Weh mir, oh weh

That's German, that. You can have that nugget of linguistic marvel for FREE, motherfucker. A little bit of polyglot self-pity, just for you, and you, and yooooo-hoooo-ooooo. Sorry, turned into Jim'll Fix It, there. Hopefully your head is as full of jewelry-bedecked old duffers in tracksuits bouncing nippers on their knees and leering at them as mine is. It would only be fair.

See, that's why I could never call this blogging. It's also why I could never write anything of any actual note. A cheap quip waves cheekily at me from across the textual way, I go steaming right in. I can't resist. Thomas Hardy's Return of the Native would have been a HELL of a lot funnier if I've written it. It would also have never have been published.

Anyway, I realised I hadn't stained the internet with any of my brain juice this year (well, I have, just not here), so I thought I should rectify it. And now I have.

Weh mir, oh weh indeed.

What a Debaucherous Bunch of Ruddy Loons!

Yeah, lyrics again, no special pertinence. And yeah, I preferred it when it was Judge Dredd swears, too.

You know what I noticed today? Well, not just today, I've noticed lots over a large period of time. I'll start again. Next paragraph please.

You know what I clearly noticed enough to be moved to come home and type at the internets about? Well, I'll tell you. There aren't half a lot of steamingly ugly people around. I have it on good authority that it is acceptable practice to peep about the place when you're sat on the tram/bus (or whatever) with your headphones on (or not, as the case may be) clocking people and briefly, idly evaluating them. Y'know "would, wouldn't, probably would, ugh no that's a man, eight pints would", that sort of thing. Well the only words that seem to pop into my head are things like "waxen-headed harpy", "plastic-faced troll", "sow-visaged mutant", "good christ, what the FUCK is that all about", "balding, orange, ham-armed midget". Most unpleasant.

Yes, I know. It is a good job that I'm perfect.

Another box of Mr. Kipling's Mince Pies appeared in my kitchen yesterday (I think they must be on offer at the Spar or something. Well, it's actually a Nisa now, not a Spar, but whatever). Leaving aside the fact that they are criminally horrible (quite pleased that Christmas has now fucked off, to be quite astonishingly frank), the competition and prize plastered all over the offending box quite intrigued me. See, the prize for the competition (can't remember what the competition was, probably a quest to see if you eat three of them without pulling a disgusted face or something) took the form of family tickets to see your all-time favourite pantomime. Well, what if my all-time favourite pantomime happened to be "Hot Danish Festive Lesbotic Lady and the Seven Equally Lesbicious Minge-a-holic Dwarfs"? Firstly, I think it is outrageously, nay, criminally irresponsible of Mr. Kipling to want to send a family to something like that - a family might reasonably be assumed to contain children, and I hardly think that ninety minutes of lusty midget ladies having a go on each others lady bits is suitable fare for children. Secondly, I think it is a quite ludicrous proposition of Mr. Kipling to offer me tickets to something that patently doesn't exist.

And that concludes my report on Christmas 2008. I'd like to thank a bottle of Sailor Jerry's Spiced Rum for allowing me to survive it with minimal long-term damage. Thanks, Bottle of Sailor Jerry's Spiced Rum for allowing me to survive Christmas 2008 with minimal long-term damage. There, I did it.

Now all we need is for New Year's Eve to fuck off, and I'll be a happier man. Well, marginally less rancorous, at any rate. I mean, really. What is the point? What is the strange passion that grips people and sends them out in their droves, grimly determined to enjoy themselves no matter how unlikely a proposal it is? I know, let's go to a pub/bar/club/brothel that we like, one we often go to and actually do have fun. Only for this one night, let's queue up for three hours and pay £30 for the privilege of entry even though it's free the rest of the year (if you chose brothel, then that bit probably doesn't apply. You probably have to pay for, ahem, "entry" most of the rest of the year, too). And then struggle to get drunk enough to be able to delude ourselves we're having fun, failing in the struggle because getting served takes three hours because they've let about a hundred more people than the fire safety licence actually allows, and you're trapped, pressed up against hordes of grey-faced sweating retards, equally grimly determined to convince themselves and the world that they ARE HAVING FUN. So grimly determined that they may occasionally attempt to hug you, or put their arm around your shoulders with an inordinate amount of force, squeezing tightly to try and squeeze the reality out of their tiny, malfunctioning brains. In one last, stomach-turning hurrah, one final assault on the Fortress of Fun, they'll sing. But they won't just sing, they'll be possessed an urge to hold your hand with their wrong hand and pump it violently whilst bellowing out the first line of Auld Lang Syne over and over because they are too feebly mongoloidy to know the rest of it. And heaven help if you don't want to sing. They'll probably shove a chair in your face for being a SPOILSPORT, a SCROOGE (even though that's Christmas and cock all to do with New Year), and RUINING THEIR LOVELY FUN. Grim-faced twats. Then, to top it all off, you have to wait nineteen hours in a freezing cold taxi rank with the retards, get bottled and/or stabbed, and pay the driver £80 for the privilege even though the same journey only costs about £12.

