apolla: (OTP)
Heather Mills really will do anything, won't she? Even if her accusations (including that Paul beat Linda) are true... wouldn't it have been best to keep it in the courtroom and not everywhere else?

Still, he wouldn't be the only Beatle to have suffered from a giant ego or beaten his wife. He has taken all manner of drugs and quite openly said so. He does drink, sometimes to excess. He does surround himself with people too willing to do exactly what he wants. Still, I find it hard to believe his children would adore him so much if he'd beaten their mother. I don't know. I hope that it's all false- I'd rather believe her a mental fantasist than reconcile myself to another of my heroes being a total cunt. Mind you, he'd be in populous company.

Anyway, I scribbled this a few weeks ago and thought I'd share it with you:



apolla: (OTP)
Heather Mills really will do anything, won't she? Even if her accusations (including that Paul beat Linda) are true... wouldn't it have been best to keep it in the courtroom and not everywhere else?

Still, he wouldn't be the only Beatle to have suffered from a giant ego or beaten his wife. He has taken all manner of drugs and quite openly said so. He does drink, sometimes to excess. He does surround himself with people too willing to do exactly what he wants. Still, I find it hard to believe his children would adore him so much if he'd beaten their mother. I don't know. I hope that it's all false- I'd rather believe her a mental fantasist than reconcile myself to another of my heroes being a total cunt. Mind you, he'd be in populous company.

Anyway, I scribbled this a few weeks ago and thought I'd share it with you:



Good evening.

Friday, 31 March 2006 01:24
apolla: (Prettiest Guitar)
Question: Guess who just met Scott Gorham and got his autograph, complete with own name spelled correctly by aforementioned guitar hero but did not get photograph because he appeared to get bored just before it was said person's turn?*

Answer: If you can't guess, what the scuff are you doing on my journal?

*skips triumphantly away*

*Said person also got grinned at, winked at by aforementioned guitar hero while on stage (him not me) and also grinned at and stared at by Other Lizzy Guitar Hero, John Sykes.

I rock the world. So ner.

Good evening.

Friday, 31 March 2006 01:24
apolla: (Prettiest Guitar)
Question: Guess who just met Scott Gorham and got his autograph, complete with own name spelled correctly by aforementioned guitar hero but did not get photograph because he appeared to get bored just before it was said person's turn?*

Answer: If you can't guess, what the scuff are you doing on my journal?

*skips triumphantly away*

*Said person also got grinned at, winked at by aforementioned guitar hero while on stage (him not me) and also grinned at and stared at by Other Lizzy Guitar Hero, John Sykes.

I rock the world. So ner.
apolla: (OTP)
Good evening all (actually, it's 2am, so what's new?)

I know I've hardly mentioned, but if anyone cares, I shall indeed be hosting the Third Annual Clare's Oscar Party tomorrow night. It'll probably start some time before midnight my time here in London, and because it's 2am, I'll ask you to take pity on me and work out timezones for yourself ;)

Anyway, it'll be on Yahoo Chat as previously, if only because I think I remember how to use it. I'll post details on how and when to join chat tomorrow when I know what I'm doing. I might make it invite only, but chances are if you ask, you'll get in... I just don't want total strangers coming in and buggering about.

So come along, invite any interested pals and we'll get into deep and meaningful debates about the state of American cinema, the patriarchy of Hollywood, the metaphorical themes currently sweeping through popular western cinema and the future of civilisation as we know it.

And taking the piss out of what people are wearing, obviously.

If you want to come along but can't get Y!M or other technical stuff, drop me a comment and... well, I'll see if there's anything at all we can do about it.

Bring your own drinks, snacks, armchairs and I'll provide the scathing wit.
apolla: (OTP)
Good evening all (actually, it's 2am, so what's new?)

I know I've hardly mentioned, but if anyone cares, I shall indeed be hosting the Third Annual Clare's Oscar Party tomorrow night. It'll probably start some time before midnight my time here in London, and because it's 2am, I'll ask you to take pity on me and work out timezones for yourself ;)

Anyway, it'll be on Yahoo Chat as previously, if only because I think I remember how to use it. I'll post details on how and when to join chat tomorrow when I know what I'm doing. I might make it invite only, but chances are if you ask, you'll get in... I just don't want total strangers coming in and buggering about.

So come along, invite any interested pals and we'll get into deep and meaningful debates about the state of American cinema, the patriarchy of Hollywood, the metaphorical themes currently sweeping through popular western cinema and the future of civilisation as we know it.

And taking the piss out of what people are wearing, obviously.

