John Walker's Electronic House

The snowman menace must come to an end!

City of Heroes, possibly with some rather poor timing, is taking over life again. It cannot be helped – there is crime to fight, and frankly, who else is going to fight it? (Apart from the thousands of other players, I mean).

It’s been a while since I’ve had one of those games which I promise to just spend half an hour playing, before realising it’s Tuesday and I’ve missed my daughter’s wedding. I think that time-lapse property is a defining feature of a *good* game. Not necessarily a hugely accomplished game, but a good one. I’ve been finding fewer and fewer games that contain that property of late, able to just dip into things for an hour and then actually stopping playing an hour later. It’s just not natural.

Even Half-Life 2, which I pined for during the Christmas break (my family’s attentions so rudely interrupting my progress for a few days), was played in sensibly rationed proportions. Perhaps I’m just becoming more sensible. Although this does seem a laughable conclusion.

So it’s nice to recognise that the life-consuming passion is still present for something as lovely and absorbing as City of Heroes. It’s ultimately an entirely futile exercise, utterly contradicting my usual desires from a game. I want narrative, the illusion of progress and the unveiling of a story. City of Heroes defies these properties without apology, as is inevitable with a massive multiplayer. Defeating the same crime boss for the same crime twice does feel a little daft, but that’s because you’re playing the mission for the second time on someone else’s story arc. And who cares, because you can jump huge buildings and zap vampires!

It’s good to be back.

I’ve invented a new extreme sport: Extreme Washing Up.

I’ve never particularly objected to washing up – the radio on, hands warm, and taking part in a process with the inbuilt satisfaction of making dirty things clean. There seems little to make a fuss about. Of course, there is the difference between doing your own washing up in your own flat in your own time, and being ordered to do it by a parent right in the middle of your favourite TV programme. And this of course means that it does build up for a couple of days on occasions, what with there being no mums here to shout at us.

It must also be known that our washing machine is in the kitchen next to the sink. This of course means that the washing machine surface becomes the shelf upon which all dirty crockery is stored. (The pieces are starting to slot into place). Our washing machine is on the exciteable side. During its spin cycles it’s not unknown for things to tumble from the tops of cupboards, or the bin to fall over spilling its rotting bellies across the floor. So of course it would unfeasible to have the dirty dishes sat atop it while it was washing clothes.

And so this is how we get to Extreme Washing Up. The washing machine carries days of dirty dishes, and is full of dirty clothes. Powder is put in, and the wash is begun! There’s only so much time before it does its first crockery-cracking wobbles! THE WASHING UP MUST BE COMPLETED BEFORE THIS! GO! GO! GO!

It may be noted that John is putting off doing any of the huge amount of work he needs to do.

Every muscle in my arms and legs aches. I made a mistake. I did some running about.

I got back last night from a youth group weekend away. We took seventeen 13 to 15 year olds to an outdoor activity centre in Northhants, for reasons that escape me. I feel so tired that my face feels as though it might melt.

I loved weekends away when I was in church youth groups as a kid. They were always the best times, where you got to do activities that otherwise might never be experienced at 14, like abseiling, high ropes courses, and sneaking into girls’ bedrooms at 1am.

There’s one weekend away I always particularly remember, when I must have been 13, and I fell in love with Debs Thompson. I lay on the top bunk in my room, and like a Byron for the modern era, composed a poem about my love for her of such mature epic beauty that it wasn’t understood by those around me. My contemporaries poured scorn on my efforts, criticising the candor and eloquence of the piece through responses composed of fingers pointed toward the backs of throats and barfing noises. Perhaps a copy of the work still exists, which will be published and recognised posthumously (because if a copy of it still exists, I will kill myself immediately).

Of course, for a fourteen year old memory, it has lived mostly in broken pieces. The parts that stand out are the abseil tower, on which I performed what the instructors called “the Irish Crucifix”, which involved sitting on the verticle wall, lying backward until completely upside down, twenty foot in the air, and then letting go of the rope with both hands (dangling only on the safety rope); sitting around a campfire and listening to Debs Thompson sing; and walking at the back of the nighthike caravan sharing my fruit pastels with Debs Thompson and playing “I Don’t Spy With My Little Eye” in which we guessed things beginning with a particular letter that one couldn’t see. I forget anything else.

