Accidentally Semi-Serious Article, orignally posted on Deadjournal
Today I was doing some research for a job application, and accidentally found out that dyslexia is fictional. Fantastic news for all those dyslexics out there who were under the impression that they had difficulties concentrating on reading because words jump off the page, mix themselves up, replace themselves with blocks of colour at random, or any of the other problems associated with the condition.
The surely Nobel-worthy discovery was made by a Labour MP from Manchester, Graham Stringer, in this here column.
Ordinarily I would jump at the chance to rip on dyslexia, not least in order to annoy my dyslexic younger sister. You know the type of thing… it’s just a made-up term for stupid people, dyslexic walks into a bra...
Unfortunately, Stringer seems to genuinely believe that it’s a made up disease – ‘political correctness gone maaad’ and other clichés. Essentially, like Dawkins on Christianity, Stringer doesn’t seem to know what he’s talking about.
For a start, he insinuates that being dyslexic and being functionally illiterate are essentially the same thing. Bollocks. Functional illiteracy means a person can’t use reading or writing in everyday situations. Dyslexia is a learning disability that means the sufferer has trouble learning to read and write, but it doesn’t stop them from doing so entirely. The brain processes information in a different way, and whilst that can cause frustration and lead to people giving up (ergo sliding down the helter skelter of functional illiteracy), if they get support there’s no reason it shouldn’t be overcome.
I know several dyslexic people who have not only made it through university, but done pretty damn well. Being functionally illiterate would have hindered them somewhat. Not that being dyslexic didn’t pose problems, but you know what I mean. If the two conditions were the same, they wouldn’t have been able to fill out the application.
Stringer contextualises his findings in his regular visits to Strangeways, where many of the inmates are illiterate. He thinks that if literacy rates were higher, crime rates would decrease. That’s probably true – if you can’t read or write you’ll have problems getting a job and you’ll be poor and therefore potentially more tempted to go out on the nick. It’s not rocket science, it’s the gospel according to school. But how does this relate to dyslexia, you might ask? Well, the reason people are illiterate is down to bad teaching. And when bad teachers get caught out, they say “o hai, iz not ma fawlts tho, the childs are dyslexic.”
“If dyslexia really existed,” bristles our intrepid hero, “then countries as diverse as Nicaragua and South Korea would not have been able to achieve literacy rates of nearly 100%.” Now, I’ve looked this up (on Wikipedia), and apparently literacy rates in South Korea are indeed 99%, so that checks out. Nicaragua meanwhile, is at 80.1%. And the United Kingdom? Well, 99% again, actually. What kind of government are we dealing with, that doesn’t Wiki its figures before writing an article about the fictional nature of a condition whose existence is supported by mounds of ongoing research?
Towards the end of his diatribe, it transpires that Stringer is actually trying to make a case for something called synthetic phonics, a teaching method piloted in West Dumbartonshire which, according to him, has achieved great results and all but eradicated functional illiteracy in the area, which we can all agree is A Good Thing. But he incites ridiculous examples to make his point, like some idiot medical student saying she’s discriminated against as a dyslexic by having to do written exams.
“I don’t know about anybody else,” he says (the subtext of course being that of course he knows about everyone else, and more besides), “but I want my doctors, and for that matter, engineers, teachers, dentists and police officers to be able to read and write.” Well, fair enough.
Except I looked up what the idiot was actually arguing, and it seems the case goes a little bit beyond what Stringer mentions in his column. Quel surprise. Her problem was specifically with multiple-choice (ie not written) exams, for two reasons.
1) It discriminates against dyslexic students because the nature of the condition, as mentioned above, is such that words seem to move about on the page and it’s quite difficult to read and select the correct answer. A further point might be one that my sister explained, which is that she finds it hard to go back and check over what she’s written - she sees what is supposed to be there rather than what is actually in front of her.
2) “In normal day life, you don't get given multiple choice questions to sit. Your patients aren't going to ask you 'here's an option and four answers. Which one is right?”
I think on balance I would like my doctor to know what’s wrong with me based on a little bit more knowledge than picking at random out of four possibilities. And I know some are picked at random (about 50% of them according to the medical student I lived with in first and second year of university…). The main alternative to multiple-choice papers is apparently a ‘user input quiz’, which asks a question and requires you to come up with an answer yourself. Kind of like an old skool exam, then. We’ve all heard how education has gone to crap; surely Stringer ought to support this girl’s advocation of a return to the good old days, before dyslexics were invented?
It’s one thing to say that the education system has failed some people, and another to say that dyslexia doesn’t exist. The same system has failed both groups, and whilst there presumably is overlap between the functionally illiterate and the dyslexic, numerous other factors are at work here. From just a few weeks of experience working in a ‘community’ library I know that truancy, drug taking and crime affect young people who are well able to read and write, but don’t bother because it’s not cool, or because they don’t have to, or because they think there are better things to do. There’s a whole culture of choosing to be ignorant despite abundant resources and support being available – ten year old girls saying they can’t wait till they’re sixteen cause then they can “get a hoose wi ma mate fae Livvy, it’ll be brrruuwyant.” School is shite, reading is boring, and so on. It’s not because they're incapable - far from it. They just aren’t interested, and nobody is giving them any compelling reasons why they should be.
Furthermore, schools quite often don’t pick up on it, assuming instead that the kids who read slowly or can’t spell are just thick. Why bother to put someone forward for the test if they’re just slow? It’s expensive to do. Better to just bung them on a table with the other stupid kids and let a classroom assistant deal with it.
