A Most Peculiar Time of Year

Crowds, shopping, horrible packed trains (which are of course delayed), familial obligations, tinsel, more Only Fools and Horses to avoid, bloody rubbish songs punctuated by the Pogues' "Fairytale of New York", which when heard elicits collective signs of relief, no snow yet again, being fed up by your mum, getting fed up of your mum (Ah, I don't mean it, I love you mum): Christmas 2009.

Nothing that some absinthe and a fair spell in bed couldn't cure. Bah humbug.

Then there's making your own presents and cards for people (and laughing at the attempts), getting the wrapping paper and ribbons exactly right, sitting under the tree playing with the cat, getting a card from someone you didn't expect, the Perfect 12 podcast, being excited about kissing someone you care about on New Year whilst simmulatenously appearing wry about it and pretending you're cool, dark jokes over the dinner table, sitting down and having a really good catch up with a friend, babycham with cherries in, the Killers' "Don't Shoot Me Santa"which is becoming a bit of a festive favourite of mine. The possiblility someone may give you a bottle of absinthe in case it all goes wrong.

Merry Christmas folks, and if you have to travel by train then take a hipflask with you!

It's A Kind of Magic: Cardini

I'm a huge fan of magic, especially the close-up stuff. Partly this is because I have little dexterity myself and admire it so much in others -I'm in my mid twenties and I still haven't cracked walking without falling down! So the suavity and grace of magicians always bowls me over, much like broken paving stones on the street. There's nothing like trying to work out how it's done either; though having been the proud owner of a deluxe Paul Daniel's magic set when I child I actually know - bloody hard work and loads of practise. Those of a cynical nature will notice that Christmas is in fact rolling round again... but, truley I love almost everything about magicians, from the personas, the rivalries, the posters (which would make a great Christmas present), and the showmanship. The actual tricks aren't bad either.

It's such a shame that there isn't more of an opportunity to see more live magic. There are societies around with exhibition dates for the non-magician (not in Aber , oh no, google 'Aber' and 'magic' and there'll be something about druids no doubt - they're the cutting edge round here), and of course there's Derren Brown doing his devilish bit for the art form. I have yet to see Brown perform, due to irritating things like exams, which crop up whenever his tour is nearby (ha -Swansea), but one day. In the meantime I enjoy the TV shows, all of which are available on 4oD. This is nowhere near enough though! Where have all the magicians vanished to?

When in doubt look to youtube: here's a vintage performance from Cardini, the quality is the best I can do sadly....

Cardini is acclaimed as the"greatest exponent of pure sleight of hand the world has ever known", and this magicians' magician's manipulations of cards made me wonder why I'd wasted my life studying? Surely to god I could have been doing something more mesmeric. Then I remembered my aforementioned dyspraxic lack of coordination, and a lack of patience - not something that Cardini suffers from as you can see. The above footage shows one of my favourite magic tricks; impeccable timing, misdirection, slights and superb dexterity all serve to keep the fans of cards falling and you just have to wonder where on earth he stashes them? Sadly there are few recordings of this master, but the wonderful tipsy character he created, who possesses a bizarre Midas touch with cards, billiard balls and cigarettes, is unforgettable.

Cardini was born in 1895, under the unassuming name of Richard Pitchford, in the equally unassuming Mumbles. After enlisting, he passed his time in the trenches practising magic whilst wearing gloves because of the cold; this later served as a hallmark of his skillful routines. In 1916 Pitchford was nearly killed when a bomb exploded nearby, but recovering in hospital gave him ample time for card practise - though his request for gloves promptly had him dispatched to a psychiatric ward.

He was a former President of the Magicians Guild, he chose his name to invoke the stature of Houdini (the self proclaimed 'King of Cards'), and his bell-boy assistant was also his wife, but that's about all I can find in terms of biographical details. That and the rather charming fact that Cardini's son's pram was used in Gone with the Wind - Rhett wheels little Bonnie Blue around in it!

Cardini pioneered many techniques still in use, and has often being imitated; I could watch his routine over and over, but still I don't know how he does it though.

Music Review - The Killers, Day & Age

'Are we human or are we dancer?'

This may be one of the most irritating lyrics of the year; dancers! Dancers! If the plural was good enough for Hunter S. Thompson, then it should be good enough for walking ego and Killers front man Brendon Flowers.

