The Idiot's Guide To Libel

This week, the world of logic, rationality, science and evidence enjoyed a small yet important victory.

Simon Singh is a British author whose impressive body of work covers a range of subjects including advanced mathematics, cryptography, big bang theory and alternative medicine. His books include Fermat’s Last Theorem, concerning the world’s most notorious mathematical formula (which Singh himself later made a documentary about in 1996, winning a BAFTA in the process), The Code Book about the history of cryptography, codes and ciphers (accompanied by a five-part Channel 4 series called The Science of Secrecy presented by Singh himself) and the excellent Trick or Treatment, a fascinating exploration of the world of alternative medicine, co-authored with Dr Edzard Ernst, the first professor of Complementary Medicine in the UK. The book is dedicated, tongue placed most firmly in cheek, to HRH The Prince of Wales, a man whose love affair with alternative medicine has been well publicised.

Simon Singh is, in short, a rather clever and successful man.

However, in 2008, his world was turned upside down when he published an article in The Guardian about Chiropractic.

For those unfamiliar with it, Chiropractic is a branch of alternative medicine which suggests that the root cause of most diseases is imbalances in the spine. These imbalances have been given the name ‘subluxations’, a rather meaningless phrase used to describe something that, frankly, doesn’t exist.

The founder of Chiropractic, Daniel David Palmer, posited that “99% of all diseases are caused by displaced vertebrae”, and immediately set about supposedly curing deafness, heart problems and goodness knows what else. In the credulous 1860’s, this was seen by some as a major medical breakthrough.

Since then, modern medicine has advanced enough that some chiropractors now distance themselves from Palmer’s ‘cure-all’ theory and content themselves instead with merely trying to resolve troublesome back pain. Indeed, there is some evidence to suggest that Chiropractic therapy is effective in this narrow field.

Other chiropractors, however, have made some rather extraordinary claims about their treatment, stating that it’s effective for a sizeable list of ailments. There is, of course, not a shred of reliable evidence to support this assertion, no matter how many poorly conceived trials the chiropractors pull out of their back pockets.

To commemorate Chiropractic Awareness Week in 2008, Singh published his aforementioned article, which contained the now infamous statement: “The British Chiropractic Association claims that their members can help treat children with colic, sleeping and feeding problems, frequent ear infections, asthma and prolonged crying, even though there is not a jot of evidence. This organisation is the respectable face of the chiropractic profession and yet it happily promotes bogus treatments.”

The BCA immediately threw all of its toys out of the pram and demanded a retraction and apology from Singh who, obviously, declined to provide either. In the spirit of honest and open debate, The Guardian offered the BCA the right of reply so they could present their own side of the argument. Tellingly, the BCA declined. What they did next, beggars belief.

In July 2008, the BCA sued Singh for libel.

Their case hinged on the phrase “happily promoted bogus treatments” as they believed the wording implied that they knew certain Chiropractic treatments didn’t work, but still knowingly supported and encouraged them. As such, they felt they were being accused of acting dishonestly.

The intention of Singh’s words was to say, effectively, that the BCA were blithely promoting treatments that simply didn’t work. Sadly, his choice of the words ‘happily’ and ‘bogus’ had backfired as he now found himself embroiled in a completely unnecessary, and arguably unethical, legal quagmire that has subsequently consumed 2 years of his time and something in the region of £200,000 of his money.

There were a number of milestones throughout the ensuing libel case including a High Court ruling by Justice Eady that Singh’s article “is in my judgement the plainest allegation of dishonesty and indeed it accuses them (the BCA) of thoroughly disreputable conduct.” Eady therefore upheld the BCA’s pleaded meanings and classified Singh’s comments as “factual assertions rather than the mere expression of opinion”.

This meant that Singh was now, bizarrely, backed into a corner whereby he had to defend a meaning implied by his article that he hadn’t intended in the first place.

In June 2009, Singh’s legal team made a paper application asking for permission to appeal Justice Eady’s ruling on the article’s meaning. This was rejected by Eady in July 2009, so an oral hearing on leave to appeal was heard in August 2009.

In October 2009, that leave to appeal was granted. Over a year into the case, and after an extraordinary amount of money had already been spent, the arguments over the intention of Singh’s words continued and the case proper hadn’t even started yet.

After much contemplation and discussion, a decision was announced on 1^st April 2010 by the Lord Chief Justice.

In his judgement, the Lord Chief Justice said “We consider that the judge (Eady) erred in his approach to the need for justification by treating the statement that there was not a jot of evidence to support the BCA’s claims as an assertion of fact. It was in our judgement a statement of opinion, and one backed by reasons.”

The appeal was allowed, and Singh could now claim that the paragraph in question was ‘fair comment’.

This changed everything. Singh no longer needed to defend a meaning that he hadn’t intended. This was a small, yet important victory, but the journey was seemingly far from over.

Libel law opponents

During this period, interest in UK libel laws grew at an incredible rate and, soon, an impressive band of supporters had grown around the case. The independent charitable trust Sense About Science, set up to promote respect for good science and evidence for the public, joined English PEN () and Index on Censorship in a coalition to campaign for Libel Reform. The resulting project ‘The Libel Reform Campaign’ organised a petition urging libel reform within the UK and, within a few months, had over 50,000 signatures, including some from high-profile individuals including Ian Hislop, Stephen Fry, Ben Goldacre, Jonathan Ross, Shazia Mirza and Marcus Brigstocke.

On 14^th March 2010, The Palace Theatre, London was home to The Big Libel Gig, a fundraising benefit for the Coalition of Libel Reform. I was fortunate enough to get a ticket and enjoyed a fantastic evening of conversation, comedy and song which featured such people as Robin Ince, Dara O’Briain, Tim Minchin, Dr Evan Harris, Dr Brian Cox and Simon Singh himself. The building was full to the rafters with ordinary members of the public who supported Singh’s case and, more importantly, wanted the introduction of major reforms in Britain’s libel laws.

Suddenly, libel law was becoming a hot topic, and with very good reason. Libel laws in the UK are reviled and feared throughout the world. You see, neither the defendant nor the claimant need to be resident in the UK to be prosecuted here. Indeed, they don’t need to have even stepped foot on our soil. All that is required is for their supposedly libellous comments to have been available in this country.

One example involved the American author Rachel Ehrenfeld who published a book entitled Funding Evil: how terrorism is funded and how to stop it. Ehrenfeld’s book was published in New York, but not the UK. Within the book, she made reference to a Saudi billionaire, Khalid bin Mahfouz and his financial activities. Bin Mahfouz decided to sue Ehrenfeld through the UK courts. But how was this possible when the book was not available to read online and had never been published here?

It transpired that 23 copies of the book had been purchased in the UK via Amazon.com. This meant that, technically, the book had been made available in our country and, accordingly, the case could be heard here. Ehrenfeld refused to travel to the UK for the case and, in her absence, a judgement was made in the amount of $225,000, which she has refused to pay.

Cases like this are part of an extraordinary upsurge. The United Kingdom has become the world leader in what has been termed ‘Libel Tourism’.

The MP Denis MacShane states, “The practice of libel tourism as it is known – the willingness of British courts to allow wealthy foreigners who do not live here to attack publications that have no connection with Britain – is now an international scandal. It shames Britain and makes a mockery of the idea that Britain is a protector of core democratic freedoms.”

With the ever-present threat of libel action hanging over the head of anyone who makes their content available in the UK, some organisations have already started to take matters into their own hands to mitigate the risk.

Click on this link for The National Enquirer, an American tabloid with a weekly circulation of almost 800,000. Go on, click it now.

http://www.nationalenquirer.com/

You should see the words ‘Page unavailable/under construction’. Are they having trouble with their website? Have they forgotten to pay their hosting bills? On the contrary – the problem is that you are trying to visit their website from a British IP address and The National Enquirer, fearful of prosecution under our draconian libel laws, has made their online content unavailable in the UK.

Other major US newspapers, including The Boston Globe and The New York Times are actively considering halting the publication of their media in the UK due to the threat of libel. How long before larger and larger chunks of the world-wide-web start winking out of existence for readers in Britain?

