Category: Archive

K and I have been experimenting with new hairdos. (At our age! I know!)

First of all, K decided to grow his hair over his collar, in a sort of fanned-and-feathered arrangement which he refers to as his “tufts”. I think this was originally inspired by a TV advert featuring the racing driver Jenson Button, looking spruce, dapper and tufted, with “K’s type” practically written all over him. A simple case of wanting to resemble the person you fancy, basically. It’s a common enough occurrence.

However. To carry off the “tufted” look properly, you do need a certain hair type. Thin and wispy, like freshly spun gossamer in the early morning light. Not thick and clumpy, like pampas grass in some dreary suburban front garden.

And there’s the rub. After careful, elaborate zhooshing, K’s tufts tend to remain intact for perhaps twenty minutes at best – before degrading back to their natural, clump-like state. Worst of all, they have a habit of curling up at the sides – so that when viewed from the front, the effect is worryingly reminiscent of Heidi.

It’s not an attractive look. Particularly when, like me, you have a bit of a Thing about shaved hair round the back of the neck anyway. But, apparently, it’s trendy. Which, apparently, makes everything perfectly OK.

(Particularly when, unlike me, you have a bit of a Thing about men with longer hair anyway. Current case in point: Stuart from Big Brother 5, the object of much prolonged drooling on a near-nightly basis.)

“At least my haircut isn’t stuck in the Eighties”, he sniped, quoting our mutual hairdresser verbatim.

That did it. For my next appointment, I requested one of those pre-cut “consulations”, of the sort which we habitually skip because, yes, I have had exactly the same haircut since 1989, and a very nice haircut it is too, thank you for asking, and it has always served me very well, actually actually I think you’ll find, and I could produce many glowing testimonials to that effect, and, you know what, I don’t recall ever receiving any complaints.

“I’d like to grow it a bit on top”, I explained.

“Because,” I continued, swivelling my chair round to look my hairdresser straight in the eyes, “I’d hate to be stuck in the 1980s.”

Pause.

“Oh… he told you?” As a gratifyingly sheepish look passed over my hairdresser’s face, I basked in my brief moment of triumph.

Since then, my new ‘do has been coming along nicely. Indeed, every time I wash it, it seems to fall in an excitingly different way. (Today, for example, it has formed a pleasingly severe side parting; think Franz Ferdinand meets the 1940s.) And, well, what do you know? Simply everyone has been paying it compliments.

“Such an improvement”.
“A whole new you.”
“The best it has ever looked.”

Meaning that, in reality, no-one really thought that much of my late-80s “classic” cut in the first place? Well, why didn’t you say? After all, I’m not getting any younger…

Which just leaves the vexed question of K and his godawful pigtailed clumps.

Readers: I’ve tried everything. Sweet, logical reason. Gentle, patient hints. Detailed technical arguments. Scorn, mockery, exasperated ridicule. The “mutton dressed as lamb” line. Public humiliation. Outright hostility. Pantomimed revulsion.

Nothing gets through to him. When he wants to be, my beloved can be a contrary, stubborn bleeder. Enjoying – no, relishing – the challenge.

Or maybe just biding his time. Playing his favourite kind of game. The long game. Me, I’ve never been much of a tactician. K, on the other hand, can be a master of the art.

A week or so ago, sitting up late in front of the telly with a glass of wine too many, I inadvisedly lit up. (Sometimes, I get it into my head that I’ll be able to slip the odd fag or two past him, without attracting any comment. Fat chance. I never learn.)

“Tell you what”, he began, in what I should have spotted as dangerously dulcet tones. “I’ll cut you a deal.”

“What sort of deal?” I enquired, calmly chuffing away.

“I’ll go and get my tufts hacked off… but when I do… you’ll have to stop smoking.”

I didn’t hesistate for a second. Yes! Victory! The tufts are gone!

Only too late – fatally too late – did I fully appreciate the brilliance of this tactical masterstroke. God, he’s good. It’s on occasions like these that I am afforded a small insight into just what makes my boyfriend such a business whizz.

These days, I’m chuffing on borrowed time. As we fly to Peru two weeks tomorrow, K is delaying his pre-holiday haircut for as long as he can. As far as I’m concerned, he can take all the time he likes.

In fact… you know what? Maybe I’ve been a bit too hasty with my judgement. Maybe those tufts aren’t so bad after all. Yes, I’m sure I could learn to live with them.