We are permanently short of female leaders for our youth groups, relying on generous mums who attend groups on a rota, and so depend upon dragging in female friends from outside the church to help us with weekends away. This year I asked Debs Thompson if she would be able to come along. Debs is still an awesome friend, and she’s an exceptionally good youth worker, and I couldn’t think of a better person to come along and help deliver the talks, hang out with the young people, and generally be fabulous all weekend, and amazingly she agreed to give up her weekend to come along. All salute her.

Graham, my line manager and co-leader of this group, helpfully told the young people of how Debs and I had been out with each other when we were 14 (I cannot remember whether this was around the same time as that particular weekend away), so from the very beginning there was much teenage giggling and implication that they would be spending the weekend setting us up. (They failed, the stupid, useless, idiot children).

My line manager is also the MD of a group of outdoor activity centres scattered about the country, and yet we’ve never used one of them for our weekends away before. This seemed silly to me, and so this year we chose one of his places. When we arrived the youthlings immediately dragged their bags down to the accomodation, leaving Debs and I to unload stuff from her car, meaning we were last to walk down to the site. As we walked Debs said to me, “John? Stop a second. Does this place look familiar to you?”

I honestly staggered backwards.

That sort of coincidence is most peculiar. The sensation of looking up and rather than seeing the place where we would be staying for the next two nights, instead I saw an enormously realistic looking large-scale 3D photograph of fourteen years ago. It was like in Dark City when Rufus Sewell thinks of the beach, and all the memories zoom toward him at tremendous speed.

So that was weird. It would have been strange enough to have gone there at all and realise that it was the same place (and this is a large centre on hundreds of acres with lots of different accomodation areas, and we happened to be in the very same one) as one of my own weekends away. But to have brought Debs along… Weird.

And now: exhaustion. My brain is currently confused about why I’m not hearing “Jo-oo-hhnn” every couple of minutes (genuinely this often, non-stop, all day long), as one of seemingly thousands of teenagers demands a question of me. And my arms and legs ache from playing three surprisingly violent games of Unihoc over the weekend, which involved actual running about.

Sleepy.

An anxiety update.

The story so far: After six years of anxiety attacks, constant lunacy and a general plateau of wobbly nervousness, John finally decided to do something about it. Dragged to the doctor by his hair and teeth, John was diagnosed with Anxiety Disorder – something that only the very most handsome, intelligent and inordinately cute people can suffer from. The correct form of treatment for this sort of thing is Cognative Behavioural Therapy, or CBT. John was worried about the stigma of “Therapy”, and decided he would only tell a couple of people. Then as he was writing an Anxiety Update on his blog he realised that he was just about to tell everyone, most of them strangers. He considered this for a moment, and then decided to go ahead, driven by a combination of wanting to write about it, along with the hope that someone might recognise something and maybe get themself some help too. He was also aware that the lovely people who read his blog wouldn’t make a stupid fuss about it.

I’ve started seeing someone at my local doctor’s surgery, which was promoted as Cognative Behavioural Therapy itself, but turns out to be rubbish. The lady is lovely and all, but she isn’t a CBTist and as such fails in meeting the requirement of being a CBTist. I hope I’m not being too harsh here.

But she has reinforced something I often claim – everyone will end up telling me their problems, no matter how weird or inappropriate the circumstances. Strangers on public transport appear to be able to read some flashing neon sign above my head reading, “MOBILE COUNSELLING SERVICE”. Friends of friends, and this happened last year, will tell me all their problems for hours on end when I phone to speak to the friend who is out, and the phone is answered by the relative stranger. And indeed the not-quite CBT lady at the doctor’s spent ten minutes of our half hour telling me about the educational difficulties her six year old was having. I’d be cross about her lack of professionalism, if it weren’t for the fact that I’m sure it’s some sort of hormone I exude that causes people to do this.

