Saturday, 24 September 2016

Radio Ga Ga

The other day I was listening to a Scissor Sisters album, and heard the lyrics "There ain't no tits on the radio".
It occurred to me that the Scissor Sisters have obviously never heard Chris Evans on Radio 2, because if they had they'd know that there most certainly are tits on the radio.
Not that Chris is alone.
Turn on the radio at any time (especially the local stations pandering to a younger audience) and there's a good chance you'll be aurally assaulted by some overenthusiastic idiot who thinks the way to keep people listening is to shout a lot and talk bollocks between records that all sound the same.
I used to think BBC Radio 1 was the one station that adolecents with no taste could have to themselves, but the rot is rapidly spreading and I can't help but wonder if the days are numbered for radio as a form of entertainment. Mind you, they've been saying that since TV was invented.

I do still listen to the radio, but only in the car. Radio 4 on the way to work for a bit of news and current affairs, and Radio 2 on the way home because Steve Wright's show seems to have just the right blend of decent music, interesting guests and friendly banter.
But I never listen to it at home, and I suppose it's mostly because I don't bother to look to see if there's anything on worth listening to. It's a shame really because I could be missing out.
I sometimes hear a trailer for a programme that's on later in the week - Craig Charles does some really good shows but I always seem to forget when they're on.
I remember as a kid I'd go to bed at night and listen to whatever comedy show was on Radio 2 - something like 'The Grumbleweeds', or 'Hinge & Bracket' or whatever, but I don't even know if such programmes even exist any more.

I think there may be a number of reasons I lost interest in radio, such as the inexhaustible supply of inane shite that spills from the mouths of so many DJs, the severely limited playlists which mean you quickly begin to hate songs because you've heard them so many damn times, and if it's not a BBC station then you get bombarded with incredibly annoying adverts that seem to have been devised by someone with the IQ of a suspiciously crispy Kleenex.
You can try flipping around the stations but if you do, you'll just end up getting angry at all the crap on offer and just turn it off. Much like television really.
The popularity of streaming services like Spotify is no surprise when you consider the alternatives, but for my part although I'm happy to dance around the kitchen while making dinner with the ipod and bluetooth speaker on the go, or if I have the place to myself I'll slip a favourite CD into the hifi and indulge myself for a while, but most of the time I prefer to enjoy whatever quietness I can find.

A tit on the radio

Sunday, 18 September 2016

Easy as f**k

There are many words that have become overused, often in the wrong context, such as 'like' which is commonly used by the hard of thinking as a sort of filler in place of 'um or 'er' while they try to remember which word they intended to say next.
Another victim of this kind of misuse is the word 'literally' which has been noticeably on the rise over the past couple of years.

One word that has been in common usage for countless years is of course 'fuck'.
Perhaps its popularity is down to its versatility. It can be used to express so many things including frustration (Oh for fuck's sake), confusion (What the fuck?), defeat (Fuck it), hopelessness (I'm fucked), and many many more. Just Google uses of the word fuck and you'll find plenty of sites with lists of examples, but I suspect most readers will have an extensive repetoire of their own.

More recently however, it has come to my attention that there is a whole new use for fuck, and that is as a unit of measurement.
Now, while standard measurement units are related to a specific property like velocity (metres per second or kilometres per hour) or energy (calories, joules), fuck appears to be capable of being used as a measurement of anything at all.
Examples include speed (fast as fuck), temperature (hot as fuck), intelligence (dumb as fuck), and fighting ability (hard as fuck).
This makes fuck pretty much a universal unit, although its actual value is clearly very flexible as it only seems to occur in single units, with one exception. It appears that when used as a unit of caring, its default value is nil, as in 'zero fucks given'.

The opportunities this all provides for confusion are countless, so I suspect that for the purposes of more important things like designing aeroplanes and nuclear reactors, more traditional units of measurement may need to be adhered to.
On a day-to-day basis however, it's good news because it allows us to get out of having to be specific about anything ever again, while giving zero fucks about it.

Monday, 5 September 2016

Time for sausage

Just got back from the cinema having been to watch 'Sausage Party' at Vue in Cambridge.
Met up with the boy in the Grafton Centre, bought the tickets, and enjoyed the guilty pleasure of a bacon double cheese XL meal from Burger King until it was time to go in.
The big surprise was the seats - enormous leather electric recliners - a far cry from the usual bum-numbing flip-up rubbish in the Cineworld we usually go to in Huntingdon.

