Wednesday, 30 January 2013

And Now, Some Music

Thanks to this fella, who is Canadian and who did one of those 'Best of last year' lists, I discovered these, who are Canadian also.

I rather like it, despite there being several reasons - the Tom Waits soundalikee air to it, the fey female vocal that sounds destined for a mobile phone advert - not to.

But, y'know, that's me.

(I'd also recommend the live version, in which Leah Fay is covered in... something.)

Thursday, 24 January 2013

Unchained from an Idiot

Sitting round at my brother's, catching up on television that we'd both missed over the holiday period.

We were watching an overview of the pop music of 1978, something the BBC has done for the last couple of years as a kind of taster for its weekly re-runs of that year's Top Of The Pops (something they may not be able to continue for much longer, given that a good proportion of both hosts and performers have turned out to be rapists and/or child molestors).

On comes footage of Blondie performing 'Picture This': Debbie Harry at the height of her powers, staring at the camera, chewing non-existent gum, genuinely looking like she'd happily carve your heart out and hand it to you on a plate and not give a damn about it. She's wearing a bright yellow mini-dress and tights, with the pencil-thin strap of her handbag crossing over her chest just to make absolutely sure that you pay enough attention to her figure.

We both sit there, entranced, for the full length of the footage. When it ends, I turn to look at him with a 'I can't believe how good that was' look on my face, and say:

"The production on that song was fucking amazing!"

Next week: an appreciation of the lighting and production design of 'Danish Lesbian Nurses IV: Drilling and Filling'

Wednesday, 23 January 2013


Been meaning to do this for a while, so...

Meanwhile, over here, I shall talk about comics, thus leaving the lush green pastures of Tottenhamista unsullied by such low pastimes. 

And I hope you're happy about that.

Monday, 21 January 2013

Me And Him And Them And Me

Enjoying a wintry trudge through the dirty sludge that had turned the walkways of Alexandra Park into a freezing quagmire, and while speculating on exactly what manner of damage each snowboarder, tobogganist and sledger had done to themself as they hurtled down the steep slopes on their expensive snowboard or their improvised-out-of-an-estage-agent’s-signboard toboggan and made unexpected yet high-speed contact with one of the park’s many trees - some of which had been especially planted, years ago, expressly for the purpose of causing hurt to winter sports enthusiasts - my thoughts turned to Michael Gove. 

Had he ever, I pondered, after a long day of selling off playing fields or selecting new frames for his ‘Joe 90 all growed up’ spectacles or just generally being chinless, considered what was going on that very day in the Great Hall of Alexandra Palace?  Probably not, for I cannot see Mr Gove ever sitting down, be it in person at the event or simply at home in front of the telly, to enjoy the many depths of a game of snooker. 

The classroom of the future
This is a shame, as a great deal of the average school’s curriculum could easily be replaced by the careful study of a frame or two. Geometry, given the need to calculate the angle of strike between cue and object balls (plus the delicious spanner thrown in by the smaller size of the white, necessitating all manner of extra formulae). Physics, required to determine the amount of force to be imparted from the player, through the cue, through the white, to the colour, so impelling these joyous spheres to their destination in the table’s pockets. More thrillingly, the combination of both these disciplines needed to not only pot a colour but also leave the cue ball with just the right amount of momentum to cease its motion in exactly the right position to set up the next stroke. 

And the simpler lessons to be learned, no less important; basic mathematics, so a player may keep score, and project their future points tally, and estimate the number of snookers needed. Most importantly, the glorious sense of good old-fashioned British fair play, as so joyously exemplified by the player who, at the crucial moment of a crucial game, brushed a ball from its position with his waistcoat; he then called a foul on himself, and by doing so lost the frame and the match. This wonderful embodiment of the sporting ethic thus expelled himself from the tournament. Would this happen among the over-paid jessies of the soccer field? I doubt there is need to even ask. 

Admittedly, some teachers needed something of a makeover.
So: think on, Michael Gove. Consider the cost savings to be made. One second-hand table (or, for inner-city comprehensives, a trip to Rowan’s in Finsbury Park in the company of a roll-up smoking, weasel-faced herbert who could surely be sourced from the swollen ranks of those seeking work) could easily replace three teachers. And, should a pupil take to the game, imagine the tax they’ll pay on their winnings. As for those dinky little waistcoat-and-bowtie combos they’d wear, a smart suit shows a smart mind. You should know that, given the calibre of the Cabinet’s schmutter, eh?

It’s a win-win situation, Michael. In fact, I’ll tell you what, if you need a little more persuading, how about you come along to the next tournament at Ally Pally and I’ll guide you through a few frames. Obviously it would be a terrible faux pas to speak loudly during a game and so distract the players, so it’d be best if we met outside, possibly in the car park. No, the one at the bottom of the hill, the one without much by way of lighting. Oh, and, my schedule means I can really only make it in the evenings, after dark. 

But please, do come. How will you recognise me? I’ll be the one in the ski-mask. Well, it’s cold at this time of year. Just to be sure, I’ll be holding a snooker ball. In a sock.