This is good enough to get a post all of its own. The best track off the awesome You & Me album gets a genuinely beautiful video to accompany it: it accomplishes what all the best music videos do, which is provide unforgettable, meaningfully appropriate visuals to music that you would never have thought of yourself in a million eyes-closed headphones-on years, yet after one viewing seems like the only logical choice. Watch in the highest quality possible:

Every Monday I will be putting up a hastily assembled column comprised of low-quality Youtube videos of the songs I’ve been enjoying that week. These terms are non-negotiable.

Fur stupp:

St Etienne: “Nothing Can Stop Us Now”

Lovely loungey pop from London’s finest. I find it hard to imagine anyone genuninely disliking St Etienne – their music is gorgeously comforting yet still somehow manages to maintain a particular kind of aloof glamour, like Scarlett Johansson making you beans on toast. Why yes, I am wearing my crap simile hat, thank you for asking.

Notorious BIG “Gimme the Loot”

Ooh, that new Biggie biopic (according to Mark Kermode, it’s pronounced bye-owe-pick, not bye-awe-pic, which is what I’ve been saying my whole life. No wonder nobody came to my birthday party) looks good doesn’t it? Er…no, it looks crap. Regardless, this is one of the most virtuoso bits of rapping ever – every line slays.

The Human League – “Empire State Human”

Awesome piece of vertically-challenged bonkers synth-pop. The chorus has eaten my brain.

Belle and Sebastian – “Lazy Line Painter Jane”

Classic stuff from gay wee scotch laddies B+S. “You were in two minds/Tossing a coin to decide/Whether you should tell your mum/About a dose of thrush/ You got when licking railings” is a strong candidate for Best Lyric Ever. The no budget video is as charming as you’d expect, also.

David Attenborough on Simon Mayo’s Radio 5 Live show:

DA: Maybe we should be feeling gloomy about climate change.

SM: Do you feel gloomy?

DM: (pause) I don’t feel bouncy.

Dear ITV,

I expect you’ll be receiving a lot of complaints today, but I wanted to reassure you that last night wasn’t some epic game-changing moment that has besmirched the good name of ITV forever, turning the heads of thousands of loyal viewers with a careless flick of the ads button.

Nah – your football coverage has always been breathtakingly incompetent. You employ commentators who are alternately biased, patronising and ill-informed, and pundits who are ten times worse; your on-pitch production team is slipshod at best, with inexplicable camera angles that seem to always miss the crucial bits of the action; and your match presentations in general have the air of being put together by people who have never actually watched a football match, with insignificant moments being replayed and discussed ad infinitum while other things that most fans would agree are generally considered as crucial (i.e. the extra time winning goal of a tense derby cup match) are missed entirely.

Anyone who wants to watch a live football game without shelling out for Sky has had to put up with this excruciating buffoonery for some time now – last night was the final straw for me, and I sincerely hope the case is the same for all the others who stupidly tuned in last night on the off chance that they might be able to watch some football without being flicked the proverbial Vs.

Please could you never bid for, broadcast or comment on any sporting event ever again, as you have perpetually proved over the last 10-15 grim years of abysmally poor coverage that you are completely incapable of doing so without eventually cracking under the strain of just broadcasting the bloody match/highlights in a comprehensible format (like Sky manage to regularly do, or the BBC, or Setanta, or even pissing Five) without committing another world-beating apocalyptic balls-up. I hope this isn’t glossed over or forgotten about by the press and the public, as I find your contemptuous attitude towards sports fans and television viewers in general far more offensive than Russell Brand and any number of libidinous granddaughters.

In fact if it wasn’t for Harry Hill, ITV1 may as well be one long 24-hour advert for bogroll and car insurance, which, incidentally, I’d probably find more involving and emotionally resonant than Demons.

In summation, I don’t like you ITV. I don’t like you one little bit. Now you live with that.

Regards,

Paul

After spending a number of very enjoyable days completing quests, defeating trolls and what have you, I decided to settle in to my new house and meet the neighbours. After a few ales at the local, I got chatting to a buxom barmaid and before long, I was asking for her hand in marriage. We quickly moved into a little house opposite the local blacksmiths and decked it out with lavish furniture, with me sticking a Troll Eye directly above the master bed, purely because it’s my bloody house and I’ll do what I like etc.

I then celebrated consummation my fictional marriage in the presence of a huge disembodied eyeball by running out into to the square and shredding a lute solo in front of an increasingly enthusiastic crowd of peasants, before following it up with several loud, extended, sonorous farts, which were aimed alternately in the faces of women, tramps, and children.

My performance completely enraptured the crowd: one gentleman named George in particular seemed to really enjoy and admire everything I was doing. I mean really enjoy and admire it. Pretty soon he hanging around the blacksmiths where I worked, oohing and ahhing my admittedly considerable welding skills, and flirting with me outrageously when I was just trying to get a lunchtime pie.

