Following Jessie J's revelation that she is Bi-sexual, and that on occasion she really does do it like a dude (snort) I got thinking about hip-hop in general and whether if it was a male star who had admitted their bisexuality, they would have been accepted so eadily. And I think the answer is, sadly, no. For a genre that began as a way for a persecuted minority to express their views, it seems glibbly ironic that they would so readily use that platform to denounce another minority. One of the most mocked Hip-Hop videos of recent times is this:
But I am the only one who finds the rather quaint and old fashioned subject matter of dating a girl rather charming? I mean it's infinitely preferable to this:
Which is the most offensive video I've seen since I watched a documentary on the Nuremnberg address. Basically, mainstream hip-hop has problems.
Tuesday 15 February 2011
Thursday 3 February 2011
In response to........
Over at the New Statesman, Helen Lewis- Hasteley has written a blogpost lambasting anyone with left leaning principles who happen to enjoy football. The crux of her argument being that the game is homophobic, rife with sexism and dangerously proliferate with money. All points that are, on the surface, very hard to argue with. However, if you dig a little deeper you will find that her argument is not based on anything approaching Football's disregard for her base principals, but rather the fact she simply doesn't like football.
Hasteley describes the modern footballers relationship with women as “like something out of the 1650s -- they are the omnipotent monarchs, surrounded by sycophants and flunkies, and they have their pick from among the poor damsels who clamour for their favour.” Ignoring the fact that during 1650's England was actually a republic governed by Oliver Cromwell and the Commonwealth of England, Hasteley's point, though valid, subscribes little free will to the women in question. There's no doubt that a majority of footballers are misogynistic and view women as trophies to be bragged about in their locker room. But these women can still say no, if they don't want to sleep with a footballer, they don't have to. There's no law forcing the “favoured waif” into John Terry's “mock Tudor mansion.” My guess is that these women want the range rover and the small dog and are perfectly happy to sacrifice their dignity to get them. You just have to look at the countless double page spreads about how Abbey Clancey has forgiven Peter Crouch for his “mistakes” to see that. If she was unhappy with the trinkets on offer she could have left, but she didn't and that was her decision. Hasteley challenges us to show her a football marriage that is a partnership of equals: Jamie and Louise Redknapp, Sir Alex and Cathy Ferguson, Jose and Matlide Mourinho and, for a while, Ashley and Cheryl Cole. I think what Hasteley meant was show me a football marriage in Heat magazine and I'll show you a look of surprise. Footballers like Paul Scholes are very seldom found in their turgi scrolls. Hasteley's problem is that she has tarred all Footballers with the morals of gutterdogs like Wayne Rooney and John Terry, which is where her arguments falter.
Hasteley argues that football is sexist, however when you look at the growth of Women's football, the opening match of this years Womens World Cup has sold 50,000 tickets, it suggests otherwise. Indeed, much of the backlash against Andy Grey and Richard Keys was precisely because of Football's popularity amongst women; travel to any football match, be it premier league or the conference, and you will find a healthy female contingent, and not because their husband and boyfriends dragged them there.
Football is homophobic. I can't argue with that, I wish I could but I can't. I don't feel that this is a problem limited to just football though and is one, again, that football suffers from as a consequence of society- how many people in parliament or the city are openly homosexual? Very few. Recently, the only top level sportsman to openly admit they were gay was Gareth Thomas, and he now has to suffer the indignity of Mickey Rourke playing him in a film. This is something that we, as a society, should look at. Although I can admit that the dressing room culture doesn't help, I feel the under representation of homosexuals outside of industries involving the arts is a larger problem within our society, and not one which can be laid soley at Football's door.
Money in the modern game has long been an issue with many fans, you just have to speak to a supporter of AFC Wimbledon and FC United to see that. Hasteley comments that “We carp about bankers' bonuses but Liverpool FC has just spent £35m on Andy Carroll, who has little track record and is currently injured. Who is he? What wonderment is he going to weave to justify spending more than a thousand times the average salary on securing his services? It's just part of a growing trend where even those who are only moderately good at kicking a bit of leather about are handsomely rewarded for the privilege.” and this is true: £35 million for Andy Carroll is ridiculous. However, so is someone earning £3 million pound a week to write about wizards, paying someone £255,000 pound a week to pretend to be a doctor and people earning £100,000 a year for guessing where to invest other peoples money. Hasteley's problem here isn't football; it's Capitalism. Football is an effect rather than a cause, and unfortunately we live in a society where entertainers are paid inordinate amounts in relation to their actual skills, and, while the premier league is our biggest export, they will earn sickening amounts. I am more comfortable with rewarding people for “the rewarding of people for a fluke of genetics” as Hastley puts, than rewarding someone for a fluke of birthplace as seems to be the criterion for most city jobs, including journalism. To paraphrase Nick Hornby in Fever Pitch: you can either kick a ball or you can't. The good thing about football is that there is no hiding place. If you are no good you will be found out, which is more than can be said about many other professions, and the fact that many of the top level footballers come from working class backgrounds is something a leftie would applaud, surely? It's one of the few industries where connections get you nowhere and talent get's you everywhere.
I know football isn't perfect, but I don't think for one minute it is mutually exclusive from leftist principles. I think Hasteley's main problem is that she has confused football with Premiership Football. There are lots of ways to indulge your football fix without ascribing to the Sky Juggernaut and Yes, there are problems but there are problems with every industry if you look closely enough. To use Hastley's logic I might as well never eat another hamburger ever again simply because I don't like MacDonalds. And that is something, as a leftie, I wouldn't agree with.
Hasteley describes the modern footballers relationship with women as “like something out of the 1650s -- they are the omnipotent monarchs, surrounded by sycophants and flunkies, and they have their pick from among the poor damsels who clamour for their favour.” Ignoring the fact that during 1650's England was actually a republic governed by Oliver Cromwell and the Commonwealth of England, Hasteley's point, though valid, subscribes little free will to the women in question. There's no doubt that a majority of footballers are misogynistic and view women as trophies to be bragged about in their locker room. But these women can still say no, if they don't want to sleep with a footballer, they don't have to. There's no law forcing the “favoured waif” into John Terry's “mock Tudor mansion.” My guess is that these women want the range rover and the small dog and are perfectly happy to sacrifice their dignity to get them. You just have to look at the countless double page spreads about how Abbey Clancey has forgiven Peter Crouch for his “mistakes” to see that. If she was unhappy with the trinkets on offer she could have left, but she didn't and that was her decision. Hasteley challenges us to show her a football marriage that is a partnership of equals: Jamie and Louise Redknapp, Sir Alex and Cathy Ferguson, Jose and Matlide Mourinho and, for a while, Ashley and Cheryl Cole. I think what Hasteley meant was show me a football marriage in Heat magazine and I'll show you a look of surprise. Footballers like Paul Scholes are very seldom found in their turgi scrolls. Hasteley's problem is that she has tarred all Footballers with the morals of gutterdogs like Wayne Rooney and John Terry, which is where her arguments falter.
