Friday, 1 December 2017

All The Blogs I Didn’t Write

Film Review: The Incredible Jessica James

I didn’t write a review of this film because, although I quite enjoyed it, it is like Every Film Ever.  I laughed a couple of times, mostly because I like the stars from other things they have done that are funny.  But every film is the same, isn’t it – there’s not much deviation.  And I didn’t want to write about that, because I already did in a previous film review.
Conversations Overheard in Pubs: Estate Agents
“Coal miners were told: “Fuck off, we don’t need you anymore, we’re closing down that whole industry, even though all your towns have been built on it, even though there’s no other jobs in your area and your pit might still be turning a profit. You’re not wanted any more, please fuck off and die – and yet, estate agents!  They do literally nothing – other than lie – and the only reason they still exist is that they always have.” 
All those True Stories from Berlin that time
I asked blog readers which one they would like to read, and then studiously ignored the very (very) few that responded.  Apologies to those.  The one about dancing in a Nazi airport was cool.  And the one about cycling drunk across town was quite good fun, although it had a weird ending.  Because it was true.  And true stories don’t need resolution, because life doesn’t have resolution, because resolution is something invented for Hollywood morality tales.  Which are, of course, mostly shit.  And I didn’t want to write about that, because I already did in previous stories.
Film Review: The Act Of Killing
Whenever I mention a film to my loved ones, one of them will inevitably ask: “Is it about war?  Has it got subtitles?” etc., assuming the answer to be affirmative.  (I think they take it in turns – presumably, there’s some sort of rota.)
I had been meaning to see this film for ages, and would’ve written another just-see-it-because-it’s-worth-watching-and-anything-I-tell-you-about-it-will-be-mostly-irrelevant type of reviews. 
And I didn’t want to write about that, because I already did in a previous film review.
Booking Agents, leave it out, I need a break from playing to thousands of adoring fans every single night, it’s tiring.
High-end music website journos, I’m not trying to boost your dwindling circulation with an in-depth interview.  Go and ask someone else the same tired, banal questions.
Papparazzi, seriously – another peep out of you lot and I’ll have to take out an injunction.  Stop digging about my bins and hassling my friends.  Enough is enough, alright?
Radio DJs, can you please stop bombarding me with emails begging to play my shit to your massive audience.  I don’t need your help, thanks.
TV bookers, I’m really not interested in being on Sunday Brunch or whatever.  Take the hint.
Managers, I’m not your meal ticket, give it a rest.
Pluggers, please plug something else and stop spoiling the selectiveness of my appeal.
Celebrity fans, stop wearing my t-shirt, waving my CD and bandying my name about to look cool.  If you keep it up, I won’t be cool or edgy any more, will I?  Stop gentrifying my brand.
But I didn’t want to write about that, because I already did in previous ironic blogs about the music industry and my (lack of) place in it.  #irony #meta #soverytired
Orange Is Not The Only The Colour
I’ve tried, every July since 2013, to write about the Orange Order marches, and their significance to the conflict in Northern Ireland.  And football in Scotland.  And religion.  People really think the conflict is about religion, don’t they?  Which is perplexing and maddening to me.  So I wrote the following, as the start of a very long rant about all this:
(A lot of people think that conflict is about religion, including world-famous biologist and hectoring bore Richard Dawkins, who glibly repeated this popular misconception (as inarguable fact) in his book The God Delusion, to prove how shit religion is.  I find this highly disappointing; to call this popular misconception ignorant would probably be too generous – and yet there it is, blithely mentioned by the world’s most (annoying) intelligent person.  To repeat a claim this blog has made many times (which is ok, since no one reads it anymore (if they ever did (some people were/are presumably put off by the propensity for self-involved parentheses)), there is a reason British schools do not teach the history of Ireland.  (Or the history of India, Kenya, South Africa, or anywhere else that enjoyed the benevolent attentions of the British Empire.)  And this ignorance plays out in the news media, as well as every conversation about it in England.  (Every time someone plays the “God, what a silly argument over religion, if only they got rid of churches, everything would be great”, I shudder.  (Surely to fuck there cannot be many people who honestly contend that the conflict in Northern Ireland, and between Britain and Ireland historically, was/is really caused by the theological difference between transubstantiation and consubstantiation, or the right of Henry VIII to divorce, or the infallibility of the Pope?  (God, I hope not.))))
But I have over-used parentheses in other blogs, and referred to that, in a self-conscious way.
I Met Stewart Lee In The Street
I have never met The “Comedian” Stewart Lee.  Although I did once pass him on Union Street in Bristol, as he exited the charmingly old-fashioned and dilapidated Odeon cinema, the one I used to go to and where I saw Naked Gun 33 1/3, as well as the re-mastered version of Return Of The Jedi, with a girl from school (obviously a disappointment, as it was just a re-hash of a previous outing where it was more innocent and sweetly enchanting and less concerned with money – and so was the film!).
I’m not sure why I didn’t speak to Stewart Lee, as I am a great admirer of his.  He’s the best “comedian” around – I made sure of this by watching several videos of his performances, for free, online, before paying to go to one.  If I had spoken to him that grey April Sunday a couple of years ago, I imagine it would have gone something like this:
Me:        Stew!  Sorry, Stewart Lee!
SL:          Yeah.
Me:        [Offering hand]
SL:          [Looking at hand]
Me:        Mate, I don’t normally do this – I was once within earshot of Rodney P, in the Artist camping      at Shambala festival, and I didn’t say anything to him.  I stood next to Howard Marks in the   backstage bar at the Jazz stage at Glastonbury.  And I bought a drink off Paul McGann in the           same bar.  So I had to talk to him. I did once speak to Stephen Merchant, mind, on Camden   High Road, but that was sort of a joke that got out of hand.  Thom Yorke was just coming out                 of a tent at Glastonbury just as I was going in, I didn’t even talk to him.
Me:        I know all of The (current) Blue Aeroplanes (and some former members), and my mate is in       Emptyset.  Anyway, as I say, I don’t usually speak to people just because they’re famous, but…
Me:        …oh, and I’ve met Sage Francis and Sole and both the dudes out of Themselves and Propaghandi and Pee-Wee Ellis and I once          met Simon Stainrod at a Scotland Under-21 match at Easter Road.  And I met Andy Crane    at Oldbury Power Station.  And my brother was presented with a trophy by Bobby                 Moore.  My Dad’s still got the picture.
But I didn’t want to write about that, because I already wrote about meeting a comedian in the street, in a previous blog – and that one was true.  And I wrote about buying a drink off Paul McGann, and that was also true.  And I also wrote about meeting Stewart Lee in the street, and that wasn’t true.
What I Did And What I Got On My Birthday
My birthday presents included:
A towel, featuring pictures of me and the person gifting it to me
A viral eye infection
A hair grooming product exactly the same as one given to me by the same person several years ago
A shot of tequila
A pint of beer
A bottle of whisky
A hat
A voucher for a(n independent) clothes shop
Peanut butter-filled chocolate
My birthday treats included:
Drinks and football with The Best Live Performer Ever
A visit to the new Grayson Perry exhibition at The Arnolfini
A visit to the Wellcome Centre
A visit to A&E
Dinner with someone wonderful, at a really good place
Pints with The Lads
An accidental meeting & impromptu Happy Birthday song/drink from several friends
Two hangovers
I Met A Famous Person Who Turned Out To Be Very Strange
Oh, I really wish I could tell you this one.  But I can’t.  Oh, God, it’s a beauty, though.
But I can’t. 
Aw, but I want to, though.  Ooh, it’s a corker!  And it’s true!
But, sorry, I can’t.
No, seriously, I just can’t.

But I have written a lot of blogs, and might be finished with it, for now.

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