Edinburgh 2010

Last week I once again headed up on my annual pilgrimage to Edinburgh, for the biggest arts festival in the world. (Fact). And of course a jolly good excuse to go and get pissed with some of the funniest people around.

This is generally the only holiday I have, so I tend to hit the week pretty hard. Infact I am still recovering, and my body clock has not quite readjusted after the very bizarre sleeping times I put it through last week.

And of course I saw millions and trillions of wonderful (and not so wonderful) shows. 28 to be precise. In 6 days. I am quite impressed with this tally.

So, here is part 1 of probably about 10 reviews and hilarious anecdotes of last week's 'art' shenanigans.

Monday

Ronna and Beverley

Despite a rather length section on 'The Culture show during the first week of the festival, it seemed the initial hype for this two-hander had worn off by the last week, with a barley half-full cabin at the Pleasance Courtyard.

However, the pair were on fine form with their tongue firmly in cheek, in homage to Jewish mothers everywhere.

Just the right level of outrageous, a touch of absurdity and some good sport special guests, the show ran surprisingly smoothly, considering the large percent of improvisation required.

It's difficult to imagine the show running for another year, but no doubt the ladies enjoyed their moment in the spotlight.

Celebrity Autobiography

A crudely simple idea, but this show proves that sometimes they're the best.

Take 'celebrities - read literate performers and serious actors with nice voices, and Phil Jupitus, add books 'written' by illiterate celebrities - no quotation marks - combine the two, and Simon Amstell will no doubt be claiming he was doing it first on Buzzcocks.

The solo readings are hilarious enough, particularly James Lance's Peter Andre account, delivered in his glorious plummy tones, get enough laughs from the juxtaposition alone.

The final ensemble reading also does this beautifully. but one of the most memorable moments comes from Madonna's account of having sex with a Puerto Rican boy. Perhaps, in this show, it's the celebrities that are having the last laugh.

Alun Cochrane - Life, Jokes, and Jokes about Life.

Alun Chochrane seems very much at home in this venue. It's basically the back room of a pub, a bar at the back (unwisely dispensing beverages in classes), and chairs stuck together with cable ties.
Whilst his comedy isn't quite the kind you get on the work men's club cirucit, it isn't far off. Which is a shame, as he is clearly capable of more, showing brief glimpses of some wonderfully intelligent comedy. His onstage 'joke box' full of groan inducing gags seems quite frankly beneath him.

his observation humour is shockingly resonate, despite on occasion trampling well-worn ground.

Dependable, seemingly evergreen, Cochrane does what it says on the tin, but nothing more.

Tuesday

Jon Richardson

Jon Richardson, it could be said, is something of a one trick pony. It's a trick which as helped him become a successfully stand up in just a few years, by one, some have commented, is starting to wear a little thin.

Generally, it's a bad sign if a comedian needs props (see Alun Cochrane), and Jon Richardson has gone all out this year, with a giant traffic light (with changing lights on demand), suspended from the ceiling. He refers to it all of four times in the show, twice to ruefully acknowledge that spending £500 on a giant traffic light was perhaps a mistake.

The traffic light is used as a set up for the anecdote on which his whole show is based. The premise - he spat at a traffic light, here's a bunch of things wrong with the world, and we're back at the traffic light without fully explaining what happened.

There are laughs, but not big laughs. Whilst many comedians talk about the everyday in a way that the audience think 'I can totally relate to that, but I thought I was the only one', Jon Richardson is setting himself apart from his peers, going that little bit further in alienating himself from the audience.

In a nutshell, this show simply wasn't as funny as his previous. But it was still a fairly well constructed show, that moves away from the standard observation garb everyone else is doing. How long it'll continue to be popular for is a different matter.

Quality not quantity, less is more.

