As a teenager, I’m sure I used to religiously watch the BRIT awards every year. I caught a bit of it today for the first time in years. Christ almighty, was it always this bad? The ceremony opened with Bono doing his second job as singer of U2. He’s a much-maligned target of public cynicism is poor Bono. Some quarters are always sneering at him for getting involved with political causes, insisting that he is getting ideas above his station. They reckon humble pop singers should stick to being just that (although judging by the atrocious new single which U2 bleated out this evening, I reckon the world would be a much better place if he stayed away from studios and concentrated solely on international affairs from now on).
Throwing derision at U2 is like shooting fish in a barrel, but behind the pomposity bashing, even the most hardened critic has a chest-beating stadium anthem of theirs they kinda like; even if they’re too cool to admit it. But the new single? My God – no-one deserves that! Half-way through, I was really starting to empathise with Bono’s cause. I was clutching my ears, begging for the intervention of the UN or Amnesty International or anyone who could just make the aural cruelty go away. Awful stuff.
If things weren’t bad enough, the show’s hosts then appeared; those two lolloping, omnipresent chancers from the once-delightful Gavin & Stacey. Exactly why the Brits are being hosted by sit-com characters, I couldn’t tell you. I don’t recall ‘Blakey’ from “On The Busses” ever being invited to host the ceremony. More’s the pity too. The elected quarter-wits made their ‘hilarious’ entry as Kylie Minougue’s backing dancers. The humour of this routine impinged on the old adage of two men dressed in women’s clothing. It is the type of cheap, unoriginal, lazy, sanitized skit that no-one (other than pensioners or the stupid) has laughed at since the Pantomime Dame-humour of the 1970’s. If that’s the best they can do, they may as well have invited ‘Blakey’ after all - at least he’d have an ironic charm and be properly versed in this sort of stuff.
I was too bored to carry on watching any more. I did briefly tune in a bit later and initially thought they had stopped broadcasting the ceremony, opting instead to show the episode of ‘Only Fools & Horses’ where Delboy and Rodney get their hands on those self-inflating sex dolls which end up spontaniously combusting. Sadly, what I had mistaken to be one of the sex dolls actually just turned out to be Duffy picking up an award. What the hell is going on with her mouth?
I’m sure the BRITS used to be more excited than this dull pile of back-slapping wankery. What happened to all the hi-jinx and controversy? Jarvis invading the stage to moon at Jacko? Fatty Prescott getting a bucket of ice thrown over him? The car-crash potential of drug-addled musicians failing to read an autocue properly? It’s all just so polite and boring now. A post-Brits TV pundit theorized that the reason for this is because artists today are more careerist, and are conscious that their actions are being monitored by the American audiences.
“If British acts want to break the American market they have to tow the line and behave appropriately” the dullard said.
The man was clearly talking rubbish –if they’re trying so hard to find Trans-Atlantic acceptance, why did I fail to see a single spousal abuse or gang-land shooting?
Tue 17th Feb 2009
This evening’s pub night featured similar quiz related aspects of last Tuesday. This time, we were in a different pub playing on a gaming machine rather than competing as a team. The entry fee was the same (a pound each down the slot), but the quiz on the machine generally lasts minutes rather than hours – which is just as well for a busy soul like me who lives such a fast-paced existence (I’ve still some unfilled plans from Saturday to catch up on). Another difference between the two different quiz-types is the wildly varying difficulty of the questions. Initially, the machine will build your confidence with really simple ones; something along the lines of
“Who is the wife and co-presenter of Richard Madeley?”
a) Keith Chegwin
b) Judy Finnegan
c) Michael Finnegan
d) Judy from the popular seaside entertainment franchise ‘Punch & Judy’”.
But as soon as it looks like a cash win is a distinct possibility, the questions go from ridiculously easy to ridiculously difficult. One question we were asked in order to win a pound was, “British band Cud were on which of the following recording labels?”
Pop Music happens to be my specialist subject. I am aware that Cud were a late eighties early nineties British indie band who had a couple of minor hits that shot straight into the lower reaches of the top 100 before disappearing straight back into obscurity. This was back in the days when ‘indie’ music was sheepish, nerdy, underachieving, a bit rubbish but ultimately lovable, as opposed to the late 90’s big supernova anthems which welcomed a following of beer-boys and terrace hooligans. Seriously – how’s anyone supposed to know that? I’d be surprised if even the members of Cud themselves could tell you, never mind anyone else.
Despite the machine’s level of specialization (or cheating, as I like to call it), amazingly I got the answer right. This was satisfying because it’s not like I was a Cud fan or anything, I just had a weird inkling that turned out to be correct (or guesswork, as I like to call it). I enjoyed the feeling of beating the machine when it was so transparently trying to get one over on us with such an obscure question. We were so happy in fact, that we celebrated by putting the pound back into the machine and losing it properly. But I felt sated. At least we lost it on a question that was fair.
“Who is the wife and co-presenter of Richard Madeley?”
a) Keith Chegwin
b) Judy Finnegan
c) Michael Finnegan
d) Judy from the popular seaside entertainment franchise ‘Punch & Judy’”.
But as soon as it looks like a cash win is a distinct possibility, the questions go from ridiculously easy to ridiculously difficult. One question we were asked in order to win a pound was, “British band Cud were on which of the following recording labels?”
