It’s 8.30 on a crisp October morning, and the low sun is streaming through the lounge window. Other than the twenty-one-year-old version of myself, my parent’s house is empty – I have just graduated from university, but just before taking my first step into independent London life I bottled it and moved back to Stevenage, where I could prolong my sheltered ignorance a little while longer.

Those of you who have been in this situation will have immediately noticed the abnormality of this scene; namely the fact that I am up before noon.

The reason my young self is leaning nervously on the windowsill, peering bleary-eyed into the empty street, is that I am about to have my first driving lesson. And not just any old driving lesson.

I have just booked myself on an ‘Intensive Driving Course’ – a crash course, if you will (wacka wacka) comprising ten 5-hour days of driving with a test on the last day.

Naturally, as I finished my soggy fruit ‘n’ fibre I found myself imagining what my instructor would look like. Perhaps an avuncular retired gent with a velvety voice who would calmly coax brilliance out of me, or a diminutive pen-pusher with milk-bottle glasses and yoda-like gravitas, or an attractive female naturist.

While I am imagining this last scenario, a small blue Peugeot glides up to the curb outside. Evidently, this tiny little thing is to be my chariot for the next two weeks. I automatically hop to the front door, pulling on my coat and grabbing my keys.

I turn round from locking the front door, and all my fantasies are instantly dashed. An almost entirely spherical man is prising himself with difficulty out of the Peugeot. He is approximately 50 years old, with lank grey hair and skin like uncooked sausage. He has obviously dressed for comfort, and as he strides towards me -  wearing tracksuit bottoms flecked with the memories of 1000 garage sandwiches – he introduces himself as Ernie.

He seems pleasant enough, and after introducing me to the cockpit and the general sensation of driving, we are pootling along the deserted streets. As we drive, I gradually discover more about my sensei – namely that Ernie is and ex-taxi driver and ex-wrestler, and that his retirement plans are entirely reliant upon the success of a pyramid scheme involving the sale of magnetic bracelets.

To cut a long story short, Ernie turned out to be a very good teacher, and I grew in confidence daily. His manner, however, left a little to be desired. Firstly, whenever another road-user cut me up, or drove too aggressively, he would lurch across me and parp the horn vigorously at them, then lean out of his window and curse loudly at them.

Oh yes, Ernie was a potty-mouth.

I like to think that I am relatively hard to shock, and am no stranger to the delights of toilet humour. I wept tears of laughter into Roger’s Profanisaurus just like most people in my year. Ernie, however, was in a league of his own.

Not only did he consistently and deliberately substitute the phrase ‘Another Road User’ with ‘Some C*nt’ (as in “Be careful when turning left at a T-junction, in case ‘Another Road User’ is overtaking from the left”), whenever we passed any member of the opposite sex he would say “Cor, fack me, wouldn’t you just like to [insert stomach-churning description of sexual scenario] her?”, regardless of the hideousness of his subject.

During my ten days with Ernie, it was not uncommon for such charming conversation starters as “Have you ever done it with a black bird?” to greet me in the morning (I assume he meant a black woman, not an actual blackbird).

It seems like I’m exaggerating for comedic effect, but I assure you this is all true. It was as though Eric Bristow’s fatter uncle were possessed by the spirit of Derek and Clive, and I was stuck in the car with him.

All day.

For 10 days.

Eventually, I passed my test (second time), and immediately started schlepping around the country to gig. As I became accustomed to cruising along the motorway, I gradually achieved what I can only describe as a higher state.

All the drivers of the cars that surrounded me began to reveal their inmost secrets. I could tell by the merest lane change or brake tap what kind of a person was behind the wheel – and from my throne, dear reader, I judged them.

Now, after years of driving – during which time I have only once driven my own car unprovoked into a hedge – I have come to the conclusion that not only am I the best driver in the world, but also that every other road user is either an imbecile to be avoided or a cocky turd who needs to be taught a lesson. Perhaps you, also, are called to motoring greatness… There are a few key signs that mark out one who is ‘set apart’.

