'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.)