Kathryn Williams - The Quickening

I’ve only wonderful things to write about Kathryn Williams’ new record ‘The Quickening’. Whilst it’s easy to have a soft spot for dainty folk- the audible equivalent of wistfully gazing into candle flames- this album is all the more marvellous for being filled with unpretentious, devilishly pretty music.

Each song possesses an airy grace, and a pace as slow as the closing of heavy eyelids: consequently the whole record seems to twine into a wonderland of slow yearning. There’s humour there too though, the light hearted merriment of ‘Wanting and Waiting’, mixes against songs that sound like sighs of self-reflection.

Kathryn’s voice beguiles through simplicity, her songs are personal without being navel gazing, and the music grows to envelope the space you're in; one minute it’s a nice song in the background, next you’ve been charmed into paying attention to it alone. Great stuff; out in February, and she's touring too.

Here she is on a previous outing with Neill MacColl...

Film Review: The Box

Oh. Dear. God.

The Button Unit. Yes, that's really what it's called.

I tried to see the Men Who Stared at Goats yesterday. I really did. Even going so far as to briskly walk into the dark depth of shady Cardiff to the lovely, but badly located, Chapter cinema; alas it was only to find for some inexplicable reason (read as my incompetence) that it was on earlier on Wednesdays. As my friend and I hastily awayed to more civilised climes we settled on Paranormal Activity, a decision that was at least half popular (with me). Inexplicably and somewhat suspiciously we arrived too late, so by default The Box became our poison of choice, and by it we were doomed.

I'd rather eat my own curried optic nerve than watch this long winded, directionless drivel again. Indeed as one of the few people not to be crazy over Donny bloody Darko, I didn't exactly have high hopes for Richard Kelly's latest outing - The Box. I should of known better and pitched any sense of expectation in a subterranean cave; one so dark that the flickerings of life inside have never seen light. The only thing to like about this film was that it wasn't Sunshine ("for seven years I've talked with God": can you hear my teeth grinding out there?) which like The Box is a massive waste of life. Other geninue plus points? Frank Langella's make-up, maybe, certainly his tailoring; for the duration of the film I was a Woman Who Stared at Coats.... and sighed.

As to the nitty-gritty of the picture; I'll charitably say that the first twenty minutes are interesting enough; the trailed premise of a million dollars for sanctioning the death of someone you don't know is mildly thought provoking. More so when you hear the entire cinema to a man all whooping and shouting "yes!" - that made me worry, and I thought it was the civilised bit of Cardiff!

As for the rest; oh god no. No. No. No. Oh, it's awful; mystery is throw upon mystery until the whole thing creaks with the weight of its own tediousness, and instead of being engaged, you find yourself consigned to boredom. Just when you think it can't get any worse, trust me it does; the plot takes a turn for the utterly farcical. None of this film fits together - it feels as if it's been heavily edited to deliberately remove any coherence, and yet the bits that are left in labour heavily, like a ragtag child with a particularly splodgy potato print, just to make sure you understand what someone thought was obviously a fiendishly clever plot.

The Box is really, really, truly god-awful. I can't stress this enough. If I do one good thing this year I hope it's saving someone some time and money by dissuading them from going to see this pile of steaming offal.

Put it in a box, tie it with a ribbon, and fling the whole crescendo of dull down the nearest open sewer.

Film Review: Where the Wild Things Are

Directed by Spike Jonze, written - Spike Jonze & David Eggers, starring Max Records, James Gandolfini, Catherine Keener, Paul Dano, Lauren Ambrose and Forest Whitaker.

Looks good, doesn't it?

Yesterday I sniffled back a snuffle and tried not to get all maudlin to 'Where the Wild Things Are'. The plot, in case you don't know, involves the adventure of an angry young boy called Max; one evening he runs away from home, finds an island, and convinces the mosterous inhabitants that he's their king - 'Let the wild rumpus commence!'

It's melancholy rather than wild though; sad-sweet, like a terrible Jim Croche ballad that you shouldn't like, but that somehow makes you wistful, though this film is far classier than Jim and far more engaging to look at than his furry face. The verdit is: it's good. Jonze and Eggers capture the crushing inarticulacies of childhood: I know all the angst, rage, inability to continually do the right thing, not to mention the delightful inventiveness, flooded out from my deep dark past as soon as the silver screen started to flicker.

When watching you remember what it's like to be that little, and not just the bad parts of stomping, crying and slamming doors at the injustice of the world, though this gloomier aspect is firmly in the driving seat. I don't remember the book too well (wow, what pictures) but I'd have thought the process of being King of the Wild Things would have been more joyful. Then again, perspectives change. I don't like the idea of a tiger coming to tea anymore either! Regardless, the introspection isn't a bad thing. Chaos, forts, wrinkled brows and wobbling lips. That really seemed like the old days to me.

The island of the Wild Things is a surprisingly physical place; the cliffs are hard work for a small boy, there are long walks to take and the monsters throw themselves about with gusto, providing piquant moments of comedy. I loved the puppets actually, especially the way they were able to interact with weight since they're not just CGI. I did wish they'd cheer up a bit at times though; speak with some animation rather than their half-committed drawl. That said, the Wild Things are interesting fusions of children who need mothers and strangely unknowable adults, bundled into feathers and fur. Max Records also aquits himself very well indeed.

Would little ones enjoy this? I'm not sure; partly because it's quite slow, but mostly I think they'd find the monsters incomprehesibly sad indeed. Then again maybe not, as all my evidence points to the contrary; I sat in a cinema with 60 (very well behaved - well done) small children who watched enraptured - their only noise was laughter. It is, however, quite rightly a PG.