1. Given the option, a Chosen One will always choose to drive, regardless of any current illness or injury.
2. While suffering the ignominy of travelling in the passenger seat, anything less than perfect control on the part of the driver will be met with a sharp intake of breath and a gripping of the nearside door handle.
3. Chosen Ones consider themselves to be more in control than all the drivers around them, despite the fact that they have a map open on their lap, a coffee in their left hand and a sandwich in their right hand.
4. If someone changes lanes without indicating, a Chosen One will immediately be able to recognise this person as a reprobate, and unworthy of the privileged life that has enabled them to afford a BMW. A Chosen One will invariably go on to make the correct assumption that they are also a murderer/corrupt businessman/nazi war criminal.

Join me, won’t you? I have also developed an important set of guidelines for ‘road etiquette’, which I feel will be invaluable for those of you wishing to develop your inner car-messiah. It reflects my sincere wish to make all other drivers as reliable and educational as me, and I call it

AUTHORITATIVE EDU-DRIVING.

This involves the use of edu-driving to demonstrate how an accident might have occurred, had you not been such an EXCELLENT DRIVER. If the other driver has an open mind, they will be:

• Humbled by their mistake and overwhelmed by the fragility of human existence for the rest of the week.
• Grateful that it was YOU, the edu-driver, that happened to be on the receiving end of their poor driving, so that catastrophy was averted and valuable lessons learned.

Examples of good edu-driving are:

1.     You are driving along a main road, and another car pulls onto the road in front of you. They are far ahead, but have not judged your speed and their acceleration well enough, causing you to slow down slightly while they speed up. Do NOT slow down in advance to allow them a large enough gap. THAT IS NOT EDU-DRIVING. Maintain the same speed until the very last minute, so that you only slow down when you are right behind them.

Every semi-aware driver understands this action to mean:

“You have incorrectly judged my speed. We nearly crashed because of this but we didn’t BECAUSE FORTUNATELY I AM AN EDU-DRIVER. In future you will wait for bigger gaps or buy a more powerful car OR BOTH. You’re welcome.”

Once it is clear that the driver has been educated, back away to a safe stopping distance.

2.    Roundabouts. If another car pulls out in front of you, or demonstrates poor lane discipline, proceed as in example 1, getting as close to them as possible and sounding your horn for between 3 and 40 seconds.

3.    On a busy motorway, when you see in your mirrors that someone is about to undertake you, pull closer to the car in front so that there is only a tantalisingly small gap for him to fit into should he continue to undertake you. This action clearly tells the other driver:

“If you’re reckless enough to undertake people, then you must be crazy enough to pull into this tiny gap. Come on, put your money where your mouth is, you DRUG-DEALING HAIRDRESSER.”

In the case of example 3, i find it extremely effective to stare silently ahead,  giving the impression that you are unaware of the other driver’s presence, and suggesting that it is Fate – and not merely an edu-driver – that has apparently slammed the Piano Lid of Justice onto the talentless fingers of the Kate Nash of Insolence.

In most cases, however, I feel it is important that one hammers the lesson home as much as possible. When the opportunity arises to edu-drive, it is my personal modus operandi to dress in nothing but a top hat, wind down all the windows (The Ride of the Valkeries blaring from my vast exterior speakers), raise my eyes heavenwards and scream “NOW DO YOU UNDERSTAND?” whilst pelting the other car with half-eaten baked goods through the open window.

I’m sure that many of the Chosen Ones amongst you have experienced driving scenarios that have necessitated AUTHORITATIVE EDU-DRIVING, so please feel free to add them below.

Other drivers MUST be educated.

I’ve just seen an advert on television.

In this advert, a rather scraggy yet enthusiastic dog is telling me how much love he has to give me.

In fact, it turns out this loving disposition is not limited to cheeky little Scampy. My new brown and off-white friend proceeds to tell me that all dogs have lots of love to give me. How marvellous.

Suddenly, the mood of the advert changes. Vibrant hues and Frisbee-catching montages are replaced with the cold metallic greys of abandoned alleyways, as I am told ominously (by Scampy) that Jack did not understand why his family wanted to get rid of him, and that Suzie got too old for her owners. Scraggy-haired mongrels, their hair matted and flecked with grime, stare back at me with pleading eyes that have known nothing but neglect.

