John Walker's Electronic House

If I had listened to new music last year, this song (and the album) would have given us a Top Two.

Jens Lekman – You Are The Light

I somewhat forgot to listen to new music last year. So, well, I’m catching up now as everyone tells me what I should have been listening to with their lists. I mean, man, I didn’t listen to Burial’s Untrue, Jens Lekman’s Night Falls Over Kortedala, Dan Deacon, The New Pornographers… oh you name it, I didn’t listen.

Also, some stalwarts let me down by either releasing nothing, or releasing crap. Most guilty of this would be Rilo Kiley’s devastatingly tedious Under The Blacklight. It’s as if Jenny Lewis took all the folk and fun for her solo album, leaving the band with a clinical and depressingly mediocre series of songs.

But I did listen to Cloud Cult.

Which means:

1) Cloud Cult: The Meaning of 8

I’ve listened to their 2005 album, Advice From The Happy Hippopotamus, so very many times. The Meaning Of 8 is even better. I can’t be arsed writing about it, so you’ll just have to accept that I’m right. Watch/Listen to this:

And this:

I’ve just heard that Kevin Greening has died.

Greening was a DJ at Radio 1 for most of the 90s, having slipped a bit more into obscurity over the last few years, his biggest moment of fame being when he co-hosted the Radio 1 breakfast show with Zoe Ball. Which was, sadly, the worst work he ever did. Before that he worked all over the schedule, spending a deal of time in the obscurity of the 4am show, and then having an extensive stint on the 4-7pm drive time (or as he called it,”drivel time”) slot. He also described himself as Radio 1’s “supply DJ”, generally with a strong tone of disgust, filling in all over the place for other presenters on holiday.

Back in 1997 I somehow ended up writing gags for his Drivel Time show. This was mostly from afar, emailing them to Greening, which led to our corresponding for a while. It’s quite peculiar now, but I remember lending him a single by MC 900FT Jesus, (that, randomly, Mark Radcliffe had posted to me when I was a teenager after I wrote to him asking from where I could get hold of it – the lovely man just posted me a copy), and eventually my being invited to come in to be part of the team for a week while he filled in on the breakfast show. However, sadly, I never did. I had created a really stupid quiz idea which Kevin liked – it was called Call The Toss, designed as a spoof of sports quizzes. Each morning they would heavily promote a sports quiz, each morning for a different sport, get callers who believed themselves to be expert to call in, and then every day the question would be, “In the 1984 Ashes Test, in the opening game, who won the toss?” Or, “In the 1978 Wimbledon Women’s final, who won the toss?” I don’t even understand it now, but he liked it, and apparently jingles were made up for it, all ready to go, with me as part of the Radio 1 Breakfast Show Posse. And then Princess Diana died the Sunday before.

The whole week of shows were cancelled, replaced with the pathetic dross every station pumped out that week, aimlessly linking miserable songs and pretending like the whole nation was in some sort of fucking mourning, rather than just bored and annoyed as 99% were. And that’s the story of how I never became a super famous Radio 1 DJ.

Greening offered me a chance to come in for a Drivel Time show later on, which was a really wonderful day. Radio 1, at least back then, was housed in a secret building quite a way from the rest of the BBC. The idea was, when they had some boy band in, the hoardes of screaming lunatics would gather at Broadcasting House, while the band was safely hidden a few roads down in an unmarked, and very unlikely narrow terrace building. There was a dank office upstairs, and two studios downstairs, and an anonymous reception between the two. It wasn’t the glamour you might imagine.

I spent the day working with the regular team, writing gags for the show, and then coming up with material during broadcast in response to the current news. That was superb fun, and the satisfaction of getting a joke on air was huge. Greening was a bit distant that day, having been quite horribly beaten up the night before. The attack was never publically reported, but it seemed he’d had the shit kicked out of him outside a club. Which was weird.

But he was still friendly, and completely without the ego of the majority working in radio. He had always been embarrassed by being famous, and I respected his quiet, background role very much. Throughout his time on the early morning show, and the slightly less so in the rest of his Radio 1 slots, he would write and produce these extraordinary sketches that would be played in without comment. These were either very strange, often surreal adverts, or the most peculiarly sedate and gentle sketches featuring regular characters. As an antithesis to the vile shit that Steve Wright would broadcast, they were hypnotically serene, often morose, and unlike anything else you’d hear on the radio. And this seemed to capture his own personality. So very gentle and calm.

(While I was there, I also walked past the hateful Nicky Campbell, and gloriously had a very brief conversation with John Peel – he was sat on my stuff, and I had to ask him to move – quite the chat).