Where the Wild Things Are made me feel very grownup, despite giving me back a bit of my childhood; I constantly wanted to explain to Max and his chums what they needed, or to tell them off. It remind me how far away I've gotten from being able to visit that island, but I still remember the reasons why I'd have wanted to go - that powerful sense of rebellion came as a marvelous shock.

Incidentally the Karen O's soundtrack is pretty marvelous too and compliments the picture nicely.

You Can Do It With A Sailor from Peru to Venezuela

What's not to like about Alma Cogan's 1954 hit - 'You Must Never Do a Tango With An Eskimo'? It's festive, but not overplayed; there's cheesy horn section blowing whilst party girl Alma trips around witty lyrics, sounding as merry as gran tippling a Snowball, and what's more you can swing about to it under the mistletoe.

As for taking a turn with the Eskimo, who could resist?

• Alma Cogan - You Must Never Do a Tango With an Eskimo

Charismatically Challenged

I live in tent made of Beaver skin. Is good. Tsarina stiched it herself.

It's day two of the 'Hundred Days' project, and though I'm not intending to blog about all the rinky-dinky little pictures I'm planning to draw, I am taking advantage of striking whilst the inspiration iron is dazzlingly white hot. Well, luke-warmish. In all fairness I'm put to shame by some really great blogs, and some interesting self improving ideas, including; a classy art blog, limericks, learning about stuff and 140 character plays. So, I'm drowning not waving whilst trying to do my bit

Above is first sketch of a Rasputin caricature, object of my current fixation- I'm now on biography number two (in a week). This post was going to be about the nature of obsession itself, but it became a bit of a solipsistic drawl, blathering on about my amazing abilities at tetris and the price my compulsive, but crippled, thumbs have paid.

Then it was going to be about charisma, given that Rasputin was a one suave charmer, and charismatic people would seem, on the face of it, to be an interesting subject. I should confess though that this is the third draft, the quasi-educational number two has also been consigned to the great recycle bin in the sky; you'll never get to know charismatic facts concerning greek etymology, Rasputin's hypnotic eyes, the defunct charisma record label, or Jan Matthys the cannibalistic (and compelling) anabaptist of Munster - though he's an interesting character and well worth looking up.

My conclusion is that charisma is really boring to write about; you try to describe the kind of burning magnetism that brings people to their knees, and end up with verbose drivel, such as; "thank goodness it's a rare thing in a person; as a group we all lived to be moved, to be inspired beyond our humble lives, and history teaches us again and again that the transformation comes with the risk of losing one's way". Bloody hell, I can be pompous. So, just go away and watch Sunset Blvd. instead, Norma's got bags of 'it', whatever 'it' is, or listen to some Pulp.

Here's one of my favourites to get you started;

• This is Hardcore - Pulp

The Christmas Tree

Wherever I am in the world, and whatever I may be doing, there is one thing that stops me dead in my tracks and drags me to the family home.... the Christmas Tree.

Bertie and the Demon Tree.*

Last year my Mother decorated the tree. Melodrama on par with "so it was you behind the curtain all along!" My Mother decorated the tree, and no matter what you may think about me being lucky to have a mother and so forth, the melodrama is justified because -she just hung stuff anywhere. Yes, that's right, you heard me correctly, hung it anywhere, with no regard to size, shape or colour! That may not sound like the kind of disaster that opens a vortex to some evil dimension peopled with ducks, but- it was not not far off.

Tree decorating is an art. Shiny Christmas whatnot's simply cannot be flung willy-nilly onto branches; to do so is an abuse of the entire idea of Christmas. Hyperbole, I hear you cry, but no - the whole idea of dressing it is surely to produce nothing short of an ascetic delight akin to the Parthenon or the Mona Lisa. Maybe not the Mona Lisa, I've never liked that.

You think I'm taking this too seriously, right? That spending a couple of hours, possibly with a break in between to go out to get more of the right sort of baubles (Christmas 2005), is just shy of madness. Well, you're wrong. Like I said above, tree decorating is an art! I defy disagreement! Last year I spent three days scowling at the wrongly dressed tree before I secretly had to tweak it so it didn't offend my delicate (insane) sensibilities during Christmas dinner.

Where am I going with this? Last night my mother threatened to decorate the tree again, gleefully assigning herself the onerous task due to my convalesance (sounds so much grander than 'due to me lying on the settee, becoming one with a box of tissues'), and though I may be lying on my sickbed, all feverish and exhausted, that sort of fighting talk simply won't do. I may find myself sympathising more and more with a pre-Marley Scrooge each passing year, but I'll be damned if I let the tree go to hell in a handbasket. I know she bought new baubles and lights, and maybe she'd like a chance to decorate her tree by herself, with her trinkets, but no. She can't do a proper job. No one can. Just me. She knows this, I've told her so during many a pre-Christmas row.... and you can guess where this ends.

I've stayed up late and done it (ensuring that it was at least December before I began). Blame the insanity on me being an only child, but take into account that I'm forced to endure Christmas from an egregiously early date by my noel obsessed Mum.

