OK going, going, gone

Try saying that heading 10 times in a row with an everlasting gobstopper in your mouth.

So yes, as you might gather from the title of this post, I toddled off to deepest darkest Camden last night to see OK Go live. Now, while you might know them as That Band That Did That Video With The Treadmills, I've been a fan of theirs ever since they released their first album way back in … *furiously Googles* … 2002. Wow, really? That long? Blimey. Anyway, I've wanted to catch them live for *ages* but have always been thwarted. A few years back I wandered past the Shepherds Bush Empire only to see their name out front the day AFTER they'd performed. And then last year they played a show while I was balls deep in the midst of my 30 days of yoga. This time around, though, I heard about the gig months in advance and booked tickets EARLY.

This was my first concert since May's epic MONTH OF GIGS, so it had a lot to live up to after the life-changing Sufjan Stevens show at Royal Festival Hall, and the adventure of Panic! At the Disco way out in the sticks of Norwich. And do you know what? I couldn't have wished for a better show. They absolutely nailed it.

Here's some buzzwords for you: Awesome tunes. Suits in primary colours. Confetti canons. A gold Ming the Mercilous costume. Hilarious banter. Swears. LED jackets. Furry guitars with lasers. Audience participation. More confetti.

Some pictures?

The massive face on the backdrop is lead singer Damian Kulash's mug, projected onto a screen from a video camera mounted on his microphone.

Kulash performed an acoustic number amongst the great unwashed masses, although he did warn them not to rip his clothes off. Remarkably, they didn't.

LED jackets. WANT.

Some videos? BECAUSE I'M NOTHING IF NOT THOROUGH.


Here's the band performing their song Return using God's own instrument: HANDBELLS.


Guitars with lasers, people; GUITARS. WITH. LASERS.


And finally, a quick video of the confetti cannons in action.

So, yeah, I think you get the idea that this was an awesome evening. OK Go officially just got added to my list of bands I will go and see whenever they're in town. Heck, I think I'd even go to Norwich to catch them given the chance.

Just one thing, though. As we entered Koko we were given a pair of old-skool 3-D glasses … and yet there wasn't any part of the show that required us to wear them. They did make me look sophisticated and awesome on the tube home, though.

SEXY.

Oh, and at the risk of sounding like Steve Jobs at an Apple keynote presentation: one more thing. Damian Kulash took a photo of the crowd that was later posted to OK Go's Facebook page, and which I have shamelessly stolen here. Bonus points if you can find me amidst the heaving throng.

From the sublime to the ridiculous

A couple of weeks back I wrote about how in an effort to shake up my wardrobe a bit I threw off my trusted belt and snapped on a dapper pair of braces that I and the world around me loved (and not just for the purposes of comedy twanging). Well, buckle up, because things just got even more exciting.

So I'm now at that age where everyone around me is getting married, and in a few weeks I'm toddling off to some do at a swanky hotel in the countryside. As soon as the invite arrived my mind immediately turned to thoughts of what I would wear, not just because I'm essentially a bit of a girl but because I'm going to the reception not the actual service. If I was going to the service I would of course wear a suit, but correct me if I'm wrong but by the time of the reception isn't everyone dancing on the tables with their ties around their heads, their trousers around their ankles, and red wine all over the bridesmaids?

The fact that by the time of the reception everyone is a bit more … how shall I put this … 'relaxed' than they were earlier in the day means that while I still want to go smart, I want to bring a more relaxed, more casual vibe to my attire. I presented my dilemma to Best Mate Jo, who is herself going to a wedding in a couple of weeks and has thus been faced with a similar situation (albeit of a more lady-based attire nature).

BMJ (who doesn't like acronyms?) immediately said I should wear a white shirt with one of my waistcoats, which was a brilliant idea, although she baulked at the idea of me wearing jeans, however smart they may be. "It's a wedding," she said. "People don't want to see…" and then she waved her hands at my lower half like I'd just dropped a fart of epic proportions.

An easy solution, then, was to pop to Topman and buy a pair of trousers that perfectly match my waistcoat. But the ensemble definitely needed something else. My solution? A bow tie!

I can't say BMJ is 100 percent impressed by this idea, but she's known me long enough to indulge me in such matters. So anyway, I bought a bow tie, and subsequently spent a considerable amount of time trying to learn how to tie the bloody bastard thing (I refuse to wear a pre-tied one; it's like wearing a clip-on tie or velcro shoes).

And finally: SUCCESS!

Jaunty, I think you'll agree.

And before anyone says "oh, you look like Dr. Who!" Piss off! Like my braces, if I was influenced by anyone it was more likely Panic! At the Disco, although seeing as I read last week that their lead singer also likes shopping at Topman you could just say we're both whores to the whims of Topman's clothes buyers and seasonal trends.

Anyhoo, after all that Best Mate Jo told me that she had a present for me. At Christmas BMJ went out to Mexico to see her niece who lives over there, and I asked her to bring me back a sombrero. Turns out, though, that she couldn't get a massive sombrero in her luggage so she resorted to buying me a tiny one. It's awesome, but not terribly practical to wear.

This was taken at Christmas, obviously; I don't have decorations up in June.

Soon after, and I can't remember who mentioned it or why, someone said that she should've got me a Mexican wrestler's mask. The mere mention of those three words made my little eyes light up and I practically demanded that she get straight on a plane and go back to get me one.

Anyway, long story short, her sister went out to Mexico the other week and BOOM:

HOW AWESOME IS THIS?! It's a real Mexican wrestler's mask, from Mexico, chosen for me by a genuine Mexican!

Worryingly, though, I've just remembered that I made an off the cuff remark months ago about how if I actually got a Mexican wrestler's mask I'd pose for a new Facebook profile picture wearing only it and a pair of Speedos. I'm going to hope no one remembers that.

A sterling effort

Have you ever compared yourself to a character from a television show? I guess I have in the past - I mean, Captain Kirk is a charismatic leader whose skills can be applied rather well to a multitude of office-based situations (as long as you don't send any colleagues dressed in red to their doom), while Spock's logical approach works equally well when pressed into service during those more trying times.

Elsewhere I suppose I was impressed by Lorelai Gilmore's chipper attitude in even the most trying of times, and her ability to get a small business off the ground and make it into a success. Very worthy attributes, I'm sure you'll agree.

