Bollocks, Tears and Gold...

This song, nay, Hurts in general, have completely mixed up my feeble little mind. On one hand, Blood, Tears and Gold is an absolutely cracking song - talky bits followed by singy bits, the repetition of 'baby' and even little bit angsty bits perfect for a karaoke booth clenched fist emphasis. Hurts are pretty cool too - they look like Bros suffering the effects of a massive come-down, possibly after being cryogenically frozen for twenty years and their clothes herald a brand new era of hipster attire; a boon for maufacturers of Brycleem and Claire's Accessories earrings.

So what is the problem? I hear you cry. Well, it's all gubbins really, isn't it?

' It's twenty seconds since I left you/And I remember why I never looked back' - Well that's not exactly hard is it? Apart for instances of epilepsy or severe violent blackouts, it's pretty hard to forget what you were doing twenty seconds ago. I was debating whether to italicise some text. I write slowly.

'I never let you down baby baby /I never let you down baby baby /And it won't get any better, blood tears and gold' - What is better than not letting someone down? Not letting them down and giving them a tic tac as you do so?

Now I have no problem with gubbins per se, indeed some of my favourite songs feature gratuitous use of the word 'baby' and/or make very little sense but come on Hurts, the po faces? The arty black and white shots of a woman shaving her leg that I assume is some intense symbolism but just makes me shudder and remember Bic-related injuries of yore? Blah. The song itself is about as profound as Lady Bunny hosting a symposium on the latest trends in glitter eyeshadow, so why not just be bait about it? You can still sing about sad things. Take Alcazar, for example, and their ten year old dancefloor classic 'Crying at the Discotheque' (curse you, embedding disabled by request)

Lets compare.
Raw emotion. Eyes are the windows to the soul, so it makes far more sense to stare cross-eyed into the light as this intesifies their emo beam. Highlighting them further with a massive pair of Primark sunglasses is optional.

What is more powerful? An eagle walking like an Egyptian, or a leg? One screams 'tribute to the lost kingdoms of yore, the power of nature and the might of the Bangles' the other 'Gilette'.


You can frown or play a gutiar at an odd angle to convey intesity. But then again, you can do a dance routine while clad in tin foil and flanked by a host of weird animal hybrids. You tell me what is more intense, being trapped in a room with two blokes in a sulk, or being trapped in a room with a load of terrible genetic experiments gone wrong and a man wearing silver kneepads who keeps trying to bump his cock against you. Exactly.

Thou Shalt Always Kill (De La Version) Lyrics - Dan Le Sac vs Scroobius Pip feat. Plug One

I bloody love 'Thou Shalt Always Kill' by Scroobius Pip, so when I heard the new De La Soul remix on 6Music today, product of the Smash Hits generation that I am, I tried to find the new lyrics online. Naewhere tae by found.

Therefore I have just wasted a good half hour of my life, writing them down for you, dear reader (and my god do my poor finger joints now hurt). There are a couple of bits I couldn't catch, but I guess if you wait a couple of months it will be on one of those psycho spammy websites where you get the chance to download a ringtone/virus and flashing bejewelled Dan Le Sac with your lyrics.

If you haven't heard the song, here is the video. It's great.



Thou shalt not assume that because I'm a Leo I will act real proud.
Thou shalt not type 'lol' unless you're really laughing out loud.
Thou shalt not ???? verve on your voice so you can say 'thou shalt not'.
Thou shalt not think everyone with a beard is a terrorist.
Thou shalt not think that having a blog makes you a journalist.
Thou shalt not lie to anyone under the age of six, unless it's concerning major holidays.
When someone dies thou shalt no longer be under obligation to cry saying 'he'll be missed' knowing good and well that he was an asshole.
Thou shalt not take the names of Paul Newman, Jimmy Stewart, James Dean, Humprey Bogart, Groucho Marx, Geroge Carlin or Midge Hedberg in vain.
Thou shalt choose a political party based on their policies, as opposed to just going with who your family's always supported; they are not a football team.
Yo and you should not be mad, that everywhere you go, outside your pad, smells like cigarettes because no one can smoke inside now.
Thou shalt not upload half naked pictures to an folder called 'Me and my Bitches' then get upset and get in stitches when you get more ???????
Thou shalt not read NME.
Thou shalt not rush to buy the next Ipod.
Thou shalt not buy Coca-cola products, thou shalt not buy Nestle products.
Thou shalt not rush home to watch X Factor.
Thou shalt not rush De La Soul into making his next album... yo lemme do it again, let me do that one again.
Thou shalt not put musicians or recording artists onto ridiculous pedistals no matter how brave they are, or were.
The Beatles? Just a band
Led Zepplin? Just a band
The Beach Boys? Just a band
The Sex Pistols? Just a band
The Beastie Boys? Just a band
A Tribe Called Quest? Just a band
Organised Confusion? Just a band
De La Soul? Just a band
Foals? Just a band
The Ting Tings? Just a band
The Streets? Just a band
Kid Carpet? Just a band
Radiohead? Just a band
Bloc Party? Just a band
The Arctic Monkeys? Just a band
Next big thing? Just a band
Thou shalt not refer to any of my peeps as 'people', if that word 'people' is following after the world 'you' and be spoken by someone not of colour.
Thou shalt not point out to me how stupid it is to call myself a 'person of colour' but then get mad if someone not of colour calls me a 'coloured person'.
Thou shalt not fuck with my children.
Thou shalt not fuck with my money.
Thou shalt not convince me that Dr Phil is better than Dr J.
Thou shalt not think that Tina Turner can't shake her ass harder than Beyonce.
Thou shalt be aware that there are no longer any musical genres - they're all just different dress codes and different fashion styles.
Punk is now just a style
New Rave? Just a style
Emo? Just a style
...aah forget it I ain't getting into that again.
Thou shalt not scream if you wanna go faster.
Thou shalt not move to the sound of the wickedness.
Thou shalt not make some noise for Detroit.
When I say hey thou shalt not say ho.
When I say hip thou shalt not say hop.
When I say he say she say we say make some noise....kill me
Thou shalt not look in the mirror while you're crying, your eyes already know.
In this world of many distractions thou shalt not lose focus.
Thou must stay on track.
Thou shalt always...thou shalt always.... killllllllll.