Hasteley argues that football is sexist, however when you look at the growth of Women's football, the opening match of this years Womens World Cup has sold 50,000 tickets, it suggests otherwise. Indeed, much of the backlash against Andy Grey and Richard Keys was precisely because of Football's popularity amongst women; travel to any football match, be it premier league or the conference, and you will find a healthy female contingent, and not because their husband and boyfriends dragged them there.
Football is homophobic. I can't argue with that, I wish I could but I can't. I don't feel that this is a problem limited to just football though and is one, again, that football suffers from as a consequence of society- how many people in parliament or the city are openly homosexual? Very few. Recently, the only top level sportsman to openly admit they were gay was Gareth Thomas, and he now has to suffer the indignity of Mickey Rourke playing him in a film. This is something that we, as a society, should look at. Although I can admit that the dressing room culture doesn't help, I feel the under representation of homosexuals outside of industries involving the arts is a larger problem within our society, and not one which can be laid soley at Football's door.
Money in the modern game has long been an issue with many fans, you just have to speak to a supporter of AFC Wimbledon and FC United to see that. Hasteley comments that “We carp about bankers' bonuses but Liverpool FC has just spent £35m on Andy Carroll, who has little track record and is currently injured. Who is he? What wonderment is he going to weave to justify spending more than a thousand times the average salary on securing his services? It's just part of a growing trend where even those who are only moderately good at kicking a bit of leather about are handsomely rewarded for the privilege.” and this is true: £35 million for Andy Carroll is ridiculous. However, so is someone earning £3 million pound a week to write about wizards, paying someone £255,000 pound a week to pretend to be a doctor and people earning £100,000 a year for guessing where to invest other peoples money. Hasteley's problem here isn't football; it's Capitalism. Football is an effect rather than a cause, and unfortunately we live in a society where entertainers are paid inordinate amounts in relation to their actual skills, and, while the premier league is our biggest export, they will earn sickening amounts. I am more comfortable with rewarding people for “the rewarding of people for a fluke of genetics” as Hastley puts, than rewarding someone for a fluke of birthplace as seems to be the criterion for most city jobs, including journalism. To paraphrase Nick Hornby in Fever Pitch: you can either kick a ball or you can't. The good thing about football is that there is no hiding place. If you are no good you will be found out, which is more than can be said about many other professions, and the fact that many of the top level footballers come from working class backgrounds is something a leftie would applaud, surely? It's one of the few industries where connections get you nowhere and talent get's you everywhere.
I know football isn't perfect, but I don't think for one minute it is mutually exclusive from leftist principles. I think Hasteley's main problem is that she has confused football with Premiership Football. There are lots of ways to indulge your football fix without ascribing to the Sky Juggernaut and Yes, there are problems but there are problems with every industry if you look closely enough. To use Hastley's logic I might as well never eat another hamburger ever again simply because I don't like MacDonalds. And that is something, as a leftie, I wouldn't agree with.
Thursday 6 January 2011
Monday 18 October 2010
We could be heroes, if just for one day.
We are back for Week 2 of the X Factor and, after last weeks marathon edition that seemed to last so long we had to ditch the concept of time altogether and consider it a feat of collective national endurance like the blitz, we've said goodbye to FYD and Nicolo. Who? I hear you ask, bah typical, I bet you don't remember Gamu either. Me neither actually, and probably neither do any of the 250,000 people who now regret joining her facebook group. Dermot introduces the show and is now so bland and devoid of personality that it is officially frightening. Seriously, he might as well present the show via fax, at least then we'd get a chuckle as he misspells Katie's last name weasel instead of Waissel. This weeks theme is usefully vague “heroes” Which, rather than making the contestants dress up as cheerleaders and exuberant Asian time-stoppers, means they can choose from any song ever recorded. Brilliant. So,with a markedly less orange Cheryl and a markedly more ginger Louie our judges take their seats and Mr Cowell's annual semi-musical circus of cruelty gets ready for round two. On we go.
STORM: Storm is the contestant this week sacrificed to the graveyard slot, and all his bluster about hanging in there and keeping on going will no doubt come back to bite him in the arse as the producers clearly see him as mindless filler. Storm is this years token rock contestant and nothing says rock like motorbikes and backflipping dancers. Except everything, ever. It's unlikely that even Storm's red hair and eerily earnest personality will save him this week, as, if I'm brutally honest, he wasn't brilliant.
TREYC: X Factor cliché alert! TreyC is singing purple rain! Purple rain is one of those X Factor staples that the stronger singers belt out, so we can all be impressed with how good they are and just how much this means to them. But can the girl with the illiterate name beat Ruth Lorenzo quite brilliant performance of the same song from a few years ago? No, quite frankly, but it's a decent enough performance that should see her through to week 2, where she will have to start showing some individuality.
PAIJE: Paije joins us from the set of Miami Vice, where he's been playing the leader of a Columbian drugs cartel, to sing “If I ain't got you” I say sing, Paije spends a lot of the song wailing seemingly unrelated notes as if he's trying to find out which exact note Leonard Cohen was singing about.
ONE DIRECTION: Once again Simon has decided to ignore his own pointless rules and picked a Kelly Clarkson song for “the most exciting band in the country®” I like to think he chose “My life would suck without you” as a coded message to his own ego. One Direction, however, proceed to make a good fist of sucking all on their own, with or without Cowell. Has anyone noticed that the blond one in one direction is the happiest person in the world? Presumably because he realises that he's blagged himself a free ticket to the final simply by bobbing up and down a bit behind Harry and Liam.
CHER LLOYD: Cher is up next and proves her credibility as a true artist by coming up with the idea to rip off Jay-Z all by herself. Cher is now the most famous British rapper since John Barnes, but she still has some way to go before she can match his smooth lyrical bombs. She has also developed a weird quivering delivery for the bits where she actually does sing. Apparently she's popular with 16 year olds, but then so is miaow miaow and happy slapping. Cheryl praises Cher for looking and sounding like a popstar in a manner that suggests that she's trying to convince herself that it's ok that she's one herself.
JOHN ADELEYE: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
DIVA FEVER: Diva fever camp things up in a desperate bid to rouse the nation from the mass Adeleye induced coma that we all found ourselves in. Apparently Diva Fever's heroes are some band called Duck Sauce that wrote a song called Barbara Streisand. It's entirely believable that Barbara Streisand is Diva Fever's hero, but nobody in the world could ever cite Duck Sauce as a hero unless they have an incredibly low opinion of humanity as a species. Simon says he likes them because they are fun, but does it such a patronising way that it wouldn't be a surprise to find out he'd managed to offend every gay person in the country.