If you want to come along but can't get Y!M or other technical stuff, drop me a comment and... well, I'll see if there's anything at all we can do about it.

Bring your own drinks, snacks, armchairs and I'll provide the scathing wit.
apolla: (OTP)

I do not appreciate this country currently. And it's not even due to the horrendous news that Take That are reforming (sadly, not reforming into reconstituted meat substitute, but back into Take That)

Every media outlet, print or broadcast, opened today as if George Best had already died. The front page of the Metro was an obituary in every sense of the word, but he was not yet dead. He is now, but he wasn't then, and I feel that it was a distinction that should have been kept.

Moreover, if you were to tune into the news this morning, you could well be forgiven for thinking that only two things were going on in the entire country: George Best's slow, unheroic decline and the shocking decision to finally dispose of the licensing laws established during the First World War. Yes, we were still drinking alcohol under the assumption that we had to be off to the munitions factory the next morning.

The shock news is that Britain didn't go out and get thoroughly Brahms and Liszt last night. Of COURSE we didn't- it was fucking freezing and there was good stuff on the telly! We were told that this 24-hour drinking would make us a nation of binge drinkers.

NEWSFLASH! NEWSFLASH!

The people who are going to be binge drinking already were, you fucking fools! So they'll be doing it in pubs now instead of getting thoroughly rat-arsed beforehand. This country is run by a bunch of inept fools with all the intellectual capacity of a particularly stupid mollusc who's suffered serious head injuries. The only people worse are the people reporting on it.

Today nothing happened but George Best dying and everyone not going out and getting trashed. So they would have us believe. In the end, the former was just sad and the latter was entirely overblown.

As to George, I will say that I found myself curiously deflated and just sad when it finally happened. Mostly because of his dad, who is 87 and aside from spending the last 59 years watching George self-destruct also had to deal with the same in his wife. I find that almost intolerably sad.

Also, the media are being consistently shite as usual, choosing to run the same three or four quotes of George's as each other.

"I spent 90% of my money on women, booze and fast cars. The rest I squandered." This was amusing the first time I read it ages ago. it's in all the papers and newsmedia now, because if there was a single original thought down on Fleet Street, the place would probably disintegrate with the surprise.

Then there's the one about him listing all the things David Beckham can't do and then saying "but apart from that he's all right."

And of course, the story about the hotel bellboy who found him in bed with Miss World drinking champagne and surrounded by money and who then asked "Where did it all go wrong, George?"

And of course, the  media are all discussing where it went wrong and the terrible waste and blah blah blah. We've heard it all before, dears. We've heard it all before, we've been there before because it's the same shite you trotted out last time he clambered back onto the wagon, then the last time he fell off it again, and the time before and the time before.

And you know why I feel sad? Because he did deserve better than this. Because the man was total football and there's nothing this country seems to like more than a footballer.

If aliens were to come to earth right now and be unfortunate enough to arrive on This Septic Isle, they'd be under the impression we care about nothing but football and drinking. Which wouldn't be far off the mark.

I'll just leave you with something Philip Lynott wrote back in 1975. It's a great, catchy little song called 'For Those Who Love To Live' and was about his drinking buddy and fellow Irishman, George. It can be found on Fighting, which is a much better record than the stupid cover would have you believe - that's the American cover and the UK one is worse. Anyway, aesthetics aside, I shall leave you with this. Take it as you will. Take it for George or for anyone you want.

Oh the boy he could boogie
Oh the boy can kick a ball
But the boy he got hung up
Making love against the wall
You've got to give a little love
To those who love to live
You've got to take a little hate
From those who have to wait






apolla: (OTP)

I do not appreciate this country currently. And it's not even due to the horrendous news that Take That are reforming (sadly, not reforming into reconstituted meat substitute, but back into Take That)

Every media outlet, print or broadcast, opened today as if George Best had already died. The front page of the Metro was an obituary in every sense of the word, but he was not yet dead. He is now, but he wasn't then, and I feel that it was a distinction that should have been kept.

Moreover, if you were to tune into the news this morning, you could well be forgiven for thinking that only two things were going on in the entire country: George Best's slow, unheroic decline and the shocking decision to finally dispose of the licensing laws established during the First World War. Yes, we were still drinking alcohol under the assumption that we had to be off to the munitions factory the next morning.

The shock news is that Britain didn't go out and get thoroughly Brahms and Liszt last night. Of COURSE we didn't- it was fucking freezing and there was good stuff on the telly! We were told that this 24-hour drinking would make us a nation of binge drinkers.

NEWSFLASH! NEWSFLASH!