If synthetic phonics is as good as Stringer thinks, he should be campaigning for it using the results from West Dumbartonshire as proof, not questioning the existence of dyslexia by means of tenuous comparisons with famous prisons. I don’t know why anyone would be so wilfully obtuse in their arguments when it sounds like a perfectly sound case could be made without them. There again, I’m not a member of parliament. Yay democracy.
Monday, 26 January 2009
Monday, 12 January 2009
Heal The World
Originally on Deadjournal
Ah, iTunes. The magic of shuffle is indeed a powerful tool.
It has in recent moments come out with ‘Losing My Way’, a provocatively poor track from the otherwise surprisingly enjoyable Future Sex/Love Sounds by none other than Justin Timberlake.
The CD came via an embarrassed friend who entreated me not to tell anyone its origins. Released in 2006, just ahead of several undeniably better albums (Jarvis Cocker’s first solo effort, a re-release of Pavement’s Wowee Zowee, Pieces of the People we Love by The Rapture - the list goes on), it received mixed reviews. I know this because I just read a load of them. Tim Finney of Pitchfork, for instance, wrote: “According to the laws of momentum which govern pop music, any sequel [to a debut album] could only be either be a pale reflection or a hubristic monstrosity. With FutureSex/LoveSounds he unrepentantly chooses the latter.”
That’s a tad unfair. The album is by no means a total failure, although it does veer from the sublime to the ridiculous with the breakneck speed of a toddler pumped full of cherryade, and it fizzles out a little bit towards the end. On the other hand, I was rather expecting it to be gash, so the fact it was any craic at all is a tribute to the Timberlake. The first single, after all, was SexyBack, a hugely confusing track for those of us who didn’t know sexy had left in the first place, and the song chosen to annoy the crap out of anyone who listened to Star FM (the St Andrews University Radio Station) at the time of release, as it was their signature tune. St Andrews University Radio is not now, nor has it ever been, bringing sexy back.
But what I really want to talk to you about is not Sexyback, nor the album as a whole, but the aforementioned crap in a bag that is ‘Losing My Way’. This is an anti-drugs song so preachy that a gospel choir comes in half way through. Lucy Davies of BBC online “can't decide whether this is brilliant or cheese on toast.” It’s the latter. No question. Rolling Stone’s Robert Christgau is far closer to the mark in describing it as a “clueless embarrassment.”
It’s about a crack addict called Bob, who will probably never know the colour of his daughter’s eyes on account of all the drugs. Drugs are bad, m’kay. It’s deep, meaningful and touching. Victor, of lyricsdepot.com, said “Justin expressed my pain in one song”. A few posts down, Nanea elaborates “this song could for so many situations not just drugs.. like alcohol problems or anything that might cause you to lose your way. I pray for those who have lost thier way and hope God lights their path. I thank JT for singing a song that touched me.” Evidence that people who genuinely enjoy this track are unable to proof read their own posts, if nothing else. The only thing this song touches is the gag reflex, or whatever nerve it is that makes you cringe.
The epic melodrama sees Justin, whose acting you may remember from Shrek 3, sings from the point of view of a junkie. To engage the listener, he easily introduces himself through rhyme:
“Hi my name is Bob and I work at my job.”
The man is a poet.
“I make forty-some dollars a day
I used to be the man in my hometown
'til I started to lose my way”
The reason Bob thinks that ‘forty-some’ is a number is quickly explained:
“It all goes back to when I dropped out at school
Having fun, I was living the life
But now I got a problem with that little white rock
See I can’t put down the pipe.”
It’s about as subtle as Just Say No.
“It is breaking me down, watching the world spin round..
While my dreams fall down
Is anybody out there?”
It is unclear whether Bob is tripping and can see the world spinning around as part of a hallucination, or whether the fact the world spins round is something he vaguely remembers from watching National Geographic in the middle of the night having been unable to score. But more important is the point that his dreams have not come true, and he feels alone. Drugs and lack of schooling will do that to you.
“Can anybody out there hear me? 'Cause I can't seem to hear myself…”
Wow, that is like, so true! Nobody listens to drug addicts except for the people they mug to fund their addiction.
“Can anybody out there see me? 'Cause I can't seem to see myself...”
Nobody makes eye contact with them, either. And not being seen makes you feel invisible. God, that Justin is good innee. Look at his hair.
“There's gotta be a heaven somewhere”
Fair play. You can’t argue with established facts, like the proven existence of a physical heaven.
“Can you save me from this hell?”
Yes, for I am Justin Timberlake, popstar, actor and superhero! But I shall not tell you how yet, for we must add EVEN MORE DEPTH to this utterly believable, clearly based on more solid experience than watching a couple of True Movies, tale.
“Now you gotta understand I was a family man
I would have gave anything for my own”
(His family, that is)
“But I couldn't get a grip on my new-found itch”
(Drugs)
“So I ended up all alone
I remember where I was when I got my first buzz
See I thought I was living the life
And the craziest thing is I'll probably never know the colour of my daughter's eyes.”
Mmm. That implies she was unborn when all this transpired. Which begs several questions. How old is Bob? How long has Bob been on the drugs? Is he actually intending on getting clean at any stage? It seems he wants someone else to solve his problems for him, which is totes lazy imo. JT, you are a busy and important man, you shouldn’t be trying to find friends for indolent crackheads. And yet, he does. What a guy. All Bob need do, Justin suggests, is repent. And lo, he will be saved. Biblical.
