Modern Times: The Great Inventions

Personal grooming aids for real men

From Hyperbole and a half  (via Sociological Images)

Homophobia and racism: 2 Birds 1 Stone; Only in the Daily Express

In its self-appointed role of holding back the hordes of queer immigrants, it's nice to see that the 'Ryanair of Fleet Street' is maintaining its usual high standards when it comes to equality issues. Expect a 'Gay asylum seekers in Diana assassination plot' headline any day now.

Still, at least when this camp tsunami of huddled masses washes over the nation's threshold they won't be stealing our women (except to take them shopping, perhaps).

And yes, presiding judge-monkey Lord Rodger did come out with all that auld polari about cocktails and Kylie gigs:

"Just as male heterosexuals are free to enjoy themselves playing rugby, drinking beer and talking about girls with their mates, so male homosexuals are to be free to enjoy themselves going to Kylie concerts, drinking exotically coloured cocktails and talking about boys with their straight female mates," 

This interesting vignette of the world of gaydomness leads me to suspect that his judgeness didn't attend one of the nation's major public schools. If he thinks it's all Kylie and cocktails, he needs to put his oglefakes on and take a bona vada round and about the next time he's down the Old Bailey cottage.

The original untweaked photograph above came from Gossi's Twitpics. He has my undying gratitude

Some days you just wake up feeling like this

He's C.W. Stoneking. He's Australian (tho' you'd never guess it), he lives here and he sounds like this:


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Publish Post

Skies turned gray, no clean underpants, prospect of cuts getting you down? Try this for size

Western Psychology is Shite - Official

Behavioral scientists routinely publish broad claims about human psychology and behavior in the world's top journals based on samples drawn entirely from Western, Educated, Industrialized, Rich, and Democratic (WEIRD) societies. Researchers – often implicitly – assume that either there is little variation across human populations, or that these “standard subjects” are as representative of the species as any other population....The findings suggest that members of WEIRD societies, including young children, are among the least representative populations one could find for generalizing about humans. Many of these findings involve domains that are associated with fundamental aspects of psychology, motivation, and behavior – hence, there are no obvious a priori grounds for claiming that a particular behavioral phenomenon is universal based on sampling from a single subpopulation.

Henrich, Heine and Norenzayan (2010)

In other words, if you believe that research studies based on the reactions and interactions of US sophomores can tell us anything meaningful about human beings in general, then consider this a wake-up call.

Purple popster calls time out on t'internet

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His Madnesty. the Royal Badness, the purple pope of Paisley Park, the artist formerly known as little Prince Rogers  Nelson appears finally to have formally disconnected from the contemporary world of music distribution.

In an interview with Peter Willis in today's on-line Daily Mirror, His Purpleness demonstrates the very same obdurate unwillingness to embrace (or even acknowledge) music's digital age and its consequences as those  coke-snorting, Armani clad idiots from the music industry  whom he has been challenging for years. As he says:

The internet's completely over. I don't see why I should give my new music to iTunes or anyone else. They won't pay me an advance for it and then they get angry when they can't get it.

While I agree with the sentiments about iTunes, sticking a free copy of your CD to the front cover of this Saturday's Mirror isn't going to turn the tide on the internet, me old mate, now is it? It's big. It's very big. And even in your platforms, you are very small. Anyway so, last time you did that there were copies changing hands on eBay for a king's ransom before the paper boy had reached the end of me garden path.

Why don't you get with the programme, do a  Radiohead or better yet a Nine Inch Nails and slap your new stuff up on a website someplace where your adoring fans can lay their sweaty paws on it? They'll even hand over their hard-earned cash money  if you ask them nicely. And you won't have to pay a penny to those vampires at Sony or CBS. And if it's advances you're after worrying about, try a bit of crowdfunding with these lads.

There now, problem solved.

And to celebrate, here's something from happier times. I expect the take-down notice will arrive by carrier pigeon or something, perhaps a dove with tears in its eyes.

Happy Birthday, America

I want young people to understand that ours is a beautiful country, but it has been taken over by men who have no respect for human rights or constitutional liberties. Our people are basically decent and caring, and our highest ideals are expressed in the Declaration of Independence, which says that all of us have an equal right to “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.” The history of our country, I point out in my book, is a striving, against corporate robber barons and war makers, to make those ideals a reality — and all of us, of whatever age, can find immense satisfaction in becoming part of that.