More and more in the last couple of months, though, I've found myself bringing qualities from this character into my life:

Sterling Mallory Archer.

On the face of it, Archer has plenty of commendable qualities: he's a dashing man in his thirties with a sophisticated dress sense, a secret agent, and a hit with the ladies. On the surface he's all round awesome.

On the downside, though, he's an alcoholic man-child with an overbearing mother who frequently gets himself into trouble and who is surrounded by bumbling idiots.

Since I started watching Archer (I blitzed the season one boxset in an afternoon) I've found myself picking up on a lot of his catchphrases (as often happens with a nerd like me); it started with a chuckle and a random "awesome," progressed to a frankly outspoken "whatever" when confronted with someone telling me something I had no interest in, and has now progressed to me randomly singing "daaaaaaaanger zone!" in a falsetto voice like this:

Which can sometimes be a bit awkward when you're in the middle of Hammersmith. I said it one time and the lady sitting at the table next to me outside Secret Starbucks got up and left.

I have also started making slightly inappropriate comments about 'tips,' which I think might get me in trouble at some point if someone gets the reference.

*wonders if woman outside Secret Starbucks got the reference and thought I was one step away from making a tip comment to her*

Heh heh. Awesome.

At this rate it won't be too long before I start wearing black turtleneck jumpers.

The only way I know my transformation is not yet complete is that I haven't started daytime drinking. But, y'know, that could happen at, like, any time.

Whatever.

Yo, Warner Bros. - you can have this one for free

Are we all excited about the Green Lantern movie then? No, me neither. Which is a shame because I used to love the comic. I *hope* it turns out to be one of those films that you think is going to be a bit underwhelming but which really knocks you for six when you actually see it (a bit like X-Men: First Class did when I saw it this week), but from what I've seen so far it just looks a bit too … CGI-y and … dull.

As well as the trailer not really doing anything for me, I took one look at the poster the other day and kind of just went "huh." I mean, I suppose the image is … OK, and yeah, it makes sense to use part of the Green Lantern oath as the strap line - but truth be told that oath is a bit po-faced and doesn't really mean anything to anyone who doesn't read the comic.

A strap line needs to be punchy and awesome and grab the attention of cinema-goers; 'in brightest day, in blackest night' says NOTHING. If anything it just sounds like a weather report. And so, bearing in mind how powerful and bad-ass Green Lantern is supposed to be, I thought I'd have a stab at it.

I think you'll agree this one is far more entertaining.

Brace yourselves

So, last week I did something I haven't done in years: I wore a pair of braces (that's 'suspenders' to my friends across the pond). The reasons for this essentially boil down to the following:

• I've been trying to shake my wardrobe up for a while now.

• This seemed like an interesting way of doing it.

• I may have gotten the idea from having seen Panic! At the Disco several times recently.

The last time I wore braces I think I was about four years old and they were red and yellow striped with little red and yellow cars on the clasps. I distinctly remember that the cars - I believe they were VW Beetles - made me very happy; on the downside, I possessed a distinct inability to attach or detach the cars clamped to my little trousers which led to several urine-based incidents and a parental vow that the youngest son would only be wearing belts or trousers with an elasticated waist until he was old enough to know better.

Seriously, why I felt the need to undo them completely rather than just unhook them from my little shoulders I'll never know.

So anyway, yes, last week I thought I'd give braces another go. Sadly no little red and yellow cars this time, though; instead I had to make do with an all black pair (I know: DISASTER). But you know what? I loved them. They made me feel particularly sophisticated and masculine (something I doubt little cars would do, however awesome they might be). What's more, I received lots of compliments throughout the day from swooning colleagues, and only had to contend with two 'witty' remarks comparing me to Cannon and Ball, both of which came within 30 seconds of one another, and both of which I dispatched with an arched eyebrow, possibly a swear, and definitely a threat to take off my braces and beat those responsible with the metal ends.

I also managed to resist the temptation to twang them for comedy purposes, which would've no doubt resulted in a painful laceration to the nips - and even better: I didn't pee myself.

All in all then it was a successful sartorial experiment, and one I shall happily repeat.

Month of gigs: part 4 - road trip edition

OK, so I've given this some more thought and I really want you to be reading the words MONTH OF GIGS like how they said PIGS IN SPACE on The Muppet Show. Got that? Right - let's crack on with the final part of MONTH OF GIGS!

(you did it, right?)

So last time we spoke I mentioned that MONTH OF GIGS was supposed to end with Monday's Cold War Kids show at the Shepherds Bush Empire, and then I mentioned the immortal words 'road trip.' What happened, basically, was that I'd just happened upon Panic! At the Disco's website one evening and noticed that after a few dates in Europe they were popping back to the UK for a few shows they'd rescheduled from April. And one of those shows - Norwich, to be precise - still had some tickets available.

Now, I never do things like spontaneously drive 140-odd miles across the country to do anything, but I found myself sitting here thinking 'that's doable,' and 'it's not actually that far,' and 'I have plenty of holiday to use,' and 'I *really* enjoyed their Shepherds Bush Empire show and who knows how long it will be before they come back again?' Then I was googling directions and finding out about nearby accommodation for the night.

And then before I knew it, I'd bought a ticket and booked a room at a Travelodge, all for less than 70 quid. I'll happily admit I surprised myself with such spontaneity.

Spontaneity personified.

So, the day after seeing Cold War Kids, I faffed about at home in the morning, bunged some stuff in a bag, and just after one in the afternoon, under the firm yet plumby guiding voice of satnav lady, set out on my little adventure.

The journey took just under three hours, and by around four o'clock I was ensconced in a comfortable Travelodge room, sipping the worst cup of tea I've ever made.

Yes, it was comfortable enough, but the TV remote didn't work, nor did three of the lights. The bed was well squishy in a 'it'll-be-exciting-for-one-night-but-I-wouldn't-want-to-live-with-it-permanently' kinda way.

With nothing better to do I spent just over two hours spread-eagled on the bed reading my book. I was half tempted to do something rock 'n roll like throw the telly out the window, but it was quite a bulky TV and the windows didn't open all the way. Plus, I was on the ground floor, so it would actually have looked more like someone had just put a telly outside, which wouldn't really be what I was going for.

