My Little Phoney

Of course, I used to be a dancer.

Oh yeah. An extra in Fantasia was you?

I’m supposed to be focused on some new ideas, but have found myself distracted by trying to remember what all the characters in the 80′s version of Strawberry shortcake were called. Well more specfically the pets.

My sister and I had a huge number of them that were our favourite for a time. The dolls mostly ended up without their fibrous hair and Angel Cake even lost her limbs (we went through a’ Boxing Helena’ phase). The animals, colourful lumps of squeezy plastic attracted dirt easily but are mostly all in a lunchbox in the basement. Custard, Marmalade, Marshmallard, Parfait Parrot and I think Burrito? I can’t recall the others though. I could try the internet of course, but not that satisfying. It almost seems like cheating.

The My little Ponies are probably still in the props department of The Mercury Theatre in Colchester, where I eagerly lent them for a new play, but forgot that my work experience placement would end before the run did and I was too nervous to get them back. It was the hottest summer ever and I was a 14 year old with a serious case of chicken pox immediately after finishing project trident, so had other things on my mind such as not being scarred for life, (which unavoidedly I was). I hope they’re still there and weren’t culled in a modernisation plan.

A week in rubbish pop culture

My God, Eastenders is really good at the moment. Dark, yes, but really good.

Lucas always seemed a little unbalanced but he’s seriously freaky now.

The weekend highlights were marred by a sudden short and unexpected advert for a Jedward album. There was I thinking that they were totally over because one of them had a seizure or something (usually a bit of a dampener on public appearances), but Hell no! They have a whole album of songs; including the karaoke-but-without-any-singing version of ‘Ghostbusters’ and the neo skate punk classic ‘All the Small Things’… Yes, that’s right, they have been licensed to destroy this amazing anthem and boy oh boy am I angry about that.  It obviously wasn’t enough to just rip-off some Busted styling school uniform etc. they just had to bulldoze a few more pop punk motifs.

The advert actually appeared during a break in ‘Don’t Stop Believing’, a thoroughly awful cash-in on the runaway success of ‘Glee’ that has prompted a rejuvenated into American rock classics that actually never had any mileage over here in their original heyday. Probably because we don’t have any Twin Peaks/Patrick Swayze style roadhouses where people in suburbia sink a few tankards and howl along to soft metal and didn’t in 1987. We had Harvester, Little Chef and Welcome Break to stop off on a long journey and not a hint of hairy emotive rock.

Within a few moments of the advert break Duncan James had stood up and proclaimed the immortal words ‘And that’s what this show is all about’ and offered a self-congatulatory smile to the audience. I’d quite enough.

Sherlock Holmes was very good though, authentic modern London scenery shot in dim, faintly sinister tones, with excellent central performances, a highly unlikely crime and promise of a gripping next few instalments.

I just hope Blink 182 try a lawsuit for crimes against pop.

Mouthing the words.

I don’t know when I first heard the song that I can now positively identify  as ‘Les Fleurs’.   Maybe when I was about 12. I remained unenlightened for years as to what it actually was and who sang it, but could often be overheard murmurring the deliriously catchy refrain.

Soul music remained a lacuna in my musical repertoire for around another decade. The Small Faces or Janis Joplin were the closest that I got to exploring that unknown territory whilst still a teen. Everyone gleans their influences in different ways which is partly why the definition of  people’s musical taste can be so interesting and unique to the individual.

You find yourself making friends and experiencing things intrinsically linked to music. A scene, a disco, a gig, a seminal techno club, a festival. My life can be narrated by a soundtrack taking in all of the most dramatic and significant moments via the best times of my life (The Universal, Hard To Explain, Cowgirl, Sympathy for the Devil)

After the defenestration of big beat, I began a education.

Why would any sixth formers at posh girls schools be worrying about their a-levels; the gateway to a dazzling future when they can be running around the gamut of squat shops that are hosting the coolest new parties. The culotte shorts, bowler hat/char topknot/giant flower style of Blossom is achingly hip amongst 17 year olds right now and I’m guessing that they have absolutely no idea that their fashion icon is an uber-geek  jewish New Yorker heydey circa 1992.

I remembered that I actually do have a most-hated song for that Desert Island relegation – One Week by the Barenaked Ladies. I would never accept or listen to any counter arguments for this track, nor would I respect the person who attempted one; it’s tantamount to admitting that you admire one of the worst bands of all time.

Music is my radar. It guides me out of dark tunnels an steers clear of dull dead ends.

Until I settle on one particular tour guide and settle into a routine, it will remain eclectic, unpredicatable and I will argue that Perfect Gentleman by Wyclef Jean is the best party record ever.

For now then, I’m just a slave to the Vibe.