Then – just as I am about to tear my stinging, moistened eyes from the screen and blow my brains out – someone comes to the rescue!

Just when all seemed lost, a strongly-built cliché-affirming gap-year lesbian in a dark green polo shirt hoists the poor wretch from his cardboard box, and within seconds they are both in a sunny field, apparently having a bit of a kiss and a cuddle. As the scene unfolds, I am informed that such canoodling of stray dogs can be funded for as little as two pounds a week (although I suspect some of this money also goes on keeping the animal alive).

Scampy’s voiceover is now building to the dénouement of his pitch to me, his emotionally tenderised viewer. After the sob stories of Jack and Suzie I am putty in his paw, prepped and ready to pick up the phone and scream “Take the money, Scampy! Take it all! This madness must STOP!”, before blurting out the details of all my accounts and credit cards.

He tells me that if I decide to send money to the Dog’s Trust the dogs will love me, be my friend, write to me, send me an information pack…

Hold on.

Now, I understand that sponsoring a dog is not the same as owning a dog, and that the love that these dogs have to give – the appreciation they feel for not having been thrown off a viaduct – is in many ways metaphorical, and impossible for them to communicate to me in person. I can even understand that Scampy is asking for my money so that it can be thrown into a large pot so that people who love dogs can do things with it, even if that means using it to cover admin costs, or buy dark green polo shirts.

I’m ok with the fact that Scampy is telling me that my sponsored dog will love me, even if that’s not necessarily possible in real life…

But write me a LETTER? Is this a joke? You’re actually trying to get my money by saying that, for two pounds a week, I can get a personalised letter written by a DOG?

“LIAR!” I scream at the television, burning tears rolling freely down my blotchy cheeks. “You had me, Scampy! You had me RIGHT WHERE YOU WANTED ME! I would have given you EVERYTHING!”

Bawling with primal rage, I scramble on top of the coffee table and urinate all over my television, wailing Scampy’s name over and over while the sparks fly.

Such is the power of advertising, dear reader.

Never mind the fact that people in this country give more money to animal charities than they do to charities that help humans (don’t get me started on THAT) – these animal charities now tell us that dogs are not only aware that they are being sponsored, but also that they are keen to jot down a note from time to time to let us know how they’re getting on.

As the proud owner of a pet cat (albeit a cat with a tendency to sink his claws into my testicles while I play xbox in my dressing gown), I am by no means an animal-hating sadist. No one likes to think of dogs and cats wasting away in a box, before finally popping their clogs and being disguised as mutton in a ‘meat’ madras. If people want to support these animal charities, it’s their money. It’s the tactics they use that I resent.

Why not just say;

“If you like dogs, and would rather they didn’t die needlessly, please give money to our charity.”

Instead of;

“Dogs are nice, aren’t they? They wouldn’t let you down, or put you in a nursing home and forget about you. Your family may not write to you any more, but our dogs would! Now give us £96 a year out of your already insufficient pension, or we’ll cover this ageing spaniel with tar and then stamp on it.”

The Dogs Trust, eh?

Well I certainly bloody don’t.

I don’t know what to say.

I’ve let myself down, I’ve let you down. Every stroke of my fingers on this keyboard feels like a huge prick.

Of guilt. A huge prick of guilt in my conscience.

It’s like an awkward exchange between long lost lovers who, after decades apart, have encountered each other once more and do not know where to begin. Where there was once unbridled creativity and reckless abandon there is now only embarrassed coughing, with pregnant pauses and apologetic silences broken only by the faint gurgling and bubbling of the utterly incontinent.

I know now that writing a blog is a marathon, and not a sprint.

In fact, everything seems to be a bloody marathon. I have yet to be advised by anyone that something is a sprint, and not a marathon. Surely there must be occasions where it is appropriate to say this? Perhaps when one is pulling survivors from a burning orphanage, having one’s broken pelvis reset without anaesthetic, or training a sprinter, one could mention that it’s a sprint, not a marathon, and the person you’re addressing would feel suitably spurred.

