| So. It's half two on a Saturday morning and I'm sat at the computer watching JFK for the third time this week, with nary a drop of alcohol in my bloodstream, a smidgin of substance in my system, or even a handful of coppers in my pocket. I have of late - but wherefore I know not - lost all my mirth, foregone all custom of excercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory. Such is the consequence of not having been paid by my employers for as long as I can remember. Hence the reason why I'm here, updating my livejournal instead of getting cosy with the nearest convenient gutter, or falling off a chair without spilling a drop of whiskey.
Still, it can't be all bad. And while I begrudge fate for not allowing me to wantonly murder braincells this weekend, I'm grateful to the good folks of Wikipedia, who have kept me mildly entertained for the last, oooh, six hours. Have you ever wondered about the downfall of Montezuma II's Aztec empire at the hands of the conquistador Hernan Cortez? The story of Vlad The Impaler and the Golden Cup? The possible location of the mythic continent of Atlantis? The truth behind the Vampire of Highgate Cemetary? Or the mysteries of anilingus? Maybe not. But it's all there, a veritable Tutenkhamun's tomb of semi-useless information just waiting to be pored over. And while it's no subsitute for waking up on a Saturday afternoon with a head that feels like a Frenchman just shat in it, it's been my saviour this weekend. Apparently I briefly had my own Wikipedia page, which was taken down by the powers that be for being 'Filth' or some other such adjective. As a dear friend of mine might say - gutteritis.
In other news, I got my first decent job since August this week, which I don't want to jinx by talking about. These things have a habit of falling through at the last minute, in my experience. Unfortunately the last couple of months have been a bit dry for me, to the point where I've started looking for a proper job so as to avoid any more weekends like this one. Sadly, after 17 years - Jesus, it's scary when you say it like that - of education, I'm still no closer to deciding what I want to do with myself. I'd really like to be able to eke a living out of what I'm doing now, but with the way things are going, I need a supplemental income, just in case the long-planned novel I'm currently researching in a lacklustre manner never actually comes to fruition. But who knows, this job may yet kickstart a prosperous period for me. After all, it wouldn't be the first time I've feared I'd never work again.
In happier news, Belle & Sebastian's new album 'The Life Persuit' sounds - on first listen, at least - rather wonderful. | comments: 18 comments or Leave a comment   |
| When I'm not busy sleeping, eating, drinking, listening to music, watching the Godfather trilogy in one marathon sitting, sifting through Myspace profiles, desperately waiting for a new Myspace message/picture comment/friend request, putting up posters that have fallen down, taking pictures of drunk people on my phone, working, excercising and thinking about the meaning of life, I like to make up words. With my friends, of course. I couldn't do it alone, I'm not that imaginative. But in the interest of my own purely selfish personal amusement, I try my level best to popularize these pointless additions to the great English lexicon by randomly dropping these words into conversation and waiting to see if the other person picks up. So, if there's anything in the following update that you like, feel free to use it in conversation, tell your friends that you invented it yourself, and maybe - just maybe - create weird websites dedicated to said word. If you want. And please, add your own neologisms at the end.
1. Twob - Ah, my my first rudimentary step into expanding - some would say worsening - this great language of ours. Essentially an androgynous combination of a 'Twat' (n: 'A stupid and incompetent fool') and a 'Knob' (n: 'A circular rounded projection or proturberance'), this word was really of rather limited appeal, as it refered to only one person: my old PE teacher Bruce Livingstone. Looking like the fifth Gibb brother who was deemed at birth to be too ugly for showbusiness, hastily tied up in a sack and dropped off a bridge, 'Livie' was known for telling girls to untuck their shirts when doing handstands and was once spotted standing on Glasgow's Byres road, wearing a trenchcoat and aviator shades, staring at females going by. Reports that he fathered Johnny Borrell are unsubstantiated, but he clearly needed a new breed of insult. Hence, 'Twob'.
2. Stoat - I won't pretend to have invented this word, but I have made a concerted effort for this fantastic West of Scotland word/small rodent-like creature to be introduced into mainstream English. The 'Stoat' can be many things - a Volkswagon Polo (any make or year), a dance (two steps forward, two steps back, with your arms going in alternate directions) or a substitute verb for 'Walk', as in "Stuff this Agnes, these magic mushrooms are making me see laughing goblins. I'm going for a stoat to clear my head." I'd like to give kudos to my friend Chris for this one.
