scared when an elderly muslim man came on carrying a big briefcase and then spent about ten minutes mentally kicking myself for being an over suspicious thicky.
When we got to Brixton we relocated to a respectable looking pub and more drinks (and caffinated beverages) were consumed. I think I should explain that Brixton was where all the Caribbean immigrants settled in the early 50's so we were sitting around feeling very white and very young, in a pub with Skatalites and Price Buster posters on the walls, while lots of venerable looking, elderly Jamaicans argued with the occasional tramp that wondered in.
We went off to the gig and upon entrance were given a bag with SIGNED 7" VINYL inside. Steaming with glee we went into the arena. After a while of arsing around listening to the DJ (no support band) we started to get bored (that was when I was randomly texting people, including a really smarmy one to Bal about the signed vinyl; I couldn't resist).
Then they came on
They rocked.
I spent the whole time banging of head and jumping of around.
After it was over I realised a) I was completely soaked in sweat and b) I was practically deaf, everything sounded like it was coming through a thick wall. It's strange day when you get on the underground and think "mmm, fresh air". We got stuck on a train for ten minutes with one of the most talkative and boring men I've ever had the misfortune to meet. We missed the last train to Eltham and ended up going to Mottingham (about 40 minutes walk away) and stumbling back gasping for a drink and a record player.
Oh joy, to get home and discover that the 7" is a recording of "The Funmachine Took a Shit and Died" - the track that was supposed to be on Lullabies to Paralyse but the master tapes got lost. They rerecorded it especially to be handed out and this gig.
Collectors-Item-me-do, daddy-o
Oh man.
I ache, although I have had a shower and washed my hair.
-Ben
Best. Gig. Ever.
It's hard to write about the gig, I think I spent most of it in a kind of trance; mesmirised by the rockin' and it's hard to put that kind of thing into words.
We met up with pat and some of his friends from uni and headed to the nearest pub for some drinks and munchies. I wasn't drinking as I still have The Fear from the other night's activities but the food and many caffinated beverages were consumed.
After we'd eaten we started towards victoria underground station, warily though as one of the groups was a medium strength claustrophobic and the tube isn't fun if you are that way inclined. When we got to the ticket barriers though we all decided that the tube was not a sexy idea, the guards weren't letting anyone on the platform, we looked up at the CCTV monitor they have above the barriers and looked at our watches and realised: It was 6pm, on a weekday, on the victoria line. The platform was crammed moshpit-deep all the way to the edge with angry commuters. So we decided that the bus was a better option.
On the bus we passed stockwell tube station, with all the boards up around it with appeals for witnesses of the Jean Charles de Menezes thing, they were IPCC (independent Police complaints comission) boards which is reasonably encouraging, at least it's being investigated by someone other than the met, who seem pretty unrepentant. I felt momentarily scared when an elderly muslim man came on carrying a big briefcase and then spent about ten minutes mentally kicking myself for being an over suspicious thicky.
When we got to Brixton we relocated to a respectable looking pub and more drinks (and caffinated beverages) were consumed. I think I should explain that Brixton was where all the Caribbean immigrants settled in the early 50's so we were sitting around feeling very white and very young, in a pub with Skatalites and Price Buster posters on the walls, while lots of venerable looking, elderly Jamaicans argued with the occasional tramp that wondered in.
We went off to the gig and upon entrance were given a bag with SIGNED 7" VINYL inside. Steaming with glee we went into the arena. After a while of arsing around listening to the DJ (no support band) we started to get bored (that was when I was randomly texting people, including a really smarmy one to Bal about the signed vinyl; I couldn't resist).
Then they came on
They rocked.
I spent the whole time banging of head and jumping of around.
After it was over I realised a) I was completely soaked in sweat and b) I was practically deaf, everything sounded like it was coming through a thick wall. It's strange day when you get on the underground and think "mmm, fresh air". We got stuck on a train for ten minutes with one of the most talkative and boring men I've ever had the misfortune to meet. We missed the last train to Eltham and ended up going to Mottingham (about 40 minutes walk away) and stumbling back gasping for a drink and a record player.
Oh joy, to get home and discover that the 7" is a recording of "The Funmachine Took a Shit and Died" - the track that was supposed to be on Lullabies to Paralyse but the master tapes got lost. They rerecorded it especially to be handed out and this gig.
Collectors-Item-me-do, daddy-o
Oh man.
I ache, although I have had a shower and washed my hair.
-Ben
Saturday, August 13, 2005
What Have I Done Today?
It's a question I find myself pondering every evening now, tallying up the achievements of the day. I'm not sure why I bother, it's not like I've written down some kind of list of what I should do everyday that I can check things against. Although perhaps I should, I probably need to get some kind of structure, but bugger that; it's too much structure for me. Getting up after I stop sleeping and going to bed before I start is about as organised as I can get.