I am most definitely from the school of only saying something if you've got something interesting to say. So therefore, from looking at the sporadic entries on this blog, it's safe to assume that most of the time I don't. Which is true. I'm very rarely inspired to write off my own back these days. I spend so many hours of my time writing for money, that when it comes to writing for pleasure, the opportunity and motivation is seldom and far between. That's not to say I don't enjoy getting paid for writing, I do, it's bloody marvellous. Getting told what to write about is perfect for me, as ideas really are my downfall. But very very occasionally I do have a few ideas of my own, a bit of time to spare, a semi-reliable internet connection, and sentences forming in my head that won't leave me alone until they're committed to the screen.

Personally, I think that this is the best way to be when it comes to writing. Yes,, you could churn something every day, but unless you live an amazingly exciting life, or are some kind of creative genius able to produce a valid piece of work every day, then it's nothing but internet noise. And the internet is pretty bloody noisy already, thank you very much.

However, 2 months 2 blog posts...I'm practically flooding the internet.

Today has been a day of thoughts, ideas, projects and creativity. Definitely one of the most interesting Saturdays I've had in a while. I'm currently working on the content for a website for a friend (I say friend, actually my former bosses now also my current bosses mum, who I also worked with at said company). She's selling her apartment in St Lucia and wants to set up a website to help. So I have been offered the rather mild task of reseraching the island and writing the website content about it. Meaning that this morning I got to slip into town and pick up and number of large, heavy brochures and sit in Costa for a couple of hours making notes. I quite enjoy the research part of writing something, gathering together all the details and making notes that eventually will be turned into (hopefully) a lovely bit of prose. And with a subject such as St Lucia, and it's lush surroundings, tropical paradise, and unspolit environment, there's loads of great language to be ultilised, and I'm looking forward to writing it all up. Of course, no doubt I'll go over the top, because at the end of the day we're selling the apartment, not the island. But still, any excuse. And of course, the glace finishing detail is that I'm getting paid for it. Lovely.

After making copious bullet points and returning to the palace, my day took a very unsettling turn. After baking a huge chocolate cake (to be consumed by Wednesday, when I'm giving up for Lent), I settled down with the Guardian, my Saturday paper of choice. In a change to my usual routine, Ibrowsed through the Guide quickly, and then actually sat and read the news section from cover to cover, a section that is normally discarded in it's fresh from the printing press condition. There was a very interesting interview with Christopher Bailey, head honcho at Burberry, and some other enjoyable pieces. I then picked up the magazine, which would normally be my second port of call, and was more than a little taken aback to notice a dark, almost sinister picture of Jon Richardson on the front, with the strapline 'Impossible perfectionist, 27, seeks very very tidy woman'. Immediately intriguied by, and of course hugely excited that my favourite comedian had made it onto the cover of the Guardian magazine, I flicked through to the article straight away.

What I found still very much confuses, worries and, to a certain degree upsets me. Instead of an interview where Jon could push his various comedic ventures - his upcoming tour, his appearance on new BBC 2 show 'The Bubble', hell, even Edinburgh, I found something very different. It was a hefty article penned by Jon himself, with no introduction, q and a portion, or anything that gave away who he was and what he did to the unitiated (apart from at the very end). The subject of the article, was, naturally and aptly, love. Or rather, Jon's lack of it, in any form. For seven years. Essentially it was an (albeit very well writen), self-examination of why he hadn't been in a relationship for seven years, and that the reason for this was that, because he is such a perfectionist (the subject of his current stand-up show) no one will ever live up to this, and that eventually, all his relationships would end because in the beginning we're only every pretending, and once his partner's bad habits (I say bad habits...we're talking everyday general living...not having an alphabetised CD collection, leaving the teaspoon in the sugar bowl) will be revealed and he won't be able to live with them due to his insanely high levels of hygiene and cleanliness. And a wee bit of OCD. He also briefly mentioned other areas of his life that he had simply give up on because it couldn't ever be perfect first time, like sports or learning instruments, and that one night stands just don't interest him, because everything has to be perfect first time.

And the very last line said' Jon Richardson is a stand-up comedian currently on tour. for dates go to offthekerb.co.uk'. And that was it. Now I have a bit of a backstory to this, and why I am so surpirsed that, after been given premium space in the Guardian, this article was the end result.