3. Hoach - I think this website will explain everything you need to know: www.monthehoach.tk
4. Spacebag - This can be summed up in two simple words: James Brown. Yes the ape-faced godfather of sparkly-suited grunt-soul is a true original in many fields - funk, soul, rhythm and blues, rap, assault and battery, arson - but surely the apex of his prestigious career would have to be attaining the status of the world's first known Spacebag. A Spacebag (always in capitals, it is its own species after all) is a close relative of the 'German' (see below), but a being of more amplified strangeness. Only a Spacebag, for example, would engage in a high speed motorway police chase whilst driving under the influence of PCP (Phencyclidine, a drug developed as a surgical anaesthetic during WWI, rumoured to turn people into cannibals after prolonged binges), before getting out of the car and waving an illegal firearm at passing civillians. Even though Mr. Brown will probably never be displaced as king of the Spacebags, anyone can join their ranks, even on a temporary basis. Usually after ingesting a large ammount of alcohol and/or substances.
5. German - In the words of my dear friend Alan, there are two types of people in this world. You're either Scottish, or you're a German. The definition of a German being anyone that isn't actually Scottish. Of course, me being the least patriotic Scotsman I know probably qualifies me as being a German, but this is not unusual. 'To feel a bit German' is to feel slightly strange or unusual, like Richard E. Grant in Withnail & I, and so it is possible for a Scotsman to be temporarily German. There is one steadfast rule, however - there is no such thing as French, Dutch, Spanish, Finnish, Russian, Uzbekistani, Indian, Chinese, Australian, or indeed any nationality that is not Scottish or German. | | comments: 8 comments or Leave a comment |
| So there I was, stoating around Glasgow with nipples like peanuts and my hands turning blue, coming back from Ruth's after watching Withnail & I and complaining about how hungover I was, when it suddenly struck me - I love my friend Richard. I think you will too. Let me tell you about Richard. He's the sort of guy who drives into town to come and pick me up, eat some pakora with me, and drop me off home, all to a soundtrack of Fleetwood Mac albums. He'd give you twosies on his last fag, his last groat in the world, and help you co-write 'M'see M'say: The Musical' when you've got nothing better to do. In short, he ain't heavy, but he is a hoacher. See him and his crotch right here - http://viewmorepics.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=viewImage&friendID=6257233&imageID=322214716&Mytoken=788FB0B5-4FEE-E75A-A41CA21F176AAE4E45350078.
In other news, I feel like James Brown after he's just woken up in the cells after a PCP-fuelled freeway chase, hence the reason I can't go on with this update for much longer. However, now that I've developed as taste for it, when I can remember more about what happened over the last three days, I'll be sure and update it. Right now though, I'm going to curl up into a ball and listen to The Strokes 'till I either get better or die. You stay classy, teh internets. | | comments: 10 comments or Leave a comment |
| And I'm a lazy fucking bastard. Since I've updated this thing so much has happened it hardly seems worth talking about anymore. In the past nine months I've managed (against all odds) to graduate from University, met Paul McCartney, puked three times, had my hair cut once, and visited a continent I'd never been to before. Were I to describe it all in detail, I'd not only cure my own insomnia, but everyone else who's reading this at half four in the morning too.
What's spurred me into action? What message can possibly be so important I've broken my LJ silence, like a particularly guilty and weak-willed Franciscan monk, to bring to you? Nothing really, I just can't sleep, and I can't find any valium anywhere. So as I sit here, subjecting myself to the aceness of the new Franz Ferdinand album, and pondering on whether or not to raid my stepdad's craftily-hidden bottle of whiskey downstairs, I find myself willing to talk about only one thing, but I care too much for you, dear LJer's, to subject you to my lengthy diatribe about how Alexander The Great was, like, really brilliant. All I'll say on the subject is that I've started doing something I haven't done since I was studying medieval history in first year uni, and reading history books. I've only just started it, but I can already reccomend Robin Lane Fox's biography of the great man, entitled - handily - Alexander The Great.
Other historical figures I've identified with and/or become infatuated with recently include President Nixon and John D. Rockefeller. I've been attempting to track down Nixon's memoirs, but can't find a major bookshop in Britain that stocks it, and frankly, I couldn't be arsed with the 8-week-waiting-period bullshit Amazon tried to pull on me - doubtless I'd order the fucker, only to fall asleep on the day it was delivered, and have to wait one extra agonizing day to pick it up from the post office. If anyone has a spare copy, I'll take it off your hands for a reasonable price.