Asking myself what I've managed to do today I scored reasonably well; although I don't have a list of things to do, I do nevertheless have a mental list of sorts. I left the house twice, I didn't spend any money on shiny things or magic beans, (important if you're on a budget) and I had a reasonably constructive writing session. I didn't save the world, write a number one record or have some great personal epiphany but I did shave and get my hair cut.
Worryingly I'm now a regular at my local hair slicy place. I suppose it's hardly surprising that he knows me after I've been getting my hair cut there for about 7 years but, considering I'm about as talkative as a tree stump, it's an achiement on his part. The good thing is that it means that I don't have to explain my hairstyle (I don't have one, want one or care) which is always an irritating experience.
Wow, my life is tedious. I can't think of anything to alleviate the boredom just yet. Although I'm going to see the Queens of the Stone age and Eddie is getting back on sunday which should improve the level of conversation from me talking to myself and giggling.
-Ben
Asking myself what I've managed to do today I scored reasonably well; although I don't have a list of things to do, I do nevertheless have a mental list of sorts. I left the house twice, I didn't spend any money on shiny things or magic beans, (important if you're on a budget) and I had a reasonably constructive writing session. I didn't save the world, write a number one record or have some great personal epiphany but I did shave and get my hair cut.
Worryingly I'm now a regular at my local hair slicy place. I suppose it's hardly surprising that he knows me after I've been getting my hair cut there for about 7 years but, considering I'm about as talkative as a tree stump, it's an achiement on his part. The good thing is that it means that I don't have to explain my hairstyle (I don't have one, want one or care) which is always an irritating experience.
Wow, my life is tedious. I can't think of anything to alleviate the boredom just yet. Although I'm going to see the Queens of the Stone age and Eddie is getting back on sunday which should improve the level of conversation from me talking to myself and giggling.
-Ben
Friday, August 12, 2005
Queens of the Stone Age
Me, Eddie and Pat are going to see QOTSA!
At the Brixton Academy on the 22nd of august.
Mr Ben is soiling himself with delight.
ooh.
I think I need to go and lie down.
I think this strip sums up the dangers of a good gig.
-Ben
At the Brixton Academy on the 22nd of august.
Mr Ben is soiling himself with delight.
ooh.
I think I need to go and lie down.
I think this strip sums up the dangers of a good gig.
-Ben
Thursday, August 11, 2005
University
Often, in my weaker (or perhaps stronger) moments - like when I'm eyeball-deep in dusty books about some mind-numbingly pointless area of literary study - I ponder why on earth I'm doing what I'm doing at university.
I mean, surely I could be doing something more useful or productive with myself?
Generally after a few seconds of confusion my brain neatly retaliates with
"No Ben, this is what you like doing, despite your occasional denials and, ultimately, it's the only thing you are really capable of doing."
Because, lets face it, I'm not really much of a do-er. My attempts at original writing have been, at best, pretty average and my middle class fear of insecurity will probably prevent me from ever making any kind of mark musically (That and my general lack of ability). However, rambling about the achievements of others in long incoherent essays is something I'm suited to perfectly - whether it's about literature at university or music on this blog (or at anyone who can't run away in time) - I generally enjoy myself in a reserved, quiet sort of way. Despite this I'm still occasionally bothered by a suspicion that I'm not really doing what I want to do, but taking the path of least resistance through life, not bothering to do anything else because it would require more effort than I can be arsed to muster.
Therefore it was interesting to learn tonight that some of the people around me are not going for the standard route; one of my friends has decided not to bother going to university, instead choosing to continue his career as a tennis coach, which is a more interesting and profitable way for him to spend his time than doing three years at uni for a qualification that wouldn't really do him much good anyway. Another one of my friends has decided to drop out of her course in Manchester because she doesn't like it. Not only that, but she's decided that she doesn't like the entire direction of her studies and qualifications from the age of 17 onwards and is going to take two years to start over.
I know that, even being completely honest with myself, I do genuinely enjoy what I do academically, depressing though that fact is, in its way. But I'd like to think that I've have the resolve to do what she's done if I felt I needed to. I doubt I would though. The best I can do is write a meandering piece of rubbish about her decision, that no one will read, and wish her good luck.
-Ben
I mean, surely I could be doing something more useful or productive with myself?
Generally after a few seconds of confusion my brain neatly retaliates with
"No Ben, this is what you like doing, despite your occasional denials and, ultimately, it's the only thing you are really capable of doing."
