61. I cannot do anything handy or crafty.
Airfix kits? Corn dollies? Macrame plant pot holders? Dresses out of feedbags? Nope, none of those. With me, it more or less begins and ends with Lego.

62. I am a good kisser.
The trouble with being a good kisser: it can sometimes set expectations rather too high for comfort. One doesn’t like one’s hors d’oeuvres to be the highlight of the meal. Still, know thy strengths and all that.

63. When I was child, I wanted to be an artist and an astronomer.
And a circus clown. And an architect. And a pop star, of course. And, somewhat bizarrely given my particular skill-set, an engineer.

64. I do not think blondes have more fun.
I was blonde myself for a few months in 1983-84. It was my Kirk Brandon look. Fun levels neither increased nor decreased. Funny looks definitely increased, though.

65. I want to be more organized.
The study’s a tip. The CDs need re-filing. The paper mountain in the kitchen is getting ridiculous. Hoo-wee, my crazy madcap life!

66. I don't wear make-up.
Apart from the occasional touch of Kohl round the eyes in the early 80s, but then we all did that, eh lads? Lads?

My first boyfriend used to pile on the slap, though – not for any particular effect, but just because he thought he had blotchy skin. However, it was only blotchy because he piled so much slap on top of it, and didn’t look after it properly. Caught in a vicious cosmetic circle, so he was.

Once, before a Saturday night out dancing at Part Two, he talked me into having the full decorative treatment: eyes, lips, the lot. He spent a good hour working on me, using - to quote his initial vision statement - "all the colours of the rainbow, but subtle."

I still ended up looking like a barmaid. I’ve got a photo somewhere. Jee-zus, will you look the state of it.

Never again. Ditched him not long after. Couldn’t be doing with it.

67. Indie bands and soulful female singers are played frequently.
I think you might just have gathered this by now. The Coral and Angie Stone, if you want contemporary. Aretha (who else?) and The Smiths (who else?), if you want classic.

68. I like computers.
Okay, struggling a bit with this one. Important distinction though: I like using them, not knowing loads of boring technical stuff about them. The destination, not the journey. The meal, not the recipe. The message, not the medium. The...okay, you get the point now.

69. Chocolate yes. Candy no. Fresh bread excellent. Pumpernickel not.
…and I particularly like what Dave has to say about bread.

70. Given a choice, I'll gladly take the boy in the nice button-down shirt, jeans and loafers over the muscle-bound kid virtually poured into his tank top.
Don't get me wrong here: obviously tarty looking men can definitely do it for me. Hey, I like cheap. You know where you are with cheap.

What I don’t like is that antiseptic, sanitised, everything-just-so look. The look that aims for some abstract ideal of “perfection”. There’s nothing sexy about perfection – it’s the flaws which help to make us beautiful and desirable.

On the other hand: if the muscle-bound dude’s tank top looks like it has been through the wash about 50 times, and if it’s a bit loose, and sagging or drooping in the wrong places - then yes, maybe. But I’m probably still looking in the other direction, silently willing another button open on that nice button-down shirt, like the sad old perv that I am slowly becoming.

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Going to try and keep this to basic facts. Will probably fail. You know how I ramble on…

The Chemistry Experiment. Local band. Many loyal and vocal supporters in audience, including some old friends who I haven’t seen in years (always nice to have a few people around who are even drunker than you are). Bass player looks awfully familiar – does he work in Selectadisc, perhaps? Singer sounds almost exactly like early Lloyd Cole; this is a good thing. Rest of the band sound like The Delgados, with maybe a smidge of Belle & Sebastian. Probably very poor comparisons, but then I’m not as clued up on my jingly-jangly shambling indie sub-genres as I used to be. They also have a full-time flautist, which is fabulous thing to have, and doesn’t make them sound like Jethro Tull at all. Endearingly crap at not quite knowing which song to play next.

Tompaulin. Yes, it is supposed to be all one word. Yes, they have named themselves after that cantankerous Irish poet fella on Newsnight Review…rock and roll, eh? Three dudes, two chicks. Both chicks, I have to say, are stunningly attractive; classic beauties who radiate an unmediated sexiness. The singer looks a bit like Kate-out-of-Big-Brother, only with better teeth. I could still turn, you know. I could! Competent, assured, powerful performance with copious – yet judicious – levels of feedback. I think – and it’s just a hunch, mind – that they might have listened to a few Velvet Underground records in their time.

Butterflies Of Love. Headliners. From Connecticut. As they always choose Nottingham bands to support them on UK tours, they are always received with particular affection and enthusiasm by Nottingham audiences. Barring one single, this is the first time I’ve heard them. Very impressed. Tuneful, with just a slight touch of alt-country twang about them. Great control of dynamics. Strong songs, if a little too short sometimes. Lovely relaxed good-natured stage presence – they are so obviously enjoying themselves, and it’s infectious.

Bass player looks like Ryan Adams gone slightly more to seed. Keyboard player looks like Brenda’s bonkers brother on Six Feet Under - alarmingly so. Drummer has a nasty scraggy beard that badly needs trimming round the throat. Guitarist’s hairdo is the first example I have ever seen of a Radical Combover. An extraordinary confection, particularly the tufty sticky-up bits round the back, which complete the whole look. In his white business shirt and loosened tie, he looks like a local government accounts clerk gone slightly mad. Lead singer looks quite normal in comparison to the rest of the band, who collectively encapsulate a kind of Death Row chic. Scary image is entirely at odds with the cheerful personalities and the structured, accessible music. I react by leaping up and down and side to side, safely at the back of The Social where there’s plenty of space, really terribly terribly drunk by now, having a ball. Yes, it’s yet another great gig.