On the plus side, I wasn't able to sleep anyway, and I did feel a bit more sprightly (i.e less snotty) when I began. It looks pretty good too, though the clashing themes of Victoriana (Christmasses 1990-2007) and funky modern woolly cats and such (2008-present) are causing some pain. Alas for the new lights however. My Mother, for reasons unknown, has bought red glowing orbs, which were no doubt designed by some delirious mind to resemble berries. Unfortunately the practical reality is that our tree looks like the devil's tree: full of red glowing eyes, reaching out to snare souls and unwanted Christmas pudding. The dog is both attracted and scared of it. He can't keep away, but whimpers when nearby, which I'm taking as a compliment of the highest order.

Seasons Greetings from an overgrown only child. Pinch, punch, first of the month and all that.

* Picking up a pen and drawing something is my hundred days pledge; in case you're wondering the Hundred Days thing is the brainchild of comedienne Josie Long, who urges us to do something for a hundred days to make ourselves better people. Find out more and pledge for yourself via Hundred Days.Net

Russia's Greatest Love Machine

Busy, busy times have been afoot, the highlights of which include -

• Winning champagne... okay, I lie - sparkly Jacob's Creek- at a murder mystery evening (it was advertised as champagne though), then like some sort of wine Midas, I managed to accumulate more booze during a successful foray to a pub quiz. Alas the pub wine was an utterly undrinkable Liebfraumilch, labouring under the name of 'Blue Max', which I think is also the title of a WWII centred film starring George Peppard.

• VIP seats to Muse in the NIA (private bar, private barman, Muse... I accidentally stumbled onto a little bit of heaven there and I still haven't stopped smiling).

• Trips all over the place; London, Birmingham, Leeds, York - no wonder I now have swine flu and I'm totally shot.

I've also been catching up with:

• The new Cerys Matthews album 'Don't Look Down', which is really rather good.

• Likewise Julian Casablancas' solo effort.

• I've been absolutely appalled by Bob Dylan's 'Christmas in the Heart', which is just so terrible that words cannot begin to describe it. Imagine a creaky door; imagine that creaky door trying to lecture you on the spirit of Christmas - it's wearing some sort of holly wreath say, but all the while it's chuckling to itself about how much money it earns with every squeak and grooooooaaan. Not my strongest metaphor there, I know, but imagine all that, add on top the smell of rotting fish, and maybe, just maybe you are half way to understanding just how terrible a monstrosity it is that Bob Dylan has produced.

• Telstar, starring Con O'Neill, who is acting his socks off, with a sprinkling of Kevin Spacey, and James Corden (don't let that put you off). It's adapted and directed by Nick Moran of all people, who provides a tender look at the flaws and foibles of Joe Meek, presenting him not as another demented producer, but lauding his talents as a groundbreaking individual albeit one who is beset by demons, fame, and his sexuality.

On top of all that I've been indulging my Rusophillic side, culminating in the reading of what I suspect will be the first of many Ra-Ra-Rasputin biographies. Rasputin, The Final Word is by one Edvard Radzinsky, a historian who sounds like a character from an Ann Rice novel. It's an interesting and detailed history portraying the Mad Monk as a relapsed drunken peasant, easily cowed, eager to please, whirling around in a charitable haze, whilst flagellating himself nightly, smiling at the sky, and of course benignly caring for 'Mama' and 'Papa' Rus and their children.

So what if he occasionally had a bath with the odd lady?

Radzinsky's style leads to some quite superstitious conclusions and doesn't quite gel with the balanced view he purports to give, but for all its faults there is drama a-plenty. There are controversial, and never before aired, pro-Rasputin statements drawn from the findings of the wonderfully titled Extraordinary Commission of Inquiry for the Investigation of Illegal Acts by Ministers and Other Responsible Persons of the Tsarist Regime, and the unveiling of a cunning femme fetal and éminence grise in the form of the the Tsariana's former maid.

So, how does it compare to the Bony-M tune? Was Ra-Ra-Rasputin the lover of the Russian Queen? It's all Edvard can do to shake his head, look stern and sigh about ridiculous questions. I quite like the song though... it's a bit of a guilty pleasure. I hang my head in shame.

Happy Halloween

The puppy ate my witch hat, and I got a crick in my neck carving my pumpkin. Super-duper.

Be impressed. It took hours. Hours.

On the plus side there was also a wee trip up North. This meant that I spent about as much time on the woeful rolling hell of a Megabus as I did in the company of friends old and new, but I'm not complaining. I could. I could go on for hours about second hand music, gruff bus drivers (I know it's a low cost mode of transport but manners don't cost anything), traffic, the new shape my spine has been forced to take... but I won't. I'm trying to be a better person.

The delays, the rain in Newcastle (bitter, bone-chilling and relentless), a closed transporter bridge and a mixed performance from Eddie Izzard, was nicely juxtaposed with sightseeing around North Yorkshire (Rievaulx, Helmsley and Bywater), a rather fun Hallowe'en party in Durham, and most important of all, the onslaught of mixed emotions that only a chicken parmo can provoke.

Yes, that's right a chicken parmo. This strange addition to late-night culinary lexicon can only be found in Teeside. According to BBC Tees a parmo is...

A chicken or pork fillet that is beaten until it is flat and roughly the size of half a pizza box, covered in breadcrumbs, then fried. Then béchamel sauce and a layer of cheese (strangely not parmesan) is added and it’s grilled.It's usually served with chips and salad (that’s the healthy part) and some people swear that a layer of garlic sauce (another Teesside delicacy) needs to be poured on top.

Yes, a beaten, folded, cheese covered, water-filled piece of poor quality meat, served with limp salad in a little plastic baggie. I bet you're salivating.

