Errrrrr......is death an option?

So, when I started writing this blog the 'whys' were manifest. I was going to write it as some kind of creative outlet/outpouring/out something else. I was going to write it purely for me, and it didn't matter if no one else was reading it. It was a creative outlet in its own right. La la laaaaaaa.

Well, having been beavering away on it for a few weeks now I can attest that some of those motives might have got lost along the way. It turns out I have slightly slipped into caring about whether other people read it and what they might think of it. Which I suppose is only natural when you've sent the links to a couple of people and heard nothing back. Ho hum.

However, I stand by my initial motivation, which is that it's a good thing to do in and of itself, heck, Richard Herring has even managed to collate his entries together and make a book out of it, so there must be something in it.

So on I press, I'm not going to beat myself up about it but I am going to try and contribute to it as regularly as I can, maybe this will inevitably mean taking my laptop places when I'd rather travel without it, but then again maybe that's no bad thing. Or at least no terrible thing.

So, found myself up some Welsh mountains upon the weekend doing some walking. My brother and father insist on calling it climbing but it is walking really. I can tell the difference between the two quite easily. I enjoy walking. I don't enjoy climbing. I'm not anti-climbing, just to be clear, but rather sometimes I've been walking with a person who will go unnamed and it has kind of sort of turned into a climb. And then I haven't enjoyed it. So that's how I know.

Anyhoo. The weather was clement on the Saturday and we went up a reasonably big hill called Cadair Idris which stands at 2930 ft so not too shit. What we were rewarded for in weather the god's of fate then took back from us in the form of post-mountain beverage, which I'd be lying if I said I didn't spend a far too significant amount of the walk thinking about. We were impressed and in turn seduced by a leaflet some industrious soul had left on the windscreen of our parked and all parked cars in the car park at the base of the mountain advertising what to all intents and purposes was a perfectly serviceable hotel and hotel bar.

What the leaflet should have read however was:

LEAFLET:

I am a very lonely man with no one to talk to. I run a hotel bar that no one comes to visit, in fact you would be the first person to visit this year. Come and say hello, I'll be initially a bit weird and then, uninvited, I'll come and sit with you and talk utter shite about topics of varying levels of excitement from speed cameras in horse boxes, to don;t gt me started on the pay and display car parks to the quality of Welsh Roads as explained by the distribution of monies from the welsh assembly and the highways agency. Say goodbye to any hope you may have held of reminiscing and telling tales of your walking achievement. Say goodbye right now. Goodbye.

Of course, for this leaflet to properly get across the league of gentleman without the laughs bar it would need to be handwritten, maybe even in blood, but one feels that this is too much.

Handwritten though, definitely.

Maybe not even handwritten and then photocopied, maybe just each one handwritten in a Bic Biro that's pressed slightly too hard against the page.

As it happened of course there were no such clues in the leaflet, it was typed, and said normal things like "why not come for a drink at our hotel bar", so were duped.

We promptly left after one drink. Does anyone stay longer? Maybe some extraordinarily polite English people do that thing where to overcompensate for how boring it is they stay longer. We were out of there though.

This long ramble about the barman of doom with the slightly over sized shiny shirt hiding (so he thought) his barman's gut has meant I haven't' had time, as usual to tell of a much better story involving a climb, now this was a climb, or at the very least a climbing 'moment' I know because I wasn't enjoying it, in fact I was reasonably concerned for my own life and rightfully so.

Said climb happened a few winters ago one March Saturday I believe it was when my dad and I found ourselves shinning along a ridge of a mountain in the Lake District called Blencathra along a ridge known as Sharp Edge. All the clues are there Ladies and Gentleman, all the clues are there.

There was quite a bit of snow around and it was a beautiful sunny day but I had walking boots with gripless soles through too much wear and was slipping and sliding all over the show. We found ourselves at a very notorious spot at the end of the ridge before you ascend the summit where you have to climb, yes climb around a rock which overhangs to a 1000ft ish drop which I presume would kill you if you fell.