REBECCA: Rebecca has seemingly misunderstood the Heroes theme and decided to perform dressed as Lee Falk's superhero creation “The Phantom” It's entirely credible that Rebecca could infact be a superhero, as she comes across as so nice, it wouldn't be a stretch to believe that's it's all a front to cover up the fact that at night she stalks and mutilates criminals in a manner Dexter would flinch at. Rebecca gives easily the best vocal so far, then says hello to a little boy who came to visit them, giving further credence to my superhero theory.
AIDEN: According to his VT Aiden is struggling to reach the right notes for his performance of “Jealous Guy” Obviously this seems just a cynical ploy to add some sense of drama to proceeding until he comes out and balls it right up, making me question my hard-earned cynacism. It looks bad for Aiden until his interview with Dermot where, in a stroke of genius, he looks all sad and pouts his bottom lip like a Robert Pattinson shaped puppy, thus ensuring his continued surivival for at least the next six weeks. Clever boy, Aiden.
WAGNER: Could Wagner possibly match last weeks exceptional Bongo infused love shack-athon? No, but nothing could match that ever so we forgive him. However, what he does do is belt out “Just help yourself” with such virile hetrosexuality that he makes Tom Jones seem like Boy George. Towards the end of the song the female dancers, much like last week, start to rub themselves. You have to understand that this is not a choreographed routine, but simply a natural consequence of being in such close proximity to Wagner's ferocious masculinity.
KATIE 'WHOS GAMU' WAISSEL: Katie's hero is apparently Etta James and not, as I'd imagined, Loki the Norse god of mischief. For the second week in a row Katie sings perfectly adequately, but, in lieu of her scary desperation to win, adequate just won't cut it. Also, her face is really hard and angular, as if someone had constructed a visage out of Fearn Cotton's personality.
BELLE AMIE: Fooling noone Belle Amie choose the Kinks as their musical heroes. The only thing they could possibly relate to The Kinks over is the internal animosity between Ray and Dave as, judging from their VT, they quite clearly hate each other, which is more than enough reason to keep them in the competition, and certainly more of a reason than their half-arsed rendition of “You really got me.”
MARY: Mary is the next to the stage, and the only contestant in X Factor history to subvert the use of microphones is singing “You don't have to say you love me” But if we do she might stop bellowing and allow us to keep what's left of our ear drums. After a night involving topless male go-go dancers, a psychedelic worm hole behind Aiden and Louie's hair, the sight of someone just singing is strangely invigorating.
MATT: Matt Cardle will close the show and in his VT we see pictures of him from when he was 10 years old where, depressingly, he is sans hat. Damn, I like to imagine he was born with a miniture cap that grew up along with him, but, unfortunately, the X Factor has ruined that illusion for me forever, Matt sings Bruno Mars “Just the way you are” in a staggeringly high falsetto that has probably made all British housewives collective knicker elastic snap. Simon lie's that Matt fell off the melody at points, but he has to say things like that so it looks like he was paying attention. Based on tonight's performances Matt should walk this.
So what have we learned from tonight's show? That Aiden is a sinister Machiavellian genius, that Wagner is the single most awesome collection of cells and organs to develop consciousness, that Matt and Rebecca are so far ahead vocally that it doesn't seem fair, and that Cheryl has managed to look less orange and more of a chav, which is something even N-Dubz haven't managed. It doesn't look good for Storm, John or Belle Amie but what do I know, I'm neither current nor relevant like 51 year old Simon Cowell. It's another double eviction so I have no idea who could be going. Based on tonight I would say Storm and John but then I voted for Kodos.
STORM: Storm is the contestant this week sacrificed to the graveyard slot, and all his bluster about hanging in there and keeping on going will no doubt come back to bite him in the arse as the producers clearly see him as mindless filler. Storm is this years token rock contestant and nothing says rock like motorbikes and backflipping dancers. Except everything, ever. It's unlikely that even Storm's red hair and eerily earnest personality will save him this week, as, if I'm brutally honest, he wasn't brilliant.
TREYC: X Factor cliché alert! TreyC is singing purple rain! Purple rain is one of those X Factor staples that the stronger singers belt out, so we can all be impressed with how good they are and just how much this means to them. But can the girl with the illiterate name beat Ruth Lorenzo quite brilliant performance of the same song from a few years ago? No, quite frankly, but it's a decent enough performance that should see her through to week 2, where she will have to start showing some individuality.
PAIJE: Paije joins us from the set of Miami Vice, where he's been playing the leader of a Columbian drugs cartel, to sing “If I ain't got you” I say sing, Paije spends a lot of the song wailing seemingly unrelated notes as if he's trying to find out which exact note Leonard Cohen was singing about.
ONE DIRECTION: Once again Simon has decided to ignore his own pointless rules and picked a Kelly Clarkson song for “the most exciting band in the country®” I like to think he chose “My life would suck without you” as a coded message to his own ego. One Direction, however, proceed to make a good fist of sucking all on their own, with or without Cowell. Has anyone noticed that the blond one in one direction is the happiest person in the world? Presumably because he realises that he's blagged himself a free ticket to the final simply by bobbing up and down a bit behind Harry and Liam.
CHER LLOYD: Cher is up next and proves her credibility as a true artist by coming up with the idea to rip off Jay-Z all by herself. Cher is now the most famous British rapper since John Barnes, but she still has some way to go before she can match his smooth lyrical bombs. She has also developed a weird quivering delivery for the bits where she actually does sing. Apparently she's popular with 16 year olds, but then so is miaow miaow and happy slapping. Cheryl praises Cher for looking and sounding like a popstar in a manner that suggests that she's trying to convince herself that it's ok that she's one herself.
JOHN ADELEYE: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
DIVA FEVER: Diva fever camp things up in a desperate bid to rouse the nation from the mass Adeleye induced coma that we all found ourselves in. Apparently Diva Fever's heroes are some band called Duck Sauce that wrote a song called Barbara Streisand. It's entirely believable that Barbara Streisand is Diva Fever's hero, but nobody in the world could ever cite Duck Sauce as a hero unless they have an incredibly low opinion of humanity as a species. Simon says he likes them because they are fun, but does it such a patronising way that it wouldn't be a surprise to find out he'd managed to offend every gay person in the country.
REBECCA: Rebecca has seemingly misunderstood the Heroes theme and decided to perform dressed as Lee Falk's superhero creation “The Phantom” It's entirely credible that Rebecca could infact be a superhero, as she comes across as so nice, it wouldn't be a stretch to believe that's it's all a front to cover up the fact that at night she stalks and mutilates criminals in a manner Dexter would flinch at. Rebecca gives easily the best vocal so far, then says hello to a little boy who came to visit them, giving further credence to my superhero theory.