It's pretty strange that something I've never eaten (and never would) is a little time capsule; their very existence became a reassuring presence during my time squatting in my boyfriend's dorm St 'Ockton (home of the friction match). It's the fast food equivalent of a Munchin in Oz; you may not be in Kansas, but it's strangely comforting to have them about. Unlike that boyfriend, I can uncharitably add.

I'd bottle that kind of wistfulness and sell it if I could.

As for the main event of the weekend, well, no, the main event was going back up North and seeing friends who have long been neglected (some of whom read this, and yes you're all more important than a chickeny comestible, honest). Ostensibly we were all going to watch Eddie Izzard. During our early days in Durham- we'd bonded over a mutual appreciation of poking badgers with spoons.

Alas the glory days have come and gone for all of us, but especially Eddie's stand-up. 'Stripped' was notable for glimmers of form, however the overall performance was a little flabby, weighed down perhaps by a focus on atheism that is neither radical, original or witty enough. Whilst there were inovative uses of twitter, lots of reference to wikipedia and a bizzare advert for Apple, the whole perfomance seemed diminished and lacking in zest - heavily reliant on affection for old material.

It didn't live up the legacy of Glorious or Definite Article, nor could Eddie match the works of some the fresher names on the circuit, many of whom have taken his best qualities and run with them. I'd like to single out Tim Minchin, who not only put on a sparkling performance in Brizzle the other week, but has also ruined my life with the bloody catchy 'Canvas Bags'; a song that just won't leave my poor mind alone. Given the option of spending £17.50 to see Tim, or £30 plus for Eddie... well, the choice is clear. And you've change for a parmo.

Listen and be damned.

And she sang upside down from a rope ladder...

At some point a Noisettes gig will be replete with all kinds of sparkly jim-swishery, but at the moment they're making do with one rope ladder, lots of 'bugger-me, I'm famous!' attitude, large hair, and some flashing lights. The current Wild Young Hearts tour looks acrobatic, and sounds absolutely ebullient, not to mention rather good.

Do they need the props to get things going? No, not at all - this band is 7 parts swagger to 3 parts fizz, not to mention being renowned for raucous gigs. They kicked off with car and crowd pleasing 'Don't Upset the Rhythm (Go Baby Go Baby Go)', and sounded far too big for the shanty stage of Cardiff Student Union - though singer Shingai Shoniwa repeatedly abused her rich voice to make bat-like squeals for purposes unknown. No bats chose to make an appearance.

Despite the odd shriek, the music had our little gang swinging like salsafied snakes sizzling on hot grills: highlights of the night included the cover of T-Rex's 'Children of the Revolution' and 'Saturday Night'. Plus Shoniwa barged past my friend and I as we listened to supporting act Mpho. We felt rather special, and a just a bit cool; even if this conviction was based on a far more glamorous elbow being judiciously applied in our direction. I can safely say that all who attended got to bask in shamelessly upbeat, soulful distinctive pop.

Things A Naughty Puppy Can Eat...

• Cream off my super scrumptious cheesecake brownies, in the bin they go.
• Favourite bra
• Premium bond cheque
• Swanky pub matchbox aka memento of a great night out.
• Next door's parcel, loss of which will be blamed on mail strike
• Pink Ted's eye- the iconoclast!

I am rapidly falling out of love with my puppy; with his waggy little tail, cute way of jumping on my face every damn morning, and the way he eats absolutely everything, whether it be on the floor, the pavement or on a high seeming unreachable tabletop. I'm done with the whole bundle of fluffy exhuberance. He's free to a mildly indifferent home.

.... Yeah, I love him really.

Film Review : Surrogates

Directed by Jonathon Mostow, Starring Bruce Willis, with Ving Rhames and James Cromwell, Screenplay John Bracanto and Michael Ferris, based on Robert Veneditti's comic series 'Surrogates'.

'Surrogates': a poor man's sci-fi. No, to be more accurate it's a poor man's Phillip K Dick, but without the paranoia, suspense, or fiendish dystopia. There's a slightly blue/grey tint to the action - so you know the future when you see it, a dash of 'Minority Report' here, a bit of 'Total Recall' there and a small measure of 'Foster, You're Dead', complete with a hold-your-hand plot tied together by the shoe-string of a vaguely interesting concept - in this case living your life through a flawless machine. No part of this idea ever feels properly explored.

The plus side; Bruce Willis does what he does best, i.e strutting around moodily whilst having marital problems. There's some joy to be found in the Hollywood warning of the dangers of superficiality (whilst Bruce is looking very good for his age). Also all the ridiculous stunts from the Borne films are suddenly plausible, though for the most part the human controlled robots go about their very boring (but now very beautiful) lives. Best of all: it has a running time of 89 minutes.

As for what's wrong; Willis' character Tom Greer isn't quite the anti-hero he could be. He's disenchanted with the idea of living through a robot; he hints at a deep ocean of melancholy concerning his dead son, and is grief stricken at the fact his wife is a shut-in, who lives through a giant barbie doll. To top it all off - he's a maverick FBI agent. But he's the everyman too. The robotic, FBI, crime-fighting everyman (although because everyone looks perfect, and is free from danger, there's no real crime). He's everything you want - he's us; but he's the bad us, but then again he's not really that moody, after all he's us, and we're basically alright, but this is a really bad day.

Unfortunately this clashing of tropes makes for a disengaging character, one who is both aloof but begs us to share his pain. The problem worsens as the 2D Tom Greer is the only character we get introduced to in any depth- in a world where image is flexible personality, alas, seems void, even for the 'meat-bag' real humans. Ving Rhames pops up occasionally as the 'Prophet' spouting revolutionary rhetoric like a rasta Tom Paine, James Cromwell gibbers in his plush mad scientist attic room, but there just isn't enough of them to make you care.