See also… Naked Blog: Independence Day.

For some tormented souls, the term “Summer Music” will conjure up lurid notions of daft Europop in naff discos; for others, the grim sceptre of Bangin Eye-Beef-A Choons may be raised. But for me, “Summer Music” has always meanst sinuous, sultry, low-slung grooves, wafting through an open window on a hot, dark, sticky night. As such, it has long been one of my very favourite musical aesthetics.

On one such night earlier in the week, I stayed up past my bedtime in order to compile my submission to the Summer Burn 2004 project, as hosted by the guys at FunJunkie.

(Simple, effective concept. Burn a summer-themed CD; send it to two random participants as selected by the organisers; receive CDs of new music from two other random particpants; hey presto, everyone’s a winner.)

Inevitably, since I seem to be congenitally unable to do anything by halves, this ended up being a 2CD compilation. Here’s the track listing. For maximum effect, do not play until after nightfall.

1. phoenix – holding on together
2. caetano veloso – soy loco por ti, america
3. youssou n’dour – cheikh ibra fall
4. kelis – trick me
5. kanye west/syleena johnson – all fall down
6. style council – long hot summer
7. jc chasez – all day long i dream about sex
8. emma – crickets sing for anamaria
9. prince – illusion, coma, pimp & circumstance
10. ojos de brujo – tiempo de soleá
11. harpers bizarre – witchi tai to
12. faithless – i want more
13. magazine – a song from under the floorboards
14. girls aloud – the show
15. esther phillips – disposable society
16. usha uthup & chorus – one two cha cha cha
17. company b – fascinated
18. one blood – be thankful for what you got
19. scissor sisters – laura
20. ce’cile – hot like we

What’s currently Number One in your personal chart?

…and because I enjoyed reading them over at Stuart’s and Elsie’s. I luvva bitta Meta, I do.

1. Do you try to look hot when you go to the grocery store just in case someone recognizes you from your blog?

(“hot…grocery store…recognizes…” You’re from o’er the pond, aren’t you? Oh, I can always tell. It’s a gift. )

I certainly do try to make myself look reasonably attractive and presentable whenever I leave the house, for whatever purpose; in this respect, I am my mother’s son. The only exceptions are hiking and gigging, when I dress for practicality and comfort alone.

(Ironically, the only time that a stranger recognised me from the blog was just after a gig. I dare say that I looked extremely hot by then; just not in the way that the question implied.)

2. Are the photos you post Photoshopped or otherwise altered?

Like so many pieces of functionally rich software (Access, Flash, Movable Type), the thought of Photoshop scares me so much that I don’t even own a copy. This state of denial can last for years. Irfanview serves my needs perfectly adequately, thank you.

I have a copy of Paint Shop Pro at work, but am stuck at the stage where super-imposing text onto an image (see doctored Beatles pic below) feels like the last word in daring creativity. De-gaussing? Raster layers? The mere sight of such terms is enough to bring me out in hives.

I can, however, crop for England. It’s an overlooked skill. I should add it to my CV.

3. Do you like it when creeps or dorks email you?

My pathetic need for self-validation is so great that any unsolicited e-mail from readers is welcome, irrespective of creepiness or dorkitude. Yes, even the one which called me a “vaseline-arsed fairy”. Hey, at least I provoked a reaction.

4. Do you lie in your blog?

Sometimes, I wish I had the nerve (it could be such fun!) – but I am burdened by having a major, major beef with dishonesty in all its forms. The ensuing guilt would simply be too much to bear.

The nearest I have come to lying on the blog was when I invented a fictional guest contributor, for the purpose of telling true stories which I didn’t fancy putting my name to. Despite filtering these stories through a fictional persona, the ensuing results were, paradoxically, amongst the most honest pieces of writing I have produced.

A couple of years ago, I toyed for ages with the concept of blogging a piece of fiction as if it were fact, building up a story over several days, and only ‘fessing up afterwards. I had a cracking good story all lined up, and came very close to writing it. In the final analysis, it felt like too much of a betrayal of trust, and so I shelved the idea.

5. Are you passive-aggressive in your blog?

Passive-aggressive: what a ghastly pop-psychology concept that is. In real life: I suppose that I have my moments. As for the blog: exactly how can one be passive-aggressive on a blog? Does not compute. This question perplexes and annoys me. I shall move on.