Reckon I'll stay in tomorrow.

See you next year! Hahaha, haha, ha. Ha. Ohhh, I'm so FUNNY.

Black is the Colour (of my Cat's Fur)...

...is just one of the songs on this album, apparently. It's a real, actual, purchasable album. And really, you have to ask the question.

FOR THE LOVE OF FUCK WHY?

Also, neither of your cats appear to be black. Racist.

I am an Admiral of the Sea!

I am, you know. No, no of course I'm not really. I'm just regurgitating bits of Grant Hart. Well, his lyrics, at any rate (from when he decided it would be a good idea to have a band, call it Nova Mob, and employ a ludicrously rudimentary drummer, instead of doing the sensible thing and playing all the instruments himself like he did on the first solo thing), I haven't cooked and eaten him. That would be horrible. Imagine that. Me cooking and eating Grant Hart. I might get addicted to the residual traces of heroin or something. Outrageous.

Anyway, having shamed myself defending Kingmaker, I thought I better do something else. Couldn't decide what - a sPazTune is a significant time investment, but I haven't seen any films recently (my shit film downloading and watching volumes have fallen off a cliff this year, no fun anymore). I've done waffling and being musically semi-serious (explicitly, I mean. I know it annoyingly creeps into the sPazTunes & sPazAmps. I try to keep it out, but sometimes there is no denying the pompous outpourings their egress). So, we'll have some old film news (if I've done it before, tough. Ram it up your rusty sheriff badges and stop complaining) and then I'll do a sPazTune. Worst of every world!

The Mist
Was quite good, for a bit. On balance though, this review will fall into the "I've watched The Mist, now you don't have to" category. So if you're bothered by spoilers then a) don't read and b) stop being a dick and reading other people's accounts of watching films that you don't want to know things about. What are you, fucking retarded? What do you expect? Do you expect everyone to just express vaguely qualitative statements with no supporting evidence and hide any details in fluffy little spoiler tags? Get a grip. And watch better films, retard.

So yeah. First half hour or whatever was good. Ooh, strange mist! Ooh, soldiers! Doing odd things! Ooh, normal life, turned slightly to the side! Ooh, man panicking, shouting vague warnings, in the daylight, in a shop! Ooh, things getting slightly odder, mist closing in, strange creatures! Disbelief! Panic! Ooh, Thomas Jane can't act!

And then. Oh, and then. Shitty CGI. Issue of mine, that. Half-assed actual effects I don't mind - they allow the suspension of disbelief to continue more easily somehow, after all, we all know it's pretend. But CGI? Done badly, it jars in a really odd way. For some reason, my suspension of disbelief facilities work better with someone swiping convincingly at a badly realised actual thing than swiping utterly unconvincingly at a tremendously realised virtual thing. Why this should be, I don't know. Good CGI I like (very much enjoyed Cloverfield, against all my better instincts), bad CGI irks in a very particular way.

Worse was the ending (or more actually, the remainder of the film after the opening "normal world" bit). Not the brutality of the ending (he shoots everyone excepts himself, including his son. Don't complain that I've ruined it, we've been through this. HE SHOOTS HIS SON. PROBABLY IN THE HEAD). That's kinda cool, in a really severe, almost unexpected way. No, it's the way the troop-carriers trundle past shortly after, carrying all the god-bothering freaks to safety, with a lingering close up on one of the smug god-nuts looking at him (Thomas Jane), gazing on his despair, whilst being transported to happy non alien dimension based death. That's no death by alien dimension things, rather than death by any other means than that, terribly phrased I know. It turns the point of the film into "go on, believe in the nutty old testament god. Don't bother with caring for each other, or being helpful, oh no. Just go bonkers, sacrifice people with a giant knife, get giddy about it, do nothing else other than stab people and cheer, you'll be fine". Because that's what the film says. To me. And that's all that matters here, cementheads. Marcia Gay-Harden (hurr) even gets to die in a big Christ-like pose, even though she's a big god-nutter who advocates the ritual stabbing-up of random people. Tsk.

I case you missed it it, at the end of the film The Mist, Thomas Jane SHOOTS HIS OWN SON, POSSIBLY IN THE HEAD. BRUCE WILLIS IS A GHOST. IT'S KEVIN SPACEY, HE'S NOT REALLY A CRIPPLE. PEARL HARBOR IS SHIT.