I'm sure the intention of the film was to make Bruce feel like the one lost and lonely lamb surrounded by a landscape of plastic dreams, because, as if you haven't guessed it, the theme running through the film is that when humans interact remotely they lose their humanity. It doesn't work though. The robots aren't there enough either and there's very little contrast between machine and 2D meat-bag.

Oh, there's a crime to solve too, but that's all incidental and shouldn't get in the way of the undergraduate philosophising.

In short the film's exploration of what it means to be human is flippant and shallow. It feels like the Hollywood gloss has missed the point, and there may actually have be a good point in there somewhere. Still at 89 minutes it's watchable for an Orange Wednesday. Certainly not worth full price, but it does pass the time. I also took slight pleausre at the idiots in the seats next to me who 'ooohed' and 'ahhhhed' at every, ahem, 'plot-twist'- they better not see Total Recall, lest it blow their tiny minds.

This Song Will Make You Happy

The Voluntary Butler Scheme is one jingly jangly man named Rob (look, he's got balloons!). Rob has written a joyful collection of low-fi indie noise that you should just adore: they make you feel young, sunny and... happy. Yes, these tunes will make you happy. 'Breakfast, Dinner, Tea' will be speeding me on my way to London today, and because of it I'll be bobbing in my seat, daydreaming out of the window and crucially all thought of what junction and where will be forgotten.

Never mind. Everything is lovely. Incidentally isn't The Voluntary Butler Scheme a great name; it's one of those concepts, like Saki's occassional garden, that you just wish existed.

• Voluntary Bulter Scheme The Eiffel Tower & The BT Tower

Fun Thing #881 - Public Transport

I cannot drive. I can barely walk without tipping over - straight lines in a four wheeled chariot of death? No chance. I rely on public transport and in penance I constantly maintain a thwarted expression. Last weekend, thanks solely to my super skills of organisation (i.e. writing lots of stuff in a notebook), and admittedly a friend coordinating the actual important things, such as pre-booking late night taxis, travel went so smoothly that I felt I must be dreaming. This weekend normal service resumed with avengence.

Saturday night instead of going to see Mesrine parts I & II, I ended up forking over £7 to see cookery orientated chick-flick Julie & Julia recommended by A.- a man who treasures the Dawson's Creek soundtrack in his record collection. Taste is not quite his strong point. I owe him though: I'd put him through Sunshine ("For Seven Years I talked to God... " absolute drivelling pile of ludicrousness), and do I ever hear the end of it? No, so I'm waiting for him to slip up.

Julie & Julia: directed and written by Nora Ephron, starring Meryl Streep, Amy Adams and Stanley Tucci.

Julie & Julia, is... okay, a bit of a strange mix between fussy and fluffy. It's based on two true stories; one of Julia Child's rise to cooking glory, and one about a very thin woman who not only seems to constantly eat butter with no ill affects, but also cooks her way through Child's recipe book, blogs about it, and becomes famous. Damn her.

It has Norah Ephron's typical and tedious generalisations about differences between the sexes crowbarred in, but it's endearing enough in parts. Stanley Tucci and his marvellous voice are a pleasure, and once you get over Meryl Streep's impression the film bobs right along. The downside includes the quirky and narcissistic Julie character, and the two stories are sometimes awkwardly segued together - Ephron's commitment to the parallel lives conceit is slightly grating.

My favourite moment was when Julie's husband suggested she write a blog about how she adores living in Queens, which was of course my original impetus behind '1001 Fun Things'- a plan that quickly disintegrated when I realised I didn't have enough bile to constantly hate Aber and write about how much I hated it too. And I moved.

Anyway, the film, yes, it's okay - it's something safe and inoffensive, your mum would probably like it. Though I'm sure it leaves bloggers everywhere wondering why movie rights haven't been optioned for their solipsistic thoughts, and lastly where did she buy that magic fat free butter?

Here endeth the review and begineth the aforementioned chaos.

A. and I left the cinema, it was late on a Saturday night, we had no time for a drink and post film discussion because the respective last trains were due -in any case the pubs were all full of leering drunks who would love to spill drinks over me. So off we went to the station where A. (who'd travelled 44 miles just for the pleasure of seeing Julie & Julia with me) learned three valuable lessons:

• Cardiff - Doctor Who set by day -a special kind of bedlam on Saturday nights.
• As the capital of a purportedly developed nation, Cardiff has all the usual indications of progress; tall buildings, lots of shops selling designer kitchen gadgets, asymmetric hair on young men. However these are no guarantees of an efficient public transport system, or in this case any trains to Bristol later than 10pm (I'd checked and found one at 11, but alas... on Monday to Fridays only).
• Drunken weirdos flock to the train and bus station like zombies to top-hats.

I in turn learned that my train had been replaced by a bus. Great. I hate all trains, but that is nothing, nothing compared to the unadulterated sheer loathing that I reserve for buses (and Aberystwyth). We journeyed back to my home via the joys of the rail replacement bus, and not just any rail replacement but the last replacement of the night, every seat of which was filled with absolutely tone deaf piss-heads. All of whom were determined to work their way through the soundtrack from Grease. Bastards.