AIDEN: According to his VT Aiden is struggling to reach the right notes for his performance of “Jealous Guy” Obviously this seems just a cynical ploy to add some sense of drama to proceeding until he comes out and balls it right up, making me question my hard-earned cynacism. It looks bad for Aiden until his interview with Dermot where, in a stroke of genius, he looks all sad and pouts his bottom lip like a Robert Pattinson shaped puppy, thus ensuring his continued surivival for at least the next six weeks. Clever boy, Aiden.
WAGNER: Could Wagner possibly match last weeks exceptional Bongo infused love shack-athon? No, but nothing could match that ever so we forgive him. However, what he does do is belt out “Just help yourself” with such virile hetrosexuality that he makes Tom Jones seem like Boy George. Towards the end of the song the female dancers, much like last week, start to rub themselves. You have to understand that this is not a choreographed routine, but simply a natural consequence of being in such close proximity to Wagner's ferocious masculinity.
KATIE 'WHOS GAMU' WAISSEL: Katie's hero is apparently Etta James and not, as I'd imagined, Loki the Norse god of mischief. For the second week in a row Katie sings perfectly adequately, but, in lieu of her scary desperation to win, adequate just won't cut it. Also, her face is really hard and angular, as if someone had constructed a visage out of Fearn Cotton's personality.
BELLE AMIE: Fooling noone Belle Amie choose the Kinks as their musical heroes. The only thing they could possibly relate to The Kinks over is the internal animosity between Ray and Dave as, judging from their VT, they quite clearly hate each other, which is more than enough reason to keep them in the competition, and certainly more of a reason than their half-arsed rendition of “You really got me.”
MARY: Mary is the next to the stage, and the only contestant in X Factor history to subvert the use of microphones is singing “You don't have to say you love me” But if we do she might stop bellowing and allow us to keep what's left of our ear drums. After a night involving topless male go-go dancers, a psychedelic worm hole behind Aiden and Louie's hair, the sight of someone just singing is strangely invigorating.
MATT: Matt Cardle will close the show and in his VT we see pictures of him from when he was 10 years old where, depressingly, he is sans hat. Damn, I like to imagine he was born with a miniture cap that grew up along with him, but, unfortunately, the X Factor has ruined that illusion for me forever, Matt sings Bruno Mars “Just the way you are” in a staggeringly high falsetto that has probably made all British housewives collective knicker elastic snap. Simon lie's that Matt fell off the melody at points, but he has to say things like that so it looks like he was paying attention. Based on tonight's performances Matt should walk this.
So what have we learned from tonight's show? That Aiden is a sinister Machiavellian genius, that Wagner is the single most awesome collection of cells and organs to develop consciousness, that Matt and Rebecca are so far ahead vocally that it doesn't seem fair, and that Cheryl has managed to look less orange and more of a chav, which is something even N-Dubz haven't managed. It doesn't look good for Storm, John or Belle Amie but what do I know, I'm neither current nor relevant like 51 year old Simon Cowell. It's another double eviction so I have no idea who could be going. Based on tonight I would say Storm and John but then I voted for Kodos.
Monday 11 October 2010
GENERATION X : Sniggers with attitude.
The X Factor finals are here! Or, to give it it's full title – The X Factor! OMG!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE CHERYL DIDN'T PUT GAMU THROUGH, THE BITCH, SHE MUST BE RACIST! Or at least that's what it's been dubbed by countless internet message boards. Anyway, amid all the drama, tears, deportations and the criminal fact that geek legends Princes and Rogues were overlooked, there is the small matter of swelling Lord Cowell's burgeoning bank account. To help matters along, I will be playing a drinking game where I have to down a shot every time Simon say's the word relevant; if I manage twenty minutes without severe liver failure I will consider myself as masculine as an Ox made of fists. However, the judges are seated, the wildcards have surprised noone, Louis's looking svelte, but nobody cares, and everyone is getting ready for the next two and a half (TWO AND A HALF!!!) hours of vaguely singing related shannanigans. FYD are up first.
FYD: FYD are singing Billionaire, the lyrics of which are optimistic considering the track record of X Factor winners. FYD keep changing the words to make gratutious references to Simon, which I suppose is meant to come across as quirky and cool, but is actually just annoying and even Simon looks embarrassed. And if Simon Cowell is embarrassed at the mention of his own name, then you're doing something wrong.
MATT: Matt Cardle is back along with his omnipresent hat, which will be useful for him when he has to start busking. Matt sings When Love Takes Over and, preempting me by about an hour and a half, is having trouble keeping his eyes open. At some point Matt will have to sing a song written for a man and the world will stop on it's axis. Probably.
JOHN ADELEYE: John is up next and is singing a daring cover of the Insane Clown Posse track “Psychopathic” complete with full clown makeup and horribly misogynistic lyrics. Except he's not, because that would be far too awesome. Instead, he's been Louie Walshed to within an inch of his life and has managed to make “One Sweet Day” even more boring than it already was. I give him three weeks tops. Score another one for Mr Walsh.
REBECCA: Rebecca Ferguson is on now, and the girl Cheryl had to put through so at least one of her acts could sing, lest this be accused of not really being a singing contest, is singing a quite lovely arrangement of teardrops. Rebecca manages to give a highly accomplished performance without sounding like shes singing actual words, more word-shaped noises that vaguely resemble language but in actual fact are something else entirely.
STORM: Storm Lee is up next, and following John's studied essay on the nature of boredom his new red hair is probably just interesting enough to see him through. He's joined on stage by what can only be described as a squadron of ninja gimps. Does anyone else think that Brain Friedman is still pissed at being sacked as a judge, and is making sure everyone is still aware of his involvement in the show through these ever more ridiculous routines?
BELLE AMIE: Belle Amie now and they've bravely decided to perform Airplanes in the style of four drunk sixteen year olds hogging the Karaoke machine at their end of term disco. No doubt simon will say they're cool and relevant, but I'm beginning to wonder whether he knows what either word really means.
CHER LLOYD: Cheryl's miniature doppleganger takes to the stage and sings a song recently made popular by Lily Allen. The girl who managed, impressively, to kill both rap as a genre and coldplay simply with the words ring-a-dinging, proceeds to do much the same here, and Cheryl's evil plan to get back at Lily Allen is revealed. The audience seem to like her, and when the song ends she does a triumphant little dance that Cheryl thinks is so good she copies her, confirming, beyond doubt, that this is the most “street” episode of the X Factor ever, and that I really don't understand young people anymore.
DIVA FEVER: Considering Simon's new favourite words are current and relevant, it seems odd that his wildcard would be so heavily in debt to wham. But then I don't have my finger on the pulse like 51 year old billionaire Simon Cowell. It's quite obvious that wildcard just means extra act, so why not just put four acts through in the first place? Diva Fever sing Sunny in the style of Wham imitating Jedward, and we're all encouraged to forget the last 50 years of gay advances.
