Tune in.

I'm fairly certain this statement'll put me in the "Old Man" box (on some imaginary form, not an actual box to keep old men in. Coz that wouldn't be a box, that'd be a casket), but I can't believe how bad pop music is. There. I said it. Didn't think I ever would say that genuinely, but I have.

Who the fuck is buying this synthesized, electronic, r&b, bland, repetitive tripe that means nothing and rewards listeners with even less? I'm not angry, so much as astounded. I know I'm old coz when i say "buy", I try and envisage what kind of person would leave the house and buy a CD from a shop. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe music used to be better, when it was a bit of a mission to go and buy. When it took 2 days wages and a trip into town to buy a 45. Now we've got mass produced crap that you can click and own with less effort than picking your nose.

I believe pop music is a false economy. In the same way that houses a few years ago were selling way over there actual worth (due to reasons outside my field of knowledge), I think people are WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYY overvaluing pop music. And all it'll take is some one to go...

"Wait a minute... I think...yes... I think this music is fucken appalling"

And the word will spread like a brushfire throughout the cities of the world. Listeners will emerge from their slumber and realise they've been had for the last 10 years. And, angry and confused, they shall descend upon the stations responsible for peddling this rubbish for so long. And they shall tear down the buildings that are home to this audio-crime and stomp upon the cassettes and hard-drives until nothing is left of the over-produced and over-valued fecal tunes of the day.

And silence shall reign once again.

Rodney King Punches On!!!

Coming soon to a TV near you. This is good. And wrong. It's good and wrong, and i'm not sure why.

Former race-hate attack victim Rodney King will be punching on with a renegade LA police officer who was booted from the force for his "Shoot first, ask questions later" policy as part of America's "Celebrity Fight Season"

What the fuck is going on in the world?

First and foremost, how is there an entire season dedicated to celebrity fights? I envisage people having diary's with appointments and such.

"What are you up to this week Lisa?"

"Well, I'm going to see Judy on Tuesday, then the dentist on Thursday morning, then... Oooh! Friday night is the first night of Celebrity Fight Season"

Say what you like about the Americans, they sure know how to squeeze every last drop of dignity out of their celebrities.

I'm not really sure what this match is going to achieve. If Rodney King wins, will he finally feel like justice has been served? Will he get closure on the issue by getting more points than the other gent in this televised event? It's not likely.

And what if the white guy wins? Will the black community put their hands up and say "Yes, you've won the fight. And our respect."

At best, this fight will stoke the fire of racism. At worst, this fight will stoke the fire of racism.*

I think what's most interesting about this though, is that I feel like Rodney King shouldn't be involved. I read this and for some reason, I figured being the victim of a racist beating automatically gives you a certain level of personal pride and morals. It appears it doesn't. Or maybe it does, and they can just be bought for the right price.

*I read a letter to the editor in some magazine a while ago and they were discussing the issue of racism in Australia. And someone had written in saying they went to Qatar and were ritualistically harassed for being white. The argument went along the lines of "Don't worry about racism in Australia, the people of Qatar are the biggest racists in the world, the blame should be put on them."

Despite the glaring hypocrisy of this statement, and the blatant passing the buck, don't you think this person over reacted a bit.

I'm white. I live in the first world. I am super-privileged. If I go to the middle east on holiday and feel some resentment from the locals, I hope I experience racism. Coz at least then some of the guilt of my incredibly fortunate existence is lifted off my shoulders.

You know when you beat someone to the finish line and feel a bit bad? If they're an arsehole about it, that victory is all the sweeter. It's not a just attitude or a particularly righteous one, but it's real and satisfying. I've got mates I love winning money off in poker, but only coz they're massive pricks when they win. If you don't like it when they win, don't play. If you don't wanna be maligned for your lifestyle, don't go to foreign cultures.

I've often considered, as I think we all have, is it worth starting a business on the strength of a name?

I don't think anyone actually likes feeding old people. They're grumpy and eat more than you'd think. But I reckon someone came up with the name Meals on Wheels and the business was built around it.

I used to live down the road from a mirror shop called Reflections. Very poor effort I thought, However, maybe because mirror shops don't do a roaring trade, or because the name brought in no punters coz it just wasn't clever enough, the dude that owned it had plenty of time to reflect on his poor choice of business.