Anyhoo, long story short, we were perched on this precipice, with quite an experienced climber in front of us, I didn't really want to go on but in terms of survival shinning back down Sharp Edge wasn't top of my wish list either. The guy in front of us was talking out crampons from his rucksack and attaching them to his shoes and I suddenly had a very clear sinking feeling that I was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person and the wrong equipment.

Anyhoo. I had made an equipment faux-pas if such a thing exists.

An extra danger to add to the list was my father, god bless him, he's not dead or anything but god bless him anyway, who decided the 'safest' approach was to completely ignore any danger, show no fear and press on as if he's done this a thousand times. He was also doing that macho thing where he made it abundantly clear that if I did turn around and not do it I was being a pussy.

He was saying things like "we can turn around if you want" cue subtitles, if you're not man enough to handle this we can always wimp out. Just to be clear though. I am man enough to handle it.

So, with the help of the guy who knew what he was doing.

Dear Jules.......

I've decided to write to Julian Metcalfe - he head honcho of Pret a Manger about his in-store Jazz policy.
Obviously, I haven't written to him, that would be far too brave, but someone else who co-habits at my address (anyone who knows me will know that this way madness lies) called Brian Broadbent has put pen to paper, or at least fingers to keys.

Or something.

I'd be lying if I didn't say the idea of writing letters wasn't at least partly inspired by The Timewaster Letters, but as far as I understand, the author of said tome, one Robin Cooper was in turn inspired by summit else. And so on and so forth. The end.

If you see Jules don't let on.

Letter below:

39a Casselden Road
London
NW10 8QR

18th February, 2009

Mr Julian Metcalfe
Pret a Manger founder
1 Hudson's Place
London
SW1V 1PZ

Dear Julian,

Or can I call you Jules? I know this is a bit of an odd thing to open a letter with, both because it’s quite informal and, as well, a letter is a two way conversation but over time. Like an email but much slower I suppose. Funny, I’d never thought about that before. Anyway, if you think Jules is too casual then let me know by reply.

So, well, actually just to go back to the Jules thing for a second, the reason I felt comfortable using a more ‘matey’ version of your name is because, in some regards I feel like I already know you and that we’re kind of mates. Not like mates, mates, do you fancy going out for a pint on Thursday 19th February at about 8.30 at a Weatherspoons somewhere central, I think I’m free, but more like mates as in I’ve been round to your house (assorted Pret a Manger stores throughout the London area) loads of times and enjoyed your delicious sandwiches and crisps loads of times, too. Delicious!!

If I said I’d eaten my own body weight in Pret A Manger – I’m going to refer to it as P.A.M for here on in I think – it wouldn’t be too much of an exaggeration.

And I’m 14 ½ stones, roughly, so think about that!
Loyal customer or what?

Anyway, as a Pretophile of the last five years – favourite sandwich ‘Chicken and Avocado’, previous favourite sandwich ‘Wild Crayfish and Rocket’, favourite ‘it’s a Friday do something new’ sandwich ‘Posh cheddar and pickle artisan baguette’, favourite crisps, ‘Sea salt and mixed peppercorns’, favourite drink, tie between ‘Pure Pret Ginger Beer’ and ‘Pure Pret Yoga Bunny’ (alternate days or weather dependent) – there’s something I’ve noticed recently and been wanting to ask you personally.

I have asked in a P.A.M. store but they said it might be best to write to head office.

My question is simply this.

Does Pret operate a pro-Jazz music policy?

The reason for my asking is that as a regular eater-inner, I’ve noticed, and this is something that I’ve only noticed over time, that low-level Jazz music seems to be the order of the day. And this is something I’ve noticed across your stores, in a recent survey of 3 stores all were playing jazz, or jazz-based music at each visit, three lunchtime visits and one breakfast visit and one asking a colleague who went to another P.A.M at breakfast whether she remembers if they were playing Jazz or not and she said maybe.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-Jazz. I don’t know much about Jazz if truth be told and I’m certainly not a racist, but I have noticed that eating while listening to Jazz music – I’ve tried a separate experiment at home with soup and bread in the evening- and imagine my surprise when I found it gave me chronic indigestion too. It must be the Jazz! There’s something about the incessant doodle-oodle ooing, bee bup bee bup beee bee bee bee, doodle up bee bup eeee ooh-ing of the singing and the sax and the uneven drumming that just really worms its way into my brain and gives me indigestion.