PAIJE: The man in possession of the second worst name of any contestant (nothing will top TreyC) bounds on stage looking like a genetic splice between Fat Albert and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Paije claims he's Killing us softly with his sing, but I couldn't imagine him killing anything, softly or otherwise. Unfortunately his performance reminds everyone of Sean Kingston's continued existence and that can't be a good thing, ever.
NOT GAMU: Not Gamu is up next and faces a bigger uphill struggle for the public's affections than if Gary Glitter had got through to the live shows. Not Gamu gives a competent performance of We Are The Champions that isn't the worst vocal of the night by far. But people will forget that because a.) She's wearing a helmet that looks like it was used when welding a spaceship together, b.) She mimed playing a keyboard. Badly. And c.) She's not even a little bit Gamu. Be afraid Katie, be very afraid.
MARY BYRNES: Mary takes to the stage and is, by some distance, the loudest singer in the history of the X Factor. She bellows “This is a mans world” terrifyingly at the judges for four minutes, like she's waiting for them curl into a ball and concede that it's not. Dermot askes the judges for their opinions but they all speak at such lowly decibels it's hard to take them seriously.
NICOLO: Is the next finalist to sing for our affections and Italy's answer to Mika is wearing the worst pair of glasses designed this century. And considering the ubiquity of 3D, and those glasses Kanye West wore for the stronger video thats some going. Nicolo sang lady Gaga, I think, but it's hard to tell after Mary's performance.
ONE DIRECTION perform and Simon's ungodly attempt to create a band entirely of haircuts reaches fruition. One of them looks like a Jonas brother, and the blond one smiles so much throughout this performance you begin to wonder if Simon laced his sippy cup with ecstasy. At the end of the performance Simon praises Liam for something that didn't even happen, proving that he's now so drunk on his own sense of power he believes we will accept his word over the very nature of reality. And, depressingly, he's right.
WAGNER: Wagner is incredible. Not only does he look like Mickey Rourke portraying god, but he performs like he is bellowing commandments to his mortal followers from atop Mount Olympus. Wagner is thy religion and Love Shack is his hymn, we should all start worshiping him now.
AIDEN: Aiden steps onstage looking like Joe Mcelderry would if he borrowed Nick Grimshaw's hair and Cristiano Ronaldo's face. If this wasn't the year X Factor turned it's swag on then he would have this in the bag. But, unfortunately for Aiden he's only swagging at a Vanilla Ice level when Cher is already up there with Missy Elliot. He need's to find some swaggage and fast.
TreyC: Although I have serious misgivings against anyone who spells their name TreyC, I have to admit she can sing. TreyC is dressed like Pam Grier playing Wonder Woman, but at no point does she either rap or play bongos. She isn't even surrounded by pointless dancers trying to spell out Brian Friedmans name so we all know he still exists. Get it together TreyC or people will think this is a singing competition.
So there we are, all 342 finalists have performed and, like everyone else in the country I can barely remember FYD. Looking at it from this early stage the front runners would be One Direction, Cher. Matt and TreyC. So exactly the same as before tonight then, proving that, although the X Factor probably isn't fixed, it's as searingly predictable as ever. We have learnt some important lessons though: Firstly Wagner is a glorious mountain of a man, John Adeleye is screwed and if Harry and Liam manage not to fall out during an epic power struggle One Direction will sail through to the final and that rapping, despite being a cop out when Jedward did it, is now current and relevant. What a difference 12 months makes.
FYD: FYD are singing Billionaire, the lyrics of which are optimistic considering the track record of X Factor winners. FYD keep changing the words to make gratutious references to Simon, which I suppose is meant to come across as quirky and cool, but is actually just annoying and even Simon looks embarrassed. And if Simon Cowell is embarrassed at the mention of his own name, then you're doing something wrong.
MATT: Matt Cardle is back along with his omnipresent hat, which will be useful for him when he has to start busking. Matt sings When Love Takes Over and, preempting me by about an hour and a half, is having trouble keeping his eyes open. At some point Matt will have to sing a song written for a man and the world will stop on it's axis. Probably.
JOHN ADELEYE: John is up next and is singing a daring cover of the Insane Clown Posse track “Psychopathic” complete with full clown makeup and horribly misogynistic lyrics. Except he's not, because that would be far too awesome. Instead, he's been Louie Walshed to within an inch of his life and has managed to make “One Sweet Day” even more boring than it already was. I give him three weeks tops. Score another one for Mr Walsh.
REBECCA: Rebecca Ferguson is on now, and the girl Cheryl had to put through so at least one of her acts could sing, lest this be accused of not really being a singing contest, is singing a quite lovely arrangement of teardrops. Rebecca manages to give a highly accomplished performance without sounding like shes singing actual words, more word-shaped noises that vaguely resemble language but in actual fact are something else entirely.
STORM: Storm Lee is up next, and following John's studied essay on the nature of boredom his new red hair is probably just interesting enough to see him through. He's joined on stage by what can only be described as a squadron of ninja gimps. Does anyone else think that Brain Friedman is still pissed at being sacked as a judge, and is making sure everyone is still aware of his involvement in the show through these ever more ridiculous routines?
BELLE AMIE: Belle Amie now and they've bravely decided to perform Airplanes in the style of four drunk sixteen year olds hogging the Karaoke machine at their end of term disco. No doubt simon will say they're cool and relevant, but I'm beginning to wonder whether he knows what either word really means.
CHER LLOYD: Cheryl's miniature doppleganger takes to the stage and sings a song recently made popular by Lily Allen. The girl who managed, impressively, to kill both rap as a genre and coldplay simply with the words ring-a-dinging, proceeds to do much the same here, and Cheryl's evil plan to get back at Lily Allen is revealed. The audience seem to like her, and when the song ends she does a triumphant little dance that Cheryl thinks is so good she copies her, confirming, beyond doubt, that this is the most “street” episode of the X Factor ever, and that I really don't understand young people anymore.
DIVA FEVER: Considering Simon's new favourite words are current and relevant, it seems odd that his wildcard would be so heavily in debt to wham. But then I don't have my finger on the pulse like 51 year old billionaire Simon Cowell. It's quite obvious that wildcard just means extra act, so why not just put four acts through in the first place? Diva Fever sing Sunny in the style of Wham imitating Jedward, and we're all encouraged to forget the last 50 years of gay advances.
PAIJE: The man in possession of the second worst name of any contestant (nothing will top TreyC) bounds on stage looking like a genetic splice between Fat Albert and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Paije claims he's Killing us softly with his sing, but I couldn't imagine him killing anything, softly or otherwise. Unfortunately his performance reminds everyone of Sean Kingston's continued existence and that can't be a good thing, ever.
