If music be the food of love...

Sometimes in life, you may get a sudden urge to do something that you know that you will ultimately regret.  You know that you have to be up early in the morning, yet somehow you still have that final pint.  You know that you are not capable of putting up that shelf in the living room, yet somehow, you allow yourself to drill into your wall and store your valuables on it, no matter how wonky it may be.  You know that you shouldn't say anything snarky to your boss, yet somehow you do tell him that his trousers make him look like a clown.  A stupid, stupid clown.

Well, somehow, I found myself in one of these situations earlier today.  For reasons that I cannot fathom, I found myself doing something that I knew I would not enjoy, that I knew I would regret soon after, and that I had no good reason to do.  I watched the YouTube video for Cher Lloyd's Swagger Jagger.

Now, I know that most of my friends are total culture vultures, so you have probably all already seen the 'music' stylings of Miss Lloyd, but if any of you have not had the pleasure, then please do take a look at this link.  You will certainly not be disappointed - provided of course that you watch it hoping to see your doom.

A Jagger.  Not swaggering.

A little backstory for those of you who have no idea who Cher Lloyd is.  During the last series of X Factor, we saw the emergence of Cher - a seventeen year old girl who was determined to push the already flimsy boundaries which designate the show as a singing contest, by instead choosing to rap incomprehensible lyrics over songs that, for very good reason, previously contained no rapping - into the minds of the general public.  Looking much like a brittle version of her mentor Cheryl Cole wearing clothes that she had selected at random from a big pile of garments that would suit no one, she somehow managed to survive until the latter stages of the competition despite seemingly everyone in the world not liking her.

However, she has had the last laugh by signing a contract to make 'music', and as a result we have all been treated to Swagger Jagger.  Featuring such timeless lyrics such as 'You can't stop lookin' at me/Starin' at me/Be who I be/You can't stop lookin' at me/So get off my face', and a chorus that uses the tune to O My Darlin' Clementine (yes, really.  The tune that nowadays must surely be most associated with those teddy grabbing machines at the seaside), this is the first foray into the public market by a girl who wants to be taken seriously as a 'music'ian.  I may have only alluded to it so far, but I think I would be confident to admit that I think this song is one of the worst things that I have ever heard.

And being at the age now where you start to notice yourself doing little things that only a few years earlier you would consider to be for 'old people', my immediate thought upon hearing this monstrosity was "The music of today!  We had proper music back when I was young."  It may seem a terribly stereotypical thing to think, but in fairness, it is completely true.  When I got into music in the mid nineties, Brit Pop was just unfurling its wings, Oasis and Blur were battling for the charts, the Foos were just forming, The Prodigy running riot, and we were seeing the best work of bands that are still in demand nowadays - just ask those at Glasto who saw Pulp or Radiohead.  None of these felt the need to inform us that their swagger was in check at any point, or to... no, in two lines, I have pretty much harvested the entirety of the lyrics to Swagger Jagger.  I came to the confident conclusion that this was not a case of me being old before my time, and actually the standards of music nowadays are remarkably lower than they used to be.



Cher Lloyd - Aparent love child of
Cheryl Cole and Russel Brand

 However, as I started the long decent from my high horse - I'm a big man, I need a big horse - one phrase started to niggle.  One little concept which crept into my mind, and wouldn't leave.  And despite knowing that it was a bad idea, and I would regret it, I let it grow.  This one line became many lines - or should I say became a long line of repetition, and everything started to change.  How could I hold the music of my era above the 'music' of Cher Lloyd when I was able to lose myself in the phrase 'Boom boom boom, let me hear you say way-oh!'?

And this phrase grew.  It became 'Let me be-ee your fantasy'.  It became 'I luv u baby' (complete with text speak, long before anyone had a mobile that didn't require it's own trolley to move.)  It became 'Let's get ready to rumble', 'I wanna be a hippy' and even 'You get my bodyshakin''.  It became a backdrop of songs could have been written by a toddler with a casio keyboard, to sit behind the masterpieces such as Wonderwall and Song 2 that remain classics today.  They may have been absolute tosh, but we all listened to them.  And equally today, for every reality TV show twit wearing so much hairspray that their management won't even let them have candles in their dressing room (because that's what the lighter's for) releasing dross that could well be Outhere Brothers album tracks for all we know, we have an MGMT or a Coldplay or a The xx who are making good music to different degrees of success.

I guess the moral of the story is that today's 'music' is pretty crap, but so was the music I used to listen to and when you balance things up, most of the music that was released then, and is released now, actually has a lot of merit.  Except for Cher Lloyd's Swagger Jagger.  That's just shit.

How Full of Briars is this Working-Day World...

After having graduated from University, I took a moment to wonder what doors a degree in Drama and Theatre Arts opens for you.  Unfortunately, I discovered that the answer was pretty much none.  After spending some time trying out the idea of becoming a professional skateboarder, political party leader or a Smurf (all genuine - if tongue in cheek - suggestions that I made at the time - however only one of them they allowed me to list as a field I was looking for work in when I signed on for a while), the fallback of drama graduates the world over beckoned to me - a Job In Sales.