Because, lets face it, I'm not really much of a do-er. My attempts at original writing have been, at best, pretty average and my middle class fear of insecurity will probably prevent me from ever making any kind of mark musically (That and my general lack of ability). However, rambling about the achievements of others in long incoherent essays is something I'm suited to perfectly - whether it's about literature at university or music on this blog (or at anyone who can't run away in time) - I generally enjoy myself in a reserved, quiet sort of way. Despite this I'm still occasionally bothered by a suspicion that I'm not really doing what I want to do, but taking the path of least resistance through life, not bothering to do anything else because it would require more effort than I can be arsed to muster.
Therefore it was interesting to learn tonight that some of the people around me are not going for the standard route; one of my friends has decided not to bother going to university, instead choosing to continue his career as a tennis coach, which is a more interesting and profitable way for him to spend his time than doing three years at uni for a qualification that wouldn't really do him much good anyway. Another one of my friends has decided to drop out of her course in Manchester because she doesn't like it. Not only that, but she's decided that she doesn't like the entire direction of her studies and qualifications from the age of 17 onwards and is going to take two years to start over.
I know that, even being completely honest with myself, I do genuinely enjoy what I do academically, depressing though that fact is, in its way. But I'd like to think that I've have the resolve to do what she's done if I felt I needed to. I doubt I would though. The best I can do is write a meandering piece of rubbish about her decision, that no one will read, and wish her good luck.
-Ben
Friday, August 05, 2005
It's late and I'm tired
I've been thinking about music a lot recently, as you can probably tell from the increasing incoherence and length of these entries. I say thinking, it's not really thinking more just listening. I suspect that trying to explain what you like or dislike about music is like trying to push a river up a hill. Like art it has many technical rules of composition and effect that provide order in the chaos. However to the uninitiated, like myself, music is still chaos. Just very beautiful chaos.
I don't have the eloquence to explain what is so good about one song or other without resorting to all sorts of bizarre descriptions that only make sense to me and my peculiar musical synaesthesia. I could tell you about how the guitar in 'The Sky is Falling' * feels all rough and tastes like peanuts or how the electric piano sound from 'Mary' ** looks dark purple. However this information wouldn't really tell you anything about the music I'm trying to describe or how it makes me feel. It would only make you question the wiring of my brain.
The inability to express why some music is good and some isn't is a cause of all sorts of horrors, from the aforementioned cool fights to arguments between friends over bands that one loves and the other thinks is crap. I can't explain why I don't like coldplay, it just feels smooth, sort of shiny but in a polished way. This isn't a very good reason to give to someone who idolises them and often results in slapping. I think much of the idea of musical identity is people giving themselves a justification, a reason to dislike huge swathes of music without having to ask themselves why. A man who only listens to metal, wears nothing but black and has hair down to his armpits doesn't have to sit there and wonder why he likes Justin Timberlake's new single, he just doesn't listen to it.
I think everyone blinkers their musical outlook to an extent. I, for example, am incapable of liking country music, commercial hip-hop, Free Jazz and the more extreme forms of Prog-Rock (I don't count deathmetal as music - in the same way that I don't count chainsaws as music). I don't know exactly why I don't like this music but by avoiding it altogether it makes my life a great deal simpler.
All this said though, what I know of technical musical theory could fit on the back of a fag packet and I couldn't point out melody in a police lineup. I listen to music that most people wouldn't consider to be particularly tuneful (I'm currently listening to McLusky Do Dallas) And I've got a history of hating music just because of genre. However I think there is always something there in the music I like, some energy, linguistic invention, even just a dirty sense of humour.
I suppose Cannibal Corpse fans would argue the same.
...
If they could string a sentence together that is.
I wonder if a bunch of socially inadequate spotty metalheads will start gibbering in my comments box.
I hope not.
-Ben
* Queens of the Stone Age. Songs For the Deaf Track 5. Interscope 2002
** Supergrass. Supergrass is 10 Track 12. Parlophone 2004
I don't have the eloquence to explain what is so good about one song or other without resorting to all sorts of bizarre descriptions that only make sense to me and my peculiar musical synaesthesia. I could tell you about how the guitar in 'The Sky is Falling' * feels all rough and tastes like peanuts or how the electric piano sound from 'Mary' ** looks dark purple. However this information wouldn't really tell you anything about the music I'm trying to describe or how it makes me feel. It would only make you question the wiring of my brain.
The inability to express why some music is good and some isn't is a cause of all sorts of horrors, from the aforementioned cool fights to arguments between friends over bands that one loves and the other thinks is crap. I can't explain why I don't like coldplay, it just feels smooth, sort of shiny but in a polished way. This isn't a very good reason to give to someone who idolises them and often results in slapping. I think much of the idea of musical identity is people giving themselves a justification, a reason to dislike huge swathes of music without having to ask themselves why. A man who only listens to metal, wears nothing but black and has hair down to his armpits doesn't have to sit there and wonder why he likes Justin Timberlake's new single, he just doesn't listen to it.
