Is anyone really surprised that somebody finally took it upon themselves to engineer the result of the Christmas number one against X Factor? I doubt it.
For those moronic Luddites out there who live under a rock or draw their entire opinion base from a glossy magazine, a bloke started a FaceBook campaign to get Rage Against The Machine's festive ditty "Killing in the name" to number one, ahead of the perennial dirge-fest that Cowell's bitches barf into the charts.
Personally, I couldn't give a shit. The Mrs was apoplectic with anger at the result; not because she is a Factor fan, but instead that such a non-Yuletide tune made it to number one. She has a point, but as long as Cowell has been having a go at kids who can't sing, the number one spot has ceased to be a meaningful achievement. If he had any real confidence in the 'winner', or he wasn't considering his bank balance, he would release the record at a different time of the year. Of course, he's not in it to discover the next Buble or Rhianna (God help us); he's in it to make shitloads of cash.
That a normal bloke can start a FaceBook page urging people to download a record which gathers enough momentum to actually get to number one is as impressive as it is sad. Like I said, Mr Blobby aside, the Christmas number one was at one time seen as a genuine achievement, but the writing was on the wall when certain Irish 'boy' bands started engineering the release dates of their records to ensure they had a clear run at the top spot.
I've said before that including downloads is a daft idea, unless you only count those of records currently on new release. The ability to download your favourite tracks from yesterdecade is ace, but it's ridiculous that they should count towards a Hit Parade placing, meaning FaceBook stunts like this will be all the rage (geddit?) in the coming years.
At the end of the day, the chart is a dead concept. Yes, it's a sad day for music and genuine music acts when they realise that this once-great gauge of your musical standing is now as much use as Cliff Richard's johnny drawer, but think of it this way: it puts people like Fearne Cotton and Reggie Yates out of a job. Christmas or not, that ain't no bad thing.
Monday, 21 December 2009
Monday, 14 December 2009
Bottom Gear. (It's a play on words)
I like Top Gear - I've never made a secret of that fact. It's easy to watch and entertaining (if slightly over-staged) fare. Three men in their late 30's to late 40's arse about with cars the way we all would if we had the chance. Like it or loathe it, we'd all like to chuck a Bugatti Veyron about or drop a piano on a Morris Marina. And that's a scientific fact.
The problem is, as usual the BBC have realised there's a strong following for one of their products and rather than sit back and allow it just to be a TV programme, they've started milking it for all it's worth, all the while spectacularly debasing the integrity of the show.
I'm talking of course about merchandise.
First off, they're bastardising the image of The Stig. Bear in mind that he's essentially a faceless bloke in a white racing suit and helmet, but there's all manner of tat bearing his featureless visage. Shower gel for fuck's sake; what's that got to do with Top Gear? Unless it's made out of Castrol GTX I can't see the link. There's even a book like 'Where's Wally' which is basically 'Where's the bloody Stig'. Who's gonna buy that? In 2 minutes I found him on the first 3 pages, so I doubt you'll get much mileage out of it once you've farted out your sprouts on Christmas Day.
That's bad enough, but today I actually saw a make-your-own Cool Wall. For those not in the know, that's where Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson have a scrap about whether certain cars are cool or not, usually ending in Clarkson putting it quite high up on the board. You know, because he's taller than Hammond. Anyway, this build-your-own affair appears to consist of a fold-out piece of cardboard, crudely adorned with the TG logo. You've then got a few dozen stickers so you too can pretend you're on the BBC gravy train and show people what you think about the latest Daihatsu. What a sack of shit.
Lest we forget that we've already paid once for the programme to be made. Like I said, I really like the show, but we mustn't forget I've already stumped up my licence fee to make it possible, then they go and release a load of Krusty-esque turd, trying to make a quick buck off the back of its popularity. I'm sorry but that stinks.
Where will it end? Eastender's-branded Prozac? A Miranda joke book (it'd make a change)? Songs of Praise condoms? 'Le mind boggels' as the French might say.
The problem is, as usual the BBC have realised there's a strong following for one of their products and rather than sit back and allow it just to be a TV programme, they've started milking it for all it's worth, all the while spectacularly debasing the integrity of the show.
I'm talking of course about merchandise.
First off, they're bastardising the image of The Stig. Bear in mind that he's essentially a faceless bloke in a white racing suit and helmet, but there's all manner of tat bearing his featureless visage. Shower gel for fuck's sake; what's that got to do with Top Gear? Unless it's made out of Castrol GTX I can't see the link. There's even a book like 'Where's Wally' which is basically 'Where's the bloody Stig'. Who's gonna buy that? In 2 minutes I found him on the first 3 pages, so I doubt you'll get much mileage out of it once you've farted out your sprouts on Christmas Day.
That's bad enough, but today I actually saw a make-your-own Cool Wall. For those not in the know, that's where Richard Hammond and Jeremy Clarkson have a scrap about whether certain cars are cool or not, usually ending in Clarkson putting it quite high up on the board. You know, because he's taller than Hammond. Anyway, this build-your-own affair appears to consist of a fold-out piece of cardboard, crudely adorned with the TG logo. You've then got a few dozen stickers so you too can pretend you're on the BBC gravy train and show people what you think about the latest Daihatsu. What a sack of shit.