On the other side of the coin is when someone starts a business, gives it a name, and then a bad reputation is built around the business. Enjoy this pic from a van in Peterbourough in England. maybe a viable business about 2 1/2 years ago, but now...?

Thirsty?

I'm travelling around Oz, and everywhere I go I drink the local brew.

In Perth, I drank Swan Lager.

In Adelaide, Coopers.

Melbourne, Carlton.

Hobart, Boags.

Brisbane, XXXX.

And Sydney, Malibu Latte's.

Not Derogatory.

A little while is was doing a topical joke at a gig. Doing topical material is hard coz if you do it for any longer than 48hrs, it pretty much goes from being “topical” to being “hack”. So you write it, learn it as best you can, then perform it once, maybe twice if it’s good.
Bearing this in mind, a while ago I did a topical joke at a gig. It went like so...

“Did you see that thing about the Sri Lankan cricket team on the news? Apparently they hit a massive score against the Pakistani’s and the next day they got shot up by all these gunmen. Luckily, no players were killed, just injured. So it looks like the Pakistani bowlers aren’t the only ones that need to work on their line and length”

Not a great joke, but good enough as it was topical. The problem was, when I did it, i was so busy trying to remember the joke that instead of referring to the team as the Pakistanis, I called them “The Paki’s”

After I did so, there was this really weird vibe in the room, no-one really liked me and I couldn’t work out why. After the gig, MC told me what had happened, referring to the Pakistanis as Paki’s. But in Australia, it’s not derogatory, it’s an abbreviation.

The only other time I’d felt such a weird vibe in a room towards me was at this party a little while back. It was at a mates place, and I drunk way too much and passed out early in the night. One of the boys drew a cock on my cheek whilst i was out. Would have been fine, but a few hours later i rose and rejoined the party, but there was a really weird vibe in the room, like no-one really liked me and I couldn’t work out why. It was only when I got talking to a French girl that I realised.

She said “You know you’ve got a dick on your cheek” I said “ah yeah, but my name’s Richard. In Australia, it’s not derogatory, it’s an abbreviation.

U KFC

KFC sponsors the cricket in Australia. I don’t know why. Fried chicken and sport go together like chalk and cheese. Poverty and education. Scunthorpe and dreams.
It makes me angry coz it’s ridiculous.

KFC is ridiculous.

Who makes their slogan “Finger licking good” and then includes a moist towlette? They know saliva alone can’t break down the layer of grease on your mits, so why make that the slogan?
KFC is ridiculous.
Last year during the cricket, they advertised special meal. Chicken, chips, coronary and a drink of your choice. It was called The Cricketers Box. Now, anyone who knows anything about cricket knows that a box is a sweaty plastic cup that protects your bits and pieces. It’s gross, but conducive to good health. Seldom do I desire fried chicken (sober), I hardly think packaging it alongside the testes of Danny that plays in the B team at Thornlie is gonna sway my decision.

KFC is ridiculous.

Their latest travesty against humankind is the Boneless Box. Made for those that want to enjoy chicken, without the pesky bones. What kind of fucking imbecile can’t deal with chicken bones!?! The fucken animal has EVOLVED to become more easily consumed! It’s next evolutionary step is to be born marinated and lay poached eggs!
Surely, whoever came up with this boneless chicken idea is the same person that brought us such self defeating ideas as mild chilli, minced meat and iced tea.

KFC is ridiculous.

I’ve realised, the only decent food they serve at KFC is corn. Good on em, I thought. Turns out though, you’re not meant to eat that. The corn is just an ‘in’ joke coz the guy that runs the place is called The Kernel.

Crickets

3 days in the bush can feel like an eternity. Well, three days anywhere can feel like an eternity. Three days on a bus. Three days in pergatory. Three days in shame. All, a long, long time.

Luckily, three days in the bush can be very very funny. And there are two routes to funny.

1. Time. Anything can become funny over a long period of time. Except "Friends" obviously.

2. Liquor. It's the shortcut to funny. It's the shortcut to fun. And if you've got three days to fill with fun, why not stay there. It's a long way back from sober.

Liquor is an iinteresting little number. Next time you're sitting around with your mates, stop and have a look. Who's drinking out of thirst? And who's drinking out of spite for their liver. It must suck to be a liver these days. I bet they tell tales of their Great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grand parents processing roughage. Or their first bit of meat. Nowadays it's like they're stuck on the Travelator in Gladiators, and every weekend it speeds up a bit more. They keep running and running as other organs cheers them on from the stands with "homemade" signs and the occassional piece of post-production commentary...