Nothing is new...or sexy

I expect by now you've seen Morrissey's new 'gasp omg contravorsial' CD sleeve (Dlisted and Ich Luge Bullets have shrieked about it at length) It's here anyway in all it's pallid fleshy glory:

Ha, let us blight the memory of your favourite songs as they will now forever be associated with some hairless pale blokes from the pub stand around nonchalently listening to Morrisey play 'pat a cake' on his head.

Well anyway, vaguely offputting it is. New, contravorsial or different it aint. Get ready for a second scar on your retinas...

Yup, Cosmopolitan, glossy mag for slags (or for those stuck at train stations when WH Smiths has run out of Marie Claire) has had celebrity male centerfolds for years, including this incredibly...honest? one of Radio 1 or 5 or whatever DJ Colin Murray* from a couple of years ago.

One can only assume (or rather would like to assume as it is tres amusent) that Moz is a Cosmo Girl

*I don't get it. If you were of a slightly mouse-like persuasion, why would you agree to have your DJ partner (with her incredible invisible legs and torso) hold a CD over your bits in a delicate pinching fashion one would usually use when trying to pick up a teeny tiny jellybean off a desk? No amount of 'it's THIS big' hand gestures from you is going to offset that.

Quit yo snarking..

I saw this video on a website, where is was (quite rightly) being merrily derided for being one of the shittest music videos ever. Honestly, watch it through, it's bloody terrible.. BUT I have not been able to get the song out my head all week.




Edit: If you watch this video on Youtube it has funny comments that pop up, but it doesn't seem to work when you embed it.

It's quite an interesting story really, Jan Terri worked as a limousine driver to fund recording her music (hence the rather ubiquitous use of the limo in the video) and made a load of terrible cheapo videos to promote them, which she would give out to the snarky media types she chauffered around. These little videos, which featured the Cabbage Patch-esque Terri wandering around bleak cityscapes like a little be-leathered baked potato, were dubbed from VHS to VHS (remember life before DVDs and Youtube?) and passed around media agencies until Ms Terri was something of a cult hit in such circles.

Then one day Marilyn Manson saw them, met Terri, and was so impressed by her sincerity that he hired her to play at his party and even open a show for him. Well, that's what Wikipedia says, I'd like to think that he was genuinely impressed and he wasn't just laughing at her some more, but in any case, she got another album and a greater cult following out of it, so I guess everybody sort of won.

Anyway I genuinely really like it, it's a good little new wave pop song, okay so not exactly in tune and bloody rough around the edges, but a catchy little song indeed.

I also think Jan deserves props for her sheer perseverence and chuzpah to keep doing what she loved, and not letting her looks, her lack of dollar or, let's face it, her slight trouble holding a note, hold her back.

The Rock-afire Explosion - My New Favourite Band

..well, that and the creepiest thing I have seen all year. This might seem a rather glib thing to say on January 2nd, but I happen to be watching a tv show which compiles all the most popular Youtube clips of 2008. So actually I've already seen a pelican eat a pigeon and a dog having a wank. So there.

Aaanyway, from what I can gleam from Youtube and Wikipedia, the Rock-afire Explosion were an animatronic robot band (oh but of course!) that they had installed in lots of Shobiz Pizza Places across the US of A. I feel this demostrates both how seriously Americans take their pizza consumption experience, and how much damn space there is, that they could have a full sized robot band in every joint. And both these things make me jealous.



But yeah, now someone has funked up childhood nightmares, got robots to sing rude songs and put it on Youtube and of course the result is fabulous! There is quite a good Shakira one too you should check out as it includes cheeky inter-puppet banter.

Some places in America still have grimy fluff and latex covered robots to jerk around while you eat and haunt your dreams while you sleep, although with a new rubbish and more basic lineup. This is apparently because of process known as 'concept unification' which is a typically bullshit marketing phrase if ever I heard one, but thankfully one that has a hideous mid 90's video to go with it, which basically seeks to justify why a giant jerky Italian Chef isn't a weird choice of robot to put the kids at ease as they descend into obesity.



