A glorious weekend spent in the midst of an empty industrial estate

Supersonic Festival 2010
The Custard Factory, Birmingham
22-24/10/2010

What is there to do in Birmingham? Or more to the point, why would any reasonably thinking person decide to go there? To see one of their average, uninspired football teams? To wander around aimlessly in the confusing town centre? Or perhaps to go and visit 'The Mailbox', which sounds mysterious but is, in fact just some over-priced, pretentious shopping centre.
No. You wouldn't, would you?

The good folks at Capsule, though, have given any discerning leftfield music fan one reason to brave the Brummie wastelands for a weekend, and that reason is:

Yes, Supersonic. England's premier festival for a number of things, including;

• Music, noise, distortion & feedback
• Beards
• Tea rooms
• Impossibly rude people
• Knitting
• A severe lack of seating

We'll start at the beginning, because that's where all things start. Except some films. But they are stupid.

FRIDAY
The first thing I noticed about Supersonic, was that it was quite far from where we we staying, and according to my phone, the only way to get there was down the darkest, most abandoned road in the world. The kind of place where you find things like this painted on the sides of buildings:

Fffffffuuuuuuccccckkkk.

Upon arrival at The Custard Factory the realisation dawns that this is about as far away from Reading and Glastonbury et al as it is possible to be. There are no fields full of people noisily tripping their balls off for a start.
In place of that there is a small, cordoned off street (with a newsagent and everything!) between some massive arches.

Alas, there was no custard in production.

Where the food stalls were. Obviously. Where else would they be?

The second thing I notice is just how damn cold it is. Due to it's layout the wind cuts through the site like some kind of knife. A knife covered in ice. In a freezer. In the snow.

The third thing I notice is this:

For those unaware, it's a giant man made of some kind of wood like substance.

Having settled in to the peculiar surroundings it was time to go and watch some bands. It was also time to go and watch some MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE.
In the Old Library, and opening proceeding are Necro Dethmort, whose droning opener seems to catch many idly watching off guard, as they proceed to launch into a set of distorted, noisy drum and bass. At least that's what they started to do, I got bored and wandered off. ADHD!

Necro Dethmort.

My wanderings ended me up at the outside stage, where Gum Takes Tooth are playing. With bags on their heads. Shaking percussive instruments and generally destroying the audience's collective head with their atomsmashing noise. It's beautifully heavy and seems to set the tone for the weekend to follow, that is; totally fucking barmy.

Gum Takes Tooth

Back at the Old Library, and Demons (Featuring Sick Llama, no less!) are (rather unsociably) huddled in the bottom corner of the stage. Perhaps they're shy? Perhaps it's a meditation on fame hungry X-Factor berks? Perhaps they want to let their massively absorbing drone do the talking? Perhaps it's none of these things and the MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE has overtaken my soul and turned me into a chin stroking dick? Anyway, whatever is happening, it sounds like the quiet moments at the end of the world when everyone stops and realises just how fucked they are. Mesmerising.

Demons (Feat. Sick Llama). Apparently.

A brisk jog back to the outside stage presents the opportunity to see Fukpig. Yes, Fukpig. Their grind by numbers proving fairly uninspiring, save for the odd Slayer-esque lead. Still they are called Fukpig, and do feature one of Anaal Nathrakh, so we'll let it slide and say their name once more. Fukpig.

Fukpig. YEAH!

Devilman aka DJ Scotch Egg is playing. He sounds quite interesting, but wading through a sea of people only to leave again in ten minutes seems slighty pointless. As such, watching his interesting take on dub from almost behind the stage, makes me realise how stupid an idea that is, and accordingly it's back to the (by now absolutely freezing) outside stage to bear witness to Drumcorps. On record his take on destroying classic noisecore tracks with bloody minded breakbeats works pretty well and there seem to be a good old number of people in attendence who agree. Live however he is slightly disappointing. Maybe I'm just to resolutely old school, but watching one bloke play with banks of electronics isn't quite the hugely exciting experience that you get when there are, say, two blokes playing with banks of electronics. Anyway, his dreadlocks are too long and probably smell, and he should never, ever be allowed to sing live, as it was horrible. "Botch Up And Die" was still pretty cool though.

Drumcorps. Take my word for it.

A little wander around the site, and some purchasing of beer later, and Birmingham grind veterans Napalm Death take the stage. It's quiet. Really quiet. In fact, despite Barney clearly screaming very, very loudly in to the mic, you can barely hear it. About 4 songs in the sound gets sorted out, a bit anyway and things start to pick up. Their set was culled from their entire career, and sounds pretty damn exciting, however, any momentum built up is dashed between songs when we are pontificated at repeatedly. I know Napalm are a political band and all that, but you're preaching to the converted, and most people here are drunk enough not to care anyway. Good stuff though, and a decent end to the day.

Napalm Death. All blurry an' shit.

Saturday
After a morning spent visiting the awesome Dawnii at her tattoo parlour, Painted Lady, we head back to The Custard Factory.
Not only is it now light outside, but it is also twice as cold, the weather necessitating numerous trips to the tea room in search of tea and cake. As well as this tea room the market place has opened up, so if you want to buy some vinyl to carry around for 9 hours then this is the place.
First on today are Blue Sabbath Black Fiji whose scatter-shot noise would be terrifying if it weren't made by two grinning teenagers, having more fun than is strictly necessary. Occasional riffs pin down the distortion, and it's a jolly good show all round.