Justin, it may be worth pointing out, has been in the entertainment industry since he was about ten. Call me a cynic, but it seems unlikely that he ever met a proper down and out junkie from the street when he was doing the Mickey Mouse club. When he comes into contact with drugs, it’s surely in rather more glamorous surroundings than poor old Bobby Bob Bob. Essentially, I think he’s watched a documentary and written a song about it.
I look forward to the follow-up, a ditty from the point of view of the half-ton boy who was on that Bodyshock program. It’ll be poignant as fuck.
Ah, iTunes. The magic of shuffle is indeed a powerful tool.
It has in recent moments come out with ‘Losing My Way’, a provocatively poor track from the otherwise surprisingly enjoyable Future Sex/Love Sounds by none other than Justin Timberlake.
The CD came via an embarrassed friend who entreated me not to tell anyone its origins. Released in 2006, just ahead of several undeniably better albums (Jarvis Cocker’s first solo effort, a re-release of Pavement’s Wowee Zowee, Pieces of the People we Love by The Rapture - the list goes on), it received mixed reviews. I know this because I just read a load of them. Tim Finney of Pitchfork, for instance, wrote: “According to the laws of momentum which govern pop music, any sequel [to a debut album] could only be either be a pale reflection or a hubristic monstrosity. With FutureSex/LoveSounds he unrepentantly chooses the latter.”
That’s a tad unfair. The album is by no means a total failure, although it does veer from the sublime to the ridiculous with the breakneck speed of a toddler pumped full of cherryade, and it fizzles out a little bit towards the end. On the other hand, I was rather expecting it to be gash, so the fact it was any craic at all is a tribute to the Timberlake. The first single, after all, was SexyBack, a hugely confusing track for those of us who didn’t know sexy had left in the first place, and the song chosen to annoy the crap out of anyone who listened to Star FM (the St Andrews University Radio Station) at the time of release, as it was their signature tune. St Andrews University Radio is not now, nor has it ever been, bringing sexy back.
But what I really want to talk to you about is not Sexyback, nor the album as a whole, but the aforementioned crap in a bag that is ‘Losing My Way’. This is an anti-drugs song so preachy that a gospel choir comes in half way through. Lucy Davies of BBC online “can't decide whether this is brilliant or cheese on toast.” It’s the latter. No question. Rolling Stone’s Robert Christgau is far closer to the mark in describing it as a “clueless embarrassment.”
It’s about a crack addict called Bob, who will probably never know the colour of his daughter’s eyes on account of all the drugs. Drugs are bad, m’kay. It’s deep, meaningful and touching. Victor, of lyricsdepot.com, said “Justin expressed my pain in one song”. A few posts down, Nanea elaborates “this song could for so many situations not just drugs.. like alcohol problems or anything that might cause you to lose your way. I pray for those who have lost thier way and hope God lights their path. I thank JT for singing a song that touched me.” Evidence that people who genuinely enjoy this track are unable to proof read their own posts, if nothing else. The only thing this song touches is the gag reflex, or whatever nerve it is that makes you cringe.
The epic melodrama sees Justin, whose acting you may remember from Shrek 3, sings from the point of view of a junkie. To engage the listener, he easily introduces himself through rhyme:
“Hi my name is Bob and I work at my job.”
The man is a poet.
“I make forty-some dollars a day
I used to be the man in my hometown
'til I started to lose my way”
The reason Bob thinks that ‘forty-some’ is a number is quickly explained:
“It all goes back to when I dropped out at school
Having fun, I was living the life
But now I got a problem with that little white rock
See I can’t put down the pipe.”
It’s about as subtle as Just Say No.
“It is breaking me down, watching the world spin round..
While my dreams fall down
Is anybody out there?”
It is unclear whether Bob is tripping and can see the world spinning around as part of a hallucination, or whether the fact the world spins round is something he vaguely remembers from watching National Geographic in the middle of the night having been unable to score. But more important is the point that his dreams have not come true, and he feels alone. Drugs and lack of schooling will do that to you.
“Can anybody out there hear me? 'Cause I can't seem to hear myself…”
Wow, that is like, so true! Nobody listens to drug addicts except for the people they mug to fund their addiction.
“Can anybody out there see me? 'Cause I can't seem to see myself...”
Nobody makes eye contact with them, either. And not being seen makes you feel invisible. God, that Justin is good innee. Look at his hair.
“There's gotta be a heaven somewhere”
Fair play. You can’t argue with established facts, like the proven existence of a physical heaven.
“Can you save me from this hell?”
Yes, for I am Justin Timberlake, popstar, actor and superhero! But I shall not tell you how yet, for we must add EVEN MORE DEPTH to this utterly believable, clearly based on more solid experience than watching a couple of True Movies, tale.
“Now you gotta understand I was a family man
I would have gave anything for my own”
(His family, that is)
“But I couldn't get a grip on my new-found itch”
(Drugs)
“So I ended up all alone
I remember where I was when I got my first buzz
See I thought I was living the life
And the craziest thing is I'll probably never know the colour of my daughter's eyes.”
Mmm. That implies she was unborn when all this transpired. Which begs several questions. How old is Bob? How long has Bob been on the drugs? Is he actually intending on getting clean at any stage? It seems he wants someone else to solve his problems for him, which is totes lazy imo. JT, you are a busy and important man, you shouldn’t be trying to find friends for indolent crackheads. And yet, he does. What a guy. All Bob need do, Justin suggests, is repent. And lo, he will be saved. Biblical.