Lest we forget that we've already paid once for the programme to be made. Like I said, I really like the show, but we mustn't forget I've already stumped up my licence fee to make it possible, then they go and release a load of Krusty-esque turd, trying to make a quick buck off the back of its popularity. I'm sorry but that stinks.
Where will it end? Eastender's-branded Prozac? A Miranda joke book (it'd make a change)? Songs of Praise condoms? 'Le mind boggels' as the French might say.
Friday, 11 December 2009
'Up' rhymes with 'Up'. And 'Up'
Back in that halcyon summer of 1994 Scatman John (colloquially known as 'The Scatman'), released his seminal hit "I'm the Scatman". Never before in the history of the Internet has a sentence contained so many references to scat without attracting the attentions of the legal system.
I was at school when this stuttering masterpiece hit the airwaves, and despite its nonsensical lyrics, it pissed the Hit Parade and was number one in no time. Kids up and down the country were deemed socially acceptable if they could 'scat' like an American man in his 50's. The fact that the lyrics made no sense had little impact on our enjoyment of the record; we knew it wasn't a serious song and enjoyed it as such. Similarly 'Doop', by the creatively named 'Doop'; a right load of old rhubarb set to a Charleston beat which had schoolkids the length and breadth of this fair isle besotted with the word 'doop' for nearly 3 weeks.
Skip forward to the present day, and a group of chaps looking suspiciously like transsexuals have had a number one with their hit smash "Everybody in love". I'm told the band is called 'JLS' and that they emerged from X-Factor or somesuch, so you already know you're in safe hands musically. I happened upon this 'tune' last night and was staggered to hear the sheer craft in the lyrics. Bernie Taupin must shit himself when he reads the chorus:
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
If you're in love, put your hands up
Fuck me, what's that about? I've shat better lyrics than that. As I stated above, the tunes we listened to growing up weren't all serious pieces of music, but I'm led to believe JLS are some kind of popular group, found sexually attractive by birds and respected within the industry. The fact that they came second to a woman who butchered 'Hallelujah' seems to be lost on today's youngsters, who'll happily part with 79p to download this twaddle from iTunes and listen to it on their Walkmans.
I have no issue with them pursuing their musical dream, but put a bit of effort in, eh? Maybe create rhyming couplets that aren't actually the exact same words repeated. And quite why putting your hands up if you're in love is required is beyond me, unless they're working for some kind of census company and are polling their fanbase (no jokes).
Presumably, most of today's songwriters are drawing inspiration from the music they grew up with, which makes such baffling tripe all the more surprising, given that they were likely to have listened to not only The Scatman, but East 17, Kylie Minogue, Peter Andre, Sinitta and The Outhere Brothers. If you've listened to "Toyboy" or "I should be so lucky" and still can't craft a decent lyric, then quite frankly you're dead inside.
Greetings of the season anyroad.
I was at school when this stuttering masterpiece hit the airwaves, and despite its nonsensical lyrics, it pissed the Hit Parade and was number one in no time. Kids up and down the country were deemed socially acceptable if they could 'scat' like an American man in his 50's. The fact that the lyrics made no sense had little impact on our enjoyment of the record; we knew it wasn't a serious song and enjoyed it as such. Similarly 'Doop', by the creatively named 'Doop'; a right load of old rhubarb set to a Charleston beat which had schoolkids the length and breadth of this fair isle besotted with the word 'doop' for nearly 3 weeks.
Skip forward to the present day, and a group of chaps looking suspiciously like transsexuals have had a number one with their hit smash "Everybody in love". I'm told the band is called 'JLS' and that they emerged from X-Factor or somesuch, so you already know you're in safe hands musically. I happened upon this 'tune' last night and was staggered to hear the sheer craft in the lyrics. Bernie Taupin must shit himself when he reads the chorus:
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
Everybody in love, put your hands up
If you're in love, put your hands up
Fuck me, what's that about? I've shat better lyrics than that. As I stated above, the tunes we listened to growing up weren't all serious pieces of music, but I'm led to believe JLS are some kind of popular group, found sexually attractive by birds and respected within the industry. The fact that they came second to a woman who butchered 'Hallelujah' seems to be lost on today's youngsters, who'll happily part with 79p to download this twaddle from iTunes and listen to it on their Walkmans.
I have no issue with them pursuing their musical dream, but put a bit of effort in, eh? Maybe create rhyming couplets that aren't actually the exact same words repeated. And quite why putting your hands up if you're in love is required is beyond me, unless they're working for some kind of census company and are polling their fanbase (no jokes).
Presumably, most of today's songwriters are drawing inspiration from the music they grew up with, which makes such baffling tripe all the more surprising, given that they were likely to have listened to not only The Scatman, but East 17, Kylie Minogue, Peter Andre, Sinitta and The Outhere Brothers. If you've listened to "Toyboy" or "I should be so lucky" and still can't craft a decent lyric, then quite frankly you're dead inside.