You see to be a salesperson you need an over the top personality, no shame, and the drinking power of several rugby teams, which coincidentally is the entry requirements for eighty percent of the UK's drama courses.  So when fresh faced young actors finish uni, only to be told that yes, you can be an actor if you want, but no, we aren't going to give you any money for it, it will all be mindlessly dull parts until you have paid your dues, and you will be expected to wear that giant dog outfit whether you like it or not, many of them chose the sensible option and get a Job In Sales.

My particular Job In Sales was 'media sales' (selling adverts) for a 'portfolio of leading legal magazines' (glossy mags for people earning more money in a year than I will in twenty) offering 'display, classified and sponsorship opportunities' (if you want to give us some of your money, then we will literally tattoo your logo to our faces), and involved being on the telephone for several hours a day pitching as hard as we could to fill up the bits of the magazine that nobody reads.

I enjoyed my time in my Job In Sales (oh, except when it ate my soul, remind me to tell you about that sometime) and could tell you a thousand stories from my three years there (each of which would probably feel three years long to you), but the thing that I was thinking about on my way into non-soul-eating work this morning, was the language that you heard on a salesfloor.

If you are like most normal people, when you are on the telephone, you probably like it to be a bit quiet around you.  It helps with little things like you hearing what the other person is saying, and the other person hearing what you are saying.  So basically, everything that is involved in a phone call.  This is not the case on a salesfloor - or at least the salesfloor I worked on.



Photo probably taken on a dress down Friday.

 The atmosphere can only be likened to that of a football dressing room at half time when you are three-nil up (I should imagine.  I am not good enough at football to have ever been on a team, and if I were, then they would definitely not be three-nil up at half time.)  The phrases 'Go on my son' and 'Get In' were repeated without irony throughout the day.  If a sale was made, then there would be rapturous applause and cheering (probably easy to tell that salesfloors are staffed by former drama students).  Those who made the sales were encouraged to shout out how much money they had made in order to receive the cheers.  It was within these walls that I learnt my unusual trait of making random noises whenever applause is called for, because noise and energy were the driving forces of the hour.  Despite the fact that when we spoke to each other outside the office in the most normal tones there were, what with all being relatively bright young professionals, when in the office, a carnival atmosphere always prevailed whereby praise would be yelled at every little positive move.

It does beg the question as to where else language such as this would be appropriate in the workplace.  Were I to start praising the children in school with a hearty slap on the back and the words 'Nailed it guv'na!', I cannot help but feel that complaints would start to trickle in as slowly as the Niagara Falls in a typhoon.  Were a librarian to holler out the name of a new, highly anticipated book when it arrives, instead of having the patrons whoop and cheer, they would far likelier be given a morning off due to stress.  Were a barmaid to climb on the bar and dance every time they made a sale, they would at least be asked to get down, if not fired on the spot.  Except for in some drinking establishments, whereby girls dancing on the bar are a sales point because they like to laugh in the face of existing health and safety laws.

The thought that brought all of this together, was when I was standing in line at a McDonald's the other day.  I only wanted a drink, and ordered a milkshake.  As the server walked off, I heard him shout once he had thought I was probably out of earshot 'Come on!   Who is the milkshake master!  Third vanilla in fifteen minutes!  Get in!'.  Leaving aside the fact that he had revealed to an entire McDonald's franchise that I am a secret vanilla drinker who cannot understand these modern, newfangled chocolate and strawberry flavours, I suddenly had a lot of respect for this man.  He had ignored the stuffy laws that govern those teaching assistants, librarians and barmaids in health and safety conscious pubs, and was declaring himself proud of a job well done.  Because that is all we as salespeople were doing.  Roaring, to show that we had achieved.  And that is something we should all be proud of in our jobs.  It is something that I was proud of then, and shall strive to be proud of in my current job.  Although with maybe less random shouting.



Oh, and in case you are wondering, it was the professional skateboarder that went on my list of jobs I was seeking.  That's right, despite the fact that my only qualification was being pretty darn good at Tony Hawk's Pro Skater 4, the government allowed me to collect job seekers allowance under the premise that I was attempting to forge a career in the competitive world of professional skateboarding.  Needless to say, the job opportunities were scarce in that particular field.

You'll Be A Man My Son...

For some lucky few of us who work in primary schools, there is still a particular magic about Christmas.  Whilst it would be foolish to suggest that at least some of this is not down to a two week holiday, there is another part that comes in the form of being surrounded by people of an age that have a genuine thrilled excitement about that time of year.  It comes from making decorations that are destined to fall apart before they have reached the tree, and attempting to persuade Year Six that we are not singing about the 'Little Town of Bexleyheath'.  And despite still being able to borrow a little bit of their reckless enthusiasm for a day that most adults now dedicate mainly to turkey, wine and seeing who has been killed in Eastenders this year, I know that it is nothing compared to how amazing Christmas was as a child.

Never a suitable present.