You might notice how I now am just linking things, rather than do my usual 'see it HERE'. Think of it as a supremely minor resolution for 2009. Aim small kids, avoid disappointment

Out In De Streets Dey Call it Muuuurdah

Aah so I have just returned from the chicken bone strewn circle of hell also known as the Notting Hill Carnival.

I suppose it was okaaay, I mean, I used to think I was the whitest girl alive and so looked about as 'in place' at Carnival as Cher would on a pilgramage to Mecca, but that was before I went to Carnival with A and E who take being 'whitey' to a loud shrieky level not seen since Julia Stiles in Save the Last Dance. (or maybe those Step Up films but I haven't seen them) But Y to the T anyway.

Although I drew the line at drinking rose from a cup and bogling to reggae in the middle of Porterbello Road with several other rah-sterfarian* friends of A, after a while (and several drinks) it felt less like a poultry stinking pressure cooker of barely repressed anarchy and violence and more like a noisy dirty festival in the middle of London.

After a while (and some more drinks) we had a dance and a drum n bass stage, which is where I got a pondering on precisely how bizarre drum n bass dancing is. I mean, I think I have thought this before - and by thought I mean druggily ranted at someone in the toilet queue at Fabric - but never have I put finger to keyboard about it.

But yeah, so for one, dancing to DnB you basically dance by yourself. This in itself is quite weird if you think of the great grand history of Dance, which is basically an inclusive group activity. But in DnB you barely touch, unless your gun fingers (pow! pow!) accidentally go on the opposite trajectory as the person next to you's eyeball socket.

Secondly, you don't really move from the same spot. Unless you are a bit of a fancy dick with your leg work or are off your face and flail about like a psychotic spider, you generally bop about from foot to foot as if you are standing on rather hot sand.

Thirdly, one of the most common moves is to slump your shoulders forwards and sway from either them if you are male, or from your waist if you are female. This is not terrible attractive, again, unusual for a Dance, traditionally a roundabout way of attracting people.

Remember those plastic anthropomorphic flowers you could buy that danced when you played them music? I imagine from the stage we must have all looked like that, albeit bedecked in Jamaica whistles, soaked in Red Stripe and with poor posture.

But anyway, Carnival. It's over for another year and maybe in 2009, unlike the last two years, I won't be saddled with a friend who is all 'omg but I've never beeeeen and you have to go to Carnivaaaaal'.

Honestly, I'm such a whore for London knowledge based flattery - tell me you've never been to Brick Lane and we'll be sitting there having overpriced shitty curry made with 40% water injected chicken breast before you can say 'oh cool was this like, where that book was set?'

*rah like 'awful privately educated braying Henrys and Camillas who gad about Carnival in their multicoloured Ray Bans going 'oh yah, I rahly love that Leathal Bizzle, his shit is like, totally street? yeah?' I just thought of that phrase and although it undoubtly exists already, I am quite proud of myself.

Madge Vadge!

From Racked.com, this poor Warner Bros prole turned up to her office one morning to discover she now works in one of the most overexposed, hard working Vajayays in pop.

And it also happens to be an incredibly tenuous excuse for me to post this clip of the Day Today (see last 2 seconds of clip)

(rather hefty) Eurovision Blog 2008!

8.00 - 'You know Sex and the City is on at ten' says R. I hope this does not set the tone for the evening.

'...FOUR episodes back to back!'

Even worse, I have forgotten my glasses so will have to rely slightly on R to work out what the hell is going on.

8.01 - A 'Harry Potter gone wrong' lesbian [edit: kudos to Ginger for that one] and another dressed in loo roll kick off the show. Some very impressively dressed dancers placicate R and she skips off to get wine, admitting that 'it is a bit shit to sit watching Eurovision drinking tea'

ROMANIA - The black, the white and the dull. 'It's like Celene Dion and Peeboo Bryson' says R in a cultural reference that leaves me stumped. Even a key change can't change this emotive mess.

UK - Oh wow it's like D Reem or.... 'Hot Chocolate' never happened. I point out that R is only saying this because both Andy and Errol are somewhat of a type. Well anyway, it's very mid 90's disco, from the music to the stage, which looks like the woman from Deelite's dress. Go Andy!

ALBANIA - Another ballad is leaving us somewhat stumped. Where are the dancing smurfs, fake blood and funkysexydiscobeats? I try and blag to R that I knew all along that Belgrade is a city in Serbia and not a country in it's own right.

GERMANY - They have ripped the beat from What You Waiting For? by Gwen Stefani, but frankly it's not a ballad so I am inclined to be forgiving. The four girls also look like trannies wrapped in curtains which is slightly amusing.

8.24 - Terry is wittering on like a man who hit the Baileys at about 4pm. Can you get drunk on Baileys? Discuss.