Identity Crisis

I am currently trying to gather sufficient evidence to support my claim that the woman from the BT adverts that have been dragging on for years, documenting a relationship of sorts with Kris Marshall, the bloke from My Family, is the same woman in the new Pizza hut advert where she is a mum so proud that her son can use the washing machine she chants ‘hut’.  Marshall was actually good in My Family and made it watchable (DON’T even entertain the idea of watching now that the geeky one has matured and therefore lost his glasses ???. it actually is unbearable!) but left to pursue a loftier acting career. Unfortunately this has rather backfired as he has only been in some period russian drama wearing a baker boy hat and mumbling a few words and a cringe worthy slot in the utter dross of Love Actually; which amounts to his greatest, most enduring work since stepping off the Harper family terrain being the BT adverts. These adverts use a ridiculous stream of consciousness approach that purport to offer insight into the modern male condition, but are in fact tediously boring and you are constantly wondering why he would burden himself with this nagging, sour-faced snob instead of, well, anything.

So, I made a bet; so certain was I that this woman from the BT advert is also the mum in the Pizza Hut advert that there’s now money involved.

I was crowing quite happily, positive that I was right; my powers of observation sharp and acute.

Then I recalled the number of episodes over the last year or so when I thought that I saw someone I used to know, was convinced of it, until I wasn’t.  There were questions of authenticity and the embarrassment factor which I had previously ratcheted up saying hello to someone at Piccadilly Circus who looked at me blankly and then probably assumed that I was the kind of woman who said Hi to strangers at one of the busiest  pedestrian  junctions in London to mask my insecurity or to increase my chances of someone saying ‘hi’ back and maybe suggesting coffee, because of the high footfall. There was the saying that seems to have become a peculiar cod-psychology; ‘ if you aren’t sure then it isn’t them.’ I’ve been going along with this for months – it seemed sensible and accurate. Only now I’m not so sure of that either. If you haven’t seen someone for over ten years and in that period some major life could have happened including, but not restricted to: college/university/army/VSO/ marriage/divorce/children/commercial success/mental breakdown/homelessness/eating disorders for both ballooning and disintegrating/moving to L.A.

Any of these could have had suitable physical effect on someone you used to know as to render them unrecognizable. This is, of course, not even taking into account plastic surgery. All of the guys that were considered ‘hot’ at school have foregone the gym and all look like Mr. Potatohead. Ultra-white, starchy and blob shaped with no hair and optional baseball cap. No matter how hormonal none of these things would be described as ‘hot’ even in the early nineties.

This being a serious consideration, I am less certain that my advert connection is assured. I do believe I’m right, but I need to prove it.

This is not as straightforward as it sounds.  I have managed to establish that the woman in the BT ads is called Esther Hall and she had some part in Waking the Dead, but they axed her and little else. This backs my theory, as she’s likely to be desperate for the money that a juicy american firm would pay overriding fears of credibility at appearing in another questionable marketing campaign for an organisation that preys on the week (sic) and carrolls them into services that they don’t want.

The only good thing I can find to say about Pizza Hut is that at least they don’t try and make out that a pizza with most of the pizza missing leaving a big hole for them to balance a few rocket leaves in is a. A good idea. Or B. healthy.

ANnyway, now I’m going to try a mantra that drums out a hypnotic rhythm in the brain of the commercial maker much like the perpetual drumbeat that the Master had, that made him evil unfulfilled and mad which will only stop once they’ve posted the new Pizza Hut advert on You Tube.

We don’t have a video so in order to prove that the woman is the same in both I need to have a photo of Esther Hall on hand at any TV viewing to hold up next to the Pizza hut woman or hope that the mantra works and I can pause it on youtube sometime in the near future.

trail blaze

Eastenders is good at the moment. Maybe even great.

It’s as good as Sean Keaveny is bad. He has destroyed the art of the breakfast show by gabbling about pies and being northern and dogging. (It actually might  have been jogging or  his celebrity fat club; membership totalling himself, but I tuned out).

It’s actually so bad that, when I heard Chris Moyles breakfast show  this morning  in the office I’ve been in this week, for the first time since a ill-fated drive to the Isle of Wight ferry in 2008, I realized it had got to the stage that even Chris Moyles was bearable in comparison. And this is despite the fact that he has a jingle about flatulence, which it is well known I would not approve of.

Eastenders is 25 in a few weeks time and so there is going to be an amped up episode with the big reveal – who killed Archie?

Everyone seems pretty much convinced that it is Peggy, so it might not be much of a surprise, but will be gripping non the less. It is often remarked on – hell – harped on about – how funny Corrie is, but Eastenders does comedy just as well.

The public have been invited to nominate their favourite ‘doof doof’ moments. I’m going away now to chew on this cultural muesli bar  and deliberate over mine. (As I’ve watched ‘enders for the whole of time, there will be competition). I’ll post the nominations shortly, along with my Pavement best of guess tracklist. I’m bound to miss the closing dates for both these contests.