Anyway, at about half six I decided to head for the venue, which was the UEA LCR - basically the student union at the University of East Anglia. Never having gone to uni, this was definitely VERY EXCITING. I was soon queuing with lots of student-type people and bizarrely not feeling at all out of place despite being an entire teenaged person older than most of them.

The queue was long but shuffled forward quite quickly so before I knew it I was handing over my ticket and I was in.

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An aside:

I don't know about you, but I like to hang on to my gig tickets as a souvenir of the event; I've got a drawer full of them that I some day intend to assemble into some sort of immense ticket collage or something. Annoyingly, though, the dudes on the door of the venue took the complete tickets off everyone rather than just tear the stub off. This is actually doubly annoying, because writing this post I discovered that the LCR has a capacity of 1550 people, and my ticket was number 1550 (seriously - go back and look at the photo). Yes, it looks like I actually got THE LAST TICKET.

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I soon found myself a decent spot just behind the mixing desk, and began tweeting, texting, and facebooking furiously on my iPhone so as not to look too much like Billy No-Mates.

After a short time, the support act came on. They were actually the exact same support that Panic! had at the Shepherds Bush gig just 13 days earlier, and I found it kind of weird that I'd been standing beside the guitarist outside the stage door while queuing in the alleyway alongside the Empire. Not only that, but I actually quite enjoyed their set this time round, having found it a bit ho-hum previously.

After that it was another half hour wait before the lights dimmed once more (at a surprisingly early 8:30), and Panic! At the Disco bounded onto the stage.

Bearing in mind this was the third time I've seen Panic! play this year, my enthusiasm at seeing them perform again was undiminished. And, it seems, their enthusiasm for playing to a crowd was every bit as potent as when I saw them on those two previous occasions. This was the last gig of the UK tour, and here was a band who were clearly enjoying themselves and having a great time playing - which was in turn reflected by the audience's reactions. They bantered with the crowd and with each other, and they played some unexpected and obviously spontaneous cover versions - from an uncannily accurate John Mayer track to a hilarious version of James Blunt's 'You're Beautiful' (don't ask me how Panic! knew that track, but suffice to say I preferred their version to the original). As the show went on we were also treated to versions of the Friends and Super Mario Bro. theme tunes, 'Panic' (ha, fitting) by The Smiths, and a version of the Kansas song 'Carry on Wayward Son' because they'd been playing it on Guitar Hero.

I like this picture. I know the quality is crappy, but I like the colours and the raised camera held up in front of me.

And then, just a little before 10 o'clock, they took their bows and bid us good night. Shortly after I joined the heaving throng of sweaty students as we shuffled out into the cool night air (and on the way managed to snaffle a ticket from the pile collected on the way in; it's not my original number 1550, but it's a souvenir of the evening nonetheless). To be honest, if I'd known the gig was going to end at this time I would've seriously thought about driving home instead of staying over; I mean, seriously, can't these students party late?!

Still, I'd paid for a room for the night, so I headed back there. By 22:20 I was plonked on my squishy bed, texting and tweeting mercilessly while reflecting on the gig. Oh, and posing sexily to remember my post-Panic!/end of MONTH OF GIGS face:

That's a look of slight bewilderment/over-excitement there, people.

I woke up this morning surprisingly early, so sat in the room and read my book for an hour or so while listening to two of the maids loudly discussing their sex lives while cleaning the room opposite. Then I packed my stuff, grabbed my bag, stole three sachets of coffee in an attempt to make up for not chucking the telly out the window, and checked out. Before heading home, though, I decided to grab some breakfast at the Little Chef attached to the Travelodge. For just over seven quid I got a surprisingly tasty pancake breakfast, a pot of Earl Grey (I cannot function in the morning without it), and an orange juice.

The only downside was that the pot of sauce was 'maple-flavoured syrup' rather than actual maple syrup. Not that I could tell the difference, though.

And then following the stern instructions of satnav lady, I headed home.

Sitting here now, I actually sort of can't believe I did this little road trip just to see a band play. I've never done that before - something that was highlighted when the singer of the support act shouted "good evening Norwich!"; I've only ever heard "good evening London!" before. But d'ya know what? I had an awesome time, and I got to see one of my favourite bands play somewhere totally unexpected just by acting on a whim.

And that, I think you'll agree, was a fitting end to MONTH OF GIGS.

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Some videos! I think I was standing next to a speaker or someone who gave off strange magnetic vibes because the sound in these videos is pretty atrocious. So, like, apologies for that. On the plus side, it should give you an idea of what the gig was like.

I got a snippet of their cover of George Michael's 'Careless Whisper' - despite appalling sound quality you can just about hear the guiter part. At one point the guitarist was playing his guitar behind his head. AWESOME.

And finally, here's 'New Perspective,' which begins with the tail end of the cover of the Super Mario Bro. theme, complete with the 'getting coins' sound effect - all done on guitar! It was good to hear 'New Perspective' played as they didn't do it at the Shepherds Bush show - possibly the only omission from that earlier gig.

Month of gigs: part 3

Well. After the life-changing experience that was Sufjan Stevens at Royal Festival Hall, you really wouldn't envy the task facing the next band Yazzle Dazzle and I had lined up as part of our MONTH OF GIGS.

You know what? I really think that should be MONTH OF GIIIIIIIIIIGS but I'm really not sure that typing it like that gets across the echoing sound effect I want to convey. It just looks a bit like I suffered an aneurysm while typing 'gigs.' Could you, like, maybe just imagine there's an echo? Just on the GIGS part so it sounds all, like, "GIIIIIIIIIIIIIGS" but fading off towards the end like someone's shouting it as they're plummeting off a cliff or something. That would be grand.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, so post-Sufjan (and let me tell you, I had a proper post-Sufjan funk over the weekend; it was like GRIEF), we were a little worried that nothing would be able to compare. "Cold War Kids have A LOT to live up to," Yazzle said with a serious tone in her voice as we tubed it back from Festival Hall on Thursday night, words that rang in our heads as we took our seats in the Shepherds Bush Empire, where MONTH OF GIGS had begun a little less than two weeks ago. In fact, as we walked past the seats we'd sat in at the Panic! At the Disco gig I pointed forlornly and said "Look - Panic! seats…"

Look, I'll keep it brief. The evening did not begin terribly well. We *hated* the support act. I actually have no idea who they were because they either didn't tell us, or it was mumbled so incoherently that I just didn't pick it up. Their drummer was very animated, though, which was quite exciting. Add to that the fact that the couple seated directly next to me spent a considerable amount of time in the throes of a very handsy, very slurpy makeout session and I was thinking "I'd quite like to be at home right about now."