NOT GAMU: Not Gamu is up next and faces a bigger uphill struggle for the public's affections than if Gary Glitter had got through to the live shows. Not Gamu gives a competent performance of We Are The Champions that isn't the worst vocal of the night by far. But people will forget that because a.) She's wearing a helmet that looks like it was used when welding a spaceship together, b.) She mimed playing a keyboard. Badly. And c.) She's not even a little bit Gamu. Be afraid Katie, be very afraid.
MARY BYRNES: Mary takes to the stage and is, by some distance, the loudest singer in the history of the X Factor. She bellows “This is a mans world” terrifyingly at the judges for four minutes, like she's waiting for them curl into a ball and concede that it's not. Dermot askes the judges for their opinions but they all speak at such lowly decibels it's hard to take them seriously.
NICOLO: Is the next finalist to sing for our affections and Italy's answer to Mika is wearing the worst pair of glasses designed this century. And considering the ubiquity of 3D, and those glasses Kanye West wore for the stronger video thats some going. Nicolo sang lady Gaga, I think, but it's hard to tell after Mary's performance.
ONE DIRECTION perform and Simon's ungodly attempt to create a band entirely of haircuts reaches fruition. One of them looks like a Jonas brother, and the blond one smiles so much throughout this performance you begin to wonder if Simon laced his sippy cup with ecstasy. At the end of the performance Simon praises Liam for something that didn't even happen, proving that he's now so drunk on his own sense of power he believes we will accept his word over the very nature of reality. And, depressingly, he's right.
WAGNER: Wagner is incredible. Not only does he look like Mickey Rourke portraying god, but he performs like he is bellowing commandments to his mortal followers from atop Mount Olympus. Wagner is thy religion and Love Shack is his hymn, we should all start worshiping him now.
AIDEN: Aiden steps onstage looking like Joe Mcelderry would if he borrowed Nick Grimshaw's hair and Cristiano Ronaldo's face. If this wasn't the year X Factor turned it's swag on then he would have this in the bag. But, unfortunately for Aiden he's only swagging at a Vanilla Ice level when Cher is already up there with Missy Elliot. He need's to find some swaggage and fast.
TreyC: Although I have serious misgivings against anyone who spells their name TreyC, I have to admit she can sing. TreyC is dressed like Pam Grier playing Wonder Woman, but at no point does she either rap or play bongos. She isn't even surrounded by pointless dancers trying to spell out Brian Friedmans name so we all know he still exists. Get it together TreyC or people will think this is a singing competition.
So there we are, all 342 finalists have performed and, like everyone else in the country I can barely remember FYD. Looking at it from this early stage the front runners would be One Direction, Cher. Matt and TreyC. So exactly the same as before tonight then, proving that, although the X Factor probably isn't fixed, it's as searingly predictable as ever. We have learnt some important lessons though: Firstly Wagner is a glorious mountain of a man, John Adeleye is screwed and if Harry and Liam manage not to fall out during an epic power struggle One Direction will sail through to the final and that rapping, despite being a cop out when Jedward did it, is now current and relevant. What a difference 12 months makes.
Wednesday 1 September 2010
Grandma's House
It's four episodes in to Simon Amstell's sim-com, and I still cant decide whether or not I actually like it. I will be honest and concede that I've stuck with this show far longer than I would have had it been a freshman effort, based soley on Simon Amstell making Preston cry. For all the joy that gave me, I owe him that at least. I am afraid to concede, however, that this series has yet to win me over. The problem being, mainly, Simon himself. It's nothing to do with Amstell's woodchip acting (anyone who complains about Simons acting but goes on to praise the acting in Curb your Enthusiasm is nothing but a hypocrite by the way) but more the character he portrays. Simon Amstell is funny, Simon Amstell is likable. In Grandma's house he is neither of those things. He is self absorbed, neurotic and whiney or what Preston might term a “bitter, snotty nosed public schoolboy.” The character comes across as thoroughly unpleasant and I don't think that was the intention. I genuinely believe the makers thought that by now the audience would have started to relate to Simon a little bit. However, most people have real problems so seeing a young man with a good job facing an existential sense of doubt simply beacause he was mean to steps once is a bit much. His character can afford two mortgages, how about you stop residing up your own backside and live in the real world like the rest of us. This is in stark contrast to Simon's Granddad (the sorely missed Geoffrey Huthings) who, in one of the shows better pieces of writing, approaches his cancer with the kind of quiet dignity that would be completely alien to someone of Simons generation. This aspect of the show is handled extremely believably, with Hutching's stoic acceptance of this illness a nice contrast to Simon's constant bleating about his inner torment. The villain of the piece is Simon's soon to be stepdad, the confident materialistic Clive, played with absolute relish by James Smith. Simon handles their engagment with all the maturity of a six year old pulling on his testicles for attention. As a viewer we're meant to hate Clive but for some reason I don't. It could be because James Smith's endless Charisma means he could play Hitler and I'd still find him charming, or it could be because he's a much more acceptable arsehole than Simon. Yeah he's the sort of loud, over confident bellend who dominates dinner parties and organises activities that noone wants to do, but I find that far less offensive than Simon's self absorbed bumholery. Overall the show plays out as a weird kind of therapy for Simon Amstell (the man, not the character) as the replication of principal figures in his personal life, and the constant footage from his childhood (though not his diabolical appearance on GamesMaster, one might add) suggest he wrote the show to work through his own personal problems then stuck it on TV. So while there is a terrific cast and the odd good line, the whole things falls slightly flat for me. The pacing is far too slow for a comedy show, and the while the individual pieces are fine (the acting, the script, the characterisation) it just doesn't hang together properly, like a jigsaw put together with sellotape. Ironically for what is essentially a vanity project, it would have been far better removing Amstell's character completely and focusing soley on the rest of his family, as that would have made for a far more succinct, and likable, family drama.
Wednesday 21 July 2010
The poet laureate is a pointless position for pontificating pissants.
The Poet Laureate, documents life through stanza,
But it's really as relevant, as a fat Tony Danza.
This, the above work of art, is my rhythmically woeful attempt at a rhyming couplet. I ask you to drink in it's juvenile charm because- I'm proud of it. No really, I am. I found it difficult to compose: I had to use an on-line rhyming dictionary and everything. I was close to tearing my ears off in frustration at my inability to rhyme the world “laureate”, then spent ages mulling on an effective rhyming scheme, before settling on the glorious AA scheme you see before you, and I still managed to shoehorn in a pun about Tony Danza. Although, I have no idea whether he is fat or not. Why? I don't hear you ask. Because recently I came across this:
Afterwards, I found him alone at the bar and asked him what went wrong. It's the shirt, he said. When I pull it on it hangs on my back like a shroud, or a poisoned jerkin from Grimm seeping its curse on to my skin, the worst tattoo.
I shower and shave before I shrug on the shirt, smell like a dream; but the shirt sours my scent with the sweat and stink of fear. It's got my number.