Blue Sabbath Black Fiji

Wild Horses Part Mane On Both Sides is the kind of name that gives the noise scene a bad, uh, name, and if they had concentrated less on coming up with a name so contrived and more on making their minimalistic, awkward noise slightly more interesting it would have made for a better experience. As it was, it was just just two bored looking guys playing off-kilter nonsense to a room of disinterested looking people.
It's free jazz time at the outdoor stage! Steve Tromans & Dan Nicholls duel it out on keyboards and it's a strange experience, not helped by the sight of giant, hairy metal fans bobbing their giant, hairy metal heads in appreciation. While in the right setting it has the potential to be utterly absorbing, here it falls short due in no small part to being in broad daylight. fair play to the organisers for bringing in some MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE though.

Steve Tromans And Dan Nicholls

Over at the newly opened Area 2 Gnaw were just starting to scream out of the speakers, as any band fronted by the horrifyingly-voiced Alan Dubin is wont to do. While they may not have the disgusting intensity of Khanate, they still pack quite the visceral punch, however in amongst artists so intent on bending rules, they sound almost safe. NOT MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE ENOUGH.

Gnaw

Up next is Dosh, some kind of one man trip-hop extravaganza, sitting behnd keyboards, electronics and a drumkit, he uses loops to create a funky, yet oddly downbeat collision. Sitting on the side of what appears to bea drained swimming pool and letting the beats float over my head made a nice change from being knee deep in distortion, and was suitably appreciated by apprently like-minded festival goers. His stage presence was terrible though. Stop talking about your dead friend!

Dosh. Minus dead friend.

Next it was the one and only Stinky Wizzleteat, whose sludgy Iron Monkey-isms went down brilliantly, the singer spending the entire set in the crowd, inciting the first bona-fide moshpit of the weekend. Heavy as a brick and twice as loud. Also, quote of the weekend, between songs;

"I'm just going to put my inhaler over here so I don't lose it".

Back in Area 2 King Midas Sound are taking to the stage. The guy behind the electronics looks like a lost tramp, and the fellow doing the vocals looks quite gentlemanly. The noise they create is both furious and funky, their industrial dub causing the room to turn into some kind of imprompteau, black-clad rave. So far easily the set of the weekend.
While waiting for Godflesh, many folk head over to the outdoor stage to see Tweak Bird pounding away, their grungy rock is pretty damn slamming, or some other description. They had a Saxophone player wearing a cravat. Tidy!

Tweak Bird

Godflesh are greeted like heroes, and as they open with 'Like Rats' it's not hard to see why. However it's all downhill after that. watching two guys on stage playing, admittedly impressive, industrial metal doesn't feel like quite the event it should be, maybe it's just because they have reformed and split so many times in the past decade that I'm slightly jaded. Or it might be that Melt Banana are about to take the stage over yonder. In fact, yes, that's it.
Melt Banana are, simply, fucking mental. Their day-glo take on noise-rock is so brilliantly insane that it's hard not to get sucked in, even when they are dealing out frequencies that would have most normal people hiding under a rug or something. It helps that they are fronted by a tiny Japanese woman who is so engaging that it's near impossible to take your eyes off her. Best way to finish the day.

Melt Banana. Not pictured: Total insanity.

Sunday
Sunday is traditionally a day of rest, if you are an idiot, so, deciding not to, we head back to The Custard Factory. First up are Health And Efficiency who's beardy post rock is largely indistinguishable from the hoards of other beardy post rockers currently doing the rounds, so it's off to the outside stage where Pierre Bastien is starting. A couple of things about Pierre;

• From a certain angle he looks like Jeff Goldblum
• He plays music using Meccano and other child's toys. As one does.
  

It's an odd experience, certainly, and starts off so quiet it's barely audible. however as more and more layers are added it becomes peculiarly engrossing and oddly compelling. To see him given a massive round of applause at the end of his set was heart-warming.

Jeff Goldblum Pierre Bastien

Back in The Old Library (where the only warmth is) hush falls for Peter Broderick whose minimal, heart-breaking folk is treated with the reverance it clearly deserves. A man obviously passionate about his music, it's as honest and human performance as you are ever likely to see. In a weekend blighted by idiots talking throughout sets, the Library stays absolutely silent. So silent, in fact that Broderick is able to perform one song totally unplugged from within the audience. Utterly beautiful, and unexpectedly one of the highlights of the weekend.

Peter Broderick

Being so enamoured with Broderick meant missing half of Voice Of The Seven Thunders set. On record their spaced out, psych-tinged world folk (MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE) is a joy to behold, but here it felt lacking. Probably because walking in mid-set is never a good thing to do. Still, at least they tried.

Voice Of The Seven Thunders

Ruins have absolutely packed the Library, and from a distinctly terrible view-point, behind a massive pillar, it's a bit confusing as to why. Their prototype spazcore isn't half as interesting as the program notes make out, and as far as I can tell, it's just one bloke behind a drumkit. Perhaps I'm missing something. Nice use of classical pieces in amongst the mire though.

A pillar. Possibly with Ruins behind it. Maybe.

Following my nose towards current musical favourite 'Japanese Noise-Rock made by petite girls' ends us back up outside watching Nisennenmondai. Their set is amazing, the rhythm section is absolutely brutal, and the guitarist adding in strange squeaks and squeals creates an almost trance like vibe, that is until the climax when the drummer goes absolutely ape, and everything goes to noise hell. New favourite band.

