Twitter Comedy Club

At 8pm on the 8th June, the first online comedy club will be happening via the medium of Twitter. Nine comedians are taking part in the live gig which you can watch unfold from the comfort of your own sofa. No one, comics included, need to leave their houses and assuming you have broadband, it's totally free. Each act will spend ten minutes twittering a comedy set, within the boundaries of the 140 character limit.

9 comedians, 140 characters... can it be funny? Well I hope so as I'm planning to follow! Of course it's not going to have the atmosphere of a 'real life' gig; the bristling fear of being picked on, the smell of beer, the one man who sits stoney faced and cross-armed scowling up a storm, or that one irriating shrieker (mandatory comedy requirement), whose constant "arghhhahahahahahaha" shreds mirth into thin soggy strips. The events organisers have taken into account the crowd's likelihood to heckle though, and instead of laughter they encourage the concept of retweeting (RT to all twitter proficient bods).

Mark 'Stupid Magners Commercial' Watson (one of the famous names taking part) has described it as a 'defining moment', Steven Fry has settled for 'larky'. Either way, if you want to join in with the virtual hijinx then follow the #twitcom tag on twitter.

Comedians include:

• Mark Watson - @watsoncomedian

• Pappy's Fun Club - @PappysFunClub

• Mitch Benn – @MitchBenn

• Matt Kirshen – @mattkirshen (who I'm especially looking forward to, he's quite the exceptional twitterer, not to mention real life stand up comic)

• Rob Heeney – @robheeney

• Carl Donnelly – @carldonnelly

• Terry Saunders – @terrysaunders

• Gary Delaney – @garydelaney

As someone who regularly chuckles away when reading on trains (and of course lives in a stupid place with few ground breaking comedy performances), I have no problems with laughing uncontrollably at a screen... my flatmate may think I've gone off my chump, but she shouldn't be listening through our ridiculously thin walls! Mind you, like I say: Aberystwyth... you take entertainment where you can get it and wall listening has to be fun thing # 872.

For more information you can check out either @tweetcomedyclub or spoonfed, the event promoter's website.

A Little Late Night Craziness

It's 4 in the morning and I can't bloody sleep. Yeah, it's like Leonard Cohen here alright, but rather less poetic, and I'm afraid there's a fluffy pink dressing gown (replete fluorescent marker stains) rather than a famous blue raincoat.

On the plus side I've fully mastered the intricacies of Last.Fm, I'm therefore no longer feeling quite the dimwitted mutton-head. One thing is puzzling me though; I thought to "scrobble" meant to stuff Patrick Troughton into a large burlap sack and kidnap, as per 'The Box of Delights', no? Well I'll indignantly tell you that the world is all the poorer for the new definition, where Last.Fm merely makes a note of what you've been listening to.

There's loads of good language in 'The Box of Delights', as you'd expect of a poet laureate like John Masefield, but scrobble has always been my favourite, so I'm a little sad that my songs get 'scrobbled' for Last.Fm, but there's not so much as a brown paper bag to manhandle them into.

As for the 'Box of Delights', the stunning BBC adaption (1984) is very probably directly responsible for my box mania, and on a similar Christmas-tea-time-special note, yes I'm afraid I still check ornate cupboards to see if there's a way to Narnia, ho hum - a girl has to have her hobbies.

Mixed Bag Week

I managed to escape from Aberystwyth again this weekend, though only for a short sojourn down to Cardiff to visit the Centre for Life Long Learning's "History, Archaeology, Politics and Identity" Conference. It was a day of lectures punctuated by a rather snazzy buffet lunch and numerous cups of tea, though when did wraps become part of caterer's set buffet lexicon? My, how times have changed. Best of all considering these wallet mouldering days- the whole thing was free. As you'd expect of a catered academic knees up on a sunny Saturday, the audience consisted only of lecturers, archaeologists, student bums and pensioners - the natural predators of a proffered biscuit, but all of whom have a tendency to fall asleep if provoked.

The vast majority of the conference was excellent. The program was incredibly varied, taking subjects diverse as India, bog bodies, music, architecture and deconstruction of folk lore all within its stride. It is totally without irony that I say who knew that Glasgow tenements could be so interesting? I know, I'm a geek, I really don't care as the knowledge is worth it. Overall the event was tinged with a little sadness as the Centre is cutting all of its courses in humanities and Welsh; the HAPI Conference may be their swan song.