The people who are going to be binge drinking already were, you fucking fools! So they'll be doing it in pubs now instead of getting thoroughly rat-arsed beforehand. This country is run by a bunch of inept fools with all the intellectual capacity of a particularly stupid mollusc who's suffered serious head injuries. The only people worse are the people reporting on it.

Today nothing happened but George Best dying and everyone not going out and getting trashed. So they would have us believe. In the end, the former was just sad and the latter was entirely overblown.

As to George, I will say that I found myself curiously deflated and just sad when it finally happened. Mostly because of his dad, who is 87 and aside from spending the last 59 years watching George self-destruct also had to deal with the same in his wife. I find that almost intolerably sad.

Also, the media are being consistently shite as usual, choosing to run the same three or four quotes of George's as each other.

"I spent 90% of my money on women, booze and fast cars. The rest I squandered." This was amusing the first time I read it ages ago. it's in all the papers and newsmedia now, because if there was a single original thought down on Fleet Street, the place would probably disintegrate with the surprise.

Then there's the one about him listing all the things David Beckham can't do and then saying "but apart from that he's all right."

And of course, the story about the hotel bellboy who found him in bed with Miss World drinking champagne and surrounded by money and who then asked "Where did it all go wrong, George?"

And of course, the  media are all discussing where it went wrong and the terrible waste and blah blah blah. We've heard it all before, dears. We've heard it all before, we've been there before because it's the same shite you trotted out last time he clambered back onto the wagon, then the last time he fell off it again, and the time before and the time before.

And you know why I feel sad? Because he did deserve better than this. Because the man was total football and there's nothing this country seems to like more than a footballer.

If aliens were to come to earth right now and be unfortunate enough to arrive on This Septic Isle, they'd be under the impression we care about nothing but football and drinking. Which wouldn't be far off the mark.

I'll just leave you with something Philip Lynott wrote back in 1975. It's a great, catchy little song called 'For Those Who Love To Live' and was about his drinking buddy and fellow Irishman, George. It can be found on Fighting, which is a much better record than the stupid cover would have you believe - that's the American cover and the UK one is worse. Anyway, aesthetics aside, I shall leave you with this. Take it as you will. Take it for George or for anyone you want.

Oh the boy he could boogie
Oh the boy can kick a ball
But the boy he got hung up
Making love against the wall
You've got to give a little love
To those who love to live
You've got to take a little hate
From those who have to wait






SNERK

Wednesday, 16 November 2005 21:14
apolla: (Queen Maeve)

I just clicked a link on my People.com daily email...

And promptly forgot cos I looked up to the TV to see James Purefoy totally fucking naked courtesy of Rome. Did not see such things this weekend. There are worse people to see naked, but I think I could've lived without it. Gratuitous, Auntie Beeb, very gratuitous.

Anyway, not entirely unrelated, this People thing. 2005's Sexiest Men Alive, which by the name alone cuts out most of the people I could give a rat's arse about... so I'm flicking through it. Matthew McConaughey, snore. Patrick Dempsey, blah. Viggo Mortensen, again. Vince Vaughn, from a certain angle on a cloudy day, I suppose. Terrence Howard, don't know the dude. Nick Lachey, wtf.  Heath Ledger, understandable. Daniel Dae Kim, well I haven't seen Lost so I don't know. Keith Urban, who the fuck? but looks like one of Busted. Ian McShane, wha.... Ian McShane? Ian Leatherface McShane? IAN LOVEJOY MCSHANE? Seriously America, what are you thinking? Do you need to be told about the early 90s horror that was Lovejoy? A shitey Sunday night extravaganza of antique dealing and gently-gently detectiveness and the HORROR, the UNBRIDLED HORROR of the blazer-jeans combination. The CURLY FUCKING MULLET.

Please people, and indeed People, do not let this pass. I'm not ageist, I'm anti-fuckwit. He's a cool enough guy, but one of the sexiest alive this year? No, no, no.

SNERK

Wednesday, 16 November 2005 21:14
apolla: (Queen Maeve)

I just clicked a link on my People.com daily email...

And promptly forgot cos I looked up to the TV to see James Purefoy totally fucking naked courtesy of Rome. Did not see such things this weekend. There are worse people to see naked, but I think I could've lived without it. Gratuitous, Auntie Beeb, very gratuitous.