Death by buses continued on into the next day too -sadly there weren't enough replacements to cope with the demand to get out of Bridgend, or some stupid football match in Cardiff was on or something, so we remained stuck in misery-ville, eating blackberries and taking in the odd castle. Eventually A. fled, bemused at the terrible consequences of trying to do something as simple as going to the cinema on the wrong side of the Severn.

I'm sure there's a film in here somewhere, and I'd like either Kate Winslet or Jennifer Connelly to play me please.

You Pronouce it Tinmuff. Really.

4th September: Teignmouth*

What an unforgettable weekend; I shared a pint with some lovely people, including the great grandson of Harold MacMillan (a thoroughly nice chap), repelled any potential vampire attacks with late night garlic friend rice, crawled through some medieval tunnels, and found myself agog at a breathtaking performance by Muse. It was all achingly good and now I'm back to the green laserless skies of drab reality.

The guys from Muse can't walk down the street without winning some sort of live award, and quiet rightly so: love them or hate them, it's undeniable that they pour their hearts, souls, and three truckloads of equipment into their performance. However the homecoming gig in Teignmouth (pronouced Tinmuff, which like Aber, smells of chips) wasn't so much about the light show, the punch and judy set up, the funky videos, or even Matt's Kaoss Mansun (a guitar with a touch pad connected to a Korg Kaoss pad - sounds a bit like a theremin). Quite simply the band returned triumphant and their music was amazing. Muse played their rock socks off.

Andy, the taxi driver who took our party back to Exeter, was less impressed. He regaled us with tales of ferrying Chris the bassist home from Heathrow. Chris was heading back Teignmouth jubilant at the cutting of a new album; it's fair to say that he can be imagined jumping into the taxi with a certain amount of swagger, though this was soon diminished after hearing the news that his driver ( a skiffle man) had never listened to any Muse tunes. Eager to rectify this sad state of affairs Chris popped the newly made disc into the cd player. After a brief listen the taxi driver's words of consolation were "oh well, you've got a riff to yourself, ay, that's nice isn't it." He cheekily disclosed to us who should know better that "it's a load of old crap" and that he'd lost the copy Chris gave him in a move.

For those who are interested, it's on the Radio 1 and the red button tonight, but here's a clip of my favourite moment, a new arrangement of 'Cave'.

*From the flickr photostream of Olly-Og

It's Only Words...

I have a challenge and I'm afraid it takes some explaining: I'm looking for a word to sum up all of the below:

A. is decluttering, he took into work some old quiz books and gave them to his friend (who happens to be his boss), this made his friend/boss extremely happy. A's aim was to make his friend happy, but he has also benefitted as he has decluttered, and has of course scored some brownie points with a senior work colleague. Now surely there has to be a word, much like the concept of schadenfreude to describe a benevolently selfish act?

Points to remember -

• The self interested consequences of the act remained unknown to the other person

• The intentions of the act were equally please another as well as to benefit selfishly: the huge amount of joy felt by the recipient only served to exacerbate the joy in having secretly served a selfish purpose.

Either a real word (from any language) or a very good made up term. Surely there has to be something?

The Joys of Civilisation

What's Aberystwyth got? Three streets, a pier, mouldering Victorian sea front buildings, Judith Iscariot as mayoress, stacks of pubs, the world's largest camera obscura and a beach? Wo-bloody-ho.

What's civilisation got? Public transport that (sort of) works or at least runs frequently, joy, more concerts than you can shake a thrust aloft (and rhythmically swaying) mobile phone at, happiness, a wider gene pool and ... everything you could possibly need, including paninis at 4am and urchins to shine your shoes.

Maybe not the shoe shining urchins. Still, cor blimey g'vnr... I can't complain and for the most part I'm relishing the opportunities of being away for a while.

Alas you can take the girl away from a torpid Victorian seaside resort town, but you can't take the decaying pier out of the girl - next weekend I am once again eshewing the amenities of the modern world to be off my tod down to Devon. It's worth it though: come next weekend Teignmouth will be basking in the warmth of its favourite sons and hosting two nights of Muse homecoming gigs. I have my ticket and I'm grinning like an idiot.

In Celebration of Some Sunshine.

Don't-complain-about-the-weather-resist-tempta... oh damn it!

If you must live in Wales then surely you're asking for all the trouble, rain sodden trouser bottoms and unoriginal sheep jokes that get thrown your way. I should be grateful that my health kick has been nicely sabotaged by the unceasing drizzle and gloom - that instead of wandering, er-hem, that is to say power walking (powerfully) around the countryside, flinging myself into bushes to dodge cars, I've been forced to stay in (with crisps) catching up on films . Days in with 'In Bruges' and the like aren't so bad really - so what if nipping out to the off licence gets you a bit damp?

Low and behold here comes the sun though, and to celebrate here's some nice summery records:

• Pains of Being Pure at Heart- Young Adult Friction -Distilled sunshine, park benches and furtive fumblings in a cup.
• Tom Vek - Nothing But Green Lights - Clangs about a bit but makes a nice understated point.
• Asobi Seksu - Strawberries (Ulrich Schnauss remix) - Fey music for celestial nights.

Richard Herring is NOT Racist, so put that in your Guardian Pipe and Smoke it!

Pass me some oats as my high horse needs feeding.....

Yesterday a Guardian article entitled the 'New Offenders of Stand-up Comedy' unfairly besmirched comedian Richard Herring, deliberately misquoting him as holding racist sympathies. I'd just like to take a moment to stand up for the poor stand-up, not because I'm a nerdy superfan* but because the article is libelous, and being so misrepresents him to potential punters. Once again, I'd like to state in google friendly terms; Richard Herring is not racist.