Jon Richardson is doing a gig at my work next Friday. I knew that it would be an easy show to sell - no marketing required. And this was indeed the case. However, about a month ago, Jon's agent, Off the Kerb, starting hassling me about increasing the capacity for his show. Which we duly did, despite this meaning that the room would be absolutely crammed, stupidily hot, and Jon will have about the floor space of a postage stamp to stand on. This meant we had a few more tickets to sell, but I had no doubt that, by next Friday, these would be gone. A few days later I was asked by 2 separate employees of Off the Kerb if we could put Jon on the homepage of our website. I explained that no we couldn't as we used this space for last minute announcements, important info, or as a last minute push for a show. Jon was none of these things. Clearly this did not go down well, and a week later they asked the same questions, to which they got the exact same answer. They also asked if the show could be moved to the bigger theatre space. I explained that, with a week to the gig, this simply wasn't possible, and that we already had an act in the larger space that evening. Then they asked if the gig could be moved to be a bigger space on a different date. Having spent more than one afternoon having to ring round scores of disappointed people to tell them that a show had been moved, I was more than a little bit not keen on this option. So we put our foot down and said no.

But my point is this - why would an agency so keen on pushing their artist at every available opportunity allow Jon Richardson to appear on the cover of the Guardian magazine in relative anonyimity? Whilst of course, he is his own man and can think for himself, media and press appearances are ultimately in the ands of the agency. It simply doesn't make sense.

And on a personal point of view, this article made me really sad. He is essentially crying out for a girlfriend, no doubt many of his fans up and down the country will take this as a green light so simply throw themselves at this usually shy, reserved man. Is this what he wants? Was this simply a glorified loney hearts coloumn and a simple way of getting laid? I'd like to hope not, but I'm fairly sure that he is not naive enough to realise that this wouldn't be a direct result of publishing the article. I've no doubt that girls already proposition him after shows, and I know people that've seen it happen, and seen him turn them down accordingly. So why this sudden u-turn? Or is it an attempt to alienate them...a sort of 'I'm really weird, I bet you don't want to sleep with me after readying this' manifesto? He comes across as a sad, lonely man umlikely to ever find happiness. And yet his job is to make people laugh. But this is taking it too far - personally I'm not sure I can now listen to his stand-up show in the same way again, without simply feeling sorry for him. On the other hand, it could of course be part of a huge publicity stunt, engineered by Off the Kerb, and he is in fact nothing like this. But being a writer, and having studied writing, this comes across as very very honest, and it would've taken a hell of a creative writer to make it up. Which Jon Richardson isn't - he's an observational comedian, calling it like it is.

So none of these thoughts fills me with glee. I simply can't see a beneficial outcome to this article. Perhaps, I shouldn't be looking for one, but we all know that the media industry doesn't work like that. Perhaps it was simply an alternative view over the Valentine's Day Weekend. But if it was I'm fairly sure the Guardian would've plugged it like that.

Since doing my job, I am losing my faith in the comedy industry more and more, to the point where I cannot take a show at face value anymore without thinking about the politics behind it. This is another example of that. Of course, the timing exacerbates the siutation - I have been looking forward to Jon coming to work ever since it was programmed last year. But this has really made me reconsider, and had I not paid for my tickets on Friday, I may have even considered not going.

So, there are my interesting Saturday thoughts. Some other exciting things have also happened, or may potentially happen, but quite frankly I'm all worded out. And I wouldn't want to overload everyone for the sake of it now, would I.

I can't imagine anyone will make it to the end of this, I almost didn't

Oh it's a existential crisis, must be time for a sporadic blog entry.

So, New Year. As that very wise man Matt Forde said "It's New Year's Eve. Have fun. But don't get emotional." And he is correct. But, inevitably, new calendars, diaries, excess boozing, fireworks, Mr Rabbie Burns' ubiquitous tune, and ultimately those pesky resolutions mean that, come the first week of January, thoughts turn to taking a good old introspective gaze at one's current state of affairs.