Sausage Party is definitely not for those of delicate sensibilities. It's crass, vulgar, stupid and in-your-face outrageous, not to mention being full to bursting with peurile sexual innuendos.
I enjoyed it.
I enjoyed it even though the cast includes Seth Rogen who I find so obnoxious I firmly believe there's a whole new circle of hell waiting for him, and if I'm unfortunate enough to see him in a film a disturbing homicidal urge begins to rise within me.
Luckily Sausage Party is just an animated film so I didn't have to look at him.

The story (such as it is) is pretty pathetic, and some of the jokes are a bit close to the mark for comfort even for me, but provided you enjoyed things like 'South Park', 'Paul', and perhaps the 1975 film 'Jungle Burger', it's worth a look.
However, if you're part of any sort of minority and a bit thin-skinned about it, or if you're a bit of a prude, or object to a movie that possibly contains more fucks than any other, then it's probably best avoided.


Sunday, 4 September 2016

Clubbed to death

Yesterday, the most exciting thing I did was to bake a fruit cake (Mary Berry's pound cake recipe with a couple of alterations to use up the glace cherries and chopped dates that had been hanging around the cupboad for an eternity), and I have to say it turned out fantastic.
The boy, on the other hand, had more adventurous plans.
As it was a friend's 18th birthday the other day, he and a bunch of others were going off clubbing in Cambridge last night. It wasn't the boy's first clubbing experience, and as it went well previously (rolling in at 4:30am) we weren't particularly worried.

Unfortunately things ended up going a wee bit Pete Tong, and having been left on his own apart from his friend's extremely inebriated sister after everyone else in the group had buggered off without warning, he ended up with a fifty quid cab fare to get them both home to their respective villages.
Sometimes he surprises us with his ability to deal with awkward situations, especially as he so often appears to have all the common sense of a used teabag, but when all around him is turning to shit he seems to be the one that keeps it all together, looking after those who are beyond looking after themselves.
Despite all this he's still enthused with the whole nightclub thing, and in this respect he's very different to me.

On a few occasions over a couple of years between the ages of around 18 to 20, I did try my hand at clubbing, but it really wasn't for me.
There were a couple of nights out with guys from work, which basically involved a couple of pints and a curry before heading off to Ronelle's nightclub above Lion Yard in Cambridge.
Once in the club it was impossible to communicate with anyone unless you were literally shouting right in their ear, the drinks were too expensive, and for someone as hopeless with the opposite sex as I was, even a meat market like a nightclub was impossible to pull in.

I also went to a couple of clubs in Sunderland while visiting with friends.
I admit one of them wasn't too bad, because the music was pretty good and it was at a volume that at least allowed you to talk to someone without making their ears bleed.
I got dancing with a rather attractive girl who seemed quite friendly until my half-drunk brain got the better of me and made an inadvisably blunt suggestion to her.
Surprisingly this did not result in me waking up in the local accident and emergency department - instead she said "Maybe later" before sidling off to dance with a bloke who apparently did not have sexual tourette's.

The last club I went to was in Newmarket with a girl I'd just started dating. I really thought I'd struck gold there - she was really hot and unbelievably she seemed into me, but as soon as it started to feel like things were going to move on to the next level she went cold and it abruptly ended leaving me confused. In hindsight it wouldn't have gone far anyway - when I heard her say to someone that whenever a guy bought her jewelery she'd look it up in the Argos catalogue to see how much he'd spent, I knew it wasn't a good omen. The last thing I wanted was a gold-digger, no matter how gorgeous she was.
I remember it being Easter and I'd bought the most enormous Easter egg for her. I put it in my bag, strapped it on to the back of my Yamaha TZR250 and shot off to take it to her. Halfway there a worrying sound came from the back of the bike and I pulled over. The bag had slipped sideways and been dragged into the back wheel.
The expensive Easter egg was now in kit form and in no fit state to give as a gift; a fitting metaphor for how the relationship would turn out just a couple of weeks later.
I gave her a box of chocolates instead, and ate the disassembled chocolate egg myself. Waste not want not. Anyway, I digress.....

I did give nightclubs a shot - desperately wanting to be an outgoing person, desperate to be part of a group and most of all, desperate to get laid.
But no matter what, I just couldn't do it. I hated the music being too loud to be able to talk to people, I didn't like being ripped off for watered-down drinks, my dancing was so embarrassing that no girl in their right mind would come near me, and even if they did I'd only have messed it up by either not knowing what to say or by saying something stupid. Such is the folly of youth.
Nightclubs are definitely not my thing, but if the boy gets enjoyment from getting just the right side of paralytic and babysitting his mates while having his head stoved in by 1.21 gigawatts of amplifiers, then that's up to him.

"Sorry love, my bike ate your present"