But despite the unhelpfulness, working through some of the literature I’ve been given about Anxiety Disorder, I’ve been fascinated to learn that lots of parts of my personality aren’t quite as normal as I’d thought, and are in fact symptoms of my mentalness. This is a positive thing.

For instance, I hate driving. I also like driving. I’d much prefer to be driving than to be driven. But I still have grown to loathe the journey from Bath to Bristol – one I traverse regularly, and during the worst hours imaginable due to needing to get to college. On these journeys I tend to fill my car with some of Bath’s finest, and indeed Bristol’s for latter legs, who are then treated to the delights of my moderate driving temperament. I’m not exactly calm when behind the wheel.

It’s not that I’m a crazed driver – I’m sure others will leap in to say otherwise if I’m wrong, but I think I’m a reasonably good driver, and mostly sensible. But I just cannot bear that everyone else on the road is A CRETIN. Here’s a thing you might not know: When traffic lights turn green, THAT MEANS YOU CAN GO. Here’s another thing: When waiting at traffic lights, their eventually turning green is SOMETHING TO BE EXPECTED. It makes me want to claw my eyes from their sockets as I sit and watch lines and lines of drivers before me looking up, noticing the lights have changed, wondering what that might mean to them, remembering where they are, looking for the gearstick, wondering which one’s the clutch, having a sandwich, and then maybe, JUST MAYBE, edging slightly forward but not so fast as to cross the junction before they are red again. CAR AFTER CAR AFTER CAR. And it drives me around the bend… no, wait, it doesn’t, does it? It leave me sat staring at the bend, screaming, never actually reaching it.

So it has come to pass that people in the car have commented on this. Foolish people. People accepting my kind all-free taxi service. Ungrateful people. And people with a reasonable point.

I’ve always found these comments a bit hurtful, because, as far as I’m concerned, I’m not doing anything abnormal. There is a situation in front of me, a situation in which selfish people are driving selfishly, slowing everyone down, and making a crappy journey utterly miserable. I react to that selfishness by being upset, and I let that upset out my moaning or shouting at my windscreen. That makes sense, because it really, really, REALLY upsets me. And so when someone tells me off for that, it also upsets me. What I’m beginning to realise (and understand that such realisations are of course painfully obvious to the outside observer, but almost imperceivable to the person inside) is that my getting so upset is not at all normal, and the responses of those in my car are quite sensible. And hence their comments are not hurtful at all, but not wanting to admit that I’m being the weirdo, I perceive them to be.

It’s all very well recognising this… And I’m not claiming that getting annoyed with idiot drivers is abnormal. But the extremity of my reaction is. And of course, this is an example amongst many of my beginning to notice that parts of my behaviour are not just “me”, but things that don’t give me a great deal of happiness… but that’s only the beginning of figuring it all out.

So the solution: A combination of my recognising that I am behaving out of anxiety and not normality, and my friends recognising that I am behaving oddly because I’m a mental, and to be patient with that. (Which they already are, I should add). Maybe that’s where the phrase “mental patient” comes from.

So, despite everything, it seems to be beginning to work. Which is nice.

Oh, and if you’re not one of the people fortunate enough to attend viewings of the John Driving Extravaganza, you could also help by NOT DRIVING LIKE A CRETIN.

Tonight I finished watching series two of Press Gang.

It was thanks to the splendid Rev. Stuart Campbell that I learned it was available on DVD, and by his enthusiastic commentary while watching them that I was filled with the burning need to revisit this hugely favourite part of my childhood. And also a large part due to Play.com’s putting the DVDs in their sale.

For once, and I was fairly confident that this would be the case, it was a programme that survived the flimsy protection of nostalgia. It’s actually pretty good. There’s certainly some ropey acting in places, and Dexter Fletcher’s American accent requires some forgiveness, but it still holds itself together as a series. (And there’s to be none of this retrospective anti-Fletcher attitude about Press Gang. Sure, he’s unbearable now, but he wasn’t back then and it’s not fair to hate the younger version). What are most impressive are Steven Moffat’s scripts, with some extremely sharp gag-writing. I’ve only seen one episode of his current show, Coupling, which was very cleverly constructed, if low on laughs. But I’m now more tempted than I’ve been previously (ie. not in the least) to watch it. The man can write good jokes.