Pop Music happens to be my specialist subject. I am aware that Cud were a late eighties early nineties British indie band who had a couple of minor hits that shot straight into the lower reaches of the top 100 before disappearing straight back into obscurity. This was back in the days when ‘indie’ music was sheepish, nerdy, underachieving, a bit rubbish but ultimately lovable, as opposed to the late 90’s big supernova anthems which welcomed a following of beer-boys and terrace hooligans. Seriously – how’s anyone supposed to know that? I’d be surprised if even the members of Cud themselves could tell you, never mind anyone else.
Despite the machine’s level of specialization (or cheating, as I like to call it), amazingly I got the answer right. This was satisfying because it’s not like I was a Cud fan or anything, I just had a weird inkling that turned out to be correct (or guesswork, as I like to call it). I enjoyed the feeling of beating the machine when it was so transparently trying to get one over on us with such an obscure question. We were so happy in fact, that we celebrated by putting the pound back into the machine and losing it properly. But I felt sated. At least we lost it on a question that was fair.
Mon 16th feb 2009
I have nothing to write about today. Absolutely diddly-squat. To be honest, I don’t know why you’re still reading. I’d just leave if I were you. Move along. There’s nothing to see here.
If you’re a new reader who has happened to accidentally stumble here via the “Next Blog” button, I’d hit that same button again. You’ll probably have to cross a crevice of few foreign language pages that you don’t understand, or pages with garish patterns which burn out your retina before you’ve a chance to start on the text, but it’s got to be better than this. You never know, maybe you’ll come across something nice about knitting or some photos of someone’s niece standing next to a vintage car. This is a dark lonely corner of the blogosphere anyways. Look at it – all black, uniform and boring. Virtually no visual stimulation whatsoever. And as for the text? Well clearly, there’s no content, is there?
I know what you’re thinking. “The whole thing seems a bit of a waste of time. Whoever is writing this must be pretty self-indulgent to soldier on, putting all these pointless words together on a page just for the sake of it. And look at all the self-referencing he’s doing too, talking in this third person dialogue and all that; pretending to be someone else. Maybe he’s a bit mental or something. Or maybe he thinks he’s being dead clever by being all experimental ‘on your ass’, but anyone can see how this desperate experiment is flailing. If it were all a build up to some giant climactic ending, then it would be worth plodding on with. But I don’t even think he’s got a clue how he should end the entry. It’s all just waffle now. How long can he keep typing all this before he’s able to find an inkling of direction? We’re 316 words in and if something interesting was gonna happen, surely it would’ve started by now? And what’s all this dialogue anyway? It seems he’s bought this extra character into life for the purposes of critiquing his blog, but this character is somehow suppose to be representing the thoughts of you, the reader. It’s as if he’s arrogantly trying to proclaim that if you don’t like this entry, it’s somehow your own fault for having all these thoughts in the first place. But he’s the one controlling what words go on the page, casually misrepresenting us as he pleases. And the ultimate insult is that when he stops writing, I (who is supposed to you) will cease to exist. He has given birth to your (my) voice, just to make it say boring things on his behalf, then he’ll just discard it afterward. What a perverse set up. Technically, it’s murder. What sort of a terrible man would commit textual homicide, just for something to write about? Clearly he must reckon murder is the only thing climactic enough to divert the reader from the real, inescapable truth. He really does have absolutely nothing else to say.”
Like I say, you might be thinking all this.
But to be fair, I did warn you in the first sentence.
If you’re a new reader who has happened to accidentally stumble here via the “Next Blog” button, I’d hit that same button again. You’ll probably have to cross a crevice of few foreign language pages that you don’t understand, or pages with garish patterns which burn out your retina before you’ve a chance to start on the text, but it’s got to be better than this. You never know, maybe you’ll come across something nice about knitting or some photos of someone’s niece standing next to a vintage car. This is a dark lonely corner of the blogosphere anyways. Look at it – all black, uniform and boring. Virtually no visual stimulation whatsoever. And as for the text? Well clearly, there’s no content, is there?
I know what you’re thinking. “The whole thing seems a bit of a waste of time. Whoever is writing this must be pretty self-indulgent to soldier on, putting all these pointless words together on a page just for the sake of it. And look at all the self-referencing he’s doing too, talking in this third person dialogue and all that; pretending to be someone else. Maybe he’s a bit mental or something. Or maybe he thinks he’s being dead clever by being all experimental ‘on your ass’, but anyone can see how this desperate experiment is flailing. If it were all a build up to some giant climactic ending, then it would be worth plodding on with. But I don’t even think he’s got a clue how he should end the entry. It’s all just waffle now. How long can he keep typing all this before he’s able to find an inkling of direction? We’re 316 words in and if something interesting was gonna happen, surely it would’ve started by now? And what’s all this dialogue anyway? It seems he’s bought this extra character into life for the purposes of critiquing his blog, but this character is somehow suppose to be representing the thoughts of you, the reader. It’s as if he’s arrogantly trying to proclaim that if you don’t like this entry, it’s somehow your own fault for having all these thoughts in the first place. But he’s the one controlling what words go on the page, casually misrepresenting us as he pleases. And the ultimate insult is that when he stops writing, I (who is supposed to you) will cease to exist. He has given birth to your (my) voice, just to make it say boring things on his behalf, then he’ll just discard it afterward. What a perverse set up. Technically, it’s murder. What sort of a terrible man would commit textual homicide, just for something to write about? Clearly he must reckon murder is the only thing climactic enough to divert the reader from the real, inescapable truth. He really does have absolutely nothing else to say.”
Like I say, you might be thinking all this.
But to be fair, I did warn you in the first sentence.
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