"he's doing it hard on the travelator, I'm starting to wonder whether this liver will live-r-nother day."

I don't know who commentates on Gladiators, but it'll always be a very poor mans Dennis Cometti.

Should have said that in the bush. Would have been classic. If not for all the crickets.

Exposure.

The elements are missing out these days. They're not getting to work on anyone, bar the homeless and lost.

Has anyone considered the plight of the elements?

They're under-employed, left to weather the rooves of houses, the windows of churches, and the carcass of cast aside couches. They never get to work on US any more. That's sad. And it's a shame.

I don't think I'm alone when I say that the elements harp back to the real days. Back when people were killed by exposure. Those were romantic times. Now it's like a game. They've got to get up early to catch us as we dash to our cars, busses and trains. We dart from shelter to shelter for fear of discomfort. And that must suck for rain hail and shine. It's like the weather is a slightly overweight kid at school, and when you play chasey, if you can't catch anyone else, you just cop out and tag him. Now, the slightly portly child that is the elements has no chance. We agile young things sprint away, leaving him without so much as a sniff. Occasionally it gets boring not being "It". So we go on holiday. We let the fat kid catch us, we feel what it's like to be caught by the elements. Just for a week or two, maybe somewhere sunny, maybe somewhere cold, we go there, feel the gentle wrath of our weather of choice, and then come home. Safe and sound.

I think it's much the same way we have learnt to deal with the video store. Remember the wealth of variety we used to have at the video store. Ten thousand different films, from all different directors and different genres and different times. The DVD killed that. The video store took the opportunity to streamline our choice. Minimise loitering time by reducing choice. Now, you go into Blockbuster, and it's two thousand copies of five different films. And even then, they're all the fucken same...

Character A and character B could not be more different. But as they travel form point A to point B they discover something important about A. Themselves and B. Each other. Mwahaha, four stars, what a film!

Fuck off. Give me shit 80's psuedo-porns. Give me poorly written, clunky action films starring Dolf Lundgren. Give me hilariously bad horrors like Demonic Toys. Give me tripe. give me tat. Give me all the bad imitaions of Steel Magnolias. Give me Chris Farley. Give me bad sci-fi. Give me Rick Moranis in far too many sequels. Give me Snow, give me sleet. Give me baking on a bus or freezing on a train.

If we don't even get to deal with exposure to 40 years worth of b-grade films, how the fuck are we gonna cope when we have to deal with the elements?

Coz one day, the bus won't come. You'll wait and you'll wait in the sun or the rain until you whither and die of exposure. All because you never experienced the abrassive comedy of the Earnest series or the pointed plot turns in anything starring David Spade.

Sundays Offering-The Horse

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink. Very true, I imagine. I've never actually tried, but it's one of those sayings that's been around for so long, it becomes true.

Also, you can dress cool and go to cool places, but you cannot become cool.

Last night I went to a late-nite bowling lane in Shoreditch, East London. It's an establishment that screams "I'M COOL." The-American themed diner, the shortage of dunnies, the facial hair of every male employee. C. O. O. L.
A large proportion of those in attendance seemed to be pushing the same vibe. Our collective weight is fuck-all. We spent bloody ages getting this "I don't care what I wear" look just right. We're here. We are Hip-by-Proxy. ooh shityeah.

There is a unifying sign to the wannabe hipsters. Luckily, as I'm not in the circle of edge-cutters, I can identify this. Its cameras. Or more specifically, the giant SLR numbers "for the perfect shoot" They hang round the skinny necks of the indie tragics as they constantly scour the scene they're on for that identifying shot. Oh look! There's a can in the gutter! It looks so sad! Lets adjust the aperture to really bring the sadness out. Wow. That's inspired.

To be fair, everyone likes to take a good photo. It's just no-one likes to show they're ready to take that album cover like the malnourished wannabe trendsetters of East London.

Not that I can talk. My camera is disposable. My haircut is conservative. My attendance at the bowling lane was also an attempt at Hip. I am the gutterball of cool.

Spewing.

The finer art of costume.