In other, less boring news, Franz Ferdinand's new album is absolutely splendid. My favourite tracks, in no particular order, would have to be 'Eleanor, Put Your Boots On', which sounds like something off The White Album, 'Outsiders', which suddenly seems a helluva lot catchier than the last time I heard it in a studio in New York, and 'I'm Your Villain', which has lost the line about there being 'Room at the top in Dennistoun', but still has the coolest riff I've ever heard.
That just about does it. I'm off to sleep.
Bx | | comments: 7 comments or Leave a comment |
| | There's a very good computer-related reason for that last post. I'll take it down in an hour or so. | | comments: 15 comments or Leave a comment |
| I'm not as well-read as an English Literature student should be. I like to think that this is because I harbor a healthy contempt and disregard for the obvious, antiquated, university-degree-by-numbers poetry, plays and prose my faculty throws up at me, and it kinda is about that. It's also, however, that I'm a lazy bastard who spends too much time shoveling hyperbole at average indie bands, and drinking. However, once, every so often, I'm made to read the turgid steaming piles of over-analyzed shite they give me, under pressure of things like essays and presentations. The last presentation I gave was on 'The Picture of Dorian Gray', which I found enjoyable, not as farcical as the other Wilde stuff I've read (which admittedly isn't much), and rather self-conscious in its execution, as though old Oscar knew that 100 years after he wrote it, smart-arse students would still be quoting it, still congratulating themselves for remembering it, and still celebrating it for no other reason than that Morrissey told them to. But I digress.
My point is that occasionally, University spews forth a book actually worth reading. Thomas Pynchon's 'The Crying of Lot 49' is one such book; honestly, it's a mere 150 pages long, and it's one of the funniest, most confusing, and most downright weird novels I've ever read. And for that I thank Professor John Coyle. But for 'V', I thank 'Lot 49'. It's Thomas Pynchon's first novel, and at 500 pages long, it looks a little offputting. But it's utterly, utterly brilliant. It's so dense and complex, I wouldn't do it justice if I tried to summarize it here. It's about everything and nothing, is about the best I can do. A secret history of the 20th century, if you will. I don't know why I'm using Livejournal to express my utter awe at this book. Perhaps its because when I mentioned 'Pale Fire' in a previous post, everyone agreed that it was completely brilliant. As a Brit, I'd never even heard of Pynchon before; I'm guessing most of the Americans will have, and will be wondering why it's taken me (nearly, I'm not quite there) 21 years to grasp his brilliance: whatever, you guys still don't get 'The League of Gentlemen'. My point is this: 'V' = Best Book Ever. Until I start 'Gravity's Rainbow' next week, at least.
In other news, I'm back in New York after my Christmas stint in New Orleans, which is a lovely city spoiled only by tourists. I don't like to think of myself as one of them. There's nothing more embarrassing, nay insulting, than someone going about their daily business only to be snapped by some gormless sunvisor'd idiot wielding a disposable camera, whooping at his bumbag sporting wife as though he just shot a lion on a safari. I can't fucking stand tourists. But New Orleans, what a town. Alligators everywhere. Heads severed and varnished, of course, but creepy nonetheless.
I'm home soon. I've had a good time out here, but I miss a few people back home. Which reminds me. Anyone based in London, I'm coming down, along with five of my mates, for a joint 21st, on the 21st, oddly enough. Not sure what we're doing Friday, but Saturday we'll almost definitely be at Frog, should any of you wish to buy me a drink and congratulate me on reaching an age where I can now drink in every continent on planet earth. And let's be honest, is there a cause more worthy of celebration than that? It's being given the keys to hoachdom, having the planet at your drunken command. Anyway, let me know if you fancy coming out.
Over and out. | | comments: 10 comments or Leave a comment |
| New York is cold. Cold like I've never known Glasgow to be. And for someone who's wandered the long and winding stoat from the West End to the City Centre at 3am of a freezing December eve clad in nowt but a t-shirt and jeans, that's saying something. America also has the best exchange rate I've ever encountered. It's almost two dollars to the squidley over here, which means that after I spunked $200 on myself yesterday afternoon, I could justify it by reminding myself that I procured two jackets, a shirt, a pair of shoes and an international converter from a shady man in an even shadier electronics emporium for the measly sum of juts over 100 quid. Which is a dangerous game to play. But nonetheless, I played it today as well, and bought two watches and a pink stripey polo shirt. One of the watches, possibly both, were presents, by the way, and I'm not just a selfish consumerist pig.