I think everyone blinkers their musical outlook to an extent. I, for example, am incapable of liking country music, commercial hip-hop, Free Jazz and the more extreme forms of Prog-Rock (I don't count deathmetal as music - in the same way that I don't count chainsaws as music). I don't know exactly why I don't like this music but by avoiding it altogether it makes my life a great deal simpler.
All this said though, what I know of technical musical theory could fit on the back of a fag packet and I couldn't point out melody in a police lineup. I listen to music that most people wouldn't consider to be particularly tuneful (I'm currently listening to McLusky Do Dallas) And I've got a history of hating music just because of genre. However I think there is always something there in the music I like, some energy, linguistic invention, even just a dirty sense of humour.
I suppose Cannibal Corpse fans would argue the same.
...
If they could string a sentence together that is.
I wonder if a bunch of socially inadequate spotty metalheads will start gibbering in my comments box.
I hope not.
-Ben
* Queens of the Stone Age. Songs For the Deaf Track 5. Interscope 2002
** Supergrass. Supergrass is 10 Track 12. Parlophone 2004
They Sing in Their Own Accents
Today I was writing something about regional accents in rock here, and how annoying the idea of it being cooler to sing in your own accent than in some other accent is. The problem that I hit is the same one I usually hit when I'm trying to write anything; whether it's an essay about the various possible interpretations of 'Ode to Nightingale' or a blog entry. I never actually bother to think through my argument before I start. I try and write on the fly, go with the stream of conciousness and write down ideas as they lead on from one another. The thing is, if you haven't explored the subject that you are about to begin rambling about very well, you can end up writing around and around until you defeat the argument you started with. This often causes the tragic realisation that the premise you began with was ultimately pretty unsound and badly thought through. I had that today writing about the whole regional accent thing. I started a little something like this:
I was listening to the Beatles today - as you do - and I was thinking about something that I remember George Galloway saying at Glastonbury this year, when he was asked what bands he was going to see. He replied something about going to see a band that were singing in their own accents rather than pretending to be american. He was talking about Maximo Park (I think) but it's a phrase that gets repeated over and over again by cultural commentators and music buffs. They see the regional accent like some badge of credibility; they talk about the uniformity of most singers, how all the bands on the radio sound the same. I don't understand what difference the accent sung in is supposed to make to the credibility of the music.
It's starts OK, in a bad sort of way. I'm rambling about music again but this time I've put it in some kind of context in relation to my own life. I've also made a statement, singing in a regional accent makes you no cooler than the next man. The problems struck, however, when I tried to explain why this was so.
Unless you've been singing since before you could talk and hadn't heard anyone else sing, your singing voice will be something that you've decided on; whether it's 'I want to sound like Robert Plant', 'I want to sound like I'm 50 and I've been smoking Malboro Extra-Chunky since I was five' or 'I want to sing in a northern accent'. I think the reason that singing in a regional accent is considered better than singing like Little Richard or whoever is the idea that it is original, that these people are doing something no one has ever done bef
It was at this stage that I realised that the point I was making was not, in fact a particularly good one. I should have instead pondered why this is such a big thing, why people from the UK assume that all Americans sing in the same accent just because they can't tell the difference between Wisconsin and Florida and how this is a bit of evidence that George Galloway's America bashing is a rather deeper hatred than mere political anger. Instead I was trying to say that singing in your own regional accent is no more original (and, by extension, cool) than copying the singing voice of someone else. This is a fairly thick thing to say really.
I realised that the germ of this idea, explaining the opening line about the Beatles, was from listening to Sargeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and thinking about how Paul McCartney used to sing in a regional accent and that it's nothing new.
That, I see now, meant that all I was doing was not some profound social statement about traces of nationalism and cultural identity in rock music but the standard music nerd game of 'Be into a much older band that you can claim did everything better and first'. A game which, as my friends will know, is one I play well, occasionally even on unarmed civilians; a technique banned for all purposes exept impressing 'the ladies' (this doesn't work - but it least it prevents more nerdspawn).
'Cool Fights' such as this become less common as you get older but are a major source of conflict among smug little indie teenagers at parties. What happens is someone says a band, someone names an older band who influenced them and basically it's whoever says the last band wins.
It is a game of great tactics. You can't usually involve youself in a game more than once (i.e you can't say a band, have it out-knowleged and then out-knowledge the other persons band - you'd look thick) but at the same time you don't want to use a trump card willy nilly as then everybody knows it and your mystique is broken. For example; if someone says 'Eric Clapton' then the trump card is obviously (although this can be contested ad infinitum) 'Blind Lemon' Jefferson. However the the next guy (yes, it is always guys), in accordance with the rules, will say someone like John Lee Hooker, B B King or, if being played amongst professional nerds, Leadbelly.