It's worth noting to skeptics that the humanities are important (no, really), and not just for coasting students who want to get in and out of university with as little fuss as possible. Their value is somewhat intangible in real life, lying as it does within the curiosity these subjects can satisfy, rather than their ability to provide you with a job. Nevertheless they do contribute to the development of a well rounded, well balanced, enquiring character. The Centre for Life Long Learning is part of Cardiff University's charter to make higher learning accessible to those not scuttling around within its flypostered walls, and though obviously the budget can only stretch so far, to loose all the humanities is a very sad step.

Overall the day was a good one. Much better in fact than the Save the Children concert in Aber last Thursday, where the best thing was the ultra violet hand-stamp. I'm afraid I simply don't have the vitriol to rail against the shoe gazing student bands I saw there, though I did leave early, so I should charitably note that one of the remaining acts may have been good. Just maybe.

For the two I did see, particularly 'Bell the Cats', well as far as I'm concerned, their mates really should have considered it part of the onerous duties of friendship to have told them that they can neither play or sing a note. The singing may be due to the weak neck muscles, which in turn contributed, not so much to chic indie shoe-gazing but rather eyeballs stuck to their Converse clad toes. Maybe they were embarrassed at their awfulness too; after all they couldn't compose either now I come to think of it.... at least, my god, I hope they were original compositions. I'd hate to think that covers were so wailingly unidentifiable.

Here's something decent to spread joy on a sunny Sunday, two tracks from Swedish ex-music journalist, now singer 'Hello Saferide'.

• Always On My Mind
• I Was Definitely Made for These Times, which I especially like due to the line praising the tragic ability to quote all of High Fidelity.

Bank Holiday Lesiure

Bank holiday weekend and for the most part the sun has been shining, though it's dutifully stopped now, it wouldn't do to give too much of an impression of summer would it?

Meanwhile the (four) streets of Aberystwyth have been clogged with unfortunate tourists, most of whom must have thought there would be more to the place than a pebble beach, whilst the pubs were chock full of rugby 7's lads, grunting, sweating and generally labouring under the misapprehension that to knuckled over and squeeze themselves into a seat next to a woman is to charm the pants off her. Ice cream and testosterone perfumed the air whilst the boom-boom-boom of bass from car speakers formed a counterpoint with the shrill spikes of children shrieking.

My weekend began with adventure, or to give it a less grand title: I went for a walk and got lost in the countryside. Harrassed as I was by the influx of visitors to tiny-town, my quest started with the absurd notion to follow a previously undiscovered path to see where it may lead. The answer: over hill and dale (both covered in sheep), through sharp pointy bushes, past a field of sheep, more briar and a river, all to end up in another field of sheep with no escape. What was that about fools rushing in? The proverb should be amended to include brambles, stones in shoes, and if in Wales, sheep.

Aside from those few hours, most of the weekend has been spent indoors (away from the sun, the bikers, rugby boys, brightly coloured students and tourists), watching World Championship snooker; thus maintaining my unhealthy pallor.

I'm actually a huge fan, and there's lots of reasons for loving the game; the relaxing chink of resin balls, the hypnotic commentary, Steve Davis's wry punditry (he's still playing away in the top 32). There's also the strange things that professionals can make a cue ball do that seem to defy all common sense, the waistcoats wrapped around flat stomachs... and of course the characters, which do exist despite the general assumption that increasing professionalism killed the game. It isn't all dour young(ish) men, hitting balls with sticks with consummate concentration for large amounts of money.

Oh no, they certainly don't just play for the money! Nor snooker WAGs or public ambivolence - after all the best part of being a snooker player has to be the nicknames. Where else, outside of test piloting, do you get such incredible epithets? Moreover how else could a young man who looks like Beaker from the Muppet Show ever earn the right to be known as Neil 'the Thunder from Down Under' Robertson, with all the glory (not to mention the potential bedding of Australian soap stars) that, surely, such a name must entail?

Beaker

Neil Robertson

Sadly my favourite players (Neil, Mark Selby and Ronnie O'Sullivan) have all gone, but I've beer, all kinds of nibbly things and one last evening session to enjoy before revision starts again. Happy days.