Justin, it may be worth pointing out, has been in the entertainment industry since he was about ten. Call me a cynic, but it seems unlikely that he ever met a proper down and out junkie from the street when he was doing the Mickey Mouse club. When he comes into contact with drugs, it’s surely in rather more glamorous surroundings than poor old Bobby Bob Bob. Essentially, I think he’s watched a documentary and written a song about it.
I look forward to the follow-up, a ditty from the point of view of the half-ton boy who was on that Bodyshock program. It’ll be poignant as fuck.
Wednesday, 24 December 2008
Things That Will Set Us On Fire
By our early twenties, we all know not to set ourselves on fire. A sweeping generalisation you might say, but I would argue that many people recognise the negative connotations of being aflame from an even younger age. And I say good for them.
Despite my oft-espoused view that “the film version of Denethor’s flamey demise in Lord of the Rings is the only way to go”, the actual results of setting oneself on fire are almost always unpleasant. One’s favourite clothes may be spoiled, unsightly scars can be sustained, and there is even a possibility of fatality.
We know that we shouldn’t wear loose clothes around naked flames, not to overload electrical sockets, and that if you nod off with a cigarette in your mouth – which some people do, apparently - your bed, your spouse and your home will be destroyed in a terrifying inferno that will haunt your nightmares for the rest of time whilst you, the perpetrator, will survive (albeit in a lot of pain and very badly disfigured) to reflect upon your actions.
However, there are several ways to set oneself on fire that I’ve only learned about since moving to Edinburgh.
For instance, did you know that leaving shoes beside the front door when you come home is a creamy recipe for certain death? (We only do this, incidentally, because the letting agent told us to - the reason being that our carpet is that brand of rented accommodation beige which sucks in dirt like a sponge in an effort to lose us our deposit in cleaning bills at the end of the lease.) One can only speculate that secret research has determined that shoes often spontaneously burst into flames, possibly out of boredom, and it logically follows on that if they are left beside the door they will simultaneously endanger our lives and block our escape route.
Furthermore, open doors are phenomenally dangerous. We have known for some time that we aren’t supposed to keep our kitchen or bedroom doors open, because ‘mumbly fire hazard something about council inspectors’. This has never been explained to my satisfaction.
Then today I learned that using the hall as a communal area (we have no living room) is a fire hazard, on the grounds that we have a telly and a game cube in the corner and may trip over the wires. The wires, by the by, are also in the corner, tucked between the telly and a wall. Only someone who was really in the mood for tripping over stuff could fall over them.
However, I realise now that I have been hopelessly complacent with regards to combustion possibilities in the home. I feel fortunate to have seen the light before anything got too badly scorched, and am almost giddy with joy that now I can pass on the information to you, journal reader, to help you identify the fire hazards in your own life and prepare yourself accordingly. Good luck.
Despite my oft-espoused view that “the film version of Denethor’s flamey demise in Lord of the Rings is the only way to go”, the actual results of setting oneself on fire are almost always unpleasant. One’s favourite clothes may be spoiled, unsightly scars can be sustained, and there is even a possibility of fatality.
We know that we shouldn’t wear loose clothes around naked flames, not to overload electrical sockets, and that if you nod off with a cigarette in your mouth – which some people do, apparently - your bed, your spouse and your home will be destroyed in a terrifying inferno that will haunt your nightmares for the rest of time whilst you, the perpetrator, will survive (albeit in a lot of pain and very badly disfigured) to reflect upon your actions.
However, there are several ways to set oneself on fire that I’ve only learned about since moving to Edinburgh.
For instance, did you know that leaving shoes beside the front door when you come home is a creamy recipe for certain death? (We only do this, incidentally, because the letting agent told us to - the reason being that our carpet is that brand of rented accommodation beige which sucks in dirt like a sponge in an effort to lose us our deposit in cleaning bills at the end of the lease.) One can only speculate that secret research has determined that shoes often spontaneously burst into flames, possibly out of boredom, and it logically follows on that if they are left beside the door they will simultaneously endanger our lives and block our escape route.
Furthermore, open doors are phenomenally dangerous. We have known for some time that we aren’t supposed to keep our kitchen or bedroom doors open, because ‘mumbly fire hazard something about council inspectors’. This has never been explained to my satisfaction.
Then today I learned that using the hall as a communal area (we have no living room) is a fire hazard, on the grounds that we have a telly and a game cube in the corner and may trip over the wires. The wires, by the by, are also in the corner, tucked between the telly and a wall. Only someone who was really in the mood for tripping over stuff could fall over them.
However, I realise now that I have been hopelessly complacent with regards to combustion possibilities in the home. I feel fortunate to have seen the light before anything got too badly scorched, and am almost giddy with joy that now I can pass on the information to you, journal reader, to help you identify the fire hazards in your own life and prepare yourself accordingly. Good luck.
Thursday, 18 December 2008
Odd Numbers
Graffiti in the loos of Henry's Cellar Bar, discovered at a DanDanDan gig.
It is an epic cliffhanger.
The hooves of expectation crush my what?!
Suggestions so far include 'tits', 'baws', 'crisps' and 'pi'.
These are the suggestions of fools.