The upshot of all this is that I find myself at the beginning of 2009 with a determination to carry on what I started, and not be lazy. I have no one but myself (and xbox live) to blame for my absence, but be sure that 2009 will be full of well-meaning hilarity (like this).

God bless you all.

Again, the Jimmy Dean lifestyle concept never fails to deliver the comedy goods.

According to the old proverb, we should all breakfast like a king, lunch like a prince and dine like a pauper. Over the years I have settled into my own personal routine of breakfasting like Jack Bauer, lunching like a delivery driver and dining like Caligula. However, despite decades of treating my body less like a temple and more like a “Mr. Fusion Home Energy Reactor”, I have always had a healthy respect for the benefits of a good breakfast.

Whether it be the hangover-dampening fry-up, the 45-successive-slices-of-Marmite-on-toast-because-it’s-so-addictive-I-may-as-well-be-eating-crack, or the humble shotglass of otter sperm – everyone has a favourite way to start the day.

My brother once went to India, and visited a restaurant where you could order a “French Breakfast”, which literally consisted of a coffee and a cigarette. I myself have witnessed the cacophony of sweet and savoury that is the Harlem Gospel Brunch at B.B. King’s in New York (which is an ABSOLUTE must-see if you go to New York, regardless of your taste in food or music), where danish pastries and fried catfish are unceremoniously jammed side-by-side into mounds of scrambled egg before your boggling eyes. I have spent years trying unsuccessfully to replicate the iberian cured ham and cheese sandwich I had each morning in a Starbucks (yes, a Starbucks, you judgemental fops) in Seville.

In the process of trawling the internet for breakfast images to link to (and I trust you are clicking on them, my little chihuahuas), I came across this beauty:

Chocolate chip? Brilliant.

Who is this Jimmy Dean? Clearly the culinary equivalent of Salvador Dali.

I know exactly what you’re thinking:

“This has blatantly been created on PhotoShop, so it’s not as funny as you think it is, because I know far more about computers than you do. God, I’m so lonely – I think I’ll just check my Facebook one last time while I apply my anthrax cream…”

Well, it’s legit, so there. In fact, the website of Jimmy “Live Fast, Eat What Appears To Be Some Shit, Die Young” Dean is incredible. I think it might be one of my all-time favourite websites, for the following reasons:

1. The aforementioned ‘Pancakes and Sausage on-a-stick’ is categorized under ‘Flapsticks’, which is the single most gloriously unappetizing word I have ever come across. (Note that they also come in blueberry flavour.)
2. The comments and testimonials that people leave (under ‘Flapsticks’, and especially the amazing feedback/suggestions for the commercial in the videos section – read them all).
3. The inexplicable use of berries in the photos of almost all the food. Sausage and raspberry, anyone?
4. There is a recipe section, with such delights as the ‘Jimmy Dean 6 Layer Breakfast Casserole’ and the unmissable ‘Jimmy Dean Apple Cheddar Sausage Balls With Dijon-Balsamic Glaze’. Interestingly, I read from her biog that the chef that design the recipes used to be an attorney. I bet that comes in handy.

I could work my whole life to try and produce a spoof website with that level of subtlety and not even get close.

Anyway. This last August, I was staying at the home of a complete stranger when I was introduced to Dorset Cereals. If, like me, you enjoy a nice bowl of muesli, then check these bad boys out. Don’t be put off by the fancy packaging – you don’t have to be Guardian-reading lesbian vet to enjoy them

If, indeed, you are a fan of that kind of bottom-of-the-birdcage type cereal, you may have noticed an alarming new development occurring on supermarket shelves all around the country. I was in my local Sainsbury’s the other day browsing for the aforementioned Dorset Cereals when I came across this startling new section on the shelf.

Now, I am not naive enough to deny that sex sells, but surely a line has now been crossed. As a lifelong cereal eater I was devastastated to see that manufacturers have resorted to this kind of pornagraphic re-branding to boost sales figures. As a man of sensitive moral disposition I immediately averted my eyes from the potential onslaught of filth, insisting instead that a passing old lady – who seemed at a glance to be no stranger to carnal deviancy – should find my muesli for me.