ARMENIA - I once used to fancy someone from Armenia. True story. The Armenian entry is a sophisticated mix of lyrical mastery and musical complexity. Not true story. 'Instead of wanting me, you should be reaching me, come on Kelle, Kelle, Kelle' (repeat 10x) and some pan pipes if we insist on being factual.

BOSNIA - This is more like it! Four brides, two grown people dressed as children and washing line of knickers as a prop. Mental song but we get distracted as I realise the childwoman looks a leeetle bit like my flatmate and then R asks me why Bosnia is called BosniaandHerzogovina and I don't have a clue even though my Dad worked in foreign news and spent six months in Bosnia back when shiz was going down.

Oh bugger, it appears I have missed some gems from the Englishly challenged host while musing on the past. 'Belgrade is captial of world tonite!' is the gist of it

ISRAEL - It sounds very...Israeli. I thought Dana International wrote this, so am expecting some sort of kitschness but it's just ballad so far. Ooh a troupe of street gays have tromped on stage. Oh, but only to sing back up. And to do some lame hopping on the spot. Huh.

Terry Wogan tells us to press the red button for some reason and R willingly obliges. The screen goes blue and I shriek.

FINLAND - Never one to give up a winning formula, Pantera-lite have taken to the stage. HOOO HAAA! (the chorus I think) R comments that all rock men have really crap long hair: 'I mean, if you're going to have long tresses at least get some Frizz Eze'. It's pretty loud and epic, but we are distracted by the cat chasing its tail out on the patio.

CROATIA - Here come the Men in Hats/Middle aged fat benders/Here come the Men in Hats/They won't let you remember. And I thought I would never be able to describe Croatians through the medium of a Will Smith parody. This is a proud day for me. For some inexplicable reason R declares this her favourite.

POLAND - The Polish entry looks like Aishlyne from Big Brother crossed with an easter egg. 'She's singing in English but I still don't know what she's saying' R comes out with one of the most common comments on Eurovision. 'It raises your pocket' 'You found my heart and I'm milking a swollen kite' is what I make out.

ICELAND - Techno techno techno! Iceland also sticks with its not quite so winning formula of gay trance. 'THIS IS MY LIFE!' Oh god it's absolutely brilliant, it's been on for thirty seconds and we can already sing along. Even the cat swinging from the patio umbrella cannot distract from this superpop euro anthem. I imagine it will get quite high votes from the UK.

TURKEY - They have instuments so are working on a slight Finland flex, but are more like Placebo, if Placebo sang in Turkish and had a lead singer that resembled Sylar from Heroes. It's passionate songs like this that almost wish I knew what on earth they were banging on about.

PORTUGAL - R is loving Terry Wogan, aside from red button bidding she just chuckled aloud at his quip about the - shall we say rotund? - Portugese entry. I'm finding he's a bit rambly this year but eh, I haven't had as much wine as R yet.

Oh, the Portugese entry is blah.

LATVIA - Pirates! Techno beats! People who don't seem to quite know the English lyrics they are singing. Actually most of this song goes 'Hi hi ho hi hi hey, we're hoisting the flag to be free....' so I guess it doesn't really matter. 'Does Latvia even have a coastline?' R quibbles, but then joins in merrily with the chorus.

SWEDEN - 'I think she's a drag queen' 'nah she sounds female' 'no look at her leg muscles. Women don't have legs like that.... oh wait, maybe she is female' This is the inane conversation that accompanies this rather inane song which is apparently a favourite. She does look hella creepy in the facial area, that much is true.

9.10 - Oh god now I actually chuckled at Wogan. No, I snorted, even worse. R is trilling 'All Night Long' by Lionel Richie. It would appear the wine has gone headwards.

DENMARK - Denmark entry thinks he's quite cool, and actually, with his flatcap, braces and funky tattoo, I guess he is a bit more 'street' that some, but he's still singing 'if you life like a sad song maybe, you should try to celebrate it/ All night long!'

R astutely points out the whole song is a mix of Lionel and that 'Celebrate good times c'mon! ' 70's funk hell of a track. So not cool in the slightest.

GEORGIA - This woman had better be blind as there is no excuse for wearing Jewish Mum sunglasses onstage. Mind you, broken corneas would explain her 'portly edward scissorhands' outfit.

9.16 - R has tottered off to make noodles and even I am getting a tad bored and wonder how many more there are to come. There had better be some crazy shit going down next.

UKRAINE - It's pretty good, but another case of foxy sequinned lady flanked by dancing men in black make it a bit forgettable dispite the good hook. She sings about her heart being 'burning' though, which makes me think of Rennies.

9.26 - The Eurovision trophy looks like a glass sweetcorn cob.

FRANCE - Sebastian Teller. I've heard of him! All the backing singers have beards and it has an amazing 70's aesthetic which... ' looks a bit cool for Eurovision' R neatly sums it up as she potters back in with her noodles.

AZERBAIJAHN - 'NOT in Europe!' shrieks R and I have taken a dislike as I have no idea how to spell Azerbi...etc. Oh, but they do have a castrato angel and some madass Goths, so very much Fit In. Huh the goth has now done a superfast costume change and is now an angel too. 'You like this?' R is incredulous. '..he sings very high' is my lame justification, but I fear they may have my vote.