I'm frankly baffled at where to begin. Firstly I'd like to express my disappointment at the Guardian for their willful misrepresentation of facts to suit their copy. I mean, the 'Guardian' for crying out loud! Next they'll be misquoting talking foxes who miss the good old days being hunted -"we've all gotten so obese without the exercise, don'tcha know".

The gist of Brian Logan's article (here) is that comedy has swung around from political correctness to attacking established "right on" values for the sake of being needlessly controversial, and Richard Herring's new show 'Hitler Moustache' is indicative of this dark trend Logan gives a brief description of the show but then winds up by quoting Richard out of context saying "that racists have a point". At the end of the article he makes a point that outrage can be useful, but the comedy audiences should feel free to stand up and walk away from shows that bully.

By gum it does sound bad doesn't it?

If I didn't know who this Herring guy was I'd assume he was a raving right wing bigot who probably built his own boats to deport any neighbours he didn't like - I'd bet he'd even make them out of old copies of the Daily Mail all the while chuckling to himself at the thought of waterlogging. I certainly wouldn't be interested in listening to any of his views and his name (if remembered) would become an anathema akin to Bernard Manning.

Actually Richard has written thoughtful show around the toothbrush/'Hitler' moustache questioning whether it can ever be reclaimed for Charlie Chaplin and comedy in general. By wearing the moustache and talking about it he's safely in the realms of "right on" comedy that challenges the audience to think about what is offensive. This show, like most of his output, delights in absurdities, irony, and logical fallacies - all of which are astutely constructed with careful wit .

Richard's mortified rebuttal is here, if you want to read anymore about this. Hopefully he'll have a right to reply, not to mention an apology, from the Guardian. Dave Gorman has also written an rather good blog entry on this subject (here), which I'd like to paraphrase; you don't have to like Richard Herring, it's fine not to, but he's not racist and deserves accurate representation, as does everyone.

*yes, I know I am. I love my 'who is Virgillo Anderson? t-shirt and I don't care who knows it.

Film Review: Moon

Directed by Duncan Jones, written by Nathan Parker, starring Sam Rockwell, and featuring the vocal talents of Kevin Spacey.

One of my favourite anecdotes involves the moon; a group of 18 year old girls are away on holiday by themselves for the first time (ooh exciting). As they lounge about at night, staring at the stars, sipping brightly coloured cocktails from too large glasses, one looks and says - "do you think that's the same moon they're all looking at back home?".

To get to the point: 'Moon' is a nice little film; proud to be smart and far more appealing than most of the dross that's circulating. Sam Rockwell plays Sam Bell, a man who's been working alone on the dark side of the moon with only a legoblock robot for company. Mercifully he's due to go home after three long years.

Of course nothing is that simple: he's been all alone (and looks twitchy and ill), he should be walking away free, the robot has a sinister emoticon 'face', and worst of all the sets are all post modern minimal shiny white...

Let's all scream silently, there's about to be some impeding doom of a familiar nature. So what's 'Moon' got going for it?

The solipsistic plight of Sam Bell presents some interesting quandaries, with close camera work and Rockwell's acting skill hammering home the demand for empathy. Despite being more or less on his lonesome, Sam Rockwell is compelling enough to make the film watchable, and the one man aspect, off putting though it may seem at first, really does work.

Yes, script nods to other great sci-fi flicks, notably Space Odessey and Solaris, dealing as it does with typical psychological space trauma/cabin fever. However, even though it doesn't break any new ground, it is very, very well written, with a certain deft humour punctuating the bleak plot. 'Moon' is clever enough to stand up for itself; giving the general impression of being a lucid Philip K Dick imagining, contradiction in terms though that is.

Moon manages to feel like a complete (albeit small and tidy) package; there's the distinct conceit of a future world, but one that is not totally divorced from ours. Costume and set design is utilitarian rather unfeasibly futuristic. Best of all the cinematography is sharp and creative, if (again like the script) deliberately referential. The brief sojourns around the lunar surface have a distinctive look of calculated artificiality, and indoors there's an implicit feeling of claustrophobia and isolation.

If you do go see it then it's my guess you'll feel engaged, entertained, and you'll enjoy the mull it provokes afterwards. If you're a sci-fi nut (and like spotting homages) then there's probably at least two thousand and one that I missed.

Finally Something New!

Well a new post about an old song. Sorry.

Jonathan Swift remarked that a fool saying nothing could pass as a philosopher; but if a blogger says nowt it's usually because they're caught up in having a real life. It's less pithy, but it's true. I'm living through the sort of interesting times that are not interesting or funny enough to warrent commentary. I don't have a west wing to seclude myself in whilst I'm quiet, but I do have some music rich with dramatic flare to offer up...

I was going to go with Arcade Fire's 'Black Wave-Bad Vibrations'; a tune built from sawing vocals that cut across the slightly jarring fairground backdrop, to all of a sudden be nicely countered by a switch to stoically paced hand wringing and imploring. However, I think that 'My Body is a Cage' is a better standalone track for anyone who may have been living on Mars and doesn't know the band. Much the song is soaked through with simple pleading, that when coupled with the Hammond organ, the marching drum beat, and everything else (bar the kitchen sink) that gets throw at it, creates a soaring, hopeful, transcendental piece of music.