But then Cold War Kids came on and everything was good. We've seen them a couple of times before, but after just a couple of songs Yazzle turned to me and said "whoa! They've really upped their game!" And they have. Much like how I thought Panic! had really stepped things up since their last tour, Cold War Kids were much more confident and interesting to watch, rather than just listen to. For some reason, though, the bass player kept kicking the singer in the bum which was a bit weird.

Anyway, the general consensus as we filed out of the Empire was - and although it may not sound like it, in the post-Sufjan world I live in this is intended as a compliment - that this was as good a gig as we could've hoped for just days after seeing Sufjan Stevens. And that, my friends, is praise indeed.

Here's the obligatory grainy photos and dodgy video clip.

So the idea was that MONTH OF GIGS (imaginary echo please) concluded where it began with Panic! At the Disco on May 4th at Shepherds Bush Empire. Yazzle and I both liked the synergy and symmetry of that. And for Yazzle it does. But in a stunning and somewhat unexpected (yes, I surprised myself) turn of events, I've extended MONTH OF GIGS (you know what to do by now, right?) by one more show. And two important words here are:

ROAD TRIP.

Month of gigs: part 2

So, last night I finally got to fulfil a long-held ambition to see Sufjan Stevens perform live.

After last week's amazing Panic! At the Disco gig I was a little apprehensive about going to see Sufjan because I've been so utterly in love with his music for so long now that I began to fear I'd hyped myself into such a frenzy that the reality might not quite live up to expectations. Still, I was in good company (Yazzle Dazzle, the lovely Ryan, and Big Bro), and due to my quick off the mark ticket purchasing a couple of months back we were in the fourth row from the front (in fact I was so quick off the mark buying the tickets that I accidentally bought them for the Thursday gig rather than the Friday one we'd all agreed to go to), so at the very least I thought we'd have an enjoyable evening.

You know you're going to have a good evening when you can see balloons suspended from the ceiling.

What we actually had was an evening of such utter, unmitigated joy that I shall never forget it.

I don't know why, but I always had this preconceived notion that Sufjan Stevens would be quite a shy, withdrawn artist to watch on stage, but the reality was, much to my surprise, the exact opposite. He came on stage wearing vast feathered wings, and both he and his band wore what I can only describe as homemade Tron costumes: black clothes gleefully enhanced with strips of neon tape. He quickly introduced himself and announced "I’ll be singing a lot of songs about love and death and the apocalypse. But it should be a lot of fun." He giggled as he said it, and we were immediately won over by how humble and likeable he was.

Sufjan and his neon-clad band take to the stage.

Most of the set was made up of songs from his latest album, The Age of Adz, which I described in my 2010 Year in Reviews post as being "brilliantly mad, psychedelically bonkers and completely brilliant"; performed live it was even more so. Not only that, but Sufjan really took the time to engage with the audience, far more so than any artist I've seen in … well, ever. He paused about halfway through the two and a half hour-long set (telling us that now was a good time to "visit the restroom") to talk about how he put this album together, from the synthesiser samples that make it sound so radically different from his earlier work, to how he was inspired by the work of a self-taught artist named Royal Robertson.

He went on to talk about his unusual upbringing (naked family yoga anyone?), and how his parents told him that they were star-children. He also explained how his dancing - which I had previously dismissed as seeming to be a bit awkward after seeing youtube videos of earlier concerts - was actually a vital part of the music, how it was basically a language in itself, after which point I totally got it and even started doing it myself.

When he continued with the music he did so while wearing a bizarre crystalline headpiece with half a glitter ball attached to his chest. Moments later this was dispensed with in favour of what I can only describe as a neon chiffon wedding dress with a wig made of paper streamers. Oh, and some plastic wings. He then proceeded to run up and down the stage, waving glow-sticks and busting more dance moves.

Sufjan's crystalline costume made him look a little bit like a Tholian…

And here he is in his neon wedding dress.

This was somehow something more than just seeing a singer I've enjoyed listening to for years perform live - it was a celebration of life, and quite possibly the closest I've come to having a religious experience; she'll thump me for sharing this, but Yazzle told me that there were a handful of times during the show where she felt like she "had something in her eye."*

It was an utterly joyous and completely magical evening, which culminated in the entire audience on their feet dancing and singing along to 'Impossible Soul,' a 25 minute-long song, before an encore in which Sufjan performed two acoustic tracks from his Illinoise album, followed by a rousing version of 'Chicago' during which he stomped around the stage wearing a monkey mask as confetti and giant balloons rained down from the ceiling.

And then, to a standing ovation, he and his band were gone.

Thinking about it now sends a shiver of emotion down my spine. I half-jokingly said to Yazzle on the way home that life would forever now be split into pre- and post-Sufjan, but to be honest it actually kills me that as I type this, over in Festival Hall he's playing to another sellout crowd. I would do anything to be there now, and I can only hope that I will have the privilege of seeing him perform again at some point in the future.

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While it's difficult to truly convey exactly what it was like at the concert, I hope these videos I took give you at least a small idea of how wonderful Sufjan Stevens was.

I kid you not, if ever I'm feeling down I am just going to watch this last video to remember how great life is.

*she means crying

Month of gigs: Thursday tease edition

So, by the time you're reading this I should be safely ensconced in London's Royal Festival Hall bouncing up and down in my FOURTH ROW SEAT with giddy expectation at the prospect of finally seeing - *le gasp!* - Sufjan Stevens!

As long time readers will know, I'm nutty for Sufjan and he's without a doubt the most prominent name on my by now very short list of artists I want to see perform live before either they or I shuffle off this mortal coil (hopefully neither of which will occur in the immediate future. Or at all, quite frankly).

