Bruises and the Beeb

It’s been some time since the Random Force has overcome me and I need to write nothing but weirdness and tosh, whatever spills forth from the sometimes-genius, mostly-cesspit of my mind.

Yet here I am, sporting a bruise on my thigh that has gone the same colour as the clouds in Independence Day when those fucking awesome spaceships turn up (if aliens can’t kill off Will Smith, they are going to have a hard time taking over new planets by annihilating the current population) and my right arm all lumpy and red raw and swollen thanks to Baron, my sweet faced, demon-handed tattooist. Happy 2010, TG. Oh wait, I’m using third person to address myself. Ace. Not.

I remember my first tattoo. It was on my ankle and it was a tiny R, for Richey Edwards – lyricist, boozehound, anorexic and mutilator Manic Street Preacher – and I was shaking with doubt and conviction that I needed this tatt. After I got it done (five minutes, face drained of blood, shaking knees), I knew I’d never get another. Twelve later…. an addictive personality, moi?

Thank god I never tried heroin, pretty sure I would be selling kidneys by now (and not necessarily my own) in order to get happy every day. Being told you have an addictive personality by your (ex) shrink makes you go, no way, oh can I have some more Xanax, I’m, um, not sleeping well, but also look around you and gain a hideous new self-awareness that drives you insane. OTT self-awareness means even watching TV on a quiet night causes you to go, ‘I am watching TV on the couch’, like you’re watching yourself from outside your body. It’s not a narcissism. Staring into a mirror all day admiring my visage sounds like a fucking picnic compared to living in your private Truman Show. There is a daily desire to be completely brain-dead to yourself and the outside world, which means I’d have to read The Sun to formulate any kind of opinion on anything and my main topic over dinner parties (at Burger King) would be that nice handbag I saw in Heat. Because Heat is about as style-savvy I’d get. And I’d own a pair of Uggs. That I would wear with sweatpants tucked into them, a skintight, midriff revealing hoodie and giant sunglasses.

Okay, perhaps I will settle for a running internal dialogue over that catastrophic alternate lifestyle… maybe entitle it ‘Help, I’m Crazy and Heading Towards Miss Haversham Territory’. This is always suitable at the start of each year. Xmas is over but summer is still miles away. Snow is fun until you realise you can’t get anywhere, the sales are over, the train fares have gone up and, of course, it’s List Season. Which is like deer hunting season except you’re shot in the head by a fatal dose of culture.

Top Designers To Watch, Hottest New Actors, 2010′s Best New Bands, Five Diets Guaranteed To Work, blah blah blah… how does the world cope? How are they not putting the love for their own children and/or friends into numbered slots? Number 1: Jeff. Jeff is super at helping me around the house and isn’t adverse to a vacuum, plus he makes a mean fry-up. Number 2: Sarah. Last year’s number 1, Sarah said my ass looked big in my party dress, but she does watch rom-coms with me when Jeff refuses, so I have to keep her. And so forth. (please note, Sarah and Jeff are your mates, not mine.)

If you hate music lists (you are NOT cool if you think Marina and the Diamonds should just fuck off or Two Door Cinema Club aren’t so amazing it hurts when you breathe), then blame the BBC. Who are doing a fabulous job of picking the ones to watch then making sure they’re right by having a monopoly on who gets airplay. Yup. Then actually congratulate themselves on Radio 1 by having a whole ‘ad’ segment about BBC Introducing, where they prod people like Florence and The Machine to simper about how truly inspiring the Beeb is on the pain of death or contract burning, whichever is cheaper.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/8437495.stm

Disorder oft did Ones To Watch, but after I chose Calvin Harris one year, thinking, this will be a one hit wonder because the British public can’t be that fucking desperate, only to watch him sell a gadzillion singles, I’ve decided this year to fuck it and just cover a few bands I like and quite a few BBC/Times overlooked ones. Who probably won’t be cool. Who will just get on with their own shit and actually make some pretty good music that no one will feel pressured to like. Disorder: comes without a social noose.