6. Do you ever threaten to quit writing so people will tell you not to stop?

Good God, no. As manipulative, attention-seeking strategies go, it is too crass, too obvious, too transparent. I can do much better than that.

7. Are you in therapy? If not, should you be? If so, is it helping?

Not in therapy; never have been. I do sometimes wonder if it might be beneficial, but cynicism and inertia always prevail. I also suffer from the narcissistic delusion that my hang-ups are so uniquely complex that no therapist could possibly know how to deal with me. (Of course, I also acknowledge that this is probably one of the most common syndromes of all.)

8. Do you delete mean comments? Do you fake nice ones?

The only mean comment I have ever deleted was at the subsequent request of the commenter. I have also deleted a comment which threatened to compromise someone else’s privacy. Other than that, I adopt a fairly laissez-faire attitude. So far, I’ve been pretty lucky.

The concept of faking nice comments has never occurred to me before. There have been a couple of occasions where I have been polite through gritted teeth, though.

9. Have you ever rubbed one out while reading a blog? How about after?

I can honestly say that I have never been sexually stimulated by anything I have read on a blog, ever.

Well, maybe the occasional photo, slightly. But the question referred to “reading”, not viewing. Besides, any ensuing stimulation stopped several yards short of, ahem, “rubbing one out”.

(Is that a new expression? Now that I have banished the image of pencil erasers from my mind, I must concede that it has a certain graphic potency.)

10. If your readers knew you in person, would they like you more or like you less?

That’s hardly for me to say, is it? To dwell on such matters is fatal.

11. Do you have a job?

“Job” is certainly the mot juste in my case. As opposed to the spurious dignity inherent in the word “career”. Let’s not fool ourselves.

12. If someone offered you a decent salary to blog full-time without restrictions, would you do it?

In the blink of an eye. (It sort of happened for a while, didn’t it?)

13. Which blogger do you want to meet in real life?

There are so many. However, the first person that springs to mind is Anna.

14. Which bloggers have you made out with?

One. However, this was several years before blogs were invented. We didn’t need no fancy computers to cop off with in them days! We made our own entertainment!

15. Do you usually act like you have more money or less money than you really have?

I think I give a fairly accurate representation of this, wouldn’t you say? Occasionally, I worry about how this might be perceived. But I have to say that it is only a minor, tangential worry.

16. Does your family read your blog?

My sister keeps up with it on a regular basis, particularly on the brief occasions when she is back in the country. As she is now. (Hiya, sis! See you on Sunday!)

I believe that my cousin dips into it from time to time.

My mother doesn’t own a computer, and has no desire to do so.

After many years of prolonged nagging from the rest of us, my aunt and uncle have finally gone online, and are probably going through their Honeymoon Period as I speak. My archives have been duly checked for Googlability.

17. How old is your blog?

It blends the noisy attention-seeking of a seven year-old, the self-questioning angst of a sixteen year-old, and the cocky swagger of a nineteen year-old.

Let’s see, then. 7 + 16 + 19 = 42. Ooh, coincidence!

18. Do you get more than 1000 page views per day? Do you care?

This has happened six times in the past month, although my usual figure hovers somewhere between 600 and 900.

Although it would be disingenuous of me to pretend that it wasn’t a source of some satisfaction, I have also been knocking around long enough to take this sort of thing with a hefty pinch of salt. All those pop-culture references get me a lot of Googlers; my traffic spikes always occur for bizarre and unpredictable reasons; my above-average number of references to other blogs generates a certain level of interest; and I’m a frequent updater, so people come back and check more often. Oh, and I’ve got all sorts of sub-pages beneath the main page, including two and a half years of weekly archives and separate pages for everything in the 40 In 40 Days Project. Plus there are all the Google image searches, which count for a hefty slice of traffic, and…

Hmmm.

19. Do you have another secret blog in which you write about being depressed, slutty, or a liar?

I’ve often thought about doing this, but know full well that it would only end in tears. I’m absolutely crap at keeping secrets.

20. Have you ever given another blogger money for his/her writing?

No, but I rewarded my first set of guest bloggers with home-made mix CDs. So much more civilised!

21. Do you report the money you earn from your blog on your taxes?

I don’t think that the Inland Revenue would be overly troubled by the meagre income generated by my merchandising boutique. Meanwhile, my Amazon referrals have not yet been sufficient to convert into real earnings.