I poured him another shot. Speak on, my son. He did.
I've wanted to sport the shirt since I was a kid, but now when I do it makes me sick, weak, paranoid.
All night above the team hotel, the moon is the ball in a penalty kick. Tens of thousands of fierce stars are booing me. A screech owl is the referee.
The wind's a crowd, forty years long, bawling a filthy song about my Wag. It's the bloody shirt! He started to blub like a big girl's blouse and I felt a fleeting pity.
Don't cry, I said, at the end of the day you'll be back on 100K a week and playing for City.
This is the latest in line of sporting poems by our current poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy. And it has proven beyond doubt that the position of Poet Laureate is the most utterly, utterly, pointless position in the whole country. And I include whatever it is Nick Clegg does in that assessment. I'm not an expert on poetry but, when I read the above “poem,” it made me hate language. It made me hate all forms of communication; it made me pray for a regression back to the use of guttural sounds and violent sexual advances as our only forms of interaction, in the hope that something so mortifyingly shit could never be committed to coherency ever again. I'm not an expert on poetry, but I don't think that's a good reaction.
It bothers me how smug poetry aficionado's react when I mention that, shock horror, I don't particularly like poetry! How they chuckle to their friends, how they shake their dreadlocked heads, how they look at me like I just admitted I have difficulty tying my own shoelaces. Well you know what? I'm right. Poetry is the easiest and least rewarding of all artforms. And I include whatever it is Nick Clegg does in that assessment. I don't look down on them when they say they've never played Call of Duty. And Call of Duty is better than anything Alexander Pope ever wrote, and that a fact. I know this a contentious argument but I will attempt to illustrate my point. Below is a very famous poem by William Carlos Willliams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I had a poetry teacher spend an entire term trying to explain to me why that was good, why the clarity of language is a brilliant example of Modernist American poetry, how through work such as this Williams was one of the forebearers of imagism, and why there is art in it's simplicity. And I just don't get it. It's just not good. I don't like Hiakus, I don't like sonnetts, I haven't enjoyed a limmerick since I was 13 and, do you know what? I'm o.k. with that. Fine and Dandy, thank you very much and people should be o.k. that I'm o.k. with it. So why should I be made to feel like the intellectual equivalent of a dog learning to fetch a stick?
I attended a poetry evening recently and it was the most soul destroying experience of my life. When asked for my opinion of her set by an angry ginger woman, who uncannily resembled Susan Boyle's face drawn onto a digestive biscuit, I politely offered that poetry wasn't really “my scene”- the smug condensation I was met with was tangible, and was joined by a room full of pretentious nitwits exhaling in my direction at the same time. The smell was quite horrific. I later found out this woman didn't even own a T.V! I was getting grief for being an intellectually inferior being from someone who had never even seen the Wire, and, I'm sorry, but this just doesn't wash with me, go fuck off back to your audience of fat girls and thirtysomething men in berries, because I think you're an idiot. Someone once remarked to me that if you can't become a writer you become a poet. And there is truth in that. I believe a poet is to writers what a ball juggler is to footballers, someone who can be impressive in small bursts and knows a number of impressive tricks but is lacking and not able to compete on the real field of play. Ross from Friends described his music as wordless, sound poems and I feel poems are soundless, word songs and are exactly as dull as that sounds. Most poetry is written and performed by pseudo intellectuals with ideas above their station, who, for some bizarre reason, believe that their drippy metaphors for the fact live hasn't kissed them on the arse is somehow art- it's not. I don't think anyone should be considered a poet unless their dead, and even then I'm on the fence.
I should qualify myself at this point and say I don't hate poetry entirely. I do, however, think there should be a craft to it; there should be a rhyme scheme, there should be meter and there should be worldplay. I don't hate poetry, I just don't get it. And that's what bothers me. Why is there such intellectual snobbery in a dying art form? Why do people feel their love of Paradise Lost is somehow greater and more intellectually satisfying than my love of the Final Fantasy series? The Final Fantasy series has just as much creativity, invention and poetry as Milton's overrated ripoff of the Book of Genesis. Play Final Fantasy 7 on the Playstation and it's biblical in it's scope, why can't this be as celebrated as some words cobbled together and left to your own imagination? Because people are pretentious.
I think my main problem comes down to free verse poetry more than anything. Art critics will find meaning in anything, mnaking the vast majority of free verse poetry redundant, hence Tracy Emin, Damien Hirst, the Turner Prize, Gillian Clarke. When there is a craft on display such as painting or sculpture, I can appreciate it. The Raven was criticised by William Butler Yeats for being “insincere and vulgar” and for being, simply, a “rhyming trick” But that's what I love about it. I love it's artificiality, I can get on board with that. It's clever, I can look at it and think "I couldn't do that", and that should be the case with all great art. And I find it a damn sight more entertaining than something like Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas which is just a drunk throwing metaphors at a page and seeing what sticks. Jimmy Carr writes brilliantly clever one liners but his jokes are not afforded the same intellectual integrity as Haikus and that's deeply unfair. I don't think a well crafted Haiku has anything to offer that a one-liner doesn't, but because it's classed as poetry it's given it. This is why I hate free verse poetry, because readers will do your work for you, they will intellectualise something that has no right to be intellectualised, giving it meaning that it doesn't deserve and that it's composer hasn't earned.
So what this rambling, incoherent entry basically amounts to is that anyone can write free verse poetry because no one knows if it's any good, it's subjective and it's easy. It's an art form for people without talent, who can't admit to themselves that they are not the creative, haunted soul they believe, but merely a stuck up moaner. Poetry has no bearing on Modern Britain and the post of poet laureate is meaningless. It should at least be replaced with some form of literature that people actually care about- a twitter laureate, perhaps? I don't get poetry and I think that should be celebrated, because most poetry isn't very good. Instead of pseudo intellectual bellends looking down on me in the way that only someone who can't grow a proper moustache can, people should celebrate true art forms of the 21st century: Flash Animation, stand up comedy, twitter (which is essentially no different to Haikus) and forget about an outdated, meaningless art form which hasn't been relevant since World War 2.
**Nb On the subject of Haikus my friend Ed came up with the following during a session in our student union, and it remains the greatest Haiku I have ever heard.
Hitler posseses
the greatest moustache ever
Shame about the jews.
You will never, ever beat that.
But it's really as relevant, as a fat Tony Danza.
This, the above work of art, is my rhythmically woeful attempt at a rhyming couplet. I ask you to drink in it's juvenile charm because- I'm proud of it. No really, I am. I found it difficult to compose: I had to use an on-line rhyming dictionary and everything. I was close to tearing my ears off in frustration at my inability to rhyme the world “laureate”, then spent ages mulling on an effective rhyming scheme, before settling on the glorious AA scheme you see before you, and I still managed to shoehorn in a pun about Tony Danza. Although, I have no idea whether he is fat or not. Why? I don't hear you ask. Because recently I came across this:
Afterwards, I found him alone at the bar and asked him what went wrong. It's the shirt, he said. When I pull it on it hangs on my back like a shroud, or a poisoned jerkin from Grimm seeping its curse on to my skin, the worst tattoo.