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An aside:

I actually had the chance to buy tickets to see Sufjan about five years ago, but passed on the opportunity because I had tickets for the same night to see The Feeling, a band I'd already seen twice that year. In retrospect, I should've sold The Feeling tickets, or quite honestly just given them away, and gone seen young Mr. Stevens instead.

For the simple fact that I didn't, I now vehemently HATE The Feeling.

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Anyway, Sufjan announced two gigs at the Royal Festival Hall a couple of months back and I immediately corralled some Sufjan-loyal troops together. I actually meant to buy tickets for the Friday night show as I thought it would be a lovely lead-in to the weekend, but in my haste at the moment tickets went on sale I accidentally bought them for the Thursday night one instead.

Still, fourth row tickets, eh?

One of the faithful joining me is my Big Bro, who has been gently appreciative of Sufjan for a few years now, before exploding into crazed nuttiness after hearing his latest album, 'Age of Adz'; seriously, Big Bro described it as being something like 'Sufjan Stevens colliding with Nine Inch Nails,' which in his book is A GOOD THING. And mine, too.

Anyway, because it was Big Bro's birthday recently I told him I'd pick up the tab for his ticket as one of his presents from me (note I said 'one of'; I'm a very generous present giver, I'll have you know). My intention was to slip it inside his birthday card. Sadly, the tickets didn't arrive in time (they actually arrived the day after - tut!), which put the kibosh on that plan.

That being the case, I improvised - the result being this:

Honestly, I really don't think Sufjan speaks like that, but it made Big Bro laugh. For all I know he's laminated it and stuck it on his living room wall. Actually, I hope he has; it took a fair bit of time to do, you know.

And if by any chance Sufjan or any of his peeps come across this: NO OFFENCE INTENDED - HONEST!

So anyway, yeah, excitement levels will be going slightly off the scale tonight. And there's always the question of what he'll be wearing - will it be the stars and stripes catsuit, the angel wings, hot neon post-it notes, or an immense crystalline … thing?!

Reporting back SOON.

Month of gigs: part 1

Some time ago, Yazzle Dazzle and I got talking about how we'd not been to a gig in a while, and resolved to do something about that.

And then, lo and behold, a load of people I wanted to see popped up and I ended up spending a small fortune on tickets. Somehow all these gigs fell into a short two-week period, and by some miracle of miracles there wasn't any overlap in the dates. We subsequently named this intense period 'MONTH OF GIGS,' as although strictly speaking 'FORTNIGHT OF GIGS' would be technically more correct, it doesn't sound anywhere near as dramatic or exciting.

Anyway, MONTH OF GIGS kicked off this week, with back-to-back concerts on Wednesday and Thursday. First up:

Panic! At the Disco at Shepherds Bush Empire!

I think we all know by now that I'm a huge Panic! fan, and was totally blown away by their performance at Bush Hall back in February. As a result, I was very much looking forward to seeing them again, not least because having now heard their new album, 'Vices and Virtues,' in its entirety many times I'm more familiar with the new stuff, but also because I wanted to see what Yazzle thought of them (she's only seen them play briefly at the Decaydance Festival four years ago).

The evening didn't start amazingly well because we slightly underestimated the need to get in the queue early, and ended up not getting out traditional level one balcony front row seats, instead having to go four rows back. But, as Yazzle pointed out, everything happens for a reason, and that reason swiftly became apparent when someone on the level two balcony emptied a pint of beer over the people in our usual seats. That near miss aside, our new seats still afforded us a fine view of the stage.

And how was Panic! this time round, you ask? Quite simply: awesome. As I noted in my write-up of the Bush Hall gig, lead singer Brendon Urie really seems to have upped his game since I saw them back in 2008; his voice is utterly phenomenal, and his onstage performance is a sight to behold; unlike the Bush Hall gig, however, our raised vantage point here allowed us to see Urie's dancing in its entirety - and the dude can throw some seriously incredible moves. I even went so far as to tweet after the gig that I consider him to be the "finest frontman performing today."

I read a review the day after that said Panic! is now "basically the Brendon Urie show," and I don't think that's a bad thing; I mean, look how famous frontmen such as Mick Jagger and Freddie Mercury have stolen the limelight. But the fact of the matter is that Urie's backed up by a brilliant band who all contributed to make this one of the best gigs I've been to in a long time.

Awesome moment of the night:

During the song 'Memories' Yazzle and I noticed a young couple of boys in the standing section to the left of our seats who were pogo-ing around to the music with ferocious intensity, swept up, it seemed, by everything from the brilliant music to the vibrant atmosphere of the crowd and their love for each other. We were in hysterics just watching them, although the music journalist they kept bumping into while he sternly tried to take notes seemed somewhat less impressed.

As we were leaving after the gig finished, though, who should we bump into but the very same pogo boys! And of course we couldn't help but tell them how we'd enjoyed watching them dance (which fortunately they were pleased to hear rather than thinking it was a bit weird). Bless them, we chatted for a short while before they pogo'd off into the night.

I can't hear 'Memories' now without thinking of them jumping around like loons. Good times.

Joseph Arthur at Bush Hall!

Yazzle and I saw Joseph Arthur play at Bush Hall with his band The Lonely Astronauts two years ago and were so blown away by how good he was that we vowed we'd definitely go and see him again if ever the opportunity arose. And arise it did, with a single London date the day after the Panic gig.

This time, however, Arthur was playing solo, filling the room with sound by doing that incredible laying thing he does where he records guitar parts or harmonies then puts them on a loop. It's amazing to see - and even more so to hear as it genuinely does sound like there's a full band on stage when in fact there's just one dude, and every now and then he's off to the left of stage working on a painting.

I kid you not: Joseph Arthur paints onstage, often while still singing. It's a sight to behold.

It was a mighty fine gig, slightly ruined at one point by some wench who decided she wanted to stand exactly where I was standing without fully appreciating the fact that two people can't actually occupy the same precise point in space. She moved eventually, but only after Yazzle glared at her and said something like "you're in the way of me talking to my friend."

On the plus side, like all Joseph Arthur's gigs, this one was recorded so I got to take home a CD of the entire evening. And because he's such a down-to-Earth personable chap, Joseph Arthur even manned the merch table to sign everyone's CD cover!