After Hot Fuss there was admittedly rather allot to swagger about - what a tremendous album! Then followed Sam's Town, which left something to be desired. All in all the second album was a disappointment; lacking drive, the sweeping 80s fulled musicality and layers of synths; although I was rather fond of 'Read My Mind' and 'For Reasons Unknown'. Likewise the 'b' sides album 'Sawdust' has a few bits and pieces to recommend it, but again is nowt special. Aside from the stellar first album haven't the Killers been a tad overrated?

The next question has 'Human' already been overplayed? Every time I go into a shop or pub it seems to crop up between the Christmas carols, and being that the band have 'beaten' Guns N' Roses to the number one spot (as if that is really the event it's been made out to be) they are featured on almost every station playlist. I can't really decide if I like it or not because the lyric about 'dancer' annoys me so much I just can't let it go.

Day & Age is not really flipping my switches; it's okay and makes funky background music particularly 'The World We Live In' and 'I Can't Say' (although some of that sounds a bit like Lion King theme song 'Circle of Life', no really and there's even a timpani) but that's pretty damning really considering Flowers' hype that it is the "best Killers disk ever!". It's been a long time since I've heard sax solos, and I rather liked Roxy Music and Duran Duran so its nice to hear them being referenced, but Day & Age fails to be stunningly original. Its not as punchy or heartfelt as Hot Fuss. It's inoffensive, and Stuart Price's production has enriched the structure of the songs - maybe its a grower, but I'm afraid to say it doesn't do anything special to me.

6.5/10

Podcast Reviews - Collins and Herring vs The Perfect 10

I'm a firm fan of comedy podcasts - particularly the free ones, where the comedians do it out of the goodness of their own hearts rather than cobbling together the best bits of a radio show (tch! Adam and Joe). Especially, because I'm rather malicious, when the podcastees moan about their lack of sponsorship or honest to goodness jobs in radio or TV. Comedy via a podcast is a refreshing way to listen to favourite performers- especially those who choose to work without a script, like Richard Herring and Andrew Collins, or Phill Jupitus and sidekick Phil Wilding. These funny men demonstrate their amazing wit and ability to ramble, but with interest, on all sorts of topics. It makes you appreciate why they can be funny for a living and get away with it.

The 'Collings and Herrin' (misspelling is deliberate) podcast represents one end of the professional scale; they chat away in Richard's attic about whatever - though ginger beer, necrophilia and views through the window crop up an awful lot. I know it sounds dreary but never has looking through a window been so entertaining - aside from Rear Window that is; I am eagerly awaiting the day when life starts imitating art in the London loft space.

These two men eschew proper sound equipment and a pay packet in favour of un-policed swearing, hilarious flights of fancy and very, very witty and ironic dirty jokes. Well they didn't so much 'eschew' decent sound as reject it by necessity - they couldn't get it to work. Rich and Andy are the do it yourself podcast kings, and though we'd all like to believe we could be consistently funny for an hour, it must be a hard feat - they do it for free!

It's probably not everyones' cup of tea, and sometimes the quality can vary a bit, which Rich points out is because their doing a live hour long unscripted performance every week. I have to say though that despite being an acquired taste if you like your humour to be gently warped then you won't go far wrong. When asked the other day in a special live podcast to a professional radio audience, whether they were doing it until anything better came along they both immediately rejected the notion out of hand; Herring pointed out he has soldiered on through hangovers, food poisoning and the flu. The two of the, just enjoy chatting for the benefit of other people. Which sounds eerily philanthropic really. When Richard's not encouraging women to flash him that is.

Like Collins and Herring, Phill Jupitus and Phil Wilding's 'Perfect 10' started as a means to recreate the magic of a now defunct 6 music partnership. Unlike Rich and Andy however, the two Phils are consummate professionals; the sound is good, Steven Fry does the links (!), and the concept isn't just any old rambling, but rambling about 10 randomly chosen subjects, with a bell to time out. And, and, because Phil Wilding's Welsh he is eloquent (his words). The Perfect 10 has made it onto my subscription list with ease; it's a fantastic little show, which never fails to have me in stitches when I'm listening in.

In their discussions the two Phil(l)s throw up the deeper questions of life; what would you like to loose in space? Would you drink something Rolf Harris offered you? Is it possible to go to Ireland and not get drunk?* My flatmate probably thinks I'm mad as I chuckle away to myself, but I urge you to give it a try and you won't be disappointed.