2009 has been, all in all, pretty good to me. Whilst last January seems like a complete lifetime ago, the goals I had then are still crystal clear. They went like this, in this order:
1. Write the last 5000 words of my dissertation if it kills me (which is nearly did)
2. Get degree - a 2.1, and a first for said dissertation
3. Get a job (a seemingly impossible task back in the full swing of depression doom and gloom, but made easier by not really knowing what the hell I wanted to do, so not ruling out any options)
4. Move out into my own place (entirely dependent on number 3)

I'm pleased to report (with a week bit of swelling pride), that I absolutely nailed all four, in the bag, done and dusted - I win.

It wasn't easy, it certainly didn't happen they way I thought it would, and it took a helluva lot longer than I would've liked (ie more than 5 minutes. I'm very impatient).

Writing the last bit of my dissertation was without doubt one of the biggest challenges I've ever faced. Which is should be, really, when else are you going to have to prove yourself in 8000 words. But it was the last 5000 that absolutely dragged me through the wringer, to the point where I really wasn't sure I was ever going to get it done. Ideas have never been my strong point, and whilst the first couple of features were an absolute dream to write, coming up with another 3 or 4 ideas proved to be my downfall. I remember getting to March, having managed to churn out another 2000, and telling someone I still had 3000 to go in 2 months. And whilst saying it out loud put the fear of God (and my dad) into me, it didn't make the ideas come any easier. After many long walks, discussions with friends, family, a large amount of beginning to write and peter-ing out after the introduction, I finally got my shit together. I wrote about what I knew - I relied on an impending holiday to account for 2000 words (it turned out the holiday was both far more eventful and uneventful as it should have been - the events of the first night - lost luggage, 6 bottles of wine and smacking my face on the pavement outside Waverley - meant that the second day of the 3 day holiday was spent nursing a vicious hangover and missing out on a Ceilidh - a classic Scottish activity), meaning that there was far less material to go on, and a fair amount of time spent googling what you could do in Edinburgh if you weren't a numpty on your first night, in order to stretch it out to it's designated 2000 words, all in the space of 3 weeks. Luckily, several mis-spent summers in my favourite city ever also helped fill in the gaps.

The other article was more of a personal tirade very poorly disguised as a 'news' feature - the news item being HMV's appalling move to buy up some the UK's greatest independent venues.

My final feature was inspired by a big part of my life - being a 20 something girl who, shock horror, actually went places and did things by herself. A bit of background blurb, and couple of contrasting opinions, and it was in the bag.

It could've been better, but ultimately made me realise that, if I couldn't generate 5 or so ideas in 5 months, there was no way I would ever be able to pay the bills as a freelance journalist, which was a valuable lesson to learn before embarking on a career.

As for number 2, well, yes and yes, and that'll do me nicely. It comes from an awful university and all in all wasn't a particularly pleasant experience, but my degree is simply a means to an end, and it's the next few years when it'll pay off.

My job isn't ever what I'd planned, dreamed, aspired to or even considered doing. I am by no means a 'market-eer'. I am, however, pretty damn excited to be working in a creative atmosphere, surrounded by some of the most inspiring, hilarious, and talented people this country and others have to offer. I've seen some of the world's finest ballet dancers, under the direction of Kylie Minogue's choreographer. I've watched innovative, exploratory, fusions of Shakespeare and Hollywood, a hip-hop opera, and a very funny New Zealander. And next month I will get to meet one of my comedic heroes, and potential husband. But it's not enough, and is seeing me spiral into debt as one unexpected expense (for example, four new tyres for the wagon 4 days before Christmas), means that for January in order to stay solvent I need to sit in my flat in the dark and not eat. ( I am, of course, in my twisted way, rather excited about the not eating part). So basically, I needs more bubble. But, I'm impatient, and 4 months in one job does not look so good on the CV. And I need to wait until at least February 19th so I can meet the husband.