Bonus points are awarded if someone asks who they are talking about (especially if it's a pretty girl - although this only happens in the indie kid's fantasies) and the person can actually explain. Bonus points are also given to the guy who says the 'old Favourite' (one that in most games is the winner) for example in the Eric Clapton battle this one is, of course, Rob Johnson - Most players will only consider going for the trump card after the old favourite has been played, although only after assuming a sufficiently knowing and superior air.
Now this game, as anyone who has been stuck in a room with a pair of battling nerds will tell you, is a very tedious thing to put into writing (although I'm sure that plenty of people do) So I decided to stop.
And so I ended up here, rambling aimlessly about nothing in particular, having made no real point at all and wasted a lot of my time.
oh well. it's better than touching myself.
One day I might think of something interesting to say here, but I wouldn't get your hopes up.
-Ben
I was listening to the Beatles today - as you do - and I was thinking about something that I remember George Galloway saying at Glastonbury this year, when he was asked what bands he was going to see. He replied something about going to see a band that were singing in their own accents rather than pretending to be american. He was talking about Maximo Park (I think) but it's a phrase that gets repeated over and over again by cultural commentators and music buffs. They see the regional accent like some badge of credibility; they talk about the uniformity of most singers, how all the bands on the radio sound the same. I don't understand what difference the accent sung in is supposed to make to the credibility of the music.
It's starts OK, in a bad sort of way. I'm rambling about music again but this time I've put it in some kind of context in relation to my own life. I've also made a statement, singing in a regional accent makes you no cooler than the next man. The problems struck, however, when I tried to explain why this was so.
Unless you've been singing since before you could talk and hadn't heard anyone else sing, your singing voice will be something that you've decided on; whether it's 'I want to sound like Robert Plant', 'I want to sound like I'm 50 and I've been smoking Malboro Extra-Chunky since I was five' or 'I want to sing in a northern accent'. I think the reason that singing in a regional accent is considered better than singing like Little Richard or whoever is the idea that it is original, that these people are doing something no one has ever done bef
It was at this stage that I realised that the point I was making was not, in fact a particularly good one. I should have instead pondered why this is such a big thing, why people from the UK assume that all Americans sing in the same accent just because they can't tell the difference between Wisconsin and Florida and how this is a bit of evidence that George Galloway's America bashing is a rather deeper hatred than mere political anger. Instead I was trying to say that singing in your own regional accent is no more original (and, by extension, cool) than copying the singing voice of someone else. This is a fairly thick thing to say really.
I realised that the germ of this idea, explaining the opening line about the Beatles, was from listening to Sargeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band and thinking about how Paul McCartney used to sing in a regional accent and that it's nothing new.
That, I see now, meant that all I was doing was not some profound social statement about traces of nationalism and cultural identity in rock music but the standard music nerd game of 'Be into a much older band that you can claim did everything better and first'. A game which, as my friends will know, is one I play well, occasionally even on unarmed civilians; a technique banned for all purposes exept impressing 'the ladies' (this doesn't work - but it least it prevents more nerdspawn).
'Cool Fights' such as this become less common as you get older but are a major source of conflict among smug little indie teenagers at parties. What happens is someone says a band, someone names an older band who influenced them and basically it's whoever says the last band wins.
It is a game of great tactics. You can't usually involve youself in a game more than once (i.e you can't say a band, have it out-knowleged and then out-knowledge the other persons band - you'd look thick) but at the same time you don't want to use a trump card willy nilly as then everybody knows it and your mystique is broken. For example; if someone says 'Eric Clapton' then the trump card is obviously (although this can be contested ad infinitum) 'Blind Lemon' Jefferson. However the the next guy (yes, it is always guys), in accordance with the rules, will say someone like John Lee Hooker, B B King or, if being played amongst professional nerds, Leadbelly.
Bonus points are awarded if someone asks who they are talking about (especially if it's a pretty girl - although this only happens in the indie kid's fantasies) and the person can actually explain. Bonus points are also given to the guy who says the 'old Favourite' (one that in most games is the winner) for example in the Eric Clapton battle this one is, of course, Rob Johnson - Most players will only consider going for the trump card after the old favourite has been played, although only after assuming a sufficiently knowing and superior air.
Now this game, as anyone who has been stuck in a room with a pair of battling nerds will tell you, is a very tedious thing to put into writing (although I'm sure that plenty of people do) So I decided to stop.
And so I ended up here, rambling aimlessly about nothing in particular, having made no real point at all and wasted a lot of my time.
oh well. it's better than touching myself.
One day I might think of something interesting to say here, but I wouldn't get your hopes up.
-Ben
Sunday, July 31, 2005
Hmm
You know, up until this morning I had never sneezed vomit.