Podcasts don't have any duty of care to their listenership, there's no sacred trust to shelter wee ears from vulgarity, risque concepts, or just waffle, and it's sometimes out of the waffle that comedy gold is struck. They are a great way of listening to new and original material in these icey credit crunch climes; some are polished, others are not, but generally when you hear a performer talking away just from the sheer love of it then it's enough to warm the cockles of your heart and brighten the day with laughter. Give 'em a go.

* I don't think so, despite my experience of a health spa/music festival once. I ran out of money at the Electric Picnic and was forced to scavenge for coins on the floor in order to buy bread: this is a true story. Instead of the ludicrously priced fermented beverages I was humiliated but thirsty enough to resort to drinking free samples of iced tea and thank god for it. Even that spartan time was because of a huge night out in Dublin and having to buy wellies (the weather report lied).

Lazarus Basil and the Three Legged People - Fun Thing #298

Ho hum, it's been a funny old week. I've been travelling far afield again (well Cardiff and Bristol), but in my few days absence so much occurred......

• Everyone seemed to go mad, or possibly have a good time, robbed as they were of my dour presence glowering away in the corners. What I'm trying to infer is that certain people of my acquaintance did not carry themselves with their usual decorum, well I say decorum, I mean drunken stumbling. It's a pretty shoddy state of affairs when you can't even stumble. Ah, bless them, it's good to blow off some steam, and only a churlish soul would sulk at having missed out. I'm not one begrudge a bit of excitement, especially as the flat was lovely and tidy upon my return.

• The walls of the hallway got plastered, like some steam blowing people I could mention... (maybe I'm alittle churlish). Actually the plastering is a huge surprise, can't believe the landlord is actually doing some work to the place!

• My basil died - it was a mere six months old. I was heartbroken, No, more! I was utterly wretched; how could I have been so wanton as to leave my special friend in my flatmate's pernicious 'care'.... as you can tell from the title it did come back from the dead, although now it looks like it wants blood.

Okay, when I say "so much happened" I mean a few random occurrences that, aside from the basil, impact on my life in no way whatsoever. Let's not underestimate the impact of that basil though! I love the plant like a member of my own family - more even. It was initially a strange part of the one-up-manship against my ex, who I lost a whole bottle of Lagavulin too when I bet that his basil (which was always on death's door) wouldn't make it until New Year. It did. Then it died. Selfish bloody plant - it never liked me. To be accurate I actually lost two bottles of Lagavulin - one was a miniature; I tried to get out of the bet by stating that he hadn't specified bottle size, which was true, but apparently this piece of legal genuis was dishonerable.

Anyway, aside from the usefulness of the herb in making pasta just that little special, my basil had much meaning of its own. I bought it when I moved back here and it has been carefully nurtured ever since. Okay, okay not that carefully as it's wedged into a broken plant pot I found lying round outside, it's been knocked off its little pedestal and smashed across the floor, it's usually underwatered, and when it's upright, potted and drenched in H2O it's probably cold. I still didn't like to see it in its wrinkly green decay though. It was a dead-un.

...Or not, as I mentioned before (no cadence of suspence here). No, the basil had merely being pining for me, bless it, all the way to the point of dessication. After a night spent in my nice warm room it has returned to life; all hail the basil, it shall be known as Lazarus and my godlike powers shall be worshipped by all. It may have been the water that my flatmate gave it, when she realised she may have killed it and I was on the way back. Surely not though! Surely not something so mundane!

As for me, well I had an interesting time too; I was puzzled to find three cast off boots in lying in the streets of Cardiff. Had there been some sort of three legged person experiencing shoe induced pain, throwing off the boots of doom? Maybe some shoe cult, admittedly a small cult of two people, but one person couldn't bear to give up their right boot? Maybe it was a custom to leave a boot on this particular street? Or perhaps it was rapid evolution in action, and just like that fossilised snake found with legs, the boots are representative of a stage in human evolution where we're casting off our legs so we can do the caterpillar all the better. Except again, one person couldn't quite commit to the trend and was forced to hop. Who knows?

