(posted by Mike)

Hey ho, here it comes. As the crowd cheers in delighted recognition, Dymbel and I exchange meaningful shrugs. Massive fan that he is, this one has never done much for him. As for me, I grew tired of it a long time ago. Even in the context of last Saturday in Hyde Park, where so many dull songs by lesser acts took on new, grander resonances, I remained unmoved. Now, I simply tune out and drift off.

---

In the cottage, late last Friday evening. K has gone to bed; I can already hear the snores from upstairs. I'm staring at the telly, pleasantly trashed, not yet ready to let the feeling end, giving free rein to the right side of my brain, letting it lead me through whatever unexpected connections it chooses to make.

Which is when it hits me.

The part of me that I hate, that causes me all the wobbles, the angst, the Self Esteem Issues...

The part that procrastinates, that under-achieves, that won't dare to try because it's so sure that it will fail, that's ruled by fear, that has erected thick barbed wire barricades around the prison yard of its comfort zone...

The part that says I can't, and I won't, and why bother, because you can do it better than me anyway ...

The part that ties itself up in Gordian knots of guilt and blame...

...it's just a part of me. It's not all of me. It's not even most of me. And so I shouldn't fall into the trap of letting it define me. Because the greater part of me is better than this.

How do I know this?

I know this because I am loved by the most wonderful man I have ever met.

And if he can see worth in me, then ipso facto, that worth must exist. Because, for all the accusatory shit that I might choose to fling at myself, two irreducible truths remain:

1. All sentimental bullshit aside (she's the best mum in the world/they're two little angels), he is the most wonderful man I have ever met.

2. His love for me is beyond all reasonable doubt.

Why hasn't this occurred to me before? I am loved, ergo I am worthy of love. Accept this truism, and it could me give me some of the strength I need in the perpetual battle which I wage with my darker, weaker self. Indeed, there is no reason why I cannot use the greater part of myself to heal the...

---

*snap*

And you're back in the football stadium.

Having stated and re-stated its lyrical themes, the song is now peaking, by means of an extended instrumental passage. Insistent, repeated triplets, steadily increasing in intensity, are rippling out from the stage in waves of pure, positive emotion, accentuated by wordless, staccato barks from Michael Stipe. The stage lighting is bright now - so bright that, even at this distance, I can feel something of its warmth in the cool, damp, dusky air.

In front of me, and indeed all around me, thousands of pairs of hands are stretched up high in assertive V-shapes, obliterating the view of the band, engulfing me in one shared feeling of joyful, certain release.

So, hold on, hold on. Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on. Everybody hurts. You are not alone.

Ambushed by unexpected emotion. The corny ones will get you every time.

Labels: top25

Tough.

Detailed eye-witness account, from a blogger who was caught on one of the tube trains which was destroyed this morning.

Update: Powerful, well-articulated follow-up piece.

Soothing, uplifting music for a grim, disturbing day.

Link 1. Link 2. Link 3. Link 4.

All links point to the same file. This and Part 1 will fit exactly onto a CD.
I'll be posting a full track listing in due course.

Five minutes after the historic announcement (which we listened to on an old fashioned transistor radio, huddled round a colleague's desk), the Other Gay One in our office swished past my desk, on his way to the printer. As he drew level with me, he hissed out of the corner of his mouth:

"Of course, you'll be FIFTY by then."

Oh, she's a sharp one and no mistake. They never miss an opportunity, do they?

Over in the Big Blogger house, I have particularly enjoyed the two most recent tasks: devising a new festival (The International Festival Of Blog), and inventing a new sport (The "Last To Be Picked" Champions League).

I also had fun dreaming up a lonely hearts advert. Come share my bubbles!

Meanwhile, Miss Mish has explained the rules of Extreme Shoe Shopping, and JonnyB has told us about the time he met Peter Andre. So, you see, it's not all vast acres of free-form wibble. Oh no. We're quite the Quality Destination Blog Of Choice these days, I think you'll find.

Back in the real world, fellow Big Blogger housemate Alan found himself caught up in what sounds like some unpleasantly heavy-handed policing tactics, whilst wandering round Edinburgh in the middle of the G8 protests. The comments at the end of his piece reflect a wide range of views: some of them critical of his judgement, but all of them (to date) expressed in a remarkably (and refreshingly) even-tempered manner. (via)

As I both expected and hoped, it's a landslide vote in favour of Consequences (see below). That little vote was basically just a way of absolving my conscience over nicking Vaughan's fine idea. The people made me do it! Pontius Pilate, me.

There's still plenty of time to volunteer. I'll get things rolling in the next couple of days.

...was, of course, a glammed-up Joss Stone pussy-whipping a whimpering James Brown on Friday night's Jonathan Ross show, as the two of them re-worked Brown's classic "It's A Man's Man's Man's World", thereby giving us a glimpse of what she might be capable of, if her "people" didn't keep saddling with her with lame...

...oh, sorry, were you expecting me to be talking about something else?

Unfortunately, a long-scheduled visit to my mother in Cambridge meant that I didn't see one single, solitary second of Live8 on Saturday, although we did catch a couple of hours of radio coverage on the journey over. Instead, I spent six hours of Sunday evening, remote in hand, whizzing through the Hyde Park coverage until the recording packed up just before Robbie Williams.

Highlights? Madonna, obviously - although not until she had released the stranded, bewildered Ethiopian famine survivor from her clutches, about halfway through "Like A Prayer". Snoop Dogg, despite the deeply horrifying and inappropriate potty-mouthedness. Ricky Gervais introducing REM. Apple Paltrow-Martin's giant pink ear protectors. Mariah Carey summoning her minion on stage to administer a teeny-tiny sip-ette of water, in best diva style. The nervous look on Elton John's face, when he realised what a state Pete Doherty was in. Green Day belting out "American Idiot" in Berlin. Sting's "Every Breath You Take", appositely re-contextualised, stealing the all-important "sunset" slot.

I also - dare I admit this? - really liked Keane's performance. There, I've said it. Please don't hate me.

Lowlights? Snow Patrol: just not up to it. UB bloody 40. Mariah Carey breaking the "don't plug your new single" rule (even if, in its studio version, the new single is actually rather wonderful). REM's "Man On The Moon" being scuppered by an interview with chuffing Razorlight. The whole "finger-clicking" thing not quite working. Crappy random selections from the Eden Project gig (both on TV and on Radio 3), which I'm sure did the event no justice. Chris Martin being an utter dipstick as usual, calling "Bittersweet Symphony" the greatest song ever written, and Live8 "the greatest thing organised in the history of the world". (Er, the Great Wall Of China, Chris? The Second World War? Swindon?)

Whatevers? The new Scissor Sisters song (despite some nice Peter Frampton-esque vocoder gurgles). Joss Stone, back in the grip of her usual dull repertoire. Velvet "huh? who?" Revolver. Elton John: rocking out, and thus playing against his strengths. Razorlight almost pulling it off, but being let down by a poor sense of rhythm (all that unsyncopated uptempo bash-bash-bashing) and far too much Jim Morrison wannabe-ism.

I bet Pink Floyd were fantastic. They were, weren't they? (Marcello certainly thought so). So frustrating.

Meanwhile, my sister managed to accidentally wander into the Rome concert, from where she texted me, somewhat underwhelmed by the endless parade of unknown Italian acts.

Back in London, Gert attended the Hyde Park show, and made several postings about it. The two longest ones are here. And then there was Stuart Hydragenic, who provided a multi-part commentary from his armchair. Start here, then follow the links.

What's that you say? Incisive political analysis? Darlings, please. I have other fish to fry.