The less said about what that means I think the better. We’re all animals. We all know what indigestion sounds and smells like and its impolite and unnecessary to go into it any more I feel.

So, that’s my question? What’s with all the Jazz, man? That was a bit of an attempt at some jazzy talk, a little jokelette if you will, hope it didn’t fall flat but if it did, apologies.

I’m a huge P.A.M fan and certainly have no plans to eat elsewhere, especially not at that so called EAT place with it’s surly staff and stupid marker pen menus which look like they’re written by a five year old or something, but now I’ve noticed the Jazz in your stores, I’m slightly at a loss for what to do.

I suppose in the summer months I can simply take your wares and eat elsewhere like a nearby green space or some such, but for the remains of the winter, and let’s face it, in this country early spring can be cold too, I’m slightly at a loss for what to do.

I don’t want to eat at my desk, that would be not a fun luncheon.

Have you had any other feedback from other customers with regards to your Jazz?

Have you ever considered trialling a non-Jazz store? I would definitely frequent one should I learn of its existence

Have you ever considered an indigestion-based Jazz music questionnaire to slide onto your silver trays underneath the sandwiches for any other eater-inners?

I await your reply with keen anticipation,

Yours faithfully,




MR BRIAN BROADBENT

PS: What’s that tasty gunk you put in your chicken avocado sandwiches? Whatever it is you should patent it like they do the McDonald’s Big Mac secret sauce because it’s bloody lovely it is. Really.

PPS: If you were trialling a non-Jazz store I’d be happy to make you a mix tape with some sounds and tunes I’d enjoy eating too. At no charge, obviously.

Pudding wars

Ahhh, my sweet tooth.
My sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet, sweet tooth.

It has made me - not something I want to do of my own will you understand, but rather because of my tooth, it has made me research puddings over the winter period from Britain's leading retailers. And, to be honest, until last night thought it was all going to go M & S's way. Their treacle sponge, heated for 60 seconds in the microwave is nothing short of spectacular nostalgia. My only problem has been to date how much custard to add, whether to heat the custard first or to let the pudding cool slightly while eating the custard. The sweetness of my tooth has led in the past to some minor mouth scalding incidents.

Naughty tooth

And then, last night, minding my own business in Waitrose not looking for anything in particular - that's a lie, I was looking for a dessert - it finds me. The raspberry jam pudding with custard in one container.

How is this possible?

I was aghast with marvellment. I was giddy with excitement. Just as the daffodils are starting to poke through the ground and spring is just beginning to say hello, and I think Winter 08/9's pudding research is sadly reaching it's natural conclusion. That time of year when - Boo! - the days are short and the nights are long and the drizzle is just about freezing so it can make you phenomenally cold yet still you are denied the beauty of actual snowfall - that time of year when it's OK, maybe even encouraged to walk past the aisle of sticky toffee pudding and grab two packs of two and stuff them in your basket.

That time is drawing to a close.

Oh, well at least the time of spending too much on short sleeve powder blue shirts and drinking Belgian beer with a bit of lemon in is soon to be upon us once more.

Behold though, in winter's last throws, the raspberry jam pudding from Waitrose.

We've put a man on the moon.
We can speak to one another at great distances on something called the 'telephone'
And now this.

Custard and raspberry jam sharing the same pot. Will man's ingenuity never end?

How many morons are there at the average concert?

So there I was last Monday night at Frank Skinner's Credit Crunch Cabaret - incidentally, if I see one more sign for Credit Crunch Lunch I think I'm going to lose my mind, it seems nowadays (lovely word spoken by old people or Daily Mail readers or both) that one can't have a lunch without it being a credit crunch lunch. Like, people just won't have any truck with any luncheon that's not preceded by the words credit cruncheon. Hmmmm.