Greetings of the season anyroad.
Thursday, 3 December 2009
I don't want to talk about it...
A few years ago, a very good friend and I were visiting a couple of girls. I was seeing one of them with the other being her friend. Much drink was taken and merriment was had, and that was that.
The following morning I discovered my friend not to be on the sofa as expected. He eventually emerged from the friends' room, much to my amusement. Later that day, as we returned home, I quizzed him on the goings on. He sadly admitted that due to his copious alcoholic intake the previous evening, he couldn't 'rise to the occasion' and left the young wench unsatisfied.
I pissed myself laughing.
When we got home, my housemate asked us casually about the previous evening, and here's where it started to unwind for my aforementioned chum. Instead of saying "Nowt really, had a few jars. You know the drill" he instead said "I don't want to talk about it".
My housemate was understandably curious about the last night's occurrences and set about my mate like Amy Winehouse would a pre-gig rider, asking him all manner of questions to get the obviously juicy information out of him. With almost no help from me, he eventually concluded that The Droop Fairy must have visited, and from that day to this, borderline offensive jokes are still made at his expense for his moment of PR ambiguity.
Compare and contrast with Eldrick 'Tiger Woods' Woods.
Tiger, a world-famous snooker player and razor enthusiast, recently had a car accident outside his home. He was a bit injured and had to drop out of a couple of tournaments, and that was that. Except, instead of telling the press "What am I like? I was putting my seatbelt on and not paying attention to the tree which has been outside my house since I moved in. What a dunce" he instead said that there was nothing to see here, and the press should just leave it. Well played there.
Since this naive and intriguing statement, the press have been all over the story, and in the last 24 hours details of 2 fit-for-a-skank affairs have come to light, with Tiger neither confirming nor denying the events being portrayed in ever media outlet imaginable.
Again, he could've come out and either said "It's a fair cop, guv" or "It weren't me guv", but instead he's released a statement saying he's committed 'transgressions' for which he is sorry. Has the brother not learnt? Unless you explicitly declare or deny such events, you leave yourself open to all manner of conjecture and ridicule, rather than people just saying "The dirty devil. She was proper fit for a Vegas skank though".
David Letterman was recently held to ransom regarding a series of affairs he had had. Rather than being vague, he fronted up on his show and admitted his indiscretions. Yes, he was protecting himself for having to shell out, and he had committed multiple acts of adultery, but on some levels people respected his honesty, and the story pretty much died the day after because there was nothing else to talk about.
So Tiger, if you're reading, take heed. The next time you visit Jugs, think on; Either keep it in your drawers, or aim for the gap between the trees when you drive off in a huff. You daft apoth.
The following morning I discovered my friend not to be on the sofa as expected. He eventually emerged from the friends' room, much to my amusement. Later that day, as we returned home, I quizzed him on the goings on. He sadly admitted that due to his copious alcoholic intake the previous evening, he couldn't 'rise to the occasion' and left the young wench unsatisfied.
I pissed myself laughing.
When we got home, my housemate asked us casually about the previous evening, and here's where it started to unwind for my aforementioned chum. Instead of saying "Nowt really, had a few jars. You know the drill" he instead said "I don't want to talk about it".
My housemate was understandably curious about the last night's occurrences and set about my mate like Amy Winehouse would a pre-gig rider, asking him all manner of questions to get the obviously juicy information out of him. With almost no help from me, he eventually concluded that The Droop Fairy must have visited, and from that day to this, borderline offensive jokes are still made at his expense for his moment of PR ambiguity.
Compare and contrast with Eldrick 'Tiger Woods' Woods.
Tiger, a world-famous snooker player and razor enthusiast, recently had a car accident outside his home. He was a bit injured and had to drop out of a couple of tournaments, and that was that. Except, instead of telling the press "What am I like? I was putting my seatbelt on and not paying attention to the tree which has been outside my house since I moved in. What a dunce" he instead said that there was nothing to see here, and the press should just leave it. Well played there.
Since this naive and intriguing statement, the press have been all over the story, and in the last 24 hours details of 2 fit-for-a-skank affairs have come to light, with Tiger neither confirming nor denying the events being portrayed in ever media outlet imaginable.
Again, he could've come out and either said "It's a fair cop, guv" or "It weren't me guv", but instead he's released a statement saying he's committed 'transgressions' for which he is sorry. Has the brother not learnt? Unless you explicitly declare or deny such events, you leave yourself open to all manner of conjecture and ridicule, rather than people just saying "The dirty devil. She was proper fit for a Vegas skank though".
David Letterman was recently held to ransom regarding a series of affairs he had had. Rather than being vague, he fronted up on his show and admitted his indiscretions. Yes, he was protecting himself for having to shell out, and he had committed multiple acts of adultery, but on some levels people respected his honesty, and the story pretty much died the day after because there was nothing else to talk about.
So Tiger, if you're reading, take heed. The next time you visit Jugs, think on; Either keep it in your drawers, or aim for the gap between the trees when you drive off in a huff. You daft apoth.
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