Thursday, 27 November 2008
This Is The Life
An occasionally prophetic review I wrote for The Vine (University of St Andrews student magazine) in March 2007
Amy Macdonald is a terrible poser (check out her website if you don’t believe us), but she’s probably going to be mahoosive. In the musical sense, rather than appearing on telly with diet bitch Gillian McKeith. The 19-year-old indie pop songstress (as she’ll probably be called) has already attended the Brit Awards and been given a slot at Glastonbury; and the fact that she’s a Scottish girl with a guitar has begun to draw those obvious (but by and large complimentary) comparisons with KT Tunstall.
Her album sampler (watermarked so that The Vine does not fiendishly copy it to share the beautiful acoustic pop melodies with others who will undoubtedly want to buy the CD, shirt, and moody photograph of Amy sitting on a wall somewhere faintly scummy in Glasgow that's about eight miles away from where she actually lives) contains five tracks from the debut, This is the Life, due for release this summer.
The new single, Poison Prince is quite catchy. It’s got a fast, toe-tapping bit to hook you in there, then a quieter bit for variation, then back into the chorus. Yay! Oh well, at least it’s easy. Sounds like a reasonably good track to drive to, and fractionally less annoying than a lot of Radio 1 fare.
Track 2, Mr Rock And Roll, has a bit of a celtic ring to it. Amy is keeping her options open, she might be asked to do Robert Burns’ birthday on BBC 2 next year if she plays her cards right.
By the way, she’s heavily influenced by fellow Scots, Travis. Oh dear. Travis are all well and good, don’t get us wrong, but as your main musical inspiration? Well no, not quite actually, Travis were her first musical discovery, but the title track of the album was motivated by the works of drug-addled media-whore Pete Doherty. She wants to be deep, bless her, but she’s stuck for any proper life-changing experiences to write about. “Although the songs you hear are sweet and happy they actually come from a much darker place,” she trills on her myspace gumph. Bollocks. What darker place is she referring to exactly, Paisley?
The slow track™ is called This Is The Life, and sounds like it was written the morning after, when you get home and realise you’ve lost your keys. And nobody’s in to open the door of course. Bumsticks. This leads you to question the very meaning of existence, and indeed, where you will sleep tonight. Pretty deep, non? So, in a flurry of existential contemplations, you wander about trendy coffee shops with an acoustic guitar, looking moody and hoping someone from Mercury will give you a record contract.
Barrowland Ballroom is a bit perky again, there’s even a wee honky tonk thing going on there. How cute, and not a bit twee. Amy can rhyme ‘drink’ and ‘think’, and wishes she was onstage instead of at the bar. Fair enough, if you’ve ever been to a gig in the Barrowlands you’ll know how uncomfortable it can get in the audience. If ever you wish to intimately acquaint yourself with the sweat glands of a roomful of strangers, that’s the place to be.
And so we come, politely tapping our toes in time with the poppy goodness, to the last song on our much sought after sampler (the inaudible watermark allows us to trace this audio back to YOU). “Put a ribbon round my neck and call me a Libertine / I’ll sing you songs of what I used to dream.” Pardon? This is the opening to Let’s Start A Band. Presumably pap like this is why Amy is a solo artist.
Amy Macdonald is a terrible poser (check out her website if you don’t believe us), but she’s probably going to be mahoosive. In the musical sense, rather than appearing on telly with diet bitch Gillian McKeith. The 19-year-old indie pop songstress (as she’ll probably be called) has already attended the Brit Awards and been given a slot at Glastonbury; and the fact that she’s a Scottish girl with a guitar has begun to draw those obvious (but by and large complimentary) comparisons with KT Tunstall.
Her album sampler (watermarked so that The Vine does not fiendishly copy it to share the beautiful acoustic pop melodies with others who will undoubtedly want to buy the CD, shirt, and moody photograph of Amy sitting on a wall somewhere faintly scummy in Glasgow that's about eight miles away from where she actually lives) contains five tracks from the debut, This is the Life, due for release this summer.
The new single, Poison Prince is quite catchy. It’s got a fast, toe-tapping bit to hook you in there, then a quieter bit for variation, then back into the chorus. Yay! Oh well, at least it’s easy. Sounds like a reasonably good track to drive to, and fractionally less annoying than a lot of Radio 1 fare.
Track 2, Mr Rock And Roll, has a bit of a celtic ring to it. Amy is keeping her options open, she might be asked to do Robert Burns’ birthday on BBC 2 next year if she plays her cards right.
By the way, she’s heavily influenced by fellow Scots, Travis. Oh dear. Travis are all well and good, don’t get us wrong, but as your main musical inspiration? Well no, not quite actually, Travis were her first musical discovery, but the title track of the album was motivated by the works of drug-addled media-whore Pete Doherty. She wants to be deep, bless her, but she’s stuck for any proper life-changing experiences to write about. “Although the songs you hear are sweet and happy they actually come from a much darker place,” she trills on her myspace gumph. Bollocks. What darker place is she referring to exactly, Paisley?
The slow track™ is called This Is The Life, and sounds like it was written the morning after, when you get home and realise you’ve lost your keys. And nobody’s in to open the door of course. Bumsticks. This leads you to question the very meaning of existence, and indeed, where you will sleep tonight. Pretty deep, non? So, in a flurry of existential contemplations, you wander about trendy coffee shops with an acoustic guitar, looking moody and hoping someone from Mercury will give you a record contract.