I shower and shave before I shrug on the shirt, smell like a dream; but the shirt sours my scent with the sweat and stink of fear. It's got my number.
I poured him another shot. Speak on, my son. He did.
I've wanted to sport the shirt since I was a kid, but now when I do it makes me sick, weak, paranoid.
All night above the team hotel, the moon is the ball in a penalty kick. Tens of thousands of fierce stars are booing me. A screech owl is the referee.
The wind's a crowd, forty years long, bawling a filthy song about my Wag. It's the bloody shirt! He started to blub like a big girl's blouse and I felt a fleeting pity.
Don't cry, I said, at the end of the day you'll be back on 100K a week and playing for City.
This is the latest in line of sporting poems by our current poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy. And it has proven beyond doubt that the position of Poet Laureate is the most utterly, utterly, pointless position in the whole country. And I include whatever it is Nick Clegg does in that assessment. I'm not an expert on poetry but, when I read the above “poem,” it made me hate language. It made me hate all forms of communication; it made me pray for a regression back to the use of guttural sounds and violent sexual advances as our only forms of interaction, in the hope that something so mortifyingly shit could never be committed to coherency ever again. I'm not an expert on poetry, but I don't think that's a good reaction.
It bothers me how smug poetry aficionado's react when I mention that, shock horror, I don't particularly like poetry! How they chuckle to their friends, how they shake their dreadlocked heads, how they look at me like I just admitted I have difficulty tying my own shoelaces. Well you know what? I'm right. Poetry is the easiest and least rewarding of all artforms. And I include whatever it is Nick Clegg does in that assessment. I don't look down on them when they say they've never played Call of Duty. And Call of Duty is better than anything Alexander Pope ever wrote, and that a fact. I know this a contentious argument but I will attempt to illustrate my point. Below is a very famous poem by William Carlos Willliams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I had a poetry teacher spend an entire term trying to explain to me why that was good, why the clarity of language is a brilliant example of Modernist American poetry, how through work such as this Williams was one of the forebearers of imagism, and why there is art in it's simplicity. And I just don't get it. It's just not good. I don't like Hiakus, I don't like sonnetts, I haven't enjoyed a limmerick since I was 13 and, do you know what? I'm o.k. with that. Fine and Dandy, thank you very much and people should be o.k. that I'm o.k. with it. So why should I be made to feel like the intellectual equivalent of a dog learning to fetch a stick?
I attended a poetry evening recently and it was the most soul destroying experience of my life. When asked for my opinion of her set by an angry ginger woman, who uncannily resembled Susan Boyle's face drawn onto a digestive biscuit, I politely offered that poetry wasn't really “my scene”- the smug condensation I was met with was tangible, and was joined by a room full of pretentious nitwits exhaling in my direction at the same time. The smell was quite horrific. I later found out this woman didn't even own a T.V! I was getting grief for being an intellectually inferior being from someone who had never even seen the Wire, and, I'm sorry, but this just doesn't wash with me, go fuck off back to your audience of fat girls and thirtysomething men in berries, because I think you're an idiot. Someone once remarked to me that if you can't become a writer you become a poet. And there is truth in that. I believe a poet is to writers what a ball juggler is to footballers, someone who can be impressive in small bursts and knows a number of impressive tricks but is lacking and not able to compete on the real field of play. Ross from Friends described his music as wordless, sound poems and I feel poems are soundless, word songs and are exactly as dull as that sounds. Most poetry is written and performed by pseudo intellectuals with ideas above their station, who, for some bizarre reason, believe that their drippy metaphors for the fact live hasn't kissed them on the arse is somehow art- it's not. I don't think anyone should be considered a poet unless their dead, and even then I'm on the fence.
I should qualify myself at this point and say I don't hate poetry entirely. I do, however, think there should be a craft to it; there should be a rhyme scheme, there should be meter and there should be worldplay. I don't hate poetry, I just don't get it. And that's what bothers me. Why is there such intellectual snobbery in a dying art form? Why do people feel their love of Paradise Lost is somehow greater and more intellectually satisfying than my love of the Final Fantasy series? The Final Fantasy series has just as much creativity, invention and poetry as Milton's overrated ripoff of the Book of Genesis. Play Final Fantasy 7 on the Playstation and it's biblical in it's scope, why can't this be as celebrated as some words cobbled together and left to your own imagination? Because people are pretentious.
I think my main problem comes down to free verse poetry more than anything. Art critics will find meaning in anything, mnaking the vast majority of free verse poetry redundant, hence Tracy Emin, Damien Hirst, the Turner Prize, Gillian Clarke. When there is a craft on display such as painting or sculpture, I can appreciate it. The Raven was criticised by William Butler Yeats for being “insincere and vulgar” and for being, simply, a “rhyming trick” But that's what I love about it. I love it's artificiality, I can get on board with that. It's clever, I can look at it and think "I couldn't do that", and that should be the case with all great art. And I find it a damn sight more entertaining than something like Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas which is just a drunk throwing metaphors at a page and seeing what sticks. Jimmy Carr writes brilliantly clever one liners but his jokes are not afforded the same intellectual integrity as Haikus and that's deeply unfair. I don't think a well crafted Haiku has anything to offer that a one-liner doesn't, but because it's classed as poetry it's given it. This is why I hate free verse poetry, because readers will do your work for you, they will intellectualise something that has no right to be intellectualised, giving it meaning that it doesn't deserve and that it's composer hasn't earned.
So what this rambling, incoherent entry basically amounts to is that anyone can write free verse poetry because no one knows if it's any good, it's subjective and it's easy. It's an art form for people without talent, who can't admit to themselves that they are not the creative, haunted soul they believe, but merely a stuck up moaner. Poetry has no bearing on Modern Britain and the post of poet laureate is meaningless. It should at least be replaced with some form of literature that people actually care about- a twitter laureate, perhaps? I don't get poetry and I think that should be celebrated, because most poetry isn't very good. Instead of pseudo intellectual bellends looking down on me in the way that only someone who can't grow a proper moustache can, people should celebrate true art forms of the 21st century: Flash Animation, stand up comedy, twitter (which is essentially no different to Haikus) and forget about an outdated, meaningless art form which hasn't been relevant since World War 2.
**Nb On the subject of Haikus my friend Ed came up with the following during a session in our student union, and it remains the greatest Haiku I have ever heard.
Hitler posseses
the greatest moustache ever
Shame about the jews.
You will never, ever beat that.
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