Anyway, not entirely unrelated, this People thing. 2005's Sexiest Men Alive, which by the name alone cuts out most of the people I could give a rat's arse about... so I'm flicking through it. Matthew McConaughey, snore. Patrick Dempsey, blah. Viggo Mortensen, again. Vince Vaughn, from a certain angle on a cloudy day, I suppose. Terrence Howard, don't know the dude. Nick Lachey, wtf.  Heath Ledger, understandable. Daniel Dae Kim, well I haven't seen Lost so I don't know. Keith Urban, who the fuck? but looks like one of Busted. Ian McShane, wha.... Ian McShane? Ian Leatherface McShane? IAN LOVEJOY MCSHANE? Seriously America, what are you thinking? Do you need to be told about the early 90s horror that was Lovejoy? A shitey Sunday night extravaganza of antique dealing and gently-gently detectiveness and the HORROR, the UNBRIDLED HORROR of the blazer-jeans combination. The CURLY FUCKING MULLET.

Please people, and indeed People, do not let this pass. I'm not ageist, I'm anti-fuckwit. He's a cool enough guy, but one of the sexiest alive this year? No, no, no.

Growl.

Wednesday, 16 November 2005 01:15
apolla: (Fleen)

My plane back from Rome Ciampino was an hour late and for no particularly good reason. When it finally got us back to Stansted, they made us all get off the plane at the front, presumably so they didn't have to pay for two lots of stairs. The plane got in at eleven pm and we finallymade it to our car an hour later. This is not a big airport, man. Grr.

Then I get home,  tired and dischuffed, to discover that Mark Lamarr has quit Never Mind The Buzzcocks except not really and he'll be back in 2007 (if it hasn't all gone arse over head without him) and joy of joys: Jason Donovan Set To Play Errol Flynn.

If I were not so very tired, if my head had not been aching almost constantly since at least Saturday afternoon, I would give you some indication of how totally fucking stupid this would be. Bitterly, bitterly ironic from my point of view, but totally stupid. Jason Donovan as The World's Most Beautiful Man? Jason Donovan as The World's Most Charming Man? Jason Donovan as The Greatest Swashbuckler To Ever Sail The Studio Seas? I think not. If I were not so tired, I would say more, but I am that tired and all I can say is this: PLEASE GOD NO!

Also: Best Thing Ever: walking towards St Peter's seeing a nun walking down the street side by side with someone wearing a Kurt Cobain t-shirt. Genius. Had I known about this Jason Donovan thing, I might have spent a great deal of time in the basilica praying to the Lord God Almighty for some seriously divine intervention.

Growl.

Wednesday, 16 November 2005 01:15
apolla: (Fleen)

My plane back from Rome Ciampino was an hour late and for no particularly good reason. When it finally got us back to Stansted, they made us all get off the plane at the front, presumably so they didn't have to pay for two lots of stairs. The plane got in at eleven pm and we finallymade it to our car an hour later. This is not a big airport, man. Grr.

Then I get home,  tired and dischuffed, to discover that Mark Lamarr has quit Never Mind The Buzzcocks except not really and he'll be back in 2007 (if it hasn't all gone arse over head without him) and joy of joys: Jason Donovan Set To Play Errol Flynn.

If I were not so very tired, if my head had not been aching almost constantly since at least Saturday afternoon, I would give you some indication of how totally fucking stupid this would be. Bitterly, bitterly ironic from my point of view, but totally stupid. Jason Donovan as The World's Most Beautiful Man? Jason Donovan as The World's Most Charming Man? Jason Donovan as The Greatest Swashbuckler To Ever Sail The Studio Seas? I think not. If I were not so tired, I would say more, but I am that tired and all I can say is this: PLEASE GOD NO!

Also: Best Thing Ever: walking towards St Peter's seeing a nun walking down the street side by side with someone wearing a Kurt Cobain t-shirt. Genius. Had I known about this Jason Donovan thing, I might have spent a great deal of time in the basilica praying to the Lord God Almighty for some seriously divine intervention.

Episode Three

Saturday, 5 November 2005 16:51
apolla: (Phantom)

I've finally bothered to watch Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sniff, or whatever it's called.

Last fifteen minutes were pretty marvellous. Sadly, the two hours preceeding were filled with idiot dialogue, so much CGI that it was hard to focus and enough wooden acting to replant the Amazon rainforest.

I know that my hatred of George Lucas is well-known, so I won't bore you with that. I will tell you this: I would really love to love Star Wars. I think it's a great idea and although I disliked Episode II, I at least came away understanding a bit better about Vader in the OT. I just didn't realise that the petulant teenager thing would run over into the third installment too. I would love to love Star Wars, but it's not going to happen because these just aren't very good films. The original ones suffer only from the genuinely shite and primitive technology used (although that never really stood in Harryhausen's way...) but the recent lot are just... naff. It's like they creak under the weight of what they precede, and so perhaps that's why only the last fifteen minutes of III really stood out for me. I don't know.

