Paperjam

Morrissey (or perhaps his record label) has a fairly poor record when it comes to choosing the singles off each album. Hence the rather eccentric (bizarre) line-up for the new greatest hits offering, although you get a couple of classics the rest of it is pretty average (shonky) when you compare it to the rest of his back catalogue.

In a rather Paint A Vulgar Picture way there are a couple of extra tracks tacked on to encourage the bedroom-dwelling Moz-loving completist to part with the reddies. That’s How People Grow Up is a bit of a MOR plodder albeit with some shrieking and some wry stuff about how you might be a sad lonely bastard, but at least you haven’t got spinal injuries. The other new track is a storming gem called All You need Is Me: pounding, catchy, funny and with the memorable closing refrain “You don’t like me but you love me – either way you’re wrong. You gonna miss me when I’m gone”. Total genius.

So guess which one he’s put out as a single? Sigh. I give up.

Still you can get hold of All You Need Is Me on its own from iTunes I suppose or alternatively via this possibly naughty link here – which is what I did. Bedroom-dweller I may be, but even I’m not shelling out to own two copies of the dreary In The Future When All’s Well.

Actually, while I’m at it if you really do want to get hold of the fifteen best Morrissey songs I suggest that you could do worse than scouring your favourite (legal, obviously) MP3 source for the following:

1. Black Eyed Susan
2. Why Don’t You Find Out For Yourself?
3. Jack The Ripper (live version off Beethoven Was Deaf)
4. Angel Angel Down We Go Together
5. Reader Meet Author
6. Our Frank
7. Suedehead
8. Teenage Dad On His Estate
9. The Loop
10. The World is Full Of Crashing Bores
11. The National Front Disco
12. Everyday Is Like Sunday
13. Friday Mourning
14. Billy Budd
15. Margaret On A Guillotine

Following a workplace discussion the other week on the nature of tramp juice and the entertaining web site dedicated to its existence - I return from holiday to find two cans of something special lurking in a dodgy tesco carrier on my desk.

On perusal I find the surprise package contains two fine examples of the bench-dwelling connoisseur’s reason for waking up each day. I am now the owner of two fairly intimidating cans of super strength lager from the possibly legendary Amsterdam brewery, proudly proclaiming (perhaps unnecessarily) in big gold letters “Imported from Holland”.

Firstly, tipping the scales at a socially/morally/spiritually irresponsible 11.6% is the terrifyingly named “Maximator”, sounds like a villain off a kids cartoon, doesn’t it?

The second can is entitled “Navigator”, presumably because at a relatively paltry 8.4% you can happily enjoy a few before discharging your duties as a scout leader, taxi driver or co-pilot.

I drink the Navigator while dozing on the sofa listening to the smooth drone-rock of Electrelane (do check the link, ace song), probably a first for this particular tipple – it’s not bad but when I stand up to go to the toilet I do feel a bit woozy and suddenly feel the need to shout something like “yaaaaa fukkkkennnn basssshhhhtard copppppers ahhllll wankerrrrssss”.

Could it be the Electrelane?

A day later and I’m drinking the Maximator as I’m writing this and to be honest my fingers are going numb with each, surprisingly tasty, gulp. In essence it is an entire night out in a can. I am scientifically observing (in real-time) the following results:

- My nose has gone red
- I want to write to all the women that have ever rejected me to be slurrily apologetic, then aggressive and finally start crying. Somehow. In text. Via e-mail.
- I feel like singing something by Sinatra, or maybe, Sinitta.
- I definitely want to have a fight with someone, ideally a middle aged alcoholic lady wearing a shell-suit and preferably in a bus shelter
- I want to go to Kelsey’s (bit Leamington that, sorry)

Check out the Amsterdam beers web site, two things to note: Firstly, you can’t buy it in the UK and secondly, they do another one called the “Explorator”. Hmmmm. Think yourselves lucky I didn’t get hold of that.

Following a workplace discussion the other week on the nature of tramp juice and the entertaining web site dedicated to its existence - I return from holiday to find two cans of something special lurking in a dodgy tesco carrier on my desk.

On perusal I find the surprise package contains two fine examples of the bench-dwelling connoisseur’s reason for waking up each day. I am now the owner of two fairly intimidating cans of super strength lager from the possibly legendary Amsterdam brewery, proudly proclaiming (perhaps unnecessarily) in big gold letters “Imported from Holland”.

Firstly, tipping the scales at a socially/morally/spiritually irresponsible 11.6% is the terrifyingly named “Maximator”, sounds like a villain off a kids cartoon, doesn’t it?

The second can is entitled “Navigator”, presumably because at a relatively paltry 8.4% you can happily enjoy a few before discharging your duties as a scout leader, taxi driver or co-pilot.

I drink the Navigator while dozing on the sofa listening to the smooth drone-rock of Electrelane (do check the link, ace song), probably a first for this particular tipple – it’s not bad but when I stand up to go to the toilet I do feel a bit woozy and suddenly feel the need to shout something like “yaaaaa fukkkkennnn basssshhhhtard copppppers ahhllll wankerrrrssss”.

Could it be the Electrelane?