Music Review - The Shortwave Set

The Shortwave Set proved to be a class act last night. Playing to a criminally underpopulated Clwb Ifor Bach, in the first date of their 'Glitches and Bugs' tour, they shone out as being something a little bit special. Their avant-garde electronica proved to be both smart and engaging; there is a lot to love about this UK-Swedish three-piece.

The set itself was rather short, and little experimental; somewhat dissappointingly it didn't include some of their strongest tunes from their latest album 'Replica Sun Machine', but new stuff was thrown into the frey and it's reassuring to know there is more to come. The sound they produced, even in that tiny little club, had a polished quality that came straight from their album; 'No Social' went down well and Ulrika Bjorsne's voice was, in particular, utterly entrancing.

All in all the music had a powerful mesmeric quality that washed over the ten people who constituted the audience. I can't recommend this band enough; if you want a night of very fine chilled out indie music you could do no better. The Shortwave Set are a crowd with huge appeal.

Support was from Cosmo Jarvis - the name says it all, but they were a happy lot, with some interesting harmonising.

24-hour Spar adds inches to your waist line - Fun Thing # 62

It's late at night, and even though there's a cupboard full of ingredients, even though I'm of the sort that bakes their own bread, buys free ranged organic eggs from the local farmers market, enjoys homemade jam, grows basil......

It's time for a pot noodle from 24 hour Spar!

Aberystwyth is a bustling metropolis alright, there's not just three streets, a camera obscura (the largest one in the whole world) and, well, the sea; we've 24 hour shop to pander to our every need whatever the time. Not to mention 'Little' Spar for snacks when you've come down the hill from a hard day of lectures -maybe a cider lollipop in the summer? Many a student can be caught being blown all about the seafront at 3am in search of some wonderful item that only a 24 hour convenience store can provide. That or they're drunk.

Okay, they're usually drunk and have suffered the indignity of stumbling out of 'Pier' or 'Bay'. Both are dens of iniquity where the walls sweat. The only difference between the two being that they tell you off or chinking glasses in the Pier. Oh, and should the A-Team be trapped in that miserable non-glass chinking fascist regime, then B.A Baracas could make some serious weaponry out of the corrugated tin roof. This is in direct contrast to the Bay, where a friend and I managed to get trapped in the dark cellar when we went in search of toilets with paper (luxuries, luxuries); we weren't able to make anything and our phones barely lit up the Victorian gloom....

Back to Spar; our florescent paradise. Home of overly priced baguettes, pot noodles, ready chilled wine and giant bags of crisps that you could try and sleep in after you've eaten one. Oh and all those strange mini-muffin things they have hanging around in the impulse buy area near the tills. It's the closest thing Aber has to the 'House of the Rising Sun', which of course it beats. The sun never sets on Spar, and they have more to sell than flesh and opium. It is a comfort in these dark days of essay deadlines, always ready to provide escape from actual cooking, ease weary thoughts and sell 'Fry's Chocolate Creams', which really are very lovely when dipped in whisky.

Music Review: Benjy Davis Project - Dust

It's an inauspicious band name, sounds like a re-homing mission for roving but helpful dogs, and I can't remember whether it was Benjy or the Littlest Hobo who had the bandanna....

Bandannas not the head gear of choice

Instead of watching Sean Bean as Sharpe (thanks everyone for letting me know exactly when he was taking his shirt off, and please remember some of us are apt to explode with frustration because we don't have TVs) I spent the night listening to the preview of 'Dust'. It's released tomorrow, and in this country I think iTunes is the only instant buying option. 'Dust' is the fourth studio album from the Louisiana-based six piece BDP, who according to their bio are 'poised to take on [a national] presence'. I imagine they are all standing on a diving board somewhere, possibly in anachronistic Victorian woolen swimming costumes, ready to leap. All in all they're a rather jolly group of lads with a blues-rock bayou sound.

What can I say; their bio needs a bit of work, but by gum their tunes don't. Benjy himself has a soulful appeal with a voice that rings with passion and occasionally frustration (much like my non-Sharpe experience last night). The music is truly joyful ('Same Damn Book'), except the sad songs - they do what they should by being heart rending, wistful and yearning. Lyrics are uncomplicated but tap straight into all sorts of emotional excesses. Above all they seem like a group of guys who all really click (try 'Do It With the Lights On' from 'The Angie House', and stop yourself from dancing), and who have taken their regional influences to a polished and gutsy level. A band who you'd have love to have discovered in a bar or party before they became that serious. Maybe you'd have stood the chance of having a melodic, Louisiana, bluesy, sort of song written about you...