Next up: Beth Orton/Ed Harcourt, in a couple of weeks.

Chig's day-by-day countdown of his readers' favourite 50 UK number one singles of all time has now started, with a truly magnificent entry at, er, Number 51 (there was a last minute statistical upset). Keep checking back every day, as Chig counts down to the #1 single - which will be announced on the 50th anniversary of the first ever singles chart in 1952.

51. I acknowledge that horoscopes aren't accurate predictors of anything.
Well before Dave Gorman, I also conducted a little astrological experiment of my own, details of which can be found here.

52. I always wanted a surprise birthday party.
The reason why this could never happen: like me, K is completely incapable of keeping secrets. (A frequently heard wail of mine: “Why can’t we lie to each other, like normal couples do?”)

He did try once, bless him. It was doomed to failure, though. As I recall, the conversation went something like this.

“So, what do you think I should do for my birthday this year?”
“Oh, I knew you’d work it out! You’re too bloody sharp, that’s your trouble!”
“Huh? What are you going on about?”
“Very well, then. If you must drag it out of me. Yes, that’s right, I was trying to arrange a surprise party for you, with all our friends turning up, and now it’s ruined!”

53. I have used a Ouija board.
There was something on Nationwide about it, when I was about eight years old. The thrust of the piece was to warn people away from the dangers of dabbling in the supernatural – but of course, it only got my curiosity up. So I made my own, with a piece of cardboard and a sink plug. It worked. Oo-er.

Not terribly well, mind. For instance, I can remember the board telling me that I would be Prime Minister one day. Ghosts, eh? They don’t know shit.

54. Before this one, my longest relationship lasted 5 months (the next longest was 2 months).
Now, that is spooky. The five month relationship ended not long before I met K. It was a light-hearted, going-out-on-dates, going-dancing-at-weekends type of affair. In fact, as we would cheerfully admit to each other, we had nothing in common besides both being students and both having a soft spot for Hazell Dean. And I wasn’t even that keen on Hazell Dean. He ended up shocking us all by getting married, to a much older woman (his stepchildren were older than he was). I think that, for both of us, our relationship was just a comfortable way of passing the time.

We were serious enough to have an Official Break-Up Tune, though – it was Number One when we split. I can’t quite bring myself to mention it here though, so you’ll just have to follow the link.

As for the two month relationship: he was a New Yorker, an air steward who was living in Berlin when we met. I was in the Anderes Ufer bar with my friends, when he walked in with his friends. Our two groups fell into conversation; there was a tangible charge of attraction between the two of us, but nothing was acted upon.

A week or so later, I was sunbathing at Halensee (a naturist area down at the end of the Ku-Damm, heaving with homos), when I noticed one of his friends lying there, a few feet away.

“Sorry, didn’t recognise you with your clothes off. Where’s your American friend?”
“Gone shopping for shoes. He’ll be sorry he missed you, though. Very sorry. He liked you.”
“Really? Well, I liked him, too. Here – give him my number.”
“OK, will do. Hey, you never know…”
“You never know…”

When handing over my number to the air steward, this guy played a naughty trick.

“You know that I met Mike up at Halensee, right? Well, there’s something that you perhaps ought to know about him, before you take things any further. He’s only got one leg.”

Anyway, we met, and went out for two months before realising that we made better mates than lovers. After I left Berlin, I didn’t see him again for the best part of two years. Until this happened.

55. I've kissed over 10 X the number of men who I've considered myself truly in love with.
The maths wasn’t particularly complicated for this one, I have to say.

56. In public places I enjoy watching others. It's funny just to see how people act/behave.
Sometimes in these situations, I feel like the central character in a Thomas Mann novel: observing the little human dramas around me with a detached, analytical eye.

57. I want to visit New Zealand and China.
Amongst other places; Cape Town for Christmas being our latest idea. As the Yangtze gorge is being flooded next year, time is running out for the China trip. As for New Zealand, this might have to wait a few more years, until we have a longer period of time at our disposal. There’s no rush.

58. My facial expressions are often more revealing than I would like.
I’m always giving myself away, with occasionally embarrassing consequences. At such times, a little more emotional obtuseness wouldn’t go amiss.

59. My parents have never had "the sex talk" with me.
I picked all my knowledge up from heterosexual pr0nography (which terrified me), and from dirty jokes in the playground (sidling up to trusted friends afterwards: What did that mean, exactly?) My comparative sexual ignorance was legendary amongst my classmates, and a source of much joshing.

For a long time, I had one particular stumbling block. How exactly did the man’s sperm get into the lady? It had to be via the rudest part of the lady’s body, I reasoned – which meant the nipple, obviously. “Down there” was simply the place where there was no willy, so it couldn’t be there. No, it must be willy-to-nipple. After all, I knew that milk could come out, so it only stood to reason that something else could go in.

It must be an uncomfortable business, though – balancing a willy on a nipple. Wouldn’t the willy keep falling off? Also, the lady’s head would have to be buried right down inside the bed, which couldn’t be very nice. Perhaps someone needed to invent some sort of double-ended funnelling device, in clear plastic, which could then fit round the man’s willy and the lady’s bosom. Yes, that would help.

