Let's all make a bomb

After about two months of running myself into the fucking ground, I've finally got a bit of decent time off work.

So fucked have I felt that, whilst I may have been doing a little bit of this and a little bit of that, my weapon of choice has been to generally do nothing in particular.

Monday was the last day I worked and that was spent on a trip to Northampton. Although I've been once before, it was only to the Grange Park industrial estate on the outskirts.

This time, as I had hours and hours and hours to kill, I "seized" the chance to have a right old root around the main town centre. Much like any other commercial/retail centre in any other provincial town across the land, Northampton becomes a pretty bleak affair once you have trudged around for three hours in the bollock-freezing January temperature. However, at one point out on the main street, my boredom was alleviated (for all the wrong reasons) by a bizarre, Orwellian voice which boomed out, seemingly from the sky, telling some poor woman - in a blue jacket - to dismount from her bike. Fucking hell.

Anyway, just like when you're off sick, I have been unable to resist the odd bit of morning telly. I do like The Wright Stuff as well as the banter on This Morning. I know that Holly Willoughby is not generally liked in the land of blogs, but she does have a good on-screen chemistry with the ever-youthful (even with silver hair) Philip Schofield. As with Phil 'n' Fern, it's not the features and interviews I like, it's the way they openly enjoy making each other laugh which I find entertaining.

Those endless adverts for generating cash from old, unwanted gold and mobile phones are such a fucking grind, aren't they? They are the modern, recession equivalent of the ones you used to get for homeowner loans - a mirror image of (ahem) the good times. So all that gold jewellery you bought with that £25,000 advance, so nonchalantly arranged over the phone with Picture Loans, can now be sent off in a high visibility envelope and - if it ever reaches them - Postal Gold and their ilk will send you a cheque for a fraction of its worth in return. The pittance you'll get may go some (ie very little) way to repaying the 360 month loan with interest you're still committed to.

The Envirofone advert fascinates me. It's just the wide-eyed enthusiasm (ie lying) of those fuds telling us that we may even get £150 for some gashy old mobile handset. As if. I think I may still have an old Nokia 3210 sitting in the loft, probably in good nick, but oh so very 2000. I'd be lucky if that even fetched 20p.

In the name of research - and to remind myself of how much I hate this advert - I had a quick look on YouTube and it turns out that the "Great" British public have developed a real liking for the fat bloke who says, "Wonga!". There's all manner of Wonga! video posts - it's kind of funny, but also wearily inevitable at the same time. Some wag's even put up a Facebook page on the Wonga! Man.

It'll pass, just like the Cillit Bang remix craze did. That is all.

Dundee bukkake parties...

... or "Why might the Queen have been seen using binoculars on 30 April 2009?"

Not my words, ladies and gentlemen, but those of some intrepid Googlers who've landed on Avenues and Alleyways recently.

Well, they certainly knock "Coleen Nolan's tits", "Lorne Spicer's tits", "Kym Marsh's tits", "Sheila Fearne naked" and - worst of all - "Anita Dobson topless" into the proverbial cocked hat!

Anyway, I can't help with the majority of those searches, but for those interested, here's a picture of an attendee at a recent bukkake party in Dundee. What's that musty smell?

[File under "Let's laugh at Google search topics" and "That'll keep the hits coming"]

Bad times

Yesterday, I did something which I can't go back and change; something I've since come to deeply regret...

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I watched Justin Lee Collins' Head Or Tails on Five. I know, I know! It was shite and my actions are totally unforgivable. It. Just. Sort-of. Happened.

I must admit that I began to warm a little to... ahem... JLC during his time on Friday/Sunday Night Project when he was paired up with Alan Carr, but I'm afraid he's now firmly back in my hate zone. Not only was Heads Or Tails even more mundane than its title might suggest, but it was also less entertaining than watching twenty-two identical sealed boxes being opened over the course of forty-five minutes.

I'll never get that time back and now I cant even look at myself in the mirror.

Put 'em in your mouth and suck 'em

So, the power of Facebook and Twitter are demonstrated yet again...

Like many things, they probably have as many good points as bad, so whilst Twitter may given a voice to many a discontented Iranian voter, it - along with The Book Of The Faces - is also responsible for replacing one complete bastard Christmas number one with another.

To be honest though, I'm not really all that fussed one way or another. I always found Rage Against The Machine's corporate-sponsored angst utterly boring and maybe that's because when they were at their most prolific, I was busy rediscovering music with proper tunes (En Vogue's My Lovin', Suede's The Drowners, Saint Etienne's Join Our Club and Maria McKee's Youth-produced joyfest, Sweetest Child being prime examples). For a reasoned argument against the tiresome Let's-Get-"Our"-Christmas-Number-One-"Back" campaign, just read the sentiments expressed by Mr Andrew Collins here (aye... of course, you come to my blog before you go to his... you're only human after all!).