Find their album streamed online here : http://www.bdpmusic.com/

Halloween Fun

It's that time of year again - instead of spending six hours being OCD over the Christmas tree I instead take a mere two to carve what in reality is a very small pumpkin. I'm very proud though. I will keep this beautiful thing always as my favourite treasure: I don't care how decayed it becomes. Guests to the flat will be invited to have their photos taken with it, maybe even knit it mittens and booties.

Yes, get out the little black dresses, face paint, nail varnish, the hats, bats, rats and cats: it is officially Halloween. I'm excited. I'm also freezing cold as the flat is sub-Arctic, meaning my fingers are too stiff to type so this is going to be short.*

I remember my first ever Halloween party; I'd been invited by bigger children down the road to sit in a damp garage for hours, then I was dragged about, much like a broken doll trailing on the floor, for the trick or treating. A huge haul was accumulated, which was some what shocking in my 80s recession conscious and generally unfriendly neighbourhood. The ill gotten loot was to be shared out the next day, and I'm sure being a small, blonde, adorable sort of angelic child I went over and above the call to inspire extra sweets by way of sympathy and cuteness. However since the night was freezing, since I was soaked as my bin-bag cloak didn't hold up (ah the days when you made your own costume), I came down with something close to pneumonia (well a very bad cold). All the big children divied up all my share of the treats. No liquorice bootlaces for little Erika, which I had my heart set on. Since then I've usually had my own parties. Not always by myself. I do have friends. Some friends. Sometimes.

Tonight's plan involves making green pipe-cleaner snakes for my hair (Medusa again - hence picture of instructions on how to tie a peplos, and no it isn't common sense), drinking lots of kirsch, and probably cutting out more bats, which have been characterised to look like people I know, or er what's the word -friends. Oh yes, Halloween is a serious business despite the fact that the days of my mid-twenties are fleeting away from me like adventurous kittens in soggy paper boats. But tonight, who cares?! Soon all my settled, sensible, grownup friends (I do have some) who live in proper places unlike Aber will start having children with whom I could live vicariously through.... well I could if I liked small, irritating, incomplete versions of real people that is. I'll probably just get older, buy bigger bottles of kirsch and take to jumping out waving a stick on October 31st, or well, let's face it whenever I damn well feel like it.

* Incidentally I'm hoping if I keep hinting how cold it is someone will send me some fingerless gloves so I too can be Bob Cratchit.

Be Cool - Fun Thing # 87

I'm cool. Properly cool. I'll need to get some ray bans because, they're cool right? Having never been cool before (and labouring under the fantasy that the interviewing a band for a free newspaper automatically confirms such status) I'm experiencing giddy highs and a tendency to act like the Fonz, or break out into a massive grin, and don't tell me a grin isn't the epitome of cool. In a couple of weeks my reviewing might will be exercised in a semi-professional capacity and my name gets to be in print as a proper honest to goodness music journalist. You're impressed, I can tell. Cool.

I'll stop typing that word now. Promise.

To be honest I'm worrying more about what to wear, but I'd like to add that I'm doing so whilst listening to the two albums the band have produced (I'll stick the review up here once it's been printed). As to the interview questions - I'm hoping they'll come to me on the bus down to Cardiff; after all four and half hours have to be put to some use, apart from the usual falling asleep and dribbling windows. I also know to take a sandwich to the interview; this is not to feed the hungry musicians but rather me - just in case there's delays. Mind you I bet the band are a bit hungry - they've enjoyed serious critical acclaim but little commercial success as yet, they all look very thin. A sandwich, bus fare and a Dictaphone all you need to know to be a journalist right?

It's all the NME guys seem to need to do. Oh boy, I need to get me a Dictaphone to go with my delusions of grandure and ambitions of kissing various musicians.

I'd like to add; I'm still cool.

Burning the Midnight (Olive) Oil

Well I've been ill, again. Seven years of university and for six of those I've caught freshers flu. The only time I didn't get it.... yeah, you've guessed it - when I was a fresher. So between the sniffling, the sleeplessness, the unending agony of having to write a personal statement (still not finished) and the fact that there are still 33 weeks in which I have to dwell here, I'm less than chipper. On the plus side I am half way through a fine bag of olives that the splendiferous Deema bought for me in the ever-so exotic "euro"market that's been visiting.