22. Is blogging narcissistic?

Yes, of course. But at its best, it’s also much more than that.

23. Do you feel guilty when you don’t post for a long time?

Tragically, I do. And then I feel guilty for feeling guilty.

24. Do you like John Mayer?

Now, you see, this is why I rarely bother with questionnaires like these. Because there’s always at least one supremely irrelevant question near the end, isn’t there?

Being only dimly aware of the fellow, it would be presumptious of me to venture an opinion. However, based on what little I know of him, I strongly suspect that he is Not My Sort Of Thing At All.

Sorry, John. Nothing personal. Keep on keeping on, and all that.

25. Do you have enemies?

None that I am aware of. I’ve had the odd fractious ding-dong along the way, but have always managed to reach a suitable resolution in due course. Long may this continue.

26. Are you lonely?

Hardly. My voices are all the company I need.

(It’s the penultimate question. I feel I’ve earnt the right to some measure of bleak flippancy.)

27. Why bother?

Because the benefits outweigh the botherations, many times over.

Guesting on Naked Blog, Jonny Billericay describes the obligatory round of cheery morning greetings that every self-respecting village dweller must enter into when staggering, bleary of eye and fuzzy of brain, down to the shop for the morning newspaper. In our village (and maybe in most others), there is also a secondary, vaguely class-based convention to observe.

If you don’t speak with a local accent, then the correct form of greeting is a clearly enunciated “Good Morninggg!“, delivered in a sing-song intonation, with plenty of reverb on the final “ng”.

If you actually know the person you are greeting (that is to say, you have been formally introduced and have exchanged at least a few sentences of conversation with each other), then this may be shortened to “Mooor-ning!” – delivered with just the merest hint of hey-ho-here-we-go-again world-weariness.

If you do have a local accent, then the correct greeting is a simple, unaffected, I’m-just-a-straightforward-son-of-the-soil, no-frills-and-flounces-here-thank-you-very-much, “Ullo“.

And of course: if you live in the city, than do not, under any circumstances, attempt any of the above. They’ll only think you’re weird. Sometimes, back in Nottingham during the week, I have to make a conscious effort of will to remember this.

Over the weekend, I somehow ended up spending three and a half gruelling hours raking the churchyard. Try as I might, I have no recollection of volunteering my services. I can only suppose that it must have been very late, and that I must have been particularly well oiled. This suggests commendable (and characteristic) shrewdness on the part of the person who enlisted me.

However, of one thing I am quite certain: I would never knowingly have volunteered for anything which started at 9:30 on a Saturday morning. (I was about to say “at the ungodly hour of”, before realising that it was quite the opposite. God thrives on Bright And Early Starts.)

Let me make something quite clear: I am, by nature, a self-confessed Effete Drawing Room Fop. Extended periods of physical exertion are anathema to me; for I have no wish to be brought face to face with my wide range of incompetencies. Show me a hoe, and I will automatically hold it upside down. Put me in charge of a lawnmower, and I will squeal with terror as it charges away with me. Hand me a rake, and I will deploy it in such a way that my entire body will hum with pain for days afterwards – as evidenced by my current pitiful physical condition.

The worst of the pain is centered around my lower back, and – thanks to a brief but debilitating attempt to wield a pair of shears – both of my wrists. “They’ve never exactly been my strong point”, I quipped, somewhat daringly, over lunch in the pub with the rest of the morning’s conscripts – carefully curling my delivery with the requisite degrees of irony. With gags like these, you walk a tightrope.

Dragging my rake directly over the top of the village’s former chief supplier of heterosexual pornography (we ate lunch together only three years ago), I was surprised – cheered, even – to feel not even the slightest of shudders. In a village, you can readily attain an easy familiarity with the cycles of birth and death.

Later that afternoon, hobbling round the cottage like an elderly arthritic, I caught sight of the bulls in the field opposite, and mused benignly upon the gastronomic pleasures that lie ahead. At times like these, one feels so deliciously elemental, my dears.

1. Helen Chadwick retrospective, Barbican Gallery, London. Despite a somewhat confusing layout (but hey, this is the Barbican that we’re talking about), a fine exhibition, which reminds you of where a lot of the Saatchi YBA Sensation Generation nicked their ideas from derived their inspiration. We particularly enjoyed the Piss Flowers and the pool of bubbling chocolate.