In related other news, Cloverfield is quite good, as is No Country for Old Men (even though he only says "Friendo" once). Quite liked Hellboy 2, can't be fussed writing more than that about any of them, which is either faint praise or faint damns, I'm not sure. Probably won't do a sPazTune, that all depends on how bored I get in the next five minutes.

T'ra and that.

Defiled Goats

Well, what else would be the opposite of a Sacred Cow? I'll probably do a Sacred Cow thing, I have so much hate for the perceivedly wonderful (yes Bob Dylan, I'm looking at you, you massive Nuclear-Powered Whiny Nasal Astro-Tramp. I'm also looking at you, Ringo "Thomas the Tank Shit Drummer" Starr, too. And the rest of the cocking Beatles), but for now I have a urge to address the opposite. Hence, Defiled Goats. Everyone automatically says they're shit, but they aren't, and they only say that because the Herd's brain-gonads instruct them to via the power of shit thinking and cloth ears.

Kingmaker (yay! it wasn't safety matches after all!). I liked them at the time. That time being the time they were making records. I also liked them at other times, but the time they were making records is the time I'm referring to atm the minute. Then I carried on with my weird and possibly, occasionally wonderful life and forgot about them a bit. I went through a couple of financially driven record purges, went out with a few people, lost a parent (turns out he was hiding behind the sofa. Bit after that he died, that was a lot sadder), trimmed a hedge or none, became obsessed with The Dubliners, went off them a bit, went to University two and a half times, drank my own weight in Rum, drank Rik Waller's weight in Rum, decided the Rum deserved a capital letter, found enjoyed betrayed lost and lamented largely the luminous love of my life, ate some cheese, had umpteen cups of coffee, owned upwards of four cars, expanded my jacket collection towards three figures, had a feud with the retards living opposite, got threatened with a machete in the name of work, spoke to about fourteen elderly South Asian doctors, renewed my hatred of public transport, passed thirty, obtained an extensive knowledge of cryptids because of millie (yeah, thanks for that. I also know what Pareiodal means, but I probably can't spell it. It's not Jesus, it's a shit photo), passed 37 (quite recent that one), boycotted a shop because they were mean to a remaining parent, smoked a bazillion cigarettes, swanned around displaying my awesomeness to the world, lost weight, put it back on again, proved that children's literature doesn't exist, subjected myself to all but one of the Harry Potter Books, and developed a burning, deep, abiding hatred of Russell Howard.

In short, I forgot about them. Then I remembered them (somewhat before a number of the things above happened - I couldn't stop, I was having too much fun). Then I remembered them, and had a listen to them. And they were just as good as I recalled, the most British of all the American sounding bands ever. If Grant Lee Buffalo, Buffalo Tom, or any large bovine themed American "alt" rock plaid wearing band had been subjected to a childhood in Hull, they'd sound like Kingmaker. A vast swathe of subsequent bands owe a huge debt to Loz and his cohorts. Yes, even Radiohead. Fair enough, no one does irritating sub-sixth form poetry lyrics better than the demented arse-weasel Thom Yorke and his chums, but Loz managed slightly above sixth form poetry lyrics. Neither are particularly impressive or deep, but Kingmaker's are decent percentage closer to being as clever as they think they are than Radioshed's are. And tunes? They had tunes coming out of their ears. Which probably caused a signifiant problem of its own, can't have been easy recording mighty impressive songs with shit cascading from your ears.

Thing is, when I reacquainted myself with their own, inimitable wonder, an esteemed associate of mine saw fit to comment (on one of my many organs of internet expression. Yeah, I'm cool. And no, you still can't touch me) something along the lines of "Kingmaker? Even Kingmaker haven't listened to themselves for fifteen years". Said esteemed colleague has, to my mind, quite a reasonable taste in music, but this wasn't enough to prevent the parrotting of a perceived mis-wisdom. Ears of cloth, and typing fingers made of battenburg. Or possibly battenberg, I can't be arsed looking it up.

So Kingmaker. Not shit at all, when you think about it. They had their moment, and then they had to endure their anti-moment where they mattered less than Midway Still (on another day, I'll point out why their version of "You Made Me Realize" widdles on My Bloody Valentine's original from the point where the top of the WTC used to be. I'll also mention how their autographs also reduced the retail value of one of their records. What the lord gives with one hand, he has a bunch of angels mercilessly mug you for with another). And now, I reckon, they should have another moment. A Kingmaker moment. I'm having one of them right now. It's quite pleasant, if a bit disconcertinly middle class. I'll be moving on to Husker Du (umlauts. now. bitches) shortly, no chance of them being underrated. Mainly on account of Bob Mould being a football headed corporate bottom feeder. Yes, he feeds on bottoms. It's fuelled by his anger at the fact that Grant Hart did Bob Mould singing better than Bob, and wrote better songs (apart from Bob's manic wailing on Eight Miles High, that's awesome that is. Even if it's by a spherical money grabber).