What might I have seen, I wonder, if I had dared to peek into the muck of the Adult Cereals section? What could possibly be the names of these breakfasts that sought to tittilate the unwary shopper into buying them? I thought I caught a glimpse of the word ‘orgasmic’, but it may have been ‘organic’. The mind plays tricks.

It’s bad enough that we have to contend with Jimmy Dean’s flapsticks! Whatever next? Tit Flakes? Flange Clusters? Chocolate Coated Inner Thighs?

COCK PORRIDGE?

Ahh, live music…

I’ve decided I don’t see enough of it. As a musician by trade, I’m obviously at my fair share of gigs – I’m stalling the inevitable packing of the car right now, in fact – but it’s not the same.

So, as I headed over to Portsmouth in a car full of friends a few weeks ago, I found myself wondering what it is that I’m looking forward to seeing: what makes a good performance? Is it the perfect replication of the studio recording, the personalisation and extemporisation of familiar melodies, the euphoria of the crowd, or a combination of all three?

My initial reaction to this question would be to discount the crowd completely as a determinant factor in my enjoyment of a gig.

Yes, that’s right, I’m about to get something off my chest, and for once it’s not ‘yo mamma’.

For reasons beyond my control, I am six feet and eight inches tall. Yes, wow, isn’t that something. What’s that you say? How’s the weather up here? Go and throw yourself down a well, you turd – that’s how. So when I buy tickets for live events, I am always careful to check the ticket for the legal disclaimer “Doors open at 7.30pm. Patrons are kindly requested to line up in height order at the door, so that audience members can be led calmly in and arranged in front of the stage like a bloody school photo. Patrons are also reminded that standing in front of someone who is shorter than you at a gig is worse than being a paedophile“.

Now, let it never be said that I am an unreasonable man. In fact, if anyone did say that I’d set them on fire. If you happen to be shorter than 6′8″, and you’re standing behind me at a gig, the way to deal with the situation is to tap me on the back of the knee and say “excuse me, sorry to disturb what is clearly a very expressive interpretive dance, but I was wondering if I could stand in front of you, the better to see the stage.” If you happen to be a very attractive young lady, you could even ask to sit on my shoulders – to which the answer would be yes, provided you were prepared to face the back.

One should NOT just stand there tutting and coughing like the sort of repugnantly pompous, socially retarded civility-vacuums that we specialise in producing in this country (and possibly in France). If you happen to be concerned about having your view blocked, and you consider yourself to be a mannerless tiddler, then GET TO THE GIG EARLIER THAN ME. Don’t just toddle in two hours late and expect the crowd to part like the Red Sea, and don’t EVER catch yourself using phrases like “show some consideration” and “spoiling it for the rest of us”.

Ask, and it shall be given unto you. Otherwise (and I mean this in all senses of the phrase) grow up.

Manners cost nothing; as opposed to, say, major reconstructive surgery of the face and genitals which, your mother tells me, does not.

I hope you don’t think I’m being rude. Yes, it is annoying to have your view blocked at a gig, and it’s right and logical that you should stand in front of people like me that are taller than you. Just don’t act like I’m tall deliberately to spite you – it may well be that you’re so tiny, I didn’t realise you were there.

Apologies for the rant. It’s not even that relevant, as there was no trace of heightism to be found in fair Portsmouth a few Tuesdays hence.

Ah, yes. Back to the matter in hand. Elbow.

Elbow have been operating as a band for about eighteen years. In many respects, I’ve come to them rather late, having only developed an appreciation for them with their last couple of albums. Their first album, Asleep In The Back, was released in 2001, when I was busy blagging my way through the final year of university.

If I could go back in time and ask my 2001 self about Elbow, the conversation would probably go something like this:

“Hey, how’s it going – I’m from the future, and I’ve come to ask you your opinion on something!”

“You’re me – only from the future?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve come to ask me my opinion on something?”

“Oh, for f- yes. Yes I have.”

“Surely if I’m you, you already know my opinion, don’t you?”

“Yes, smarty-pants, I’m using this as a literary device. For my blog.”

“Your blog? What are you, gay? I’ve always considered blogging to be the last refuge of the terminally irrelevant.”

