Monday, November 27, 2006

Rupturing Reality

Wednesday, 5:40 P.M.

After another exhausting and devastatingly mundane day sacrificing the last remaining shreds of my beleaguered soul to the Corporate Satan, I gratefully collapse into the sole remaining vacant seat on the glorified mobile underground toilet that is the London Underground, paying little attention to the vaguely humanoid shape occupying the seating space juxtaposing mine. To my utter astonishment, this shape, by now identifiable as a probable homo sapiens female, rises, bafflingly says 'You Pervert!' and haughtily strides to a seat next to a bearded someone who looks infinitely more threatening than me (and as I have been told repeatedly that I look like a gormless blue-eyed baby 'Chandler From 'Friends'' with the intimidatingly-stubbly-facial-hair growing ability of a bowling ball, this is no achievement). Staggered by the crass unfairness, startling conceit and borderline insanity of this accusation, my jaw drops, my eyes open wide and I stare, dumbstruck, at the woman for several seconds (admittedly hardly helping her impression of me...)

Now, I'm a reasonable person. Had I been slavering over this woman, staring exclusively at her breasts and licking my lips suggestively whilst drooling uncontrollably over her feet, I could have understood why she may have felt some mild discomfort, if not actual disquiet. However, I fail to see how exactly having the nerve to even sit next to someone of the opposite sex constitutes an act of molestation unless you happen to live in an area so haplessly fundamentalist that people believe that males really do spontaneously combust at the sight of a naked female ankle which is not related to your own ankle (which makes you wonder what effect the Paris Hilton sex video would have - ten thousand nuclear holocausts??). Has it really got to the stage where merely possessing my face in public constitutes a serious sexual crime??? This is most distressing considering that I pride myself on being a true gentleman - a man capable, indeed, of keeping my eyes away from the female chest for whole seconds at a time and even, upon occasions, engaging the face of the aforementioned female in actual conversation.

Thursday, 9:30 P.M - Wembley Arena, London

Muse are indisputably the world's greatest live act. This is a statement of unqualified fact, not even remotely coloured by personal prejudice or subjectivity. The only people I will even consider permitting to be unmoved by a Muse performance are those who are paralytic and those who are dead - and I struggle to accept even these as excuses as the vast apocalyptic reverberations of Matt Bellamy's guitar would cause rippling vibrations to shudder through the thickest lead coffin in the universe. Their performance tonight causes me to remember with indignation the contemptible comments made by Lily Allen (an artist so 'genuine' that you can actually hear the pause on 'Smile' as she carefully reminds herself which consonant to drop next ('mental.... I mean, oh goodness gracious, botheration, that is, 'men-al'... there it is, marvellous. I mean wicked...') in a desperate and pitiful effort to sound like she was raised on the 'street') about Muse taking over an NME cover that she was supposedly 'promised'. To even place the two in the same sentence - let alone compare their relative quality - is to commit a blasphemous act against music so heinous and earth-shatteringly horrific that it risks creating a catastrophic and terminal rupture in the fabric of reality. Lily Allen deserves to be on a cover ahead of Muse about as much as Gandhi deserves to be placed in a blender ahead of Donald Rumsfeld.

Set List:

1. Knights Of Cydonia
2. Starlight
3. Butterflies & Hurricanes
4. Map Of The Problematique + Riff
5. City Of Delusion
6. Plug In Baby
7. Forced In
8. Hysteria
9. Citizen Erased
10. Hoodoo
11. Invincible
12. Supermassive Black Hole
13. Time Is Running Out
14. New Born
15. Apocalypse Please
16. Bliss
17. Muscle Museum
18. Stockholm Syndrome
19. Take A Bow
20. Brain-Dead White Noise With Infuriating Small Female Screaming Tone-Deaf Abuse Over The Top (Lily Allen Tribute)

Ed's Mood: Incandescent

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Muse - Take A Bow

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Nickname Tribulations

Ever wondered why I have a particular dislike for the most incomprehensibly popular of my numerous and invariably highly offensive nicknames, Eddy J?

Because it involves association with this 'man': (scroll to the bottom...)

Call me a cynic, but I find it hard not to regard the line 'Kids love his "Fun Songs", including "The Tongue Twister Song!!"' as, at the very least, highly disturbing, if not jaw-droppingly horrifying. You would have thought that someone who would risk career suicide with these kind of worrying connotations would at least have the good sense NOT to grow a gigantic handlebar moustache and pose for photographs with a grin even more hauntingly sinister than Russell Brand's facial hair in addition, but no...