What about if a restaurant took it upon themselves to advertise a "same prices as last year, if you can't afford lunch here then come less often". Or "same prices, food just as good, sorry if you're skint". Anyhoo, probably wouldn't "drive traffic" or whatever phrase people say in retail land but just a thought. A small dose of whimsy of a Monday morn.

I suppose one advantage of the credit crunch luncheon is that it allows you to call up the restaurant to enquire if "they are still running their credit cunt lunch", of course, immediate back tracking after this deliberate faux-pas is always a necessary but that doesn't make it any less fun.

So there I was at the Credit Crunch Cabaret - hats off to Frank, for a name using the dreaded CC words least it's alliterative, and at least it's incongruously interesting, he mentioned that he's seen some statistics about how many people in a thousand were likely to have certain jobs, not have jobs, be straight, gay, whatever. I wonder if there's a statistic though for people in any thousand who are morons at concerts? Having spent last night at the Barbican in the company of one Ray Lamontagne I got to pondering this very question.

A also pondered the fact that Ray, which is essentially an old man at the seaside name - can take on a more exotic hue when a.it comes from another country and b.it's paired with a far more interesting than normal surname. I'm wondering if the English equivalent is Ray Mountain, which just seems to sound a bit like an English porn star name, or maybe the name of a partner of a mid-size paint balling concern in Shropshire.

So, as I was saying, there I was seated and being a relatively well behaved young man enjoying the performance of the troubadour Mr Mountain and his cowboy shirted band, and, I won't lie to you, it did start to cross my mind that maybe at some point in the concert he might take the time to say hello or address the crowd in any way shape or form.

I mean, it's just polite isn't it?

Even if you're the shyest person in the whole wide world on national shy day, you might even risk a "hi" on a Sunday night in February as all these lovely people have forked out money to come see you and left their lairs of a Sunday night to do so. To be clear, it wasn't spoiling the gig, the gig was great, he played his little Ray of the Mountains heart out, he's got the most amazingly soft gravelly voice, which I know is an unusual description but that doesn't mean it's wrong, and when he sings he really means it, a bit like Jack White in that regard. When Ray sings

Trouble, trouble trouble, trouble, trouble, trouble
Been doggin' my soul since the day I was born

Worry, worry, worry, worry, worry, worry
Just will not seem to leave my mind alone

The way he sings it it's fair to assume he's probably not singing about a parking fine he got for parking outside a dropped kerb and not realising that effectively a dropped kerb operates in the same way as a double yellow line which means you can never ever park there.

Anyhoo. Ray's not speaking to the audience, presumably preferring to (adopt American accent) let his music do the talking. And so there's a general feeling amongst the audience that maybe he might like to say something to us. So in between songs it goes quiet and you always get people who shout out, at the top of their voice a song they'd like played. You always get that. But this time we got "Speak to us Ray" "Say something Ray" "Ray, I love you" then an echo of that sentiment "me too", there might have been an "and me" from another part of the concert hall but then I might have made that up so the crowd - of which I was a part - just seemed more witty than they really were.

But there was this one guy, who was four seats from me who just shouted loads of unintelligible shit at the end of each song. So when everyone else is shouting "we love you Ray" etcetera etcetera, he chimes in with "erghhhhduugghhjhjjjjjj....". I mean I think it's fair to assume he's drunk. That's a fair assumption. I think it's fair to assume drinking either turns him into, amplifies or reveals his inner moron. But what is he doing at a Ray Lamontagne gig at the Barbican, at the Barbican for fuck's sake, on a Sunday night?

I repeat the question. What is a drunken - we hope - moron - certified - doing at a Ray Lamontagne gig on a Sunday night at the Barbican.

My only explanation, and I'd be the first to admit it's a tad far fetched is that he got a call from the National Office of Statistics, who, keen to safeguard their reputation of being statistically accurate, or having said that, maybe they've got a little catchphrase or letterhead slogan which reads something like

"Accurate 99.94566% of the time. Statistically speaking". Which sends them all into guffaws of laughter.