And finally, number 4, what an absolute dream. After concluding that I'd actually never be able to afford anywhere by myself, a whole new world of possibilities was opened up thanks to a bit of financial support from the parents. So I got to live not just in a poxy studio with a fold-down bed (me, make up my bed every night, and fit all my stuff in one room? As if), but a lovely one bed flat! Ok, so it's essentially a corridor with a bedroom at one end and the living room at the other, but it's a big living room, and there's a kitchen with a washing machine, and a proper sized wardrobe, and lots of other exciting things (like no heating). And even better, I can walk down the road and get on a tube and get to London town easy peasy. And for someone who spends half her time in various indie dives, that's pretty damn handy.

So, 2009, I win. But what's next? My feet are already itchy for new things. In the past two weeks I've flitted between wanting to move into central London and spend a couple of years there, to wanting to be living in Edinburgh by the end of the year, to finding an excellent job and moving to wherever it is. I think the dust needs to settle before a concrete plan gets set...

Other highlights and lowlights include...as always life-affirming gigs from Bon Iver, David Ford, Noah and the Whale, Leonard Cohen...some life-affirming albums - I have a list somewhere, maybe it'll surface in a couple of days...having a nice boy that always says yes...not having a nice boy anymore...bff moving down the road (not literally, it's still a good half hour, but better than 2), having people tell me I've done a good job this year...meeting totally wonderful strangers who hang out with you all night and buy all your drinks...DJ-ing at the Social...staying out til 5am with some very funny boys and the Edinburgh sunrise...horses in the New Forest...lazy weekend mornings...champagne cocktails in the White Star...

So crisis not over, but thoroughly dissected. It's a New Year. Don't get emotional, just relax, and get on it.

An impromptu thesis on Arctic Monkeys

After (perhaps in hindsight, somewhat stupidly) commenting that I was currently listening to the new Arctic Monkeys album Humbug, on Twitter, I was asked by The Line Of Best Fit to write a review. Which quite frankly terrified me, as is always the case when reviewing something just about everyone has an opinion on. And after the recent battle that ensued when my Reverend and the Makers review went life, I fully expect 'lively debate' on this as well.

And when I actually sat down to write the review, I found it was impossible to do just that. So instead, what came out is a rather rambling mini-essay on the phenomenon of Arctic Monkeys, and the odd thought on their third album, Humbug. Get ready...

Arctic Monkeys – Humbug

Four years ago, a fair proportion of the nation began a love affair with Arctic Monkeys. Their first album served as a snapshot of the lives many of us were witnessing or living – Britain in 2006 -every tedious day at work, every 2-for-1 Reef –fuelled Saturday nights, and every regret-filled Sunday morning, articulated in such an eloquent yet hilariously truthful way.

Their second album perhaps took a bit more getting used to, but was ultimately still Arctic Monkeys, just somewhat streamlined, more determined and purposeful. The band were still living the same life though, still in Sheffield and still causing trouble in clubs in Friday nights, albeit now they were more likely to be members only clubs.

And so Arctic Monkeys third album, Humbug, enters into a very different world from 2006, and is the product of very different people. The question is though, can the affair continue?

The band’s authenticity, working-class, everyman ethic was always one of their unique selling points in the early days. But as time progresses, can a recession-stricken nation really still identify with Alex Tuner, living with his supermodel girlfriend in New York? Well no, of course not. But Alex Turner isn’t stupid enough to write lyrics about co-habiting with Alexa Chung and expect people to listen to them. As time’s progressed his lyrics have become more and more abstract – gone are the Topshop princesses and signs commonly seen in taxis – instead it’s dark, Dickensian metaphors, twisted imagery of circuses and carnivals, and murkier observations

But why else did we fall in love with Arctic Monkeys? The catchy riffs, rolling drums, thundering basslines, and those cheeky winks. It’s been well-documented that Humbug is produced by Josh Homme, and with most of the recoding and mastering taking place in the US, it’s with some trepidation that speculation abounded about whether there would be audible tumble-weed. However, Homme has captured the vast-ness, without completely disregarding and alienating the way the band recorded their first two records.

There are also influences from far further afield on Humbug though. As hinted at on the riff on ‘Teddy Picker’ on Favourite Worst Nightmare, the band further explore klezmer – traditional Hebrew/ Jewish music, particularly on the plodding, deliberate-sounding ‘Dangerous Animals’ and ‘Secret Door’.