I hate this current fad for pretending things are good because they’re from the past. People haven’t decided that Pol Pot was really cute and funny because they remember him from off the telly in their childhood, so why do they do it for Bagpuss? Button Moon was absolutely awful in 1980. It’s just that you were three, and therefore like all three year olds, you were incredibly stupid. That’s why when you watch Button Moon today, on your £5.99 from HMV DVD that you got from your friend because you bought the t-shirt in the summer and the two of you talked for ages about how great it was and how you liked the song and whether it was the one with Mooncat or if that was something else and do you remember the advert with the ducks, it is absolutely awful. And you remain incredibly stupid.

So fearing I was somehow taking part in this LOOK AT MY RAINBOW PENCIL CASE I’M SO RETRO-IRONIC hideousy, I showed some episodes to a couple of friends a few years younger than me, and hence too young to have seen it before. They both (see, more than one sample – proper science) recognised that while my enthusiasm may be fuelled by memories, the programme was independently of a high quality. Which was a relief. It’s actually impressively driven in places, and while Serious Issues of the Day episodes like the glue-sniffing story now seem dated, the child abuse two-parter remains moving and horrific in its honesty, and still immensly powerful in its appeal to young people in such circumstances to seek help. This was a programme on at 3.45 on Children’s ITV. It seems impossible now.

I’m very surprised by the strength of the evocative memories that re-emerged when watching. And not just rediscovering my pre-pubescent/very-pubescent love for Lynda Day during its run from 1989 to 1994 (which isn’t as troubling to still feel now as at first thought – Julia Swahahala was 21 when she started filming). It’s more the power of my memory of Lynda and Spike’s relationship. Watching the break-up episode in series 2 it was like seeing memories of a break-up experienced by myself. I’m left somewhat confused about whether something similar happened to me in my teenage years, or if I cared so much about these two characters that my memory thought to store the pain felt when watching.

Which leads me to conclude that I’m very glad I’m not a teenager any more. Despite it being the last time I appeared to have any success with girls, the speed at which relationships worked was too terrifyingly fast, catalysed by the turbo-charged hormones that apparently had complete control. The ability to meet someone, discover an attraction between you, start going out, fall in love, have a bad argument, realise something is wrong, and get dumped, during the morning break, is something I think I can live without.

Press Gang, however, is not. Series 3, please come out soon.

Much like the fragrant Victoria Hiley, I’ve had to switch on tsukkomi moderation as I’m being spammed like the clappers.

I won’t edit or change or filter comments, so anything sent will get posted. Unless you want to advertise your poker business or offer a mortgage.

My teeth only go wrong on public holidays.

I’m not sure how people whose parents aren’t dentists manage. Although I would still far rather the explosions in my gums would take place during my dad’s normal work hours, and not make me feel all guilty for having him glove up on his day off.

Over the weekend a twinging feeling in my gum became worse and worse, until Monday lunchtime when the increasingly regular pulses of purest agony were propelling me backward in my chair, and making it impossible to concentrate on anything. I was due to travel down on Tuesday to have it poked at, but a phonecall to ask for tips to make the pain go away concluded in my driving the two hours to Guildford on a bank holiday.

My dad’s ace. He hates treating me because my mouth is so utterly rubbish. I think I’ve written about my teeth’s inability to go numb before, but it’s so odd it merits repetition. For some reason, inexplicable by medicine, the teeth at the front of my mouth (ie, everything but the molars) appear to be able to deny the numbing abilities of anaesthetic and deliver perfect sensory feedback for every moment of every drill, grinder, scrapy pokey thing, and even blast of water. It’s like having a hot metal spike driven through the top of my skull which somehow splits at my waist and slices down the centre of each leg. I don’t want to overplay the amount of pain it causes me because I fear someday getting some truly hideous disease like shingles and then realising that I didn’t know what real pain was. But still, in my experience so far, it’s a pain unlike anything I have ever known. And my poor dad, being the person at the other end of the torturing instruments, hates it even more than I do. I think we’ve both ended up crying.