(and yes, I'm sure the song is about nothing less innocent than the pleasure one gains from the joy of sucking on a nice juicy lollipop...)

Ed's Mood: Combative

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Radiohead - I Want None Of This

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Papal Psychosis

Being a liberal and (metaphorically) militant atheist, I usually classify the insensate ramblings of the Pope as mere mindless, psychotic and utterly insignificant dross spewing from the addled mind of a haplessly outmoded twelth century relic. This is a man who is so hopelessly conservative that he named himself Benedict XVI. Not Benedict I or Benedict III. Benedict the six-bloody-teenth. He was given free reign to choose any name imaginable - Megapope I, Kaiser Chief I, Condomlover I - but chose one about as original as a film in which Will Ferrell and Owen Wilson combine forces to not be funny. What puzzled me so much was not that he uttered a cringeworthily stupid soundbite about Islam but that anyone - regardless of religious affiliation - remotely cared. Most people I know pay about as much heed to a papal proclamation as they do to a Tom Cruise proclamation. And remember, Tom Cruise is a man who will, in what appears to be a quite rational, sensible and considered tone (when it really merits being said whilst curled up in a foetal ball and foaming at the mouth like an unhinged lunatic), say something like this:

"75 million years ago, there was an alien galactic ruler named Xenu who was in charge of 76 planets in our sector of the galaxy, including planet Earth, whose name at that time was Teegeeack. [And to think this is the most rational part of this speech]

All of the planets Xenu controlled were over-populated by, on average, 178 billion people. Social problems dictated that Xenu rid his sector of the galaxy of this overpopulation problem, so he developed a plan. [Mass genocide? Compulsory sterilisation? Compulsory watching of Elf on everlasting auto-repeat..?]

Xenu sent out tax audit demands to all these billions of people. [Ah yes! Of course! The obvious solution... death by income-based means calculation.]

As each one entered the audit centers for the income tax inspections, the people were seized, held down and injected with a mixture of alcohol and glycol, and frozen. Then, all 13.5 trillion of these frozen people were put into spaceships that looked exactly like DC8 airplanes, except that the spaceships had rocket engines instead of propellers. [Now isn't it good to know that Scientology applies rigorous scientific standards and knows that all you have to do to make a mediocre aeroplane into a supersonic atmosphere-breaking spaceship is to swap the propellers for a rocket engine...?]

Xenu's entire fleet of DC8-like spaceships then flew to planet Earth, where the frozen people were dumped in and around volcanoes in the Canary Islands and the Hawaiian Islands. When Xenu's Air Force had finished dumping the bodies into the volcanoes, hydrogen bombs were dropped into the volcanoes and the frozen space aliens were destroyed. [Yes. All of the frozen space aliens were destroyed - with one prominent exception. The frozen space alien 'Cher' continues to live with us today.]

However, Xenu's plan involved setting up electronic traps in Teegeeack's atmosphere which were designed to trap the souls or spirits of the dead space aliens. When the 13.5 trillion spirits were being blown around on the nuclear winds, the electronic traps worked like a charm and captured all the souls in the electronic, sticky fly-paper like traps. [I'm sorry. This is a hugely advanced race capable of both fitting 13.5 trillion people into a couple of infinitesimally small volcanoes and killing them all with hydrogen bombs without terminally destroying the Earth, and what do they use to trap souls? Extremely large fly paper. Right.]

The spirits of the aliens were then taken to huge multiplex cinemas that Xenu had previously instructed his forces to build on Teegeeack. In these movie theaters the spirits had to spend many days watching special 3-D movies, the purpose of which was twofold: 1) to implant into these spirits a false reality, i.e. the reality that WOGS (Hubbard's derisory term for anyone not a Scientologist) know on Earth today; and, 2) to control these spirits for all eternity so that they could never cause trouble for Xenu in this sector of the Galaxy. During these films, many false pictures were implanted into these spirits, which resulted in the spirits believing in all the things that control mankind on Earth today, including religion. The concept of religion, including God, Christ, Mohammed, Moses etc., were all an implanted false reality that to this very minute is used to control WOGS on Earth. [1. That's racist. 2. Even a vegetable with water on the brain would be capable of thinking up a more convincing adjective than 'special' to describe these miraculous prehistoric cinema multiplexes.]