I'm about to spend the next two weeks dressed as a giant tooth. Not a big tooth. A giant one.

I like dressing up. I love dress-up parties. I love 'em coz you can pretend to be anything. My favourite thing to go as is a stable member of society without trust issues and social anxieties. Or a pirate.

When I was a kid, I'd spend hours dressed a Raffaello for the Ninja Turtles. What defined me as Raf was the red bead on the end of the fondue forks I had in my belt. I like dressing up properly.

I went to my first 18th dressed as a breathalyser. I made it myself out of cardboard. I think a costume is like sex. So much more satisfying when you don't have to pay for it. That said, I have paid for some very satisfying costumes in my time.

The key to a good costume party is a theme that's either open to a huge range of possibilities, or is strange and specific, and takes a good deal of effort to find a costume for. My favourite costume-party story was my mate Jonno's. He was told the theme for their football club party was Seinfeld. As such, he went in tight jeans, sneakers t-shirt and sport jacket. Then when he got there, it turned out there was no theme, and he was stuck dressed slightly rudely. That's excellent for the prank itself, but more so for the fact that Jonno'd just not quite fit in. I am very excited to have a Seinfeld themed party. Although you have to make sure you're popular enough for people to make the effort, or else your party will be both ill attended and badly dressed.

My brother once had a costume party, and went as the Silver Surfer. An absolute mission, coz when we sweated it up on the dance floor, the body paint ran and his costume was ruined. Oh, the tears. I went as a Transformer, but couldn't make an accurate version of any one particular Transformer, so went as a traffic light that "transformed" into a robot. The fact I turned from something into a robot was enough for me. Not so much for everyone else though. Oh, how the well-dressed judge.

There are a few themes that you should never, ever have. Well, by all means do, but don't expect anything special in terms of original costumes.

These themes are...

-Pimps and Ho's*
-Heaven and Hell
-Sluts and Studs
-Doctors and Nurses.

Throw any of the aforementioned themes and the girls will look like hookers and the guys will buy crap costumes. If that's what you want got to a costume shop or Kings Cross.

I'm being very judgemental now. Perhaps too judgemental for someone who's gonna spend the next two weeks dressed as a tooth. And I didn't even make the costume myself.

*If you're after this kind of party, tune into a pirate radio station and you'll be able to hear someone yelling the address of one and a list of party stipulations over some poor music selections. You're welcome.

Service This!

Casino's are nasty places. They pump the oxygen in, making everyone feel good. People drink. People have fun. People look nice. The casino has a cousin. An ugly cousin. A cousin that magnifies the seedy side of casinos and uses it as it's own personality. The Services.

Each time you go into a services, the stark, unkind lighting pierces your eyes. Whilst there are no clocks in Casinos to know how much time is passing, in the services you can't help being reminded that time is moving on and one day you will die. You will die a sad, lonely desperate death. You'll be placed in a coffin and strangers will stroll by, seeing if you house any decent snack-based bargains.

I don't know if that makes any sense. This does. You know the guy that works behind the counter in the services? Malcolm? He's there when you roll into any of the numbingly identical services across the country. It's two in the morning. His dead eyes bore into you as you debate whether or not to spend an additional 50p and get free a miniature Cadbury's Cowboy that'll stick to your dashboard and sway as you slow down and take off. The sallow complexion and the chewed down fingernails of Malcolm the counter attendant make you feel uneasy. Like you want to run away. run away and never come back. The man you see before you is nothing more than a real representation of the debt-riddled casino punter. That's what he looks like on the inside.

Of course I mean no disrespect to Malcolm. He only works there as a means to an end. Back home, he's got a boat, a couple of kids and a dog. At the bottom of his garden he's got a little shed that he potters about in when he can't sleep. He's making a yacht. Not a real one, but a tiny one. He's not sure how it'll ever fit into a bottle. He's afraid to ask, in case someone thinks him a fool. Next to the shed, he's digging a hole. a big hole. "It's for a pool" Malcolm says. It's not. It's a shallow grave. Well, it'll be deep in time. Its for burying the bodies of people who linger to long at the Cadbury stand, pretending to ponder a further purchase, but really just judging him. It's not even his name tag. He's not Malcolm. He's Ray.

Champion of Words!

I have a fixation with the word "filter." Not its meaning. Not what it represents. Just the word. Filter. Good word, but not remarkable. It's a sticky little bugger, now it's stuck in my brain.