Isn't beer great?
Actually no, I really should stop I feel rather fragile today
Isn't beer great?
Actually no, I really should stop I feel rather fragile today
Thursday, July 28, 2005
Music
The last few days I've been doing various things; writing, reading, playing games, even lowering myself to the depths of prolonged solitare binges. While doing all these things I've been, of course, listening to music. I usually have some music playing when I'm doing just about everything, even essay writing and sleeping. The misapprehension that most people seem to have is that it is background, that I just have it there because I don't like silence.
To an extent this is true, my ears do a strange thing when there is no noise that I can best describe in terms that might miss most people. It's like turning up the gain on a amplifier with no signal going through it - it starts as silence but ends up amplifying noise, if I just listen to silence for more than a few seconds I get the strange sensation of a sound that isn't really sound that rises to a deafening pitch but at the same time isn't actually louder than any of the minute sounds around me. However, that doesn't bother me, it goes away if I make a noise, which is why I make all sorts of strange noises when I'm on my own - see I'm not mad. Although that said reading back through this it does sound more than slightly peculiar.
But anyway, music for me isn't always the background; in fact quite often it is exactly the opposite. There are many people who have sat around talking to me with some music playing in the background not realizing that in my head things are the other way round. All of the various activities that I described above as ways of passing the time have, in fact, just been things to keep certain parts of my mind occupied while the rest of it is diggin' the sounds. Absorbed though I get I can't just sit and listen to a piece of music, I get bored, my hands and the bits of my brain that aren't involved in the music need something to do. If they don't they tend to disturb the other bits of my brain like someone playing trance music in an exam.
The best place to listen to music, I find, is when out walking or in a car, the constant stream of things that pass you allow you to absorb yourself completely in the music. All of the times that I've been really affected by music have been when I'm traveling somewhere; it was on the walk home that 'Castles Made of Sand' by Jimi Hendrix made me cry or when I got so into the album 'Beautiful Freak' by the Eels that I ended up walking around my neighborhood listening to it for hours rather than go home.
In reality what I've been doing for the last few days is trying to get all there is to get from various CDs. I heard sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts club band for the first time and liked it. I got completely sucked in by the images that Creedance Clearwater Revival and the Queens of the Stone Age stuck in my head. I jumped around like a mad hoon to the Mad Caddies and King Prawn. I read the entirety of a Terry Pratchett book while listening to Ben Harper and Skip James and can honestly say that although I was turning the pages and, in theory at least, reading the book I can't remember anything about it now.
This whole little article has, in fact been an excuse to stay up and listen to Bloc Party's new album so don't be surprised if this didn't make any sense, I'm not really paying any attention.
Bloc Party are Damn good though.
-Ben
To an extent this is true, my ears do a strange thing when there is no noise that I can best describe in terms that might miss most people. It's like turning up the gain on a amplifier with no signal going through it - it starts as silence but ends up amplifying noise, if I just listen to silence for more than a few seconds I get the strange sensation of a sound that isn't really sound that rises to a deafening pitch but at the same time isn't actually louder than any of the minute sounds around me. However, that doesn't bother me, it goes away if I make a noise, which is why I make all sorts of strange noises when I'm on my own - see I'm not mad. Although that said reading back through this it does sound more than slightly peculiar.
But anyway, music for me isn't always the background; in fact quite often it is exactly the opposite. There are many people who have sat around talking to me with some music playing in the background not realizing that in my head things are the other way round. All of the various activities that I described above as ways of passing the time have, in fact, just been things to keep certain parts of my mind occupied while the rest of it is diggin' the sounds. Absorbed though I get I can't just sit and listen to a piece of music, I get bored, my hands and the bits of my brain that aren't involved in the music need something to do. If they don't they tend to disturb the other bits of my brain like someone playing trance music in an exam.
The best place to listen to music, I find, is when out walking or in a car, the constant stream of things that pass you allow you to absorb yourself completely in the music. All of the times that I've been really affected by music have been when I'm traveling somewhere; it was on the walk home that 'Castles Made of Sand' by Jimi Hendrix made me cry or when I got so into the album 'Beautiful Freak' by the Eels that I ended up walking around my neighborhood listening to it for hours rather than go home.
In reality what I've been doing for the last few days is trying to get all there is to get from various CDs. I heard sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts club band for the first time and liked it. I got completely sucked in by the images that Creedance Clearwater Revival and the Queens of the Stone Age stuck in my head. I jumped around like a mad hoon to the Mad Caddies and King Prawn. I read the entirety of a Terry Pratchett book while listening to Ben Harper and Skip James and can honestly say that although I was turning the pages and, in theory at least, reading the book I can't remember anything about it now.