2. Brancusi retrospective, Tate Modern. An intelligently conceived, thoughtfully sequenced and commendably thorough exhibition; we learnt a lot. The only works I didn’t care for were the roughly hewn giant wooden pieces; the rest were uniformly sublime.

3. El Greco, National Gallery. Ugh! Hated it, hated it, hated it. Aesthetically hideous (nasty colours, ugly compositions), technically hopeless (tiny heads, mis-proportioned bodies, ridiculous expressions), and spiritually bankrupt (lurid visions of purgatory and hell, expressly designed to terrify the masses, mingled with hagiographic portraits of the most mighty figures in the all-powerful Catholic church; the all-pervading stink of oppression). And don’t even get me started on the honking, elbow-barging, upper middle class Culture Set that crowded round each painting, noisily explaining the bleeding obvious to each other, as if they hadn’t just read it all straight from the catalogue.

Bonus points for giving Jesus an improbably enormous bulge under his robes, in the series of paintings where he overturns the tables of the money changers. (Me to K: “Check out Christ’s cock!“) Such are the (cough) lengths to which El Greco was prepared to go. (He wasn’t just the Son Of God; his dunda was this big!)

4. Violent Femmes, Rescue Rooms. Deceptively simple, good-natured folksy tunes, played with precision and spirit, to a crowd who sang along with almost every word. Enormously enjoyable.

5. John Martyn, Royal Concert Hall. Desperately disappointing, especially in comparison to his outstanding performance in Newark from about three years ago. Much of the problem lay with the over-sized, sparsely attended venue; Martyn and his three-piece band just didn’t know how to fill it, lacking both intimacy and a sense of occasion. Large helpings of dull jazzy noodling: too polite, too tasteful, too Demonstration CD In Hi Fi Shop. Martyn’s vocals slurred and unintelligible, to the point of self-parody. Songs mushed into each other, all on the one level, making it impossible to maintain concentration. We left in the interval.

6. Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. Many have praised it; we, on the other hand, were distinctly underwhelmed. (In fact, K walked out halfway through, muttering seditiously about “f***ing American adolescents”.) Pseudy, hollow, faux-experimental; a big-bucks Hollywood attempt at a “cult” movie (see also the similarly underwhelming Donnie Darko). The whimsical implausibility of the plot (held together at times by some decidedly creaky devices) was matched only by the creaky implausibility of the central relationship (Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet, annoying in equal measure). Beck’s low-key acoustic re-working of The Korgis’ Everybody’s Gotta Learn Some Time was the best part of the film; expect it to be a carefully marketed “overwhelming public demand” sleeper hit before the end of the year. (Hmm. Low-key acoustic re-workings of 1980s synth-pop hits. Where have we seen that before?)

7. Dogs Die In Hot Cars, Nottingham Cabaret. Clean cut, polite-looking suburban types, playing dinky, well-crafted, sweetly melodic power-pop to a similarly polite-looking audience. Call me a grouchy old rocker, but it just didn’t feel right. Not like a “proper” gig at all. No edge, no passion, no thrill. We preferred the two support acts: Nic Armstrong (twisted, wonky 70s pub-rock with 60s influences) and Headway (energised and cohesive; potentially massive).

8. Cesaria Evora, Leicester De Montfort Hall. A static, undemonstrative performer she might be – but nevertheless, the tender, honeyed, quietly seductive tones of the “barefoot diva” couldn’t fail to thrill. Bonus points for the sit-down fag break halfway through the set, and for waving her fag packet above her head in gleeful anticipation as she left the stage at the end of the show.

9. K’s 45th birthday meal. As of last night, we have a new favourite restaurant in Nottingham. However, since a large part of its appeal lies in its status as a well-kept secret, mostly patronised by a loyal set of regulars, I am loathe to name it. Maybe I’ll just link to it instead. Yes, that’s much more discreet.

10. The holiday is booked. We’re off to Peru!

At long, long last… the “We listen” chart returns.

1. Various: Eurovision Song Contest Istanbul 2004
This may not come as too much of a surprise. Mind you, it’s about to drop down the chart like a stone, as we enter the post-Eurovision refractory period…

2. Cesaria Evora: The Best of Cesaria Evora (also Cafe Atlantico and Sao Vicente Di Longe)
We have tickets to see the “barefoot diva” in Leicester on Monday, and are expecting great things. A deep, tender, honeyed voice – understated, easy-going, seemingly effortless – which takes time to work its magic, (initially I was fairly underwhelmed) but which has steadily worked its way inside me over the past few months. Friday evening in the cottage, sipping the first beer of the weekend as we unpack the food, and the chances are that one of Cesaria’s CDs will be first out of the orange shoebox.