Anyway, I'm going to New Orleans tomorrow to spend Christmas with my Uncle's in-laws. I'm told that Alligator is a specialty in New Orleans. Now, I'm no experimental food expert, but I know that an Alligator burger sounds damn good. It would be my first ever experience of eating reptile, and frankly...I have to try it. What I must get before then, however, is Sushi, and fucking lots of it. I love that stuff. Raw fish wrapped in rice that you dunk in soy sauce? Thank you please, come again. If anyone would like to reccomend some culinary delights of the south to me, let me give you a few pointers about what I don't eat
1. Mushrooms (they're evil, and they scare me)
2. Tomatoes (they don't taste of anything, what is their purpose?)
3. Olives (Grapes gone bad? No thanks)
Aside from those three, I'm pretty much game for anything.
Finally, and I meant to say this before, for all the people who emailed me with demos from their band, examples of their writing etc...STOP FUCKING DOING IT!!! Ahem, no. What I meant to say was, I've been INCREDIBLY busy the last couple of weeks and haven't really had time to reply to anyone properly, but I promise I'll get back to you soon, as some of the stuff I've been sent is really good. Gawd, I feel like a Kravat-less Tony Hart apologising for the lack of action on the gallery this week. Anyway, yes, I will reply to you all. I wasn't being rude.
Peace in the middle East, big shout out to the Crookie Young Fleeto crew, aiiight!
BX | | comments: 6 comments or Leave a comment |
| And so it is finally done. Ten days. 6000 words. Countless bottles of Grolsch. Yes, the essays are finally finished, and now I can get on with the serious business of finishing my 1200 word Bright Eyes album reviews for NME. The new Bright Eyes albums are so fantastic, that I really want to give them 9 and 10 respectively ('Digital Ash In A Digital Urn' is the first perfect record of 2005, Kain's debut album - provisionally titled 'Bum Tit', I'm told - will be the other), but I probably won't be able to get away with it. Despite the fact that they're both unbelievably brilliant.
I fly out to New York on Monday, the on to New Orleans on Thursday, which will be weird because I won't be spending Christmas with my little brother, which mean's I don't get to hog GTA: San Andreas from him on Christmas morning. Still, I'll be in New York for New Year, which means I won't have to deal with the usual Hogmanay rigmarole of falling out with friends and family members when I get a bit drunk and emotional (as I am prone to do). Hopefully New York will throw up a few interesting LJ posts (apologies these have been really boring recently, my life has been kind of academically-focussed recently - it won't last, fear not), as even though my main partner-in-crime across the Atlantic, the irrepressible Ultragrrrl, has given up drinking, my new friends The Bravery are unlikely to ever stop drinking, and therefore are a constant source of drunken misbehaviour. Ace! I'm also looking forward to meeting up with Stellastarr* and hopefully conning Shawn into letting me hear some of the stuff from their new album, which I can't wait for. I don't know why Stellastarr* aren't at least as big as Franz Ferdinand or Razorlight, but they sure as fuck deserve to be. And yes, Girlatomic, I shall be keeping my eyes open for the new location of Wizkid Management...
On an unrelated note, I went to see The Bluetones at the Barfly on Tuesday night. It was a gig of two halves. The first half I missed, the second one I didn't. But let's face it, when the first half has apparently been plagued by phantom technical faults and the second half boasts the double-whammy of 'Never Going Nowhere' and 'If...', I think it's safe to say I made the right choice. Not enough stuff from 'Return To The Last Chance Saloon' and my god is Mark Morriss looking old these days, but hey, Britpop dreams are not revisited lightly.
Quick Question - When will The Killers stop releasing the SAME FUCKING SINGLES over and over again? Surely there must be some kind of Mormon law against it? | | comments: 22 comments or Leave a comment |
| On the essay-front, I am now officially halfway there, which I think means I'm ahead of schedule. In celebration of this, I have decided to take tonight off and indulge in some quality film-watching. Currently gracing my screen is The Missouri Breaks, which I've wanted to see for ages and by some weird and wonderful stroke of luck is on BBC2 this very evening. I'm a bit of a Brando-phile, you see, and the idea of Marlon dressed as a cowboy, sounding like a drunken Leprechaun, galloping across a plain hooting like a madman killing rabbits was just too intriguing. Also, any film with Jack Nicholson in it is pretty much guaranteed to be worth your while. So here I am.