This whole little article has, in fact been an excuse to stay up and listen to Bloc Party's new album so don't be surprised if this didn't make any sense, I'm not really paying any attention.
Bloc Party are Damn good though.
-Ben
Wednesday, July 27, 2005
Old Money
I'm trying not to talk about my life at the moment because there is nothing at all happening there. I have reached unseen new heights of boredom, the like of which have previously only been glimpsed by people in comas. The mistake I've been making with all this is that I've been explaining and documenting this boredom here, an act which itself just causes more. As I said before this was intended to be interesting but has become a place where I leave messages about my day for people that I've missed more than anything else. I think from now on I'm going to try and put that sort of thing in Emails, most of it is pretty private anyway.
I'm not saying that this will get any less tedious but it'll probably be a different flavour of boring; pretentious, self-righteous, editorialising boring rather than the minutiae of the dull life of some middle class wastrel.
I'm not sure what that leaves me to talk about really; normally it would be politics but at the moment I'm trying to avoid all that. The news is getting really repetitive. All this stuff about the bombings, the people who did the bombings, the people who might have influenced the people who did the bombings - it's all getting pretty monotonous, it's mostly conjecture too; most of the events reported are in the realm of spooks and police investigators, neither of which are exactly known for being particularly candid. This all means that the news is mostly misapprehensions and speculation - informed or otherwise - something that is solid fact one hour can be proven to be false by the next bulletin. The poor Brazilian guy who was shot dead on the tube the other day is a good example: The reports originally said that the police had shot one of the bombers during another attempted bombing. 'Woo' think the people, evildoers foiled. But no. As the hours and days pass I've watched, between the gaps in the fingers held in front of my eyes, as this valiant defence of feedom - or life or toast or whatever it is that people hold dear - turns into a cold blooded execution of an unarmed, innocent man; whose only crime was to not have a British passport and to run away from a bunch of ununiformed blokes with guns. I'm going to leave this all for a while, sample what it's like being Howie, and try not paying any attention to current affairs, or at least the ones that concern this.
I'm not saying that I don't want to know how the story ends, I'll come back to this whole sorry situation in a few weeks, when the press actually have some idea what has happened, who did it and why. I suppose this is me just wanting a happy ending, wussing out and wanting to see the resolution without the waiting and the setbacks that all others must endure. Well, screw that, all this has affected me far more than I expected it to and more than anything like this has before. I think I'd rather just go back to being traumatised or delighted by the events of my personal life. This whole dirty affair makes me really depressed.
Ok. I appear to have managed to write a great deal about politics for someone who is avoiding it. I suppose avoiding it is a political act of its own. Sort of. Albeit a pretty passive and lazy one.
-Ben
The reason that is called 'old money' is because I was going to write something else but couldn't be arsed. It's too late and I'm too stupified with boredom to think of a title so you can think of your own - pick one that makes you happy.
I'm off to bed.
Goodnight
I'm not saying that this will get any less tedious but it'll probably be a different flavour of boring; pretentious, self-righteous, editorialising boring rather than the minutiae of the dull life of some middle class wastrel.
I'm not sure what that leaves me to talk about really; normally it would be politics but at the moment I'm trying to avoid all that. The news is getting really repetitive. All this stuff about the bombings, the people who did the bombings, the people who might have influenced the people who did the bombings - it's all getting pretty monotonous, it's mostly conjecture too; most of the events reported are in the realm of spooks and police investigators, neither of which are exactly known for being particularly candid. This all means that the news is mostly misapprehensions and speculation - informed or otherwise - something that is solid fact one hour can be proven to be false by the next bulletin. The poor Brazilian guy who was shot dead on the tube the other day is a good example: The reports originally said that the police had shot one of the bombers during another attempted bombing. 'Woo' think the people, evildoers foiled. But no. As the hours and days pass I've watched, between the gaps in the fingers held in front of my eyes, as this valiant defence of feedom - or life or toast or whatever it is that people hold dear - turns into a cold blooded execution of an unarmed, innocent man; whose only crime was to not have a British passport and to run away from a bunch of ununiformed blokes with guns. I'm going to leave this all for a while, sample what it's like being Howie, and try not paying any attention to current affairs, or at least the ones that concern this.
I'm not saying that I don't want to know how the story ends, I'll come back to this whole sorry situation in a few weeks, when the press actually have some idea what has happened, who did it and why. I suppose this is me just wanting a happy ending, wussing out and wanting to see the resolution without the waiting and the setbacks that all others must endure. Well, screw that, all this has affected me far more than I expected it to and more than anything like this has before. I think I'd rather just go back to being traumatised or delighted by the events of my personal life. This whole dirty affair makes me really depressed.
Ok. I appear to have managed to write a great deal about politics for someone who is avoiding it. I suppose avoiding it is a political act of its own. Sort of. Albeit a pretty passive and lazy one.