However, I’m joyous to report that this insanity doesn’t extend to my molars or wisdom teeth. I, as is probably quite predictable, was entirely to blame for my situation. Ages ago, months back, a bit of tooth broke off as I was eating. The sensation of biting down on a bit of tooth is remarkable, and I fished it out, looked at it, and thought, “Oh bugger, a bit of my tooth has fallen out. This presumably must hurt. Well, it must be about to hurt. I’m sure it will hurt in a bit. It doesn’t hurt yet. Oh look, time to go out.” And the tooth was forgotten, stupidly failing to send me into convorting twists of hideous agony.

It is of course only months later, after the tooth has been given enough time to rot and die, that the diseased corpse finds its way to stabbing screwdrivers into the nerve ending. And of course it’s only then, when it’s completely disabling me, that I’ll do anything about it. I am an idiot, and the wisdom tooth had to come out.

Having a tooth out when it’s very dead is not a simple thing. It cracked into four or five pieces as the pulling began, meaning that the extraction took quite a while, involving about five different clamps and pliers to be wedged into the increasingly deep hole. The noises were incredible, and I’m delighted to say there was not even a glimmer of feeling, let alone pain. I chuckled at one point as I heard a tremendous scrunching sound. “What’s that noise?” I asked. Well, of course what I said was, “Aahh’s aah oiise?” (I still used the apostrophe. The inability to make consonant sounds is no excuse for sloppy grammar). My dad replied, “That’s you creaking.” Excellent.

So now I have a bruised cheek and a hole where a tooth used to be. If I’d had it checked when it broke, I’d have a filling and a tooth.

This is a cautionary tale. Go to your dentist, you stupid idiots.

For the sake of the most pedantic man ever born, here is a special notice for the hard of understanding:

The films included are based on their official release date in the UK, and not their first release anywhere in the world. This is how Lost In Translation is included, seeing as it was officially released in the UK on the 9th Jan 2004, despite being a 2003 film in the States, and even getting a one-off showing at a film festival in London in October. However, I thought I’d base the list on when films were released in the cinemas here, which, I don’t know, seemed to make sense. Apparently not. And Stuart Campbell is a weehead.

FILMS

2004 will not be heralded as a Golden Era of Cinema. A pretty dismal year means that most top 10 lists around are made up of the only ten films worth mentioning, rather than the results of tough choices. This is no different. However, each deserves to be mentioned.

11) A Tale of Two Sisters – Ji-woon Kim

Despite arguments to the contrary only this evening, this is the scariest film I’ve seen in a very long time. I’m tempted to say ever. Managing to be so much more than a series of shocks or slow-drawn tension, this Korean horror uses the unveiling of understanding to a remarkably sinister effect. And then adds shocks and slow-drawn tension. The performances from Su-jeong Lim andGeun-yeong Mun as the eponymous sisters are something Hollywood appears unable to generate. Scenes with the two girls crying together, their eyes and noses running in absolute terror, are heart-breaking and weirdly honest. We normally allow actors to do the Looking Like I’m Scared Face and ignore that it never occurs outside of cinema. To see the reality of fear on the screen is a ghastly shock. The film also possesses a tenderness that the more famous Japanese horrors fail to generate, making this well worth seeking out.

10) Super Size Me – Morgan Spurlock

Morgan Spurlock’s documentary was the final shove that convinced me to stop fannying about and stop buying fast food. Having not eaten at MacDonalds for five years, it was getting a bit stupid to then happily stuff Burger King into my face. Despite the film’s focussing on MacDs, its broader eye highlighted the word “hypocrit” across my forehead, and I haven’t eaten chainstore fast food since. What makes Super Size Me stand out and above the more famous Fahrenheit 9/11 is Spurlock’s ability to present information without needing to shout his comments over the top. Allowing a voice from all sides of the argument, and never telling you what to conclude, his displayed balance made this a far more effective film than Moore now appears capable of making.