 Howard Zinn

Who's the Daddy? Bambi's mum, that's who

Warning: Not for the sensitive of heart. Bambi's mum gives Lassie a right pasting.

(via Boing Boing)

Recession over. Can I go home now please?

According to the day's old lady of D'Olier St, the recession in Ireland is officially over. Those of us who beat the rats out of the sinking ship of post Celtic Ireland can now wipe the smirks off our I-told-you-so-gobs and start loading up the auld Hiace for a short hop back across the St George's Channel with a sheepish look on our faces.

Or should we?  Unfortunately, the trumpeted turnaround is just another example of the voodoo economic ideology that passes for cutting edge thinking in capitalism these last few years. Bock the Robber discussed this eloquently on his blog earlier today.

Me, I prefer pictures and I ain't going anywhere until the tails on these graphs start moving in the opposite direction.

This nice cartoon from the estimable Professor David Harvey should explain why I don't expect to be loading up the Hiace anytime soon, either,

Jesse Malin: Love it to Life Tour

Jesse Malin and The St. Marks Social "Burning the Bowery"

Jesse Malin & The St. Marks Social | MySpace Music Videos

I love this guy. He's helped make some hard times bearable with the joys and sadnesses of his music. You can hear more of him here and here.  He's a new album out and is touring this side of the pond now. Dublin on the 4th (that should be good), Liverpool on the 5th and London on the 8th. More venues here. Check him out.

This is his collaboration with The Boss from a couple of years ago:



And this is like a shot of tequila in the morning: 'she liked Tom Waits and Kerouac' Need I say more?


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Tory sport monkey apologises for Hillsborough slur

Jeremy Hunt, Tory Secretary of State for Culture, Media and Sport, has been compelled to issue an apology after suggesting that the 1989 Hillsborough disaster was caused by hooliganism rather than the South Yorkshire police force's somewhat  laissez-faire approach to crowd control.

Apology not withstanding, I suspect that the good people of Liverpool will henceforth exploit the potential of young Jezzer's surname when engaging, as they frequently do, in spirited debate regarding matters of issues of sport and culture, as in 'He was a right Jeremy Hunt that ref'

You can find out more about the Hillsborough disaster and the campaign for justice for the 96 here and here.

The photograph of the Hillsborough memorial was taken by superbfc and is available under a Creative Commons ShareAlike 3.0 Licence So thanks for that, mate. And before he gets ideas above his station, it's only here because my almost identical one has vanished into the digital swamp that is the My Documents folder

My success I owe to the little people. Thank you, Thank you, one and all

Well fuck me old boots, I never thought I'd see the day that this would happen:

Who'd have thought that a punctuation error and a dead fictional character could bring this kind of success? Now all I have to do is sit back and wait for the royalty checks to roll in (That is how it works, ain't it?)

You can read the post that put me top of the Google dog-pile here

Pete Quaife 1943-2010 RIP

Pete Quaife, the original bass player with The Kinks passed away this week.





There are some really cool pictures of the band in their Mod heyday over to that Yank, hippie publication, The Rolling Stone
Via Dangerous Minds

Sid Perks' death: A mystery resolved

The lack of fanfare surrounding the recent off-air death of actor Alan Devereaux from the long-running BBC Radio 4 rural soap has continued to puzzle Archers' fans across the globe. Both the actor himself and BBC mandarins have remained tight-lipped regarding the reason for his abrupt departure after more than 40 years in the role of Brummie rough diamond Sid Perks.

Where Angels Fear, whose earlier fearless report on this mystery is available here, can  now exclusively reveal that Perks' demise is not quite what it seems and is part of a major shake-up designed to bring the programme into the Age of the Fruitbat  20th Century 21st Century.

According to our moles inside the show, Perks' death was but a sham designed to pave the way for his eventual return to the series as the leader of a mysterious cult of dwarves, elves and small creatures with large appetites and hairy feet. Sid, or Gandalf Greyteeth as he now wishes to be known, is set to re-enter the show in the coming weeks.

Perks' transformation from beer-pusher to cult leader will be explained as a consequence of his visit to the Southern Lakes of New Zealand, the setting of much of Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings cinema franchise.  In one story-line, Perks will successfully challenge Ambridge vicar Alan Franks for the spiritual leadership of the village.