-Ben
The reason that is called 'old money' is because I was going to write something else but couldn't be arsed. It's too late and I'm too stupified with boredom to think of a title so you can think of your own - pick one that makes you happy.
I'm off to bed.
Goodnight
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
"You can't not be able to get a job" Discuss
A recent outburst of Danny's at a party did rather get on my nerves; I know a lot of things that Danny says get on my nerves but this one was especially irritating. I've tried, but I got bupkiss. I was rejected by every branch of every temping agency within a couple of hours of my house. I was turned down by two supermarkets. My previous employer said that it would be "not cost effective" to employ me over some spotty 16 year old. After all that I have now reached the stage where I couldn't get a job anyway because after the application, interview and training I couldn't work there for more than about 3 weeks.
Therefore I have definitively and completely given up on trying to get a job. I said I would before but a final trip to my local job centres - which yielded no more temporary employment opportunities than a job as a building site labourer in Dartford (about an hour on the train) - did seal the thing for me.
And after all this when Danny asks me if I'm still lookin for a Job and I reply that I've given up he replies that my standards are too high, that I should have taken the Building site job etc.. The usual thatcherite bollocks, it makes me sad that he's turned into an all out toryboy, blind even to the fact that despite their best efforts four of his friends have failed completely to find any employment and two more have only got jobs because a relative has given them a sinecure. I couldn't work on a building site, come on, I'm a posh bugger whose normal speaking voice is pretty much inaudible to most people, I've got no experience with that sort of work and I've got all the physical strength of a balloon. The most annoying thing is that there isn't a chance that, given the same situation, Danny would have taken that job either, it would've messed up his hair.
Now he's made me all angry and depressed. This evening with everyone giving Danny evil looks and making subtle little slights at him that he probably doesn't even notice anymore made me sad. I know that this arrangement is going to make the group splinter up into little bits. If nobody snaps and actually confronts Danny then the group will probably slowly drift apart as people start having little, selective gatherings of their own, and all sorts of little cliques form. If someone does confront him then probably some people will support him and others won't and the group will split that way. It's a shame although pretty inevitable really. I figured a while ago that I'll probably drift away from most of the group over the years, although I couldn't see myself losing contact with Colin, Paul and Dave. I still think that holds true, probably, although It's hard to be sure.
Wow.
This is a big ramble. I'm not even sure why I'm writing it, seeing as my one reader probably won't read it for another few days. And most of it probably only really concerns me. Man these things are self indulgent aren't they. I meant to make this vaguely interesting when I started, write stuff that was funny and interesting, editorialise man. But now I'm just rambling like some middle class gothboy.
I think I'll cut down the amount I write in this as most of this is such crap, not really of any interest to anybody. Not even you.
-Ben
Therefore I have definitively and completely given up on trying to get a job. I said I would before but a final trip to my local job centres - which yielded no more temporary employment opportunities than a job as a building site labourer in Dartford (about an hour on the train) - did seal the thing for me.
And after all this when Danny asks me if I'm still lookin for a Job and I reply that I've given up he replies that my standards are too high, that I should have taken the Building site job etc.. The usual thatcherite bollocks, it makes me sad that he's turned into an all out toryboy, blind even to the fact that despite their best efforts four of his friends have failed completely to find any employment and two more have only got jobs because a relative has given them a sinecure. I couldn't work on a building site, come on, I'm a posh bugger whose normal speaking voice is pretty much inaudible to most people, I've got no experience with that sort of work and I've got all the physical strength of a balloon. The most annoying thing is that there isn't a chance that, given the same situation, Danny would have taken that job either, it would've messed up his hair.
Now he's made me all angry and depressed. This evening with everyone giving Danny evil looks and making subtle little slights at him that he probably doesn't even notice anymore made me sad. I know that this arrangement is going to make the group splinter up into little bits. If nobody snaps and actually confronts Danny then the group will probably slowly drift apart as people start having little, selective gatherings of their own, and all sorts of little cliques form. If someone does confront him then probably some people will support him and others won't and the group will split that way. It's a shame although pretty inevitable really. I figured a while ago that I'll probably drift away from most of the group over the years, although I couldn't see myself losing contact with Colin, Paul and Dave. I still think that holds true, probably, although It's hard to be sure.
Wow.
This is a big ramble. I'm not even sure why I'm writing it, seeing as my one reader probably won't read it for another few days. And most of it probably only really concerns me. Man these things are self indulgent aren't they. I meant to make this vaguely interesting when I started, write stuff that was funny and interesting, editorialise man. But now I'm just rambling like some middle class gothboy.
I think I'll cut down the amount I write in this as most of this is such crap, not really of any interest to anybody. Not even you.
-Ben
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