I like to think that in that situation I’d be a liberal, benevolent kind of guy, so I tolerated his affections, aggressive though they were, for a little while. After a while though it just got ridiculous – the final straw was when he followed me into my bedroom and loudly whinged, “When are we going to get ENGAGED?” in front of my startled wife.

At first I tried to get rid of him casually. First I tried to outright dismiss him, as in, “Could you please stay right here and not move, while I go over there.” No luck. I made various rude gestures, in a attempt to eradicate all the good will I’d built up with him: pelvic thrusts, the finger, farting in his face, the whole biscuit. Still, no luck – only this time I got landed with a fine from the local law enforcement for ‘anti-social behaviour’.

Naturally, I was at the end of my tether. After a few days contemplation I visited my local on a crisp winter night, before leaving the local pub in the early hours with my admirer in tow. I turned around and asked him to follow me. “Where are we going?” he asked excitedly, as I led him down the steps of the pub cellar. I ignored him, and stopped walking. He trundled aimlessly in front of me and faced the filthy brick basement wall, hands on hips. “Brilliant!” he cried.

You poor moron, I thought. I raised my crossbow shakily into the air, and held it poised in place for what seemed like an eternity. Was I really about to do this? This how I deal with all my problems now? Maybe the copious number of imaginary ales I’d recently consumed was affecting my judgement… Eventually I managed to gather some composure. I mumbled quietly “Tell me about the farm, George.“ (Note: I didn’t actually say this) It was then I shot him, squarely in the back of the head, which promptly sent him hurling forwards and into the air in a grotesque somersault, before landing painfully in a sorry pile of splayed limbs.

I then became aware of the deafening silence that had suddenly pervaded the cellar, which seemed exponentially colder and emptier. My loyal dog sat still next to me, his tail wagging thoughtfully. Loaded with fear and loathing I slowly crossed the cellar floor, where I took one long last look at my tragic admirer. It was then that I took a few seconds to ruminate on the perverse contradiction that characterises the truest forms of love. Once the fragile membrane that protects our hopes, thoughts and dreams is permeated it transmogrifies almost immediately into an impenetrable shell of self-delusion and denial. Ostensibly, the purpose of this transformation is to protect and preserve the romantic spirit before it dissolves in a grey pool of cynicism and rationalism, but instead it just obfuscates the parts of our lives that are worth fighting for, trapping us inside a hopeless emotional cocoon of our own construction that serves only to delay the inevitable, crippling agony that accompanies brutal, unvarnished truth; like standing on a piece of glass when you’ve already got pins and needles.

With all that swimming in my head, I managed to force a wobbly smile onto my face. After all, there were kingdoms to be conquered, villains to be slain, and lutes to play – people needed me. It would be best for everyone to forget that this whole sorry incident had ever taken place. I finally sheathed my weapon, and said in a croaky whisper “Goodnight…sweet prince”, before farting one final, booming fart, right on his head, for two whole minutes.

Fable 2 review to follow soon.

Bean

Well?

Went to TV on the Radio’s gig at Shepherd’s Bush last night. Truly phenomenal show, although I heard quite a few people complaining about the sound quality afterwards. It must have been a problem that only affected the upper levels, because it sounded great down in the stalls. Here are some lovely photos:

There’s a nice acoustic version of the fantastic ‘Young Liars’ along with some other nice rarities over at the the awesome Aquarium Drunkard…

…and here is a super exclusive shakey cam video of set closer ‘Satellite’ – watch how I seamlessly navigate the bobbing heads in front of me:

Old article that originally appeared about a year ago in my old student newspaper. It’s about Madeline McCann, but it sums up my feelings about most moral outrages, especially ones involving kids.

Have you heard the one about Madeleine McCann? Chances are you probably have. Whether it was via text message, e-mail, or a conspiratorial whisper from a friend in the pub, there’s a strong likelihood that over the last few months you’ve heard a distinctly off-colour joke about Britain’s most famous missing person. You may even have laughed at it. If you did, congratulations – you got a chuckle out of child abduction. You are now officially a monster.

Or are you? Do you genuinely find the kidnap and possible murder of a four-year-old girl inherently hilarious? Or is it possible that you feel so suffocated by the blanket media hysteria surrounding Maddy and her parents that a silly joke, even if it is tasteless and unfunny, is a welcome release from the relentless, unwavering empathy that you are supposed to display as an upstanding member of the community? If it’s the latter, then you’re probably OK. But whatever you do, don’t tell anyone.