Nisennenmondai

Khyam Allami & Master Musicians Of Bukkake are evidently trying to take us on a Middle-Eastern, musical journey, their droning, slow burning melodies washing over the audience, however, after Nisennenemondai it all seems, disappointingly, rather lacklustre and the warmth of The Library is calling. Inside, Mugstar are on and, I'm sure you'll agree, that's a shocking name for a band. The music they create, however isn't that bad, and despite the guitarist looking like he was kicked out of Mudhoney in 1992 for being too lame, he pulls out some pretty cool riffs. Not 'riffs that make you throw yourself around', but 'riffs that make you nod your head', which is obviously better than 'riffs that make you contemplate suicide' or 'riffs that abused your cousin as a child'.
Deciding that moving from Area 2 is for squares and geeks, a space sitting against the wall is hastily aquired, and we await Black Sun Drum Corps. When they arrive, they are all face-painted, wearing kilts and strolling through the audience. MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE. A circle of useless junk is set up so that a chosen few may beat out a tribal tattoo upon it, and the effect is actually quite glorious. Backed up by guitarist and bassist on stage, the noise they create is genuinely affecting. Extra points for waving around a skull on a stick.
Penultimate band Zeni Geva are a massive draw, and get a massive cheer for telling the lighting guy to stick it. "I don't need that light in my face!" Awesome. heavier than expected they pile riffs down on the audience and are uncompromising in their brutality.

Zeni Geva

A band that know a thing or two about brutality, Swans are closing the festival. It was difficult to tell what kind of performance we were going to get from Gira and company. A return to the disgusted, belligerant Swans of old, or the more laid back (musically, if not lyrically) later period.
As it turns out we get a mix of both. After a fifteen minute static intro, they finally walk onstage to a hero's welcome. The noise they create is both massively loud and truly intoxicating. Gira, as ever the focus, but to say it's all about him would be disservice to the rest of the band. Each song is built up, until wave after wave of dissonance pour out of the speakers. at their peak, there may as well be no other band in existence, no other music at all, such is the total immersion this deserves. When Gira's voice is left alone to tumble out into the darkness it's one of the most harrowing things I've ever witnessed, musical or otherwise. The timbre and volume are shocking, and sound more terrifying than a thousand death metal singers all growling away together.
Amongst others we get a re-working of 'Beautiful Child' which nearly , nearly manages the close to impossible feat of being heavier than the original, and an extended, louder 'Eden Prison', which ends in a frenzied cresendo that sounds like the sun imploding.
When it comes to superlatives, Swans used them all up aeons ago. There is no way to describe this. Simply one of the greatest live acts I've ever seen.

Swans

It's not really got much competition, but Supersonic was easily the best festival I've ever attended. It was well organised, friendly and MOTHERFUCKING AVANT GARDE. It was refreshing to see such a lack of ego among the performers, as they routinely set up their own equipment, and wandered casually around the site (Seeing Michael Gira in a cowboy hat on Sunday morning was one of my undoubted highlights), and the quality, as well as the disparaty of acts was a joy to behold.
In amongst the joyous fun, though, a couple of things became quite a nuisance.

• I wanted to sit down sometimes. As most people do. Two sofas and a few chairs doesn't really cut it.
• Some of the walkways were quite a squeeze, especially when most of the clientele are stood in them looking dumb.
• People talking through bands. FUCK OFF! JUST FUCK OFF!
• The one, seemingly brain-damaged man who managed to find me wherever I was to dance like a fucking div in front of me, while turning around and making 'amusing' faces.
• A stout woman who looked like an uglier Jimmy Cranky.
• Beards.

In conclusion:

CAKE MAN!

A Fantastial Celebration Of Footballing Culture Throughout The World

Due to commitments at work I was forced into missing this years F.A Cup Final, and was thus deprived of witnessing Chelsea make history. Mere weeks later and The World Cup has rolled around. Not for me though, I'm still working. So instead of getting to see a thirty five hour opening ceremony featuring all manner of confusing dancers, millions of flags and the totally befuddled commentary of Mark Lawrenson, I got to stand out in the sun, my face getting progressively more burned, while children ran around me screaming and swearing.

"Nevermind!" I thought, "I'll head home when I am finished and watch France play Uruguay, it's sure to be an exciting game, and will no doubt make up for missing the host's opener!"

Err, yep. The game was deadly dull, and midway through the second half I had turned the TV off. The only thing worth watching was France coach Raymond Domenech, who looks like a slightly more French Paul Grady.

"Ok Thierry, you're on the bench, we're going with Govou. He's a good player, right?"

Again, on Saturday I found myself at work all day, with the only consolation being that I could spend the evening jammed into pub with every other fucker in the country watching England. the only diference being that I actively want England to lose. To go out as soon as possible. To bugger off and shut up. As it turns out we ended up in a pub which was almost deserted, only one man in the place seemed to care, and let us know through some very manly posturing and the yelling of occasional nondescript football talk: "Yeah! But who's on the end of it!?"

The end result was fantastic, if only so I didn't have to listen to drunken idiots outside my house all night. Robert Green's desire to see himself inducted in to the "Usually reliable English goalkepers who make one almighty mistake at the worst possible time" hall of fame has provided the highlight of the tournament so far.

"Yep, yep! YEP! YEAH!.. shit.

Despite England's inability in beating side who are still a third world nation when it comes to football, we still have to see The Sun and it's brethren bleating about how will still win the thing. As I said, the sooner we are out, the better.

England aside, the one thing that seems to be defining each match, is that nothing, nothing seems to happen. Only one game has feaured more than two goals, and none of them have been of a particularly high quality. The majority of the games are played out scrappily in midfield, the shooting has been woeful and the player's close control has been almost as bad.
Most will blame the new ball, which utilises dark matter, or nuclear particles or something to make it lighter. How long before wer're giving players balloons to kick around? While we're at it, why don't we give them clown shoes and amusing make-up? There's probably a market for it somewhere.. Oh yes... Liverpool.

Catch the ball! Or the balloon! Oh come on! You should have at least managed to catch one of them! No wonder you finished seventh in the balloon ball league.

In fact the games have been so boring that the producers have seen fit to fill all of the boring moments with super slow motion, high definition replays of all the non-existent action.

SEE! An Algerian man sweating slowly while turning his head!
WITNESS! Three players looking slightly upset at a refereeng decision!
GASP! At some legs running at 1/8 their normal speed!
TURN OFF THE GODDAMN TV! As you realise that you're paying your licence for this!