Barrowland Ballroom is a bit perky again, there’s even a wee honky tonk thing going on there. How cute, and not a bit twee. Amy can rhyme ‘drink’ and ‘think’, and wishes she was onstage instead of at the bar. Fair enough, if you’ve ever been to a gig in the Barrowlands you’ll know how uncomfortable it can get in the audience. If ever you wish to intimately acquaint yourself with the sweat glands of a roomful of strangers, that’s the place to be.
And so we come, politely tapping our toes in time with the poppy goodness, to the last song on our much sought after sampler (the inaudible watermark allows us to trace this audio back to YOU). “Put a ribbon round my neck and call me a Libertine / I’ll sing you songs of what I used to dream.” Pardon? This is the opening to Let’s Start A Band. Presumably pap like this is why Amy is a solo artist.
Monday, 27 October 2008
Skinny Girl
(A Poem Wot I Wrote
Originally published on Deadjournal in January 2005)
Skinny girl
Your red scarf is very pretty
(although I still think
mine is better.
It has stripes)
.
I wonder what you are listening to
on your headphones.
One question
for you
skinny girl
(you must be about a size eight
and 5'6").
WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU JOGGING?!
Originally published on Deadjournal in January 2005)
Skinny girl
Your red scarf is very pretty
(although I still think
mine is better.
It has stripes)
.
I wonder what you are listening to
on your headphones.
One question
for you
skinny girl
(you must be about a size eight
and 5'6").
WHY THE FUCK ARE YOU JOGGING?!
Saturday, 27 September 2008
Mrs Young Goes To The Park
Short Story First Published on my Deviant Art Page (http://drownsindreams.deviantart.com/) in June 2006
Mrs Young had been called Mrs Young every day by everyone she met for as long as she could remember. Even her husband called her Mrs Young, and she called him Mr Young. This habit had begun on their wedding night, as a sort of joke, which soon became habit.
She vaguely supposed that his mistress didn’t call him Mr Young. They would be on more intimate terms. Which was presumably why Mr Young didn’t divorce Mrs Young and make Mrs Wight the second Mrs Young. Because when you marry someone, that’s all the intimacy gone. So Mrs Young supposed.
There was a point in time when Mr Wight had suggested that he and Mrs Young get their own back on their respective spouses and have an affair themselves. But Mrs Young didn’t really see Mr Wight in that way. She also suspected that her having an affair would be nothing but a relief to her husband. He wasn’t a bad man, and he took every care to keep his relationship with the blonde haired, large bosomed Mrs Wight a secret. He didn’t want to hurt his wife’s feelings. The trouble was that he was a terrible liar. He bought flowers when he lied. Mrs Young always had a vase of fresh flowers in every room.
So she had said ‘thanks, but no thanks’ to Mr Wight, who shuffled off and eventually had an affair with a girl young enough to be his daughter. Mrs Young felt bad about this for a while, because she could have saved him from the appalled reactions of their colleagues and friends. But she comforted herself with the thought that he probably would have done it anyway, if that was his ‘thing’. She did feel that Mrs Wight was a tad hypocritical for throwing him out, after all he’d only needed to have an affair in the first place because his wife was bonking his best friend. But she chose not to make a scene. She didn’t want to give Mr Young the excuse to walk out on her, and she thought perhaps that a public scene with his mistress might force him to make the choice between them. And she knew he wouldn’t choose her.
Mrs Young’s daughter was not called Miss Young, she was called Angela. Angela thought that Mrs Young should walk out on dad (who was Mr Young). Or at the very least have an affair of her own.
“You’re so pale mum, you need something to cheer you up,” Angela explained, as though anaemia could be cured by sex.
“I couldn’t do that to him,” Mrs Young said. “He’d be so humiliated. And anyway, I’m OK as I am.”
“You’re bored stiff mum, you know you are. You’ve been stuck in the same routine for the past twenty years.”
“I’m alright.”
“You are bloody not.”
Angela was right of course. Mrs Young had been stuck in the same routine for twenty years. Actually, it was more like thirty.
Mrs Young was a teacher at a small high school in a small town. She taught first and second years in the mornings, third and fourth years in the gap between break and lunch, then fifth and sixth years in the afternoons. She liked afternoons because the fifth and sixth years didn’t mind being there. They had chosen her subject. This meant they sat there and listened to her, and did the homework.
Mrs Young deluded herself into thinking she was interested in what she did, although really she had only specialised in it at university because she could. Teaching had seemed like an obvious choice of profession - what better way to share her knowledge and enthusiasm? And she wanted children, so this would be the best way to have a career and spend time with them. When she was at school, they would be too. She wanted several children, this was one of her greatest dreams. It was also the main reason for marrying Mr Young. It hurt her that Angela was the only one.
She was a tall woman, very angular and thin. She didn’t eat much, because she wasn’t interested in food. She usually ate alone, as Mr Young was always off at conferences or working late. She could tell from his red nose and rounding belly that these conferences involved eating out a lot, or being cooked for by the voluptuous master chef Mrs Wight. Mrs Young opted mainly for crunchy salad out of a bag, because she was aware that nutrients were important. The HE teacher had lectured them on it one break time in the staff room, after Mr Davidson brought in a big tin of chocolate biscuits to share. He had never made that mistake again.
Her hair was mousey, with streaks of white running through it. Her eyes were a watery grey, her nose pointed. She had never been pretty. The closest to a compliment she ever got was ‘unusual looking’. Back in the days before they were married, when Mr Young had been called Mike, he had said she could be a supermodel, because she moved with grace and her looks were so striking. He might have been drunk, she thought now, but at the time he had seemed sincere.