A day later and I’m drinking the Maximator as I’m writing this and to be honest my fingers are going numb with each, surprisingly tasty, gulp. In essence it is an entire night out in a can. I am scientifically observing (in real-time) the following results:

- My nose has gone red
- I want to write to all the women that have ever rejected me to be slurrily apologetic, then aggressive and finally start crying. Somehow. In text. Via e-mail.
- I feel like singing something by Sinatra, or maybe, Sinitta.
- I definitely want to have a fight with someone, ideally a middle aged alcoholic lady wearing a shell-suit and preferably in a bus shelter
- I want to go to Kelsey’s (bit Leamington that, sorry)

Check out the Amsterdam beers web site, two things to note: Firstly, you can’t buy it in the UK and secondly, they do another one called the “Explorator”. Hmmmm. Think yourselves lucky I didn’t get hold of that.

The only band who can say that I have been to see them four times were in fine, noisy and boisterous form at ULU last Wednesday. The set was pretty much the same as last time but the evening did throw up a few lessons and due to the academic nature of the venue I felt it only right that I should share them with you:

- Art Brut are probably the least appropriate band to stumble onstage to a brass section playing “Thus Spake Zarathustra” but it worked for me.

- The drummer has really nailed the throwing the stick in the air and catching it trick. Nice.

- The new song about “the people in charge” sounded rather good to me.

- I am shockingly irreparably old. How has this happened? Apparently I’m not a total dead loss - I should have more confidence and go and see a life coach.

- Eddie Argos is quite heavy when he lands on you, but still lift-able.

- The whole well drilled Good Weekend closer is still brilliant no matter how many times I see it.

- The Althena Hotel is a bit scary and may possibly be haunted in a very mundane way but for £25 it knocks spots off the Generator.

It's our first time in the Hare and Hounds, sister to the Bulls Head in Moseley, and we're impressed - it's a lovely Victorian pub. Lots of original looking tiles, a smattering of 60s retro furniture, plenty of decent beer on tap (although I'm on lime and soda tonight), and the bar has that array of leaded windows above it that screams “you are stepping back in time”. Two gulps of a pint and we're already hatching plans to move here.

Up the deadly, narrow stairs - thankfully I'm not wearing heels, tonight - to the 7inch cinema, which tonight is thrown over to annual lo-fi film competition Straight8.

The idea is that you send them £70, they send you a 3 minute Super-8mm film cartridge. You shoot your film, and send it back to them, unprocessed, along with a soundtrack. They do the processing, and if all goes well, the first you'll see of your film is when you turn up at the premiere night at a cinema, possibly at Cannes if you're lucky.

So - there's no editing in post. No post-processing. No bleedin' big-eyed cartoony computer generated furry models neither. Just 3 minutes 20 seconds (or thereabouts) of scratchy, flickering film, with all the edits and effects done in camera, which generally means plenty of under/overcranking and stop-frame animation. One clever-clogs managed a split-screen effect.

And admittedly this is a best-of, but it's really good fun. Our favourite is probably the filthy Flying Lizards-esque pop-video Stick and Balls by Jacqueline Wright and Alice Lowe. I know paper-jam Jim will appreciate Jour de Glories, performed by a brave man with plenty of room for all that beer.

If you fancy giving it a go yourself - the closing date for entries for Straight8 '08 is March 26th, and there's plenty more films over at Straight8's website.

Saw a brief write up for this while on the train back from Art Brut the other week, a black comedy about a nasty A&R man at the tail end of the Britpop years. What’s not to like about that?

Some routine library enquiries revealed that they didn’t have it so I strolled into Leamington Waterstones the other Friday to make the triumvirate of ladies behind the counter very happy by asking if they had a copy. “It’s got a rude word on the cover”, one giggled. “Is it ‘motherfucker?’” I whispered, they all giggled. The conversation continued, James shook his head in the background and muttered something about the effect that counters seem to have on me.

After such a good start it is disappointing to report that Kill Your Friends is a bit of a let down. There are some good jokes at the expense of various no-mark indie bands (quite a few of which I actually liked) and the absolute disgust that the author holds the music industry in comes through very clearly.

Thing is, it seems like a low-calorie version of Brett Easton Ellis, there is a hateful central anti hero who is out for himself to such an extent that a spot of murder fits in nicely with his career path, everyone is snorting coke all the time, all his co-workers are hateful yuppies and every woman is described as some kind of spunk-gargling street walker. Every chapter starts with a wry state of the industry summary usually involving Ultrasound or Gene.

So effectively American Psycho crossed with the NME. It certainly isn’t terrible and I reckon it would have made a cracking short story, but at over 300 pages it does drag on a bit too long.

One interesting point is the opening quote from the late, great Hunter S Thompson, who in just 32 words efficiently sums up the entire novel that follows and makes you laugh out loud:

"The music business is a cruel and shallow money trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free and good men die like dogs. There is also a negative side."

1. It only comes in small bags, nudge nudge.

2. It comes from Yorkshire, the home of hemp, as you know.

3. It is shockingly pricey, even by the standards of the thoroughly creepy health food shop in Warwick where they wear white coats and act like a bunch of pervy doctors.

4. No, you can’t get high off the steam while it is cooking, but it will clear your pores out beautifully.

5. It is slightly courser than normal pasta.

6. It tastes quite nice, subtly herby.

7. It is very good for you, although probably not after drowning it in homemade sauce feauturing three different types of meat and more garlic than you would find in a French vampire hunter’s travelling bag.

8. It probably won't give you the munchies, but if it does, you are already eating.