I wouldn't mind the slow-mo, but come on! Choose something interesting, or at least focus on the weirdest looking people you can find in the crowd. No-one (and I mean no-one) needs to see Wayne Rooney yelling his neandathal little face off at some unfortunate offical in that much detail.

"UUUUUUUUUURRRRRRRRRR!"

The only game so far to have exceeded expectations was Germany's demolition of Australia. A game so thoroughly one-sided that even our very own jingoistic commentators had to grudgingly admit how good the Germans were. Listening to these compliments from behind gritted teeth was beautiful. Hopefully the German's will take England apart if they meet, and I'll wear my Germany shirt with pride. It won't stop the dribbling idiots singing their 'Two World Wars and one World Cup' song, but still, small victories.

The last notable thing is that the South Africans have decided that insead of hosting the best World Cup ever, they're going to host the most annoying. The stadiums are full of dullards blowing into horns. No, not pleasant sounding, tuneful instruments that will lend each game a thrilling atmosphere, but horns which produce a constant, one pitched drone. It sounds like the mic operator is under constant attack from a swarm of angry, but lazy bees. "BVVVVVVVVVVVVVVZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ!" it goes, "BBBVVVVVVVVZZZZZZZZZZ!"
I say that if England get the World Cup in 2018, all the fans should be given kazoos, or maybe just a triangle each, which they are to hit whenever a player is about to shoot, creating a deafening "TING!" which will cause all but the most focused players to fall over, startled and confused. I genuinely want to see that happen now, and am quite upset that FIFA would probably call foul play, the spoilsports.
Anything to make it more interesting than the uninspired toss that has passed for football matches so far this year.

Proof There Is No God: A Review Of A Movie I Haven't Seen.

My Sister told me she thinks that I should go and see Sex And The City 2, purely so I can write a blog about it. This would be a fantastic idea, but for two reasons;

1. I don't have any money to waste on such nonsense.
2. I'd rather sit at home slowly pulling my teeth out with a rusty spoon.

The very thought of sitting through two hours of feeble old bitches talking about their sagging cunts and acting like disgusting whores is too much for me to even contemplate, and my eyes are burning just thinking about it.

Instead I will force myself to watch the entire two and a half minute trailer, and Libby, if I don't make it out the other side, I will hold you accountable, and my will shall be changed accordingly.

(What you are about to see is likely to damage you if you have more than 4 brain cells. Be warned)

(Note: I have sat here for a good 10 minutes unable to click play. This is the true definition of terror.)

• This trailer is suitable for all audiences, all audiences that is, who don't have a penis. Or a brain, or an understanding of the basic premise of feminism.

• Obvious use of 'Empire State Of Mind' right at the beginning, and while the song is still pretty good, it's obiquity is starting to irritate. No more so than here, at 0:11, where we get our first glipse our lovely ladies, all timed to the music and everything! The person who edited this must be a fucking genius! Look at their pretty clothes! I wonder if clothes play as important a part in this film as they do in real life? Who knows?

• 0:15, and I''m guessing the answer to the above question is a resounding 'YES! YES GODDAMIT! LOOK HOW IMPORTANT OUR FUCKING CLOTHES ARE! I HAVE A WALK-IN WARDROBE FULL OF SHOES AND BAGS AND DRESSES AND OTHER NEEDLESS TOSS THAT YOU PLEBIANS WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO AFFORD! BECAUSE I AM FAMOUS! FAMOUS FOR WRITING ABOUT SEX! HOW FUCKING LIBERATED IS THAT?' We also get to hear Sarah Jessica Parker's boring voice for the first time here. I wasn't really listening to what she said, because it's probably stupid.

• 0:20, (God, I'm going to be here all night at this rate.) A man is here. I often wondered what kind of man would agree to be in shit like this. A man desperate to pay his bills? Or a man woefully under-informed by his agent? One way or another he should be ashamed of himself. ROYALLY FUCKING ASHAMED OF HIMSELF.

• 0:26, I keep having to start the video from previous points, because I can't understand these screeching harridan's voices. There is the ginger one, being ugly and a lesbian. Way to go, making the ugliest one a lesbian. Or was that real life? Both are as dumb as each other to be honest. Anyway, she says smething equally as stupid as what Jessica Parker was rambling on about earlier. The brunette one is next, and by god! She seems to be having trouble with her children, despite the attention of her poorly paid, fat, ethnic housemaid (out of shot).

• 0:32, and things are getting ugly. REALLY FUCKING UGLY. Kim Catrell is on screen, and talking about sex. What a suprise. "I've tricked my body into feeling younger" she says, opening a large case of pills. "How are you going to swallow them?" asks indescriminate old hag #1 "Haven't we met?" she replies. The joke here is that she performs a lot of fellatio and therefore has a gaping wound for a throat. Delightful. While I am here I would like to say that all these dumb mugs who think that this film celebrates older women, that they are wrong. There is nothing graceful about the way these weathered old bints are behaving, they are sluts, pure and simple. If you want to look at someone who is aging gracefully then come for dinner at mine and meet my mum, ok?

• 0:48, more sex jokes. Boring dialogue and a horse. We seem to be being led towards the conclusion that Jessica Parker's lifestyle is boring. Imagine infinite money, comfortable married life and stunning beauty (Two out of three aint bad. Ba Dum Chhhh!). In fact, it sounds so boring that she should probably take one of those pretty dresses and throttle herself with it. Hurry up! We haven't got all day!

• 0:56, "We have to work on the sparkle" Jessica Parker tells her idiot husband. Seriously, what possessed him to marry her? This man makes me unfeasibly angry. JUST LOOK AT HER FACE! LISTEN TO HER BLEATING SELFISH VOICE! FUCKING KICK HER IN THE HEAD!