9) Spider-Man 2 – Sam Raimi

Sam Raimi remembered that he is good. Thank goodness. Perhaps suffering stage fright with the first of the franchise, he was clearly much more at home for the sequel, pulling out all his trademark camera work, a delight for silliness, and the brains to not dismiss the superhero genre as needing to be either deadpan or tongue in cheek. Instead it lives between the two, and even delves into his more familiar territory of horror with the surprisingly dark hospital scene.

8) Lost In Translation – Sofia Coppola

Barely 2004, but just, Coppola Jr’s second film understood how to use Bill Murray effectively – meander whimsically. Hopefully Wes Anderson’s ‘The Life Aquatic’ will manage the same. It’s an odd film, almost enchanting with its gentle pace, and entirely fulfilling in its first viewing. So much so that I’ve had no urge to see it again since. Once was lovely, and enough.

7) Lemony Snicket’s A Series of Unfortunate Events – Brad Silberling

Despite being far too choppy for the first half, and suffering from trying to pack in four acts due to needing a big finish, it still manages to hold itself together. Cleverly adapting the strongest parts of the books, while boldly leaving out the parts that would suffer from being on film, Silberling ends up with a far more effective vision than even Daniel Handler’s books. Borrowing heavily from Tim Burton, his gothic realisation of the world Handler created is much more evocative than the sketchy outlines provided in the text. Blending technologies from the last one hundred years, and decorating scenes with brilliantly spooky imagery, this allows the imagination of the novels to be given a new life, rather than the more usual book-to-film dampening effect. It’s the opening chapter to a series that should make fans of the oft-compared rubbish books about a wizard look embarrassed.

6) American Splendor – Shari Springer Berman, Robert Pulcini

Again barely scraping into 2004, this conversion of Harvey Pekar’s comic books does the meta thing better than you could hope. Combining fictionalised accounts of the events in Pekar’s life played out by the cast with those being portrayed analysing their character in the film, and then later literally combining them, the perfect cleverness made me want to cheer. It was just such an awesome pleasure to watch.

5) The Corporation – Jennifer Abbott, Mark Achbar

Making a balanced film about the evils of Capitalism would be a fairly stupid thing. Making a film from an intelligently biased perspective as a response to the opposite bias that’s given 24 hour coverage on America’s news channels is a very clever thing to do. Never pretending to be anything other than an information dump and call to action, The Corporation presents the facts as it sees them, with one hell of a lot of evidence to back itself up. At 145 minutes it throws an incredible amount at you, entwining investigative journalism with talking-head interviews, and then asks you to do something about it. Reviews of documentaries are now by law required to mention Michael Moore, which is here made easier by his appearance within it. In his few short moments he manages to say more, and to say those things more effectively, than in the whole of F9/11. I recommend having a notebook with you when you watch, and I do recommend that you watch.

4) Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind – Michel Gondry

Not much needs saying. Kaufman’s scripts and Gondry’s direction are things that should be combined far more often, and Kate Winslet looks amazing with blue hair. It was all about the viewing, and that’s something I loved doing.

3) The Incredibles – Brad Bird

Everyone likes to say how Pixar have yet to make a bad film. What people don’t tend to mention is that they have made forgettable films. Monsters Inc. barely gets a mention now, with Toy Story and A Bugs Life more heavily placed in long-term consciousness. I believe that Finding Nemo will suffer a similar fading, its very narrow narrative and lack of memorable scenes not supporting longevity. The Incredibles will not. Obviously aimed at an older audience than Nemo or Monsters Inc., it demonstrates that their skills are only increasing as they progress. Possibly most outstanding is the creation of the most realistic family I can remember seeing on film, despite the fact that they’re both cartoons and superheroes. It’s an astonishing piece of cinema, funny, real and full of love.

2) Before Sunset – Richard Linklater

I’m very aware of the thoughts of friends who disliked, even hated Linklater’s sequel to the wonderful Before Sunrise. However, repeated viewings gave their comments no support, and it remains one of my favourite films of the year. Where Before Sunrise was about a moment in a place, Before Sunset is about two people and nothing else. Despite being set in the automatically scene-setting Paris, Linklater makes no attempt to have his location be a character (as Vienna very much was in the first). This is reflected by his repeating a trick from the ending of the former – the empty shots of significant locations – this time at the very beginning. Dialogue dominated, the first half is an exercise in denial, with the second half slamming truth into their conversation, all bolstered by the ever-present shadow of their brief time together. And if you thought Sunrise’s listening booth scene was tense, it’s nothing compared to the walking up the stairs scene here.