3. Air: Talkie Walkie
Extinguishing all memories of that dreary prog effort which almost everybody hated, this ravishingly beautiful album is at least the equal of the classic Moon Safari, and quite possibly its superior. For such seemingly gentle, undemonstrative music, the spell which Talkie Walkie casts is a powerful one; it is quite simply impossible to remain pissed off while this is playing. Possibly the most played album of the year so far. Best moment: the sweet, Bach-like organ melody at the start of Mike Mills.

4. Omara Portuondo: Buena Vista Social Club Presents Omara Portuondo
We saw Omara in concert at the Royal Festival Hall last month. Bought last December, this album was our first introduction to her music; it has been played at least once a week ever since.

5. Dani Siciliano: Likes
Dani Siciliano has previously collaborated with her partner Matthew Herbert on two terrific albums: Around The House and Bodily Functions. This album marks the final break with any residual vestiges of the deep house sound from which Herbert’s music first appeared. This is cool, sophisticated, endlessly intriguing downtempo electronica with a beguiling, organic sound. Highly recommended to just about everybody.

6. Kanye West: The College Dropout
Stunningly creative and expansive hip hop of the highest order, and easily the equal of Outkast’s Speakerboxx/The Love Below. Marcello Carlin’s lengthy and enormously helpful review says it all.

7. Various: BBC Radio 3 Awards for World Music 2004
Apart from a bit of tepid “club fusion” noodling at the beginning of the first CD, this is an exemplary guide to Who’s Hot In World. Treat it as a shopping list, and it will keep you happy for months. Highlights: Oi Va Voi, Warsaw Village Band, and the beautiful Caetano Veloso song that featured in Almodovar’s Talk To Her.

8. Coldcut: Lifestyles Vol.2
There’s nothing more overrated than artist-compiled compilation albums, is there? Another Late Night, Under The Influence, Back To Mine… all that tasteful eclecticism palls so quickly, like a box of chocolates scoffed in too much of a hurry. Yet somehow, Coldcut have pulled it off, with a selection that, while stylistically diverse, flows in a way that encourages repeated listening. Highlights: Otis Clay’s original version of The Only Way Is Up, early 80s punk-funk from Nottingham’s Medium Medium, and a great piece of mid-80s hip hop from T La Rock & Jazzy Jay which has worn remarkably well. (Memo to self: when the record deck gets re-connected, raid the 12-inchers in the attic for more of same. The Roxanne Shanté revival starts HERE.)

9. Phoenix: Alphabetical
Not as good as their debut, but it has its place; as such, my initial disappointment is slowly converting itself into a creeping fondness. The sort of album that might not be up there with your favourites, but which somehow gets played more than most. Will probably sound perfect on hot summer afternoons.

10. Franz Ferdinand: Franz Ferdinand
The hype put me off; the music won me over. Spot on, boys.

11. Prince: Musicology
His most consistent and directly commercial album since Diamonds And Pearls – and therefore, his most enjoyable. Lighter on the identikit perv-funk workouts; heavier on the guitar-based soft-rock which he has always done so well.

12. Amalia Rodrigues: The Art of Amalia
1950s and 1960s recordings from the Queen Of Fado. Did I mention we’d been to Lisbon recently?

13. Ojos de Brujo: Bari
A Christmas present from K, which went on to win a Radio 3 World Music Award. He can pick ’em.

14. Tom Middleton: The Trip
Best DJ mix CD in ages, especially the downtempo CD2.

15. Omara Portuondo: Flor De Amor
She can no do wrong.

16. Stereolab: Margerine Eclipse
Finally, after all these years, I get round to buying a Stereolab album. Funkier than I was expecting. And proggier (but in a good way). And a good deal less arid. Actually, I don’t really know what I was expecting – but I certainly wasn’t expecting something as straightforwardly accessible and enjoyable as this.

17. Erlend Oye: DJ Kicks
He mixes them, then he sings over the top of them (anything from Venus to There Is A Light That Never Goes Out). Against the odds, it works.

18. Tina Santos: Fados Do Fado
Did I mention we’d been to Lisbon recently? We saw Tina Santos perform at a tiny fado venue in the Alfama; the next day, we picked her CD up from the Fado Museum. Generic, but satisfying.

