October 2007 Archives

The drawback to iPods is that, once you have your entire collection on it, you can no longer pull out a CD you haven't listened to for a decade (Some Great Reward by Depeche Mode, say) and experience it all anew ("I want somebody to share, share the rest of my life...").

In a desperate attempt to hear my music afresh, I've been listening to all my iPod songs (currently 813, I do a lot of mix and match) in alphabetical order.  You get all kinds of weird combinations (The one-two of Tool's Sober and Rachel Stevens' Some Girls is even more brilliant than it sounds).  I've got no Xs, one Q (Quand Vous Mourez de Nos Amours by Rufus Wainwright, ace) and one Z (Zero by Smashing Pumpkins).

U is the best. Five tracks, individually brilliant, together making what could be the world's best EP.  In order:  U Got The Look by Prince (of course) followed immediately by Uncle Fucka from the South Park Movie (I still laugh, every time), then a weirdo REM track called Underneath The Bunker, The Magnetic Fields celebrating the glories of Underwear ("If there's anything better in this world, who cares?"), and ending, naturally, with Union of the Snake by Duran Duran (What the HELL is that song ABOUT?). 

Download them all, I guarantee U-pleasure.

Just returned from a birthday trip oop north to Newcastle and Durham (where my other half went to university).  What a beautiful part of the country, I must say.  Newcastle and Gateshead both felt very new and young; the Sage is a great venue; the Baltic had some so-so exhibits and a restaurant that isn't as good as it should be but was a great art space.  Lots of things to make and do.

But where was everybody?  Granted it was a week day, but half the place seemed deserted.  We even tromped around that enormous MetroCentre (which could have been flown in in its entirety from, say, Minnesota) searching in vain for an internet cafe and hardly saw anyone.

After a sojourn down Hadrian's Wall (including a stop at the temple of the best named god ever: Brocolitia), we spent a few days in Durham, which is a lovely as Bill Bryson raves.  Beautiful cathedral especially, even if it is teetering dangerously into the Wear.  All in all, a great part of the country, with the single complaint that the hotel industry we encountered could best be described as "mildly resentful".  Still, everyone else was friendly.

As apparently one of the few people on the interweb who've not only heard of Anne Enright but actually read several of her books, I'm delighted she won.  So there.  She's extremely funny, very smart, and just peculiar enough for me to want to read every words she's written.

Honestly, the sniping of literary bloggers is among the least pleasant in the world.  10,000 strangely angry people writing variations of "why won't the motherfuckers listen?"

I'd have personally picked the brilliant Darkmans because I genuinely think it's a book for the ages, but I'm delighted that Anne Enright - who, again, I've loved for years - is finally getting international recognition.  Read her, then read On Chesil Beach again.  It isn't as good as you think it's going to be, now, is it?

I'm listening to In Rainbows on my iPod, and it's great, really quite surprisingly beautiful (can't make out a single word to Reckoner except "Reckoner"; doesn't matter, it's gorgeous).  I went for the £40 deluxe option.  I've got the deluxe packages of Kid A, Amnesiac and Hail to the Thief, so they pretty much saw me coming.

Several days of plays before setting off on a driving holiday to Durham.  Saw Present Laughter at the National - difficult first half, much funnier second.  The set, if you'll notice, is terrible.  The front door - through which much farcical entries and exits must be made - is freaking miles away from anyone, slowing things down very badly.  Surely this is something they should have noticed?

Then yesterday was Dealer's Choice at the Menier Chocolate Factory.  Couldn't give two farts for poker, but like Patrick Marber, like the Chocolate Factory, and my friend Sam's in it.  You can get a Saturday lunch and ticket for something like £20.  Or half of a Radiohead deluxe package.  Deal.

I returned with a sunburnt face from the genuinely wonderful Isles of Scilly today.  Ever been?  Of course you haven't, they're miles and miles and miles from anything, but more fool you. 

I spent most of the day on Tresco, looking at a fantastic wood, a huge freshwater pool that fills almost the whole width of the island, and so many rocky crags that you expect to come around a corner and find Enya humming tunefully.

That BBC series "An Island Parish" makes it look much bigger than it actually is (and didn't you want to slap that vicar?), but it's wonderful and pristine and quiet, you should go.  Or better yet, don't.

Well, someone had to say it, didn't they?  But I suppose it's got the Governor Schwarzeneggar appeal, so he might stand a chance.  Much like George W, if he actually wins, the electorate deserves everything it gets.  Though his entire current platform seems to be against bendy buses.  I rather like bendy buses.  There was never any leg room for a tall chap on a Routemaster, tradition or not.

I'm currently at the tippy-tip-tip of Cornwall on a lovely writer's retreat-style bout of house-sitting, working on the next book, swimming in a cold, cold ocean and generally enjoying the piece and quiet of stars you can actually see in the night sky.

In the meantime, the site's been up for a while and is working nicely.  Created from scratch by my good friend Ben Freeman and his programmer Ralph, if you're interested in setting up your own.