At the risk of this blog requiring imminent re-naming, viz “Pustules, Pox and Plague: My life in Illness”, I would like to report that the hole in my gum which coincidentally connects directly to my sinuses due to the removal of an abnormally long tooth, has officially gone bad and decided that this week, it will have an abscess. Cue much facial throbbing and a general inability to eat on the right hand side of my face for the seventh consecutive month. I can come to no conclusion other than the fact that I seem to be very Like Paris Hilton these days, crawling as I am, with diseases.

 

Still, giant oral pus balls aside, life is pootling along in familiar style. Another week, another job application, another vast gaping void where a response should be, etc etc. Either I’m a complete chuffer with no viable skills and the CV of a 12 year-old feral child, or my postman hates me and uses any mail other than bills to wipe his forehead on whilst climbing the violently steep hill which crests at my house. I believe I may have been raised by chimps, because my postman drives a van. What the hell, I’m the finest Fixed Penalty clerk there will ever be.

My spell-checker tells me that the “I’m” in that last sentence is grammatically incorrect and should be “I is”. Apparently, my spell-checker is an offensive African-American slave stereotype.

Speaking of offensive stereotypes, I purchased the following T-shirt off the nets last week:

 

 I thought it was cool. However, upon showing mine housemates, I was informed that the children were not the happy specimens I had hitherto assumed them to be. They are (as Stu put it), Retards.

Excellent, I may have bought the most offensive T-shirt since a uni mate of mine wore his “Fuck Jesus” jumper to a Bingo night. The fule.

 

Please tell me they are naught more than happy chidlers… Please…?

 

Laters.

xx

 

 

 

I am sorry for the last entry. Oh yes.

 

I remember being angry about something on the way into work this morning, but I have absolutely no idea what it was. I think it was something to do with .. aha! I remember.

I am absolutely, utterly, completely pig-ranting sick of cover versions of songs. I hate the way that smug music types feel the need to “re-imagine” decent tunes in their chosen genre, and in doing so, achieve nothing more than to make them selves look even more bereft of creativity. I’m one of those music Nazis, who thinks that genuine talent comes from the ability to not only warble a decent tune, but also to create (ie write) one too. This is the X-Factor-factor. Nowadays, and awld tit with a trendy haircut and a power-ballads CD can be feted by the popular media as a “musical talent”. It’s interesting to compare these people to those slogging away on the club scene with no real recognition, The only difference is that they have: a) stolen the face of a two year old child; b) Listened to enough early Mariah Carey to know that hitting more than one octave in a single phrase can occasionally work; or c) prepared a suitable heart-warming story, usually involving some form of socially-crippling affectation or life-threatening illness. And if you’re attractive, then so much the better. I know that looks have always played a part in popular music, but fck me, if it hasn’t become the be-all and end all. We are even now at the point where some ratty little fucker with buck teeth can be given a “make-over” (tin-tin fringe / mullet and shiny suit for the boys, cack weave and leggings for the girls) and turned into a sex symbol whereas before you would have ignored them on the street.

I’m interested in which of the most popular artists of our day actually write their own songs. Call it a social experiment. Or something. So I’m referring to Auntie for The BBC’s Top Five Selling Albums of 2007. Woo-hoo. Prepare ye the way for the “talent”, and let’s see if they actually write any of the stuff that they produce from their geet mouths. And for good measure, are they sexy?

 

1) Amy Winehouse. Now don’t get me started. I’m being impartial.

Writes? Co-writes (which sounds suspiciously like “adds the word ‘hey’ a lot”, but I actually think she’s probably a bit better than that.)

Sexy? Errr, I don’t think that was how she was marketed. (?)

Can sing? Say what you like, and I can’t stand her, but by God she can sing.

 

2) Leona Lewis. Our first entry from the world of the post X-Factor marketing machine.

Writes? Same as above, but with added cynicism. Oh, and neither of her biggest hits were hers.

Sexy? Pretty, but over-glammed to obvious effect.  Proof that even a plain, slightly horse-faced young lady can be transformed into… er, Mariah Carey before she misplaced her sanity.

Can sing? The benevolent liberal in me says that a decent enough Whitney Houston impression is very hard to do. The bastard in me tells me that the producer has this machine, right? And it makes people sound good…

 

3) Mika. He’s Lebanese. He’s camper than a leather wigwam. He can sing really high about happee things. I love him even though it’s wrong.

Writes? Yes. Occasionally with others, but so far the one with the most solo-written hits. Go team Mika!

Sexy? Yes. He’s not exactly been marketed as a munter, has he?

Can sing? Yes. Even if you hate it, he’s not your usual male singer, being that he tends to hit notes that even the castrati balked at.

 

4) Take That. Which makes me very, very happy.

Writes? 11 of the 12 tracks on their new album are written by the band. Not just Gary Barlow, you know.

Sexy? They started off dancing in lycra for gays. Yes.

Can sing? It took a while, but I suppose they can.

 

5) Westlife. No comment. The bile would erode my keyboard.

Write? Almost every song they do is a cover. They are Daniel O’Donnell for the 21^st Century.

Sexy? I can hardly bring myself to say it, but apparently, people fancy them.

Can sing? I reckon one or two can. The others simply mug furiously and perform the key-change dip when required. And do that hand on heart thing on their stools. For fuck’s sake.

