As I was passing the recycling bins in the car park of the Co-op – that comically provincial supermarket full of half-price frozen fagots-in-gravy and Aunt Bessie’s Traditional Yorkshire Puddings – I spotted Reg, who was emptying bags of what looked like CDs into one of them. ‘Getting rid of all the crap,’ he commented.
‘I did something similar a few months ago,’ I told him. ‘Feels good, doesn’t it.’
An old woman in a flowery dress and badly applied makeup wandered over. She smelled of lavender and gin, as do all old women. ‘I hope you’re throwing away your Gary Glitter LPs,’ she warned us, ‘because my nephew said –’
‘Never had any.’ Reg quickly jumped in before she could bore us to death with her nephew’s views on the glam-rock paedophile.
I’m ashamed to say that, although like Reg I never actually owned any Gary Glitter albums, I do have an old 45 rpm single somewhere of Leader of the Gang. And even more embarrassing is the fact that Enormous used to cover that very song in our live set a few years ago. We used to do it as an encore and it always went down a storm. Funny old world.
What is that constant ridiculous sound in the background of the Verve’s new single Love Is Noise? It sounds like a herd of geese. It makes Audrey bark like some kind of crazy female madman every time it is played on XFM. It ruins what is otherwise quite an average song.
Actually, I would rather like the Verve if they weren’t so . . . well, crap.
I met Richard Ashcroft once. Slaughterhouse 5 had just finished a disappointing gig at the Borderline in London and after we left the stage he ambled over to me at the noisy bar where I was busy drowning my sorrows. He slapped me hard on the back. ‘I’m Richard Ashcroft out of the Verve. I’m gonna give you some advice, and you’d do well to listen.’
‘Okay, I will,’ I told him, and got a solemn nod in return.
He bellowed in my ear: ‘Your guitar, that black Les Paul you’re using?’ – He had bad breath – ‘Wrong colour for your music, mate. You need to swap it for a cherry-sunburst seventies model, much more your style.’
I finished off my Guinness. ‘Thanks for telling me that,’ I shouted. And in calm, elegant italics, I added, I’ll see if I can find one.
Crap singer, appalling fashion designer and amateurish chat-show host Lily Allen has angered organisers of the Isle of Wight Festival by cancelling her appearance at the last minute for what all agree are unacceptable reasons.
In an interview with BBC 6 Music, promoter John Giddings said that she had been booked since November but has pulled out because, according to her spokesman, her album is behind schedule.
It is no secret that I am not an admirer of Ms Allen and her execrable music and have found some of her previous marketing techniques and her general attitude towards her young followers and devotees to be truly deplorable, but on this occasion I think she has outdone herself. Her actions are shabby and inglorious at best, immoral and sickening at worst.
When performers like Allen are booked for shows, it is the artist themselves that are being paid to appear, not the record that they are currently working on.
I do not watch much television, but I must say that seeing Dannii Minogue on The X-Factor on Saturday evening didn’t half make me feel fruity.
I used to quite fancy Kylie, but my attention has now been drawn to her dark-haired sibling. She reminds me somewhat of my ex-wife who, if the truth be told, I still really miss when I am feeling lonely and weak.
I was telling Nelson of my nascent attraction to the Australian songstress and he quickly brought me back down to earth. ‘I saw Dannii Minogue in a bar in the West End last month. When she came back from the toilet, she had a wet patch on her crotch,’ he told me.
Dear old Nelson, he does tend to make me focus and see things in a much more sober light when he thinks that the situation demands it. But even so, his observations have not dampened my resolve to keep watching this egregiously bad television programme so that I might continue to drool over my new antipodean object of desire.
On the Fantastic hi-fi today:
Rilo Kiley – Under the Blacklight
Jimmy Eat World – Jimmy Eat World
Perfection – Dannii Minogue
All the decks have been cleared in the studio ready for Nelson’s arrival later today. He will be here until Tuesday. We are due to begin work on his first full-length album. I shall be producing it, whilst drummer Graham Boffey, trumpeter Ash Morgan and sax-god Paul Varga, my Enormous cohorts, will also be lending a hand. I shall document here our progress over the weekend and in the coming months.
It is destined to be a real stonker, and if all goes well, we have it pencilled in for a Christmas release on Big Arena Records.
Tomorrow, I have Nelson booked into a photographic studio to do some initial publicity shots for the campaign. I would have done them myself, but as I told him yesterday, ‘I wouldn’t really know what to go for, Nel. I’ve never photographed a transvestite before.’ (Are you sure about that? – Ed.)
He has forsworn to escort me every evening to the comfy public houses of the village. I did warn him though, that this being an ex-mining area, it would probably be a good idea to dress down and keep the glamour to a minimum whilst we are out and about.
Moreover, I sincerely hope that he does not lead me astray again and ply me with too much booze, thus rendering me incapable in the control-room. We shall have to see what happens . . .
Nelson Galaxy tells me he bumped into George Michael as he was leaving Brent Magistrates’ Court in London yesterday. ‘He didn’t look guilty,’ reported Nelson.
But there really is no reason for George to be contrite, is there? His offensive driving only came about – allegedly – because of tiredness and ‘prescribed’ drugs; so one would really have to blame his doctor.
I wish my GP would sometimes prescribe me some exciting and glamorous drugs instead of the boring painkillers he usually hands out. The last time I felt like indulging in some naughty substances, I was stopped in my tracks by Audrey. She looked up at me with her soft brown eyes, and her little dog face seemed to say: ‘Stop.‘
I flushed the small amount I had down the toilet and have not had any since. That was five years ago.
At the time, my ‘dealer’ said to me: ‘Come on, Napoleon, play the game. If you don’t do business with me, I’ll put dozens of your songs on the internet for people to download for free.’ I ignored his threats because I knew his childish reasoning was just petty, spiteful rubbish generated by an ignorant, little mind.
On the Fantastic hi-fi today:
Almost Everything – Enormous
Jarvis – Jarvis Cocker
Nelson Galaxy and I were in San Diego yesterday.
Nelson is launching a new range of lollipops aimed at the musical sweet-toothed transvestite market and he had a meeting with some Californian venture capitalists who are interested in investing in his fruity idea. He took me along for moral support. He was showing off a little, too.
The business get-together went very well (keep a keen look-out on your supermarket shelves for the TV Frooty-Pops) and in the evening we decided, by way of a modest celebration, to hit the town and perhaps take in a show. One of Nelson’s favourite bands, The M&M’s, were billed to appear at the House of Blues club and after swiftly finishing off a couple of bottles of bubbly in the swish hotel bar, we ventured out into the night and enthusiastically made our way to the famous venue.
Imagine our surprise however, when instead of The M&M’s taking to the stage at the allotted time, it was actually our very good friend Britney Spears who stepped up to the microphone. ‘I knew something like this was gonna happen tonight,’ declared Nelson. ‘I could feel it in my water.’
‘Indeed. These things always do when you’re around.’ I told him.
It was Britney’s first appearance on stage since she left rehab. She only played five songs – bless her, but it was a wonderful evening. Twitching uncontrollably and smiling like a thrilled idiot, Nelson skipped over to her and thrust a lollipop into her hand as she left the stage. ‘Thanks for coming,’ she told him with a wink.