So, maybe the national office of statistics, which must be a very hard answer to give to someone on a first date and then actually have sex with them - I bet the statistics on that aren't great - anyway, maybe someone from the national office for statistics has a reasonably solid idea of the spread of people going to the Raylamontagne gig and it's all looking statistically quite solid, 123 people working in banking, 12 of whom are derivative traders and then shit!, it suddenly dawns on them.

Terry, We've got 1,104 people going to this La Montagne gig and not one of them's a fucking moron. If this gig goes ahead without the presence of one fucking moron then the credibility for the Office for National Statistics or OFFNSTAT as we know it will be in tatters. No one will ever come to us for statistics ever again.

We'll be forced to shut down. Become just another statistic.

So, all they do is check their database of crack morons, all of whom have a paging system a bit like doctors and just page a man or woman, but they're always blokes aren't they? - they just page someone nearest the Barbican and brief them, then send them in.

(phone call)

"Look I don't care if you're wearing jeans and trainers, you're a fucking moron, of course you shouldn't be dressed appropriately"

"well just get in there and start drinking Snakebite. just neck as much booze as you can, steal other people's drinks if you want, in fact make a point of doing that, then start fights with anyone that says anything about it".

"look, you're a professional, we don't care how you're a moron, just get in there and make it your own. There's only one mandatory though, you must, and this is really important, you must shout "eugghjbughgjhgkjdddd" at the end of the third song so everyone can hear.

Our reputation depends on it. We're sending a car"

Did J.R.Tolkien have a time machine? The tyranny of the to-do list.

So there I was.
Cosied up on my sofa watching BBC One's latest, greatest nature epic, Nature's Great Events the first of which showing the plethora of wildlife and activity in the arctic when the sea unfreezes and all the animals get to have baby animals. And then on came this whale called a Narhwal which basically looks like a normal whale - whatever that means - except that's it's got a, well Dicky Attenborough called it a tusk, but that's not something one normally associates with whales, right, anyhoo, it's got a tusk coming right out of its forehead.

It looks ridiculous.

I'm not convinced that it's not part of some elaborate BBC windup, maybe an April fool two months early. Anyhoo. It looks suspiciously like someones stuck it on, and just because I checked Wikipedia an it's on there, I'm not exactly filled with re assurance.

Hmmmm.

So then I'm watching on and these birds called little orks appear and at that point I really start to think something fishy's going on from a J.R.Tolkein point of view. Narwhal and Little orks? It's all getting a bit Lord of The Rings isn't it. I know LOTR purists won't hesitate to remind me that there are no Narwhals in his trilogy, but if you've seen one I'm sure you;d agree they wouldn't exactly look out of place. But the look of them and also the sound of the word all seemed very Tolkienesque. And if you can get the word Tolkienesque into a sentence before 11am then go for it I say.

They are known as arctic unicorns and they are strange buggers to be sure.

I thought they sounded strangely like the Nazgul or ring wraiths from Lord of the Rings, the "terrible servants" of Sar
uron, but of course they only do a bit. Once more, Lord of the Ringophiles, seem how they're just pouring out of me today, won't hesitate to tell me that in fact the word Nazgul is derived from Black Speech the fictional language of Mordor , where Nazg meant ring and gul meant wraith or spirit.

You can say what you want about Tolkien but you can't accuse the guy of being lazy when it came to working out the back story to his novels.

Narwhals aside, I think the appearance of Little Orks in last night's nature programme clearly demonstrates that Tolkien did indeed have a time machine and decided to come forward to the date of Februry 11th having had something of a writers block for some of his characters and thinking that he'd pick up a copy of London Lite see what was on the pick of the day, and then watch it and maybe fill in some of the blanks he had for character names for hi9s book. Either that or he came back on February 12th, got an office job, came into work that morning and heard everyone crapping oin about last night's nature documentary and how tragic that bit was when the polar bear but the face off a seal but everything's so beautiful la laa laaa, and he thought "fuck me, I've got no idea what any of this lot's on about I'm going to fire up iPlayer and get with the programme".