There’s no number 1.

Back from the Christmas break, and because of little other than peer pressure, I’m putting together Top Stuff from 2004.

I’m not ideally suited to compiling such lists since my memory appears only capable of recalling from which year something came if it is less than three months old. After that and it could be a decade old for all I can work out. Also, this year saw the loss of 35Gb of music from my machine with the death of a hard drive, and so I’ve spent more energy trying to get back albums I once had than discovering new. I’ve hated that – my normal habit of discovering one or two new bands a week has entirely fallen aside in 2004. So all I can muster are lists of my favourite stuff that in no way reflect the merits or lack of for everything unmentioned.

ALBUMS

1) The Mountain Goats – We Shall All Be Healed

2004 is the year I fell in love with the Mountain Goats, discovering them/him, and finding the decade or so of albums making up probably a third of all my listening from the last six months. From the earliest tape-hiss 4 track rawness to the last couple of slickly produced 4AD releases, John Darnielle’s storytelling has accompanied my walks, soundtracked my review writing, and been in the background whenever anyone’s come ’round. (Asking who it is and expressing a liking makes you best). This second album with 4AD and cohort Peter Hughes, produced by John Vanderslice, manages once more to be loyal to the bedroom-simplicity of his earliest albums, and yet slip in strings and sound effects, without ever distracting from the storytelling. ‘Your Belgian Things’ is the stand-out (yet entirely reserved) track, never quite explaining what it is that has happened to require the collection of someone’s Belgian things from the house, and yet expressing a sense of aching loss that dredges up the bruises of a relationship’s end. However, this ability to remind you of a distant sense of loss is most evocative in ‘Cotton’. “This song is for the people / who tell their families that they’re sorry / for things they can’t and won’t feel sorry for / And once there was a desk / and now it’s in a storage locker somewhere / and this song is for the stick pins and the cottons / I left in the top drawer / Let ’em all go / Let ’em all go.”

2) Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds – Abattoir Blues / The Lyre of Orpheus

Holding more of my shelf space than any other artist, Nick Cave with or without the Bad Seeds is, in my accurate opinion, the best musician alive. And this year, after a brief period of mucking about, he’s proven it again. I really like Nocturama, and it was always intended to be an experiment, but it does now sit as an aside. After the enormous calming down of the beautiful The Boatman’s Call, and then the phenomenal flourish of And No More Shall We Part, this double-album release is possibly the only ideal direction in which he could have headed. Maintaining the piano-driven composure of his recent years, it manages to work back in the perpetual crescendo (you’ll understand the paradox if you ever listened) of the Bad Seeds’ post Birthday Party frenzy. Growling tales of hope within failure are sssspat and ssssnarled by Cave’s doom-ridden voice, and this time with gospel. It’s the only album I made a special trip to the shops to buy on the day of release, because it’s the only album I knew would be worth it.

3) Modest Mouse – Good News For People Who Like Bad News

It’s frustrating to say that a band becomes more accomplished when they become more controlled, but in this case it appears true. Modest Mouse have always generated excellent albums, but Good News… seems to introduce a combination of moderation and melody that now can be realised as lacking. Tracks like ‘Dance Hall’ and ‘Bury Me With It’ still collapse into the sort of drunken ranting that might get sampled in a God Speed track, but now with a foundation that keeps it all in check. But it’s the astonishing four tracks that close the album that make this quite so remarkable. ‘Blame It on the Tetons’ broken-voiced vocals, begging for a cold one, lead into ‘Black Cadillacs’ micro-funk, containing the perfect pop moment: all stops, and, “We named our children after towns, that we’d never been to…”. Then it’s the awesome ‘One Chance’, and finishing in the deceptive bonus-track-like opening of ‘The Good Times Are Killing Us, which then develops into one of the strongest tracks they’ve produced.