Which in turn led me to awkwardly ask if I could have my photo taken with him.

OK, it's a bit of a crappy photo because it was taken using my iPhone which has a bit of a crappy camera, but: PHOTO WITH JOSEPH ARTHUR! Unfortunately, the crappy camera is no excuse for the weird look on my face. And what the hell's going on with my hair?! It had been awesomely bouffy during the day, but appeared to have gone all flat and 1920s by this point.

I always feel like a bit of dick when I meet famous people.

Anyway, another brilliant evening of fine music.

Awkward moment of the night:

During the encore, Joseph Arthur played a beautiful acoustic version of 'Honey and the Moon' without microphones. Even though Bush Hall is really quite small and we were only half way back, we still had to strain to hear it. Unfortunately, midway through the song, I could hear what sounded like music coming from a phone. This went on and on, to the point where I was ready to have a go at someone. And then a lovely young lady tapped me on the arm and said "I think your phone is ringing."

Turns out when I'd checked my phone between Joseph Arthur leaving the stage and coming back for the encore I'd accidentally swiped my hand on the iPod function, and my phone had started playing a Smashing Pumpkins song. I sheepishly pulled it out of my pocket, stopped it, and slid it back in my pocket.

At which point I did it again.

This time I swore, smiled at nice lady, and hastily turned my phone OFF.

Awkward.

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Next time on MONTH OF GIGS: a singer I've been waiting to see live for *YEARS* and a band of Californian rockers!

A somewhat lazy post

Yeah, I know: I've not blogged for, like, FUH-EVAH. Well don't get your hopes up here; this is probably the laziest thing I've written since that fateful birthday card I sent my first girlfriend.

(Hint: IT DIDN'T GO DOWN WELL)

So what have I been up to, you're probably not so excited to know? Well, y'know, this and that. Possibly most thrilling of all is the news that, following my last post, I managed to get my car insurance down from £834 to a far more agreeable £470 (which is actually cheaper than last year) just by going on Mini Cover's website and posing as a new, rather than existing, customer. Yes, it's weird that they're able to offer this fee to a newbie but not to someone who's been with them for 10 years, which does make it look like they're trying to push existing customers away, but hey-ho I won't complain too much because I saved almost £400. I did complain to them in writing though, and they were very apologetic, so I think we can put our differences aside now and just move forward with our relationship.

I'll 'ave 'em if they try it again next year, though.

What else? Oh, yeah, so I took three days off work this week which, thanks to the Easter break, assorted bank holidays, and some couple getting hitched, gave me 11 days of blissful freedom.

And how did I use those days?

Well, I got plenty of this.

Which resulted in a lot of this…

And that's a tan, not dirt, I'll have you know.

Also read some books, one of which featured this page:

Which reminded me somewhat of something that my pal Grum drew based on a story I wrote back in 2003.

I'm saying *nothing*.

Um … Ooo, saw some oven gloves that looked like a skinned dolphin!

And some classy Royal Wedding souvenirs at bargain prices!

Elsewhere, watched Tron Legacy for the second time and loved it even more than I did the first time. Seriously, I actually understood the story this time round. And I preferred it being in 2D rather than 3D. Anyway, this has of course led to me wanting a Tron costume. I would totally rock this. I would look so awesome playing frisbee in the park dressed like this.

Tron fever has also led me to consider buying a Tron iPhone dock…

… and - ooo, squeal! - light-up Tron headphones!

Right: got to go. Big Bro is coming round in a bit to watch Tron.

What? I told you this was a lazy post.

Insure-angst

It's around this time every year that I brace myself for a scrotum-tightening assault on my finances. Not because I throw caution to the wind and decide to buy myself a new spring wardrobe (let's face it, I do that all year round not just seasonally), but because it's when my car insurance is up for renewal.

I won't go into my entire insurance history, but the Cliff Notes version is this:

• First car (old, slightly trampy Fiesta) + inexperienced driver = EXPENSIVE

• First car + a couple of years experience = REASONABLE

• Second car (Mini Cooper) + experience + four years no-claims bonus = EXPENSIVE

• Second car (Mini Cooper) + more experience + more no-claims bonus = REASONABLE

• Third car (Mini Cooper S - more vroom vroom) + MORE no-claims bonus = ACCEPTABLE

• Fourth car (Mini Cooper Clubman, less vroom vroom) + EVEN MORE no-claims bonus: WIN

Seriously, going from a Cooper S to a Cooper Clubman sliced something like 100-odd quid off my insurance costs, and it's more frugal at the pumps, so all in all buying Clubbie was a total financial win.

Anyway, last year I was a smidgeon distressed to find that my insurance premium had actually gone up by 100-odd quid to just above the level I had been paying for my Cooper S, which quite frankly was ridiculous. So I phoned up the insurance company, told them this, and they activated a little-known loyalty clause that dropped it back down to the previous year's level. Why they didn't just do this in the first place I do not know, but, like, WHATEVS.

And so let's fast-forward back to the present day; well, not necessarily the present day, because the following event happened on Wednesday, but you get the idea. Anyway, I get home from a delightful evening out to find a letter on my doormat: my insurance renewal documents. I tear the envelope open - which wasn't terribly difficult bearing in mind it had barely been stuck down (obviously spittle is being rationed in the fast-paced world of high-finance) - to find that…

MY INSURANCE PREMIUM HAS DOUBLED!

I shit you not. They wanted over £800 for me to renew my insurance! I remember when it used to drop every year - not go up! Anyway, I was straight on a price comparison website (confused.com if you were wondering; proof that the whole 'price the meerkat' thing did nothing except introduce the word "simples" done in a Russian accent to the nation) where I found that basically everyone would offer me cover for around £4-500.

It is around about here that I should point out that I've been with the same insurance company for 10 years, and have exclusively insured every Mini I've owned with them. I have 14+ no-claims bonus, a clean driver's licence, and have never (touch wood) been involved in an accident where I was at fault. And let's not forget Clubbie is a Cooper-spec car, which means it's peppy but hardly a Ferrari. Basically, the way I see it, I am awesome insurance customer numero uno.