• 1:18, and the loathsome foursome haven't even got to Abu Dhabi yet. Kim Catrell can 'hear the decadance calling'. In fact it's just the wind rushing through her cavernous vagina. Easy mistake to make.

• 1:22, Now they arrive. "Jessica Parker doesn't think they are in Kansas anymore. This could be a SUBTLE reference to 'The Wizard Of Oz', or it could be just another example of shocking dialogue written to make overly gay men laugh like little girls.

• 1:25. The line that starts here is so fucking terrible, so embarrasingly rubbish that I want to kill myself, and then everyone else. Ever. Or maybe everyone else first. Fuck you whoever wrote that.

• 1:36. men in pants hollering. How droll.

• 1:57. married woman acts like objectionable whore.

• I have given up writing. I have given up caring. The last thing that happens is Jessica Parker encouraging a child to develop a drinking habit.

Two and a half minutes, and nothing you could ever say or do, could convince that that isn't the absolute nadir of humanities achievment. There have been genocides that have been more pleasing to watch than that. I'm pretty sure that the Manhatten Project was thought up in case something like this happened. The name can't be a coincidence.

Are there really women out there who feel this is an acurate representation of feminism? If there are, then I'm really, really scared.

In conclusion. Bwuuuuuhhhuuuggghhhhhhhhhhhwwwwwwrrrrruuuuaaaahhhh. My brain has melted.

Eurovision 2010, Or A Post-show Examination Of Gaudy European Tat

Saturday night's alright for fighting, apparently. Being a pacifist (and a coward) I wouldn't know about that, however I do know that it was alright for plonking myself in front of the television and treating myself to a veritable feast of europop, power ballads and, quite frankly, dismal theatrics.

We'll start at the beginning, because it makes sense to.

In case you hadn't realised this is 'Drip Drop' by Safura, who is from Azerbaijan, the lucky girl.
Once you get past the fact that she is some kind of unholy foreign amalgamation of Miley Cyrus and Holly Valance, you start to notice the fantastically choreographed dance moves. You don't? But they were arranged by Beyonce's Choreogropher! The one that did that horrible video that Kanye West loved so much! Apprently in Azerbaijan they need a choreogropher to help a confused woman down the stairs. Maybe he just sorted out the twirling gay bloke that appears later in the song. I don't know and I don't really care. The song was boring, and so was Safura. Next!

Ahhhhh, Spain! How you spoil us with your batty Leo Sayer lookalikes and horrifying, twisted visuals! This was awesome for one reason and one reason only. The solitary stage invader at 1:10, who looks like he is having more fun than anyone else did, all night. The song is beyond terrible, and due to the stupidity of the hat wearing tit, we had to hear it all over again when the others were finished. Stick to football in the future, and never again speak of this debacle.

This is Norway, and by God, it is a fucking abortion. It is notable for the incredibly vague opening lyric;

"You are like the sunset, behind the mountain, somewhere"

He couldn't even be bothered to think of a specific mountain the lazy twat. The fact that the song sounds almost identical to 'Jerusalem' does it no favours, neither does the fact that I hate his face so much that all I can think about throughout the duration of this obscenity is kicking him in the head.
Three songs in, and I was severely disappointed at the lack of anything approaching amusement, or indeed talent. was this to set a precident that the rest of the show would follow? We shall see.

Check this out! It's from fucking Moldova! I'm suprised it's not 3 toothless old men hitting an empty barrel and growling. Casual xenophobia aside, what we have here is a man pretending to play the violin and spinning around, a woman with a terrible haircut and pretty much the most homosexual man in existence popping up at 40 seconds and thrusting his groin at us while playing the saxophone. This is the most Arayan of the songs this evening, and looks less like a band than it does some kind of advert for a really shit Hitler Youth. A 'Shitler Youth' if you will. Also there is a mullet involved, which is reassuring when dealing with Europeans. It's like a reverse mark of quality.

Watch out! Here comes excitement! Don't collapse with the sheer joy of it all! This is Cyprus, and the song isn't that bad, but commits cardinal Eurovision sin of having no amusingly attired berks prancing around to techno that would have been outdated in 1750. I didn't come here for stirring strings and beautiful, heartfelt lyrics. I came here to laugh. At you, not with you.

This is Bosnia & Herzegovina. And finally, finally, we get our first instance of 'man singing in stereotypical foreign voice'. The fact that one lyric goes;

"This is the time/ to melt the ice/ of our lips/ and of our hearts"

Only adds to the excitement. However when the song is finished you are left with a horrible, empty feeling, because while his voice may be funnier than anything so far tonight, the nauseating cod-rock offered up by his friends behind him detracts all value from it. Poor show!

Belgium now, and this is Tom Dice, which is a remarkably cool name for such a dorky looking dude. His song is commendable for being stark and passionate, but loses points for being boring as fuck. Still, it's better than most of what went on in Oslo. And anywhere else Eurovision has ever been held.

Ok, I can't believe that this song, or the weird fucking man singing it were allowed on stage, or anywhere else to be honest. When he first appears, wailing bluntly from beneath the worst haircut ever, it's impossible to comprehend just how fucking terrible everything happening is. However as the shock of seeing his ghastly little face fades you are left to quietly digest the zany dancers and bizarre lyrics. This is simultaneously the best and worst thing that has ever happened in the history of the world, and as such this paradox has probably caused a time-quake, or created a black hole somewhere, into which all androgynous ladyboys from Eastern Europe are sucked, spitting them out in an alternate reality where everything is made of glitter and anal lube is free. This was Serbia by the way. We shall never talk of this again.