Sadly, the last contact I had with him was our falling out. That afternoon at Radio 1 he said to me, “In my career I hope to lay a bouquet of flowers at the foot of the statue of Chris Morris.” Later, he made some decisions that did not match up to that, including agreeing to co-present the breakfast show with Zoe Ball, and lending his voice to television commercials. I expressed my disappointment in him, and he told me to fuck off, and that was pretty much it.

However, I think he achieved that goal. His subversive approach to any job he did was like a joyful secret joke for all who understood. His constant undermining of Radio 1, its playlist, and embarrassing attempts to yoof itself up every couple of months, were sharp and bitter, while presented as warm and calm. He was a very smart and funny man, and his work rewarded those who paid close attention.

It’s sad that his career ended in relative obscurity at Smooth FM, when he should clearly have been on the vastly improved Radio 2. He was very kind to me, far more so than someone in his position needed to be. It’s rubbish that he’s died so young. RIP.

After being left to feed himself a Gu chocolate mousse. I said to him, “Hey Wil, smile for the camera!” and he immediately cocked his head to one side and beamed this grin. Smart kid.

Click for bigness

Other nephew highlight: Wil running around the house saying, “Gogglygogglygogglygogglygog,” in a serious and important voice, and then looking at me as if I’m a moron for not understanding.

The shop down the road from my house is run by a strange man. A man I couldn’t help but notice did seem to be rather drunk at odd points in the day over the last year. In a peculiar display of public expression, the sign below the jump has been stuck to the front door for the last couple of weeks.

I don’t post this to mock the content of the sign at all, but because it’s such a fascinating thing. I do, however, include the sign immediately below purely for the purposes of mockery, not being particular impressed at such a stupid sentiment being in the doorway. Combined, they’re just plain odd. (Text below if you can’t make it out).

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Ultra-raining beyond the supermax!

I officially declare, having signed all the relevant documents, that I will never watch another RTD-penned Doctor Who so long as I both shall live.

That was the worst thing that has ever happened on planet Earth. Holocaust, you’re in second place.

Every stinking cliche imaginable, with no purpose or direction. An insult to eyes and ears. Big fat stupid people are heroic because they’re fat and stupid, and so hard-done by. Rich people are EVIL. Robots have to die. Kylie Minogue has a magical cycling non-accent. Russell T Davies should be sealed in concrete and buried at the bottom of the Atlantic ocean.

It’s Christmas time! That can only mean one thing: I’m going on about how annoyed I am with people’s whining about “the true meaning of Christmas being eroded”. It’s an annual event, but despite my righteous truth on the matter, the same tripe is trawled out by those poor hard-done-by, white, middle class Christians.

I’m convinced I’ve ranted about this here before, but a search can’t find any evidence. So if I’m repeating myself, well, welcome to me.

Christmas is just about the least important moment in the Christian calendar, and the more commercial it gets, the better. I LOVE that Christmas is commercial.

The second part first. Imagine if Christmas weren’t commercial. Imagine if it were as you can only imagine those flapping their wings at this time of year wish it were: Church, then lunch. Weeeeee.

Christmas is about one thing and one thing alone: presents. We can lie to ourselves and others as much as we like about it being about the Baby Jesus, but good heavens to betsy, no it’s not. It’s about getting and giving presents, and all the fun and danger that involves. Remove the presents and no one would bother with the day any more than they do Pentecost or Ash Wednesday.

Then add in the decorations in the shops. Sure, it’s annoying to see them in September, but it’s bloody brilliant to see them in December. Everywhere looks so fun and tacky, gaudy tinsel and colourful flashing lights brightening up a dreary shopping precinct. Just look at the shops in January, or your own home come the day you take the decorations down. Suddenly everything is drab and ordinary, that brief frolick with tasteless abandon a memory. All thanks to the commercial nature of Christmas. Throw in Christmas crap on the TV, the non-stop joy for children of Father Christmas/Santa Claus, the fun of reindeers and a Charlie Brown special. All and all and all because Christmas is so gloriously commercial. Amen to that. Don’t you dare ruin my Christmas with your religion.

So talking of religion – just exactly what role does Christmas play in the Christian story?

Well, one that’s of so little import that two out of four Gospels don’t even bother to mention it.

You know where Mark and John begin? With John the Baptist, and Jesus’ baptism. Because that is the beginning of the Christian story. Matthew gives Jesus’ birth a cursory paragraph, and while Luke spends a little longer describing the events, he spends about as long discussing those of Zechariah and Elizabeth, and the birth of John.

And as we all surely know by now, the Bible never mentions a donkey, a stable, lowing cattle, and certainly no three kings. (There are an unknown number of magi who visit Jesus about two years later). Sorry, nativity fans.

So these politicians, who disappear up their own ballot boxes whinging that a local predominantly Muslim school isn’t putting on a nativity play, start to look pretty damned stupid. If you’re going to fight for your faith, perhaps take a brief glance at the faith for which you think you’re fighting.