The scouring of the shire will begin with the old homophobe's campaign to rid Ambridge of out gay couple Adam Macy and Ian Craig. A purge of the cricket team is set to follow, as Perks attempts to use runic lore to untangle the mystery that is the Duckworth Lewis method. Eventually it is hoped that an internet spin-off of the revamped format will challenge World of Warcraft  for the premier slot amongst MMPORGs

According to sources within the show, such a radical format change has become necessary to attract younger listeners. BBC chiefs are said to be worried that the programme's  demographic is a very elderly one.The average age of an Archer listener is now 107 and its audience may disappear altogether within the next few months, if not weeks. As one insider said 

For too long now, The Archers has concentrated on being a hard hitting documentary of English rural life, full of doom, gloom and agricultural disaster. We're hoping these changes will put the magic back into Ambridge and attract a different  audience more in tune with contemporary pop-culture, or at least one that doesn't need an ear-trumpet.

Other storyline developments being considered to attract younger listeners involve Jill and Josh Archer starting a on-line pornographic video production company specialising in granny porn and 'rural pursuits' (if you get my drift). Our source also said that  Pip Archer and her boyfriend Jude are to embark on a Borchester-wide murder spree after the bloody shotgun killing of  parents David and Ruth in a row over  Pip's decision not to complete her A Levels.

Unconfirmed sources also identified several promising storylines which were rejected in the shake-up. These included the discovery of oil under Grundy's Field (too folksy); a plane crashing in to the Bull (no-one wanted to work with Phil bloody Redmond) and a violent, internecine conflict over the attempt to obtain a wines and spirits licence for the Ambridge Village shop (apparently that had already been done in an earlier cast cull).

For weeks when the bed's too big and the frying pan's too wide

In every generation, for any given instrument, there comes a giant. Our instrument is the ukelele, our giant is Sophie-Madeleine. If this tune doesn't touch your heart and make you smile, then it's not a heart you have, it's a swinging brick.



Regular readers will know I like this kind of collaborative work. It's what the internet should be for.

The original tune is available for download at Bandcamp with half the dosh going to Macmillan Cancer Care. A brilliant wee tune and a good cause. What are ye waiting for? It's only coppers, after all

(Via Boing-Boing)

PS. Rosie, if you hadn't worked it out already, this one's for you.

Biggest surprise of the World Cup so far

Forget the  fabulous humiliation of the French, ignore the Italians' inglorious exit with a finishing place somewhere south of New Zealand, even put behind you the near miracle of England managing to make it through to the knockout stage on the basis of performances so moribund that the recently deceased were ringing up Gary Linneker to complain.

No, by far and away the biggest surprise of the World Cup so far was the drunk I found sleeping off England's historic scraping through the group stage victory over the footballing giant that  is Slovenia in my front garden. Yes, you heard me, MY FRONT FUCKING GARDEN!

I don't know how long he'd been there, but he wasn't tucked up in the land of Nod when I left for work. Now this was not just a run of the mill 'had a rake of drinks and dropped off while waiting for the last bus to Ballyfermot' kind of thing. We've all done that in our time. Nor was it even a 'flaked out in a shop doorway having missed said bus and it's too far to walk in my condition' fellah-me-lad. Not at all. This was more a 'what the fuck are you doing in my bedroom' class of animal at 2.45 in the afternoon. Bottle of Stella in hand,  he was curled up on my decorative gravel and dead to the world and all its occupants.
 
Having established that he was just drunk, not dead or in a diabetic coma, getting him out of my front garden proved harder than I expected.  I began by trying an approach I'd used many a time with pub-based drunken cat-nappers. A gentle but persistent coaxing 'come on lad you can't kip there, time to go home, etc., etc., etc.',  After 5 minutes of this he turned over, grunted and gave me the kind of look that the 14 year old me  used to give the auld one when she had to get me up for the paper round on a Sunday morning. He was going nowhere and something stronger was called for, clearly. I prodded him with the toe of me Dr Martin and went full-blown scouse on him. "Ey lah why don't you fucking do one before I call the bizzies/piss in yer ear/fetch the fuckin' hose from the garden". Nothing. Just the baby-like smile of a man at peace in the arms of Morpheus. I wondered what drugs he was taking and where I could get some.