Last night was spent at the student union, where I attempted to drink my woes away, and ultimately only succeeded in creating new ones for myself. Such is the twisted logic of Tequila. Anyway, a rather distressing precedent was continued last night as I once again had another huge row with my best friend. I hate fighting with people, and I espescially loathe fighting with people I love as much as I love her, but for some reason it's all we seem to do recently. Last night it was over a Talking Heads CD. Well, the Talking Heads CD was the catalyst, at any rate. More deep-lying stuff came out. But it was horrible anyway. Anyone who knows me knows that I like a light-hearted argument and I take the piss, but real-life fights I can't deal with. So, naturally, after a rather strange evening, I ended up sleeping underneath her kitchen table. It was by choice, though. I like sleeping in weird places. Baths, floors, cupboards, underneath tables, you name it. So last night was a bit of a wash-out, made doubly bad because it'll be the last time I see my friends Nic and Jess till January, as all of next week is a bit of a write off, Friday night will be spent at 12 Hour Cheesy Pop, Saturday and Sunday are at Franz Ferdinand, and on Monday morning I fly out to New York for two weeks.
Still, at least I won't be in the country for New Year. In Scotland, we like to think that at New Year, the entire world is watching us, as we throw the World's Greatest Party in Edinburgh. They're not. They're watching the ball drop in Times Square. Or marvelling at the pretty fireworks in the Phillipines. Or just generally not giving a toss about Scotland. I fucking hate this country and its small-mindedness. It's the niggly little things. Like, when a celebrity has a distant Scottish relative, or was born here to English parents, they're described as 'Scots'. Why would anyone want to be Scottish? Did Trainspotting teach us nothing? But there are other reasons why New Year is so utterly futile and pointless. Which I won't go into, for reasons best kept to myself. Let's just call them alcohol-related.
In other news: things on the drumming front are looking up. For someone who's teaching himself, I'm doing alright I suppose. I don't really know why I wanted to learn how to play the drums. I think I just got sick of the utter lack of drummers around, thus making it unbelieveably difficult to start a band. Not that I'm even looking to start a band. God knows, but I've decided to learn keyboards next, once I've achieved drum competency. Who said I'd wasted £250 and would never actually bother learning how to play the fucking things?
Finally, I read on my good friend Andrew Kendall's livejournal that Special Needs have been experiencing some difficulties recently. I can't say that I know the band, but I have met Zach once, at Reading this year, and he provided me with much hilarity. Namely, the moment when he met the editor of NME for the first time, shook his hand and said 'I think it's great that NME is being edited by a man with an Irish surname', which, provoked the blankest, most bemused of looks from Conor. All the best to Zach and Special Needs, hopefully things will sort themselves out. | | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment |
| I have two 3000-word English essays due in 10 days. I started the first one tonight. I'm hoping Sparknotes have comprehensive guides to 'The Great Gatsby' and 'My Antonia' or I'm fucked. Proper fucked. Sometimes I think the internet is an evil thing, a breeding ground for depraved perverts, sleazy porn barons and really, really bad bands. Then I remember, hey, depravity isn't all that bad. And porn barons? Well, they're just carrying on traditions left over by ancient, celebrated civilisations. The shit bands one admittedly could do without, but one must take the rough with the smooth. Anyway, so long as there are websites as ingenius as sparknotes.com and netessays.net, I'll always be a staunch supporter of this so-called interweb of ours.
So, with that and various NME tidbits consuming my life at the moment, time has been low to do much else. My sole enjoyment in the last few days has come from the League of Gentlemen DVD's I've recently purchased. I enjoy Little Britain as much as the next person - in fact, I've already bought my tickets for the tour next October - but it really isn't a patch on the League. My friend Chris described it as 'Geek' comedy, but my friend Chris thinks that Sid James is hilarious. It's sick as fuck and I fucking love it. As my friend Jessica would say - indeed, as my friend Jessica DOES say - it's hot as fucking toast. For those of you who may not have seen it, it's slightly difficult to summarize comprehesively. It's set in a town called Royston Vasey that's populated with...well, subnormals. That's about the best I can do. Anyway, it's brought me much joy over the last few days, though I am miffed that they killed off Tubbs and Edward at the start of the third series. Lines and lines and lines and lines!
That is pretty much totes all that has been happening in my life. Oh, and I lost my Streets album. I can no longer communicate verbally with the outside world. I have started growing my toenails and will not leave the house without wearing a lead smock. | | comments: 7 comments or Leave a comment |
| Has there ever been a finer TV series than Blackadder? Yes, it is a bastion of a peculiar kind of middle-class English wit, whose laughs are drawn from history textbooks and words looked up in dictionaries, but by God, no university student could hope for more chuckleworthy bourgeoise humour. Why, occasionally I forsake drinking on a Saturday night to just sit in and watch the entire saga in order. My personal favourite would have to be Goes Fourth, followed by Blackadder II, then III, then the original series. I always thought the character of Blackadder in the final three series was much funnier and less wimpish than in the first series.