I'm suspicious of "euro"markets, ever since a visit to Darlington, where a large quantity of cheese was ill advisedly purchased. As with all dodgy fromagerie it had a particular olfactory pungency - in this case you could even smell through the relative safety of a fridge, though at the the time we didn't realise where this acrid stench of decay was coming from. Or, I may add, what its ungodly origins may be - had the dead risen from their graves outside? Was there an unwashed sock protest march underway? I thought for certain that one of the others had contracted a strange and rare illness and they were just faking being well to make sure they got their wine glass topped up on a regular basis. Sadly the next day the cheeses (then uneaten) came for a long hot drive back down to Wales. No matter how fast we sped the smell still followed - an ominous waft from the boot.

For the most part the Aber market was the much same as Darlo; it hawked cheese, leather belts and handbags, fruit cider, and disturbing sausages, but tucked away amidst all the meat offcuts and strange knickknacks, was a very lovely olive stall. The vendor fitted into the stereotype of the typical sort of olive hawker that you see in such grandly named but oft disappointing markets; slightly unwashed, limited patience, a tendency to look hard done by and shirty customer manners - it's the aplomb with which they sigh when you ask for something which gets me. All the same he delivered the green and lemon stuffed goods. All in all it's a pity though; these great men and women should relish the role that they play; being proud of their gift of selling a fine and ancient foodstuff. Sometimes the simple things in life can bring such joy. Joy limited to a very short period admittedly, and financial liquidity, but it all counts all the same.

I've finished my bag now.

I still can't sleep. I may require toast.

Leave for Civilisation only to go back in time - Fun Thing # 92

A Night of 50s Music....

Just call me Marty. It might not be everyone's idea of a great time; you hit the big smoke, have a few drinks and then see a rather odd man, dressed up as someone about 30 years younger and long dead, singing songs... in obscene leather trousers. Thrusting. I, er, didn't enjoy that part I hasten to add.

That's right I had a night of watching a bunch of singers pretending to be long dead popstars: it was called 'In Dreams'. At times it came closer to some of my nightmares.

The Billy Fury impressionist and the rictus of terror that was my face aside, a great time was to be had when I actually focused on the music; there were songs there that should never have been forgotten, or rather relegated to a night of dodgy entertainment; like Conway Twitty's (I know, I know, stupid name) 'It's Only Make Believe'. Generally despite all the sinister references to sixteen year olds, or bizarre lyrics that can only be indicative of a generation abuzz with pent up frustration there are some just simply fantastic songs. Obviously I'm being extremely patronising there as the era was a font of musical diversity and change. Admist all the costumes, bad Dusty Springfield wigs and hand clapping, some of that spirit crossed over; old ladies found the energy to dance in the aisles, whilst I sat complaining of bad knees and feeling asphyxiated by the fug of their floral perfumes. Well, a couple of old ladies were twisting the night away, but the majority of the female audience were accompanied by old men husbands who flatly refused to get up and make a spectacle of themselves, thank you very much! One boogie orientated grandmother danced alone. Like that Sting song, well excepting the state sanctioned excecutions....

I've just realised from my use of the phrase "boogie orientated" that it is entirely possible I am still drunk. The only thing to add is that tomorrow I'm visiting a cheese festival.

Die of Mortification - Fun Thing # 34

It's a Saturday night, you've gone out for a few quiet whiskies... which have become slightly more raucous cocktails and even, (I shudder as I write this) a verbose cherry flavoured alcopop. You've met a man who has stolen a nickname from vintage Grange Hill, put up with a matchmaking barman, and uttered in , ahem, the meekest of tones, a desperate plea much akin to Abba's 'gimme, gimme, gimme' but slightly more explicit, which results in two very old men sitting in your kitchen drinking your single malt whisky. Bottomless old men with a huge capacity for quaffing. Be careful what you wish for.

Once you've gotten rid of them (when the bottles have been sucked dry) all that's left to do is register that it's 4am, you're wide awake, pretty waxed, and (the killer and crucial 'and') it is about time you sent a text. A drunken text.

The next day you die, die, die, die as you remember (quick delete it from your sent messages, so you never have to read the terrible words ever again)... exactly what you said. And to whom. Die. Turn your phone off. Die. Die. Die - the combined weight of chagrin, mortification and horror crushes your fragile soul.

