It’s the Numbers, dude.

Did everyone watch Derren Brown ‘predict’ the lottery numbers last night? It was fantastic. I never care how he does things, just that he can. I don’t care if it’s fake; I only care that he’s able to fool us. That is a skill in itself. Pure entertainment, that man.

Of course, looking at the Guardian blog on the show is just depressing, with pages and pages of miserable fucking eejits telling us the obvious: that it wasn’t for real. IT’S DERREN BROWN. Saying what he does isn’t always real is like saying the sky’s blue and expecting shock and awe in return for your revelation. You have to be a boring, cynical cunt not to get a little bit of pleasure out of the man’s work.

How can it not fill you with a childlike glee? Don’t these people remember that wonderful feeling of watching something magical as a kid and having no clue how it was achieved? That’s how Derren Brown makes me feel: like an awestruck, gobsmacked kiddie. I know he’s all about misdirection and suggestion, but the fun is letting go of your cynical adult sensibilities and just being entertained by his skill and wit.

I loved it. I love him. I will watch the show on Friday and find out how he did it, but I will treasure that Christmas Eve-feeling of giddy excitement I got last night far more.

All The Young Dudes

As I’ve grown older I’ve become more and more curmudgeonly when it comes to music. I seem to discover less new stuff that excites me with every year that passes. It’s really depressing.

But do you know what’s even more depressing? Realising how old you are compared to all the new bands that are appearing. Take Operator Please, for example. I quite like them. I have no idea if that makes me a complete loser, but I don’t really give a shit either way. Just A Song About Ping Pong is amazing. I might even buy their album. Yeah, you heard me!

The only downside? They’re about ten!

 Look at their tiny fresh faces! They shouldn’t be making records and making me feel old; they should be at school making me feel wise and learned. Godammit.

When I first got into Kenickie they were doing their A-levels. I thought they were well grown up and that. Now there are pop toddlers being rock stars and I’m some elderly failed hack scowling at their youth with bitter eyes. Curse the young! CURSE THEM!

Meanwhile, it would seem that Alphabeat are finally trying to make a name for themselves outside of Scandinavia. I saw them on Richard & Judy the other day, looking all pale and confused while Madeley battered them with nonsensical questions for what seemed like hours.

I love their single. Fascination has stuck with me for about a year and a half now, cheering me up with its wa-ohs and more wa-ohs. It’s the aural equivalent of jumping up and down on a bouncy castle while just a little bit tiddly on Babycham.

It’s definitely not cool, though. During the aforementioned interview, Richard said the band had been described as sounding like ‘the Scandinavian Scissor Sisters’. This is complete bollocks, of course; what they actually sound like is the indie S Club 7, as their new video shows.

I don’t really get the new video. Personally, I’m more of a fan of the orginal. There’s less ironic formation dancing and more limbs a-flinging we-really-mean-this dancing. You’re just going to have to trust me on this though, since the dastardly Danes have removed every version from YouTube and replaced it with this horrible new one.

Laura and I saw them play in Copenhagen last year. Aside from all the accompanying dads, we were the oldest people there by at least ten years.

Indie S Club 7, I tell ya.

Godlike Gobshites

To bring the farce that is the NME’s renewed support of Manic Street Preachers to a close, they were awarded the title of Godlike Genius at the Brats last night. I’m showing my age now, aren’t I? I don’t think it’s been called the Brats for about 15 years. Still, I like the name and they only changed it to please some corporation or summink so yeah anarchy lolz etc moving on.

Dave and I flicked over to the coverage because he was channel surfing in the bedroom and saw the presenters taking the mick out of the ever ridiculous Simon Price. Knowing how much I despise the silly little man, Dave came barrelling into the living room to tell me to turn over and about thirty seconds later the Manics retrospective began.

It was a tedious piece of film to say the least. Talking heads extraordinaire like Jo ‘I haven’t been relevant for 14 years’ Whiley and Halibut Jones from New Order wanked on about the fact the Manics once wore white jeans and looked a bit like girls back in the day, apart from James, who looked like a hamster with a dicky tummy most of the time (as an aside, if there was ever a film made about the Manics I hope to BEJESUS they cast Michael Cera as Bradders, ignoring the tiny fact of Cera being 40ft tall and James regularly making hobbits feel lofty. If you tell me it’s not perfect, I’ll tell you you’re an idiot).

Meanwhile, Steve ‘Single Peanut’ Lamacq somehow managed to contain himself and not remind the world for the seventeen billionth time that he was instrumental in the whole 4Real shindig. He always looks so delighted to tell that tale. Granted, it has become one of rock n’ roll’s most iconic moments, but he essentially goaded an utter nutter to the point of violent lunacy in order to prove a point. Lamaqc’s cheery punchline of ‘But you’re getting blood all over the carpet HAR HAR’ has never sat well with me. Still, at least he ditched Whiley, which puts him one step up from all the others.

Once the dreary retrospective was over, the Manics themselves came up on stage to accept their dubious award. Nicky Wire looked so delighted that his mammoth ego had somehow been justified I was shocked he didn’t whip out little Nicky and congratulate himself right there. James Dean Bradfield stood where he always does at these occasions – several feet away, looking embarrassed while Nicky burbled into the mic. I feel for James. He’s genuinely very musically talented and by all accounts an alright bloke, but he always looks at Nicky with an expression that reads, ‘You’re practically family, and I love you to death, but for all our sakes just hush.’ Sean Moore was invisible, as always. Sensible Sean, he always has the right idea. I sometimes wonder if he applies the T-Rex rule to being in the Manics, the one we all learned from watching Jurassic Park: if you stay still, the gangly monster with the big gob won’t see you. Whatever his strategy, it works. Stay hidden, Moorus, it’s for the best.