More unrelenting tediousness now, with Belarus. The song is dull, and the people singing it ae ugly. Not a good mix. Foreign voice makes a welcome appearance, but even that cannot save it from being unmitigated shite. At the end the women grow wings. It's about butterflies you see, and what's a song about butterflies without gimicky dresses to wow all the 7 year old girls in the audience? Nothing, that's what.

(Jesus Christ, this is taking forever and is making me sad.)

This is Ireland. It's boring and it's not about potatoes. Probably because she ate them all.

This is Greece. It's fucking barmy and strangely brilliant. I like the intrusive synth best. Can't go wrong with that. I also like how awkward the guy singing is. He looks like a lost builder surrounded by muscley, oiled men. Maybe that's his thing. I know it's mine. I was quite gutted this didn't win. It had exploding drums and everything!

Youtube doesn't have a video for the UK's entry, which is probably just as well, as it was easily the worst of the night. I have nothing against the guy singing, he seemed quite nice, but by God, the song was so boring it barely existed. Gina G should do our song every year.

FUCKING AWESOME, MAN!

More tedious balladry now, but with the added bonus of a whole shower of cunts partaking in some weird avant garde dance. The bit where they move her legs is confusing, and a bit distressing. can she not walk without the aid of two shirtless mugs? Is she dead from the waist down? Or the neck up? Ha. Ha. Ha.

If you were bemoaning the lack of really terrible faux-metal in this years contest, I have good news for you. MaNga are here to placate you. Imagine if Linkin Park were from Turkey. Yes, it's really as bad as it sounds. People actually liked this, which is just another reason why I need to invest in a shotgun.

Albania are here to lighten the mood with some awesomely catchy pop music, made by a woman who may have been attractive 20 years ago. It's like watching future Britney Spears. This was fun, and deserved to finish much higher than 16th. Fuck you Europe!

Iceland has gained noteriety recently for it's mountain spouting shit into the sky. This is much the same. But twice the size.

Woman dressed as a monk! Singing about the enviroment!. I can't be bothered to write about it so I'll let a youtube user tell you what's what:

"This song is not for eurovision,its too good for it! Its simply ART!
The message and emotion are so strong,its unbelievable!!! MY FAVORITE <3" style="text-align: left;">Yep. That person is wrong, by the way, although the song was ok-ish.

France did this. It's ok I suppose, and it made me wiggle my hips like a bit of a spaz. There was alot of bum action going on. Maybe having the words 'bum action' on my blog will cause more people to come and read it. A side note: I really like the main singer's face. he looks friendly.

(Fuck, there are still 7 entries left. I'm dying slowly on the inside)

Romania's entry was two people, one of them a bizarre Shania Twain type impersonator. She was sharing some kind of double ended, see through piano with a man who looked all the world like the caretaker at the school I used to work at, which caused much mirth. Most exciting thing about the song was the 'Uh, ooh oohh ooohohh' bit, the rest was pretty much forgettable. I swear this was the blandest Eurovision in living memory. They must try harder next year.

Most depressing entry of the evening, or indeed ever, goes to Russia, who saw fit to enter five utterly miserable blokes moaning about a woman or something. This was notable for many reasons. It was voted for quite well, but everyone in the audience hated it and it was roundly booed whenever it was played or mentioned. Also, Steve Buschemi appears to be on guitar, and pipes up with some beautifully deadpan backing vocals, telling the singer to take the photo he is looking at and 'drop it in the fire'. Ths song also wins the award for 'Most out of place 'Woooo!' of the entire evening'.

After that downer anything would sound good, right? Wrong. What we have here is a 78 year old Armenian man blowing a pipe and a woman who looks like she has blown her miniscule budget on plastic surgery to look like a down syndrome Angelina Jolie. She is singing about an Apricot Stone. I noticed that the really foreign sounding women are never as amusing as the men, even when singing about the inedible parts of fruit. This song managed to be both boring and baffling, whch is no mean feat. and I'm pretty sure the only reson it recieved any votes at all was because of her cleavage. That's cheating down syndrome Angelina Jolie!

This was Germany's entry, and the eventual winner. I quite liked it, but every time I hear it, her quirky voice grates harder and harder. She clearly thinks she is Bjork, but her intonation is just weird. Listening to her speak was a profoundly irritaing experience too, and backs up my theory that singers shouldn't be allowed to talk in public. Especially German ones. Especially German semi-goths.

Ugh. This is beyond boring. Portugal joined the 'semi-attractive young girl wailing a bit like a broken Mariah Carey' club and did so with no distinction at all. When your dress is the most notable thing about your performance, and even that is unbearably shit, you know you have problems.

And somehow the interesting level drops down even further. Who thought that it would be a good idea to have these boring people representing their countries? This man looks like resurrected Steven Gately and sounds like he is singing in Klingon, or Ork or something, yet still manages to make that entirely uninteresting. How? The above sentence should make for an incredible performance, but alas was pretty much the low point of the evening Well done Israel, you are finding new and (un)interesting ways to sedate a continent. well done indeed.

Last entry (thank fuck) is Denmark, who entered some kind of AIDS ridden Sting, singing a wonky version of Simply The Best by Tina Turner, yet somehow this was one of the best songs of the evening. That I like this more than pretty much everything else in the entire show, says less about my music taste, than it does speak volumes about the lack of anything approaching exciting throughout the night.

In conclusion then, my winners would be:

1. Greece
2. Denmark
3. Germany

And the losers:

1. The UK
2. Anybody that sat through the whole thing.

A special mention should go to Graham Norton, and his commentary, which became more drunk/ embittered as the evening wore on, and helped us to forget the gaping hole left by Terry Wogan. Heh. Graham Norton. Gaping hole. Heh.

Hopefully next year, all the cretinous balladry will be left at home. Although history dictates that most will try to emulate this years winner, which means that we will have an entire show of iritating, skinny goth girls singing in zany voices. Jolly good!