It's a good job I self deprecate so well - but it is a result of all the practise. My sageous flatmate wisely said that no one is perfect all the time, but I would settle for averaging 10% - rather than the 3% I'm currently on.

I'd just like to add.... sometimes a drunken text gets you everywhere. Ahhhhhhh.

What's On....

After expending a fit of energy yesterday, researching and writing notes until my poor hand couldn't take any more, I'm back to my usual torpor. Is it wrong to be put off going up to the library because their computer desktops display little gadgets telling you the weather outside? Maybe I shouldn't be irritated by this, but isn't that part of the point of windows? Real windows, not the Microsoft kind. The only point of that is to crash and generally annoy people.

I worry for the future of the human race sometimes; stupid, pointless desktop gadgets will only promote natural selection to remove necks. Our future generations will be doomed to become reverse giraffes.

In other news the students are trickling back in, with their odd hair, strange clothes and capacity to mill around 4 to a pavement; the Bacchanalia of the Fresher's weekend isn't far off either. This means the only place I'll be safe is the library; I mean what kind of strange 0nes will be hanging about there - apart from the weather-phobic no necked weirdos obviously.

Rain, rain, go away.... Fun Thing #67 - Listen to songs about rain whilst staring out of the window like a lost puppy.

Aberystwyth's rain is .... similar.

The downpour continues and I am trapped indoors, having foolishly spent all my money on luxuries like wine, decongestant, pesto and fair trade rice cakes rather than a sensible pair of good winter shoes... and my duffle coat (now an amazing seven years old, still far too big) has even more holes.

• The current playlist: Raindrops keep falling on my head (Manic Street Preachers cover) Rainslicker (Josh Ritter) Why Does it Always Rain on Me? (Travis) Summertime Blues (The Who) I Can't Stand the Rain (Ann Peebles) Stormy Weather (Ella Fitzgerald)

And newly discovered (well pinched from another blog) Stormy Monday Blues (Bobby Blue Bland). Don't say I never give you anything.

...but not as suggested by some the greatest hits of Wet, Wet, Wet.

Some Comments on Films....

I'm still suffering from that lingering cold: if I were lost in a dark forest or a labyrinth it wouldn't be crumbs or thread I'd follow to freedom but a trail of tissues. At some point I hope to regain my normal voice and wake up without the cacophony of coughing and sniffling that currently accompanies me.

Being ill and unable to do all that much (it's such a hard life) I've been confined to watching films, so you're going to get my film rant. Old favorites have been dusted down, and being such a geek I've watched all the special features too, except for the making of Jurassic Park, where the introduction "I'm James Earl Jones, and let me take you on a wonderful adventure through a film 65 million years in the making...." put me off. Likewise, Se7en, one of my very favorite films of all time and incidentally a dvd that is packed with special features and 3 separate sets of commentaries, features the droning and dull Morgan Freeman who rattles on about how a hat put him in the right frame of mind for the character of Sommerset and how he wants to bring to the forefront scripts written by all different kinds of Americans; Afro-Americans, Asian Americans... as long as they are American he doesn't care. Which is why he worked on Se7en, written by a Caucasian American script writer, even there are too many of those about all telling the same story.

The Counterfeiters

For something completely different however try the 2007 film 'The Counterfeiters', written and directed by Stefan Ruzowitzky, starring Karl Markovics, Devid Streisow and August Deihl.

It's a fascinating slice of forgotten World War Two history -Operation Bernhard: a Nazi plan to destabilise the UK and US economy. Concentration camp forced labour was used to fake £134,610,810 in practically perfect bank notes to help resupply the German war effort: it remains the world's largest counterfeiting operation. The film is based in part on the memories of a survivor of this operation Adolf Burger, and catalogues the men's differing reactions to being used as part of the Nazi war effort - in helping to prop up the weakened German state they guarantee good treatment for themselves, but they are still Jews, still in prison and are unable to escape the morality of their situation; upon arrival at Sachsenhausen they are treated with cordiality but in a macabre twist given the clothes of Auschwitz prisoners to wear. Understandably there's a lot of conscience wrangling going on. It's a gorgeous looking piece of cinema, really grimy and understated, the characters all have depth and complexity and it is certainly a window into a thought provoking situation. Apologies about the pun but there's nothing flashy or false about The Counterfeiters; it really is a decent film- 8/10