Either that or he was a bit of an ornithologist and knew of the Little Orks.

Or he was bezzie mates with David Attenborough's great, great, great, great, great, great Grandfather who was bang into Little Orks and it was passed this Little Ork love down through he generations.

Or it was just pure coincidence. But I think you'll agree that one of those theories is bound to stack up.

----

In other news I've been banishing my to-do lists which have, slightly unbeknownst to me leaving me feeling slightly unfulfilled and like I'm never getting everything done every day. Which I wasn't but there's nothing like a to-do list to really drum that feeling home on a regular basis.

I'm to going to write any more about it now, because it seems much more difficult to launch off on a flight of fancy about to-do lists than it did about the above topic. But suffice to say if you're a person involved in doing anything creatively and feel that time management and efficiency isn't really your strongest suit. Then why not have a little look at this free ebook on the subject and see if you find it at all enlightening.

I know I did.

Toodle pip for now. Laters.

hip hip hip hip hooray/tom cruise/bravo brava

The sun has got his hat on.
Hip hip hip hip hooray, the sun has got his hat on and he's coming out to play. Yay!
'Tis a beautiful sunny morning which puts any right thinking individual in a fine frame of mind about the day, funny, sometimes in Winter you actually forget not only what the sun is but whether or not it even exists. You kind of catch sight of it and you go "bugger me, what's that, someones left a big light on in the sky, what a horrific waste of money - that must be terrible for global warming. people should be ashamed of themselves etc etc".

On that point, and this is one hell of a digression, it's quite scary how quickly once one changes one's own behaviour that one can become incredibly, not just smug, because I think smugness would be kind of acceptable, but more, openly hostile towards others who do what you used to do, like five minutes ago.

So, I used to leave the tap on when I was doing my teeth until someone who was living with me said it was incredibly wasteful and slightly annoyingly used to actually turn it off while I was brushing my teeth and then I changed that habit and then when I see someone else doing it I kind of wait in the hallway slowly shaking my head in disapproval thinking "soooooooo selfish, just sooooo selfish".

Well, I don't really, but there's a tiny bit of me that does. Humans are scary individuals no? Well at least this one is. I think the same goes for turning the TV off at the mains which I've recently been congratulated on as an exceptionally green and good citizen-y thing to do but the truth of the matter, and a truth I've not exactly fessed up to, is that the reason I do it is not to save the planet or as my own small gesture against the rise of coal power stations in the third world. It's just because the up lighters (yeah I know, check me out, I'm so fashionable in 1987) are attached to the same plug as the TV and if I turn it all off together it's altogether more efficient.

And if you think that's interesting, read on.

Rain Man make joke.
Speaking or Rain Man, digression number two, why is Tom Cruise so universally disliked. I know he's a Scientologist and he's got some height issues and weirdness issues, make that weirdness issues deluxe, but I like him. Hey ho, there I've said it. I feel like I'm at a Tom Cruise anonymous meeting. "My name's Matt Janes and I like Tom Cruise". Not to be confused with a Gays Anonymous meeting "My name's Matt Janes and I like to cruise". Which is terrible really, terrible for two reasons. The first reason it's terrible is because it's just an awful play on words. The second reason why it's terrible is because it insinuates there's something wrong with loving another man, which of course there isn't. Like it's like being an alcoholic or something.

Oh dear, this all looks so much worse on paper than it was ever meant to. Why didn't I just get into the universal truth amongst women that all women hate Keira Knightley. A lesser known fact is actually if you ever want a sure fire way to spot a trannie don't go for the so-called tell tale signs, like an Adam's apple or big hands, or a cock. Well of course a cock is the definitive give away but it's sometimes not altogether practical to find out this way. And in many ways if you're not sure whether someones a man or a woman it would be better to find out before the cock test.

In an idea; world.