I'd love to love Star Wars, but it's just not going to happen. Not while I'm laughing at dialogue that's supposed to be making my eyes damp or yawning at Yet Another Effect.

Episode Three

Saturday, 5 November 2005 16:51
apolla: (Phantom)

I've finally bothered to watch Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sniff, or whatever it's called.

Last fifteen minutes were pretty marvellous. Sadly, the two hours preceeding were filled with idiot dialogue, so much CGI that it was hard to focus and enough wooden acting to replant the Amazon rainforest.

I know that my hatred of George Lucas is well-known, so I won't bore you with that. I will tell you this: I would really love to love Star Wars. I think it's a great idea and although I disliked Episode II, I at least came away understanding a bit better about Vader in the OT. I just didn't realise that the petulant teenager thing would run over into the third installment too. I would love to love Star Wars, but it's not going to happen because these just aren't very good films. The original ones suffer only from the genuinely shite and primitive technology used (although that never really stood in Harryhausen's way...) but the recent lot are just... naff. It's like they creak under the weight of what they precede, and so perhaps that's why only the last fifteen minutes of III really stood out for me. I don't know.

I'd love to love Star Wars, but it's just not going to happen. Not while I'm laughing at dialogue that's supposed to be making my eyes damp or yawning at Yet Another Effect.

apolla: (Rock Chick)

So, we got to BBC Television Centre OK, me and my mam. Met her in the queue and we turned out to be 14th and 15th in the Buzzcocks line!

And as we were lined up outside the studio proper, waiting patiently, there was a bit of a kerfuffle...

Robbie Williams turned up out of nowhere.

I was stood literally five feet away from Robbie Williams.

I didn't shout at him.

I didn't smack him one.

I didn't call him a lousy fucking hypocritical wanker former 'dancer' for Take That from fucking Stoke.

I'm so ashamed.

Show itself wasn't bad. Chas of 'Chas n Dave' fame was a guest, so I was happy, even if he did hardly say a word. In fact, the whole thing was a little subdued and took ages. Three hours, or thereabouts to do a 1/2 show. Lamarr seemed to be in a foul mood, as opposed to his usual bitter cynicism, and the audience were hardly great aside from, well, me.

Still, anything that ends up with 'I'm not fucking Icarus!' as a punchline can't suck.

I still can't believe that I was within spitting distance of Robbie fucking Williams and I'm not in a cell and he's not in hospital. So ashamed of myself. One day, Robster, your time will come. One day.

apolla: (Rock Chick)

So, we got to BBC Television Centre OK, me and my mam. Met her in the queue and we turned out to be 14th and 15th in the Buzzcocks line!

And as we were lined up outside the studio proper, waiting patiently, there was a bit of a kerfuffle...

Robbie Williams turned up out of nowhere.

I was stood literally five feet away from Robbie Williams.

I didn't shout at him.

I didn't smack him one.

I didn't call him a lousy fucking hypocritical wanker former 'dancer' for Take That from fucking Stoke.

I'm so ashamed.

Show itself wasn't bad. Chas of 'Chas n Dave' fame was a guest, so I was happy, even if he did hardly say a word. In fact, the whole thing was a little subdued and took ages. Three hours, or thereabouts to do a 1/2 show. Lamarr seemed to be in a foul mood, as opposed to his usual bitter cynicism, and the audience were hardly great aside from, well, me.

Still, anything that ends up with 'I'm not fucking Icarus!' as a punchline can't suck.

I still can't believe that I was within spitting distance of Robbie fucking Williams and I'm not in a cell and he's not in hospital. So ashamed of myself. One day, Robster, your time will come. One day.

apolla: (Philip)

THE FUCKING CORRS THE FUCKING CORRS!

The dreary little bastards have done a cover of my most dear Philip's single 'Old Town'. This was, back in the day, a great and infectious, yet terribly melancholic ode to the town he loved so well and which he never wanted to leave.

Philip wrote it to tell the world that he loved Dublin. It's become a great Dublin anthem. It has the kind of beautifully classical-style piano melody that I've only heard in pop music in 'In My Life'. The video for said song was filmed in Dublin, on the Ha'penny Bridge and down the streets and by the river. It has reduced me to a weeping wreck of a human because it combines, in three and a half minutes, the eternal contradiction of Irish effervescence and Irish melancholy. Philip knew it, and I've known it. The two threads are impossible to tear apart, you know, so he didn't bother. It's a beautiful and happy song with a story of heartbreak and sadness. Typical Philip, typical Ireland, really.