Turner still has that lovable rouge, scampish, little Tyke charm he’s always had, but this album sees him become far more confident in it. Despite the ever-prevalent Yorkshire accent, his voice and delivery has a smoothness to it akin to that of someone peddling their wares or trying to pull off a con. In ‘My Propeller’ he invites us to ‘have a spin of my propeller’ in such a sly, enticing way you feel you’re getting involved in some dodgy-back alley deal. But in ‘Secret Door’, lyrically a cross between ‘505’ and ‘Mardy Bum’ of this album, Turner reverts back to a perpetually confused-by-women teenager, trying to decipher giggling and folded arms.

Josh Homme’s influence is also perhaps responsible for the heavier tracks on this album – ‘Pretty Visitors’ is an absolute beast. Its drummers Matt Helder’s show piece, combining extremes of tempo and everything in between as he drags in through kicking and screaming from beginning to end. Also featuring one of Alex Turner’s infamous, unforgettable what-is-he-on-about one liners – ‘what came first, the chicken or the dickhead’, this will undoubtedly appease those feeling uneasy with the band’s new directions.

So, after the Humbug trip through the nooks and crannies of many places that certainly aren’t Sheffield, will anyone still love Arctic Monkeys? Personally, I’m coming down hard on the side of yes. Another album that’s sounds like stock-take in a pub would’ve been one too many, and as Britain 2009 is in such a shit state of affairs, a bit of escapism seems like the perfect anti-dote. The band have developed and matured- lyrically, musically, and as people. And making a record to reflect this is exactly what they should be doing. Arctic Monkeys will always be, unmistakably, Arctic Monkeys. But, as with their second album, their more streamlined, more confident, and more determined about where they’re going, whether it’s via New York, the desert, or a back-alley.

And I think that's quite enough.

Lofts Are Hot - Fact.

Lofts are massively hot - fact. I live in one, I work in one, and the similarities to a sauna are uncanny. Technically, I should be really thin and have amazing skin and all the other good things saunas do. I have none of those things though. Instead I am constantly hot and bothered and unable to sleep (which, granted, is a benefit at work). Very very annoying. At the same time, if it gets cold and starts raining again, I WILL complain. Such is the in-built British reaction to the weather.

Job update- still no job. Quelle surprise. I felt slightly better when I heard on the news yesterday that 16-24 year olds had the highest rates of unemployment right now. Well obviously I didn't feel better, than means I have more people to compete against when applying for jobs, but I like to use such statistics to back up the fact that it really is bloody difficult, and I'm not just being lazy, which is the view my mother holds about the situation.

I went on a CD binge in HMV, and was a bit annoyed that HMV actually had everything I wanted, am I becoming too mainstream, or are HMV actually starting to stock things are aren't just in the iTunes top ten? Whatever, a small internal tussle ensued but I'm over it not. So here's the gems I picked up.

We Were Promised Jetpacks - These Four Walls. Scottish four-piece who recently supported Frightened Rabbit, and in a smart move got their debut album out whilst the hype machine is still in full flow. Musically a cross between Frightened Rabbit and My Latest Novel - all is-it-the-end-of-the-track pauses, tinkling glockenspiel and tracks that start, wander off somewhere else, and then come back again. Lyrically - er, immature. By all means go for rhyming couplets, but do them properly - lightening/frightening is not clever. It's no where near the raw, hard-hitting lyrics of Frightened Rabbit, but it's clearly just down to life experience. I would say it's an age thing, but Alex Turner wrote Whatever People Say I Am... at 18, and Alessi from Alessi's Ark was even younger when she wrote most of her debut. So it's not an age thing, therefore it must be experience. Clearly these boys haven't had their heart broken yet. Still, an amazing debut, and Scotland continues to reign supreme.