Anyway, on to business. Last night was spent not watching Blackadder, but sitting by the phone pining after Franz Ferdinand, who were supposed to be doing a brief-ish phoner with me from New York at 6pm last night. Around half one in the morning their tour manager Glen told me that they were so caught up in a recording session that they couldn't do it, and told me to email all my questions to Alex and he would reply to them all by the time I got up this morning. He didn't, but hey that's ok, we all have to suffer a little in the wait for the new Franz Ferdinand album. Either way, he should hopefully email me back tonight with his answers.
In other news, I've recently procured a drum kit from my friend Adam for £250. I used to play the drums incredibly badly when I was 16, but I gave it up when I got bored. Now, however, I am determined to become semi-competent. It's all part of my current renovation project, whereby I transform my garage into a rehearsal studio, so myself, Richard, Jess and Nic can arse about noisily and maybe make some music, when we're not getting drunk. Other people's music, mind. I can't be arsed with being in a proper band again, it's a fucking mentally draining experience. Perhaps I was in the wrong band - in fact, I definitely WAS in the wrong band - but the tantrums, egos and pretentious guitar solos that were the defining features of my old band are something I could do without.
Other stuff that's been happening - I've found out my ex-girlfriend has a new boyfriend, who, rather fantastically, is in a band who last year tried to convince my mate Richard to play bass for them. He declined, as he was of the opinion that they were the most terrible band he'd ever heard, and sounded like a bad Oasis tribute act.
Finally, my best friend Jess celebrated her 19th birthday yesterday, and I bought her a crap present. Crucially, I didn't do it on purpose. Thank God I kept the receipt. I love Jess, but she's difficult to buy for. My original idea of a vibrator went right out the window when I realised I didn't have the brass balls to go into Ann Summers and ask for one. Scandalous really, that in this century of pan-gendered metrosexualism one still can't bring oneself to go up to the counter and ask for a double-intruder, but such is my prudish nature... | | comments: 17 comments or Leave a comment |
| Since writing Livejournal entries is now officially kewl - according to the NME, anyway - and since I don't have anything else to do, I thought I would write one. Not about anything in particular, you understand.
Stuff I did yesterday - watched 'Good Bye Lenin!', which managed the double whammy of being both funny AND German (who'd have thunk it?). I remember when I thought I was a communist, back when I was 15. I was young and impressionable, and my in-depth study of 19th century British politics had instilled in me a deep hatred of everything even vaguely right-wing. Red Barry, I was christened by my mates. Then I, like, realised that if I was living under a communist regime, every time I wiped my arse I'd be doing it on the party's paper. And that kinda sucked, I thought. So now I vote Lib Dem. Which is pretty much the same as not voting at all, these days.
I also read like a motherfucker, because I am totes slack with uni at the moment and need a kick up the arse. So I went into the library and read pretty much the whole of 'The Picture Of Dorian Gray' and 'Waiting For Lefty' in one sitting. Tonight's literature is 'Vanity Fair' and 'My Antonia'.
I've also rediscovered (and don't laugh here, or at least, don't let me see you laughing) 'Return To The Last Chance Saloon', The Bluetones' second album. I'm utterly convinced it's the most criminally overlooked album ever made. This week, anyway.
Peace out, G-Unit | | comments: 15 comments or Leave a comment |
| 1. "And that thing about Femme Fatale, yeah? She's fit...She's fitter than you anyway. I like her, you know? What are you getting so jealous for? I'm never gonna meet her..."
2. "What was I thinking about? Ah, who cares. I'm masssssssshhhhhhhhhed. Totally fucking...I can't even stand up. This is fucking amazing."
3. "Where's my phone? This is a crock of shit! I lost the fucking thing! Oh, wait a minute, here it is in my pocket..."
4. "I should be standing at the bar waving a ten pound note around, but instead I sit here on the sofa at my girl's house."
5. "And I'm just standing there. I've got nothing. Absolutely nothing."
6. "Don't give me none of that fucking...shit, right? 'Cos you're not exactly fucking...you know what I mean?"
7. "If I want to sit in and drink Super Tennent's in the day - I will. No-one's gonna fucking tell me jack."
8. "I saw this thing on ITV the other week, said that if she plays with her hair she's probably keen. She's playing with her hair well regularly, so I reckon I could well be in."