4) Iron & Wine – Our Endless Numbered Days

Following a similar path to the Mountain Goats, Iron & Wine’s first album two years ago was a tape-hiss enhanced 4 track production, and it was utterly beautiful. Our Endless Numbered Days, this time produced in a proper studio and everything, allows the melancholic whimsy a lease of freshness that his woodwind voice deserves. Its position is bolstered by containing my favourite track of the year, ‘Naked As We Came’ – possibly the most romantic song about what to do with one’s partner’s ashes ever made. “One of us will die inside these arms / eyes wide open / naked as we came / one will spread our / ashes ’round the yard.” As with the rest of the album, careful guitar and his breathy voice seem to lessen the effects of gravity and allow you to float.

5) The Fiery Furnaces – Blueberry Boat

Completely bonkers, and completely competent, the rolling madness of each track careers between genres like a drunk in HMV. Despite containing none of the elements of a summer album, playing it makes it be summer inside. Summed up best by: Like Of Montreal at the fairground.

6) Ratatat – Ratatat

My surprise favourite live band of the year surprises me further by being one of my favourite albums of the year. An LP of instrumental mid-hop infused with what someone called “post-metal” guitar, it occupies the middle-ground between chilled and bouncy, and impressively manages to create feelings of both at once. A chilled bounce is a splendid thing.

7) The Streets – A Grand Don’t Come For Free

Mike Skinner has the remarkable ability to make cliches acceptable again. No one could have predicted that the phrase “plenty more fish in the sea” could ever be used without destroying all around it, and yet it manages to be the hook of the best pop song this year. Putting a narrative into his second album was either going to be a horrible gimmick, or the secret of its success. That it was so effectively the latter took everyone by surprise. Dry Your Eyes hurt enough as a single, but in its context, and surrounded by so many other keen insights, it’s enough to break you.

8) Green Day – American Idiot

Thank goodness people are noticing that Green Day aren’t shit again. Drowning in the popularity of Basket Case for a decade now, few bother listening before dismissing them into the same bin as the mucky mess of nu-punk. American Idiot’s zeitgeist-surfing lyrics allowed it just enough attention for people to shut up and use their ears. While not as clever as NOFX’s (also ignored) War Against Errorism, it’s a much better album, containing a meandering attitude they’ve previously left unexplored.

9) The Go! Team – Thunder, Lightning, Strike

Six months late, I was. I blame Kieron for not making me listen to them half a year ago, but this summer’s summer album has been my winter blues-buster. I don’t think I can describe them better than in a conversation with a friend recently: “Remember Mint Royale? Like them, but if they were good.”

10) Secret Machines – Now Here Is Nowhere

Deserving of a place in any Top 14 for the opening drum and guitar moment, the whole album goes on to be worthy of recognition. A bit Porcupine Tree in its prog-influence, but not in a rubbish way. Using 80s influences in a helpful way, unlike everyone else just now.

11) The Concretes – The Concretes

Hooray for girls and singing and stuff. Azure Ray didn’t make an album this year, so The Concretes’ slightly faster whistful melodies filled in nicely.

12) Dogs Die In Hot Cars – Please Describe Yourself

Yes, it’s all daft, but who cares. Songs about not having to go to school nor tidy your room are required every now and then. More happy than should be allowed, and inexplicably getting away with ripping off vocal ticks from The Jam, it’s the guilty favourite.

13) cLOUDDEAD – Ten

I’m scared of cLOUDDEAD. If lots of slightly sinister clowns were to form a band (no, not Slipknot), this is how it would sound. They’re the Fiery Furnaces through a glass darkly. The album’s production is absolutely perfect, with the trip-hop and hip-hop sounds requiring a new, more ridiculous term than ever before. Trip-hop-hip-hop. Yes.

14) Of Montreal – Satanic Panic in the Attic

This is the reason why you don’t need to listen to the spoiled version of Smile. Beach Boys influenced gibberish with enough plinky plonky sounds to keep everybody happy.