I considered the options. I was tempted to leave him there. He might in time become a feature, like hermit in the rockery of an 18th Century aristocrat. Unfortunately, the residents association are already unhappy having a Scouser in the street lowering property values. A Scouser who gives dormitory rights to  itinerant drunks is never going to get an invite onto the parish council or the WI sale of work. In these parts, such things matter. Running the garden hose up his trouser leg and administering a Rainham Spring enema was also an option to which I gave thought. And then rejected. He knew where I lived, after all.

After a few more futile attempts involving bad language, threats,and general bluster I was no nearer rid of sleeping beauty, so I left him there and wandered up to the local cop shop. Now it's a long time since I had anything to do with the peelers in England but I had heard there'd been changes since the days when a bobby's basic response to the likes of me was a clip around the ear or a kick up the arse to send me on me merry way. It was true. In fact today, English police officers are far too rare, too important and too busy shooting suspected terrorists and arresting speeding motorists and ASBO kids to have anything to do with ordinary members of the public such as meself.

Instead of a grumpy police sergeant counting down the days to retirement, the desk at the bridewell was staffed by a civilian, a woman who wouldn't have looked out place preventing sick people from annoying a GP. After I had confided my problem she looked at me as if having a drunk England supporter asleep in the front garden was akin to admitting a case of crabs or a weakness for gin first thing in the morning.  She walked to the back of the station and emerged 5 minutes later with two 2 Police Community Support Officers. For those of you unfamiliar with the species, these were two nice young people a bit like this: 
 
 

Armed only with notebooks and walkie-talkies and completely lacking any powers of arrest, they accompanied me to the garden and bearded the rascal in what was now less my garden and more his boudoir. It took 35 minutes, several radio conversations with HQ, and a lot of cajoling and pleading to get the bugger off my property. The PCSOs' approach was hampered by the fact that both parties knew that despite their uniforms they lacked the appropriate powers to arrest and dole out a good kicking  back at the station. Flicking his ear with a finger was as close as they got to actual police brutality.He simply ignored them for the most part and just turned over and went back to sleep. His persistence in ignoring them was remarkable. He neither spoke nor acknowledged them at any point. And it was clear by the tone of the on-going burst of R/T that the lads back at the station weren't going to stir themselves while Italy were playing Slovakia on the Sky TV.

Eventually I guess it dawned on him that a mid-afternoon 40 winks in his present location had become out the question or maybe the  pleasure in winding up the nice young people had just palled and it was time to start preparing for England's defeat on Sunday next. Whatever. His departure went in stages. First he ran into the corner of the garden and hid like a naughty seven year old. That took 10 minutes.  Then he was persuaded gently onto the garden wall where he sat like a surly teenager,round-shouldered and sullen for another 10 minutes.  After that, he just went. I suspect Chav honour had been satisfied and it was time to move on. I don't know. The strangest aspect of the whole episode was that he did not utter a word throughout the whole affair. It was as if the whole thing had been staged as an attention-seeking act of dumb insolence; a kind Chavvy performance art - street theatre for the underclass.

Songs of the Summer No1: The Japandroids A Younger Us

I came across these geezers here (via the mighty Hype Machine). They too are Canadian (what is it about me and Canucks lately?) and I suspect they'd be fun guys to go for a Moosehead or a Molson with. You can find them at home here

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

Making the nation safe for international capital

Apart from the fact that the Lib-Dems should be ashamed of themselves, my thoughts on yesterday's budget (or should I say Phase 1 of the Tory plan to turn us into America or Indonesia or something) can be succinctly expressed thus (pay particular attention to the lyrics, kiddiewinks)

:

And if you want an explanation why budget took the form it did, then look no further than this chap:

Pure pop for now people

Eloquent indie pop someone called them. Sounds about right to me.



See, it just goes to show that being Canadian doesn't mean you have to sound like Leonard Cohen, Joni Mitchell, Neil Young or, God forbid, Rush. Go Canucks!!!!!

They're called Stars and you can find out more about them here   And  just by chance they have a new album out and its rather good. It's called Five Ghosts.  Compulsive shoppers amongst you can buy it here

Cheats never prosper

Cheats 1 Plucky little Ireland 0

Mexico 2 - Cheating Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys 0

Cheating Cheese Eating Surrender Monkeys 1 Come on you Boers 2

Enjoy your the rest of your holliers, Thierry, with the blessings of Irish people everywhere!