I work incredibly close to Church Street in London. Those of you unfamiliar with Church Street will no doubt be unaware of the market which takes place there everyday, selling everything you can imagine (if the limit of your imagintaion is cheap shoes, knock off t-shirts and plenty of odd-smelling food).
Unfortunately I only ever get the pleasure of walking through said market after 6pm, when most traders have packed up and gone home, and all that is left are boxes of unsold fish, pieces of halal meat and, if I'm lucky, the council's bin men picking up the crap (and on one special occasion pretending to be pirates with bits of cardboard tube. What a spectacle!). It smells at the best of times.

If you live in London, you will have noticed the extremely hot temperatures of the past few days, and while the sun may be adored by humans, dead fish in rows of boxes aren't quite as fond, neither are the shops selling meat. The stench that fills the air on these hot evenings, mixed with the sickly sweet smell of Hookah pipes and the, well, rubbishy smell of the bin men can be incredibly overpowering, and on more than one occasion has made me gag and run for safety.

The reason I mention this, is that on Sunday, television presented me with an opportunity to feel exactly the same way, without leaving the comfort of my sofa. Thanks TV!
I'm talking, of course, about 'An Audience With Michael Bublé', which, no matter how I hard I try, I just cannot find a reason for.

Michael Bublé

A quick search of lethargy's friend Wikipedia allows me to see that other people who have had 'an audience' include Mel Brooks, Billy Connolly, Peter Ustinov and Joan Rivers (The 80's), Elton John, Axl Rose and Sooty (The 90's), Lulu, Joe Pasquale and Coronation Street (The 00's).

Two things:

1. How does one go about having an audience with a street? Sounds boring.
2. You may notice that the quality of guest droops quite considerably over time. Compare Peter Ustinov to Joe Pasquale. Or compare Sooty to Joe Pasquale. Or anybody. Even Hitler was a better comedian than Pasquale.

So it seems that the BBC started off with the good and honest intention of putting interesting characters in front of an audience and letting them talk. So far so good, but somewhere along the line things took a turn for the worse. Instead of people who were renowned, respected and loved for their skills they got Freddie Starr. And while that's bad, the real problems start when you begin to invite singers on. Singers can sing, it's rare you can find one capable of speaking in a semi-coherent manner between songs, let alone being able to hold an audience's attention with a stream of auto-cued bilge for an entire hour.


To be fair the singers that were granted 'an audience' were popular and not entirely retarded, and while I would never sit down specifically to watch a hardline religious nut singing about summer holidays, I guess that millions of others would. That's entertainment. Unfortunately.

It seems the BBC spent decades slowly ruining the show, purely so they could hand it to ITV and go "See what you can do with this".
What ITV can do with it is somehow make it even worse.

Michael Bublé is not in the least bit interesting. There is nothing remarkable about him. He has a voice like a closed library. He is not funny. He is not charming. He was autotuned to Holy Hell.

The above sentences are fact. However people beg to differ. The wonky faced, fat tongued one from McFly was in attendance, and wanted to know 'If he ever got lonely on the road'. What was probably an innocent question sounded, to my ears, like a desperate plea for some rampant buggery in a dirty motel room. Filthy, filthy McFly.

Other people there to witness the mind-numbing spectacle were:

"Imelda Staunton, Keeley Hawes, Lemar, Joanna Page, The Saturdays, The X Factor’s Stacey Solomon, Dervla Kirwan, Dermot O’Leary, Paul O’Grady, Fern Britton, Larry Lamb, Holly Willoughby and X Factor winner Joe McElderry."

Well, isn't that a cross section of absoulutely no-one of interest?

Michael's voice is boring. No matter what the backwards invalids in attendence will tell you, it is dull. If you are going to make vapid, empty pop music, at least make it interesting and fun. Like this:

His voice is, to paraphrase Derek Smalls, 'Like lukewarm water'. There is nothing of interest happening there. It's one tiny step away from being elevator music. Just thinking about it makes me want to fall asleep.

He is not funny. I hear him routinely described as 'cheeky'. Bollocks! His humour was predictable, forced and as dull as his voice. Not that this seems to have deterred his army of potential dowdy, middle aged cat horders. Facebook was alive with girls squealing about how funny and cute he is. Pffft, girls.

OMG U GUYS! I HEART BUBLE

Just because he made your gusset damp doesn't mean he is deserving of his own relentlessly tedious show. Find someone good to fancy. Like Rob Halford from Judas Priest.

In conclusion; Fuck this.

While this show was broadcast, people with taste were avoiding it, and people with even better taste were still coming to terms with the horrible loss of Ronnie James Dio.
Dio is as far away from Bublé as it's possible to be. A man who oozed passion, and lived for what he did. Sure what he did was sing about dragons and trolls while being 4ft high, but still, he believed in it in a way that most cannot comprehend. When anyone like that dies it is a genuine loss. At 67 many people would have packed up music, especially music as rigorous as heavy metal, but Dio plowed on, even through the initial stages of his battle with throat cancer.

While I was never a huge Rainbow or Dio fan, his loss has cetainly been felt, and music is less colourful without his presence. Rest In Peace Sir, we shall continue to ride the tiger for you.

(As I went to get the link for this video an ad for Bublé tickets popped up on screen. Stop mocking me you boring cunt!)

Mostly Haunted?

In recent times I have developed what can only be described as a horrible fixation wth TV shows about the paranormal. Quite why this has happened is confusing and debatable. On one hand it could be man's natural desire to quest for answers to the unexplainable, or I might just be really bored.

Pictured: Man's natural desire to quest for answers to the unexplainable. Also a big, fat, gay liar.

Whichever it is, there is no denying the hold these programs have on my futile little mind, and try as I might, I can't stop watching them.