If they had ever dared to broach the subject with me at the time, my poor parents would have had one hell of a lot of explaining to do.

Too much information, you say? Oh, come on. It's funny.

60. I never saw the Grateful Dead live.
Like Frank Zappa, “The Dead” have always rather passed me by on the other side. Have I missed anything?

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The results are in, and yes - the winner is someone I had never heard of before. Congratulations to, erm, Scary Duck.

Particularly good to see Green Fairy get a "highly commended" - a blog which I only stumbled across for the first time few days ago. Congratulations also to Fraser (Blogjam) and Darren (LinkMachineGo) - both regular reads round these parts, and both runners-up. Then, looking further down the list - why, there's Gina! And Sarah! And Peter! (d'you know; I had this hunch about Sarah all along...)

No mention of Troubled Diva, mind. Off the map entirely. Which - bearing in mind some of the heavy personal stuff on this site - does, in all honesty, come as something of a relief (I would have de-linked 40 in 40, for starters). I only entered the contest after putting it to the vote in a moment of particular daftness, and there have been times since then when I wished that I hadn't. Cult status suits me much better, don't you think?

Still, it's always nice to have someone to blame, so....let's see now...I know...I blame Vaughan! For jinxing me last night with his prediction! Yes, it's definitely all Vaughan's fault.

Besides which, at the end of the day, I still have the love of you, my dear, dear readers. And that is worth so very, very much more to me than some mere....bauble.

Is 9:30 too early to hit the gin bottle, do you think?

(wanders off mumbling to self...a DUCK!...a bloody DUCK, I ask you!)

Of course, it's terribly tempting to post something completely offensive and obscene and vile and insurrectionary and abusive and, ooh, just totally beyond the pale right now, just before I go to bed. Something which they could never, ever condone, let alone hold up as a beacon of "best" anything. Because, well, you never know, do you? And it would be quite amusing to wake up to, if...

No - ha! ha! - of course I would never do a thing like that. Safe, dependable and responsible, that's me. Which is why they should give that thousand quid to me, of course. Me, I tell you! Me!

Anyway, I bet the winner has already been e-mailed, and is composing their acceptance speech right now.

Best of luck to everyone who entered. Isn't this exciting?

(And if they put the whole thing back another week, I might very well expire from the sheer strain of it all.)

(P.S. One final thought - isn't Tom's re-design just une touche Kottke-esque?)

Bloody hell! The RSS/XML feed appears to be working at last! God is in his heaven, and all is right with the world!

Oh yeah...it's RSS 0.91, if anyone out there really does care about this sort of thing. And yes, I have loaded up that all-important little orange button - you'll find it at the bottom of my sidebar.

It turns out that this site has been looking a bit wonky under Netscape and Mozilla for the past few days. As a habitual IE user, I hadn't realised this till today. I've now discovered why, and have made the necessary correction.

For those who care: in one of last week's postings, I had linked loads and loads of words together with hyphens instead of spaces. Unfortunately, Netscape and Mozilla didn't put in any line breaks; instead, they expanded my left hand column until it was big enough to hold the entire hyphenated string. IE and Opera coped; Mozilla and Netscape didn't. I'm saying nothing further!

41. If you don't answer my question, I will constantly ask.
…in a horribly repetitive, whiney, why-won’t-you-tell-me kind of way. So annoying, that people usually cave in and give me an answer, just to shut me up. Paxman and Humphries could take a few tips from this technique, I reckon.

42. I wish it was summer.
Hmm. This was certainly true when I originally drew up the list, but I’m rather more reconciled to the autumn now – and looking forward to October, always my favourite month of the year. However, summer always feels like the shortest of the seasons, and I never feel that we quite get enough of it. All those nice summer clothes that barely get worn, for instance; it seems like such a waste.

43. I wish I could sing well.
A topic recently covered in greater detail here.

44. On the evening of our tenth anniversary, my partner and I ate a meal which was personally cooked by Marco Pierre White.
(List #44 on The Yankee Blogger’s “100 things” directory is actually my own, so here’s my #44 from that list.)

On April 20 1995, K and I ate a truly sublime meal at “The Restaurant Marco Pierre White”, situated inside the Hyde Park Hotel in Knightsbridge. (I was about to say “sublime, unforgettable” meal - but that would have been a big fat lie, as I can no longer remember what we ordered for our first course.)

For our main course, we both ordered a dish of caramelised calves liver; a special of the day, which, so we were informed, “Marco will be cooking himself tonight.” It was pure perfection; so much so, that when the highly formal and correct French waiter brought our dishes to the table, he couldn’t restrain himself from exclaiming: “Look at ‘zat! Ah, just look at ‘zat! ‘Ow I weesh I was eating it wiz you!”

I have never eaten in a place which was so chronically over-staffed, and tightly choreographed down to the last detail. There were strict hierarchies: for instance, the immaculately groomed head waiters never stooped to anything so base as actually touching the food. There were whole armies of underlings to do that. It also seemed that the younger and frailer you were, the more arduous were your physical tasks. At one point, a series of colossal meat dishes were brought out, in covered metal platters, by a team of pale and spindly bantam-weight teenagers, who then had to assemble in a line before passing them up the chain. Some of them barely looked capable of sustaining the weight; you could almost see their legs wobbling with the strain.