9. "I'll have to rethink my betting shit, maybe change the parameters a little bit. Instead of betting to win on the football, I'll bet to lose...on cricket."
10. "Right, I'm on a plan. Wish that bouncer would go away. Borrow water off this man, here goes nothing, OK." | | comments: 17 comments or Leave a comment |
| OK, so I haven't updated this for a while because I haven't really been doing an awful lot, and as I lie on my bed watching Tim Burton's original Batman on TCM (Tim Burton = Genius, and The Nightmare Before Christmas is going on right after this is finished), I'm still not doing an awful lot but as I've been reading all day and am too tired to go out (the shame) I feel entitled to take an hour out of my day to update this journal.
Actually, an hour is probably a little ambitious, considering the absolute dearth of stuff I have to talk about. I've discovered a new-found passion for 'studying', as Libertinette calls it, which is probably more to do with the sheer pressing concern of University essay deadlines than any intellectual reawakening I've undergone. By far the best book I've read this year is Thomas Pyncher's 'The Crying Of Lot 49' which is pretty complex and cannot be summed up in short synopsis, but is utterly brilliant anyway and should be read by everyone. I suggested as much to my ex-girlfriend over lunch the other day, but then she reminded me that I've reccomended countless books for people to read that have always turned out to be rubbish, or unintelligible, or both. But I've got a good feeling about this one. It reminds me very much of my favourite book of all time, 'Pale Fire' by Vladimir Nabokov. Which my ex-girlfriend hated, though I maintain that says more about her than it does about me.
In other Barry-related news, my current addictions are as follows - chocolate digestives, smoked salmon, Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas, twirling my hair into knots, tea, and Trisha. Apparently she used to be a crack-whore, though my friend Nicola may be embellishing, or just plain fabricating, the truth on that front. I like how she only puts the scummiest, basest barrel-scrapings of society on her show, and even then, most of them are Scottish. You see, we Scots (or this one, anyway) take the greatest pleasure from laughing at those less fortunate than ourselves, and even greater pleasure still from laughing at other Scottish people less fortunate than ourselves.
Finally, let us take a moment to feel sorry for Eminem, whose new album is absolutely fucking gash. Except for 'Toy Soldiers' and 'Mosh', which are ace. Be thankful for Mike Skinner. | | comments: 37 comments or Leave a comment |
| I'm editing the NME letters page this week. I know I said I wasn't going to write anything for a few weeks, but I need money, like, badly. So if you have anything you'd like to get off your chest, email me - not the NME letters address - at either nicolsonbarry@hotmail.com or barrynicolson@gmail.com.
Also, new additions to my list of music to grow overly obsessive about - as well as 'A Grand Don't Come For Free' and any Johnny Cash album you care to mention - is The Pet Shop Boys' best-of, which I rediscovered a few days ago. Scoff all you want at the sheer homosexualist nature of just about every song on there, but bugger me gently with a ragman's trumpet if it's not a work of ruddy genius. 'You Only Tell Me You Love Me When You're Drunk' is like Pulp's 'A Little Soul' in that it makes me sniffle like a pathetic specimen of humanity. Every time.
Al Pacino = Shouty Greatness. Hoo Ha! | | comments: 39 comments or Leave a comment |
| I am totes no longer talking like Caleb Followill sings. Part of me is quite happy about this, as it is a pain in the bahookey when you have a sore throat, but part of me is also quite dissapointed, as my voice sounded so much cooler than it normally does. There is a cure for this, however. All I need to do is go out with my mate Jessica tonight and have her pull another bloke, thus leaving me to chain smoke all night, thus restoring my husky voice. It's a long, slippery slope...
On the subject of Caleb Followill, I have just discovered that Kings of Leon were *quote* Happy with your peice, but a slightly miffed about the STD part *unquote*, to which I say, "Well, that'll learn you!". Did they really think they could casually joke about Chlamydia while the tape was rolling and I wouldn't put it in the feature? I'm an NME journalist for fuck's sake! I LIVE for chlamydia!
Taking things down a notch, today I had to write an obituary for John Peel "From the point of view of a young 'un". This was most sobering. Not least because I was introduced to the great man by an ex-girlfriend of mine, and writing that obituary made me feel a little nostalgic. Of course, you split up with people for a reason and when you look back in hindsight you do it through rose-tinted glasses, but still. To compensate for all the death, doom and sadness floating around these days, I think I shall go out tonight and get absolutely fucking bladdered. Is anyone with me? I'll be crawling up the steps of the QMU around 11pm if you are.
