Remember that ad with the bouncing balls and the Jose Gonzales soundtrack? Here's the follow up, should you be interested. It appears that it's not done with CGI but real environmentally friendly paint. This means I'm going to have to apologise to those with whom I've argued that the bouncing balls from the previous ad were made on a computer (or computers) because they were real too. I am even more cynical than I believed.

I must be bored.

Comedy in the news

I haven't got time to comment on this article from the creator of Alan Partridge (and friend of this page) because I have to go to work. But it's well worth your effort.

In the news

Troops in Afghanistan take the high ground.

OTTAWA (Reuters) - Canadian troops fighting Taliban militants in Afghanistan have stumbled across an unexpected and potent enemy -- almost impenetrable forests of 10-feet-high marijuana plants.

General Rick Hillier, chief of the Canadian defense staff, said on Thursday that Taliban fighters were using the forests as cover. In response, the crew of at least one armored car had camouflaged their vehicle with marijuana.

"The challenge is that marijuana plants absorb energy, heat very readily. It's very difficult to penetrate with thermal devices ... and as a result you really have to be careful that the Taliban don't dodge in and out of those marijuana forests," he said in a speech in Ottawa.

"We tried burning them with white phosphorous -- it didn't work. We tried burning them with diesel -- it didn't work. The plants are so full of water right now ... that we simply couldn't burn them," he said.

Even successful incineration had its drawbacks.

"A couple of brown plants on the edges of some of those (forests) did catch on fire. But a section of soldiers that was downwind from that had some ill effects and decided that was probably not the right course of action," Hillier said dryly.

One soldier told him later: "Sir, three years ago before I joined the army, I never thought I'd say 'That damn marijuana'."

Boom, boom, boom, boom.

That's better. Here we are, apparently on the brink of armageddon once again, just like the good old days. As if we haven't got enough to worry about. Still, lots of interesting stuff on the subject here for your reading pleasure. Wikipedia's entry on nuclear warfare is worth a look. In the spurious interests of balance I should direct you to these 'facts' refuting the potential ills of nuclear war. It's from something called 'Fort Freedom' which has vomit-inducing connotations in itself and was apparently written by some rabid anti-communist republican type. It all reminds me of a book I once had called 'Nuclear War: The Facts' in the 1980s, which was full of useful tips on how to build your own shelter at home. And yes, hiding under a table was considered a good idea. I'll try and dig it out when I get back from stocking up on bottled water and tins of corned beef.

More YouTube goodies, this time from Adam Buxton, who is part of Adam and Joe. He's the Adam part and his site has some amusing stuff on it. I'd say 'content' but that makes it sound like McDonalds. It's much more DIY and none the worse for that. He's recently done some really funny features on Charlie Brooker's Screen Wipe on BBC4 which has me laughing until I have to stop, or something less funny comes on. AB provided a spoof director's commentary-style dissection of the late night ITV 'quiz' show featuring former-Big Brother-winner Bryan Whatever. I'll try and hunt it down. You probably had to be there.

Afternoon!

This afternoon's offering comes from that notorious time-gobbler YouTube, from the mind of the always-brilliant Armando Ianucci. (I apologise if this first draft spelling is wrong, although I very much doubt he'll be reading. In fact, as an aside, I think I've finally worked out what this blog is for. Let's face it, the paucity of comments means even the loyal few have deserted me. And I can't really blame them. So it's not so much about what I write, the occasional pithy commentary or ballsy cultural review. Nor is the purpose of the work done here at bloodygravity to illuminate the wonderful corners of the web and signpost them for us all. Well, maybe that is the point, but my point, at least at this point - if I may point this out - is that it one day it may come into play as an insight into the way I was thinking or even attempting to keeping thoughts at bay. On any given date in the last three years or so. In fact, looking back over some of it and this holds water. Unlike the seive I recently bought. Leaked like a seive. Very disappointing.)

Anyway, after that considerable digression, follow that link from above (no, not heaven or the sky) and you can see just how little political choice we really have in Britain today. Britain today? Don't get me started. That'll have to wait for next time.

REVIEW: Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Qu'ran

The new season at Southampton's Nuffield theatre is out of the starting blocks. Last week Eric-Emmanuel Schmitt's whimsical play Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Qu'ran (translated from the French original by Patricia Benecke and Patrick Driver) made a welcome appearance after a successful run in Edinburgh and London.

Moses (James Daley) is a Jewish teenager struggling along with an unhappy father in 1960s Paris. When wrongly accused of stealing money by his father, he decides that he may as well live down to his reputation and starts pinching cash to fund his precocious trips to the local red light district. When he gets caught shoplifting by Sufi Muslim Monsieur Ibrahim (Sam Dastor), the wiley old grocer offers Moses the paternal affection and guidance he lacks. An unlikely friendship blossoms as the two embark on a series of minor adventures and discussions that shine a light upon both their lives, forging a strong bond despite the adolescent surliness of one protagonist and the old-fashioned reserve of the other.

Both actors deliver fine, engaging performances, full of warmth, humour and humanity. At one point, Moses muses that 'Jews, Muslims and Christians had many great men in common before we started hitting each other over the head.' Certainly, there are lessons within but the script never gets bogged down with preaching. To criticise the narrative for its oversimplification of the issues of age, race and religion is to miss the point: central to this play is what the characters share, not what divides them.

It would have been good to discover more about Monsieur Ibrahim, to have more flesh on the bones, as it were. Having said this, the performance comes in at a lean 70 minutes and proceeds at a brisk pace so this is a mere niggle rather than an accusation that the play lacks substance.

Monsieur Ibrahim and the Flowers of the Qu'ran was made into an acclaimed film starring Omar Sharif in 2003. The staging at The Nuffield was confined to a single set with inspired use of lighting, but the dynamics of this slight, uplifting piece are really all about character and dialogue.

A tender, funny and timely production.

REVIEW: Concrete Jungle Boogie (08-07-06)

Jools Holland’s Rhythm and Blues Orchestra rolled their wagons into Southampton Common, the great expanse of green in the heart of the concrete jungle, on Saturday night. And what a night it was. Damian Cook was in the middle of it.