And despite what anyone tells you, the best bit of Christmas was always the presents.  I remember one year going through the toy section of the Argos catalogue and circling every single item.  Were I to have myself as a parent at eight years old (please don't even try to think about the ramifications, this point isn't worth it), I would definitely have woken up to find a neatly wrapped Argos catalogue under the tree, however my parents were much kinder and I would tend to find exactly the presents I wanted (more or less).  They may be roller skates, or Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles, or a Nintendo, but I knew that I would always get something exciting.

So imagine my disappointment for my poor old Dad one year when he didn't get something as exciting as all of my lovely toys.  Oh no, he seemed to have completely missed the boat when it came to present giving.  He must have really been put on Santa's bad list, because instead of something fun, he received... a power tool.  The moment I saw it I felt bad for him - what could you do with a power tool on Boxing Day?  Put up a shelf?  Hardly beats the joys of the Turtles (which of course, you could lob at each other and pretend that they were having 'totally awesome' fights, which mainly involved them being repeatedly smacked into each other until Donatello's leg fell off, and you lost Michelangelo's nunchucks, rather than Bruce Lee-esque epic encounters).

But my Dad seemed very happy with his new 'toy'.  I have a strong image in my mind still of seeing him happy as Larry in our kitchen, drilling a hole in something - probably without my Mum's knowledge or consent - and thinking quite vehemently to myself "I will never ever reach the day when I think that receiving a power tool is cool".

Mine's yellow.  That makes it better than this

Of course, my eight year old self, upon making that vow, had not allowed for Asda selling electric screwdrivers at seven pounds a pop!  So now, upon reaching the ripe old age of twenty six, I am the owner of not one, but two Draper 3.6V Cordless Screwdriver Kits Complete With L.E.D Worklights.  I know what almost none of that means, but within minutes of them being in my possession, and in complete defiance of my younger self, I had the uncontrollable urge to put up a shelf.  I have not the knowledge or wherewithal to put up a shelf, but dammit, I had a power tool, and therefore could put up a shelf if I so wanted to.

Of course, within a couple of hours, once I realised that we had no shelves, and the batteries of my Draper 3.6V Cordless Screwdriver Kits Complete With L.E.D Worklights would take between five and seven hours to fully charge, I had began to feel a traitor to young me.  How would eight year old Alex feel to know that he would become the kind of man who considered a power tool an interesting thing to own.  I had let myself down.  I had become grown up.  From now on, the magic would always have to borrowed from other people, because I had left that childhood behind.  I like to image that a solitary tear rolled down my face as I pulled the trigger of one of my now fully charged Draper 3.6V Cordless Screwdriver Kits Complete With L.E.D Worklights and heard a robotic whir fill the room...

Until minutes later, Draper 3.6V Cordless Screwdriver Kit Complete With L.E.D Worklight in each hand I move across the room.  No job is too small for me now.  For I am the Technodrome, mighty whirring robot with drill hands here to seek out the Turtles.  And as I kick away a nucknuckless Michelangelo, I realise that actually, power tools can be pretty cool, if you know what to do with them, and  maybe my Dad wasn't wrong after all.  Not only can they practical when they need to be (and someone nags at you for weeks and weeks) but you can do fun things with them too.  Now, if only I could find Donatello's leg...

Once more unto the breach dear friends...

Fresh from his completion of The Book Challenge 2010, Alex Freeman brings you his new blog, tentatively named 'Alex Writes Things', in which he will try very hard not to do things such as set the world to rights, or complain about his 'every1 hatez me, i loove my chem romance, omg loolz' life, but instead will hopefully avoid blog cliches, and instead focus upon his primary aim of being mildly amusing, in a way that means that at some point you might look back again, and using long words in almost appropriate ways.

Yes, after a couple of 2011 weeks of procrastination, the best way I could think of to open my new blog is through a fake book blurb.  Maybe appropriately seeing as how I have just finished reading a hundred books in a year and blogging all about them - did I mention that to you yet?  No?  Oh, well check it out.  And where to follow that up you ask.  Well, of course in writing even more, but this time not limiting myself to just talking about books.

I am positive that there are probably literally millions of blogs out there on the web with one single posting like this, whereby grand mission statements are laid out about this becoming the home for all people with the same viewpoint as this brave new writer on a mission to change the world, be it a politically minded nut, or an outraged Daily Mail reader (is there any other kind), and as thus, I shall try not to be too bold in my aims here.  Instead, I intend to write this blog because I quite like writing, and I think it'd be useful to keep it up.  If I don't manage an update each week, I shall be disappointed with myself, but I shall not count it as a failure if I don't and shall try to post more often.  If it is interesting at all, then please do come back to see my updates - you are more than welcome.  If you have only come here because I link incessantly on facebook, then apologies, but at least it proves that it works to post it there.

And what will it be about?  Well, I imagine that books will make an appearance.  And I do a lot of theatre, so probably some things about that.  And most likely some other topics, maybe serious(ish) but probably quite frivolous.  So long as I am actually doing some writing, then I am happy.

I like it very much when someone comments on my blogs, so please do, especially if you blog yourself.  I try and make a point of reading the blogs of anyone who posts them on facebook, so do let me know if you write.

In the meantime, I shall strive to think of something mildly amusing to say about something.  Wish me luck.