K and I got slowly, and very graciously, pickled on the wine list. At one point, a glowing, beaming K leant over and slurred to me, in a sentence which has since passed into our private folklore: “You know, I think I’m forming quite a rapport with the sommelier.“

We also started trying to play a game of trying to reach the door of the toilet without being intercepted. This was impossible to achieve; no matter how carefully each of us timed our exit from the dining table, a member of staff would always, always emerge from seemingly nowhere and quickly strut ahead of us to open the door (“Let me get that for you, sir.”) We couldn’t work out how they did it. It was almost supernatural. We started speculating as to whether they were paging each other: Alert! Poof in suit getting up for piss!

The only negative aspect of our evening: our fellow diners. Wankers, the lot of ‘em. When the bill arrived at one table of four, one particularly bumptious oaf grabbed it, held it aloft, and started braying to his companions: “Guess how much! Go on, guess! No, higher! FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS!”

On another table, a couple of work colleagues were clearly having an affair. Towards the end of the meal, the man started assertively laying into the woman.
“Of course, your career would be nothing without me. You do know that, don’t you?”
(Visibly shaken) “No, I don’t. What do you mean?”
“Well, who do you think got you that promotion in the first place?”
(Looking at the table) “I didn’t know...”
(Scornfully) "God, you didn't think you'd done it all by yourself, did you?"
(Quietly) "No, I suppose not."

For dessert, I had a bitter chocolate soufflé, which was slit open at the table so that hot chocolate sauce could be poured inside it. I can see it in front of me now.

45. I get extremely sarcastic when I'm angry.
The ice within the fire, or something. It’s one of my killer rhetorical devices - or so I like to think when I'm doing it.

46. I don't know how many people I’ve slept with.
I used to maintain a list, because I didn’t like the idea of forgetting any of them - especially not their names. But that was some years ago now.

47. I like loungy electronica.
Haven’t you bought that Gotan Project album yet? You really should, you know. Almost a year after its release, the word still seems to be slowly spreading; there’s an article about them in today’s Guardian, for instance. The next Royksopp-style mainstream crossover, maybe?

48. I've never been arrested.
I once had a copper shout at me for stepping out into moving traffic, though. It was all very humiliating.

49. My favourite place to travel to is London.
1 hour 45 on the train, get a couple of magazines, bung the headphones on, bang, you’re there. Looking forward to the end of next month, when I should be down again for a party. RVT on the Sunday, maybe? Ooh, could be.

50. I think my nose is too big.
A family trait, on my father’s side. My grandmother used to take rather too much delight in telling the following story, which she found hysterically funny. I shall relate it without further comment. You may draw your own conclusions.

One evening in 1940, my grandmother walked into my father’s bedroom – he was 7 at the time – to find him sitting on his bed, the contents of his piggy bank spread around him, in floods of tears. On asking him what the matter was, she got the following reply.

“Well, with all this money, and this nose, people will think I’m a Jew…”

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Labels: 100things, myself

Here's a complete list of all 49 MP3s which have ended up in my curious old box over the past six months. And now it's customer feedback time...because I'm curious to know.

Of the MP3s that you have downloaded, which were your favourites?
Also, are there any that you missed at the time, and would like a chance to hear again?

Item #50 will be the MP3 which gets the most individual mentions in the comments box.
You decide.

31. I rarely get to see my best friends, or so it seems.
Oh God. Now there’s a “live issue”, if ever there was one. Fuelled by drink the other weekend, an old friend of ours (it’s OK, he doesn’t read this, and you’d never guess who he was anyway) launched into an extended diatribe, all about how K and I have this habit of drawing people in, spending loads of time with them, making them feel special - and then dropping them for the next lot of new people. He then went on to illustrate his point by listing conversations he has had with a sizeable proportion of our oldest friends, all of whom have complained about feeling ignored/abandoned by us.

Okay, so he was drunk and exaggerating (and was fairly remorseful about it the next day), but his words hit home. We are currently at a crisis point in our friendship with a couple of other old friends (it’s OK, they have never read this, and you still won’t guess), who have stopped returning our calls because they feel so badly ignored.

It’s like this, basically. Once upon a time, K and I enjoyed a certain dubious status as "social lynchpins" in Nottingham. We had an unfeasibly vast circle of friends, most of whom knew each other, and were forever entertaining them at home, or getting pissed with them in city centre pubs and clubs. However, our priorities changed. In particular, K found it quite impossible to sustain such a high level of social activity any longer. It stressed him out. Particularly since his business was now taking off, and his life had become a lot more centred round his work (in a good way – his work is both socially useful, and integral to his identity).

So, we calmed down. We started spending more time with each other, rather than with other people. We got a weekend cottage, miles away from the people we know, and started spending all our weekends there. Nowadays, we only spend four nights a week in the city, which doesn’t leave much chance for maintaining all of our previous friendships. We try and keep up, but have learnt not to let our social lives be motivated by guilt. We simply go with the flow. Now, as before, people ring us more than we ring them, and we are always happy to go along with spontaneous suggestions. In fact, we favour spontaneity over diaries which are booked up weeks in advance (another source of stress).

The friends we have are still important, still valued, still loved. Hopefully, they know who they are. What has changed is the amount of time we have at our disposal to share common experiences with them. What hasn’t changed is the enjoyment we still derive in getting to know new people. I can see how this makes us look fickle. However, those who know us best should also be aware that we are capable of immense, almost unshakeable loyalty.