So how can the FUCKING CORRS, who make Coldplay look hard and cutting edge and make Lionel Blair look like the coolest man on the planet, how can they POSSIBLY JUSTIFY covering this song? I thought about it once, then realised that it was probably a waste of my fucking time. SOME SONGS SHOULD BE LEFT WELL ALONE. I'm not one to completely demand the sulphuric wrath of God Himself without checking it out, so I went off to the Corrs Website, and sure enough, there's a link to a little clip of the song. So I clicked on it.

The original suffered a little for its 80s orchestration and production, but not overly so. Philip sang with subtle emotion, careful and probably even thoughtful inflection. Singing Corr, whichever of the little bints she is, sounds more affected and insincere than Britney trying to convince the world that she's actually a really classy sort of a girl, with taste and restraint. She's trying so fucking hard and it makes me want to take a wire-wool brush to my own soul. The piano sounds like it was recorded by the PG Chimps in their piano-moving advert while the drums sound like a five year old with some saucepans and just as fucking clunky. Robert Plant has more fucking rhythm than this record. There is no fucking love for this song, nor in the clips of the trad. stuff I checked out there because I like to be informed.. It's like the exact opposite of Van Morrison's album with the Chieftans, Irish Heartbeat. That record made my heart swell to Grinch-at-the-end-of-the-film proportions, made me long for the land I loved so well, made me proud to have come from the same place as that music. This record makes me want to swear eternal allegiance to the Queen and promise never even to listen to Paddy McGinty's Goat ever again (almost). This is a CHEAP AND NASTY cash-in on the fact that everywhere the FUCKING CORRS go, they get asked to do Irish music, cos they're er, Irish.

FUCK THEM. IT'S SHIT. IF YOU WERE THINKING OF BUYING IT (and I find it unlikely anyone on my flist would, but you guys surprise me sometimes) DON'T FUCKING BOTHER. BUY PHILIP'S RECORD INSTEAD.

Hell, if you want to hear the original version, I'll email you it. I'm listening to it on this computer right now. Sure, I've heard some bad covers in my time, notably Sway by Michael Bubbleheaded-Wanker-Not-Sinatra, or the entirety of Swing When You're Winning by Robbie 'Talentless dancer twat from Stoke' Williams. I've heard some dodgy rock covers too. I didn't even like Jeff Buckley's rather wearing cover of Thin Lizzy's 'Dancing In The Moonlight', but I'd happily make that the sole soundtrack to my eternity in the frigid depths of HELL with Phil Collins as my voicemail ringtone instead of this VAPID NO-USE BANALITY OF A TRAVESTY FROM A GROUP I DIDN'T THINK COULD GET ANY MORE VANILLA COMA-INDUCING SHITEY BOLLOCKS WASTE OF TIME WORSE!

KILL ME NOW. SEND ME TO PHILIP, FOR I CANNOT STAND THE EVIL ANY LONGER.

Ironically, throughout this whole post, I've typed 'Coors' and had to go back and correct it. Which is ironic because this has turned me to drink. I'm fucking off to get my bottle of Jamesons. And a straw. See you on the other side. Again, this avatar seems to say everything I need it to, and on behalf of said man. To think, had he lived, my boy might've been able to stop the Corrs in their tracks. By, you know, being BETTER THAN THEM AT THIS CAPER.

I am, to paraphrase Fletcher, extremely fucking dis-chuffed.

apolla: (Philip)

THE FUCKING CORRS THE FUCKING CORRS!

The dreary little bastards have done a cover of my most dear Philip's single 'Old Town'. This was, back in the day, a great and infectious, yet terribly melancholic ode to the town he loved so well and which he never wanted to leave.

Philip wrote it to tell the world that he loved Dublin. It's become a great Dublin anthem. It has the kind of beautifully classical-style piano melody that I've only heard in pop music in 'In My Life'. The video for said song was filmed in Dublin, on the Ha'penny Bridge and down the streets and by the river. It has reduced me to a weeping wreck of a human because it combines, in three and a half minutes, the eternal contradiction of Irish effervescence and Irish melancholy. Philip knew it, and I've known it. The two threads are impossible to tear apart, you know, so he didn't bother. It's a beautiful and happy song with a story of heartbreak and sadness. Typical Philip, typical Ireland, really.

So how can the FUCKING CORRS, who make Coldplay look hard and cutting edge and make Lionel Blair look like the coolest man on the planet, how can they POSSIBLY JUSTIFY covering this song? I thought about it once, then realised that it was probably a waste of my fucking time. SOME SONGS SHOULD BE LEFT WELL ALONE. I'm not one to completely demand the sulphuric wrath of God Himself without checking it out, so I went off to the Corrs Website, and sure enough, there's a link to a little clip of the song. So I clicked on it.