I came late to admiring Arcade Fire; Amazon.co.uk's incessant recommendation triggered a perverse rejection, and I grumpily sat in the corner shaking my head whilst everyone else, and all the critics raved. I was wrong, Amazon was right. Arcade Fire are exactly my sort of thing; complicated, slightly pretentious ( see above "hopeful, transcendental" comment) and oh so achingly well crafted.

On that note I'll enigmatically flounce off into my own fretting.

• Arcade Fire - My Body is a Cage

Retro Charm?

Recently BBC online ran this story; 'Giving Up my iPod for a Walkman', where a 13 year old wonders why on earth a generation were beguiled by clunky, battery guzzling boxes of hiss and treble. Why, he queries, did we think so much of them?

I don't really think we did. Nor do I think the separation of cultural epochs is valid; certainly the technology is different, but the same people who listened to Walkmans own iPods. This sort of false distinction makes me feel like a dinosaur that's been pushed into a tar pit whilst furry little things gamble about.

I owned two Walkmans during the 80s and early 90s before giving up entirely. At the time I felt like the brand had a personal vendetta, chewing my tapes, dying on me, or just plain not working. It wasn't worth the effort when not there were easier and better ways of listening to music. Truth is that with a Walkman mobility was a strange mix of treat and hassle.

When I was 11 my friend lent me her (she assured me) more reliable Walkman for my exciting first foreign holiday. It chewed my tape up of course, but the situation was worth the risk; 10 whole days somewhere totally alien - I was grateful to be able to take four or five tapes. I could manage now of course, but since I know I don't have to, the limitation is spartan, and that is the benefit of progress.

To come to the point, the BBC junior correspondent, who incidentally writes an fine article, somewhat misses the point, the iPod versus the Walkman? The comparison is invalid in all ways and means. The Walkman generation didn't consume music in the same way, or expect there to be an alternative, we weren't slavishly bonded with the boxes -there was no need. It was a useful-ish bit of gadgetry that could be pulled out when the occasion demanded. The iPod soundtracks life, the Walkman, well when necessary it just, theoretically, made life a little bit more enjoyable.

A Maudlin Post...

I lost a boy to a city. The desire for it ate away at him, so he didn't appreciate what was around him :the pretty hills and interesting bits were punctuated with rough accents, poor transport links, even poorer manners (his didn't exactly shine) and loneliness. It made him despondent, full of hatred and detached.

All I could do was watch as he drifted into these city dreams - his imagined paradise didn't seem to include me, being , as they were, part nostalgia and part wishful thinking. When the opportunity called, he left his small northern town, fled to bright lights, busy streets, sandwiches at 2am, boats, towers and culture. I was stuck in another even smaller, even more remote small town and couldn't follow right then, but by that time it didn't matter -he realised he didn't want me to.

I'm listening to Emmy the Great, City Song, which always reminds me of that fool of a boy. He isn't entirely happy now, which makes the whole thing tragic. I'd fix it if I knew how, but as the second rule of life dictates -

• You can't fix people, don't even try.

And to finish this rather wistful post, the end of my time in Aber is almost up. When I arrived I was a rather blissful soul in my mid twenties, now I'm creaking to the end of them, all jagged and cranky. Am I sad to go? No! What's wrong with you? This place reeks of chips (please remember, it's my new year's resolution to spread this fact) and is utterly bereft of any forms of civilisation apart from competitive inbreeding, there's nothing to do but look at the bloody hills, a foul train service or a bus to the capital that takes four bloody hours, and the dreadful accent....

Okay, I'm slightly choked up. I'll miss the nights on the beach, some of the people that have made it so memorable, and the feeling of welcome return after fleeing in the wake of cabin fever - walking up Fford y Mor, turning the corner and being home and ready for bed. Of course the big wide world beckons, so it's not all bad.

Used without permission, but from the very excellent flicker stream of 'Jim Blob Bann'

Natural Born Millers

A small sample of nature's latest assault on my well being.

Nature took a dislike to me at an early age; I've been pecked by hens, chased by geese, almost murdered by a feral Rottweiler (slavering twin of the Hound of the Baskervilles, or so my seven year old badly shocked self thought), attacked by a seagull, (definitely not funny), and the latest... stalked by cows. Yes, cows. There's nothing funny about that either!

Animals sense that as a vegetarian I am nothing less than a woebegone doormat to be trampled/chewed/pecked all over, and I've learned the lesson. The only motive for strolling across cow infested fields (on a public footpath I'll have you know) was to try to get fit.

I've seen the error of my ways now, and why people pay so much for the gym. Though in the case of this walk I was so busy grumbling to myself about life in general that I didn't actually notice the huge sleekit beasties. Nothing makes you want to enjoy life (and eat that slice of cake) like the sudden prospect of death by looming cow.

Cows seem inoffensive when you're whizzing past them on a train, after all their only job in life is to mill in a field, chew the cud, sleep; they live to be milked, to be shoes, or jackets or beef. But when there's a herd of the buggers staring right at you with their cold, fathomless, unblinking eyes, stalking towards you on hooves the size of dinner plates, and setting a brisk old pace (cutting off escape) oh boy, they take on a menacing air.

I tried being nonchalant, blanking them from my existence as a hardened soul blanks Big Issue sellers, I tried chatting to them in a friendly way, hoping they'd think I was off my head and certainly not worth trampling, but no, it only lured them closer. Lucky plan C, executed with aplomb, was to nervously glance around and walk quickly.... And of course I live to tell the tale.

Thank god for that most cunning of human technological breakthroughs - the fence! It's what separates us from the animals.

• Cows with Guns - Ray Stevens