If we haven’t seen you in a while: hope to see you soon. Give us a ring. Drop us a line. Invite yourselves over for a Saturday night. We’re always pleased when you get in touch.

32. I believe in true love.
Not the idealised hearts-and-flowers romantic kind. I’m talking about true love. The stuff that’s based on trust, honesty and respect. The stuff that doesn’t have to struggle to fit into pre-conceived notions of what true love is. The slow-burning embers of long-term companionship, rather than the quickly consumed fires of delirious passion. Love that is freely given and freely received, in equal measure, so that it becomes entirely instinctive – second nature. Love that isn’t forever analysing itself and self-consciously declaring itself. Oh yes, I believe in all of that, to the bottom of my soul.

33. I can pee standing up.
Can you tell that I had particular difficulty finding anything at all in common with this particular blogger? Well, vive la difference and all that.

34. I hate marketing, now more than ever.
Oh dear, and two of my best friends have worked, or are working, in marketing. I don’t want to offend them, so I’d better quickly qualify.

What I really hate is the effect that such ruthlessly efficient marketing is currently having on society and culture – neatly compartmentalising us into easily processed demographic groups. It takes all the fun away – the fun of unexpected choices and discoveries. It homogenises culture, essentially. Quick, move on!

35. I've always wondered what it would be like to be famous.
The only change over the years: once, I would dwell on all the ways in which fame would be fabulous. Now, I am more likely to dwell on the artificiality, fragility and arbitrariness of fame, and the absurd pressures that it must bring in its wake.

36. I'm a happy drunk.
I don’t get maudlin, or aggressive, or sleepy, or incoherent, or overtly annoying. I can still string sentences together, make reasonably intelligent (even profound!) conversation, and keep people entertained and looked after. It’s one of my better life skills.

37. Orchestral violins bore me.
Isn’t that a terrible admission? But horribly true, I am ashamed to say. I can never mine much emotion from massed ranks of violins. Give me guitars and brass, every time.

38. Long hair is a turn-off.
Mainly because short hair is such a turn-on. Especially back of necks. Yum.

39. I don't like telephones. Unless I know the person I'm phoning, and also whoever is likely to pick up the phone, very well, I can put off phoning people for days, months or years, depending on the actual urgency of the call.
This probably relates all too closely to #31 above. More often than not (and sure, there are plenty of exceptions), I am uncomfortable talking on the phone for any extended period of time. Thank God for e-mail, which I have adored right from the off.

40. Pepsi is better than Coke.
Because it has that nice lemony tang to it. Coke goes off before you get to the end of the can – there’s never much pleasure in those last couple of mouthfuls.

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Labels: 100things, myself

Via Green Fairy (one of my newer reads)...the contents of the satirical site Think Of The Children have been removed by the web host, following complaints that that it was 'inciting others to engage in mob violence'.

The stinging irony of the situation is that the whole purpose of Think Of The Children was to satirise the recent rise of ugly vigilantism.

Unbelievable. Just...unbelievable.

You can read more about this on what remains of the site.

Today is your last chance to vote for your favourite UK number one singles of the past 50 years. The final top 50 will then be published on World Of Chig, one song at a time, starting on Thursday and ending on the date of the 50 year anniversary of the first UK singles chart.

Here's a quick recap of the rules:

1) Take a look at this spreadsheet, which lists every UK Number One for the past 50 years.

2) Select your all time Top 10 personal favourites, in order.

3) E-mail your list to Chig at chig@cmdh.freeserve.co.uk

Optional extras:

1) Include some brief comments: why you like each song, any memories associated with it etc.
2) Select your WORST ever Number One.
3) Supply your date of birth.

Finally: there's a prize as well! I quote: There will be a small prize of the album of your choice (up to ten pounds) from www.cd-wow.com for the 'best' entry (whatever best is, as judged by me).

You have until midnight UK time. Go to it, pop-pickers.

This week: Troubled Diva Salutes The Magic Of The Big Band Sound.
All three of these tunes feature full swing orchestras, blaring away in full effect. They work particularly well together as a sequence, so I do urge you to download the lot.

Item 47. Sparks - Looks Looks Looks (1975)

Taken from the excellent Indiscreet album, this was a minor hit in October 1975, when it reached #26. Sparks didn't have another hit until April 1979, when the Giorgio Moroder production of Number One Song In Heaven revitalised their career. Looks Looks Looks sounds like nothing else the Mael brothers have recorded before or since, and I have always loved it dearly.

The (faintly bonkers) lyrics can be found right here. A face can launch a thousand hips...ouch.

Item 48. Pet Shop Boys - Can You Forgive Her? (Swing Version) (1994)

She's made you some kind of laughing stock, because you dance to disco, and you don't like rock. Now that's more like it.

Tucked away on CD1 of the Yesterday, When I Was Mad single, this is a sparkling re-recording of the hit single from 1993. For some unknown reason, this was omitted from the subsequent collection of Pet Shop Boys B-sides (Alternative), despite being one of their best ever. It has languished in semi-obscurity for far too long.