But I digress.

Kingmaker. Clinging to the fading Kingmaker moment, here's a slice to tickle your sacculus with.



Yes, I'm too good for you and yes, I suspect my choices are determined by my ongoing lament.

GET OUT.

Conundrum

No, not the kind that Carol Whoreface Vorderman would do inbetween flogging debt and margerine-based phantom cholesterol cures to poor people in adverts. Do I do a post about the awesomeness of Grant Hart (erstwhile drummer from Husker Du [apply your own umlauts, fuckers], heroin addict and top-drawer musicker), or do I do a sPazTune?

Poor Grant has less than a thousand listeners on Last.fm. I find this utterly criminal, as I secretly passed a law making not registering your love for Grant Hart on Last.fm a crime. It also makes me sad, as he's a talent that your ears crave, cleave to and generally want to have ear sex with.

Well? Hurry up, cementdudes, it's already gone midnight. Oh, you can't suggest until I've posted, can you. By which time, I will doubtless have decided, and the whole matter will be redundant. Oh well, much as I hate to disappoint my readership (hi millie, if you're still reading. If you are, why? Go and have your head felt), I shall plough on regardless and you will doubtless see the fruits of my ploughing in the next post. I somehow doubt it will be a crop of turnips. Crock of shit, maybe, crop of turnips, less likely.

Alternatively I could do something about the persistent box-based irritant that is safety matches, or wibble on about Kingmaker.

Oh, decisions, decisions.

Johnny Brainstorm!

That would either be brilliant, or the worst cartoon ever. On the one hand, it could be a massively hazy and drug-fuelled superish hero romp through the galactiverse, on the other it could just be a half an hour of someone called John sat a table thinking really, really hard about something. Either way, it's a line from my favourite Mad Sin song, second best purveyors of fine German psychobilly.

So anyway, yeah. I'm not inventing a new cartoon superdrughero (again, that could be ace, or just someone preventing a robbery in an inferior Boots rip-off shop), I'm just burbling about things sloshing about my head. In type form. The burbling, that is, things aren't sloshing about my head in type form. Oh no, they slosh in lurid, sleazy, all-too-graphic detail. No matter what I'm thinking about. Thinking about red leicester cheese? Lurid, sleazy, all-too-graphic detail. It's both a blessing and curse. And a load of old tossy waffle, too.

To business, though. I reckon it's time for a sPazTune. Yes, you heard me right, a sPazTune. Not a sPazAmp, a sPazTune. Why? I heard you shout in an incredulous fashion (utilising my special set of internet enabled ears, ears that can even detect made-up sounds. Yes, I have used that line before. Sue me, bitch). Well, I'll tell you. See, my car, little Adolf the Audi A3 (1.8t sport, if you must know) is a little elderly. S reg elderly, to be precise. And, like all similarly elderly audis, he suffered from a very specific ailment. Namely, the stereo volume control. See, in their infinite teutonic desire to enslave europe wisdom, they decided that it should have an electronic volume control, one that would necessitate writing all changes to memory, to make sure the little car stereo knew how loud your ears liked your music. Nothing wrong with that, you might think. Except they wrote it to an eeprom chip permanently. Permanently. Giving you a finite number of volume changes - about 10,000 or so, to be inexact. At some point in the past year, Adolf reached his 10,000 and could only remember three volumes - average, TOTAL, and really tiny. Average was slightly too loud for sitting in your car outside your house, way too quit for the motorway and/or drowning out the unwelcome whining of car guests. So I replaced it, as a treat for Adolf on my birthday.

All well and good you might be saying (you probably aren't, because you aren't reading), but what on earth does that have to do with the price of sPazAmps? Well, see, I thought I'd be technoclever. I bought one that went with the old iPod (well, not that old, that was also a self-present, replacing the giantist original one with the vastly decrepit battery. I lent the interim replacement, a splendid little Sony thing, to a man going to Iraq). And I couldn't be fussed with sPazAmping with an iPod, so I bit the horrible Apple bullet and reinstalled sPazTunes.

So there you go. The reversion to sPazTunes. Except I took so long about this (I was distracted by facebook and things. I'm so cool. No, you can't touch me. Get off) that you don't get an actual sPazTune. I listened to lots of psychobilly, trawl back through previous efforts and compile your own. There's enough of them in there. Christ, do I have to spoonfeed you EVERYTHING, cementheads?

BEGONE.