No, the best way to find out whether a woman who you suspect might be a man really is a man is just to ask, casually like, what they think of the actress Keira Knightley. Maybe mention a film she's been in or something. And see where that gets you. Of course, there's every chance they're going to say they hate her, in which case you've got nothing. But on the off-chance they say they like her.

Well fellas, you got yourself a shim.

Jesus. That was a whole heap of rambling. Didn't get any chance to talk about Frank Skinner and his Credit Crunch Cabaret "you can blame the yanks, you can blame the banks but it's us that'll have to pay", didn't get to make my rant about so-called secondary ticketing while still acknowledging my hypocritical attitude to it.

Didn't get to talk about how women think bread is from the devil and is literally evil.

And didn't get to talk Opera and the appropriate way to applaud the male or female lead "Bravo/Brava". All to come, but then again probably never on account of the constant deviations and digressions. All to come another day.

Cheerio for now.

Milk!

When first starting this blog I asked my brother what he thought the trick to keeping it interesting/getting people to read it and he said don't just make it a diary about your life and you'll probably get somewhere.

He also said "make it about music or something".
You like that.

Well, if you're going to ignore someones advice, might as well do it from the get go. Found myself in a movie theatre yesterday afternoon watching Gus Van Sant or more pertinently, Sean Penn's biopic Milk. It's a really great film, and without wanting to descend too far into hyperbole, but once again, unable to stop myself, it's one of those films that makes you fall in love with cinema, and cinemas all over again.

Now, I know some of you have got kids. And I know getting to the cinema isn't as easy as all that. But while I'm sure it's very enjoyable on duhvuhduh, I reckon if you can tweak your schedule to find a slot to see it on the big screen you'll enjoy it more. Undoubtedly if you are going to see the film you'll already know a thing or two about it - it documents the life of Harvey Milk, America's first openly gay politician who you probably already know the fate of.

It's not a comedy, but it's no Schlinders List.
It's one of those films that's just really emotionally powerful and makes you cry,
laugh and then think afterwards, which is no bad thing.

Also, couple of other things. No one wants to pay £15 to go and sit in a cinema where your feet literally stick to the floor and the seats are phenomenally uncomfortable. Odeons across the UK, you know who you are. But I caught it at the Apollo West End, where the seats are really comfy, you can buy beer and the screen's great.

So my top tip is find a good cinema, and go see it there.

There's also loads of cool 70's style American propaganda graphic stuff and campaigning slogans in the film, if that's your bag.



















Oopsy.
Nearly forgot to include something music related. Check this White Stripes song out from their classic album De Stijl. In an interview I once read Jack and Meg headed down to Nashville for dinner with Loretta and "it was a great time. She made us chicken and dumplings and we heard some great stories. She said, "I was sitting around the house and I was doin' my hair and I heard the White Stripes come on, and it sounded like someone was breaking into a bank."

I like to think that this is the song you'd play in the getaway car having robbed the bank. You'd probably need to be heading to the Mexican border though for the full effect.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N_lk50de5yc&feature=related

The lyrics are slightly disturbing which oinlky makes it a better record in my eyes/ears.


Bye for now.

Was it all a dream?/ Jazz A Manger

Ah, the snow.
It came.
It went.
It sort of kind of came back but not really.
Was it all a dream?

She ground London to a halt for a whole Monday while all sorts of people got on with complaining that councils could see it coming and why weren't they adequately prepared and yawn yawn yawn yawn. There was a good leader in The Times - The Times! of all the papers - which said before anything else is said about the snowfall - the biggest the capital had seen in 18 years - the first thing to say was that it was absolutely beautiful.

True that.

Putting aside the simple joyful spectacle of it all, the childish joy it brought out in everyone that came into contact with it some of whom had never seen snow before let alone on their doorstep, and putting aside that for anyone with a 9-5 style job that involves a commute it gave a free pass from work and the chance to enjoy something naturally beautiful and free to boot, there were some poetic scenes which seemed somewhat apposite.

Like people making impromptu sleds from the board part of For Sale signs and whizzing down park slopes with whoops, yelps and screams. Someone I know said on fireworks night that one good thing to come out of the credit cunt (slip that into conversation and see what happens, just try it, but make sure you say 'credit crunch' if prompted to say it again) is that people are thankful for simple pleasures again.