Mrs Young’s main respite from the daily drudgery of her life was walking in the park with her golden retriever, Rosie. They walked together for hours, up hills and around the streets, because Rosie was young and energetic and Mrs Young didn’t want to go home to her empty bedroom; but the park was their favourite haunt. They would play the game of throwing the stick for hours, and they raced each other, and exchanged pleasantries with other dogs and their owners. Angela had bought Rosie for Mrs Young’s fiftieth birthday.
On one trip to the park, Mrs Young and Rosie met Mr Shaw and Max. Rosie and Max instantly became best friends, racing each other across the vast expanse of green to the trees at the other side of the park. Mrs Young was left to exchange pleasantries with Mr Shaw alone.
“I think you taught my son at school,” he ventured.
“Oh yes, what was his name?”
“Peter.”
“Peter, that’s right. He got an A in his higher, didn’t he.”
It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yes.”
“So what’s he up to now? He must be nearly finished university, he was around the same age as my daughter.”
Mr Shaw looked sad.
“He died in a car accident a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! He was such a nice boy.”
The type of thing you always say when you hear of something like this. How can you know what to say? What would you want to hear, in that situation? Nothing would help. Mrs Young had met more parents with this news than she cared to think about over the years. It put her own problems in perspective.
“He was.”
Mr Shaw was silent for a while.
“How did Mrs Shaw take it?”
“Oh, she didn’t live to see it happen. She died of stomach cancer just before he left school.”
Shit. She had known this. It was in the local paper. Mr Davidson had told them in the staff room, in a grave voice, how he had found Peter sitting alone in a science classroom, just staring out of the window. Mr Davidson had spoken to him, tried to get him to go home. But Peter had just stared blankly, unhearing.
“Sorry. That was insensitive of me.”
“You can’t be expected to remember everyone’s family situation,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve been teaching at that place for ages.”
“I have, haven’t I.”
Max and Rosie hadn’t reappeared. Mrs Young wondered if they were getting down to it already.
“Has Max been-“
“-No. Fraid not.”
“Oh. Oh well.”
Puppies wouldn’t be such a bad thing. They were worth quite a lot of money these days. And looking after them and their mother would give her something to keep her mind off Mr Young and Mrs Wight.
* * * * *
When she got home, there was a huge bouquet of lilies and a note waiting on the kitchen table.
The flowers of death, she thought. So he’s left me at last.
“We both know that our marriage is dead.”
A somewhat melodramatic beginning, in Mrs Young’s view.
“And you must know that Joy and I have been in love for some time now.”
Who on earth is Joy, she wondered for a moment, before realising that was Mrs Wight’s first name.
“We are going to relocate in the south of Spain. Joy has sold her house, so you need not worry about ours. You can continue living there, I will not contest it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I wish you every happiness, and hope you will find it in your heart to forgive Joy and myself in ours. Yours sincerely-”
Bit formal, for a thirty year marriage…
“Mike Young.”
She put the flowers in a vase, one by one. Cut an inch off the bottom of the stem, in a diagonal line. Most of the flowers were still closed, so they would last ages. She decided to put them in the downstairs loo. She never used that one. It was typical, she thought, as she placed the blue vase on the low table under the window, that he would make this last sweeping gesture, laden with symbolism, and forget that she was allergic to lilies.
Mrs Young went to bed that night, alone as usual, knowing that this new development, which ought to be so upsetting, would change absolutely nothing.
Mrs Young had been called Mrs Young every day by everyone she met for as long as she could remember. Even her husband called her Mrs Young, and she called him Mr Young. This habit had begun on their wedding night, as a sort of joke, which soon became habit.
She vaguely supposed that his mistress didn’t call him Mr Young. They would be on more intimate terms. Which was presumably why Mr Young didn’t divorce Mrs Young and make Mrs Wight the second Mrs Young. Because when you marry someone, that’s all the intimacy gone. So Mrs Young supposed.
There was a point in time when Mr Wight had suggested that he and Mrs Young get their own back on their respective spouses and have an affair themselves. But Mrs Young didn’t really see Mr Wight in that way. She also suspected that her having an affair would be nothing but a relief to her husband. He wasn’t a bad man, and he took every care to keep his relationship with the blonde haired, large bosomed Mrs Wight a secret. He didn’t want to hurt his wife’s feelings. The trouble was that he was a terrible liar. He bought flowers when he lied. Mrs Young always had a vase of fresh flowers in every room.
So she had said ‘thanks, but no thanks’ to Mr Wight, who shuffled off and eventually had an affair with a girl young enough to be his daughter. Mrs Young felt bad about this for a while, because she could have saved him from the appalled reactions of their colleagues and friends. But she comforted herself with the thought that he probably would have done it anyway, if that was his ‘thing’. She did feel that Mrs Wight was a tad hypocritical for throwing him out, after all he’d only needed to have an affair in the first place because his wife was bonking his best friend. But she chose not to make a scene. She didn’t want to give Mr Young the excuse to walk out on her, and she thought perhaps that a public scene with his mistress might force him to make the choice between them. And she knew he wouldn’t choose her.
Mrs Young’s daughter was not called Miss Young, she was called Angela. Angela thought that Mrs Young should walk out on dad (who was Mr Young). Or at the very least have an affair of her own.
“You’re so pale mum, you need something to cheer you up,” Angela explained, as though anaemia could be cured by sex.