I don't think we give enough time to words. They're our fucking slaves, and we barely take time to acknowledge their hard work. They tirelessly and thanklessly transmit information to our minds, and we barely give them a second thought. It's like we're the head of some multinational corporation, and they're delivering sandwiches to the mail room. It's time these meek, mild-mannered minions were championed for the hard work they do. Jeez, sounds like the kind of campaign a tabloid would run in a slow week. "These unsung heroes..."

But seriously, the movement starts here with my favourite words.

Pyjamas. This badboy is number one. The close proximity of the three consonants at the start make just saying this word fun. When I'm in private, I like to really draw out that first A. Try it. Pyjaaamas. See? he's earned his place here.

Snorkel. What's not to love about 'snorkel'? It's fun. it's a strange object. it's got a K in it. Tick. Tick. Tick.

Rythym. Good word. Good meaning. Wish i had some. I feel like if I'm mates with the word, the ability will follow. Also, a splendid word if you want t win a game of Hangman. People will complain after you win that there's an 'E' in there somewhere. Send 'em to me. Or the dictionary.

They're my top 3. I'd be genuinely surprised if they were yours too. But at least you see where I'm coming from. If you'd like to nominate and unsung hero in your vocabulary, plus go in the running to win a trip for two to Little England in Southern Spain, fill in the form in this weeks Sun or got to http://www.thesun.co.uk/sol/homepage/article296174.ece

Sensational Breath

My toothpaste purports to give me healthy gums, clean teeth, and sensational fresh breath.

I haven't got any problems with these.

They seem like nice traits to have.

In fact, my dentist has, on occasion, commented that I have clean teeth AND healthy gums. However, no-one's ever so much as complimented my breath. The closest I've got has been a girl saying "Oh, you've brushed your teeth." More an observation than flattery.

What am I doing wrong?

I brush. I rinse. I've flossed. Nothing.

I've breathed on all manner of people. In the street and at the pub. Nothing. In confined spaces like elevators. Nothing. Even on packed trains when they're an inch from my face and I know they can smell it. All I've got for my troubles is a court order.

Why can't my breath be sensational? Why not just amazing? I bet former Western Warriors captain Tom Moody has great breath. I bet he's got amazing breath. And even though he's so tall, it still permeates people's olfactory senses, and even if they don't say anything, they still think to themselves,"Wow, that breath is sensational."

I've decided to take a stand. No longer will I aspire to sensational breath. I'll forge ahead for a new compliment. I will have interesting breath. Complex, deep, bold, yet subtle. People will come together in a wooden cellar on Tuesday evenings to sniff my breath and discuss its body. Its texture. Its gentle undertones. One week I'll chew that blue PK that old sailors chew, and they won't know what hit them. Or maybe I'll chew on some coconut husk, see if that throws em. So many opportunities.

Yeah, I'm gonna put some serious time into my breath.

Or stop buying cheap toothpaste.

Snowbusters

Yesterday it snowed. It snowed, and London was happy. People talking in the streets, throwing snowballs at each other, generally having a good time. It was perfect.
The last time London was happy, was at Christmas. People chatting in the queue at Iceland, wishing each other seasons greetings, again, generally having a good time.

These two days had something else in common too. That is, the entire city shut down and was unworkable. No public transport. No one working. Businesses shut and free papers not being distributed.

That's how I know London can't work when people are happy. The two cannot co-exist. Like fire and ice. Times New Roman and impressive posters. Cocaine and funny conversations.

I think that London is alot like New York was during Ghostbusters 2. I think there's an ooze that runs the city, flowing deep below the ground, and when people get angry or pissed off, it becomes more powerful and flows thicker and deeper. When people get happy, positive and upbeat it grows weak and shallow.

That's why London needs to be the setting for the new Ghostbusters film. Sure, the premise would be alarmingly similar to the second film, but it would be great to get Bill Murray, Dan Akroyd, and the other two hitting the streets of downtown Penge. It may also give a much needed boost to the film careers of "the other two." And if Rick Moranis isn't available to play the nerdish neighour/sidekick/fifth comedy wheel, we can get Ken Livingstone to look a little more bookish and we're sorted. Same goes for Sigourney Weaver being played by Vinnie Jones.

Or maybe it could just snow more.