Bill Callahan - Sometimes I Wish I Were An Eagle. Number one, amazing album artwork - a hazy, sunny, scene of horses in a field! Anyway, the ex-Smog man goes it alone after walking out on the band two years ago. It's hard to shake off the association when listening to it, especially as that voice IS Smog. But Bill Callahan seems to have exercised his demons from the Smog fallout, and this is a relaxed, carefully crafted album. His voice is, as expected, still centre stage, and underpinned with lush orchestra arrangements. It's certainly not full-blown, grandiouse sweeping strings, but subtle and poignant augmentation. The album seems very comfortable, like he's being doing this all his life, and emits a bit of a warm glow, like the cover art. But of course the flip side of that is that it's very safe and that maybe he's not really pushing himself with it. But ultimately it's lovely to listen to, so what's not to like.

Dirty Projectors - Bitte Orca. Ok I haven't actually listened to this yet, but the couple of tracks I've already heard are more than promising, so I'll be sinking my ears into as soon as I'm done with Mr Callahan.

Finally, I met Roddy Woomble. He's a bit like a pixie.

About as committed as I am to anything else...

I think my commitment to this blog probably mirrors my commitment in relationships - pretty piss poor. Never mind.

So, in a Twitter stylee (yes, I have succumbed - @catrionahelen - in my defence my dad’s on there. And David Ford. So it can’t be all bad) here is the last 2 months summed up in 140 (ish) characters: finishing uni - massive anti-climax, not enough celebrating, staring down the barrel, bit of a life crisis.

Yeah, quarter life crisis. They exist. Although I really don’t intend to live to 80. And everything people say about how hard it is to find a job right now - totally 100% true. C’est impossible. I’m not even going to get into it otherwise I will descend into (further) madness.

I’ve been attempting to produce the festival programme for Glade. Biggest nightmare EVER. Talk about too many cooks, there are about 4 guys who *think* they’re in charge, and refuse to communicate with each other. If I didn’t actually have the pressure of needing to produce something at the end the whole episode would be pretty damn hilarious.

I am washing my hands of it come Monday. No doubt it’ll rumble on for at least another month whilst they change their minds, change it back again, and maybe even cut a stage or two. But it costs me £8 every time they implement a little change, and HSBC are not happy with me as it is, and quite frankly after 3 weeks of it I think I’ve had my fill of dance, dub-step and breaks. And no, I won’t be taking them up on the offer of a free ticket, thank you very much. God knows what a bunch of ravers would do to a little indie girl like me. Probably daub me in neon paint and tie me to a totem pole.

The new and long awaited My Latest Novel album is amazing. Those guys really know how to mix up rhythms with amazing results. Who would’ve thought a change from 3 to 4 time could actually make you cry? Not me. And who doesn’t love a Scottish accent.

Also Drever McCusker and Woomble are playing the Wimbourne Folk Festival. Amazing! I was speculating if they’d actually get someone decent, and there they are! Cannot wait. Roddy Woomble in Wimbourne. Quite the juxtaposition. And also alliteration.

So, to end this brief flurry of excitement and commitment, I’m decamping to Twitter, my new love, at least for this week.

No blog, no job, apparently

Apparently you can get a job just for having a blog. I find this hard to believe, but I'm not really in a position to be turning down any potential jobs, so I am reinstating this bad boy.

Current dilemma - 3000 words left of the dissertation and the idea bank is severely overdrawn. I am in debt when it comes to things to write about. I owe ideas. I have none. And 3000 words to write. I'm not gambler, but these are bad, bad odds. And depending on divine inspiration seems a little risky, for obvious reasons. I'm going to end up writing about something utterly ridiculous like toadstools.

Current delights - Frightened Rabbit, Creme Eggs, more new dresses than anyone than anyone could possibly need, impending Embra trip, extra long leggings from H+M, sunshine, The Acorn and Elbow show, impending Doves show, seeing Ford on Easter Sunday, ILLFIT Loney Dear show.

Current rubbish things - eating too many sweets, deadlines, dissertation, Kings of Leon being played 6 times a day on the radio, Vodafone, sold-out Idlewild shows, taking 3 months to get 150 pages into a book, Ticketmaster still being Ticketmaster.


Dissertation ideas on a postcard plz...