Item 49. Tindersticks - Rented Rooms (Swing Version) (1997)

Backed by an outfit called The John Altman big band, this re-recording appeared as an extra track on the single of the same name, as originally lifted from the Curtains album. I would love to hear similar re-arrangements of other Tindersticks tunes - but as far as I know, no others have been forthcoming. Here are the lyrics.

Update: Sorry - you weren't quick enough. These MP3s are no longer on my server. I generally make them available for a week or so (sometimes less) before substituting them for new ones. Better luck next time!

22. Love going for walks.
…and here’s some recent evidence.

23. I don't have a DVD player.
I can only echo David’s sentiments on this: I too have always been a late adopter of technology. Hell, I haven’t even got myself a mobile phone yet (much to the annoyance of most of my friends).

24. I like to spoon.
He’s not just my Long Term Live-In Life Partner; he makes a damn fine hot water bottle too. This has not gone unremarked between us. (”I’m just a great big hot water bottle to you, aren’t I?”)

25. I don’t like clothing around my wrists.
Sleeves rolled up above the elbows, that’s me. Except jacket sleeves, of course. Because that would be so very, very wrong. Nevertheless, I was a very late adopter of short-sleeved shirts, and I almost never wear T-shirts. Yes, it’s another of those inexplicable contradictions which make me so gosh-darned fascinating.

26. I think George W Bush is a moron.
In view of recent blog postings, the irony of this statement is not lost on me.

27. I have never eaten tripe.
Have you? If so, where did you eat it, and what is it like? Do tell – I’m genuinely interested.

28. Evening is my favourite time of day.
It’s when I’m at my most relaxed, and yet most energised and mentally alert.

29. I over analyse.
This is the 129th fact about myself so far. I rest my case.

30. I frequently zone out.
Particularly when someone is telling me an extremely long and discursive anecdote which could have done with judicious pruning, or when a discussion is taking place around me on a subject of which I have little interest. The lights stay on, but no-one’s at home. Fortunately, I have honed the whole smiling and nodding thing to near perfection. They need never know.

Next 10.
Previous 10.

Labels: 100things, myself

I am delighted to discover, by virtue of several recent referrals, that the story of how K and I met and became a couple is now in Google's Top 20 for "falling in love". Talk about shouting it from the rooftops...

In fact, checking the 40 In 40 Days Project against Google, it turns out that I'm in the Top 10 for the following: first single (#2), queeny (#7), hissy fit (#8), first gay club (#1), rent boy (#1), heterosexual phase (#1), first poem (#1), amsterdam weekend (#3), perfect moment (#1), first memory (#6), royal procession (#2), romantic obsession (#3), first boyfriend (#1) and funeral address (#1). Gulp.

Having bought the Sound Of Music soundtrack CD earlier in the day, I am now sitting in front of my home PC, speakers on full blast, lyrics displayed on my screen, lustily singing along to Liesl’s section of the song, in falsetto of course, with the kind of untrammelled enthusiasm that you only allow yourself when you are certain that no-one can hear you. After all, I do have a ticket to tonight’s Singalonga Sound Of Music at the Royal Concert Hall, and one has to do one’s homework in order to gain the maximum pleasure from the event. Right?

So there I am, flinging my arms around, emoting for all I’m worth, when I suddenly become aware of a shadowy presence by the door. I swivel my chair round. It is K, home from work earlier than usual. He is standing there, arms folded, his face contorted into a rather self-satisfied, aha-I’ve-got-you-NOW kind of grin.

I visibly twitch, and immediately turn bright crimson. Hell – I would rather he had caught me masturbating than this. At least that would have been a normal, healthy, manly pursuit...

The event itself is a thoroughly jolly affair, with many of the audience suitably garbed for the evening. There are nuns. There are goats. There are hills. There are brown paper packages tied up with string. There are more nuns. There are bachelor dandies and drinkers of brandies. There are lederhosen. There are dresses made out of curtains. There are still more nuns. In fact, there are more nuns than a man might shake a stick at. In amongst the obviously fake nuns in home-made wimples, the child nuns, the male nuns, and even a properly pregnant nun (who receives a prize on stage), there are at least a couple who look like they might actually be the genuine article. Truly, we are a broad church tonight.

Seated between Michelle and an uninhibitedly enthusiastic Beyoncé, I proceed to sing my little heart out. On How Do You Solve A Problem Like Maria, I am the nuns; every last one of them. On Do-Re-Mi, we are all synchronised hand movements, as instructed by the warm-up compere before the show. When Captain Von Trapp finally joins in with his children, as they perform for the Baroness (HISS!), I become too choked with emotion to sing along any further (strict fathers learning to express warmth – guaranteed to get me every time).

As there are precious few adult male vocal parts to sing along with, my upper register receives a thorough workout. I was always a better soprano than bass, anyway. At least I can reach some sort of vague approximation of the right notes that way. Given the sheer volume of my singing voice, this is a mercy.

As a former choirboy, I was trained to project my voice. After it broke and I lost the ability to pitch properly, I was left with all of the volume, but none of the accuracy. This has always been something of a burden: for example, on the video of my step-sister’s wedding, you can clearly hear my voice, booming above the rest of the congregation like a bloody great flat foghorn. It’s a good job that I am not a regular churchgoer. Maybe I am nursing an untapped potential as a drag artiste instead? We will never know.

Note (1): this report is brought to you in full Sensurround™ - for the optimum experience, please rattle your chair around while reading.