GREECE - It follows the formula as the Ukraine. But not as good. 'Why do people think that is a sexy dance?' asks R, in the face of multiple pelvic spasms.

SPAIN - The irony that has finally spread through France has not quite reached Spain it would seem...it's reasonably funny and has robot dancing, a plastic guitar and the words 'cheeki cheeki'. Maybe it's just too late in the show. An hour ago I would have been all over this shit. People are booing though! That's a bit harsh. It kicked Greece's sorry thrusting arse.

SERBIA - boring.

RUSSIA - 'I be standing straw like a tree of wee' Oh dear, working out the lyrics never gets old. Neither does dressing in white, wearing bead chokers and clenching your fists apparently. Oh but the man who looks like a bank manager enterprative dancing/twatting around like a flailing idiot raises the game. And the fit fist clencher just tore his shirt off, which is nice.

NORWAY - FINAL SONG! Oh good o, I am a bit hungry. Hope this post isn't too long and rambling. I'll add in pics and edit and stuff when I get back to work on Tues. 'You might be saying ooooh! I don't wanna be lonely' trills the Norwegian Mariah Carey. 'Yes.' says R with suprising sincereity.

Right, time for a break. Oh no, they've brought on 'Serbian Basketball Legend' Vlad Devotch. Now break.

UPDATE: So Russia won, the UK did pretty crap and now everyone will hark on about political voting, eastern europe blah blah blah. Snore. Maybe if the UK actually entered something we do comparatively well - like R&B pop - and didn't just do either anthems or kitsch, and maybe if anyone in the UK gave two shits about Eurovision BEFORE the results were in, then we would do well.

All Types of Amazing

spotted in Weston Super Mare

Americana, Bees, Chris Cornell

While noodling around the internet (trying to work out whether I had accidentally plagurized the bee baby from the header of my page in a t shirt design)I rediscovered Blind Melon. My Dad had the album and I clearly remember him likening me to the similarly aged Bee Girl. This was unintentionally hurtful, as although he thought she was hilarious and enchantingly cute, she was also quite obviously as similarly rotund and ungainly to his own little progeny.

Anyway, the video is below, but further than a little weight related nostalgic moment, it made me pine for early 90's americana in general. It was around that time that I first discovered music, and MTV, thanks to visiting my Dad's work and raiding his CD's (new format sent him a little bonkers, hence all the popular hits of the day) and I remember thinking that music videos were possibly the coolest things ever.



Things were simpler back then, people smiled, there were no stylists (it would seem), the colours were brighter and it was fine to dance around like complete idiots, as aptly demonstrated by REM:



Barring the fact that such videos mean there are photos of me in existence where I am wearing John Lennon sunglasses and a backwards flatcap, I think it's a shame that things inevitably progressed as they have. These days (and I am aware that I sound about fifty right now) music videos are unbiquitous and for the most part, identikit. Most involve dead eyed models in thongs gyrating around in some conveluted choreography or acting like pieces of meat over a disco beat. No wonder little girls are growing up fast and getting complexes about their appearance! Even the Bee Girl, my own little eight year old doppleganger, finds happiness at the end of 4 minutes and 50 seconds, in a wonderful garden where people accept her for who she is. How many happy fat girls do you see in music videos these days?

Anyway, I couldn't finish this post without embedding the video that kind of sums up my whole MTV worship era. Moody dudes on a hillside, the most advanced camera trickery of the day, wind machines and warped-yet-slightly cliche imagery to stimulate impressionable young minds. Utterly creepy and fantastic.



Even though this vid (along with the dancing chicken in the Peter Gabriel video) totally scared the shit out of me out at the time, I'd let my daughter watch them over Pussycat Dolls any day of the week.

Do you get the feeling some contries are no longer treating Eurovision with the reverence it deserves?

Observe Spain and Ireland's entires:





It's all a little...



don't you think?

Headline of the Day - 'John Lennon returns to Liverpool - as a 10ft illuminated pie '

The actual news story is quite boring.. a giant Blackpool illumination of John Lennon as a pie has been bought by 'Official City of Culture 2008' Liverpool.

Blogging the Brits 2008

20.01 - Oh look it is a gay, a balloon and a big spider. Hello Mika, hello Brits 2008.
A bit of coolness is wrestled back when Beth Ditto pops up for a duet, but to those who are not wearing their glasses (because they dropped them behind the sofa) it looks like a runner bean duetting with one of those Marks and Spencer gummy pig sweets.

Wow Kelly Osborne looks like a goth Lisa Stansfield, Jack looks like one of those bikers who cook things on telly and Ozzy and Sharon just look the same as they have for the last ten years

20.07 - First joke to fall flat, courtesy of Chris Moyles. A nation is unsuprised.
Take That trounce all those poxy instrument playing bands like Muse and Arctic Monkeys to win Best Live Act. It never fails to astound me how TT always sound like a group of old men piddling away their retirement in a northern pub. They now appear to dress like them too.