So, anyway, I decided I'd give them a call about this. Rather than screaming down the phone at them like a lunatic, I decided my best approach was to play dumb, which if you've been unfortunate enough to meet me you'll appreciate as something that comes quite easily to me.

That being the case, my opening line was something like "well, I got my renewal documents and there simply *must* be a mistake because it's, like, TOTALLY DOUBLED!"

It was so convincing that the man on the end of the line, like, totally agreed with me and put me through to the customer loyalty team to "see what they could do" for me.

The answer was: NOT VERY MUCH. Basically I was put through to some bored-sounding jobsworth who gave the impression that he was doing me an immense favour by knocking it down to £790. It was at that point that I dispensed with the dumb act, told him it was ridiculous, and said there was no way in hell I'd be renewing my insurance with them. Which I feel is a great shame because this particular company have been nothing but great in the past, to the point I've even gone so far as to pay a little bit extra to them when I could've got insurance cheaper elsewhere. I won't stoop so low as to name and shame them, but if you're interested they are Mini Cover.

Any-hoo, INCENSED, I decided to have another play around on the interwebz and ended up on the website of More Th>n (yes, the '>' thing is a bit wanky, but that's how they spell it so who am I to argue), the company who Big Bro insures his car with, and who he speaks vey vey highly off. So I got a quote - a good one - and then decided that as I was at work I probably should, y'know, do some work.

Ten minutes later, though, my phone rings. I answer it and find myself talking to … well, we'll call her Debbie. Because her name was Debbie.

In contrast to the feckless jobsworth at Mini Cover, Debbie was an utter delight to speak with. She made me laugh, I made her laugh; she gave me a great quote, and then when she couldn't get it down any further threw in a personal representative thingy worth £25 that means I deal exclusively with the same person whenever I need to call them (except, I expect, if that one person is ill, on holiday, or gets another job - these are questions I will have to ask). All in all, then, Debbie was brilliant, and while I haven't accepted the cover yet, I will be calling her back at some point in the coming week to ask her out take it out.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to write a sternly-worded letter to Mini Cover explaining exactly why I'm leaving them. It'll probably go straight in the bin, but the mere act of writing it will doubtless prove extremely therapeutic.

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And as I'm writing this, I come across this blog on the Autocar website where the writer discusses the very same thing I've been harping on about, even going so far as to say "…the whole system is skewed against us. I have a 28 year plus record without blemish so really I should be paying 9p. But apparently not." It's an interesting read.

Getting my plumbing sorted

So, here was an interesting problem: I was having a shower a while back (let's take a moment for you to bathe in that glorious image) and after lathering and rinsing (again, have a few seconds to reflect if you wish) I went to turn the shower off and … it stayed on. I had to twist the knob a few more times (watch it, filth-bag) before it eventually went off, but still it was a bit perturbing.

To confound matters, the issue got progressively worse over the days and weeks that followed; often the shower would continue running for something like five minutes before clicking off, which was a bit annoying because I shower quite often (when your sense of humour is as dirty as mine you need to find some way of staying clean). At one point out of sheer fury I tried punching the shower unit in the knob which, surprisingly, actually rectified the matter for a couple of days. Like the Borg, however, it subsequently adapted to my fists of fury, and I had to resort to wedging the shower head under the bath mat to prevent it from spraying all over the bathroom while I patted myself dry and toddled off to do something more exciting. Oh, and did I mention that while the knob was in the off position and the shower was still running it would do so at scorching hot temperatures? My bathroom got well steamy.

So I put up with this for … well, look, I'd like to say a couple of weeks, but I'm actually really quite lazy so it was more like a couple of months, before deciding that I really needed to call a plumber to sort it out. This revelation hit me while I was 'enjoying' a bath (and I use that term loosely because I always find the concept of a bath is better than the actual experience of having one) and staring up at the manky old shower head having gotten bored of watching fluff lazily drift out of my belly button.

That being the case I dug out an old invoice from the plumbers I called out a couple of years back to fix something to do with my boiler or something (I don't know what these things are), and gave them a ring because they were good and efficient and resolved the problem. A lovely lady emailed me back the next day, and booked me in for Wednesday.

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An aside:

I don't know about you, but the mere notion of getting a plumber in just makes me think of awful seventies porn with big moustaches, lame jokes about wrenches, and - oops! - burst pipes. And while it's recently been pointed out to me that a significant proportion of my readers would consider this at worst a welcome distraction, and at best marriage material, the notion isn't quite so appealing to me. Although that said, I am sitting here writing this while amusing myself by rocking back and forth in a chair that's making slightly pervy squeaking sounds, so, y'know, each to their own.

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So this morning at around half 10 this guy turns up. I show him the bathroom, and the errant behaviour of the shower unit, which in contrast to how these things usually play out when a professional comes to look at them actually did the whole not-turning-off thing, and he says "yeah, we ain't gonna get parts for THAT." I'm actually quite pleased at this turn of events because quite frankly regardless of whether it turns on or off the thing is lilac in colour which makes it stand out rather horrifically ever since I painted the entire room white, and would look even more out of place if I follow through with an idea I've had about painting half the room lime green (don't ask).

That being the case I say "yay!" and we look through some catalogues for new showers, which is initially confusing because he keeps saying "bar mixers" which I hear as "bar mitzvahs" and at least twice I say "but I'm not Jewish."

Any-hoo, we eventually select a nice chrome BAR MIXER, and then he announces that he needs to pop up into my loft to do something with my water tank (which I pray is not poo or bash one out into it like some of those horror stories you read about in the newspapers), and it is at this point that PLUMBING EMERGENCY NUMBER ONE kicks in.

Back just before I bought Sparky Towers, y'see, I had a survey done on the house - this being before the time of HIPS (that's Home Information Packs rather than the actual joints - I've not owned it that far back in human evolution). One of the things that came up - aside from a peculiar fascination that the surveyor had with limescale around the rim of the toilet – was that the wood underneath the water tank had at some point gotten damp and REALLY SHOULD BE replaced. But me being me, I moved in and quickly did nothing about it.