I roared with laughter at the accuracy of a close relation’s observation that no-one in the trailers for the ‘doof doof’ moments seems to be able to ‘do’ the drums in the correct signature.

Considering you hear it 4 times a week at least you can’t be so tone deaf as to not subliminally absorb the rhythm. (and before anyone says ‘I don’t hear it 4 times a week’ – If you don’t watch Eastenders why would you be on the celebratory advert huh? Suckas).

Anti-establishment

I’m attempting to read Alan Bennett’s diary as recommended by that funny lady that I like who writes for the Guardian.  Charlotte something. Things keep getting in the way though, not least the game she invites us to play inspired by Alan Bennett – the anti desert islands discs. Songs you would merrily avoid for all of time.

I thought this sounded quite a good idea, so after giving it some thought I’ve actually concluded it’s not very good fun. Because the liklihood is if you haven’t heard it in a while then you forget just HOW MUCH you hate a song. The current hate list would always comprise on those that have been synced within an inch of their life so that you can recite them off by heart like the 2010 crimestoppers ad which features an ‘authentic’ couple to speak to ordinary regular citizens out there. So basically a bird that looks remarkably like Sonja from Eastenders is applying night cream whilst chatting with her hapless partner about all the silly things they’ve done, that positively invite burglars in for a slimfast while their passing. Advertising campaigns that work are glossy and futuristic – People don’t want to think that being ‘normal’ makes them plump, grey and monotonous and they certainly wouldn’t see themselves in that couple no matter how accurate it really is. For a start who makes the effort to use nightcream if you’re under thirty?Realistically who over thirty can be bothered to use nightcream unless you’re Joan Rivers or Collins or have that £ 200 creme de la mer one, in which case petty crime would be prevented by all manner of hi-tech solutions and a Great Dane.

So songs that you would quite happily never hear again is not really a going concern as if you don’t hear them you can forget they even exist after a few weeks of them randomly playing in your head.

For fun I can list some songs I’d like to pretend have never existed but they probably won’t be representative of any period besides the very recent past…

Scouting For Girls – She’s So lovely

Wombats  – Let’s dance to Joy Division

Cascasda – all songs they have

Bob Dylan Christmas album. No thanks.

Sun Ra. I can go to a farm if I want to hear slain geese.

Paolo Nutini – New Shoes

Feeder – Buck Rogers

JC cheer!

The RATM campaign group to prevent the X-factor having another insipid and pointless Christmas No. 1 may have a modicum of a point.

Really though, the campaign should focus on bringing back TOTP permanently. The stubborness of the BBC not to go back to the winner of all winners for viewing figures, family moments and simplicity of production.

TOTP was brilliant.EVERYONE Liked it. It was fun and got people of all ages paying attention to movements in popular culture.

So, the RATM thing was going quite well but predictably into the mid-week it has lost it’s edge and will trail behind dreadfully by Saturday night.

I think a far better plan is to support the festive Stroke of genius and buy Julian Casablancas’ rad Christmas single.

RAD!

It’s far more seasonally appropriate.

He is not Jesus, although he has the same initials.

The lost art of the Mixtape

There was basically very little else as satisfying as making a mixtape. Sure it was laborious, but boy did you feel great after the stop button was depressed for the final time. Writing the inlay and sticking pictures from smash hits in an ill-conceived montage were projects to be savoured and counted for the end products ultimate success.

We had a particularly cheap looking red double casette deck that was Boots own brand. Boots used to sell cassettes too, in fact was probably a pretty popular option in suburban small towns. I’m not  sure when they stopped.

I don’t remember actually buying an album from Boots. I bought the first Kylie album from WH Smith in Ipswich because we were there that day and I’d got a Smiths voucher for my birthday.

Woolworths was the Ranson stop for pop. Even the Clacton on Sea branch had all the latest hits and a really good bargain bin for when they were no longer hits a week later. 1992 was an especially good year for this with loads of really unradio-friendly indie bands smashing the top ten one week then sliding out to 37 the following week.

The genius thing about this was that their initial success meant they merited a TOTP appearance. In amongst the strange fashions and wholesome pop acts we got  Suede wearing pig masks,  a very high Happy Mondays and The KLF  The Manics playing Faster with James Dean Bradfield in a balclava was a memorable highlight for the terror that ensued.

In a different category to mixtapes that are so carefully thought out playlists that build, no moments that give you an urge to fast-forward are the other all important historical documents

I have my favourite tape of a top 40 from February 1992 where Ride – Leave them all Behind, Reverence by J&MC, Dixie Narco EP (featuring Movin’ on Up) from Primal Scream and Kicks Like a Mule were all in the top ten and Shakespear’s Sister was number one. The KLF were number one with 3am Eternal which I’d forgotten until I listened.