20.12 Rihanna and the Klaxons - exciting prospect, amazing strobey set but I can't shake the niggling fear that the Klaxons are always rather crap live. Luckily it is Rihanna, resplendent with a teatowel on her head, that appears to be doing most of the work. Yeah, the actual sound is a bit 'meh' but they look like a Mad Max inspired alien princess and her slaves, so all is not lost.

20.16 Oh GOD, like AIDS in the 1980's Fearne Cotton has reared her ugly head to ruin everyone's fun. I mute her. Thus far the last sixteen minutes would have actually been more enjoyable without sound.

20.23 Apparently Adele has already won the Critic's Choice Award and we are meant to know this. M-to-the-eh, although it is nice to see Will Young again and marvel at his new hairplugs.

20.26 I hope Leona Lewis doesn't win Best British Breakthrough Act, as aside from having to sing live on Loose Women, I don't think she has actually done anything to fuel her huge massive fame as she possesses not so much a team of PR people as a small Roman legion. Oh no, the singing runner bean has won.

20.29 Kylie takes to the stage with a troupe of dancing Quality Street and a bad wig. She is clearly miming, but she has beaten cancer, been cheated on and has a nice smile so all is forgiven.

20.33 Cotton mute again, but I can still see Mika looking slightly contemptuous at whatever it was she said. When Mika looks at you in contempt you know it is time to go and throw yourself into a deep pit of boiling tar.

20.40 Why is Bruce Springsteen nominated for Best Male whatever? Didn't he die ages ago? Good old Kanye: "Someone probably deserves this more than me, but I don't know who they are". Maybe so, but no one rocked hilarious venetian blind inspired sunglasses quite like you dear.

20.43 Modern day Narcissus, Mark Ronson, has won Best UK Male. He probably says something hideously pompous and self congratulatory, but I just gaze at his pretty pretty face. "He looks like he would have been a cute toddler" says the Flatmate dubiously. I think she's just hung up on his rather crap puddingbowl hairstyle though.

20.45 Our takeaway arrives so we get a bit distracted and don't watch the Kaiser Chiefs.

20.59 Kylie wins something and pretends to be all thankful and surprised, like she hasn't won a Brit every year since the dawn of time. The Flatmate and I debate the merits of David Tennant. He is wearing a t shirt like one I had from Gap when I was twelve but I still love him. The flatmate thinks he is 'pathetic' as he is over the age of twenty and wears Converse.

21.00 'A European Bridal catalogue from 1992' takes to the stage and it requires a cast of fifty dancers to make her appear even vaguely interesting. Ladies and Gentlemen, Miss Leona Lewis!

21.05 The U2 Award aka Best International Group. They have now won a lifetime award though, so I think they have been put out to pasture, presumably so someone else can win. Indeed it is Foo Fighters who win and will doubtlessly now win for the next ten years.

21.07 Unfortunately PJ Harvey has not yet been able to break the curse of the Best British Female nomination for the fifty-third year in a row as Kate 'modern Pam Aires' Nash wins. She 'fanks' us all.

21.12 The Foo Fighters win something else, but our Cotton Mute went on too long so we missed what the actual award was for. Dave Grohl takes the piss yet still appears like a nice bloke, such is his all encompassing 'Good Guy' aura.

21.14 Puddingbowl Narcissus performs. "So basically all Mark Ronson does is add trumpets to things" the Flatmate observes. The Winehouse comes on! The world (well, the Brit School who are taking up the front six rows) screams for joy. She looks a little bit pale and sweaty and is vaguely reminiscent of Dorien from Birds of a Feather, but she is alive!

21.25 Arctic Monkeys win Best British Group again. They've actually turned up this year and are in costume so have obviously Sold Out.

21.27 Oh, Dorien is performing on her own. Dorien needing the loo to be strictly accurate to Ms Winehouse's dancing skills. I think it must be the nerves and the hooker heels as the lack of slurred words convinces us that she is actually sober...

21.31 ...unlike Alan Carr who is wankered. Take That win Best Single, voted for by the Great British Idiots. I'm not even sure which single it is for; when I was temping over the summer I had to listen to Capital Radio all day every day and they played Take That so much that I now fall down into a foaming mouth fit whenever I hear a snatch of any of their songs. Gnnnnnnrrrrrrrrhhhhhhrrrr.

21.35 Alan Carr leaves the stage to be replaced by an even more sozzled version of himself ten years down the line - It's Vic Reeves! Vic is very very drunk and we could be seeing our moment of controversy. Or not. Arctic Monkeys are equally wankered and take the piss out the Brit School. Perhaps they haven't sold out after all! Lots of random people stagger drunk around the stage, but we are denied this vaguely amusing spectacle and the cameras instead cut to Fearne Cotton trying to obscure a drunk staggering Alan Carr with her tiny frame. Then just as this in turn gets amusing, it cuts to the adverts.

21.41 I think it is only Paul Mc Cartney left to go so the Flatmate puts the washing machine back on and buggers the tv reception.