A sudden change

After Simon Singh’s success in the 1^st April ruling on the meaning of his words, his legal team were busy formulating the next stage of his defence whilst Singh himself presumably wondered how much longer this would take and what it would cost him.

Suddenly, everything changed once again.

On 15^th April 2010, the British Chiropractic Association discontinued its libel action against Simon Singh.

In a press release, the BCA stated that the ruling by the Lord Chief Justice “provides Dr Singh with a defence such that the BCA has taken a view that it should withdraw to avoid further legal costs being incurred by either side.”

Some might suggest that the BCA, faced with the prospect of having to fight Singh on a level, evidence-based playing field, simply couldn’t compete and decided to bow out ‘gracefully’ before losing any more money. One could, in theory, postulate that this in itself actually supports the skewed meaning the BCA applied to Singh’s words – they will knowingly promote treatments that they know to be bogus, acting in a dishonest fashion until they are asked to provide evidence that they know simply doesn’t exist. Some might say that, I couldn’t possibly comment.

In fairness, the BCA has previously tried to substantiate its claims by providing evidence of the efficacy of chiropractic for various diseases. In a June 2009 press release, it stated “In the spirit of a wider scientific debate, and having taken appropriate professional advice, the BCA has decided that free speech would best be facilitated by releasing details of research that exists to support the claims which Dr. Singh stated were bogus. This proves that far from there being “not a jot of evidence” to support the BCA’s position, there is actually a significant amount.”

The ‘evidence’ provided was a laughable collection of 29 citations which as Martin Robbins clarifies in his Guardian article of 1^st March 2010, “was ripped apart by bloggers within 24 hours of publication, before being subjected to a further shredding in the British Medical Journal. It emerged that 10 of the papers cited had nothing to do with chiropractic treatment, and several weren't even studies. The remainder consisted of a small collection of poor-quality trials.”

Robbins goes on to say that, “More seriously, the BCA misled the public with a misrepresentation of one paper, a Cochrane review looking at the effectiveness of various treatments for bed-wetting, claiming that the authors had simply concluded that, "there was weak evidence to support the use of [chiropractic]."

In fact the quote in full reads as follows:

"There was weak evidence to support the use of hypnosis, psychotherapy, acupuncture and chiropractic but it was provided in each case by single small trials, some of dubious methodological rigour."

Now even the General Chiropractic Council has disowned the claims of the BCA – the same claims that lie at the centre of its libel action against Simon Singh.”

Vindication

The BCA’s 15^th April press release said, “Simon Singh has said publicly that he had never intended to suggest that the BCA had been dishonest. The BCA accepts this statement, which goes some way to vindicating its position.” Of course, Singh made this comment way back at the beginning of the libel case, but the BCA, perhaps entirely coincidentally, did not find this acceptable when there was still a strong chance they may use the UK’s seemingly biased libel laws in their favour.

Contrary to the BCA’s words, it is Singh, not them, who has been vindicated. Science, fair comment, logic and reason have won the day, despite, not because of, the UK’s notorious libel laws. One of the most worrying aspects of this whole debacle has been the fact that there is no guarantee Singh will ever recoup his full costs. An allegation of libel is made, two years of legal to-ing and fro-ing take place, the libel case is withdrawn, yet Singh is still potentially out of pocket.

Despite the cost to Singh, the case has had some benefits, most notably that the subject of libel reform is in the public spotlight. All three of the UK’s major political parties have pledged to radically overhaul the existing laws. The Liberal Democrats gave their support at a very early stage, with Labour and the Conservatives jumping aboard later in the game, presumably when it became clear how strong public feeling was. Singh may not get his money back in full, but his trials and tribulations may yet prove to have a significant effect on our country, its laws and our Internet freedoms.

The big question is this: was the BCA right to sue Singh?

The answer, according to many, is ‘No’. In the world of science and medicine, disputes are resolved by discussion, examination of evidence, testing, peer review and other methods. Legal action has no place in the realm of scientific debate. I can do no better than quote Judge Easterbrook, now Chief Judge of the US Seventh Circuit Court of Appeals, himself quoted in the judgement of the Lord Chief Justice:

“[Plaintiffs] cannot, by simply filing suit and crying ‘character assassination!’ silence those who hold divergent views, no matter how adverse those views may be to plaintiffs’ interests. Scientific controversies must be settled by the methods of science rather than by the methods of litigation. … More papers, more discussion, better data, and more satisfactory models – not larger awards of damages – mark the path towards superior understanding of the world around us.”

In their haste to silence Simon Singh rather than engage him in meaningful, evidence-based discussion, the BCA has thrown the reputation of itself and all chiropractors into disrepute. The damages the BCA has been ‘awarded’ are not those it had in mind two years ago, but are, arguably, extremely well deserved.

The Future Is Indescribably Dull

Today, at work, I experienced a depressing moment of realisation. This, of course, is nothing new. Barely a day goes by that I don't suddenly stop what I'm doing, look around and think Ah, you appear to have wasted your life, Dan. Well done. Have a biscuit you utter moron.

I'm the worlds worst procrastinator you see. Why do today what can wait until tomorrow or, at a push, next month? This, presumably, is why I laughingly refer to myself on occasion as 'a scriptwriter' when the truth of the matter is that I haven't really written anything worthwhile in months.

"Research" is my saviour. It allows me to buy books, watch documentaries, scour the Internet and make copious notes, all the while singularly failing to actually put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard in anything vaguely resembling a screenplay.

But I digress.

Reading through a report at my desk this afternoon, I saw the words "On 12th February 2010..." and something suddenly clicked in my head. A few rusty gears began to turn, a handful of synapses fizzed into life and, brain crackling, I realised that we are officially in The Future.

Cast your mind back, for a moment, to the 1980s. Imagine you're sitting there comfortably in your waffle-knit jumper or stylish lounging cardigan. If you're a gentleman, you might be wearing a pair of those flecked-material trousers, possibly with tassled slip-on shoes. Perhaps you're sipping from a bottle of Corona, quite literally getting busy with the fizzy, or eating one of those day-glo E.T. biscuits that were available in 1982. You may, rather unfortunately, have eaten the bright orange and green ones and now only have the horrid brown one left that resembled a depressing east-European version of a custard cream.

Right, now with your 1980s head on, put your imagination in reverse and think for a moment what life will be like in the year 2010. Imagine the incredible technological leaps forward that we will have made!

2010 will be a wondrous place of strange looking cars running on electricity instead of petrol and actually talking to you like KITT in Knight Rider; extraordinary glass and metal skyscrapers in a bewildering array of shapes and sizes, stretching so high that you are dizzy just looking at them; and a truly dazzling cavalcade of electronic gadgets allowing you to do everything from carrying a whole library of books in your pocket, to watching a movie in the palm of your hand.

Doesn't 2010 sound like a fantastic place?! HG Wells himself couldn't have imagined such wonders!

But fast forward thirty years and 2010 isn't quite the utopia we'd hoped for.

All of those things I mentioned above have, of course, come to pass. These are, it must be said, extraordinary times. Except for one thing.

Everything else is still shit.

Yes, I'm typing this on my laptop whilst periodically checking a micro-blogging site on my second LCD monitor and listening to music that I purchased from the Internet which had downloaded within three minutes via a high-speed wi-fi connection, but that doesn't change the fact that when I look outside, the weather is still bloody awful. Or that, in the morning when I walk to work, I have to play "dog-shit hopscotch" in a bid to get into the office without smearing the soles of my shoes with Alsatian faeces.

You see, as everything has improved around us, the only thing that has stayed the same, even arguably become worse, is us - people are still, on the whole, horrid, nasty, vindictive, selfish, spoilt little shits.

It angers me to see them enjoying the fruits of technological improvement, while they themselves do nothing to further the human race, nor contribute to its evolution. I am even more angered by those particularly idiotic members of society, usually alternative-medicine supporters, who loudly decry science as being a fundamentally flawed discipline whilst simultaneously sharing their ill-conceived snake-oil beliefs via the high-speed PCs and laptops that stupid old science has allowed us to make a normal part of our everyday lives.

Accordingly, I have decided that future technology should only be available to those who are evolved enough to deserve it.