“Yes, yes I know that. Look, a lot’s changed…”

“Like what? Are there flying cars in 2008″

“Stop it. I want to ask you your opinion on the band Elbow.”

“But you already know-”

“SHUT UP, JUST SHUT UP! I HATE YOU SO MUCH!”

“Huh?”

“Nothing, forget it. You know – the band, Elbow?”

“Yeah. They’re ok – I prefer Radiohead. I think Elbow’s music only really appeals to a certain kind of person.”

“Right. Who?”

“Bedwetters.”

“I see. Well, thanks a lot.”

“Sure. Any words of advice from the future?”

“In 2006 you’ll be arrested for sexually assaulting Ainsley Harriot…”

“Wha-”

“Just kidding.”

I suppose I’m trying to say that in my initial encounters with Elbow’s music, I found it to be pretty, but a little too rambling to hold my flitting attention for long.

In 2005, Elbow released Leaders Of The Free World. Whilst sitting in front of Jools “I Have No Idea What I’m Doing” Holland, Elbow came on and played the eponymous track from their third album. The sound was just as full, but now it was structurally tighter and more aggressive. When I got the album, I was even more impressed. From track to track, the ideas and textures were varied enough to keep me interested, but similar enough to hang together as a cohesive soundworld (yes, I just said ‘cohesive soundworld’, no, I am not a wanker, yes, soundworld is a word). And not a wet bed in sight. The latest album, The Seldom Seen Kid, is also great – although, despite being sonically more impressive, I’d say Leaders Of The Free World is stronger overall because it’s less rambling.

The live show was great. The demographic of the crowd seemed to be part über-cool part dungeons-and-dragons-enthusiast, and the celebration of the Glorious Misfit seemed to echo the band’s stage presence.

As usual, this review has sprawled out of control, so I’ll summarise how I felt about the gig briefly because I’m beginning to bore myself.

Elbow’s performance was great. The band seemed completely sold on the idea of working together to create a complete texture, rather than just waving their cocks around (figuratively). Guy Garvey’s voice is effortlessly perfect, and his presence on stage is engaging yet unassuming.

Like their records, they remind me of a warmer and more gregarious Radiohead. Not to say that Elbow are better, only that I feel that Radiohead’s style keeps the listener somewhat more at arm’s length.

Oh dear, I’m boring myself again. Right – a more succinct summary needed.

Listening to Radiohead = Looking at an intricate piece of quartz whilst someone reads aloud from No Logo, burns a dollar bill under your nose and waves a picture of a dead heron in front of you.

Listening to Elbow = drinking a nice hot chocolate with your ears.

There.

After all that, a concise opinion.

Reality tv. Sigh…

I really hate reality tv, and don’t want to bore you senseless by going into a sprawling tirade of bile about how i’d rather boil my eyes and my balls than watch the kind of fetid plop made by-and-for people with full frontal lobotomies, and how everything that’s gone wrong with society since the decline of the British Empire including fascism and communism was directly caused by ITV, and…

Well, there I go.

Even people like me, who consider reality tv to be the embodiment of the Eight Deadly Sins (the eighth being Irritating People), have to admit that some reality tv is better than others.

Let’s take the X Factor as an example of better reality tv. The people with talent generally rise to the top, and deservedly so.

That’s fine. But apparently it’s not enough, which leads us to the nub of this gist.

Somewhere along the line, someone came along with a great talent and a sad story, and it made great tv. When the people behind the scenes twigged this they went at it like a randy dog at a footstool.

So now we have professional tear-jerkers looming backstage to interview the contestants. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? Their sole job seems to be to gradually break down a person’s psyche until all they can do is blubber “It’s the most importan’ (*sniff*) fing in the world to me”.

And they’re very good at it, too. If you think about it, they only have 20 seconds or so to introduce the person, explain the back-story, convince the person that winning is more important than they originally thought, and get them to weep like a baby.

If you’ve tried it on as many people as I have, you’ll know it’s pretty tough. I imagine pro tear-jerkers have tricks of the trade. Here are my guesses for the top 5 Tricks For Getting X Factor Contestants To Cry:

1 – They look appalled when the contestant says something minor, and then keep probing, e.g:

“That’s funny, I can’t seem to find my lemonade…”

“Oh my gosh – did your dying mum give you that lemonade?”