21.44 They start the Paul Mc Cartney montage with a load of clips of Wings. Clips of Wings! Ha, god I amuse myself sometimes. Anyway, Wings? What are they trying to prove? That Sir Paul was even vaguely cool after 1970? Even clips of his dead first wife won't make that true.
"I really shouldn't watch this, it makes me angry" The Flatmate comments, an hour and forty four minutes too late. I was all set to disagree and argue that she needs to have more irony in her life, but then Paul gets the mandolin out and I have to change the channel. We change back for a second after the Flatmate disputes my claim that it is a mandolin and not a banjo, but I win, and with that we bid farewell for another year to Britain's Third Best Awards Show.

The Sun Will Come Out Tomorrow

Hello, sorry, been somewhat at a low ebb today due to inactivity, boredom and a chill caused by being too embarrassed to ask for the air con to be turned down AGAIN. I thought I was a champion for the people until I realised that half the people near me were lounging around in T shirts.

Maybe I'm one of those Lizard People David Ike talks about. I was starting to wonder why David Attenborough was hiding in my filing cabinet, filming me from behind a stack of old ASA ajudications.

Aaaanyway, as I have mentioned before, tomorrow I will be blogging the Brits in all their boring glory, so I will save all my inspiration juice for then.
For now I will leave you with a photo of one band mysteriously left off the nominations for Best International Band, the 'Japanese Beatles' aka Bump of Chicken.
I have never actually heard The Bump, but am already in love with them thanks to their wonderful Wikipedia entry (HERE) which features not only their album and single titles, but each member's blood group and the fact that the lead singer "enjoys doing laundry, cannot eat spicy foods, has poor eyesight and likes to eat chicken"

Announcement - Blogging the Brits Makes a Glorious Return!

A big 'hello!' to the 2,854 people who have visited this blog since it's birth on Valentine's day last year.. yes, most of you stayed for less than one second, yes, most of you appeared to come after putting 'slimatea' or 'powerplate' into google, but I love you all the same!

As I am currently hideously uninspired and in possession of a new laptop I wish to use for something other than facebook and photoshopping my friends' heads onto animals (don't ask) I have made the momentous decision to *unneccesary drumroll* blog the Brit Awards! Again!

Looking back at last year's post it would appear that Orson won something, Joss Stone had stupid hair and Fearne Cotton was EXCITED. I wonder what joys this year will hold...

You can read my old Brits blog entry HERE, then prepare yourself to come back on Thursday morning and marvel at how one person can become so unfunny over the course of a year.

I Like My Celebrities Next to Increasily Irrelevent Stock Photos

So Holymoly is no longer showing photos shot by paparazzi while they actually physically chase celebrities. Good, says I.
Mr Holymoly's point (for those of ye who have not wasted your morning piddling around the guardian website) was that several celebrities - most notably Britney Spears and the Winehouse - have been completely hounded to the point of madness by the paps, and that we should not encourage this.

I agree with him on sentiment, but it has to be said.... Britney is a flipping retarded bi polar taste vaccum who doesn't take her meds and does nothing but drive around LA baiting the paps, and Amy, well, up to a week ago she was a smackhead who staggered around the streets of London covered in nothing but a bra and scabs in the middle of winter. Now I might be unduly cynical, but it wasn't actually the paparazzi who caused either of these (literal) walking disasters so much as their dodgy drug pushing fame hungry boyfriends.

But then if the boyfriends-cum-managers-cum-scum are the tapeworm felling the camels, the paps are still the vultures that hover around the moribund beasts looking for opportunity, and that can obviously never be condoned. For every 'meh' photo of some famous brat getting into a car or walking down a street that you look at for 0.0000032 seconds before scrolling down/turning the page, there is some loser who stood around in the cold for hours waiting to take it. Not to mention when in the case of Amy it is more like: 'ooh look she's covered in blood, this pic will be worth hundreds. Maybe thousands if I trip her up!'
How utterly shitty, scummy, boring and pathetic.

Heeh I say this, and I will blatantly have a child who grows up to be a pap. Mind you (if we think along such karmic lines) I am either going to have a child who is a pap, a Scientologist or a singing Turkey puppet from Ireland, and frankly I think I might as well buy a copy of L Ron's autobiography now, as at least that way I won't be jailed for infanticide*.

So yeah, I have decided: The Speeches of Biches is also going to be completely pap free from now on. *cough*notthatitwasn'tbefore*cough*

I do have to point out this is not just because of the above moral wibbles, the amount of boring photos of Britney in shite clothes buying a Starbucks has diluted the usually ace outputs of gossip sites like Dlisted and Perezhilton. A fat retard with cold sores buying a coffee is not so much news as something I can see outside Oxford Circus tube at any time of the day, and if I went to Camden I could get both that and a smackhead rockabilly staggering around in bloodied ballet pumps for my tube fare.

Likewise and less specifically, photos of pissed off people getting into cars are incredibly boring unless you happen to be a fan of the rear interiors of posh vehicles, or perhaps like looking at slightly crossed eyed drunk people on their way home, in which case there is always Carcraft and The N134 bus respectively.