Toodle Pip. | | comments: 17 comments or Leave a comment |
| This week I have mostly been talking like Caleb Follwill sings. This is because on Thursday, I went out with just my friend and myself to go and get royally pissed at the Student Union, and half an hour after we got there, my friend got a text from a random and went and left me on my own. Having already drank the best part of a litre of Vodka and with £20 in my pocket, I vowed not to go back to her place and sleep on the couch just so I would have to listen to the sound of sex all night, so I bought a packet of cigarettes, pulled up a seat at the bar and chainsmoked myself ill. The endless amounts of alcohol probably didn't help alleviate this situation, and I eventually stumbled home myself, very very very drunk. Ironically, the girl I had been thinking of trying to pull all night - but didn't because she appeared to have omnipresent male company - then came up to me the next night, explaining that the guy she was with on Thursday was her mate. Which meant I could have gone up and spoken to her and not sat at the bar chainsmoking, and concordantly not have become ill. But this story is getting very long. Suffice to say it all worked out in the end.
Other than that, I've forced myself to take a two week break from all NME business, as I am totes failing uni because I'm always too busy writing Shania Twain album reviews to go to lectures. This means that the inimitable Mike Sterry is the NME's number 1 man in Scotchland for the next fortnight, but that's alright because I like Mike. He's funny and he smokes liquorice Rizlas.
I'd also like to alert everyone to the existence of Dead Fly Buchowski, whose live review I am currently writing and will be the last thing I do for a while. The title of this post is also a lyric from their song 'The Way She Goes' which sounds like The White Stripes if they bothered to record songs properly. They're a band from Glasgow who will release their debut single for Beggars Banquet 'Been Down Before' sometime in November and their album, 'The Land Of The Rough' in January. They are completely and utterly brilliant, and sound like a punk rock Black Sabbath fighting with Grand Funk Railroad in hell. Only like, better than I just described there. If my disc drive ever starts working I shall put some tracks up for your consumption.
I have become obsessed with Johnny Cash recently, and two songs in particular. If anyone out there has a copy of 'The Man Comes Around' or 'Hung My Head' they could gmail me -barrynicolson@gmail.com - I would be most appreciative and do anything they asked of me.
Good day
Bx | | comments: 38 comments or Leave a comment |
| | To get to the bit where it lets me validate my email and reply to comments. Pay this no mind. | | comments: 15 comments or Leave a comment |
| Today (in London, at any rate) sees the release of this week's NME, the cover of which is the Kings of Leon feature I ventured over to New York at the start of the month to write. If everyone who reads this journal entry goes out and buys a copy of it (for which I had to endure blood, sweat, tears, tantrums and a LOT of 'Nerve-calming' Tequila drinking) then it'll have sold, like, five extra copies, and will have put me on the road to journalistic glory. It's my first proper cover (ok, I did Franz back in January, but it was half the length and the pressure wasn't nearly as mental) and though a lot of people no longer like Kings of Leon - go to NME.com and listen to the new album if you're one of these people, as it's BRILLIANT - but if you buy it, I'll love you all forever. Plus, if you buy a copy, I'll buy you a drink. Or a packet of peanuts, whichever takes your fancy.
On an unrelated note, now that my brain has started working again after a weekend of smoking and drinking and falling over at Franz Ferdinand, I've calculated that Saturday night was the 13th time I've seen Ze Franz in action, a spooky coincidence which might explain my unfortunate, ahem, state. Still, December 18th and 19th at the SECC! Those gigs are almost a year to the day since I last interviewed Franz, when they were supporting Belle & Sebastian in Liverpool and on the way back to Glasgow got all giddy when they overheard someone recognizing them at a Motorway service station.
Mental note to self: Cease the overt Franz-love on this livejournal. | | comments: 13 comments or Leave a comment |
| | I would just like to say a word of thanks to the gentlemanly Alex Kapranos, a man who - even when all around him is in a state of chaos - is never less than a steadfast pillar of charm and panache. As I stumbled around Glasgow Barrowland with ever-worsening abandon, Alex took the time to take my mate aside and say "Look Richard, I love Barry to bits, but he's fucking wasted. Get him in a taxi and make sure he's alright", which moved my friend Richard to do just that and cap off a weekend on the tiles with a sleep in a bathtub. Franz were utterly amazing, incedentally, and they played 'Love And Destroy' which is just, like, totes the best song to dance to when you're juiced. | | comments: 5 comments or Leave a comment |
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