19. The Gundecha Brothers: Darshan
Classical Indian Dhrupad music, recorded live. Intense, devotional, meditative vocal improvisations, mostly drone-based, which make some giggle and others swoon. Particularly effective in the car, where the proximity of the speakers gives the voices an added intimacy.

20. JC Chasez: Schizophrenic
Sussed modern pop with a twist. A couple of iffy ballads towards the end, but when it hits, it hits big. Contains the future hit All Day Long I Dream About Sex, as used on the soundtrack of my recent performance piece.

21. Loretta Lynn: Van Lear Rose
Despite some good moments, her much vaunted collaboration with Jack White doesn’t quite do it for me. It’s all a bit too harsh, too strident, and – dare I say it? – too demographically calculated. Where Johnny Cash and Dolly Parton succeeded masterfully, Loretta Lynn’s “re-invention” leaves her sounding a little bit desperate.

22. Scissor Sisters: Scissor Sisters
Former Number One! So ubiquitous right now that I am rationing my plays.

23. Rufus Wainwright: Want One
Sleeper hit of the year! Initially irritating – all that baroque ornamentation to wade through – but something made me keep playing this album until the songs stuck in my head, and it revealed itself as a thing of beauty and wonder. Even so, I would still have lopped off the last three or four tracks; the album does tail off badly towards the end, and Wainwright’s voice begins to grate after prolonged exposure.

24. Jon Boden & John Spiers: Bellow
Traditional English Folk Music Not Crap Shockah! Two personable fellas in their twenties give it welly with the fiddle and the squeeze box, alternating between Martin Carthy-esque ballads and spirited, surprisingly complex jigs & reels, immaculately played, which make you want to tumble into haystacks with lusty farmhands.

25. Lambchop: Aw C’Mon / No You C’Mon
A move away from the austerity of Is A Woman, and back towards the lush orchestrations of Nixon. Exquisitely beautiful and memorable, particularly on Aw C’Mon, which flows like a dream.

26. Rokia Traore: Bowmboi
A Christmas present from K, which went on to win a Radio 3 World Music Award. He really can pick ’em.

27. Ilya: They Died for Beauty
Blah blah Portishead blah blah John Barry blah blah early Goldfrapp blah blah cinematic trip hop blah blah three star reviews in Sunday broadsheets etc etc. But in a good way. Honest!

28. Various: Lost In Translation (soundtrack)
My December to March blogging hiatus prevented me from raving about this film at the time. Loved everything about it, including the use of music – hence love this soundtrack.

29. Fiery Furnaces: Gallowsbird’s Bark
After repeated plays, order begins to emerge from the chaos. I think this is what’s supposed to happen with Trout Mask Replica. Except that Beefheart’s alleged classic still sounds like a horrible, atonal, made-up-on-the-spot mess to me, whereas Gallowsbird’s Bark is just reaching the tipping point between chin-stroke “interesting” and genuinely enjoyable. I’m predicting a sharp climb for this one.

30. Emma – Free Me
Ex-Spice Girl In Genuinely Good Album Shockah! Oh, you may scoff. But her next single, Crickets Sing For Annamaria, might make you reconsider. And I’m a sucker for breezy, fresh-faced sixties revivalism.

We’re in the pub. A is telling B about C, who he has known for a few months. A explains that he first met C through Gaydar, the online “dating” (sic) service. Hesitantly, I chip in with a question.

“And has your friendship… retained that particular dimension?”

When did I get so delicate, so circumlocutional? Anyone else would have just spat it out. “Are you still shagging him, then?”

I am out of practice at all of this. Not so long ago, 50% of our conversation was who-shagged-who. Now, it’s all pruning tips, have-you-met-the-so-and-so’s, and proposals for the new village hall.

Which reminds me.

We’re in the car, our journalist friend in the back seat, and we’re talking about the indiscretions of youth. Or rather, I’m bragging about the copious indiscretions of my own youth. (I use the term “youth” in its most relative sense.)

“I see. Goodness. Perhaps I should be drafting your obituary?”

His concern, though misplaced, is touching.

“Oh, don’t worry. There was never anything life-threatening about my particular repertoire. I was always more focused on the hors d’oeuvres than the entrées. As it were.”

That’s the thing about circumlocution. There’s so much more scope.