So in conclusion: Pap shots are like porn bought out of someone's car boot round the back of the pub - utterly dull, bad quality, explotative, lining the pockets of scumheads AND makes you feel slightly grubby. Best to stay in the warm, spend your pennies on beer then go home to watch Hollyoaks in the City**


*The Biche would like to attest she is not some mad harpy desperate for a chile***, but she did see AM's scan of her baby boy this morning so got a bit gooey.
** The Biche has never watched a full episode of Hollyoaks in the City. Or bought porn from a pub carpark incidentally...

*** thats 'chile' pronounced 'chyel' oh ye who would dare accuse me of spelling mistakes or for longing after a south american country

Ode to Chicken Spot

I suppose there is a sort of logic that an ode to a chicken shop and it's £1.50 'junior spesh' should be a grime song.. while a song about a sweetshop could only be a bubblegum pop song sung by women dressed as children, chicken shops can only be GRIME and sung about by overexcitable young men who like to hang around in gangs and apparently ask for extra mayo

That said, there aint nothing wrong with a lickle bit of chicken every so often I don't think... I mean, it gives you bad skin for a week and you keep remembering that urban legend about the guy who bit into his drummer and this yellow stuff came out and it wasn't mayo but pus from a boil on the chicken's leg, but it is kinda tasty.

Never have the onion rings though. They will end up half digested in your bathroom sink. TRUST.

Bigotry, Politics and Butt Ugly Puppets

It has to be said it is not unknown for the Biche to make generalising slurs against the Irish, using only her Irish surname and an encounter with an Irish boys school in a hotel in Rome as justification. And this is obviously bad and wrong; emigrating to Australia, dropping an O' before coming back over to England a hundred years later is not exactly what one would call an authority on such matters, and probably any school of seventeen year old boys would try and rape several members of a London sixth form as 'English girls are slags'.

But I digress.

Regardless of my ill conceived prejudiced ideas about the Irish, this is a nation which has allowed a puppet of a Turkey to not only have FOURTEEN hit singles and SIX albums (including a greatest hits) but also possibly represent them in Eurovision 2008.

And who is this Turkey Puppet? Why Dustin the Turkey! A sidekick from the Zig and Zag show, a hideous cultural low of the nineties in it's own rights, but thankfully, for those of us who live outside the Emerald Isle and value our eardrums, one that ended in 1993.

But wait! I hear you cry (in my head) surely you love trash culture in all it's forms! No. Zig and Zag, two ugly shouty puppets that looked like the kind of crappy scummy toys you find hanging off the front of a dustbin van with ping pong balls for eyes, are one of the exceptions to the rule. It's like people who like musicals not liking Rent (fools!). I also bear this grudge as we had two goldfish at school back in those dark days that I wanted to call Salt and Pepa, but thanks to stupid democracy and a show of hands, ended up being called after the two scummy bits of old flannel.

A further note about Dustin, which again, Biche would never dream of using to strengthen her tenuous dislike of the Irish, is the fact that in the 1997 General Election, several THOUSAND Irish people nulled their ballots by voting for 'Dustin'.

Mind you, in a clime where several thousand Londoners are going to effectively sully their ballots by voting for a racist ignorant Tory on the account that he is a 'jolly funny fellow' and 'a bit PG Wodehouse' I can't really criticize. I'd vote for a hideously ugly assemblage of braying flannel over Boris any day.

The Speeches of Biches - Heartily Not Endorsing Adele

In a shock move that departs from every single other outlet that could even possibly call itself 'media', The Speeches of Biches has decided not to endorse Adele as The Next Big Thing and Our Lord and Saviour. Chasing Pavements is an overblown crash of a meaningless song, and she looks like the bastard child of Moomintroll and Little My.

However it is not all subversion and Finnish cartoons here at Speeches HQ. I am most heartily and in a flag waving fashion 'bigging up' Ready for The Floor by Hot Chip...


I have to admit the lead singer reminds me a little bit too much (in real life, not in this vid particularly) of one of those humanities students who go out of their way to be fucking wacky all the time... like wandering into a conversation and going 'hey guys! I was thinking, would you rather live in a bouncy castle or on a cloud?' and then the one friend you have who is a bit that way inclined but you tolerate it because they are otherwise cool, will go 'Oh man I would have a cloud called Cloudopolis and it would thunder purple when I fart and I would rain cheese all over your Bouncy Cottage' and they would then start a four hour dialogue about utter bullshit while you grind your teeth and wish for a falling bit of overhead masonry.

But the guitarist looks like Boris Becker so I forgive them.

"Sometimes people make a war, don't know what it's for...

...say you'll stop the war"



Aah Hungarian Rap. My favorite subgenre of regional popular music next to Tazmanian Drum n Bass and Szechuan Funk.

This marvellous little ditty is by a delightful rapper called Speak, which is a rather misleading name, given that most of his lyrics consist of grunts, 'huh's and 'yee comeon's.

Anyway, this post is for my brother (in a filial, not rap way) who can barely control his bodily functions whenever this song comes on