Having owned the house well for well over five years, it may come as a surprise to you to find that I've never actually ventured up into the loft until today, when plumber chappy said he'd really rather like to show me something up there and it seemed like I didn't really have much say in the matter and my excuse that I don't really like ladders wouldn't hold much water (unlike the bath while I'm waiting for the shower to turn off). So I follow him up the ladder, half expecting to find a decomposing body, or a wasps' nest, or a family of Albanian asylum seekers cowering in the corner. What I was not expecting, however, was a massive lump of wood under the water tank that had bowed waaaaaaay more than you'd imagine wood could possibly bow without snapping in two - so much so that instead of expressing something akin to shock, I look at the plumber and say "holy shit, is that even possible!? Look at it bend - it looks like Dawn French sat on it!" Which was, I'm guessing, not quite the reaction he was expecting.

After getting over this remarkable sight, I then realise that he's suggesting it's probably wise that I let him fix this, although the only things going through my mind by this point are the fact that this is a) going to cost a bit more than I'd anticipated, and b) the loft would be a rather awesome chill-out room if I popped a few beanbags, a lava lamp, and perhaps a teasmade up there. Eventually I snap back to the point at hand and agree that, yes, I've somehow gotten away with not having done anything about it for five years so I probably really should do something about it now instead of waiting for it to crash through the ceiling and kill me while I'm enjoying the delights of my new shower for the first time.

On a side note, as I descend the ladder, I notice that idiot girl who used to own my house actually left a Christmas tree in the loft, along with a plastic Halloween pumpkin with a scary face on it that I am going to have to go back up to retrieve and subsequently smash to smithereens because I genuinely think it looks like the sort of thing that would come to life and murder me in my sleep now that I know it's up there.

Anyway. Plumber dude ended up being round here for most of the day and did a brilliant job. I now have a water tank that's sitting on a massive expanse of well-hard, decidedly non-saggy wood, and a sparkly new chrome shower thingy that looks a bit like a Cylon from Battlestar Galactica, although I'm not allowed to use it for 24 hours because he used some silicon stuff to plug some holes where the old shower used to be and that needs to dry. Unfortunately, since he pointed this out to me I just want to go into the bathroom and touch it, which would be bad as we all know how that turned out the last time this sort of thing happened. The next 20-odd hours are going to be VERY DIFFICULT.

A night on the town

A few weeks back I regaled you with the tale of how I got a little bit tiddily for the first time in, um, MANY years. As you may recall, the only dampener on an otherwise fine evening was the fact that I was suffering from THE COUGH THAT WOULD NOT GO AWAY, and my brilliant and hilarious friends kept making me laugh, which in turn kept making me cough, which in turn probably made them laugh at my plight.

It was a vicious, vicious circle, dear reader.

Anyway, having long since recovered from the vile cough, the subject of getting me drunk was raised again recently, and like a lamb to the slaughter seeing as I'm always up for a good time I clapped my hands and a plan was made to go out for drinks in London one Saturday evening.

And then on the day I suddenly discovered that Central London was going to be the site of a mass demonstration.

"You're going up to London? Today?" Asked my Nan when I told her what my plans for the evening were. "I wouldn't bother."

But bother I did. Eventually, because like the doofus I am I missed not one but two trains while I did my hair sorted some important stuff out.

So, an hour later than scheduled I found myself in a nice subterranean bar with Glittering Lee, Skip, and the lovely Ryan, sipping a fruity cocktail while a handful of miles away the Police tussled with angry balaclava'd protestors. On the subject of drinks, yes it does seem that I have a somewhat unusual taste in alcoholic beverages for a straight man, but good lord, if you'd tried that raspberry cocktail I'm pretty sure you would've pledged to give up Diamond White and/or meths in a shot. I did not, however, sample Lee's cocktail when it was offered to me, based purely on the fact that he described it as tasting somewhat like "unwashed cock."

A short time later, and for reasons I cannot quite remember because things were spinning somewhat delightfully by this point, we decided to decamp to the lovely Drink, Shop & Do on Caledonian Road. En route, adding to his tally of beating me while I'm drunk, Skip punched me in the stomach; like the previous occasion when he punched me in the head, neither of us can recall quite why he felt inclined to lash out at me so violently, but I'm assured it was done with affection.

Drink, Shop & Do was quieter than I've ever seen it because they didn't have a 'Do' on that evening, so we just got some drinks in and got snippy with one another in an affectionate fashion. Here, I combined my love of coffee with my newfound appreciation of sophisticated cocktails by ordering an espresso martini which BLEW MY TINY MIND. Once that was knocked back, we decided to decamp once again.

Things get a smidgeon blurry around here, because all I can recall is a hurried walk around St. Pancras station in search of an open branch of Marks and Spencers where pizza and more booze were purchased, and I seriously considered buying a delightful looking chocolate Easter chick. The whole thing reminded me of that brilliant eighties film 'Adventures in Babysitting.'

A short time later we were ensconced in Skip's house watching episodes of Better off Ted, which as I've mentioned before is brilliant and you really should be watching it.

By about 23:20, however, little ol' drunken me had a dilemma: wobble my way to the tube station and zip across town to catch the last train home or … stay at Skip's. Under normal, sober circumstances I would've been, well, running it a little bit close if I'm honest - so after factoring in additional wobble-time I poked Skip in the arm (note 'POKED' not 'PUNCHED') and asked if I could steal his spare room for the night.

Which leads me to the most memorable moment of the evening when Lee and Ryan decided to call it a night and Ryan innocently asked if I was going to crash at their place. When told I was staying at Skip's he turned, looked me in the eye and said "I can't believe you're staying here - will you be alright?!" as if he genuinely feared for my life.

To which Lee replied "he'll be fine - just wedge a chair under the door."

And then they were gone.

Of course, I was fine, because Skip's a lovely chap and his spare room was awesome. I fell asleep to the distant sound of Police sirens as the Met's finest mopped up the last of the protestors.

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I awoke Sunday morning surprisingly early, and somewhat amazingly with a distinct lack of a hangover (although when you're paying £7.50 per drink I think that's as it should be). Skip was already up and around and made me coffee (such a genial host), and after a couple of hours chatting I decided to make my way through town and head home.

Sunday London

It was a brilliant weekend, and it seems Ryan really didn't have anything to worry about when he and Lee left me alone in Skip's care because so far no pictures of me asleep in my pants have turned up on Facebook. BONUS.