I also had one with Candy Flip and Blue Savannah by Erasure that I really liked  – I didn’t like either of those songs though, so there must have been something else on there that outweighed them.

I lost all of my major tape collection about 2 years ago when they were accidentally left in a basement of a house that no-one we know lives in. It was frustrating because I’d manage to cart them up and down the country through blizzards and droughts in  manky faux fur rucksack.

In other thoughts – I am really not sure how I managed to be so attracted to novelty furry rucksacks or ‘character’ ones and how I did not ever, ever perceive them as vulgar or naff until far to recently.  An old friend who I’ve lost contact with had a deep hatred of them from his teens, to the point that he nearly didn’t speak to me because of my purse or bag. DC HATES them and it does make me wonder why I couldn’t see this ugliness myself and certainly how I couldn’t gauge a basic rule that if you’re too old to go to school anymore then you are definitely too old for faux fur, especially on footwear.

I became an absolute master of mixtapes following the second side of a cassette I received from  a girl who I walked to school with Karen Walker’s older brother. He had made me an indier than thou compilation for the Bside (the a-side was taken up with a whole album that I’d asked for). I hadn’t been expecting him to take the time to make the effort and I really loved some of the songs that I was too young to be aware of: Chapterhouse, Slowdive, The Wonderstuff.

After that inspiration, I made everyone that I really cared about a compilation.

My own absolute favourite, which I was especially sad to lose in the 2007 incident was ‘Cool Runnings’

The cassette deck that was instrumental in all those memories is very possibly still in working order.

It could have been thrown out or sold at a Boot sale, but it might just be taped up in a box awaiting it’s fate. I’m gonna to search for it over Christmas and get it back in action once more.

Perhaps 2010 needs a new instalment of ‘Gold Sounds’ the most lo-fi radio show with the catchiest jingles since the Um Bongo advert.

Like a Rolling Stone

Is it possible to have a favourite Rolling Stones song? Sure they had a barren period in the eighties and they certainly lost consistency,  but there are still some real stomping, sneering, posing freewheeling out every couple of years.

Is it normal to have a favourite Rolling Stones song? Martin Scorscese clearly doesn’t think so. Or maybe it’s Gimme Shelter. Either way, he thinks many of them are powerful enough to merit soundtracking his epic film sequences, although nothing underscores dramatic montages quite like it.

I’d forgotten myself quite often recently. Last year I would have said that they didn’t think that I have changed over ten years, but this year I am convinced that I have suddenly lost sight of all my youthful convictions and almost erased the character that I once was, which had an energy and resilience that has crumpled and faded.

I became less self-assured – a curious regression as people usually gain in power and confidence as soem kind of compensation for growing older. I feel wiser, but I’m certainly not the sassy, witty street dancer that I once was.

I had forgotten somewhere in this crisis, the music that made me when I was young. It comes back to me in waves, the current so strong when it hits that I wonder how I could possibly have overlooked them.  I had a Blur reconaissance, a revisiting of the Manics and the other day it was Placebo that I sought out to lift me from the slight despair that had set in at yet another rejection.

Since last week though, it’s been all about the Stones.

Not that it never was – the whoops and maracas of Sympathy for the Devil have never failed to awaken me and the powerful surge of the choir and the plaintive anger of @You Can’t Always get what you Want’ always seems so apt for my voyages of discovery that capsize or send me back to the start.

Wild Horses and She’s a Rainbow

Ruby Tuesday – the inspiration for naming a bunch of shady bars but also one of the most beatifik, heartfelt tributes to free-spirits.

So 2009 has been about Blur breaking my heart, by transporting me back to a time where I was ambitious and open to experience, surrounded by friends and with everything ahead of me. I’m no longer that person, but there was still power in the sheer numbers of people shouting along in the sunshine that made it feel that those thwarted dreams and lost companions were not important. That moment of communion was a real and moving experience.

This is not a test

Inspired by my love of radio phone-in topics that I always shriek and reel off in reaction to, but never actually get as far as participating – I don’t ever text, don’t write the email;  just left brimful of topics for discussion without entering a forum.

So the discussion has, so far, been one-sided.

This site is intended to redress that imbalance. A space to pour out confessions about Pop Will Eat Itself or recall the night I spent in the company of John Cooper Clark.

Misheard lyrics, moments of inspiration, favourite food products that are now extinct – some that seem so surreal that you wonder if perhaps you invented them

Quatro

Um Bongo

Wizard mousses.

Favourite insults is the topic that inspired me to name this blog. The first fifteen minutes of Home Alone is genius and evokes the feeling of abandonment in a chaotic crazed family, whilst using the wittiest quickfire dialogue and well-executed slapstick comedy . Sibling rivalry provokes the cruellest of hurtful haunts