Arriving at the Common, the set-up seemed terribly civilised. Picnics abounded and a genuine festival atmosphere pervaded the unseasonably chilly evening. My, my, it certainly wasn’t rock ‘n’ roll, but I liked it. There was a proper, reasonably priced bar with tables, friendly staff and all the trimmings. The organisers had even laid on flushing toilets with doors that locked. And rightly so, what with the ticket price approaching the £40 mark.

As I tucked into some splendid organic honey ale and attempted to eat my body weight in hummus (as I believe is the done thing at these events), Christopher Holland tried to warm up the crowd with his piano playing and vocal stylings - uncannily similar to brother Jools’ - with a few Squeeze and Ray Charles numbers. Perhaps he’s not blessed with the best set of pipes but his solo set served as a pleasant introduction and seemed to go down well.

Onto the main attraction. Jools and his band took to the stage to thunderous applause and as the first note was played the vast majority of the punters leapt to their feet and stayed there for the duration. Boogie woogie indeed, ladies and gentlemen. It may not have been the warmest night of the summer so far but nobody seemed to notice. Making my way to the front of an increasingly animated (and, by now, well-oiled) crowd, it was clear to see that the band genuinely love what they do. The Rhythm and Blues Orchestra isn’t about stars or unnecessary bells and whistles. What you get is great tunes, astounding musicianship and a real good-time feeling.

The sound quality on the night was exceptional and did justice to the stunning voices of guest singers Sam Brown and “British soul sensation Ruby Turner” (Jools’ words but I’m not going to argue with him).

It would be wrong to end this without commenting on Jools himself. We all know about his piano playing, but to hear it live through a top-drawer PA is truly impressive and his amiable on-stage persona ensured that the party atmosphere never faltered. Even during the inevitable drum solo.

An eye-popping firework display rounded off a great evening that even the most jaded of cynics would grudgingly admit to having enjoyed. I count myself among them.

Friday Round-Up

Let's have a round-up, shall we? So much culture to share, of both the high and low varieties (OK, just low then and therefore NOT SAFE FOR WORK!). How about this affectionate tribute to the action comics of my youth to start off? Be warned: some of the language contained renders this NOT SAFE FOR WORK as I mentioned earlier. It is funny though. In a childish way.

A blog entry about the evils of Maggie Thatcher from the nice people at The Gallows? Here you go. They write funny things.

There is so much to see at the home of themanwhofellasleep you really won't know where to start. Tres amusant. I was immediately charmed by the title bar which says: "Three men walk into a pub. They are instantly killed," which says something about me. The links at the bottom of the page are from the top drawer (if you want my opinion which is, as I've said before, what you get here) and you shouldn't be surprised if a lot of them end up on this page somewhere.

Like here, for example. This link is probably a bit obscure for most of my beloved readers. It's devoted to retro gaming and things like the ZX Spectrum (a very early home computer that I owned and loved dearly) but I'll put it here all the same. There's an emulator so you can relive the days of rubbish games. Rose-tinted specs not included.

You want more? Go here for a nice bit of satire.

Allow me to finish with a moan. Today: NME.com. Considering its high standing in music circles why is their website so lame? Almost nothing works (for me anyway) and I can never find anything I'm after. I assume they're worried about the online presence eating into their circulation. Whatever, no time for a rant today - and besides it seems a bit trivial - but vote with your feet and don't visit them until they respond to my numerous anonymous complaints. Never liked NME anyway.

REVIEW: The Cult @ Southampton Guildhall 19-09-06

Cards on the table time before we get started: The Cult were one of my favourite bands when I was growing up, a process that I should admit is still very much ‘ongoing’. So it was with no little excitement that I greeted the news that they were playing in my home town after years apart. I may be well into my thirties now but I still have affection for the music I loved in my teens. Hopefully it’s not just me.

In fact it’s definitely not just me if the crowd at the Guildhall were any indication. It wasn’t too hard to spot numerous old rockers, a good handful of Goths in full regalia (they just can’t let it go) along with the usual indie kids et al. The Cult always did attract a diverse audience.

And so to the gig. Southampton Guildhall is not renowned for its acoustic qualities - much like the majority of similar municipal buildings in this country – but the last couple of years have seen marked improvement. Until last night.

Let’s start at the very beginning. There was no support band. This wasn’t an issue in itself as I assumed the main attraction would want to play a longer set. Instead, the band arrived on stage at 9:20 PM. For many that had meant at least an hour of waiting around in what is hardly what you’d call an inspirational space, at the mercy of the horrendously over-priced, over-packed bar. If this already sounds like a whinge then bear in mind that the tickets cost £22.50 (mine was free but that doesn’t mean I have to lie). That’s a lot of money for just over 90 minutes of music.

And that’s the reason we were there: the music. If I had another card to turn over it would say ‘Shoot the sound man/woman’. If this sounds a bit strong then I apologise but even the band knew something was rotten. Cool-as-ever (if that concept has any meaning when you’re his age) guitarist Billy Duffy asked if anyone could hear a humming coming from one of the onstage amps. The answer was ‘yes’. Within three songs I was questioning my desire to stand any more of the frankly hideous, muddy screech coming from the PA system.

They’d had all day to soundcheck. Perhaps the delights of ‘the south’s premier shopping destination’ were just too much for band and crew to resist. At this point they were probably regretting not having any support, as everyone knows that opening acts are only there to allow the engineers to refine the sound thereby making the headliners sound good. Ian Astbury’s voice – before tonight one of the most distinctive and powerful in rock music – was, for the majority of the gig, reduced to an anonymous howl, enveloped with distortion and feedback and often drowned out by Duffy’s guitar wailing.

Luckily for all, the material still stands up (although I appreciate that nostalgia may play a role here). The band wisely drew the majority of the set from their 1980s albums, the shimmering Love, raucous Rick Rubin-produced Electric, and larger-than-life Sonic Temple, with a nod to 1984’s Dreamtime in the form of Spiritwalker. An acoustic version of Edie (Ciao, baby) seemed slightly half-baked but a full-blooded Fire Woman was as barnstorming as its lyrics are dumb, the naiveté of Revolution and Rain was oddly charming while the rock stomp of Electric was exactly what most of us were there for (Peace Dog and Love Removal Machine, anyone?).

Astbury is still a great frontman with bags of attitude and a new-found resemblance to Jim Morrison – no doubt as a result of his role in the recent, litigious resurrection of The Doors. Questioning the crowd’s early lethargy he kept saying: “Come on, wake up for f**k’s sake. It’s The Cult!” while Duffy offered that gigs like these were “as rare as the Yeti”. They had a point though, as the Southampton crowd was customarily stationary. Perhaps they were busy clamping their hands over their ears.