 

So, we can see that I’m probably wrong. Most artists at least have a hand in their songs. But Christ, Westlife at number five? The top five besy selling album of 2007? Bloody hell, this country is wank.

 

Let’s reassess so that I at least seem to be slightly right.

Mark Ronson.

Mark effffffffing Ronson.

Mark “I can make a hit out of a song that somebody else wrote simply by adding a cocking trumpet” Ronson.

Mark “let’s make Radiohead a trumpety playtime” Ronson.

Mark “I blow my trumpet where Ra declines to drive his chariot” Ronson.

 

I rest my case.

I first noticed that it hurt when I sat down two nights ago.

 

And then I made my first mistake.

 

I should have told my friends at work the truth, to wit: that my coccyx seemed to be hurting. But no. Surely not. I blazed in and practically shouted that my arse hurt and I couldn't sit straight.

Two hours later I have people randomly asking me in cautious yet amused voices if this is due to some rampant sexual frivolity.

I can;t even begin to calculate how many times I've said "it's my coccyx" today. Even better, someone (a man, obviously with nothing better to do) actually went "hurr hurr, cock." I despair, I really do.

 

Anyway, being me, I decided to do a little net research and actually, everything makes sense. I already knew that I have Spina Bifida Occultus (really common; no biggie), but the interesting part is that my delicate problem is actually connected, recognised and of course, has it's own wealth of websites and "support networks". American, obviously. And then, because, and I stress, this is me, I start zipping round the various sites, looking for treatments etc - pick up some good tips and feel better about everything - and eventually (naturally) click on a "photos" option. And discover that one day, should I fail to use antibacterial shower gel and pack my crack, I could end up like this poor sap. Yes folks, that is his arse. Now call me paranoid, call me a hypochonriac, but I'm going to the fucking doctors on Monday - sore coccyx or no. I fully intend to nip this mother-licker in the bud well before I have my cleft extended by two feet and (inexplicably) experience the urge to photograph it and POST IT ON THE INTERNET. Gillian's threatening to take the laptop away if I don't stop frightening myself stupid. Obviously this guy (I hope it's a guy, if not then I think a Veet intervention is not far off) has reached the ultimate endgame in the fight against a simple sore arse, and I have in no way reached that stage yet. But still...

 

Anyway, it got me thinking about common illnesses and their potential to destroy lives. I get coldsores on my nose. Could I end up like this? Or my tendency to get the odd mouth ulcer? Oh yeah... Treat that, Bongela. And don't even get me started on those crazy episodes we all get from time to time. It could get messy.

 

I feel better when I think about how much worse it could be.

 

Laters.

xx

 

UPDATE: One of the potential side effects of Spina Bifida Occultus is the development of a vestigal tail.

Oh Sweet Jesus Christ.

 

 

Just finished watching that stupid ass Tom Cruise video. I mean, why are people getting so het up about something that even a devotee fails utterly to explain to an audience of fellow-devotees?

Can you imagine the Pope in his Easter sermon saying:

 

“Well it’s like I see a car accident and I know I’m the only one who can help… We have to get out there and do this thing… It’s rough and tumble, but it’s a blast, and I’d like to go on holiday, but I can’t, I mean, I just have to get out there and do it. We can do some stuff and you know, help, and I’m just, you know, with Protestants and that, cancelling them from my area…”

 

Hardly stirring stuff, unless you happen to work as a bounty hunter for Mrs Johnson’s Friendly Sanatorium and Day Spa, is it?

 

Anyway, hope everyone had a good Christmas and all that: I did and now feel typically gash for being back at work. I’ve got wireless though, now, thanks to the wonderful, patient and utterly comfortable Joseph Quinn. He made my modem talk to my router. I think he arranged to meet them separately in a bar and then “remembered” a prior appointment. It means that I can now play on the internet (Boing Boing being my latest obsession) in bed and that Stu can frag n00bs or whatever without having to face my wrath. He actually tried to reason that I was only “looking at crap” the other night. I pointed out that compared to shouting down a headset “Take the base! Good job team!”, my perusal of Cyberpunk knitting patterns was vital to the survival of the human race. I’m considering a Cthulhu embroidery for over the mantle, too. I just need to get the sizing right and remember how to sew from the days when primary school still imposed crafts and not computer programming or whatever.

Speaking of which, we have a competition running at work in conjunction with the Safety Camera Partnership (oh how popular this will make me with Jeremy Clarkson), where sixth form students can submit a safe driving DVD for national use. It made me feel old. Even when I was a media student at university, we still edited our projects on an ancient S-VHS deck at great personal cost. I suffered an entire cold in one day over that fucker, and cried much more than once while Hannah sat beside me going “TURN THE FUCKING DIAL! IT’S OUT OF SINK!”. Hannah’s nickname at university was Frau Farbissina. I wouldn’t have traded her for the entire world.

Nowadays, students seemingly have the means to produce DVD quality films at the first sign of facial hair, and I can only imagine the horrifying, smug bastards yelling “Cut!” at each other while they act out scenes of cloying morality. God, I’m bitter towards the youth at the minute. I think it’s because I actually said “they don’t make them like that any more” today during a discussion with my (older) colleagues about Calamity Jane.

Christ.

 

Well, I have to go and wash my hair – I told everyone at work that I was going swimming and I’m not going to shatter their illusions.

Even if my most strenuous effort tonight was dislocating my jaw to accommodate a potato the size of my head.

 

Laters.

xx