Anyway, the whole point of this post is not to rage against RATM or, indeed, the X Factor. It's just that I'm so surprised that I actually know what is at the "top spot" - festive or otherwise! Putting aside the X Factor's yuletide successes of 2005 to 2008, I really cannot recall the last time I knew what was number one, far less give a shit!

Perhaps it was the time in 1998 when I wanted Chef's Chocolate Salty Balls to beat Spice Girls' Goodbye. And a fat lot of good that did.

I want to gouge my eyes out...

Sigh. I haven't been myself of late.

I don't know why, but I find I am being gripped by an ever-increasing rage at repititious, televised guff. Yes, it's fair to say that I'm always profoundly pissed off at annoying TV adverts and suchlike, but it's got so bad recently that I feel my very will to fucking live is being brutally eroded.

That X Factor/Talk Talk/Brightdancing/Neon Rainbow fucking bollocks is still some time away from disappearing from our screens. The final may very well be next week, but let's face it, there'll be a million and one follow-up shows for weeks to come.

And I was going to write about that fucking Josh cock-end from T-Mobile's latest bunch of arse (why does it always have to be mobile networks?), but I'll direct you towards the peerless Mr Brooker's latest piece instead.

PC World's, "My World Is..." campaign is particularly grating and I see they're back to showing that one with the movie-loving buffoon again. Yes, his world is "all about movies". Well, bully for fucking him, eh? According to the hateful advert, his missus apparently asked him to find a way of streaming his movies from his PC to the main living room TV. Why??? Surely all he needed to do was move his PC and plug the monitor lead into the telly's PC input. DSG's punter-hating staff certainly saw the stupid bastard coming, didn't they? They've only gone and flogged him another piece of kit which he didn't fucking need. What a total fud - he deserves to be ripped off die painfully.

Oh, I'm totally sick of these fuckers. What adverts are currently getting on your tits?

The Croppers will never get custody - he's a loony and she's a man...

The sunshine... throwing me a lifeline

Tuesday 1 December 2009.

It's 7.35am and it's totally, utterly freezing. But just look a this sunrise. No fancy techniques applied to this, just a 7MP Fuji Finepix pointed out the back window looking towards the Forth Valley. Pull apart my ribs and let the sun inside.

Stunning.

Smiling with electric faces...

Brightdancing? Fucking shitedancing*, more like.

I know that Alex Chilton, as a member of Big Star, has proved hugely influential on the likes of Teenage Fanclub and er... others, but I'm totally sick to the back fucking teeth of hearing him sing the same dreary lines from The Box Tops' Neon arse-ing fucking Rainbow as it relentlessly soundtracks the Talk Talk sponsor stings bookending X Factor ad breaks. Like all such stings, they're hopelessly, dreadfully repetitive and are designed to do nothing more than simply get on my tits.

It all just gets in the way of my life. Surely, I'm not the only one who feels their very life force being sapped by this cack, am I?

[*Shitedancing? Now that would be a sting and a half, wouldn't it? The "dancers" could smear different shades of... ahem... fudge all over those glass panels, instead of whatever the fuck those light things are.]

Let's hit opening time down on Vaccination Street

Sky "Two Jags" Clearbrook

I got a letter from the government the other day... well... my local GP's surgery, to be more accurate. I opened it and read it, it said I was "at risk".

Yes, seemingly I am in the "at risk" group for catching swine flu. So, I made the necessary appointment and - after another early morning appointment where I spotted a fellow Dunfermline-based blogger hanging about outside Davie Gray's hairdressing salon in the Maygate at about 0815 this morning (there is a reason I didn't make presence known this morning, but  - depending how things turn out - I might explain why I didn't draw attention to myself this morning, this time next week - yep, very cryptic) - I duly turned up for the en-masse vaccination surgery at 1055 this morning.

I was quite impressed at the efficiency of the whole operation - not what I've come to expect from Nethertown Surgery, Dunfermline, in recent years. By the time I arrived, the waiting room was jam packed. It turned out they'd already vaccinated 250 patients and I was part of the second batch of 250, each of us roll-called with startling efficiency. The busy-ness of the waiting room was somewhat deceptive - nobody found themselves sitting down for too long.

Upon hearing my name, I was frog-marched into Room 11 to be met by my actual GP. I swear, I don't think I've seen this geezer in the flesh since about 2004! Such is life at Nethertown Surgery... you usually just get who you're given!

So anyway, he did that squirty thing where they make sure there are no bubbles about to come up the needle and then.. he was straight into the top of my left arm... Penetrating me to the hilt; a little prick (if you will) like he'd just thrown a fucking dart from the other side of the room. Anyway, needles don't bother me and I'm happy to watch the whole thing as though it was somebody else's arm. Fucking, yes!!! Then his accomplice sitting at the PC piped up and said, "Actually, Mr Clearbrook's* also due the 'normal' flu vaccine too."