When I become Supreme Chancellor (one of my first duties as Prime Minister will be to upgrade myself to this newly created position, a bit like Chancellor Sutler in V For Vendetta, or Emperor Palpatine in Star Wars) I will demand that anyone attempting to buy future technology will be required to complete a questionnaire assessing their suitability. It'll be a bit like when you become a foster parent, or adopt a child, but more taxing.

Having put some thought into it, I've come up with a few initial questions that I feel would facilitate identification of suitable future technology owners.

1) Do you own a dog that you allow to defecate with gay abandon on public pavements without picking it up?

2) Have you ever, in general conversation, used the phrase "I'm not racist, but..."?

3) Are you incapable of sitting in a cinema for two hours without either a) chatting to your mates, or b) checking your mobile phone every three minutes?

4) Do you own a baby buggy and feel it is your absolute right to walk side-by-side with your buggy-owning friend, effectively hogging the entire pavement so that anybody walking in the opposite direction has to step into heavy traffic to get past you?

5) Do you see it as a personal victory when you get served first at the bar, even though you can see that the man next to you was there several minutes before you?

6) While we're on the subject, do you actually work in a bar and completely fail to take notice of which patron is next, electing instead to just choose your next customer at random irrespective of how long they've been waiting?

7) Do you read The Daily Mail?

8) Are you Noel Edmonds, Justin Lee Collins, Jeremy Kyle or Alan Titchmarsh? If so, please discontinue this questionnaire and immediately kill yourself.

9) If you saw Margaret Thatcher in the street would you a) shake her warmly by the claw whilst profusely congratulating her, tears in your eyes, on being the best Prime Minister we've ever had, or b) angrily vomit into your hand and then, possibly, throw it at her?

10) Do you have any spatial awareness whatsoever? More specifically, are you a 'meanderthal' who will blithely wander around with no thought whatsoever for anyone else who might be trying to get somewhere in a hurry?

11) Do you consider a 'funny' tie to be an excellent physical manifestation of your wacky sense of humour, designed solely to publicise your status as the office 'crazy guy'? (Score double points if you frequently use the phrase "I'm mad, me".

12) When visiting a foreign country, do you do any of the following: a) allow yourself to become sun burnt to a deep crimson on the first day, especially on your stomach which you have allowed to obscenely roll over the top of your ill-fitting Bermuda shorts b) eschew 'weird foreign food' and instead eat chips for every meal whilst loutishly shouting "Nah, I don't want any of that muck. Give us a steak, Pedro, well done", c) spend most of your time laying around on the beach drinking lager but then, on the rare occasion that you do visit some local points of interest, stride about loudly bellowing that it's all a bit shit and not as good as being back in England?

13) Do you think that even though there is not a shred of reliable evidence supporting its efficacy, that Homeopathy should be available on the NHS?

14) Have you ever eagerly flipped to the horoscopes section of a newspaper or magazine and nodded your head in appreciation at how amazingly accurate it seems to be?

15) Do you think that Roy 'Chubby' Brown is both funnier and cleverer than, for instance, Oscar Wilde or Mark Twain?

This is just a small selection of the sort of questions I'd like to see presented to people when they lope into a PC World or Currys with a fistful of cash, wanting a new laptop or wide screen TV.

If they're unable to achieve a satisfactory score, they will be sent away from the shop empty handed, and their details will be uploaded to a central database, effectively barring them from owning anything shiny, nice and useful for the next 12 months.

For the rest of the year, they will not be allowed to use any technology whatsoever.

They will be moved to 'ghettos' in which their homes will be illuminated by candlelight and they will be expected to wash their clothes in the shared back garden on a large flat rock.

They will not be permitted to use microwave ovens or deep fat fryers, so all meals must be prepared using fresh ingredients, which will be provided for them.

During this period of technology-abstinence, they will have free reign of their local public library, allowing them to read newspapers and books in a bid to open their eyes to the fact that the world does not revolve around them and their pathetic little credulous, unquestioning, xenophobic, fear-fuelled families.

In this way, Supreme Chancellor Rablenkov will make the UK a better place to live. Those people who have demonstrated a cultural, sociological or philosophical outlook that closely matches my own will be allowed to enjoy the benefits that such a society brings. Everyone else will be effectively imprisoned until they change their behaviour.

From where I'm sitting, the future is starting to look very bright indeed.

Who says power corrupts...?

I'm in the 'explosive hatred' business

Some things fill me with joy (no examples spring to mind) while others enrage me almost beyond human endurance (this would best be described as 'everything else').

This morning, for instance. As I glance at the clock on my monitor, I see the time is 05:18. Yes, it's a Saturday and I'm wide awake at just after 5 am. Considering that on weekdays I normally have immense difficulty dragging my stinking carcass out of bed any time before 7 am without much foot-stamping and folding of arms, this is a source of huge irritation to me.

Part of the reason I'm awake so early is that I was having a rather vivid dream in which I had to travel to Iceland for work purposes and had, somehow, forgotten all about it. I was in a panic of epic proportions and seemed to be dithering and shouting a lot.

I woke up immediately, confused and anxious about something that simply isn't happening. A perfect way to start the weekend.

The first thing I noticed upon waking was that a little green light was flashing on my mobile phone, indicating that I had either a text message or email. Flicking the phone on, I saw that it was an email telling me that I have a new follower on Twitter, a chap by the name of Tim Cumming. Wonderful, I thought, more Twitter spam most likely. I was wrong, yet strangely right.

You see, when I clicked on his profile I saw that Tim was one of those people who likes to motivate others via the medium of pointless, trivial sayings and trite cliches. But, with mounting amusement and anger, I saw that Tim has raised his game somewhat by including some of the most inane, nonsensical drivel that I've ever had the misfortune to cast my eyes over.

Thus, this blog post is dedicated to Tim and his unstoppable tsunami of bullshit. I shall present some of Tim's nuggets of wisdom and describe my own thoughts. Enjoy.

"Insert a smile into every conversation."

In theory, a nice idea. But let's see how it operates in what I like to call 'the real world'.

"Well, Mrs. Taylor, it appears that at the speed your husband was travelling, the fence post would have penetrated both the windscreen and his sternum at something approaching 60 miles per hour. It appears that in a moment of extraordinary good fortune, the nanny goat on his lap that he appeared to be sodomising when his vehicle left the road, actually slightly deflected the impact and caused the post to miss all of his major internal organs. Unfortunately, that does cause me to conclude that he literally bled to death in an agony that the human mind can barely begin to comprehend. If he hadn't perished over a period of six hours from exsanguination, the sheer horror of his experience would have rendered him quite, quite insane and most likely have led to his permanent confinement in an institution for the rest of his life. Fortunately, that didn't happen because he's now dead. Whilst buggering a goat." *Beams broadly*

See? A smile really helped in that conversation didn't it? What better way to sweeten the bitter pill of a recently departed loved one engaging in 'the love that dare not speak its name' than with a big old smile? This man is a genius.

"Push is better than punish."

I think Tim has tapped into something hugely important here that could absolutely transform prison services across the globe. We're all aware that levels of overcrowding are at an all time high and I think he's hit on an idea that could see our correctional facilities emptied almost overnight.

"Mr. Fitch, in my thirty-six years as a high court judge, I have rarely come across such heinous acts of barbarism and wanton blood lust. The very sight of you chills me to the bones. You displayed no compassion for your victims, instead choosing to snuff out their lives in the most perverse and sadistic ways imaginable. Rape, torture, murder, necrophilia, the list is endless. You have broken every taboo, flown in the face of common decency, and committed crimes that are scarcely within the realms of human understanding. You have been found guilty by a jury of your peers and it is up to me to pass sentence. Gerald Fitch, I sentence you to take some time out. Buy a half-caff latte, read a Sunday newspaper, go for a long walk. Just try and clear your head, spend a bit of time thinking about what you've done wrong, and try not to do it again. I think that you could really benefit from a long, slow swim in lake Gerald. Now, if I see you in this court again, I really will be quite miffed, so think on."

I think it's an absolute winner.

"The reality is much more fun than your fantasy."

I'm sorry, but I really must take exception with this one. To clarify my adversarial position, I present the following evidence.

Here's my fantasy of what happened last night:
I arrive home after a couple of days working away and, upon entering my flat, am somewhat surprised to detect the unmistakable aroma of cooking lamb. Trudging up the stairs, I wander into the kitchen and see two slow-cooked lamb shanks nestling on piles of fluffy mashed potatoes, with a bottle of good red wine open nearby. My mouth involuntarily curls into a smile and I look around, confused. "Hello?" I call out. From within the bedroom, I hear a rustling. Dropping my bag, I walk into the bedroom and there, reclining naked on the bed is Angelina Jolie, finger playfully drawing around the outline of her full, eminently kissable lips. "Hey Dan, thought I'd surprise you with something nice to eat."

I grin and slide onto the bed next to her. She wraps me up in her arms and presses me to her ample bosom. We start to kiss, eager hands exploring each other. Cue romantic music and a slow fade to black.

The reality:
Got home. Realised the milk in the fridge was off. Consumed a meagre repast of instant soup and stale bread. Had a wank. Went to bed.

Now, which one is 'more fun'? You tell me. Come on Tim, which one is fucking better? Eh? EH? The reality is most decidedly NOT better than the fantasy and to suggest otherwise is stupidity of the highest order.

"Don't tell me it can't be done. The world is full of impossible things we do regularly. Like airplanes!"

I think it's important to dedicate a little time to breaking this one down.

First, let's perform a search for 'airplane' in Google pics. Immediately, we see there are over 13 million pictures of planes. If we search for 'aeroplane', the correct English spelling, we get another 2 million results. I think, on the basis of this simple experiment, we can reasonably assume that planes exist. However, I think what Tim was getting at was that planes actually flying in the air is 'impossible'. We need to dig a little deeper.

Let's visit an on-line Dictionary and find an appropriate definition of the word 'impossible'.

Impossible: not possible; unable to be, exist, happen, etc.

OK, good. We're making some headway. Now, let's just check out some basic facts regarding aviation. According to Arthur Arnelt at ABC Aviation, "There are four forces involved in flying: drag, thrust, lift, and weight. The lift force pushes the plane upward. Thrust is the force that makes a plane move forwards. Drag is the force that slows down the plane. The force of drag counters the thrust."

OK, so all this sciencey physics stuff sounds plausible in theory, but I remain unconvinced without hard evidence. Let's visit the website of the National Air Traffic Controllers Association to see if there's any truth to this flying nonsense.

Well lawks-a-lordy and criminy, it appears that in the United States alone there are something in the region of 87,000 flights per day. This is an interesting statistic, but I'm still not sure. After all, it could be part of some extraordinary conspiracy. I want something I can see with my own eyes.



OK, OK, the evidence is overwhelming. Planes, it would appear, can actually fly. It's not magic, pixie dust, the power of positive thought or anything else. It's merely physics.

Let's now take a moment to consider whether a plane flying is "not possible. Unable to be, exist or happen."

Ummmm.....no. On the basis of the available evidence, it would seem extremely likely that the phrase "The world is full of impossible things we do regularly. Like airplanes!" is not entirely accurate in the strictest sense of the word. Indeed, one might even be tempted to suspect that Tim is talking utter bollocks. But then, that does seem to be his stock in trade.

"Just because they say you can't, means jack!"

This is one of my favourites, if for no other reason than IT MAKES NO SENSE WHATSOEVER. I think Tim might have been a bit angry when he wrote this one, hence the lack of anything approaching meaning or sense. I envisage him at home emerging from his study, naked from the waist down, unshaven and wild-eyed, clutching a sheaf of hastily scribbled pages, shaking his sleeping wife awake and screaming at her, "Eggs! Eggs from cows! Cow eggs! It's a revolution!"

His wife then patiently explains that the biology of cows simply won't allow them to lay eggs - it's a physical impossibility. Tim babbles on for several minutes about calcium supplements, subliminal images of hens piped directly into the barn, and fervent whispers of "Eggs. Eggs. Eggs." into the ears of sleeping cows whilst wearing a chicken suit, whereupon his wife slaps him, crumples up the sheaf of papers and shouts, "God, Tim, you're tearing this family apart, can't you see that? What happened to the man I married? Please, stop. For the love of God, stop." before breaking down in tears, hands over her face, shoulders wracked with sobs.

Tim, shocked and with tears springing to his eyes, marches into the other room where he logs onto the computer and types "Just because they say you can't, means Jack!" before smoothing out his papers, picking up a pencil and rocking back and forth while repeating "Cow eggs" several thousand times.

Occasionally, Tim will tweet a comment that hints at something dark and brooding in his private life. This absolute gem from a few days ago is one such example:

"So she said she doesn't love you any more. Imagine what she'll look like in 60 years. It makes breaking up easier."

Clearly, things are starting to fall apart Chez Tim after the cow eggs incident. I feel it's only a matter of time before the inevitable "She won't let you see your kids? Imagine her with a knife in her face, buried up to the handle. Then laugh." tweet appears. Or, perhaps, "Your wife won't speak to you on the phone and has filed a restraining order? Fantasise about staking her to the ground and repeatedly running her over with a ride-on lawnmower. Ha ha ha ha! Ha ha! Oh God, please come back Marion, I miss you."

I worry for his mental health, I really do.

I could pick apart more of Tim's pearls of wisdom, but some of them are just too inane for anything other than derisive laughter. I present to you here, the cream of the crop:

"Your brain is a high tech instrument running on low tech love."

"A pile of smiles goes a mile."

"Don't just stand there, wave at a stranger and smile!"

"I'm in the explosive hope business."

"Make room for zoom and banish doom."

And, finally, another favourite of mine purely because, in the ultimate act of irony, it makes me very, very angry indeed:

"If you're going to fly into a rage, fly into an encourage."

Tim is a man for whom happiness exists in small snippets of bullshit. If you're the sort of person who's actually inspired by these proverbs, then I wish you the best of luck, but would like you to know before you go on your moronic way that you're an idiot who deserves nothing but scorn. I hope the laughter of the world rings in your ears until the hungry maw of death bids you enter.

On a final note, Tim currently has over 72,000 followers.

Sunday Roast

Sometimes you find yourself in a position where you suddenly stop, take a step backwards, look around with a bemused expression and think, I'm not entirely sure I know how I got here, I know it's not good, and I'm uncertain what I should do next. This happens to me a lot.

The other day, for no apparent reason whatsoever, I remembered one such situation that occurred to me and immediately knew I should preserve it for posterity. This is that story.

About four years ago, I was something of an itinerant wanderer, moving from flat to flat, house to house, never really settling down anywhere in particular. At this time, I'd just moved in to my good friend Ben's house, based in Tintern Avenue, Westcliff. I was renting the front bedroom and quite enjoying the cosmopolitan feel of the area. By 'cosmopolitan' I mean that the chavs and ne'er-do-well's were from an impressive array of countries and continents, thus introducing a real 'United Colours of Benetton' type vibe, except with terrifying violence and snarling dogs.

5 minutes walk away was, and indeed still is, a pub called 'The Trading Room', which is one of those public houses that sprang to life from the empty shell of a closed-down bank. The decor was pleasing to the eye, the clientele were a varied selection of office workers, builders and 'miscellaneous', and the prices were a little on the high side, tending to drive away the lager-swilling riff-raff whose idea of culture is bare-knuckle boxing with their mother.

One Saturday night, kicking around the house on my own, I pooled my limited resources and decided to treat myself to a few pints. After all, this is what normal people do isn't it?

Unfortunately, my night was to be far from normal.

Standing at the bar, I sipped my bitter and looked around at the good-natured, straight-toothed people sipping wine, exchanging pleasantries and generally having a rather jolly, oik-free evening. At one point, I even treated myself to a beatific smile which, frankly, didn't sit particularly comfortably on my face but I thought I'd give it a go.

A chap in his early fifties was standing close by and engaged me in conversation. We drank a couple of beers together, chatting about this and that for a while and it was all very pleasant.

I became aware that he wasn't alone as he had a girlfriend who was lounging around in the corner downing large vodkas like they were going out of fashion and silently perusing the other patrons of the pub. She seemed nice enough, but didn't say very much.

For the purposes of this reminiscence, I shall call the man Bernard and the woman Tiffany. I have no idea of their real names as that particular detail has long since been lost to my memory.

Eventually, the bell rang for last orders and we managed to sneak another drink. As the other patrons started to file out, my new friend Bernard turned to me and said, "We're going to get something to eat and then have a couple of drinks at home. Come and join us!"

Now, normally, I might have stood back and thought, Right, I've only just met this guy, I don't really know who he is, so it's probably best not to head back to his house where I might be raped or murdered. Unfortunately , I'd had several drinks and was now in 'the zone'.

For those of you unfamiliar with the term, being in 'the zone' means that the alcohol you've already guzzled is racing around your system at a rate of knots and giving you a happy, 'all is right with the world' buzz. It feels good, it makes you believe yourself to be cleverer and wittier than you actually are, and it demands constant topping-up. The filter in your head which says "OK chief, time to call it a night" is set to the 'off' position and all you crave is additional alcohol, consequences be damned.

The off licence was closed and there was no booze indoors, so this was my only opportunity for a cheeky snifter. Casting caution to the wind, I nodded at Bernard and said, "Yeah, that'd be good. Cheers."

We filed out of the pub, me, Bernard and Tiffany, and visited a Chinese takeaway down the road. Having no money left, I chose the 'standing outside smoking' option while they organised their food. A few minutes later, we were heading off to his flat which was a ten minute walk away.

When we arrived, just after midnight, we entered the flat and I could see that it was a pleasant enough place, a bit rough around the edges, but habitable and not at all grimy. Good, I thought, these seem like decent people.

My host directed me towards the living room which housed the usual fixtures and fittings with the addition of a small dining room table and a few chairs. Pointing me towards a chair he said, "Right, drink?"

"Fantastic, yes. What have you got?"

"Tea or coffee?"

I paused. Tea or coffee hadn't been on the bill of fayre floating enticingly around in my head. I'd envisaged whisky or vodka. Perhaps a good quality brandy or a fine vintage port. A glass of champagne, perhaps, or a gin and tonic. Casting my eyes quickly around the living room, I could see no bottles of delicious booze so resigned myself to the fact that Bernard had dragged me here pretty much on false pretences and all I was going to get was a decidedly uninspiring non-alcoholic beverage.

"Coffee please, thanks," I grumbled.

"How do you take it?" Bernard asked.

"Black, two sugars."

This, it transpired, was a mistake, but I was not to discover this until a little later.

Bernard scurried off to the kitchen where Tiffany had disappeared some moments earlier and I heard the recognisable sounds of water being poured, a kettle being flicked on and spoons pinging against mugs. In addition, they were munching their special fried rice in the kitchen while I sat there silently in the living room.

After a couple of minutes, Bernard brought my coffee out and placed it, steaming mightily, onto the table in front of me. I looked up at him and could see that numerous grains of rice had collected at the corners of his mouth as he chewed his takeaway.

He smiled at me conspiratorially and said, "Want to see something good?"

I nodded dumbly and tried to smile, the first stirrings of "I have a bad feeling about this" jerking into life at the back of my brain.

Bernard wandered over to a cupboard, opened it and fumbled about for a few seconds. Then, closing the cupboard, he turned to me and I could see he was holding what appeared to be a metal bar in his hands.

"Extendable baton," he grinned, flicking his wrist and causing the metal bar to extend to its full length. He smiled, swishing it about, and said, "A few thumps in the head with that and you wouldn't be getting up again."

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't slightly frightened. I was, in a matter of seconds, stone-cold sober. Soon, I thought, I might be stone-cold dead.

He continued to stand there, brandishing the baton, swiping it through the air and slamming it into the palm of his hand. Bizarrely, my eyes were still focused on the rice at the edge of his lips. I think my rationale was: I can't possibly be beaten to death with an extendable baton by a man who has part of a Chinese meal on his face. That wouldn't be proper so it can't happen.

It turned out that my logic was absolutely correct as Bernard proceeded to hand the baton to me, instructing me to "have a go".

I weighed it in my hands and, politely, nodded my head appreciably at its impressive weight. He urged me to swing it about so I feebly swished it back and forth, nodding my head and complementing him on his choice of weapon.

He smirked and took the baton from me, saying "Here, I'll show you something else", before going to his cupboard once again.

Pausing only briefly to show me his cricket bat that "I normally keep downstairs by the door", he proceeded to produce a handgun and wave it in my general direction. Yes, you read that right - he was holding a handgun.

Cradling it lovingly, he then told me about what type it was, the ammunition it took and its destructive power. Sadly, these details are forever lost in the mists of time as I was, by now, utterly terrified. Fortunately, as he explained, he kept the bullets in the attic so at least the thing wasn't loaded. Or so I assumed as the alternative didn't really bear thinking about.

After a few moments, he returned the handgun to his cupboard of deadly weaponry and returned to the kitchen to polish off the rest of his rice.

Left alone, I looked around nervously wondering how best I could make my escape. This man, a complete stranger, had invited me into his home and waved a selection of illegal weapons at me. Indeed, he'd actually pointed a gun at my face. This was not, to the best of my knowledge, normal behaviour. I had no choice but to leave. This was way outside my comfort zone.

Unfortunately, what was also outside my comfort zone was the fact that to escape immediately would mean I'd be leaving a full cup of coffee on the table which was nothing short of rude. Yes, yet again, my pathetically English sense of decorum had kicked in and I couldn't possibly leave without drinking the coffee first. The thought of sneaking out leaving a fresh beverage un-sipped mortified me, if for no other reason than Bernard might pursue me down the road with a sawn-off shotgun, outraged at my casual refusal of his courteous gesture.

This, unfortunately, was where my decision not to have milk in my coffee had backfired. The cup of liquid in front of me was hotter than the surface of the sun and completely undrinkable without inflicting serious oral burns on myself. I sat in the living room, frantically blowing on it in a bid to reduce its temperature.

After another few moments, Bernard returned, chewing more food, and said "I'll just put the TV on", which I thought was very nice of him as it would give me something to look at while I weighed up whether I was going to make a bolt for the door or just leap out of the window and hope for the best.

The TV flickered into life and he started sorting through some video tapes in a pile on the floor. He picked one up and inserted it, grabbing the remote control and pressing the play button.

Immediately, the screen filled with images of hardcore pornography.

Bernard turned, winked lasciviously at me, and returned to the kitchen.

Now, on occasion I've had friends round on a social basis. We listen to music or sometimes watch the TV. Occasionally, I'll put a DVD on of the latest Hollywood blockbuster so we can guffaw at the plot holes and feel superior. We've even sat and played games on the xbox 360. What I've never done, however, is decide that what would really set the mood for the evening would be to put on a video of two men vigorously violating a woman in a nurse's outfit. Maybe I'm old-fashioned and out of touch with modern behaviour and for that I can only apologise.

I was starting to feel uneasy, which was manifesting itself as anger, a classic defence mechanism. In this confusing scenario of guns, porn and extendable batons, I needed a scapegoat, something on which I could blame this whole ordeal; an item, person or concept that I could jab my finger at and bellow, "J'accuse! This is all your fault! What the hell were you thinking?"

In the depths of my bewilderment, the only possible thing I could get angry at was the cup of coffee. This steaming mug of devil's brew was the only thing preventing me from making my polite, socially-acceptable escape. You instant bastard, I thought, directing my fury towards the coffee. You irritating receptacle of boiling, pitch-black doom. When I get home - IF I get home - I'm going to find a jar of Mellow Birds and smash it to pieces with a rolling pin.

Suddenly, Tiffany entered the room, walked towards the sofa and laid down on it, eyes glued to the pornography on the TV. We sat there in silence, save for the sound of slapping thighs and animalistic grunts coming from the porn video.

Then Bernard walked in, crossed the room, knelt down by his reclining girlfriend, leaned over her, and started to kiss her passionately whilst jamming his hand between her legs in an alarmingly non-erotic fashion, all the while looking directly at me.

Finally, the pieces dropped into place. I had been invited back here to engage in a threesome with a man in his fifties and a tired, drunk blonde woman. They'd decided to indulge in some sort of sordid, sex festival and I was the guest of honour.

It was an horrific tableau. Me, mug in hand, lips pursed at the rim, puffing air over the simmering liquid, Bernard, tongue bulging grotesquely out of his mouth and into Tiffany's, his hand kneading at the crotch of her jeans, eyes locked on mine.

I started to gulp the coffee as fast as I could. My mouth burned, my throat constricted, but I was going to drink that damn coffee and get the hell out of there. I whimpered, took a gulp, gasped, drew cool air into my burning mouth, then took another gulp. It was not dissimilar to some sort of endurance test that you'd see on a Japanese game show performed by a businessman in an ill-fitting leotard while cackling buffoons in fancy dress point at him and shout.

I can only imagine that this is what it must feel like to drink lava, I thought as I continued to swallow scalding mouthfuls of Nescafe. In retrospect, I do wonder if it was Gold Blend as that would have put an interesting slant on the 'will they, won't they' adverts starring Anthony Head and Sharon Maughan. Yes, they will, but only in front of a startled onlooker after pointing a gun at him.

Ironically, just as I'd swallowed the last mouthful of coffee and banged the mug on the table triumphantly, Tiffany, who had possibly been press-ganged into the whole sorry business by the perverted Bernard, decided that she didn't want to do this and pushed him away, before tottering to her feet, picking up her shoes and walking out. He dashed after her, trying to talk her back into the room but, within a few seconds, I heard the sound of the front door slamming shut and his dejected footsteps slowly climbing the stairs.

He shuffled into the room, switched off the porn and turned to me. We regarded each other silently, him with unmistakable disappointment, me with pleading terror.

Eventually, Bernard spoke. "I don't think she's feeling very well. I'm going to bed. Thanks for coming over."

And with that, I leaped from the dining room table, grabbed my coat and darted towards the door. Astonishingly, I thanked Bernard not only for his hospitality, but for the coffee too.

I stepped outside into the cold night air, sucking it gratefully into my raw, stinging mouth and walked home, furtively casting my eyes over my shoulder every few steps just in case Bernard was following me with a scimitar tucked into his belt.

Reaching Ben's house, I let myself in and walked straight upstairs to my room, flinging my clothes off and climbing wearily under the sheets, already wondering if I'd actually experienced what had just happened. I fell into a troubled sleep.

It has often been said to me, "It could only happen to you, Dan." I must regrettably agree.

Death Pays A Visit part 2

This morning, at 3am, I awoke to the sound of someone being murdered.

How's that for a hook-line?

It had been a most eventful Friday evening indeed. After leaving work, I braved the hordes of meandering, slack-jawed oiks in Sainsbury's to purchase supplies for the weekend.

Now, ordinarily I'm uncomfortable with using the phrase 'purchase supplies' as I consider it most disagreeable and aggravating. Rather like the phrase 'a good bit of kit' I find that it's used largely by armchair warriors with an unnatural predilection for spouting vaguely-military sounding jargon in the vain hope, presumably, that it will make them sound dangerous, knowledgeable and exotic.

Well it doesn't. It simply makes them sound like idiotic wannabes, re-reading Andy McNab books and mentally masturbating over pictures of MIG 29's. Such people will often claim that they are "going out to 'recce' the pub situation" before trotting off down the road to smugly quaff warm ale while standing at the bar, surveying the other punters and considering which ones they could take out with a well-aimed karate chop to the neck. (Answer: none)

Nobody is impressed, so stop it at once.

However, in this particular case, the 'supplies' comment was actually fairly accurate for the following reason. When I go home on a Friday night, my ultimate plan is to walk in through the front door, close it and then not re-open it until Monday morning. To spend the whole weekend indoors (or partly out on the balcony if I'm feeling particularly adventurous) without having to rub shoulders, look at or talk to another human being is a thing of joy and I recommend it to all. And, of course, getting in enough food, booze and cigarettes to see you through is an integral part of this.

Having purchased lasagna, milk, bread, eggs, booze and plentiful cigarettes, I was ready to 'dig in'* for a couple of days.

*Yes, another military term. I was using it ironically. Fuck off.

Due to a minor week-long obsession with coconut which has involved the consumption of several bounty bars, I took the unusual measure of buying a small bottle of Malibu as the thought of delicious coconutty alcoholic drinks seemed like rather a jolly idea. Sadly, the reality wasn't as satisfying as the fantasy. Despite the deliciousness of Malibu, it is only 21% proof which means you have to drink 3 litres of it just to dull the shame of actually having bought the stuff in the first place.

Still, it was rather pleasant and I topped up my alcohol quotient with several very large, very harsh, dark rums, whilst eating a pleasingly cheesy lasagna, to which I had added extra cheese for the lovely bubbly, crispy topping effect.

I was in bed asleep by about midnight, belly full, and was dreaming by 3:00. I seem to recall that I was involved in a telephone call about work in which I was talking on my mobile to a group of people in the next room. For reasons unknown, one of the people was Simon Cowell, so it already had something of the nightmare about it. I was explaining the work I do, why it's important to the organisation, how I 'add value' and various other things that had me cringing in embarrassment as I remembered the details this morning.

As I schmoozed my way through the telephone call, I was staggered to suddenly hear the sound of someone being attacked.

A high-pitched shrieking could be heard over the phone, punctuated with furious, frenzied growling and roaring. In my dream, I ran into the other room to see what the hell was going on.

As I entered the room, I immediately saw several mutilated corpses littering the chintzy sofa and one person in particular being savaged to death by some sort of invisible force, rips and gouges opening up in their flesh right in front of my eyes.

It was such a shocking visual image that it actually woke me up and I lay there in bed, on my right hand side, eyes wide open. It took 2 or 3 seconds for me to fully move from dream-state to wide-awake, during which time I came to an awful dawning realisation that I could still hear the screaming.

This was no dream.

I froze, absolutely rigid, eyes like saucers, breath caught in my throat. There, unmistakeably, was the sound of some horrific creature roaring, spitting and shrieking. I listened, blinking myopically, still rooted to the bed, desperately trying to ascertain where the sound was coming from.

Was it outside? No, too close for that. Too loud. Which meant that...it was inside.

I still lay there, hearing that awful sound, as my brain flickered through the possibilities - was it in the living room? The kitchen? The bathroom?

The answer to every one of these questions was a resounding 'no'.

It was coming from the bedroom - the very room I was in.

I'm not exaggerating when I say that I was absolutely terrified. In a ridiculous, instinctual move, I slowly started to lift the duvet over my head in the hope that it would make the sound go away. I stopped after a few seconds though, scared that I might attract the attention of whatever was in the room. I hesitate to admit this, but I was almost on the verge of tears.

What is this? What's making this noise? Am I going to die?

I was half-asleep, confused, frightened out of my wits and sort of wished that I was already dead so I wouldn't have to listen to it anymore. I know that you're all used to my exaggerations for comic effect, but I'm telling the absolute truth when I say that I can't ever remember being that frightened in my life, and I genuinely thought I was going to die.

I played out my own death in my imagination and it seemed to go on for hours. In reality, of course, it was merely seconds. But I lay there and almost accepted that I would probably no longer be alive in a few more moments. All common sense and rationality completely evaporated. I kept telling myself "there simply can't be something in the room. It's impossible", but my mind wasn't listening. A deep, primal fear had kicked in and I was convinced of my impending doom.

Then, after a few more seconds, my eyes adjusted slightly and I realised that the room wasn't in complete darkness; there was, in fact, a bluish tinge to the walls, rather like the one you get when the television is on...

If I hadn't been clutching the duvet between my fists and silently weeping into the pillow, I would have slapped myself on the forehead with a sound like a starting pistol.

All at once, I recalled what I'd been doing when I'd gone to sleep 3 hours earlier...

...I'd been laying in bed watching An American Werewolf in London on DVD.

Turning over, I looked to my left and saw the TV was still on, and the DVD was endlessly looping. Griffin Dunne was on the screen, slathered with blood and gently steaming in the cold air of the moors.

I almost wept with relief.

Yes, folks, I fell asleep watching a horror film and woke up thinking there was a monster in my bedroom. I appear to have reverted to being 8 years old again.

I'd hoped that if I wrote about this, it would somehow cathartically absolve me of the enormous shame that I feel. Sadly, it hasn't worked. I am a moron. A blithering idiot of such extraordinary magnitude that I can barely believe it.

Thus, we learn these important lessons:

1) Don't eat 'extra cheese' before bedtime.
2) Don't fall asleep watching a horror film.

Oh, and:

3) Don't use military jargon. Ever.



Related Posts: Death Pays A Visit

Music Review of 2009

Steal from the best*. That's my philosophy on life. So, in that spirit, I have decided to pinch an idea from Piley, the author of the excellent 'Start The Revolution Without Me' blog. The idea, as presented on his blog, was thus:

E. F Rice hit on the genius idea that we all create a CD made up of your favourite tunes from the last 12 months, burn enough copies for everyone and then dish em out. The rules were simple, all of the tracks had to either: a) be taken from an album released in 2009; or b) from an album you bought in 2009 Either way, the CD was to contain songs that had shaped 2009 for you.

Seems like a rather good idea. Therefore, for your listening pleasure, I present to you my songs of 2009.

Note: I have removed all links to music where there is a potential copyright claim. Blame the Digital Economy Act. Those that remain are either available for free online from the artists in question, or in the case of Baddies, one of them is a friend of mine and I'm sure won't mind me giving them some free advertising.

*Stolen from Francis Ford Coppolla.


Artist: Cybraphon
Album: Automaton Number One (2009)
Track: Coxsackie

This is an odd one. 'Cybraphon' is a project by an Edinburgh-based collective called FOUND. Essentially, it's a collection of robotic instruments residing in an antique display case, and the music it plays is affected by any comments made online about itself. It's mood changes from 'Desolation' all the way up to 'Delirium'. Utterly bizarre, of course, but it's been producing some rather impressive music. This track in particular, 'Coxsackie' reminds me a bit of recent Tom Waits' fare like his 'Black Rider' album and I keep half expecting a gravelly drawl to begin floating around over the whole thing. A very interesting piece of esoterica.

http://cybraphon.com/

Artist: Brand Violet
Album: Retrovision Coma (2005)
Track: Alien Hive Theme

I'm not sure what's happening with these chaps as their website states "Brand Violet have released two albums and have plans to release a third album in 2009", yet this fabled third album has yet to make an appearance. Despite this, their first album, 'Retrovision Coma', makes my list of 2009 purely because I'd never heard of them until a few months back. They were brought to my attention by a Twitter chum, @GarethDEdwards who has been responsible for directing me towards some fantastic music this last year. This track in particular simply delights me every time I hear it.

http://www.brandviolet.com/index.htm

Artist: Sparks
Album: Hello Young Lovers (2006)
Track: Dick Around

If you're a follower of Piley's blog 'Start The Revolution Without Me' (and if you're not, then shame on you) you'll be well aware of his devotion to, indeed 'obsession with', those insane Mael brothers and their creation Sparks. Like many others, I thought Sparks had done one song years ago and disappeared off the face of the planet. I was very, very wrong and Piley has successfully coaxed me onto the path of enlightenment. Sparks are very much alive and kicking, having produced something like 22 albums, and their later work is absolutely wonderful. Their 2006 album 'Hello Young Lovers' is that CD you simply can't stop listening to, no matter how much you might want to. I've played it so many times I should really be sick to death of it, but it's a truly wonderful accomplishment. Piley himself has described this track 'Dick Around' as a song on a par with Queen's 'Bohemian Rhapsody' in terms of its epic scale. Worryingly, I don't disagree with him...

http://www.allsparks.com/

Artist: ThumperMonkey Lives!
Album: We Bake Our Bread Beneath Her Holy Fire (2009)
Track: If it works for the cast of LA Law, it's going to work for me

Another recommendation from @GarethDEdwards of Twitter fame, this album has been a firm favourite on my MP3 player for some months now. How to describe Thumpermonkey Lives!? Well, their own website says, "Over-egging the pudding of good taste, Thumpermonkey shake up an ill-advised cocktail of post-metal sludge, Bowie-esque warcries and mathematics homework; dropping in a brine-tinged olive of 70's progressive rock, and finishing it off with a gaudy little umbrella."
I think that sums them up quite nicely, actually, even though it is cheating for me to use their own press in such a lazy manner. This album is, quite simply, wonderfully moreish. Most times I listen to it, I immediately put it back to track 1 again and sit through its insanity at least twice more in a sitting. Amazingly, their earlier albums are available online completely free of charge so, as the man says, "Fill your boots".

http://www.thumpermonkey.com/



Artist: ThumperMonkey Lives!
Album: We Bake Our Bread Beneath Her Holy Fire (2009)
Track: Abyssopelagic

Thumpermonkey Lives! again. I make no apologies. They're wonderful.



Artist: The Clockwork Quartet
Album: None released
Track: The Doctor's Wife

OK, I have to admit that I'm a fan of Steampunk - that glorious medley of Victoriana and steam-driven futurism. It's an extraordinary world. But, for me, there has never really been a Steampunk band that I could get behind. Sure, there are some who claim to carry the Steampunk banner, but as soon as I hear an electric guitar in there, the bubble is burst and I'm no longer lost in that world - yes, I'm looking at you Abney Park. Until, that is, The Clockwork Quartet came to my attention. This group of people (actually 13 of them, not 4 as the name suggests) create their music with banjos, accordions, violins and even typewriters. Yes, that's right, typewriters. Their sound is quite unique and utterly addictive. They have an album in the works, but there are two songs available on their website, both of which I have played far more than is actually healthy or sane. I'm actually giddy with anticipation about the release of their new album which, I'm hoping will be available some time in 2010. Listen to them. Fear them. Then love them.

http://www.clockworkquartet.com/index.php



Artist: The Clockwork Quartet
Album: None released
Track: The Watchmaker's Apprentice

Another from the undisputed masters of Steampunk music. Did I mention that they're brilliant? OK, just checking.



Artist: Baddies
Album: Do The Job (2009)
Track: Open One Eye

I've mentioned Baddies in the past and I continue to be amazed by them. Their debut album is an utter joy and has been in my CD player so many times over the last few months that I've now resorted to just leaving it in there at all times. I saw them play live in Southend around Christmas time and it was a fantastic gig. Piley was there too and seemed to really like it, so I feel I've repaid the favour of him introducing me to Sparks. This particular track was my favourite from day 1 and continues to be the one that always makes me grin like a shitting chimp. Buy it, listen to it, then thank me later.

http://www.listentobaddies.co.uk/



Artist: Diablo Swing Orchestra
Album: Sing Along Songs for the Damned & Delirious (2009)
Track: Lucy Fears The Morning Star

Diablo Swing Orchestra are, I believe, clinically insane. But I love them all the more for it. They're a Swedish avant-garde metal band who...wait, wait! Come back! Trust me, these guys are good! Right, what these lunatics produce is some of the most epic, swelling, thumping, tracks you're likely to hear. It's utter madness and sounds rather like a Friday night in the bowels of Hades where, of course, you can most definitely still smoke at the bar while sipping your fire-water. I'd like to see this group live, but fear I might never recover. You'll love them or hate them. Or fear them.

Artist: Matt Stevens
Album: Echo (2009)
Track: Spencer Park

Of course, no review of 2009 would be complete without mention of Mr. Matt Stevens. He was, you may recall, my blog pick for this year. You know that bit in The Big Lebowski where The Stranger says, "It's good knowin' he's out there, the Dude, takin' her easy for all us sinners." Well, I kind of feel that way about Matt - I find it strangely comforting that in the helter skelter insanity of modern life, he's out there somewhere, with his guitar and a bottle of something beery, happily making this wonderful music. The dude abides.

http://www.mattstevensguitar.com/



Artist: MooV
Album: Fold (2008)
Track: Fall Away

In the continuing spirit of lazy theft, I shall quote this: "Led by composer Colin Riley and featuring the distinctive voice of Norwegian vocalist Elisabeth Nyågard, MooV are made up of the enticing combination of voice, 'cello, bass guitar, percussion, keyboards and electronics'. Following three years of exploratory recording and development this bewildering band of cross-genre musicians has put together a musically aesthetic & evocative album of songs which challenge the rich territories between pop, electronica, the avantgard and jazz. Categorise if you can."
Yep, that about sums them up. One minute you're listening to a track which reminds you of early Diamanda Galas and her insane glossolollia, the next there are beautiful Bjork-ian melodies. This one, as they say, is a keeper.