There are three main offenders:

• Most Haunted: A team of raggedy Brits wander around supposedly haunted locations, listening to suspiciously frequent tapping sounds and running away screaming at the threat of anything interesting, all the while ignoring the advice of the one person who dares say anything approaching sensible.
• Ghost Hunters: Two plumbers and their motley crew of tattooed pals visit locations in America (or anywhere really) in an attempt to explain mysterious happenings. Far more technical than MH, and not afraid to 'debunk' incidents. Also there is not as much screaming.
• Ghost Adventures: The worst person in the world and two people I assume he has bribed into being his friends explore eerie places while being muscley, bearded and supremely irritating. still some of the supposed evidence they find is often fairly intersting.

We'll start with Most Haunted, as it is, apparently, 'the program that started it all™'.
Tapping into the aforementioned need to attempt to explain the unexplainable, MH started way, way back in 2002. The crew, headed by former 'Blue Peter' presenter Yvette fielding, are a likeable bunch, or they would be if they didn't spend so much time screaming and running away.
All the camera men, sound men and other technical folks are present at all times, altough quite why they need their make up artist with them is a mystery bigger than the one they are trying to gather evidence for.

The program is interesting for a number of reasons, firstly it offers an insight to local history and folklore, something which, to me, is asolutely fascinating, and the team treat each case with the reverence and respect it deserves. (Well, mostly. More on that in bit)
Secondly there is occasional evidence which is difficult to explain as natural, or as a hoax. This happens incredibly rarely, and is, for some reason, usually ignored in favour of focusing on the usual aspects of the program; tapping sounds and orbs.

Orbs. Little balls of glowing light. I certainly don't know what they are, but I'm guessing alot of the time they are bits of dust reflecting light.
At one point, after visiting a supposedly haunted house in Devon and listening to the man who showed us around talking about orbs in a room where they found a bricked up skeleton, I became worryingly scared that there were orbs following me.

Orbs in a bricked up room. Ooooorrrrbbbbbbzzzzz!

Orbs in a local tea room later that evening. Ooooorrrbbbbzzzz!

So, sitting alone in strange room I freaked out a little. However then I realised that I was a total fucking clown. I mean, really? if the dead wanted to manifest themselves unto us would they do it by becoming tiny little balls of nothing? I sincerely doubt it.

"Hey you guys!"

So, yeah, cynicism when it comes to orbs, but that cynicism dissapates into nothingness when it come to the cynacism I have for Most Haunted's main selling point.

"MEDIUMS"

Yes, mediums, those who practice mediumship. Those who communicate with the dead. You are aware of at least one of these people, and here he is, getting things right, as usual.

This happened in Blackpool.

Derek Acorah. he is either the world's funniest man, the world's most deluded man, or a total fucking candle. Maybe all three.
See him get possessed. Usually by the spirit of someone who fucking hates Yvette Fielding. Or an old woman. (His old woman voice is a treat)
The thing is, he has been caught out lying about his gift before.

"The ghost fish I caught was this big!"

It doesn't do the program any favours, and they have employed increasingly fewer erratic mentalists as the seasons have gone on, obviously wishing to control the damage done by this buffoon. They still use mediums though, one of whom does the horoscopes in The Sun. I'll leave you to work out how I feel about that.

One last point about MH: The best thing about it is Demonologist Fred Batt. Go Fred!


Next up is Ghost Hunters. A far superior piece of programming, and made with an understated passion that MH could only long for (while talking to the dead through a small, deceased African boy).
The 'hosts' (For want of a better word), Jay and Grant are likable plumbers who run The Atlantic Paranormal Society on the side. Their team is varied, intelligent and fun and there isn't a make up artist in sight.
Where Most Haunted rely on hyperbole to make the show interesting GH take a more measured approach, and there are entire shows where nothing is found at all. Things that have been explained as paranormal previously have been explored and debunked, and the emphasis is often on helping scared residents deal with what they are experiencing.

The greatest plumbers since Mario and Luigi.

The approach taken here is a lot more scientific than those found in other programs. cameras are set up extensively, voice rcorders and the like are used constantly, and this leads to far more interesting evidence than in other shows
When evidence is found, it is checked thoroughly and thrown out if it's not felt it is conclusive, any tales or urban legends encountered are researched deeply and brought back to the person who has instigated the investigation, and finally anything that can't be explained is shown and we are rarely told that is a haunting, more that it is evidence of something that is unexplainable.

"It's unexplainable!"
"No, it's just Jimmy, being a dick"

Ghost Hunters is easily the best of the lot, it provides chills, thrills, spills, and other things ending in 'ills'. It also has a sense of humour, which seems to be missing from other programs of the ilk.

Hoorah for ghost hunting plumbers!

Finally it's Ghost Adventures. Which is a terrible, terrible title. I don't have much to say on it, as when I watch it I cannot get past the guy presenting it. He is horrible.

No it isn't, everyone thinks you are a berk.

He is such a typically obnoxious American that anything that happens is overshadowed by his dumb antics. Constantly yelling and wearing really stupid trousers, this is less about ghosts than it is about an excercise in not throwing your TV out of the window.

I've only watched a few episodes of this because my girlfriend becomes so irate at that blokes behaviour that I fear for my life.
However from what I gather plenty of time is spent listening to crackly recordings of things that might be voices from beyond and even more is spent letting us know just how brave and fearless these mongoloids are. Therefore this program loses.

maybe I'm an idiot for watching these programs, perhaps they are all set up and I'm a total mug. Maybe everything that happens is real (it isn't), I just don't know. And I dont care. All I know is that there is a certain thrill to be had watching people in the dark being scared. Kind of like when I hide in deserted alleyways late at night and giggle menacingly at lone passers by. But not as intense. Or cold.
In conclusion: