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.