“I couldn’t do that to him,” Mrs Young said. “He’d be so humiliated. And anyway, I’m OK as I am.”
“You’re bored stiff mum, you know you are. You’ve been stuck in the same routine for the past twenty years.”
“I’m alright.”
“You are bloody not.”
Angela was right of course. Mrs Young had been stuck in the same routine for twenty years. Actually, it was more like thirty.
Mrs Young was a teacher at a small high school in a small town. She taught first and second years in the mornings, third and fourth years in the gap between break and lunch, then fifth and sixth years in the afternoons. She liked afternoons because the fifth and sixth years didn’t mind being there. They had chosen her subject. This meant they sat there and listened to her, and did the homework.
Mrs Young deluded herself into thinking she was interested in what she did, although really she had only specialised in it at university because she could. Teaching had seemed like an obvious choice of profession - what better way to share her knowledge and enthusiasm? And she wanted children, so this would be the best way to have a career and spend time with them. When she was at school, they would be too. She wanted several children, this was one of her greatest dreams. It was also the main reason for marrying Mr Young. It hurt her that Angela was the only one.
She was a tall woman, very angular and thin. She didn’t eat much, because she wasn’t interested in food. She usually ate alone, as Mr Young was always off at conferences or working late. She could tell from his red nose and rounding belly that these conferences involved eating out a lot, or being cooked for by the voluptuous master chef Mrs Wight. Mrs Young opted mainly for crunchy salad out of a bag, because she was aware that nutrients were important. The HE teacher had lectured them on it one break time in the staff room, after Mr Davidson brought in a big tin of chocolate biscuits to share. He had never made that mistake again.
Her hair was mousey, with streaks of white running through it. Her eyes were a watery grey, her nose pointed. She had never been pretty. The closest to a compliment she ever got was ‘unusual looking’. Back in the days before they were married, when Mr Young had been called Mike, he had said she could be a supermodel, because she moved with grace and her looks were so striking. He might have been drunk, she thought now, but at the time he had seemed sincere.
Mrs Young’s main respite from the daily drudgery of her life was walking in the park with her golden retriever, Rosie. They walked together for hours, up hills and around the streets, because Rosie was young and energetic and Mrs Young didn’t want to go home to her empty bedroom; but the park was their favourite haunt. They would play the game of throwing the stick for hours, and they raced each other, and exchanged pleasantries with other dogs and their owners. Angela had bought Rosie for Mrs Young’s fiftieth birthday.
On one trip to the park, Mrs Young and Rosie met Mr Shaw and Max. Rosie and Max instantly became best friends, racing each other across the vast expanse of green to the trees at the other side of the park. Mrs Young was left to exchange pleasantries with Mr Shaw alone.
“I think you taught my son at school,” he ventured.
“Oh yes, what was his name?”
“Peter.”
“Peter, that’s right. He got an A in his higher, didn’t he.”
It was more of a statement than a question.
“Yes.”
“So what’s he up to now? He must be nearly finished university, he was around the same age as my daughter.”
Mr Shaw looked sad.
“He died in a car accident a couple of years ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry! He was such a nice boy.”
The type of thing you always say when you hear of something like this. How can you know what to say? What would you want to hear, in that situation? Nothing would help. Mrs Young had met more parents with this news than she cared to think about over the years. It put her own problems in perspective.
“He was.”
Mr Shaw was silent for a while.
“How did Mrs Shaw take it?”
“Oh, she didn’t live to see it happen. She died of stomach cancer just before he left school.”
Shit. She had known this. It was in the local paper. Mr Davidson had told them in the staff room, in a grave voice, how he had found Peter sitting alone in a science classroom, just staring out of the window. Mr Davidson had spoken to him, tried to get him to go home. But Peter had just stared blankly, unhearing.
“Sorry. That was insensitive of me.”
“You can’t be expected to remember everyone’s family situation,” he said cheerfully. “You’ve been teaching at that place for ages.”
“I have, haven’t I.”
Max and Rosie hadn’t reappeared. Mrs Young wondered if they were getting down to it already.
“Has Max been-“
“-No. Fraid not.”
“Oh. Oh well.”
Puppies wouldn’t be such a bad thing. They were worth quite a lot of money these days. And looking after them and their mother would give her something to keep her mind off Mr Young and Mrs Wight.
* * * * *
When she got home, there was a huge bouquet of lilies and a note waiting on the kitchen table.
The flowers of death, she thought. So he’s left me at last.
“We both know that our marriage is dead.”
A somewhat melodramatic beginning, in Mrs Young’s view.
“And you must know that Joy and I have been in love for some time now.”
Who on earth is Joy, she wondered for a moment, before realising that was Mrs Wight’s first name.
“We are going to relocate in the south of Spain. Joy has sold her house, so you need not worry about ours. You can continue living there, I will not contest it.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“I wish you every happiness, and hope you will find it in your heart to forgive Joy and myself in ours. Yours sincerely-”
Bit formal, for a thirty year marriage…
“Mike Young.”
She put the flowers in a vase, one by one. Cut an inch off the bottom of the stem, in a diagonal line. Most of the flowers were still closed, so they would last ages. She decided to put them in the downstairs loo. She never used that one. It was typical, she thought, as she placed the blue vase on the low table under the window, that he would make this last sweeping gesture, laden with symbolism, and forget that she was allergic to lilies.
Mrs Young went to bed that night, alone as usual, knowing that this new development, which ought to be so upsetting, would change absolutely nothing.
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