There were, of course, many other songs/albums that I loved over 2009, but these are the ones that have sprung to mind. I hope they give you as much pleasure as they did me.

Next time on The Blog of Eternal Disappointment: something shouty about an unimportant event that is of little consequence even to me. Stay tuned!

2010. New year, same disappointment.

I have no idea where this blog post is going, so I'm going to randomly start typing words in a bid to kick some life into my head. Daffodils and sausages and limericks and fellatio and Joseph Stalin and ignorance and javelins and moonbeams and lentils and soda pops.

That, right there, was a genuine train of thought. A technique used by many psychiatrists (at least in the films I've seen) is to say a word and get the patient to respond with the first thing that comes into their head. Those were the first words that I thought of. Sausages (nom) and fellatio (er, nom?) are pretty obvious choices for a man, but I'm buggered if I know where Joseph Stalin came from. If anyone reading this has a background in psychology, I'd love to know what it all means.

Right, back to the blog. My fingers are sufficiently limbered up and my brain pan has been lubricated by the judicious application of a couple of glasses of booze.

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There has been little action on the blog lately, mostly because I've been too angered by Christmas to even think straight. Additionally, nothing of interest has happened.

I did have one idea that briefly excited me - to write a review of 2009 in which I would visit a single event from each of the last twelve months and moan about it at length. I even decided that it would be a two-part post, each part covering six months.

Sadly, I soon realised it was turning into nothing more than a rather disturbing record of me gleefully cackling and rubbing my hands together over a selection of celebrity deaths. So, pretty quickly, that idea bit the dust. I'm not a monster.

So, I'm left with little choice but to recount to you something that happened to me earlier today. Make yourself comfortable, pour a drink, light a soothing pipe of dark Moroccan tobacco and read...

After a hard day at work, I decided that rather than walk home in the grimy Essex slush, I'd treat myself to a cab. As a single man, my pleasures are few and far between - a cigarette; a glass of something alcoholic, cheap and nasty; striking a recalcitrant child; frenzied self-abuse; or a taxi journey. These are the things that temporarily bring joy into my dull life.

Trudging over to the taxi rank, I found myself walking at the same pace as a young man in a suit. Being a generous chap, I slowed down, extended my hand in the universal gesture of 'no, after you' and he stepped into the first taxi on the rank and was driven away into the night.

I walked over to the second cab on the rank where a portly, silver-haired gentleman was sitting in the driver's seat reading a book. As I approached, I was startled to see something vaguely resembling panic in his eyes but, after a moment of initial concern, dismissed it as a trick of the light. Clambering into his sweltering cab, I quickly realised the reason for his wide-eyed horror at my approach...

Some thirty seconds prior to me bumbling down the street, the cab driver, possibly suffering from some particularly painful form of gastrointestinal dysfunction, had decided to loosen his sphincter and emit a lavish fart of such extraordinary pungency that before I could even say "Good evening" my face was frozen, mouth partially open in a silent retch, nostrils flaring at the absolutely astonishing reek.

By now, I was sitting in the back with the door closed, so it was too late to climb out again muttering some feeble excuse about forgetting to buy something in the shop.

There was a moment of silence. We were, briefly, at an impasse. He knew he'd done it. I knew he'd done it. But, of course, neither of us could say anything. He knew he couldn't apologise. I knew I couldn't make a comment. Thus were we locked together in a grotesque pantomime of societal politeness and mutual embarrassment.

Eventually, the silence was broken.

"Where you going to?" he stammered.

I replied with the name of my road and off we went.

Now, it's barely 5-minutes drive to my house, but I'm sure you can understand that it felt like several hours. For the entire duration of the journey, every breath I took caused a fresh wave of nausea to ripple through my body, starting at the stomach and ending in my mouth, locked away behind gritted teeth and a grimace so fierce that any witnesses might be led to believe I'd just eaten a dog turd dipped in lemon juice.

The cab was hot, stuffy and so extraordinarily odorous that I can only compare it to sitting in a fan-assisted oven on Gas Mark 8 with a 4-inch stack of used nappies on your lap.

Now, an hour later, I still don't know how I managed to stop myself spraying vomit over the back of the driver's head.

I considered opening the window, but things are rarely that simple. You see, if I'd opened it immediately, he would have known the game was up and his subsequent embarrassment would have made me feel guilty. Therefore, I had to leave it for a few moments. But how long? If I'd waited for a minute, he'd have thought "Phew, got away with that one. Maybe it hasn't travelled into the back yet" and visibly relaxed, grateful that he hadn't been caught out, whereupon I would open the window and he would immediately stiffen, silently mouthing the words, "Shit Shit Shit".

Therefore, I decided to wait a bit longer. Unfortunately, this was a very foolish and naive move. If you sit there for 2 minutes without opening the window and then you suddenly cave in and wind it down, the taxi driver might think, "Hold on. He opened the window but sat there smelling it for a couple of minutes first? What is he, some kind of olfactory pervert?" before kicking me out of the cab.

I was trapped. I'd missed my opportunity and the window HAD to remain closed.

At one point, he tried engaging me in conversation, presumably in a desperate bid to show that everything was fine and the taxi didn't smell at all like a latrine at Glastonbury, but I simply wasn't in the mood to exchange pleasantries as I breathed in his flatulence.

Now, on a side note, I should tell you about my aversion to beans.

Nothing on Earth is as mouth-watering as the smell of a cooked breakfast. Bacon sizzling under the grill; hot, plump sausages baking in the oven; the warm, nutty aroma of bread frying. The English Breakfast is an absolute treat for the senses and if there's one thing that can ruin it in a bloody heartbeat, it's the addition of a big wet puddle of baked beans. The cheap, sweet juice gets over everything and instantly taints the flavour of every other item on the plate. Baked beans are, quite frankly, an abomination and I despise them. The way they look, the way they taste, the way they smell - nothing about them is good and they make me very angry indeed.

Thus, it was with mounting horror, that I slowly realised the smell pervading every corner of the taxi, the stench that I was drawing into my lungs, smelled of beans.

I almost sobbed.

"Don't worry," I thought to myself, "you're nearly home. Just a bit further and you can get out into the fresh air. Keep your shit together, man."

I blinked away the tears and looked out of the window, eager to get a glimpse of the street sign that would announce I was only moments away from liberating myself from this dutch-oven of feculence. There it is! There it is!

I watched, mouth agape, head slowly turning 180 degrees as the taxi sailed straight past my road. The taxi driver had missed the turning. I was so distraught, I couldn't even speak. I genuinely sat there in complete silence, a tear springing to the corner of my eye as another wave of nausea surged through my body.

After a moment, the taxi driver said, "Oh, you wanted that one didn't you? Sorry."

I nodded dumbly, bottom lip quivering.

Of course, he didn't turn around straight away, oh no. Instead, we trundled down the road for another 45 seconds, as I continued to inhale his beany stench, passing several turnings that could have very easily taken me home. I was too upset to think, let alone say anything. After a moment, he turned and soon we were outside my flat.

The taxi ground to a halt and the driver looked at me in the mirror.

"Four quid please."

I paid him, wordlessly, scrambling at the door handle like an excitable puppy. I flung the door wide and leaped out, sucking in a huge lungful of fresh, untainted air. I was giddy with the rush of cold, clean oxygen. I'd made it. I was home. And I hadn't been sick over myself. This was indeed a victory.

And then, in a truly staggering moment of idiotic courtesy, I turned around, put my shaking hand on the door and said, "Thank you" before slamming it shut.

There's something quintessentially English about that which makes me simultaneously proud and so ashamed of myself that I could sob like a baby...