"Fine," I said, "In for a penny... Bring it on, seldom seen GP. Picture me giving a damn," I said, "Never!". So he stood up to the oche and launched a second dart, this time into my right arm. Hahahaaaaaa! Your fucking needles don't bother me! As a parting shot, he said to me that a normal reaction would be to experience some flu-like symptons for a few days (even although I recently read something to the contrary; apparently the only way for this to be true would be if the flu virus was already in your system at the time you had the vaccination - you just don't know who the fuck to believe, do you?). Well, whatever the outcome, I know I just have to grin and bear the consequences. I must admit, I've felt quite "off piste" since this morning, but certainly I haven't experienced any flu-like symptoms.

Anyway, although my swine flu arm aches much more than my "normal flu" arm, it's such a small price to pay. Thank fuck for the NHS.

[* Because, you just know that really is name, don't you?]

He will knock four times...

Well... I really enjoyed The Waters Of Mars. Looking forward to the next episode!

Your groove, I do deeply dig!

I always knew that the main bassline of Massive Attack's 1991 classic, Safe From Harm, had been borrowed from a much older track, but I never really knew which. And frankly, I never could quite get round to finding out.

Well, anyway... whilst playing GTA IV recently (yeah... and???), I noticed that one of the tunes on the in-car radio stations was this kind of soul-jazz workout featuring the bassline in question. A quick look at the game notes indicated that this is a track called Stratus by virtuoso drummer, Billy Cobham. Great... an 18 year mystery is unexpectedly solved. Then I thought I'd have a look on YouTube to see if there were any performances of said track and what was the first thing I should find? Well none other than this brilliant clip which I have rather lazily embedded into this post.

At first I thought it was going to be another one of those oh-so "whacky" singalong clips, the sort which are lazily included on drek like Channel Four's Rude Tube (hosted by one of my least favourite presenters - after Vernon Kay, of course!), but this cat's so far out and gone that I just simply could not stop watching. I just loved that he's clearly so passionate about the track and - to paraphrase a lyric from Safe From Harm - I found that his enthusiasm spread through my system like a virus (ooh... I hope that didn't seem too shoe-horned in there!!!).

Like you, I rarely watch lazy YouTube embeds [c. Avenues and Alleyways 2006-2009] , but if you can be at all bothered to do so on this occasion, then you'll find you're in for a wee treat. I'd love to go to this man's house, just chill out, have a drink and listen to his music collection in his company. It'd be totally ace.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Billy Cobham's Stratus, featuring commentary from Profyousion.

Walkin' about with a head full of music... or perhaps not

Who fancies a 32gb Samsung YP-P3 mp3 player for the bargain price of £149.99? I fucking do.

Back in mid-August, my beloved Creative Zen Vision M bit the dust so I reluctantly began the search for a new player. After a bit of digging, I unearthed this wee corker on the ever-reliable Play.com. I kept an eye on it for a couple of weeks; the release date was not until the end of August, so there was no rush. Sadly, the advertised date came and went, but I decided to order it anyway; by that point in time, the release date was being advertised as 21 September.

Then that date passed too. I was in for another wait, this time until 15 October. So I waited again... and then... what do you think happened? Yep, no prizes for guessing... another delay. And I'm still waiting.

The frustrating aspect to all of it this (other than just not having something I've had on order for months) is that at no point in time have Play.com endeavoured to explain exactly what's going on. I'm fairly sure that the issue really lies with Samsung, but it's a pretty poor show not to keep us customers informed, particularly when an item has been delayed so significantly. Whenever a release date is reached, all that happens is that the website changes to, "Temporarily out of stock - this item will be dispatched as soon as it arrives." After a few days, the page will begin to advertise yet another release date.

Earlier on in this post, I described Play.com as being "ever-reliable" and in the four years I've been ordering from them, they've never been anything less. But this current scenario seems especially out of character.

I'm willing to cut them a bit of slack, but frankly, the whole thing has become dreadfully fucking tedious. I just want my new mp3 player!

And the sickest joke was the price of the medicine

Haha!

I've been feeling quite dizzy for a few days now and have been experiencing a dull ache in my chest for most of today. I can never get an appointment at the doctors' surgery, and even when I do, they just fob me off (haha - never heard it called that before!)...

But it's probably just wind, eh?

Who put the bomp (in the bomp-a-bomp-a-bomp)?

Showaddywaddy, eh?

I thought that Romeo Challenger was a great moniker and I remember always getting singer, Dave Bartram, mixed up with "Mr" Roy Get-It-Together North off of The Basil Brush Show. It's maybe just my memory playing tricks, but they never seemed to be off Top Of The Pops or Cheggars Plays Pop in the olden days. I always thought they were quite pish, but to be fair, they came across as willing to send themselves up; I'm pretty sure they were no strangers to an attack by the Phantom Flan Flinger in their time.

Jeez, I bet there's all sorts of funny 'Waddy-related stories flying about in blogland. What are your memories of the dreaded 'Wad?

[Post script: To be fair to The 'Wad, Under The Moon Of Love had quite a swagger to it. Fuck the Pistols, The 'Wad  were all over the place in '76.]