When the films ended and the souls left the cinema, they started to stick together in clusters of a few thousand and remained that way until mankind began to inhabit the Earth. Today on Earth all the spirits of these aliens have attached themselves to our bodies and are the root cause of the false reality that all but Scientology's "Homo Novis" or OT 8's on earth experience. It is the job of all Scientologists to remove this false reality from the world by auditing each and every space alien spirit and human on earth to CLEAR not only this planet but the universe. For those who oppose Scientology and stand in their way like the Lisa McPherson Trust and all Scientology critics, Scientology promises to do away with them "quietly and without sorrow". [to say this sounds slightly irrational is like saying that Insane Clown Posse have a slightly crap name]

We have calculated that on average, each person on planet earth has 2,209 of these Body Thetans (BT's for short), Hubbard's term for the alien spirits, attached to you causing you and all mankind to be constrained by Xenu's false reality. The average cost for Scientology to OT 8 is a mere USD 360,000, meaning that each BT only costs USD 163 to clear. Now that is a bargain if there ever was one. [Oh yes. A bargain on a scale with swapping a multi-million pound country mansion for a tube of expired cod liver oil flavoured silly string]

To finish the story, the Loyal Officers of the Marcab Confederation finally discovered how evil Xenu was and overthrew him. He is now locked away in a mountain on one of the planets and kept in by a force-field powered by an eternal battery." [Yes, that's exactly right. They could have just killed the bloke, but instead they choose to spend millions of pounds a year pointlessly maintaining a ludicrous decadence. Just like Paramount]

It should be remembered that the Pope is an archaic mouthpiece for a meaningless and outdated institution whose time passed several centuries ago, not the generic voice of Western civilisation. He is a mere mild and laughable irritation - a wasp with no sting fighting the nuclear-powered behemoth of enlightened atheism. His thoughts are about as relevant to most right-thinking men and women as Chantelle's views on the existentialist philosophical tradition. They are not even remotely close to having enough import to be considered as an insult. Muslims should join everyone else in heartily laughing at him and the ridiculous institution that spawned him.

Ed's Mood: Sardonic

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Mansun - I Can Only Disappoint You

Friday, August 11, 2006

Scissor Muse (Wedding Interlude)

Ooh morons, don't you know I suffer?
Ooh halfwits, can you hear me moan?
You reside behind weak defences
How long before you sell your souls?

Ooh, your lyrics are so trite
Ooh, yours is a dreadful plight
Talent wasted, formulaic shite
The superstars sucked into the shameless sell-out
Talent wasted, formulaic shite
The superstars sucked into... [into the shameless sell-out]

I thought I was deceived by no-one
You bastards, I was fooled by you
The new queens of the superficial

How long before you duet with Moby?

Ooh, you should be so contrite
Ooh, you sound like McFly-lite
Talent wasted, formulaic shite
The superstars sucked into the shameless sell-out
Talent wasted, formulaic shite
The superstars sucked into... [into the shameless sell-out]

Ed's Mood: Bitter

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Velvet Revolver - Big Machine

Friday, July 21, 2006

Matrimonial Meanderings - Part One

12:30 Having acquired my best man (The Gusmeister) and ushers (Duncan, my younger sibling, and Neil, elder statesman and chief wit of the slug-infested parasitic hellhole that masqueraded as my second and third year university accommodation) and suavely attired myself in a fetching tailcoat, I have little left to do in terms of preparation other than anxiously pace around the house. My nervousness is, however, minor compared to that of the Gusmeister, who is such a perfectionist that he spends nearly an hour and a half practising the hand gestures that accompany his speech in the mirror.

14:00 We reach the church. I trip over a grave that has had the confounded cheek and selfish lack of consideration for others to position itself directly in my path and I narrowly avoid crashing head first into the accompanying headstone. This is not an auspicious start.

14:05 I trip over another poorly positioned grave. I look around suspiciously for any sniggering zombies who might be behind this conspiracy against my person.

14:10 I affix my buttonhole flora and mobile hayfever-inducing device. The streaming eyes that are the natural consequence of attaching such a malevolent pollen-filled flower to my upper chest are taken by my dad to demonstrate a complete breakdown of manly resolve. I remind him that I have not cried in public since I last saw a Will Ferrell comedy.