Don’t be like comedian Dave Longley, who last week achieved some kind of bad taste comedic nirvana by cracking a joke that referenced both Madeleine and 11-year-old gang victim Rhys Jones whilst performing a gig in Rhys’s home town of Liverpool. To the surprise of no one, the throwaway gag brought the show to a halt. Longley was booed off stage and was later forced to cancel his remaining gigs in the city. The chairman of Everton FC has asked for Longley never to perform in Liverpool again.

Here, paraphrased, is the offending joke: don’t you think that after Madeleine and Rhys Jones, parents would have figured out not to dress their kids in Everton shirts? Implications of bad taste aside, as a joke it just doesn’t work: it isn’t funny, and deciding to tell it onstage in a city not exactly renowned for its emotional detachment was undoubtedly a catastrophic misjudgement. But does it really justify the torches-and-pitchforks treatment? Do people really think Longley found the abduction of one child and the death of another funny? Was it not clearly just a slightly desperate attempt by a comedian to shock and therefore entertain his audience?

It seems that even in the age where comedy appears to have no boundaries of taste (even next week’s supposed chick flick rom-com The Heartbreak Kid features an extended discussion on ‘queefing’ – www.urbandictionary.com), there are some things that you are forbidden to laugh about. Surely there can be nothing about the McCann case that is a justifiable target for ridicule? Well, what about the Daily Mail’s desperate clamouring to put something, anything about Madeleine on the front page every single day of the week. Now, the headlines just appear to be the editor having a conversation with himself – Mon: IS Madeleine IN MORROCCO? Tues: Madeleine IS NOT IN MORROCCO Wed: DID KATE CALL FOR HELP? Thurs: POLICE SAY THAT KATE CALLED FOR HELP Fri: YEAH, BUT CAN YOU REALLY TRUST THE POLICE? and so on.

The Daily Mail readership laps up these nuggets of information because they are completely embroiled in the Madeleine story – they care. These are the people who put up Madeleine posters in every library, who create ‘Find Madeleine!’ Facebook groups, and inundate police stations constantly with news of possible sightings. They do this because they care.

Making a joke about the Madeleine furore or even just making it clear that you find the media circus distasteful infuriates these people because it shows that you don’t care and it confuses them. It displays an insouciant apathy towards the story that they are unable to understand, as it should be obvious even to the most conservative of critics that behaving passively does not mean that you are in favour of child abduction.

So why as a nation have we become so hysterically concerned with all things Madeleine? It would be cynical to suggest that the public have come to regard the story as just another soap opera, with its myriad twists and turns and varied cast of characters. Cynical maybe, but no one can deny these elements are exacerbated by the popular media. And, for all their empathy and caring, it is hard to picture a Madeleine-obsessed Daily Mail reader going on a march to support the Buddhist monks and the people of Burma – a situation with massive social, economic and political implications that is going on right now, with literally thousands of innocent lives in the balance. Unfortunately the political complexities of the crisis mean it cannot be easily resolved and more importantly, it can’t be distilled into something as emotionally affecting as a pretty, sad-faced little girl on a poster, and as such it will never usurp Madeleine in our media consciousness.

That doesn’t mean that you should feel compelled to join in the circus, however. If you take a step back and put things into perspective, it’s unlikely that anyone will brand you as heartless or unfeeling. Which is not to say you should go around antagonising people who have been affected by the story: if you start telling a bunch of Madeleine jokes at a party people will rightly think that you’re a bit of a dick. But no matter what the Daily Mail or Sky News tells you, there is no shame in being apathetic towards a situation that you have no emotional connection to or any influence over. It’s time to let Madeleine and the McCanns go.

But keep an eye out, obviously. Apparently she might be in Belgium.

The nominees for the Inaugural BNP Awards have finally been put up online: read on below for an exclusive preview of this year’s winners!

THE MEL GIBSON AWARD FOR BEST HOLLYWOOD RACIST

Won: Mrs Sharon Stone.

Runner up: Mr Roger Moore

THE NEVILLE NEVILLE AWARD FOR MOST UNIMAGINATIVE PARENTS

Won: Mr Paul Paul

THE LITTLE BLACK SAMBO AWARD FOR BEST POTENTIAL CHILDREN’S BOOK CHARACTER

Winner: A straight tie between Mrs Winnifred Pickles, Mrs Penny Peachey, Mr Fred C Pretty and Mr Peter Pleasants

THE KU KLUX KLAN AWARD FOR BEST ALLITERATION

Winner: Mrs Shirley Shatwell (also a strong contender in the innuendo category)

THE SARAH PALIN AWARD FOR BEST EMAIL

Winner: scrotaljakhammer666@blahblahblah…

Runner up: Local parish councilor Tom Richardson’s Tom_is_richardson@etcetc… Best screamed a la 300
…TOM…IS…RICHARDSON!!!!