I hate to be grumpy but the reason I'm watching really old films, The Counterfeiters excepted, is that I maintain that there hasn't been a decent period of film making since 2000; although there are one or two gems that shine through (like the wonderful Sideways, or The Prestige) studios are producing less material and generally it does seem to be generic, safe, and now with a disturbing trend to produce 'chick flicks' aimed at a slightly older but apparently no wiser female audience. So, later I'll be watching... well I'd love to watch the Usual Suspects but unfortunately some bloody hobbit has my copy of it, so it's going to be The Silence of the Lambs, which I'll be doing Hannibal impressions to; "I ate his liver with fava beans a nice lemsip".

Summer Reading

The Right Stuff - Tom Wolfe (1979)

'The Right Stuff' is Tom Wolfe's answer to why a man sits on a firework and why public admiration for the Mercury 7 astronauts literally took off (oh,I'm sure I can get sky high in here somewhere too). Wolfe catalogues the beginnings of the US Space Program with boyish enthusiasm and never misses a chance to get in some pilot lingo; he is openly admiring of the 'right stuff' of flight testers, particularly Chuck (first man to go supersonic in flight and assent) Yaeger and provides an entertaining history.

The titular 'right stuff' these pilots possess boils down to unassailable egos that in turn gives rise into physical invincibility. The young men do not fear the statistic that tells them that 23% of naval pilots die in accidents (this doesn't include combat, which the US Navy wisely considers never to be accidental), they are unflappable when their friends around them are dying (rather horribly), and they have little care for the damage their jobs do to home life - they just buckle up and try to go that little bit faster - "push the envelope" to use Wolfe's euphemism.

The astronaunts don't quite have the same pizazz as the career test pilots- despite their bravery and achievements, not least enduring rectal thermometers and lots of enemas. They seem, to Wolfe at least, to have some how circumvented the cult of the righteous despite the fact that Gordo Cooper was so relaxed that actually fell asleep in his capsule before his launch. They are both the pinnacle of 'the right stuff' and its downfall, though they abide by esoteric warrior ethics and have very shiny suits.

It's a fantastic read; enlightening, informative and slightly gossipy whilst exuding respect. To have the right stuff is to be a colossus bestride a world of ants. Ants that can't fly and wouldn't even dare... mostly because they are bloody sane!

The Sourdough Experiment - Fun Thing #46

Aberystwyth continues to be the dull, disreputable, dinge-hole that various people seem to know and love. I am not one of them.

Pretty sunset. Horrible place.

I didn't give in gracefully to living in here - as my encyclopedic knowledge of pubs near train stations testifies. Recent events mean I'm here for good, so maybe it's time to embrace the experience. So far I've been attacked by seagulls, seen the camera obscura and museum, and become so drunk and disorientated that I've been lost in my own flat.... but surely there's more to this tiny little (woefully inadequate) town?

Enough of tangents, I shall sally forth and get to the point of this post....I made sour-dough: cue ominous music in the background.

Sour-dough, for those not in the dough know, is a special kind of bread that you deliberately let go mouldy before you bake it: so for sour read ... fecund. The brave can find a recipe (though not the one I used) here. It takes about a week to turn the ingredients into a bubbling, malty ooze, thankfully this is achieved by just leaving it be. Once the bubbly state has been accomplished you add more flour.

In theory this should leave you with about 3lbs of dough, but in reality it creates tremendous problems and unleashes the forces of chaos. This is not just any old dough, oh no! It is dough that contains so much life that it has developed a sense of generosity. Within seconds of trying to add more flour, the philanthropic bake-stuff will leap up and cover the baker liberally from head to foot.

If you must carry on, then scrape up whatever remains, kneed the hell out of it (to teach it a valuable lesson), and then leave it alone again (naturally). Bake the next day. Once cooled, cut a piece, eat, then pull a face because it really can be quite sharp.

When you have, made, baked and sampled your labours promptly feed them to someone else. Tell them you respect their refined taste if they seem lukewarm (or are otherwise informed on the perils of sourdough).

On a totally unrelated note - I've left Aber for a few days: I'm travelling with my bread, not unlike P.T Barnum and Jo-Jo the dog faced boy. Those who wish to sample may do so.