Note (2): American readers may be scratching their heads and wondering what all the fuss is about. Look: for us sheltered Brits, this is actually quite exciting, okay?

I'm woken up by a loud, extended rumbling noise which is impossible to pinpoint. It could be up on the roof, it could be outside, or it could be coming from downstairs. K is awake too.

"What was that?"
"Just rain, I think."
Why did I just say that, and with such an air of confident finality? There's no sound of rain outside at all.

"Maybe it was the dishwasher."
"Yeah, that'll be it."
I look at the alarm clock; it's about 1:00. The dishwasher had been timed to come on about now. No, that theory won't wash either. The machine is right over on the other side of the house, and it has never woken us up before.

I try and get back to sleep, but feel thoroughly spooked and disorientated. Things that go bump in the night, and all that. I feel like a little boy who's scared of the dark. It takes me a good couple of minutes to psych myself up to go to the bathroom.

On the radio news the following morning, driving out towards Carsington Water as the sun comes up: Large parts of England and Wales are hit by an earthquake measuring 4.8 on the Richter scale. Oh, so that's what it was.

According to the news report, the epicentre of the earthquake was around Dudley, in the West Midlands. This makes me wonder whether Chig in Birmingham heard - or felt - anything last night.

He most certainly did - and then some. Read Chig's full, and rather alarming, account here.

As Google currently returns no less than 375 results for "Blogger ate my" (and a further 52 for "Blogger lost my"), perhaps it's time to run the risk of stating the bleedin' obvious.

The Blogger's Green Cross Code, brackets Windows brackets.
1. Type in your entry.
2. CTRL-A.
3. CTRL-C.
4. Post.
5. Proof-read and/or check links (using Open in New Window).
6. Post & Publish.
7. If Blogger eats your post: CTRL-V, Post & Publish.
8. If Blogger continues to eat your post: CTRL-V into Notepad, and Save.

Basically: publishing without backup is the blogging equivalent of barebacking (bareblogging?), and is not to be recommended. Protect and survive!

I’m writing this in real time, with no subsequent revisions, just to see what happens. Not having listened to the entire Top 20 in one fell swoop for at least a couple of years, I’m curious to find out whether the singles charts really are as irredeemably crap as everybody keeps saying they are. Let’s find out together, shall we?

20. David Bowie – Everyone Says Hi

My fave Dave single since Hallo Spaceboy, taken from my fave Dave album since Scary Monsters, and performed to perfection on last night’s Parkinson (mind you, his reworking of Life On Mars for vocal and piano was even better). 5/5

19. Appleton – Fantasy

First time I’ve heard this effort from the ex-All Saints sisters. Dull soft-rock, of the kind that on-the-cusp pop stars always put out in a last-ditch attempt to prove their new found “maturity”. I’d say there’s about a 20% success rate for this kind of strategy. On the evidence of this, Appleton belong in the other 80%. 2/5

18. Ronan Keating – I Love It When We Do

…and here’s an example of someone who falls within that 20%. Ronan has put out some surprisingly decent tunes since the demise of the bloody awful Boyzone – but this ain’t one of them. Standard issue local radio drivetime fodder, where it probably does a reasonable job of preventing people re-tuning between the adverts. 2/5

17. Truth Hurts feat Rakim - Addictive

Bollywood / R&B / hip-hop mish-mash, which works rather well. I like the way that the Indian vocal runs in the background all the way through the track, rather than being bolted on as an occasional sample. Bonus points for bringing in one of my absolute favourite rappers of all time (Rakim) to do a guest spot. 4/5

16. Suede – Positivity

Against my expectations, a surprisingly strong return to form for Suede after a three year gap. Hey, even the B-sides are up to scratch (even if a couple of them do sound like Robbie Williams album tracks). Even more “mainstream pop” than the singles from Head Music, it deserved a higher entry point than this. As it is, the single has probably only sold to the band’s existing fanbase, and will accordingly do the usual vertical plummet next week. A great shame. 5/5

15. Sugababes – Round Round

One of the small handful of truly brilliant pure pop records to have emerged this year. Right since the off (the wonderful Overload), the Sugababes have always been a cut above the rest of the pack. Nice little Alicia Keys rip-off in the middle, as well. 5/5

14. Puddle Of Mudd – She Hates Me

Okay, I’m going to try and assess this objectively.

Oh! Not what I was expecting at all! It’s a surprisingly traditional little tune, despite the inevitable cranking up of the bombast halfway through. The sort of thing that Wheatus could have done last year. There’s clearly supposed to be a rude word in the chorus, which has been edited out for the radio (“She [pause-pause] hates me…”). Good Fresher’s Week disco fodder which I can’t really find it in me to despise. 3/5

13. Supergrass – Grace

It’s Chig’s single of the week – which I’ve never heard before. Gimme a minute here…

Bit of a repetitive chorus, innit? Could have done with a bit more lyrical invention there, lads. Nevertheless, it’s decent, breezy, catchy latter-day Britpop which is a natural successor to Alright. Would have gone Top 3 in 1995. I miss 1995 sometimes, don’t you? 4/5

12. Sarah Whatmore – When I Lost You

I was all prepared to loathe this: a Popstars reject, subsequently picked up by Pop Music’s Mister Evil, Simon Cowell (and to my US readers who have recently been suffering this man on American Idol: I can only apologise on behalf of my nation). Unfortunately, I quite like this. A dinky little pop tune which puts a smile on my face. God, but I’m feeling uncommonly benign this afternoon; I wanted this article to be a diatribe! 4/5

11. Kelly Osbourne – Papa Don’t Preach

I’m hearing most of these records for the first time, and here’s another. A great tune in the first place of course, and the nu-rock treatment from Ozzy’s little girl works rather well. Put it this way: if this came on at a disco, and I was sufficiently lagered up, I would have a great time flailing round to it, limbs akimbo, mouthing all the words. And you can’t say fairer than that, can you? 4/5

Midway score: 38/50. Gulp – that’s quite good, isn’t it? Could it be that the pop charts aren’t entirely rubbish after all? Only the top ten will tell – and as it’s often the case that the worst tracks are stacked up at the top of the charts, there is everything still to play for.