THE DAILY MAIL AWARD FOR MOST SPECTACULAR MISSING OF POINT

Winner: shared between Mr Steve Szczpanek, Mr Szwarc Taglione and Mr Stanislav Tenkovskiy

BEST REASON FOR NON-RENEWAL OF MEMBERSHIP

Winner: Mr Anthony Rogers – “Jehova (sic) God only real hope for mankind”

THE WOLF CREEK AWARD FOR MOST SUSPICIOUSLY FOREBODING OFFER OF HELP

Winner: Mrs Anita Rudin – “Has large barn available for use”

THE TIMMY MALLET AWARD FOR MOST APROPOS SURNAME

Winner: One of the many Savages – any relationship to this one, perhaps?

THE DREW PEACOCK AND RICHARD HEAD MEMORIAL AWARD FOR SERVICES TO INNUENDO

Winner: Mr Richard Shunter

Very close runner up: Mr Richard Skill

THE ‘AWW HELL NAW’ AWARD

Winner: Shared between all three Mr William Smiths

THE ‘LOOKS GOOD BY COMPARISON TO FAMILY MEMBERS’ AWARD

Winner: Mr Paul Ross

This article originally appeared on Flisolo.com as part of my column The Shirk. You can find the original piece here

Watching football on the television is a curiously soulless experience – two hours of ‘action’ that normally yield at most 15 minutes of genuine excitement, no choice but to watch the game unfold through the weary eyes of an equally dispassionate director and with the excitable roars of the stadium mixed way down below the voices of a couple of smug, patronising twats with the total vocabulary of a set of novelty fridge magnets.

There is one good thing that has come out of the massive increase in televised sport, however, as a benevolent (i.e. gloating) Spurs fan brought to my attention.

For those of you who have yet to indulge in the curious delights of Fanzone, it’s an interactive feature on Sky Sports football coverage where on selected games you can turn off the standard commentary and replace it with that of two fans of the respective teams, accompanied by a picture in picture view where you can see the fans react in real time.

It sounds gimmicky, and that’s exactly what I wrote it off as when I first became aware of it. After a bit of ‘Tubing, however, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s probably a better distillation of the appeal of football than an actual game of football.

The on-pitch action during the recent Arsenal vs Spurs match had it all – a battle between two fierce local rivals, ridiculous goals, terrible mistakes, the redemption of returning heroes and the triumph of new messiahs. As good as the match was, however, I can’t help but feel it pales in comparison to the accompanying Fanzone, which clearly demonstrates why to be fair, when all’s said and done, at the end of the day, the fact of the matter is, all football commentators are utterly shit.

Whereas your Motsons and Tyldesleys wear their objectivity and lack of partisanship as a badge of pride, simper on in earnest about ‘sportsmanship’ and ‘fair play’ and chastise players such as Wayne Rooney and Willian Gallas for displaying any form of recognisable human emotion, this kind of attitude is completely inappropriate for a game that owes its enduring popularity entirely to the irrational, borderline psychotic passion of its most fervent supporters. Repeatedly espousing the same thirty platitudes in a rigid monotone for 90 minutes is not a fair representation of The Beautiful Game.

Motty’s reply to Tottenham’s incredible equaliser in the 90th minute was little more than an incredulous chuckle and a borderline casual “Well I never!”. Compare this measured, professional response to that of portly Spurs Fanzone commentator Jamie Gascgoigne, who reacted by immediately stripping to the waist, letting out a minute long primal scream, bending his Arsenal cohort over the commentary desk, and vigorously dry humping his arse.

And therein lies the strange beauty of Fanzone: there is nothing that sums up the appeal of sport more succinctly than the image of one man completely insane with elation extravagantly lording it over the slumped, dejected figure of a broken loser. There are some great examples of this to choose from online, mostly from the big rivalries such as Man U-Liverpool, Tottenham-Chelsea, and Chelsea – Man Utd.

As an aside, something that also becomes clear after a few viewings is the thick, throbbing vein of homo-eroticism that is ever present in Fanzone – as well as the aforementioned Spurs-Arsenal victory bumming, this clip demonstrates an uncomfortable episode during a bout of wrestling between a Man Utd and a Bolton fan after a goal at Old Trafford. Homophobic overreaction, genuine proposition or a canny ruse designed to counteract the traditional celebratory humiliation? You decide.

You don’t have to like football to appreciate the raw tragi-comedy presented in these clips, but it’s a fascinating microcosm of the key elements of the game and sport in general – it’s all at once honourable, illogical, poignant, hilarious, and a little bit gay. And if the sight of one 20 stone man screaming “IT’S PANTOMIME SEASON!” triumphantly in the face of another 20 stone man doesn’t tickle you, then to be fair, at the end of the day, when all the dust has settled, you’re probably already dead. Or a football commentator.