Sorry for the inconvenience

I apologize for the photograph below. If I receive another hundred complaints I promise to take it down. Thanks.

Hazel Blears. Maybe not for the last time.

Ah, yes. All is well. I can remember. I've mentioned here, on this blog, before, perhaps twice, that Hazel Blears, the British parliament member for Salford, not Manchester, is awful. Not just awful, but repulsive. For some reason she is considered worthy of note, possibly on account on her lowly stature (half dwarf and half human) and her sponsor, McDonalds (see eyebrows). Now, not often do I descend into personal attacks (regular visitors to this blog will not know exactly what I'm talking about), but in her case it seems warranted. I first ran up a long list of reasons to hate Blears when I saw her make an appearance on BBC's Question Time in 2004. As we've also noted here, Question Time has all-but become an applause-based competition, in line with new measures adopted by the British public to Americanize even one of our most pioneering of assets. And so, to Blears. She made a cameo appearance on the BBC's radio version of QT, Any Questions?, which is almost as bad as the Now Show. Wait a tick, that's ridiculous. Not nearly as bad as the Now show, but bad nonetheless. The show takes on a very similar format to Question Time, though without the timeless David Dimblebee, and in it Blears was asked to comment on the fine that the BBC were issued after the Andrew Sachs telephone scandal late last year, involving Jonathon Ross and Russel Brand. Why her opinion on this matter is of any consequence whatsoever is beyond me, but perhaps not you, dear reader. Knowing me, as you may, you should be concerning yourself with why, I, Robert Iddiols, is, wait, am concerning myself with such trivialities. Well, it's well within my powers to expose flaws in logic, wherever the offence, and I do hate Hazel Blears. I mentioned that above, earlier in the post. Now, Blears announced that she thought that Brand and Ross should be made financially accountable for the fine that the BBC is being forced to pay and cough up themselves. In doing so, she said, the burden would be placed on the criminals and not on the law-abiding license-fee payers. This stance was roundly applauded and henceforth, predictably agreed upon by the remaining troupe of panelists. Okay. You may be saying to yourself, though I hope not, What's he on about, that's a perfectly respectable, dignified statement, brimming with rationality and logical consistency and I think I'll rub-out her name on my hit-list. But wait, dear reader! She forgets to mention that the BBC did, in fact rather profit from the affair. The fine is a meagre £150,000. It's worth pointing out that, spread among license-fees, that would hardly make a scratch, though it shouldn't have to, and it won't anyway. Brand promptly apologized after the matter and realised that the BBC wasn't quite cut-out for his style of talking, so he left, along with a £200,000 a year contract. What's more, Jonathon Ross' temporary departure saved another £1.5 million. That means the license-fee payer is over 91% up on the deal, so in no way are we being burnt by the anti-christ, sorry, the BBC (I keep doing that). I wonder if we see a reduction in the fee next year. Then again, I'd happily pay double if they would permanently erase her name from the list of possible panelists for any show, any time, anywhere. And, if she must speak in the House of Commons, please pixelate her face.

Awake

May it be known that I cannot sleep and have ventured forth, again, to my laptop in search of some refuge. Aha! You see, the laptop is merely a conduit for my refuge, for you are my refuge, dear reader, the pillar of redeemability. Without the reputation there is nothing. Mine is singularly inflated, and that I wish to maintain. It escapes me now, but about half an hour ago, lulling awake on my pillow, I struck upon a rather nice idea for a post. Smarts. How cumbersome the brain is.

First Love

As Hugh Laurie once said of PG Wodehouse, he's the "funniest writer ever to put words to paper." I, however, beg to differ. Take this from a certain Monsieur Beckett:

Fortunately she was not the first naked woman to have crossed my path, so I could stay, I knew she would not explode. I asked to see the other room which I had not yet seen. If I had seen it already I would have asked to see it again.

To Weep

It's with increasing regularity that I find myself weeping at the slightest stimulus late in the evening. Not, you fear, from a deep solemnity that overcomes one during lonely nights, but rather from heroism displayed through the simplest of mediums. Tonight, for example, I've roundly doffed off a two thousand word essay on Shakespeare's great tragedy, Antony and Cleopatra, in rather a hurry, I might add, as I wished to return as quickly as possible to the whits and joys of PG Wodehouse's faux-calamity, Bertram Wooster and God, excuse me, Jeeves. How then, to finish the book and remain within any sense of contentment? Before settling down to watch Match of the Day I may have made the fatal error of rewatching Ronnie O'Sullivan's maximum break at the 2008 World Championships. That may have lubricated the ducts, as it were. And then, turning my attention to the remembrance designations that pervaded today's highlight game between the mourning Liverpudlians and the blackest of rovers, I felt all overcome. How inducing it was then, you will learn, to see the strike of the season tear through the net within seconds of the kick-off. I've vocally disliked Liverpool in the past, and I've singularly despised the player whose boot it was that pierced the ball during those opening moments, and yet I couldn't help but be reduced to a feeling of Good on you, son, though he is my senior, blurted through a fog of tears and enlightenment. High time then, you may argue, for me to arrive, full-circle, at Samuel Beckett once more, the great purveyor of melancholic delight: the great blender, as he is forthwith known. The following, following a Conradian description of his own skull, captures, what one might define, his humour:

I fell then, and brought down with me an old lady covered with spangles and lace, who must have weighed about sixteen stone. Her screams soon drew a crowd. I had high hopes she had broken her femur, old ladies break their femur easily, but not enough, not enough.

Old Boys Tour 2009 - A Prelude

Editors

A band I feel it's time I endorsed is Editors. Before my cohorts remind me that they're rather mainstream for my tastes, let me assure you that I don't care. Editors have had a fair amount of success early in their career with two platinum selling albums and a Mercury Nomination for their debut, The Back Room, in 2006, so there is only one direction for them to go in, which is down. That's certainly a good thing for us music aficionados. The further Radiohead plummeted into the depths of obscurity in 1999, for example, is, arguably, when musical mastery flourished. Tom Smith, their effortlessly beautiful frontman, like a thinking man's Orlando Bloom, has a voice comparable to Ian Curtis; it's mature beyond his years, and there's a sense of depth and intelligence to his lyrics that lift the music above the popular. Fortunately, Smith has passed the boundary of the death-laden second album without committing suicide, as was Curtis' fate, and they haven't released an album for almost two years now, and another still looks a ways on the horizon. These guys are superb musicians. Chris Urbanowicz, their lead guitarists has the makings of something special, and I'm led to believe by the progression we saw from the first album to the second, An End Has A Start, that there's a lot of potential here, especially given their age. I have not seen such powerful live performances with such energy and passion for a long time. I think if I'd strolled in to watch them at Glastonbury in 2007 and seen the performance posted below it would have blown my mind. Smith has even developed a signature dance, a sort of an upper-bodily contortion, in the same vein as Curtis or our close friend, Mr Thom Yorke. See, for a sample of what I'm talking about, this:

Birds on a Wire

powerlinerflyers from wes johnson on Vimeo.

Your Contributions

You may have noticed, dear reader, a new 'Donate' button on this blog where you can delve into the pits of your pockets and support me in making this blog a long-term occupation. Before you remove me from your favorites tab forever, let me reassure you. I plan to maintain this blog for years to come, but only with your help will I bring it within the standards that I hope to achieve. A leader is made only by his followers. However, I recognize that it needs to be me who makes the first leap. From the middle of May onwards I'll aim to provide a single, solid, lengthy article at least once a week, partly to flex my muscles, but partly in an effort to focus what I already do, and feel compelled to do, whilst turning this into a viable future project. You will have noticed that there are no advertisements cluttering this blog, and there never will be, and after having looked into the option of monetizing this space, I feel a simple, one-off, five dollar donation would reap much greater rewards than the aesthetically hideous AdSense bars, and build an even greater sense of community. Your money would go towards my subscriptions, my literature expenses, and the upkeep of my equipment. You'd tip a waiter in a restaurant, wouldn't you? So if you like what I write, help me expand this blog. Thank you.

Salman Rushdie - Hero?

Has anyone else noticed that Salman Rushdie, although not what one might call, traditionally good-looking, manages to bag the most gorgeous girls in the world? He's now been married four times, and if anything, he's managed to improve his portfolio of female acquaintances over the years. Considering his age, 61, there must be something going on here that we don't quite understand. The last stunner to accompany him to a public function was Olivia Wilde (24), the absolutely beautiful actress who parades alongside Hugh Laurie in the magisterial House. Prior to this, Rushdie appeared in a music video for Scarlett Johansson's (24) cover of a Tom Waits track, Falling Down, kissing her neck, whispering in her ear, and generally having his way with her as she laughed and toyed. Most notably, however, was his last marriage to the American-Indian chef, prime-time television host, and model, Padma Lakshmi (above). She claimed after their divorce that "he's very charismatic" and "any woman who has heard him speak for five minutes would just melt". Anyone would be hard-pressed not to admire his efforts, and take some comfort in a decidedly ugly man wedding a decidedly sensational woman, but I cannot control my feelings of jealousy. What on Earth is his secret? He knows something we don't, dear reader.