The original suffered a little for its 80s orchestration and production, but not overly so. Philip sang with subtle emotion, careful and probably even thoughtful inflection. Singing Corr, whichever of the little bints she is, sounds more affected and insincere than Britney trying to convince the world that she's actually a really classy sort of a girl, with taste and restraint. She's trying so fucking hard and it makes me want to take a wire-wool brush to my own soul. The piano sounds like it was recorded by the PG Chimps in their piano-moving advert while the drums sound like a five year old with some saucepans and just as fucking clunky. Robert Plant has more fucking rhythm than this record. There is no fucking love for this song, nor in the clips of the trad. stuff I checked out there because I like to be informed.. It's like the exact opposite of Van Morrison's album with the Chieftans, Irish Heartbeat. That record made my heart swell to Grinch-at-the-end-of-the-film proportions, made me long for the land I loved so well, made me proud to have come from the same place as that music. This record makes me want to swear eternal allegiance to the Queen and promise never even to listen to Paddy McGinty's Goat ever again (almost). This is a CHEAP AND NASTY cash-in on the fact that everywhere the FUCKING CORRS go, they get asked to do Irish music, cos they're er, Irish.

FUCK THEM. IT'S SHIT. IF YOU WERE THINKING OF BUYING IT (and I find it unlikely anyone on my flist would, but you guys surprise me sometimes) DON'T FUCKING BOTHER. BUY PHILIP'S RECORD INSTEAD.

Hell, if you want to hear the original version, I'll email you it. I'm listening to it on this computer right now. Sure, I've heard some bad covers in my time, notably Sway by Michael Bubbleheaded-Wanker-Not-Sinatra, or the entirety of Swing When You're Winning by Robbie 'Talentless dancer twat from Stoke' Williams. I've heard some dodgy rock covers too. I didn't even like Jeff Buckley's rather wearing cover of Thin Lizzy's 'Dancing In The Moonlight', but I'd happily make that the sole soundtrack to my eternity in the frigid depths of HELL with Phil Collins as my voicemail ringtone instead of this VAPID NO-USE BANALITY OF A TRAVESTY FROM A GROUP I DIDN'T THINK COULD GET ANY MORE VANILLA COMA-INDUCING SHITEY BOLLOCKS WASTE OF TIME WORSE!

KILL ME NOW. SEND ME TO PHILIP, FOR I CANNOT STAND THE EVIL ANY LONGER.

Ironically, throughout this whole post, I've typed 'Coors' and had to go back and correct it. Which is ironic because this has turned me to drink. I'm fucking off to get my bottle of Jamesons. And a straw. See you on the other side. Again, this avatar seems to say everything I need it to, and on behalf of said man. To think, had he lived, my boy might've been able to stop the Corrs in their tracks. By, you know, being BETTER THAN THEM AT THIS CAPER.

I am, to paraphrase Fletcher, extremely fucking dis-chuffed.

apolla: (Philip)

OK. Right.

I am so very fucking tired of the government of the United Kingdom Of Chavs And Fuckwits.

They can't even stand firm on a fucking smoking ban. IRELAND managed it. DUBLIN IS SMOKE FREE! DUBLIN! If Dublin can be smoke-free, London certainly can. But no, New Labour has let us down once more and come up with a 'third way' that is ineffectual, pointless and smacks of everything that is wrong with these fools and madmen.

They don't like making decisions. They don't like risking anything that might be unpopular with someone, so they do something so weak and feeble that they annoy all of us.

They don't like being disliked or unpopular, so they do a piss-poor version of 'doing something', which is a bit like Bobby Davro doing an impression of Frank Spencer. It sounds OK, but there's nothing there.

It's been like this every day since May 1997, when some of us foolishly voted these people in because they were better than the other option. Now, I'm a fan of irony, but discovering we voted against the Conservatives only to find ourselves lumbered with a Conservative in socialist's clothing.

Everything, since day one, has been smothered and couched and disguised in smart-sounding language that rings as hollow as Cherie Blair's soul would if you smacked it with a triangle beater.

It's all about the style because they do not, repeat do not and never have had the content.

I'm not saying everyone in the Labour government is a fake, but I don't remember seeing any socialists lately. Labour was founded and continued and flourished because some of us want everyone, rich and poor, to have a chance. Labour gave us a National Health Service, among other things. Labour was the party that actually cared about people.