10. Oxide & Neutrino – Dem Girls

Seven new entries inside the top ten, apparently – an all-time record which has only been equalled once before. I’ve generally been rather keen on Oxide & Neutrino’s stuff (with the glaring exception of Bound 4 Da Reload, obviously), but this is a let-down. They’ve swapped the clattering UK garage for ploppy hip-hop beats which don’t dig deep enough, ditching all their rough-n-ready street cred in the process. Uses up all its ideas in the first 30 seconds. Dull. 1/5

9. Beenie Man feat Janet Jackson & The Neptunes – Feel It Boy

Rhythmically complex. Sonically inventive. Janet sounds as kittenishly lovely as ever – one of those voices which always scratches where I itch. Unfortunately, there’s not nearly enough of her. I’m considerably less keen on Beenie Man’s vocal technique – the usual braggadocio essentially, with a certain flatness about it which rankles. Otherwise: cute. 3/5

8. Scooter – Dessaja

Oh, lumme. Well…there’s an unashamedly relentless vulgarity about it which I do actually find quite endearing. Big In Germany, you say? Yes, I can see that.

Basically: there are far, far worse dance tunes around than this. At least this has a couple of vaguely distinctive ideas of its own. 3/5

(Sudden shock realisation: where are all the big Dance Anthems this week, anyway? Is the genre finally dying on its arse, or what?)

7. Aqualung – Strange And Beautiful

Aha! A record which I’ve actually heard before! Despite sounding suspiciously like the dreaded Coldplay (quickly makes the sign of the cross), this works rather well. However, if I heard it five times a day on the radio (and I’ll bet that Radio One listeners are currently doing so), then I suspect that its ultimately slight appeal would quickly pall. 4/5

6. Liberty X – Got To Have Your Love

Aha! At last! That Mantronix cover which I’ve been dying to hear! I adore the original, y’see – and I’ve always had a slight soft spot for Liberty X. Championing the underdogs, and all that.

Well – they haven’t ruined it, have they? A perfectly decent, if unimaginative reworking. Makes me smile, and that’s all that counts at the end of the day. 4/5

5. Bon Jovi – Every Day

What the chuff are this lot still doing having hits? Aren’t they at least ten years past their sell-by date? Who let this happen? And why wasn’t I consulted?

This rhymes change & strange, turning & burning, crying & dying, touch the sky & spread your wings and fly – all in the same song. I rest my case. Utterly unforgivable. 1/5

4. Eminem – Cleaning Out My Closet

My least favourite single to date from Eminem, by some distance. It’s essentially one long hate-fuelled diatribe against his mother, which never really transcends his own particular family circumstances. Ultimately, it all sounds rather petty and slight. It’s also rather all on the same level all the way through. In other words – it goes on a bit. Whatever you think of him, Eminem is never usually anything less than riveting, but this doesn’t really do it for me. Nevertheless, there’s enough residual evidence of his immense talent for me to give it…3/5

3. Busted – What I Go To School For

The obvious companion piece to the Puddle Of Mudd single, and another song which could have been done by Wheatus. Considerably more air-brushed and over-polished than Puddle Of Mudd, who sounded reasonably genuine – whereas this sounds like carefully demographically targeted MTV fodder. I don’t like this at all. In fact, it’s everything I hate about the charts.

Hmm – my benign mood seems to be evaporating now. This only serves to confirm my theory that the crap is often stacked up at the top. 1/5

2. Atomic Kitten – The Tide Is High

WHY? Dear Lord, WHY? What on earth is the point of this utterly feeble, creatively bankrupt cover version of Blondie’s classic, beyond (as Peter recently put it about pop music in general) persuading teenage girls to part with their cash? And there’s even a brand new middle section, just so someone new can claim publishing royalties (there can be no other purpose).

Scrub what I said about Busted: THIS is everything about that I hate about the charts. 1/5

1. Pink – Just Like A Pill

Efficient but unremarkable pop-rock, delivered with a certain degree of attack and bite, and a tolerably interesting musical arrangement. I like the anger, but at the end of the day, the actual song ain’t all that. The chorus is particularly annoying in its one-dimensional repetitiveness, and the whole kaboodle runs out of ideas about a minute before the end. I have to say that I just cannot for the life of me see why this has gone in at Number One. Is the video particularly good, or something? Or is it just the end product of a particularly successful marketing campaign? Oh, you pesky pop kids – I just don’t understand you sometimes. 2/5

Just 23/50 for the Top 10, giving a final score of 61% for the entire Top 20. Verdict: a reasonable showing, but could do much better. Wash your ears out, teenage Britain!