There's something about people, adults even, sliding down hills on Foxtons signs which seems to be a righting of the natural order of things, and the fact it was prompted by mother nature on such a spectacular scale only served to reinforce this.

Have I disappeared up my own bottom?
It's sounding more echoey in here than I recall. And I can't see a damn thing.

Jazz a Manger is going to be revisited in another post. But, and I haven's asked anyone about this or bothered to check their website, but Pret definitely have a Jazzer music policy, which when coupled with the liberal application of Mayo in their sarnies I find creates an indigestion time bomb.

If you haven't noticed their Jazz before then trust me, noticed once, notice always.

You might think I'm having a go at them just because they're really successful and I'm British and that's what British people do, and there may be an element of truth in that. There may not. But there's also an element of undisputed truth that I think Jazz goes badly with eating. And it goes badly with coffee, which makes you mildly anxious anyway.

Maybe I can feel a name change letter to the blokes what run it suggesting a name change. Might be amusing to publish the response at any rate.

Can't end a post without a song, now can I.
Here's another excellent cover of The Boss' I'm On Fire. Lovely. A winter warmer.

http://hypem.com/track/715188/Bruce+Springsteen-I%27m+On+Fire+(Cousin+Cole%27s+Bad+Desire+Mix)

It's begun

A momentous day in the blogoshere is almost certainly not upon us. That I have used the word 'blogosphere' in my first posting certainly bodes not well for what lies ahead.

The 'why' of this blog is even less clear than some of the writing.

Is it as an outlet for my take on the world - I was about to use the word 'creativity' but felt a tiny bit nauseous - and as a side note, who would have thunk nauseous was spelt like that? Certainly not I. Is it a diary? Is it a digital record of the musings of a brilliant mind that one day will be collated together and the whole world shall see that the man who came up with a cure for cancer was in fact, somewhat distracted by almost everything around him?

Oh, probably not.

In the words of British climber George Mallory when asked in 1924 why he wanted to climb Everest, his answer was famously "because it's there". Now, without wanting to make this whole thing into an Alan Patridge-ism, but at the same time feeling powerless to resist, I think the reason for doing this blog are similar.

It's my everest.

Oh dear. Only people that know me will read that last sentence with the intended ironic inflection. Anyone else would think me a bit of a twat. A cunt really, but I was hoping to not swear unless it was absolutely necessary.

Right, one of my new year's resolutions was to buy more music. I think I was even more specific than that and went as far as to say to actually go into record shops, talk to people and then buy music. I've not being doing fantastically well at achieving this goal so far, but at least have managed to buy Radiohead's In Rainbows, which I know has been out for well over a year and was actually given away free as some sort of comment on copyright and digital piracy and, oh I've got absolutely no idea what it's a comment on so I'm going to shut up now.

However, the point being. It's really rather a fine record, and I don't think I would have enjoyed it even half as much had I nicked it. More to the point I probably wouldn't have spend any time or effort listening to it and enjoying it, so I'm glad that's happened.

Is anyone else starting to think that this blog has been mistitled. I'm thinking and feeling that Ramble Ramble would have been a far finer name for it than Matt Matt. But I don't really want to attract that rambling crowd. All quilted barbours and leaving their muddy boots at the pub doorway. I'm not sure they'd appreciate my musings on the intricacies of the pleasure gained from buying music or otherwise.

So, Matt Matt it remains.

Goodbye for now. Fare thee well.

PS: I don't know why I find Hot Chip annoying, I don't even know that much about them, maybe it's just I have a nagging doubt that I might bump into someone at a party who knew them who would say "I know Hot Chip" over and over and over again. Anyway, those are my problems, not yours. I'm not too proud to say despite any competely unfounded misgivings I might have about them, they do turn out some very fine music. This, I think, is rully rully, rully good.

prettymuchamazing.com/mp3/hot-chip-transmission-joy-division-cover/