I suppose the fact that Blair and Brown hammered out their plans for leadership over sundried tomatoes in an Islington bistro says it all. In this way, they've lied to us in the most grevious way. There are so many people in this country that care about the rest of it that they couldn't face ticking a different box when it came to the elections since 97. They couldn't bear the thought of not voting Labour, because like me, they believed it might get better. It might get back to the way it was meant to be.

It won't. Labour can't even decided on a smoking ban or not, settling on some stupidity in between, so how can they save their party and what it once so proudly stood for.

And amongst all this, they're trying to destroy the parts of the education system they haven't yet fucked about with. This is from the Prime Minister's own website:

  • Allowing every school to acquire a self-governing Trust similar to those supporting City Academies - giving them the freedom to work with new partners.
  • Better information for parents to help them choose a school for their child - including dedicated 'choice advisers' for less well-off families
  • Free school transport for children from poorer families to their three nearest secondary schools within a six-mile radius
  • Regular, 'meaningful' reports for parents during the school year on their child's progress
  • One-to-one tuition for under-performing pupils in maths and education with more stretching lessons for talented youngsters
  • 'Clear and unambigious' legal right for teachers to discipline pupils
  • Local authorities to become 'champions' of pupils and parents, commissioning rather than providing education
  • Self-governing Trusts? City Academies? Choice Advisers? 'meaningful'? Are you taking the piss? New Labour is the dictionary definition of MEANINGLESS!

    They're fools and fuckwits. No wonder Blair gets on so well with Dubya Shrub.

    Don't we deserve better than this? Never before has this avatar been so useful.

    apolla: (Philip)

    OK. Right.

    I am so very fucking tired of the government of the United Kingdom Of Chavs And Fuckwits.

    They can't even stand firm on a fucking smoking ban. IRELAND managed it. DUBLIN IS SMOKE FREE! DUBLIN! If Dublin can be smoke-free, London certainly can. But no, New Labour has let us down once more and come up with a 'third way' that is ineffectual, pointless and smacks of everything that is wrong with these fools and madmen.

    They don't like making decisions. They don't like risking anything that might be unpopular with someone, so they do something so weak and feeble that they annoy all of us.

    They don't like being disliked or unpopular, so they do a piss-poor version of 'doing something', which is a bit like Bobby Davro doing an impression of Frank Spencer. It sounds OK, but there's nothing there.

    It's been like this every day since May 1997, when some of us foolishly voted these people in because they were better than the other option. Now, I'm a fan of irony, but discovering we voted against the Conservatives only to find ourselves lumbered with a Conservative in socialist's clothing.

    Everything, since day one, has been smothered and couched and disguised in smart-sounding language that rings as hollow as Cherie Blair's soul would if you smacked it with a triangle beater.

    It's all about the style because they do not, repeat do not and never have had the content.

    I'm not saying everyone in the Labour government is a fake, but I don't remember seeing any socialists lately. Labour was founded and continued and flourished because some of us want everyone, rich and poor, to have a chance. Labour gave us a National Health Service, among other things. Labour was the party that actually cared about people.

    I suppose the fact that Blair and Brown hammered out their plans for leadership over sundried tomatoes in an Islington bistro says it all. In this way, they've lied to us in the most grevious way. There are so many people in this country that care about the rest of it that they couldn't face ticking a different box when it came to the elections since 97. They couldn't bear the thought of not voting Labour, because like me, they believed it might get better. It might get back to the way it was meant to be.

    It won't. Labour can't even decided on a smoking ban or not, settling on some stupidity in between, so how can they save their party and what it once so proudly stood for.

    And amongst all this, they're trying to destroy the parts of the education system they haven't yet fucked about with. This is from the Prime Minister's own website:

  • Allowing every school to acquire a self-governing Trust similar to those supporting City Academies - giving them the freedom to work with new partners.
  • Better information for parents to help them choose a school for their child - including dedicated 'choice advisers' for less well-off families
  • Free school transport for children from poorer families to their three nearest secondary schools within a six-mile radius
  • Regular, 'meaningful' reports for parents during the school year on their child's progress
  • One-to-one tuition for under-performing pupils in maths and education with more stretching lessons for talented youngsters
  • 'Clear and unambigious' legal right for teachers to discipline pupils
  • Local authorities to become 'champions' of pupils and parents, commissioning rather than providing education
  • Self-governing Trusts? City Academies? Choice Advisers? 'meaningful'? Are you taking the piss? New Labour is the dictionary definition of MEANINGLESS!

    They're fools and fuckwits. No wonder Blair gets on so well with Dubya Shrub.

    Don't we deserve better than this? Never before has this avatar been so useful.

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