Then came the exhibition of what has made them so great over the years: the music. They rattled through Motorcycle Emptiness with just enough gusto to make it worthwhile before bringing a dead-eyed Cerys Matthews on stage to duet on Your Love Alone Is Not Enough. She looked like she wanted to cry the entire time. E4 went to ads mid-song. We all breathed a sigh of relief.

Despite this rather sarcastic post, I really have nothing but love for the Manics, and Nicky Wire is certainly no more or no less arrogant than your average gangly transvestite bassist. But there’s something that just makes me cringe about them these days. It’s always been there, but it’s only during the last few years that watching them talk makes me want to look away, turn over, point out a car wreck… just do something that doesn’t involve paying any attention whatsoever.

It takes me back to a night working at the Hog’s Head pub in Uxbridge. After closing, we did a cursory toilet check and found a girl passed out in a cubicle, curled around the toilet. Her trousers were around her ankles and behind her lay a perfectly formed turd which had obviously just plopped out of its own volition.

Growing up with the Manics was a wonderful experience, but now they’re just that drunken girl with the loosened bowels. You want to have a little giggle, but it’s cruel. And you’re not just going to abandon her, because that’s crueller still. Meanwhile, she’s so blasted she can’t even comprehend building up a good head of shame at what’s just happened. So all that’s left for you is to be embarrassed on her behalf. Cringe good and cringe hard at the idea of her being so pissed she ended up having a little public poo.

You’ll never forget her and her fantastic faecal fuck-up, but you’re glad you can walk away as soon as it’s all over and take no responsibility for the whole dreadful situation.

On Obsession

A good friend emailed me to bemoan/celebrate her current obsession. I won’t use her name in case she wants to protect her anonymity in the obsession world, but she said:

“Why can’t I just like something in a normal way without getting really involved? You must know.”

Yes. Yes, I know. It’s a terrible, terrible thing being obsessive. You never like anything in a normal way when you’re obsessive. An-y-thing. Obsessions may last for years and years or just days, but while they exist they’ll be all you think about. I was obsessed with goats’ cheese a while back; right now it’s satsumas. ALL I WANT TO EAT IS SATSUMAS. I’m not putting posters of satsumas on my wall or following satsuma delivery vans around European supermarkets, but you see what I’m getting at here: I love them. Satsumas are FUCKING BRILLIANT. In fact, I’m going to have one right now.

So yes, if you have obsessive tendencies, you’ll never like anything in a normal way. A sad fact, but a fact nonetheless. But despite this burden it’s so much fun you can’t wish you were different, not really; I know I don’t. I spent a glorious summer being obsessive about the Mighty Boosh with Michelle. Back at school, I passed so many boring lessons being obsessed about Eddie Izzard with Kate Allenby. And then there’s the small matter of my ten-year love affair with the Manics, which dipped and sagged in the wake of Know Your Enemy, but came roaring back twice as crazy during the Forever Delayed era. And it was never anything less than fucking BRILLIANT fun, even when they were playing Kevin Carter for the twenty gadzillionth time and I wanted to cut my ears off in protest. Even then it was amazing.

The funnest part of obsession is the bonding with other people who share your insane joy for the subject at hand. Numbers will vary, but if you’re a vaguely social person either in person or online you will easily find yourself a little harem of fellow obsessives. These are the people you turn to to share joy over tour dates or new songs or amusing interviews. And if there’s something more to your friendship than just that shared obsession, you’ll find yourself with a great friend long after the obsession has faded and you’ve both moved on to being unhealthily in love with something else. I’m lucky – this has happened with the Manics, from Sarah-from-school to the FD guys I still hang out with long after abandoning FD and the Manics in general. We don’t share an obsession anymore, but we’ll still friends.

The downside to being obsessive is that you WILL bore your friends – the ones outside the obsession, that is – by constantly talking about the thing you love. Guaranteed. I’ve dealt with this in a practical fashion when it comes to Gogol Bordello: I’ve worked steadily on getting everyone I’ve ever met to listen to them or see them live. This stems from the indisputable scientific fact my evangelical belief that they are the greatest band in the world right now, but also the desire to not become a social pariah the second I open my mouth in public and the words ‘Gogol’ and ‘Bordello’ come out of it. That way, even when they’re bored out of their skull, I can at least say, ‘But hey, you’ve seen Gogol live. They were fucking awesome, weren’t they?’ 99.9% of the time the answer will be, ‘Actually, yeah. They were amazing. When are they playing here again?’ Validation, forgiveness, weary acceptance and Gogol Bordello become a little more successful to boot. God bless you, non-obsessive civillian friends. God bless you.

There’s also the downside which relates directly to money, but I’m not going to talk about that – an obsessive and her money are soon parted; it’s a sore subject right now. And anyway, there are too many good sides to obsession to dwell on the bad too long.

Now, you’ll have to excuse me – I have a date with a bag of M&S oranges.