“Um, no… I got it from that machine over there.”

“Oh… oh yeah, that machine fell on top of a baby once…”

2 – Whilst interviewing, they are tearing up a picture of the contestant and mouthing the words “you’re worthless”

3 – They are jabbing the contestant in the genitals with a pen off-camera.

4 – They are slowly lowering a sack of puppies into a bath. Obviously also off-camera.

5 – The interviewer looks like this.

It seems that we, the dribbling public, are no longer capable of investing ourselves emotionally in a performance without first being coaxed into investing emotionally in the performer.

Case in Point: Hollyoaks/Sound of Music. This bird turns up in Hollyoaks and is desperate to play Maria in The Sound of Music. The show follows her dramatic attempts to get the part, and then when she eventually gets it we find out she’s actually a Sylvia Young-ling, she had the part before and the whole Hollyoaks thing was essentially marketing.

As my American friends would say, are you freaking kidding me?

Never mind that Summer Strallen sings like a mewling cat (no, I’m not being a ponce, I went and saw her and the 8-year-old Von Trapp girl wiped the floor with her, as did the 50 or so extra nuns who had clearly been brought in for no other reason than to remind the audience what singing sounds like), that’s not the point.

The point is that stunts like this, as well as programmes like “I’d Do Anything To Solve A Problem Like How To Get You Annoying Bastards Off My Television”, imply by their very existence that the theatre show, in and of itself, is not strong enough to maintain a reliable audience.

So you need to have witnessed the hard work and heartache of the person who finally lands the lead role, because apparently the lead role is not enough of an engaging character to keep your interest.

What about all the people who land lead roles without winning gameshows? What about the people who’ve studied their craft, and nail it every night in a supporting role to some tit who’s only qualification for being there is that they were slightly less crap than the rest of the preening dolts that applied to go on a tv show? I wonder how many people who apply for these shows are failed West-End auditionees?

Sorry – I’m going on a bit, and I may be being a bit harsh, but if I was a hard-working west-end performer (and I know some of you are), I’d resent the hell out of the little turds.

Or maybe I’m totally wrong. Maybe these shows are fantastic, and we should broaden their scope to other careers.

Imagine how delighted we’d all be if, whilst sitting in a plane ready for take-off, we discovered that our well-trained pilot had been replaced at the last minute by Darren, the ex gas engineer from Basildon. Despite his complete lack of training, you are comforted by the fact that he won 68% of the nation’s vote as you plummet to your doom.

Perhaps there are some other cracking formats out there – Here are a few of my own snappy ideas:

I’m A Celebrity, Tied To Another Celebrity, Tied To A Wasp’s Nest

How Do You Solve A Problem Like Revolving Knives?

Strictly Come Seal Clubbing

I’d Do Anything To Get These Lions To Calm Down

Celebrity Limb Swap

Rabies Island

I can’t give the Media’s Emo-Pimps zero out of ten, because they are so successful at what they do – they set out to make people watch and vote, and that’s what they get. Other than that, they can kiss my bottom.

I’m not a journalist, so I’m not going to start this review with purple prose about St. Delia to bump up my word count. If you don’t know who Delia is, ask a middle-class white person. She’s a tv cook (thanks for asking).

I’m in charge of the cooking at home, and I can follow a basic recipe. We have a few cookbooks at home; the usual stuff. Amongst these seldom-read tomes are a couple of Jamie Oliver books, full of fashionably vague instructions like “chuck a bi’ of awld balthamic vinegrette ovah thith lettith me awld choinah”, and Madhur Jaffrey’s Ultimate Curry Bible – with which one can unlock the secret flavours of the East, providing you have ingredients such as rose water and dragon tears readily available to you and can take three days off work to ‘prep’ your spices.

Suffice it to say, I like food but I couldn’t tell you how to cook fennel or what fricassée means. So when my wife suggested that we buy Delia’s infamous How To Cheat using some book tokens I received in 1992, I was intrigued. If you’ve read any of the reviews of this book you would think it was the culinary equivalent of the Rivers Of Blood speech. You will also notice that 99.9% of the reviews refer to only one recipe.

