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Dot to Dot Festival, Nottingham
£20 of your British pounds gets you 8 stages, great bands, good organisation, and no queues Foals - Bloc Party gone gay disco. I'd bet good money on one of them being called Hugo, and I'd very much like them to fuck off back to whichever minor public school they came from. The Whip - Peter Hook called, he wants his bassline back. Blood Red Shoes - ahhh shouty girls with guitars. Shambolic, but lovely. Pull Tiger Tail - along with New Young Pony Club in the acceptable face of New Rave category Pete and the Pirates - twee'er than a Man From Delmonte b-side. Shy bespectacled indie boys, apart from the drummer, who's clearly in the wrong band. I think he's fey for pay. Maps - the band that ended my brief A&R career. When I put it to my record label, in no uncertain terms, that if they were too fuckwitted to sign them, then they clearly hated music and we had no future together.
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No, it's not like any other love
Is was, as billed, a fairly crappy week. Up at stupid o'clock for 3 days, to get the train North - neatly interspaced so they had to be return trips. And the budget numbers are not yet resolved quite to my satisfaction. Which is why I was particularly looking forward to some serious 'me' time on Friday - meeting with suppliers in the morning, and the rest of the day to myself. And things were going fine, with the meeting largely consisting of: them stroking my ego, interspaced with a bit of mutual congratulation on how much money we seem to be making. So I take my leave after lunch; and I'm just dropping my pass at reception; and I would have gotten away with it too - if it hadn't been for their pesky Client Services Director. With his "I'm just on my way out, I've booked a taxi, I can drop you back at the office...." Back? At the office?? With Kay Saatchi's gallery opening, and the RCA sculpture show on???? I think not... And we're inching through the afternoon traffic. Away from where I want to be. Towards where I definitely do not. And the clock's ticking, so.......so...... I have a vital walnut bread errand I need to run. I bail out a couple of blocks away; wave them round the corner, and jump the nearest tube. For the couple of changes and half dozen stops to get me back where I started.... But it was worth it because, I'm head over heels in love. And yes, it's purely physical, and yes we've got no prospect of a future together. But, when the object of your desires is perfection, such obstacles are trifles. Because truly, there is no greater love than that between a man and half tonne block of steel.
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Eurovision 2007
All in all, a fine Eurovision. Won, surprisingly enough, by a good song, well sung. Albeit by one of the most robustly butch performers to bestride the stage; and I suspect containing a hidden subtext about the annexation of Kosovo. Serbia led a number of former eastern block states who delivered strong entries - FYR (FYI get over yourselves) Macedonia; and Georgia were very underrated. The endearingly barking Ukraine. Russia's 'St Trinians girls go emo'. Points deducted though, for Bulgaria shamelessly ripping off the bassline from What Time is Love. And yet again we are a nation shamed; with the execrable Scooch. An act conceived by charlatans, and selected by morons. Achieving the seemingly unfeasible feat of beating Daz Sampson to the accolade of our worst Eurovision entry ever. And those carping about the partisan voting might want to reflect on the fact that the UK was only saved from a richly deserved nul points by Ireland and Malta. The "everyone hates us we don't care" line is wearing a bit thin these days. We're not getting points because we're serving up irredeemable crap. Although I reckon the only way for the UK to secure a top 10 placing is with Mr Bean singing War What is it Good For.
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Easter Turkey
The Catholic Church have got their cassocks in a twist over a life-size chocolate Jesus. It has been solemnly denounced by the Catholic League as "a sickening display.", "one of the worst assaults on Christian sensibilities ever.". Through their frothing outrage they've got the exhibit pulled. It should be pulled of course. Not because it upset some God bothers, but because it's really, really bad art. Trite, banal, me-too wankery. Even in the 80's these sort of lazily contrived 'outrages' were crushingly dull. I know it's coming up to Easter, but I'm sure we can think of something better to resurrect than Serrano. The work is actually entitled 'My Sweet Lord' - honestly, I'm not making this up, check it out on Google (you'll have to wade through about 50,000 Tom Wait's references to get there). It's self-basting onanism. Ignore it, it'll go away. Give us a praline Mohammed for Eid, then we'll talk about artistic integrity, you pussy.
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Making Your Mind Up, BBC1
Is Terry's ego really so fragile that the only person he's prepared to co-host with is a twittering imbecile like Fearne Cotton. Fearne makes Kelly Brook look like a mensa candidate. I don't think she's just playing dumb so boys will like her, I really think she is that stupid. It's just so "amazing" she can remember to breathe. As to the contenders themselves: Justin Hawkins playing spare prick to an otherwise promising Beverlei Brown. Brian Harvey failing to reanimate himself, or his career. The tragic Big Brovaz. Liz McClarnon - right performer, wrong song. Cyndi - right song, wrong performer: the French simply cannot sing, and the absence of a bagpipe finale was a schoolboy error. And Scooch, with no entendre left undoubled, camper than a Scout jamboree.
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Fight the power
If you're visiting the Tate for Hogarth, take a moment to check out Mark Wallinger's State Britain while you're there. An impressive installation in it's own right; and a welcome nose thumbing at the Government
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