14:40 The guests begin to arrive, and as etiquette demands that Dani does not make an appearance in person until the ceremony begins I find myself in the unusual position of being the centre of attention for something positive. Previous times when I have been the centre of attention include a) the occasion at primary school when my appalling ineptitude for the game 'It' resulted in the near self-amputation of my left arm and an emergency rescue from the fire brigade, b) the time at secondary school when my English teacher considered my interpretation of the poem 'Goblin Market' to be so revoltingly depraved that she took me aside in class for some one-to-one counselling and c) the occasion on which I became the first person ever to score two goals in the same House Football game with my arse. This is, therefore, a new and quite disconcerting experience for me.

14:45 The Gusmeister and I enter the church to a rousing and entirely spontaneous burst of utter, contemptuous silence. I quickly calculate all the aspects of the ceremony that could go horribly wrong and the correct answer 'all of them several times over and to increasingly embarrassing and humiliating effect' provides me with little solace.

15:00 Dani arrives, but in my enfeebled state I am only able to continue to look directly forward while quivering gently. The vicar - who closely resembles a bowling ball with a not especially convincing approximation of a face - gently reminds me that it is conventional for the groom to face the bride rather than staring intently at the places on his head where the fingers and thumb go.

15:10 The immortal line 'does anyone here know of any good reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony?' is uttered at last. Fortunately I had the presence of mind to kill everyone who knew of a good reason prior to the ceremony and my other six wives are securely locked up in a safe house in Basildon, so I feel in little danger at this stage. There is no audible response to this question other than a few mild giggles and a number of 'yes, he prefers chickens', which are greeted with the contempt they deserve.

15:30 We are married. Dani, with typically endearing naivety, appears blissfully unaware of the fact that she has haplessly and unnecessarily thrown her life away and has not yet got round to even tying the knot... in her noose, let alone hanging it from the ceiling. After crossing the threshold of the church we are invited to form a slightly belated greeting line for our guests. The females are subjected to the horrific experience of an embrace and kiss from yours truly*.

* I kissed nearly 70 women on my wedding day, which seems slightly inappropriate and immoral. Fortunately, however, most of them are at least partially recovered from post-traumatic stress disorder and the others are in recession. The ones you really have to sympathise for are those who received invitations to both the church and the evening reception and were thus subjected to the horrific ordeal on two occasions. What is most concerning is that the official photographs of what should have been innocuous cheek pecks and embraces are taken from such a deceptive angle as to make it appear that I'm committing a series of increasingly horrifying and adulterous carnal acts barely seconds after my wedding with a variety of my new wife's best friends. Now I understand what my good friend Kate (who, incidentally was born on the same day as me and thus is unfortunate enough to share a birthday with Benito Mussolini and, worse, Andi Peters) was going on about when she said slightly sardonically that I was a 'good hugger'...

16:00 We are subjected to the odd tradition that demands that the new bride and groom are half-drowned in scraps of discarded coloured toilet paper as they battle their way manfully to their automotive escape route. Battered and bruised by this experience, we request a quick escape in our hird Rolls Royce Phantom and smooothly exit proceedings. As we leave Witham I breathe for the first time in four hours and foolishly begin to relax, whereupon I remember to my horror that the situation most fraught with the potential for extreme embarrassment - namely my speech - is still yet to come...

Ed's Mood: Ebullient

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Smashing Pumpkins - Rock On

Saturday, July 15, 2006

Filler Track

(To the theme tune of - and in homage to - the children's animated classic, Poddington Peas)

At the bottom of the gene pool
With all the rats and the flies
There's a lot of semi-people
They're called the Basildon chavs
The Basildon chavs

Authentic wedding and honeymoon update coming soon...

Ed's Mood: Tranquil

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Ephymerean Gaze - 'New One'

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Anachronistic Turkeys

Congratulations are due to NME today. Not only have they helped obliterate the last remaining semblance of originality and innovation from modern music by their ceaseless and utterly baffling promotion of only the most jaw-droppingly turgid three-chord dirge merchants, but they have also managed to gratuitously offend one of the few bands left who refuse to occupy this shatteringly mundane, moribund and mind-numbing genre.

This has to be the most preposterous, breathtakingly stupid and downright insulting question ever asked to a member of any band:

NME: You're playing after the Arctic Monkeys. Are you worried that you might be upstaged?

MATT BELLAMY: ..............................................?!?!?!?!

Since the Arctic Monkeys would struggle to upstage Milli Vanilli farting the Greatest Hits Of William Shatner through a megaphone, I think not.

Ed's Mood: Bewildered

Ed's Incessant Auto-Repeat Musical Tip: Muse - Knights of Cydonia (live)