The sound improved towards the end. Not hugely (my ears were shredded by then anyway) but enough for inevitable show-closer She Sells Sanctuary to deliver something of the warm glow I’d been hoping for all night. Then the band finally got the response they were after and even looked, dare I say, strangely grateful.

COMMENT: Let me get this straight...

#1. Pope makes speach appealing to reason and nonviolence... uses a quote that is probably not the smartest to use.

#2. Muslims take his quotes out of context and get angry because they think he called them and their prophet violent....

#3. So to prove everyone wrong... they carry around signs calling for muslims to "behead those" that insult them... and then they shoot a nun in the back, kidnap a priest, call for the assassination of the Pope... as if this will show the world how mistaken the Pope was? Good thing Islam is the religion of peace... otherwise there might be violence.

Am I the only one who thinks this is ridiculous? (with thanks to the ever brilliant mediawatchwatch for the image. Go to the site and read the entry from 18 September for more insight.)

Bestival 2006: Episode IV: some hope

The last hurrah of the summer was for me the only hurrah of the summer. For that reason and others Bestival 2006 was going to be a weekend with no barriers. Early in the day it appeared that - subconsciously at least – I intended to apply this maxim to the letter when I very nearly crashed the car into a barrier in a supermarket car park in Newport. Still, onwards and upwards.

Allow me to get a bit of a moan out of the way before we continue. It must be said that the early signs were less than encouraging. At 10AM - when the gates were due to open - cracks started to appear. These subsequently widened into great yawning chasms as online and telephone bookings went missing, the organisers (a term to be taken lightly as they were already 30 minutes late when the house of cards began to tumble) decided to re-label the windows that punters had been queuing in front of for over an hour before realising that there was no power to fire up their computers. This was all rather immaterial as the printer had gone into meltdown the night before in the middle of spitting out a list of all the names of the ticket holders. Surnames from A through M, join the crush. Everyone else… er, we don’t know. Wristbands arrived. The wrong ones. Guest lists arrived. “No, the blue folder… Not that blue folder… Oh dear. This is the last thing we wanted to happen…” These were the last words I heard as I nabbed my wristband and attempted to make my pilgrim’s progress.

Squeezing through the smallest imaginable gap with a significant amount of luggage (is that what it’s called at a festival?) involved clobbering anyone and everyone clamouring at the ticket windows with tents and all manner of related paraphernalia in order to make your way to the festival gates proper. This was where the real problems began.

Once through the security checkpoint (actually two trestle tables manned by disinterested but amiable guards) we were confronted with a 70 metre downhill slope so steep and treacherous that you’d have thought twice about tackling it un-laden, never mind with all the trappings (rucksack, tent, sleeping bag, enough wine to keep 30 people smiling for a month, cider for the same, fancy dress costume, changes of clothes destined to remain unworn etc). Fellow Bestival-goers were approaching this mini-Matterhorn with large trolleys, wheelbarrows and anything with wheels they were able to drag out of their sheds. Many visibly struggled to stay in control of their improvised wagons and I certainly didn’t fancy my chances should one of them become a runaway train. Later on, reports circulated of twisted ankles and broken legs and, while this may have been a case of Chinese whispers, I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was true. (A security guard told me on Sunday that five people had broken their legs, although I’ve been unable to get confirmation of this. Probably best hushed-up if it was true. The last thing you want at a festival is the Health and Safety Executive: they have a way of putting a dampener on things.)

No barriers and broken limbs. Luckily for all things improved immeasurably from this point. (to be continued)

Bestival 2006!

It's been a long, tiring weekend but a blooming marvellous one all the same. So much to tell, so little energy with which to tell it. So, while you wait for the definitive guide to the highlights of the weekend's festivities (I'm piecing it together slowly) why don't we let some pictures do the talking? I wish I'd taken a lot more but I was having too much fun to trudge to the press tent to recharge the camera battery. On we go, straight off the camera...

Crikey!

Here's a little extract from Germaine Greer writing in the Guardian. Beauty!

"What Irwin never seemed to understand was that animals need space. The one lesson any conservationist must labour to drive home is that habitat loss is the principal cause of species loss. There was no habitat, no matter how fragile or finely balanced, that Irwin hesitated to barge into, trumpeting his wonder and amazement to the skies. There was not an animal he was not prepared to manhandle. Every creature he brandished at the camera was in distress. Every snake badgered by Irwin was at a huge disadvantage, with only a single possible reaction to its terrifying situation, which was to strike. Easy enough to avoid, if you know what's coming. Even my cat knew that much. Those of us who live with snakes, as I do with no fewer than 12 front-fanged venomous snake species in my bit of Queensland rainforest, know that they will get out of our way if we leave them a choice. Some snakes are described as aggressive, but, if you're a snake, unprovoked aggression doesn't make sense. Snakes on a plane only want to get off. But Irwin was an entertainer, a 21st-century version of a lion-tamer, with crocodiles instead of lions."

According to another article I read recently (but can't find now) the term 'snakes on a plane' has become a kind of US shorthand for c'est la vie. For example: one chap drives into the back of another at a junction. They get out to inspect the damage. The guy whose car has been bumped is distraught.

"Look what you've done to my car!" he cries.

"Snakes on a plane, dude. Snakes on a plane."

And, for me, this sums up the silly Australian's fate.

In pursuit of outlaw cool

When music has become so heavily branded and effort-free, it's no wonder illegal raves are back

Alexis Petridis
Wednesday August 30, 2006
The Guardian

There is a certain glorious serendipity about the illegal rave scene once more rearing its unkempt head at the same time as the Carling Weekend festivals. To the outside world at least, it has been missing presumed dormant for over a decade: it was last noticed when a 1995 attempt to stage a vast rave in defiance of the Criminal Justice Act was scuppered by - and you may be ahead of me here - the Criminal Justice Act. Now it is in the spotlight again, apparently attracting thousands to disused airfields, drawing the ire of Tory MPs, chucking things at policemen who try to stop it. Last weekend, at least three illegal raves took place at the same time as a vast rock festival that forms part of a lager brand's deathless attempt to "own" youth culture.

It is hard not to draw a comparison: anyone looking for a reason why the rave scene is picking up popularity again might consider that rock and pop music has never been more in thrall to corporate sponsorship or more willing to license music to advertisers, has never seemed more unrepentantly venal than it does today. Veterans of an era when the Clash refused to appear on Top of the Pops and "selling out" was an endlessly debated topic might be shocked by today's climate, in which any artist who refuses to "play the game" is met with the kind of spluttering disbelief that greeted Gnarls Barkley's refusal to license their music to a McDonald's campaign: "Perhaps they prefer Burger King," sneered one US magazine.

The situation has become more obvious than ever during 2006's festival season. This year, Glastonbury took a sabbatical. Into the breach rode dozens of events that frankly made the Carling Weekend look as dangerous as Altamont. Their aim seemed to be twofold. First to flog everything from mobile phones to deodorant via branding. And second to finally rid the rock festival of its historical connotations as a byword for mud-spattered countercultural depravity, to hose it down and transform it into light entertainment for the kind of thirtysomething audience who turn up with a lot of elaborate picnic equipment. The end result is like a cross between Glyndebourne and Bluewater shopping centre - hardly an atmosphere in which to enjoy the Flaming Lips.

Youth culture - and by extension rock and pop music - is supposed to have at least a veneer of disreputability, to be the stuff of moral panics and generation gaps and why-oh-why articles in the Daily Mail. Fifty years of history suggest that rock and pop music never actually poses any significant threat to establishment values; if it did, as Paul Weller once dolefully remarked, "they would have banned it years ago". But it should at least give the appearance of doing so - that's part of its appeal.

It is hard to pretend you're posing a threat to anything other than your own will to live when you're surrounded by corporate logos at an event broadcast on the BBC and attended by ex-Big Brother housemates and the cast of Hollyoaks. What self-respecting teenager wouldn't instead opt for an illegal rave, with its sense of outlaw cool and danger - offering not just drug-fuelled hedonism, but an attendant palaver involving the chance to run across motorways, trespass on private property and the occasional spot of light rioting?

In fact, the attendant palaver may hold another key to the illegal rave's burgeoning appeal. In 2006 everyone is conspiring to make music as effortless as possible - virtually anything you might want to hear is available at the click of a mouse. But convenience isn't everything. Morrissey once posited that music mattered more to fans in the 70s, before downloading and MySpace and digital radio catered to their every whim. It's human nature to value something more if you have to struggle to get it, and you certainly have to struggle a bit to attend an illegal rave - before you hear a note, you have to endlessly text and check websites to find the location, avoid police roadblocks, scramble under hedges and cheat death in the fast lane of the M23. It may be the only time the modern music fan is required to put any effort in at all. Taking that into account, the question might not be why teenagers go to illegal raves, but why teenagers attend any other kind of music event at all.

Nachos: the king of healthy bar snacks. Could I have more melted cheese with that? Marvellous.

Ice on a barbecue? Perfectly normal and great for giving your drinks that smoky flavour. I'm hoping the phrase 'ice on a barbecue' will become as popular as 'snakes an a plane'. Actually, that's already getting tiring. And this is getting random.

Here is Southampton's Mayflower park at sunset. There is a distinct lack of places where you can get near the waterside in the city. This is one of them.

Imitations of life

How's that for a pretentious title for a post which contains nothing more that a few pictures taken at random junctures on my mobile phone/camera/thought control and tracking device (a Sony Ericsson K750i as it happens, technology fans). On the left you'll see how I am categorised on iTunes. 'Great' didn't appear in any of the drop-down menus so I added it myself. Nobody was going to do it for me.

Shocking entertainment news

Lots to get through today so let's get started. Regular readers will know that I'm not particularly taken with the way our culture has become bogged down with 'celebrity' and 'news as entertainment' and 'lowest common denominator'. After all, this is a serious blog for serious people. OK, you got me there. I admit, I did watch a fair bit of Big Brother this time round. I don't even like it which makes this confession all the more bewildering (Although I did find it was very good at clearing the mind after a hectic day. Not that this makes it OK). Don't mind me: I was just trying to add a little gravitas to temper what is going to follow. The 'news' stories you are about to be subjected to have been all over the web today and I feel compelled bring them to your attention.

First up:

Bin Laden 'infatuated' with Whitney Houston

Al Qaida chief Osama bin Laden was obsessed with singer Whitney Houston and wanted to marry her, a new book claims.

Kola Boof, a Sudanese poet and novelist who says she was kept against her will as the terror boss's mistress in 1996, writes in her autobiography that he wanted to give the star a mansion and make her one of his wives.

"He told me that Whitney Houston was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen," Boof claims in Diary of a Lost Girl, excerpts of which are published in Harper's magazine.

But Bin Laden had less respect for Houston's husband Bobby Brown, apparently talking about the possibility of having him killed.

"He said that he had a paramount desire for Whitney Houston and although he claimed music was evil, he spoke of some day spending vast amounts of money to go to America and try to arrange a meeting with the superstar," Boof writes.

"He said he wanted to give Whitney Houston a mansion that he owned in a suburb of Khartoum.

"He explained to me that to possess Whitney, he would be willing to break his colour rule and make her one of his wives."

Bin Laden would speak constantly about "how beautiful she [Houston] is, what a nice smile she has, how truly Islamic she is but is just brainwashed by American culture and by her husband - Bobby Brown, whom Osama talked about having killed, as if it were normal to have women's husbands killed."

Boof, who also says the Al Qaida supremo would "ramble on" about his favourite TV shows, The Wonder Years, Miami Vice and MacGyver, adds: "In his briefcase, I would come across photographs of the star, as well as copies of Playboy ... It would soon come to the point where I was sick of hearing Whitney Houston's name."

There is so much to laugh at here it's hard to know where to start. With all due respect, where's the journalistic rigour in having a little known (read never bloody heard of and must have one hell of a PR company behind her book launch) Sudanese poet as your (apparently) only source. Not that journalistic rigour is at the top of the list when it comes to stories about Osama bin Laden. But what does this piece actually achieve? I'll leave that for you to comment on. Suffice to say that anyone who wants to remove Bobby Brown from the gene pool has my support. Having said this I'd have to question Osama's choice of TV programmes. No bloody wonder he (allegedly) hates the west so much. The Wonder Years, Miami Vice and MacGyver? Apparently, some of his wives requested bhurkas with the eye slots sewn up when that lot came on. No more questions, your honour.


There's more:

Keane singer treated for drug use

Keane frontman Tom Chaplin is being treated for drink and drug problems, the band have confirmed.

In a statement on the band's website, the 27-year-old said the time had come "to get the professional help I need to sort myself out".

Earlier this month the band cancelled shows in Edinburgh, Dublin and Ibiza, saying at the time that the singer was suffering from exhaustion.

They have also postponed a North American tour planned for next month.

Chaplin's statement said: "I've been having to deal with an increasing problem with drink and drugs, and the time has come to get the professional help I need to sort myself out.

"I feel desperately disappointed to be letting down our fans, but I want to get myself right now so that I can be back on the road for the rest of the year."

Now, I must be a proper cold-hearted sort of individual but so what? In my opinion (which, as I've said, is exactly what you get here) getting whacked out of their gourds is exactly what all self-respecting bands should be doing (OK, it's doesn't work for all of them but if you don't give it a try strikes me as a wasted opportunity and is clearly unfair on those of us who would like to have a go) Keane never came across as that sort of band and their chubby-faced vocalist was always the least likely candidate for drugged-up excess.

My cynicism leads me to suspect that this story might be a way to improve their image and make them seem a bit more edgy (a helluva job for some poor sod) thus ensuring that when they return to the live arena chubby-cheeks receives a hero's welcome, or something. I don't mean to make light of another man's inability to handle his intake but I offer this advice: (1) lay off the Sudafed (can cause drowsiness but you'll be used to that from your own music) and (2) making your own (full sugar) Ribena and not putting in as much water as mother does only constitutes a drinking problem in certain parts of Chichester.

(Apologies for the lack of images and the usual inspiring layout in this post. As I'm sure you're aware, the internet is a fragile thing, despite what anyone believes, and large swathes of it are often crocked, which in my opinion makes a mockery of the reasons for its construction in the first place. Do not under any circumstances throw away your pens and paper. They are bug-proof.)

Newspaper columnist speaks on my behalf

When I first read this it was like seeing my own thoughts written down by someone else. Spooky. Have a look and let me know what you think. Is it just me and him? I'd like to think not.

The soon-to-be-world-famous Unsafe Walls sketch

I know what you're thinking: this page is looking great and has finally arrived in the 21st Century. As much as I'd grown to love the old DIY monstrosity I decided it was time for a makeover, especially if I am to welcome a whole new band of readers soon to be siphoned off from the new asanga and anderson website which went live yesterday (went live... that sounds important. If the web isn't about shameless self-promotion I don't know what it's for).

Nothing has really changed here at BloodyGravity Towers, except stuff now works properly. The links collection (still very much worth a browse, fun fans) has moved to the right beneath the recent posts list (I don't know how to get shot of that at the moment) and you can still leave your comments. Admittedly I haven't given you much to respond to lately but that'll soon change (how many times have you heard that one?).

Other news for music lovers is that there's a new track up on Cookie Sounds for your listening pleasure. While we're on the subject, if you haven't done so already get yourself on MySpace and join me at my other little home here. That's enough time wasted for one rainy lunch time.

First post from me in a while for reasons I won't go into now (and if I'd kept this updated I wouldn't need to anyway. Still...) Today I want to use this page to announce the launch of asangaandanderson.com, the latest venture from some good friends of these pages. I put the site together so I am really just blowing my own trumpet and while they're in Edinburgh (it's festival time after all) there's not much they can do about it.

Do drop by, watch the funny short video (I'm an extra in that too - now there's a story) and leave your comments in the guestbook. It will make them very happy and it may even do the same for you.

What follows wasn't written by me but it sums up my opinion on last night's semi final. No sour grapes intended as I don't believe England were good enough to win anyway. Hate mail to the usual address, you poor deluded fools.

France 1 v Portugal 0

A terrible game of football in terms of quality. An excellent game in terms of the result.

Portugal have, yet again, demonstrated what they are: a disgraceful third rate football team composed of cheats, pantomime dames and low quality players who have managed to con their way to a semi-final.

The only good points were Zidane's sweetly taken penalty and the constant booing of Ronaldo.

Ronaldo's 'Superman' dive for a penalty claim was hillarious. Figo was a good player in his day, but no more. Ronaldo is a technicaly good player but a very poor sportsman. He has no need to cheat as his skills are capable of doing the talking. Unfortunately he suffers heavily from the Portuguese disease.

Scolari's antics were disgraceful and an insult to all.

Portugal now have worldwide recognition as the dirtiest, low-life team on the planet. Referee's of the world are now fully hip to their cheating nature. This will come back and hit them in the face big time. The boy has cried wolf too many times.

Let's hope they do not qualify for, and spoil, anymore tournaments. Football will be all the better for it.

Luis Philipe Scolari, Vasco da Gama, Agostinho da Silva, Nelly Furtado, Eusebio, Jose Mourinho: your boys took a hell of a beating.

The filthy scab on the body football has been picked off for now.

Do yourself a favour and get over to myspace, ignoring any preconceived notions you may have and download the two songs available on the Gracie page. It's damn good music, but you won't need me to tell you that.

You still here?

BBC2: The nice lady introduces a programme that promises to explore the issue of, and I quote: "How the digital revolution will change the way we buy music forever."

Wow. As if, a few years down the line (presumably when mankind is once again tilling the fields in some post-cataclismic, agrarian era, doubtless the result of post-war greed etc.) people are going to decide to go back to buying records, or gathering around the wireless, or perhaps performing in the village square. Things change: it's called progress, people. And this programme is adding nothing to the debate.

How wonderfully insightful: They've moved on, with depressing inevitability, to the favoured journalistic over-simplification of the Arctic Monkeys and Myspace. Of which more will follow later.

Go here.

(I wonder if Ken gets many requests...)

With apologies for my prolonged absence from these pages (I have been making real life newspapers that people read) allow me to direct you to the often well-written Pitchfork, in particular this amusing feature about bad album covers. Music, culture and humour - I give you these gifts with a few humble keystrokes.

Slightly worrying is how the author views this sceptred isle of ours:

Mock-metal bands pop up a lot these days. Pinback's Rob Crow fronts Goblin Cock. The Darkness topped charts on that farting frog ringtone island.

"Farting frog ringtone island?" I've never been so insulted etc. etc.

Continuing with today's cheery theme, I ran a search on the Chinese version of Google, which you may recall was widely reported as being subject to censorship when it launched. I believe it was a deal whereby Google got a foothold in China and the Chinese government were seen to be allowing wider adoption of the internet, providing the searches didn't throw up anything portraying the administration in a negative way. Unlucky for them that people always find a way to get around these obstacles, as demonstrated by the appearance of this link.

(Also worth checking here for a bit of context and here for something on Iran by the same author. Not saying it's particularly good or bad, just that it's there. So much for filtering)

The brutal lengths some people will go to to protect a political system that is flawed, unjust and monstrously oppressive. The images still resonate today as much as they did when I was 16 watching them on TV. Hopefully I'll cheer up in a bit and move on to something happier.

In the absence of any real enthusiasm for much today (probably due to the post-Bank Holiday blues - you know how it is) all I can suggest is that you sign up and contribute to this forum, started by a good friend of this page. At the moment its founder is set on it being all about Photoshop and related gubbins (one of his latest passions) and while he may not thank me for this I think we can take it to new and exciting places. You never know what may come of it unless you try.

On an unrelated note - and if you want to get good and annoyed - have a read of this article on the BBC stars' salaries. If it doesn't have you spluttering into your Ovaltine with barely suppressed rage (funnily enough that's my default setting) then I'm not trying hard enough. Bearing in mind that I am usually quite positive about the BBC (like my opinions count), and I understand the concept of paying top wages to attract the best talent, could someone explain to me how the likes of Edith Bowman (among others) fit into this? Please.

A further rummage will reveal the pay packets of the Eastenders cast but at the time of writing I am unable to post the links due to cold, apoplectic (I had to look it up too) anger at the savage injustice of it all. And more than likely a pinch of jealousy (note to self: studying your bits off to get a first class honours degree, working hard for the majority of your adult life, possessing a brain the size of a small planet and doing your best to be a decent human being along the way is worth a shedload less than the ability to say "Leave it out, mum" unconvincingly while looking like you just licked battery acid from a razorwire fence a la Martin Fowler).

It's getting towards that time of year when I start to see the appeal of going outside again. Admittedly, I am sat indoors as I compose this with blinds to protect me from the sun's deadly radiation. Hurrah for Spring and, believe it or not, there's quite a lot to do and see in the coming months. So 'why don't you' check out (public service blogging, that's what I'm about. Today...) the EAT Festival site for the lowdown on all that is happening in the realms of Emerging Artistic Talent (the three day event is taking place at the end of April). You may even want to get involved, although involvement isn't something those lurking around this site are known for. But who knows? This could be the time to throw off the shackles of cynicism and show your creative endeavours to the wider world. I said could be.

Anyway, EAT is supported by lots of nice-sounding, blue-sky-thinking, artistically-minded people including the folks at aspace gallery, Somnio (there is some good local street art on the site, if that's your thing) plus the usual host of local PR chancers practitioners making a living by 'empowering' and branding the whole thing (they don't need the links). For the record, I reckon a festival of this kind is a great thing for Southampton and it certainly has the potential to be an interesting weekend, although 'the arts' is a pretty broad term, leading me to fear the presence of local 'poets' reciting their latest nonsense coupled with self-important sub-boho trustafarians congratulating each other in a daisy chain of mutual self-satisfaction. Not to pre-judge of course. We'll see. Provided we attend the events.

(I don't know about you but I've never really taken to poetry. Or maybe it's that it just doesn't like me. It could be because - at its worst - I find it impenetrable and self-indulgent, or perhaps it reminds me of the time when I worked for a magazine that ran a monthly poetry competition: it was my task to edit and page up these affronts to the English language. I shudder at the memory...)

While I am single-handedly supporting the creatives of this fair city of Southampton (damn, my secret location revealed. Now my enemies will find me and smite me down. Or something) it would be prudent to give mention to (all that talk of smiting has given me cause to write olde englische...) the BBC's Big Screen Online Film Festival. I've had a look at a few of the entries and some of them are really impressive. As with all these kind of events, there's a strong showing from the animation world, which is good for me because I love all that stuff. Plus, you really should get on the BBC website because (a) you pay for it and (b) it's rather good (and how it makes me happy when I email them about yet another spelling error. Sad but it keeps me off the streets at night.) There's a clip of a comedy entry (oops!) called Gloves that left me wanting to see more.

As usual, your comments will be welcomed like the proverbial prodigal son.

Here's a piece on the revival of class snobbery from today's Guardian that I found interesting. You may too. I have a few things I'd like to add when it comes to this particular subject, being white and working class and all that. Perhaps I'll add my comments later.

While I'm in a linking mood, have a look at the latest post on the Introspective Superstring (great name; loopy posting). Controversial, but not quite as extreme as I was expecting. That's not to say that I agree with it. Have a read for yourself and I'll catch up with you later.

Here's a review I wrote for a newspaper based in Winchester. I took the picture too. Multi-talented.

I learned a new phrase today: Tabula rasa which is Latin for 'empty canvas' or 'clean slate'. I intend to use it very soon. Meanwhile, feel free to use the space below for your own musings.

'The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles'. Jack Kerouac

A couple of weeks ago I had a review published in a local newspaper. I was excited to get something in print, as you can imagine, so I drove up the M3 to Winchester to grab a few copies from the office. It was the briefest of visits as it was deadline day, but the editor introduced me to a few of the staff. And a pleasant bunch they were too. My next assignment had come in: I was to do a write-up on a night of wrestling at Southampton Guildhall. On hearing this, a big bloke with a bigger smile turned from his screen and shook my hand. He was introduced to me as Max, the reporter, top boy etc. He'd just covered the boxing a few days before at the same venue and wished me luck with my task. We chatted for a few minutes about the Guildhall's terrible bars and draconian anti-smoking policy, shared a joke or two then I made my way out. I probably could have stuck around and made myself useful but the truth was I wanted to get back to the car where I could have a good look at what they'd done with my story (did I get a byline? Did they use the photo?), away from the stares of professional journalist types for whom that was a weekly occurrence. I arrived home a little later to an email from the editor suggesting that I shadow Max the reporter for a few days, to get a feel for the paper and the local area. It's unusual for me to warm to an individual so quickly, but I had a feeling that this Max character was exactly that (a character, for those dozing at the back) and we were going to have a right old laugh. I even mentioned it to my girlfriend, who is far more used to me moaning about the pond life I seem to encounter in my daily life, at least most days.

I was doing my usual rounds of the web yesterday, trying to find inspiration as always for projects not yet conceived. I checked the paper's website (you never know if they're going to put your work online plus you can get an insight into the style, so it's worth a look) and found out that Max Jones had died in a car crash on March 18, two days after I'd met him. He was 33. Now, anyone who knows me will know that I'm not the mawkish type. I don't go for weak sentiment, the new disease of the soft-brained English (a club of which I am a very reluctant member). I've been to more funerals of family members who exited before their time in the last couple of years than anyone I know (apart from the poor buggers who attended those same services). You have the conversation that goes "Death is part of life etc etc" so many times it becomes automatic. And there's the phenomenon whereby an individual is canonized in death when we all know what a grubby loser they were when alive; loving and generous in the tributes, a sadistic despot in reality (note the complete absence of any tossers among the victims of the London bombings; sorry if this sounds glib, it's merely an observation).

But this news really spun me around, made me stop and think about my own life in a way that nothing else has in a long time, almost in inverse proportions to how well I knew the man. Max was the same age as me, give or take. He had a baby daughter. Most of all - having read his work and the many tributes - it's pretty clear he was one of those rare good guys, if such categorization has any meaning at all. He was making his way in the same industry (not forgetting the same world) that I'm trying to infiltrate, doing his job well, enjoying himself and making a lot of friends on the way. What more could you want from a job, or indeed life?

Of course, I've only got his writing and tributes plus one brief meeting to go on. But in this case, that's good enough for me.

Today's link round-up

As is often the case, I had no idea what to post here today so I have decided on a whistle-stop tour of loads of other people's links. First up is aintitcool which is a site for people who like movies and TV way too much. I found that while browsing the Not BBC comedy forum. More than one person has introduced themself to me as a 'comedy historian' or some similar pretentious crap in the last few months. Well, this place is where the really passionate comedy connoisseurs hang out (apparently) and comment on/moan about stuff (worst. show. ever. etc).

If you're after something funny and slightly disturbing - often a good mix - get over to Mr and Mrs Wheatley. The creators are clearly a little 'touched', shall we say. Have a look at the Horror Clown strip. Not laugh out loud stuff, just... odd. I borrowed this link from Dave Gorman's site. You may like him, you may not but he was the starting point for today's activities so we should all be grateful. If I'm going to steal one, I may as well steal them all. So, check out I Hate Music. The writing is really rather funny. Vitriol has always been a friend of mine. I don't hate music on the whole but after reading this for a bit I began to feel I could be persuaded as to the wisdom of Tanya Headon's stance. Although she seems to know a fair bit about music for someone who hates it. I assume it's a case of know your enemy.

This got me thinking: it may sound dumb but a bad name for a band can really put me off. Two examples spring to mind straight away - Bran Van 3000 (rubbish anyway, as I remember) and a more recent one in Pure Reason Revolution (I'm told they're good but I can't get past the self righteous, hippy-esque monicker. "Look at us! We're going to usher in a new dawn, a Revolution of Pure Reason. And all by playing stodgy, electronically-tinged indie-rock," or something). Any other really awful ones? Send them this way while I think of some other horrors (heavy metal band names don't count as they're meant to be upsetting).

There hasn't been much activity here the last few days. For which I am profoundly sorry. As it goes I have been spending a bit of time making music, sweet music (at least that's what it is to these ears...), knowing that next week I'll be at work using up all my energy trying to stay upbeat. Actually, I've been shamelessly ripping off Dave Gilmour's guitar playing (that's the bloke from Pink Floyd) and recording it on a computer but I don't hold that against myself. Highly unfashionable but once you get sucked in there's no end to the fun you can have. Guitar solo heaven, let me tell you. I recorded a couple of improvized solos earlier in the week and have spent this afternoon stringing them all together. With a few ropey edits along the way of course. The great thing is I don't actually recall recording either of the the solo bits but they are both so overblown, messy and bonkers and consequently brilliant that it would be criminal not to share them with you, my reading and listening friends and public. And this is exactly what I will do. A bit later. In the meantime you can continue to be astounded by the free, YES FREE! tracks available at Cookie Sounds. That'll keep you going for a bit.

In a changed to the published schedule, I have a few things to get through today. In no particular order...

Can anyone explain to me the bewildering 'success' of 'Two Pints of Lager and a Packet of Crisps' on BBC3? I say 'success' because it keeps getting recommissioned so someone must be watching it. Just a glimpse of a trailer makes me nauseous so how anybody can subject themselves to a whole 30 minute episode - let alone a whole series - is utterly beyond me. Comedy (and I baulk at associating this stinker of a show with the genre at large) is a many splendoured thing and you can't like all of it. This I appreciate. It's aimed at a younger audience, I hear someone say. So why does it clog BBC3's schedules at the tail end of the evening. Get it over and done with before the watershed and pack the snot-nosed trainee chavs off to bed, or to the crackhouse where they can only be an annoyance to themselves. I'd love to offer a stinging critique here, detailing my reasons for hating this waste of bandwidth (not to mention licence payers' money) but I find myself getting angry at the very thought. There's more laughs to be had watching puppies being fed into a threshing machine, with the sounds of Mike Flowers Pops' rendition of Wonderwall to drown out their anguished (but short-lived) cries. Come to think of it, that wouldn't be an entirely inappropriate fate for the empty-headed schmuck who commissions this drivel. All thanks to the unique way the BBC is funded.

On a more upbeat note... no, it's gone.

Well, that was the thing that was. The inaugural Spoofworld award(s) ceremony. And what a fun time (no pun intended) we had, with Badman the deserving winner. Some of us think he should think about pursuing his rediscovered passion for all things art and design further. Well, I do at least.

The ceremony was enjoyed by all, with fine hospitality provided by Mr Rogers and amusing banter courtesy of me, Jonathan Ross being unavailable on the afternoon in question.

Looking forward to the next chapter. More reactions and comment to follow. Possibly.

(At the time of writing I am unable to upload pictures of the afternoon, the Blogger servers straining under the sheer weight of traffic, probably due to the masses swarming around this small community for more news of this historic event. The buggers.)

Here's another of my creative Photoshop efforts. A variation on a theme, I'm sure you'll notice, but this puts me in with a chance of winning Carl's competition (head to Spoofworld if you want to find out more) with a combination of quality, original ideas and quantity. The stakes have been raised. No doubt Mark will come back fighting unless I can spill some beer on his computer later this evening.

In other news, this week's edition of the Mid Hampshire Observer printed a review I wrote plus a photo, also taken by me. I'll scan it tonight and post it here for your reading pleasure. There will be more to come which is encouraging a week before I have to prostitute myself to the construction industry once again due to the publishing world's inability to recognize real talent when they see it. I'd say it's their loss but that'll be scant consolation when I'm freezing my nuts off on the roof of some godforsaken building in Portsmouth (I know, of all places). Must find something to cheer me up now.

A couple of things to point you towards today: first up is Google Mars which is similar to Google Earth but slightly less useful. Still quite amazing in my opinion (which, as I have said before, is what you get here). The first person to spot the wreckage of the Beagle thingy that crashed there a couple of Christmases ago wins the admiration of his or her friends and a signed Busted CD single. Or something.

Perhaps even more amazing is the appearance of the Introspective Superstring , a new blog from a recent convert to all things blog-related. I was really looking forward to sending the author some abuse but as it turns out it's a sensitive and erudite offering and I'd have to be some sort of heartless sod to get the knives out. And I do have a heart, albeit one shrivelled and blackened with cynicism and barely-suppressed rage. There I was, expecting rants on how pointless all this technlogy stuff is, how the Brazillian football team is boring and a pale imitation of their 1970s forebears and so on. Nothing of the sort. As the man says: "Make people smile. Be happy. Enjoy life. Say thank you." That's is, after all, what this page is meant to be all about (today at least). Go see for yourself.

Oh how I would have loved to have been there to witness this meeting of minds. The great statesman, hero to a generation, promoter of civil rights, pushing for expansion at the very frontiers of freedom. And Nelson Mandela.

Who's the king now, Kong? Who's the daddy?

In the spirit of shameless self-promotion as made possible by the internet it is my pleasure to direct you towards CookieSounds. Admittedly I didn't have a clue what MySpace was until a few weeks ago. In fact, I'm still not entirely up-to-speed as you'll surely notice when you see how little content is on my page. I am aware that Rupert Murdoch has bought myspace so that he can market directly to tomorrow's consumers but I'm just in it for the free storage. Besides, why should teenagers with their incomprehensible mix of street slang and net jockey talk (I don't know what it is either) have all the fun/hog all the bandwidth?
Anyway, you'll find a couple of instrumental tracks on there for your downloading pleasure from your humble author. There will be more to follow. Very much a DIY, punk rock ethic but without the spitting. Or the punk rock. Or the excitement but I'll work on all of that. Everthing you hear (should you so choose) is strictly one-take stuff completely made up on the spot. If I build an international fan base of impressionable and wealthy music fans, all the better (I understand that people can ask to be your friend and link to the page etc: sorry, I'm not hiring at the moment, although this is flexible...)

That's the plug over with. Thanks for tuning in.

Another image courtesy of Carl. Me as Hellraiser? Those days are long gone I'm afraid. There will be no souls torn apart, at least not on my shift.

Look out for this book in all good bookstores. And probably a few bad ones as well. Sorry, scratch that: it doesn't exist.

Another day on the job hunting trail characterized by the usual early morning enthusiasm souring into a despondency that has come to define Monday mornings. Still, plenty to be cheerful about as Badman (his choice of monicker) finally makes his presence felt online with some of his Photoshop madness. As with previous entries (see Spoofworld) it appears I am on the wrong end of some of these questionable artworks but in my opinion all publicity is good publicity. For now. I won't be spouting my knowledge of libel laws and stifling their creative urges anytime soon (unless I run out of funds and can't pay the rent. Watch this space...). I can hardly claim to have much of a reputation to damage anyway.

On that note, I hope you enjoy their efforts.
Some may claim that this is a fair representation of how I would look if I grew my hair. I would respond that, as a teenager, I did indeed grow my hair and it looked nothing like that. Those same claims-makers would then start looking for evidence from 'back-in-the-day' and until they unearth it I am sticking to my story.

Another one from Spoofworld. Yes, another plug. All sponsorship gladly received.

A certain Mr Carl Rogers has finally spilled some of the questionable contents of his brain on to the worldwide web for all to see. Stare blankly into the face of madness with a visit to SPOOFWORLD. See for yourself. I am displaying one of his images to prove my utter lack of vanity as well as to demonstrate his Jedi-like grasp of Photoshop. Hopefully he will pay me to say the last bit.

In my never ending quest to bring you the funniest material I feel I must recommend Holy Moly. Lots of rage and very funny with it. That's the spirit. In fact, I find it strangely inspirational, so much that I am considering starting a new blog filled with swearing. As we all know, swearing IS big AND clever. I'll keep you posted.

Meanwhile, in order that this page holds you gaze for more than ten seconds, allow me to reproduce/copy and paste some of their stuff here:

Subway staff
When I ask for a Sub of the Day with everything on it, that's because it is what I want. So why oh why, every time, do we have to play 20 fucking questions, do I want this on it, do I want that on it, do I want to pay even more money and turn it into a "meal"? Oh and just remember, you are only making a fucking sandwich, don't make out you are performing some fantastic supercool skill that took years to master with that smug "look at me" expression on your ugly spotty face. You look like a twat you sandwich-making-can't-get-a-better-job CUNT.

I have to go along with that one. I haven't been able to eat one of those soggy sarnies since the girl behind the counter with the monumental attitude problem picked her nose WHILE WEARING THE PLASTIC 'HYGIENIC' GLOVES. I ask you.

Colin Montgomery's Ex-Wife
Let's get this straight. This cunt sees her future hubbie playing golf, winning pots of money and living a jet-set lifestyle. She thinks: "I'll have some of that." Marries him. Then, after spending fuckloads of his money, which he earned from playing golf, decides to divorce him because he was, in her words: "obsessed with golf." Didn't complain about all the fucking money his "obsession" brought in. He's a fucking professional golfer, you stupid cunt. Of course he's going to be obsessed with golf.

Go on, dive in.