Even if you do think these events that two Gospels mention – one in passing – is of so much importance… how exactly? What are we supposed to be celebrating? According to the twenty or so tedious carols dragged out every year, we are celebrating the arrival of our Lord on Earth. But are we? What we’re celebrating is the arrival of a barely sentient bundle of organs that poos and cries (despite the protestations of Away In A Manger, I think we can assume the infant Christ cried much like regular babies). And yes, I’m not stupid – I’m aware that Christ’s existence as a human is reliant on his having been born. But I just don’t think this inevitably necessary occasion should quite be the centre-point of the Christian world. I’d say it’s a pretty minor event when compared to those that followed.

If we wish to celebrate the beginning of Christ, we should celebrate his baptism – a moment of sheer wonder, so beautifully told by Mark in his rushed, over-excited way.

And just as he was coming up out of the water, he saw the heavens torn apart and the Spirit descending like a dove on him. And a voice came from heaven, ‘You are my Son, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.’ (Mark 1: 10-11)

That is the moment of wonder that should stop every Christian in her or his tracks, drop everything and simply worship in joy. That is the distraction from the commercial, from the worldly. It’s the beginning of the Christ, of the holy spirit on Earth, of our human relationship with God.

One story is life-beginning. A crucial part of our understanding of Jesus as fully human. But the other story is life-changing, and so fundamental to Christianity.

I could more easily argue that perhaps Christians might want to focus their efforts and energy into Easter – the most crucial and transformational moment in all of Christianity. You would think that all these people who get so furious about their precious Christmas being spoilt by fun and happiness might more usefully channel it into having Easter even be noticed, beyond getting some extra chocolate.

Everyone knows that Christians stole pagan festivals for Christmas and Easter. It seems the world has reclaimed Christmas, and I think the gracious and graceful response is to accept this, and indeed embrace it. (Only Christians would make a massive fuss because too many people were celebrating their holiday). Because Christmas doesn’t matter very much, compared to so much else that I never hear these angry campaigners even allude to.

A quick side-story. I was ranting about this in Waitrose a couple of years back, to my friend Sian. “Everyone keeps yelling that we’ve forgotten the ‘true meaning of Christmas’!” I complained, probably waving my arms around in frustration. “But no one, when I ask them, can tell me what this true meaning is!” The lady behind the till looked up and said, “Well, it’s about new hope, isn’t it?” Which stopped me in my tracks. And yes, I think it is. It’s about hope. And we can hope at Christmas, while surrounded by presents and festivities and trees and huge meals and bad TV and decorations and the abundance of things that have nothing to do with Christianity.

Merry Winterval everybody!

Need I have spoken any sooner?

This story on the BBC defies belief. The Arch Bishop of Wales has launched an attack on “atheiestic fundamentalism”, citing how these crazed atheists are… guess what. Banning Christmas, saying “Winterval”, and of course, banning Christmas cards from schools. In other words, he’s spouted all the tabloid bullshit as if it’s fact, and even moreso, as if it’s somehow an organised attack on Christians.

Bizarrely, bishops are getting better these days. All around the country I hear about appointments being made of respectable, theologically impressive figures who are passionate campaigners for the right issues. They’re not all good, but so many more are. And with loony lefty Rowan Williams at the top, and the best theologian ever, Tom Wright, in the Durham position, the wincing when bishops make comments has lessened. Until today.

As well as leading to Christmas being called “Winterval,” the archbishop said “virulent, almost irrational” attacks on Christianity led to hospitals removing all Christian symbols from their chapels, and schools refusing to allow children to send Christmas cards with a Christian message.

How can someone in such a high ranking position be willing to speak in public stating utter lies? Was his entire research for the speech spent reading the first two pages of the most vile tabloids, and then repeating it as fact?

So it survived its full 13 episode run, and the controversy was all nonsense.

In fact, it was something really special. Horribly over-produced, laboriously forced, and certainly had nothing to do with the premise: 40 kids left to build a town. Instead it was 40 kids in a controlled environment, clearly surrounded by a crew of adults, being set a series of challenges to work through. And in doing that, it succeeded.

It’s funny. The controversy before the programme was broadcast – dumping kids in the middle of nowhere and filming the results for entertainment – has been revealed to be of a peculiar prejudice. Somehow because they were children, it was assumed to be exploitative or cruel. This assumption was an insult to kids. They were all perfecty autonomous individuals, each given the option to go home whenever they wished, living in a confusing mix of a childhood fantasy and nightmare. It was 40 days long, and that’s a fair stretch. But Americans send their kids to camp for a week or two every summer – being away from home is a healthy part of childhood. They got homesick, but this always resulted in the others surrounding them and caring for them. A few left, more considered leaving, but most accepted that it was tough, and worked hard.

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