The shepherd’s pie.

Purely by chance, this was the first recipe we cooked. It tastes fine. Admittedly, the tinned lamb mince that everyone is snivelling about does look a bit like something you might serve to a dog or an enemy, but if you use fresh lamb mince rather than a tin of minuscule gristle picked from the blades of a chainsaw it’s great. And it has cinnamon in it (which I was surprised at, but if you mention this to any food snobs they say “oh yah, one always puts cinnamon in a shepherd’s pie – don’t you know anything, you pathetic little gypsy?”).

I’ll definitely try other stuff out of the book. It’s perfect for when you have guests round and you plan to feed them but have no interest whatsoever in impressing them.

My theory is that people who wail and moan about Delia’s book are showing off, and therefore trying to impress me because they want to sleep with me.

Over the course of my career as a musician I have played in various locations of varying size and quality. The thing that is common to most of them is that they are ball-achingly loud, and as a result I have recently noticed that my ears literally won’t stop ringing. You know the sound a tv makes when it’s on mute? Imagine that, only louder and ALL THE LIVE-LONG DAY.

Slightly concerned, I booked an appointment for a free hearing test at Specsavers (most places only do free hearing tests if you are over 100,000 years old, so this  was useful to know).

So, early on Monday morning I find myself fidgeting in the waiting area, thumbing idly through a copy of something glossy and vacuous. All this time I am imagining that the ear-test man will take one look in my lugholes and tell me I have cancer of the eardrum, hand me a loaded shotgun and tell me to get-it-over-with-and-while-you’re-at-it-show-a-bit-of-consideration-and-aim-your-spattered-brains-toward-the-bin.

Presently the balding but professional Martin (I have not used his real name because I have no interest in trying to recollect it) came out to usher me into his room, and I was instantly soothed by his gentle authority. I sat down and explained that I was a musician (these pretentious words always stick in my throat; I may as well introduce myself as an actor, or a politician, or simply cut out the middle man and tell him that I am a professional ego), and explained that I would like and ear test and possibly a fitting for some punishingly expensive moulded earplugs.

Martin rose from his chair and twittered something along the lines of “Right then, let’s have a little look, shall we?”. At this point he bade me look at the opposing wall while he moved to my side and stuck his penis in my ear. At least, at the time I thought it may have been his penis, but my wife reliably informs me that they don’t do that any more, and that it was probably an otoscope.

“Right, well, there’s nothing we can do today”, said Martin in a slightly haughtier tone, “Your ears are completely full of wax. Get them sorted at your GP and then come back.”

Wax.

How very dare you, Martin, I thought. I had half a mind to reach into my ear and fling a sizeable handful of the stuff at his gleaming pate. “The wax may even be the cause of the ringing”, he proffered. These crumbs of comfort soothed my wrath, and I immediately felt galvanised into arranging an appointment to have my secret shame removed.

I met the nurse at my local clinic two days later; she was chirpy and talkative, and I persuaded myself that she found me charming in the way that older ugly women often seem to. As I sat down on a strategically placed chair she explained the procedure, as well as common side effects such as a tickling sensation and spasmodic coughing fits (caused by a nerve, apparently). She then proceeded to place a metal cup on my shoulder and stick a small appendage (an appendage which I now confidently dismissed as a non-penis), into my ear.

The ear syringing experience itself is quite fantastic – rather like having your brain tickled. The pulsing warm water was soothing and refreshing and I did not, as I had previously feared, soil myself involuntarily. It was over in a matter of minutes; she did not offer to show me the contents of the metal cup, and before I could ask for a waxy keepsake I was outside the consulting room, surrounded once more by shuffling pensioners.

The upshot of it all is that afterwards my tinnitus had not, alas, disappeared; so it looks like it’s back to Specsavers at some point. Hopefully Martin will welcome my newly water-frotted eardrums without hesitation, then promptly sting me for £150 for a pair of earplugs.

Even now, above the unrelenting high-pitched whine, I can just make out the distant sound of a bolting horse, followed by the dull thud of the stable door.