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| Actual review |
Friday, 31 August 2012
Tuesday, 28 August 2012
What am I made of?
One night this week my lady caught me doing something. Something I would have continued to do if someone hadn’t walked back into the room.
It was after 11pm. Relaxed in the sitting room, I had eaten well and with just Laura Tobin telling me about tomorrow’s weather on the Television for company for several minutes, and the angle poised lamp light, casting elongated shadows over the furniture, I half slouched down on the settee and it just felt right, you know how it is, to consider my own body.
On walking in on my situation at hand, Mrs. Tombs stuttered to a halt: “What on earth are you up to?!?”
When I explained what I was up to, she told me it would only end with me having to be taken to A&E because I had pulled my own spine out my hips, at which point I would have to look a doctor straight in the eye and say I did it as a result of the curiosity of if I could taste my own knee.
And the doctor would not fully believe that.
So I stopped, knowing she was right.
Earlier in the day I was out at a family party. Not for my family, you understand. I got talking to a man called Marvin. Apparently he is known as a very boring man in this family’s circles and I was, by virtue of unwittingly standing next to him, taking a boredom bullet for the relieved family. Which explained why no one came up to us for pretty much all of the afternoon as part of the customary mingling processes these occasions usually present – despite my watering eyes.
This was despite the fact I liked him because he reminded me of a man from the 1970’s. He was a collection of straw yellow shirt, brown flannel tie with brown tint spectacles and had a moustache from a documentary featuring a father of two teenage daughters who had recently got a management position at the local BETAMAX factory.
This kept me amused during his in depth discussion at me about Ordinance Survey map scales. At some stage during a binary description of his 2nd family holiday in Austria, I thought: I wonder what my knee tastes like? I should know this, it’s my knee! I have never touched my own knee with my lips, mores my shame! I mean, it is my body and I am a grown adult, able to do things with my body if I want to, like simply tasting my own knees. When I get home, I am absolutely going to aim to find out. There is no right minded reason why I should not know this.
And I will tell you, I am glad I experimented with my body that very night. Shambolically convexing, lilting and tilting like an upturned wood louse on the couch, trying to taste any one of its 3, 8, however many knees. I am not proud I was seen doing it, don’t get me wrong. No one should be seen trying to taste their knee. But I did manage a little strained lick, though. The tiniest touch before by leg sprang back from my face.
For those of you wondering what it tasted of?
Wrist.
It was after 11pm. Relaxed in the sitting room, I had eaten well and with just Laura Tobin telling me about tomorrow’s weather on the Television for company for several minutes, and the angle poised lamp light, casting elongated shadows over the furniture, I half slouched down on the settee and it just felt right, you know how it is, to consider my own body.
On walking in on my situation at hand, Mrs. Tombs stuttered to a halt: “What on earth are you up to?!?”
When I explained what I was up to, she told me it would only end with me having to be taken to A&E because I had pulled my own spine out my hips, at which point I would have to look a doctor straight in the eye and say I did it as a result of the curiosity of if I could taste my own knee.
And the doctor would not fully believe that.
So I stopped, knowing she was right.
Earlier in the day I was out at a family party. Not for my family, you understand. I got talking to a man called Marvin. Apparently he is known as a very boring man in this family’s circles and I was, by virtue of unwittingly standing next to him, taking a boredom bullet for the relieved family. Which explained why no one came up to us for pretty much all of the afternoon as part of the customary mingling processes these occasions usually present – despite my watering eyes.
This was despite the fact I liked him because he reminded me of a man from the 1970’s. He was a collection of straw yellow shirt, brown flannel tie with brown tint spectacles and had a moustache from a documentary featuring a father of two teenage daughters who had recently got a management position at the local BETAMAX factory.
This kept me amused during his in depth discussion at me about Ordinance Survey map scales. At some stage during a binary description of his 2nd family holiday in Austria, I thought: I wonder what my knee tastes like? I should know this, it’s my knee! I have never touched my own knee with my lips, mores my shame! I mean, it is my body and I am a grown adult, able to do things with my body if I want to, like simply tasting my own knees. When I get home, I am absolutely going to aim to find out. There is no right minded reason why I should not know this.
And I will tell you, I am glad I experimented with my body that very night. Shambolically convexing, lilting and tilting like an upturned wood louse on the couch, trying to taste any one of its 3, 8, however many knees. I am not proud I was seen doing it, don’t get me wrong. No one should be seen trying to taste their knee. But I did manage a little strained lick, though. The tiniest touch before by leg sprang back from my face.
For those of you wondering what it tasted of?
Wrist.
Monday, 27 August 2012
Gloom Pop, ba duba dop
Some people earlier this month were asking: "Greville, how many tracks are going to be on the upcoming Greville and the Tombstones album: It took the body parts of 7 men to make him but only 1 woman to break his heart, made from 3 men's hearts?"
And I said to them: "Look. There is no upcoming album. Because there is no band. Why do people keep asking about this? I tweet about there being no band all the time! I can't play an instrument and I have never sang in public. Not even along to anything. However, I will ask you this: how many tracks are on the greatest album ever made - God Shuffled His Feet, by The Crash Test Dummies?"
And they replied: "12, including the hidden track."
And I said: "There you go."
To be honest, I was thinking about not answering their questions anymore after this. Maybe if I just stopped mentioning I have no band at all, this nonsense would stop? I could then go on my own ways, far from this madness.
Later this month I met Laura - AKA She Makes War - who was in town performing at a couple of venues.
She Makes War describes her music as Dramatic Gloom Pop. Confusingly, Laura is not all that gloomy. Laura is rather effervescent and lovely.
Laura is also very talented and multi-skilled, busily writing and performing She Makes War songs and directing her own music videos. Laura is confidently pointing towards much of the interesting and vibrant relationship between musician and music fan using social networking.
Laura maintains a comprehensive online presence keeping all of her artistic credit as well as control of promotion and a business freedom.
She is also totally cool. We follow each other now on Twitter, you know.
I don't mind saying I was initially in awe of her. I mean, a real life cool musician person talking to me. Wow.
Naturally, in the course of conversation, I mentioned that I did not have a band. It was pretty much at the start of the course. Basically to impress her.
I explained that I had no band called Greville and the Tombstones, wasn't in the progress of recording an album nor was I performing any time soon. I mean, OK, I've written songs... with basically no musical accompaniment...
Not sure it did impress, but Laura was intrigued. She passed me her band business card.
Laura asked: "Do you have band merchandise?"
"No."
"You should think about it. You should come up with band art work and use it to sell things to your fans."
And immediately I did think about it. Because She Makes War also makes excellent suggestions.
Obviously there would be the Greville and the Tombstones cuff-links. For younger fans - Greville and the Tombstones knitted-to-scale figures. And ladies could purchase vest tops of a selection from a small colour palette. That would be something! Selling band merch!
Later on I saw Laura play as She Makes War. Fair to say, She Makes War made a terrific impression on the varied demographic in a small, traditionally apportioned old town bar. Laura has a mesmeric stage presence - very watchable, and listenable. She Makes War is exciting. I had a thoroughly good time and would like to see her perform again.
It is also fair to submit Laura has reignited my passion for not being in a band. I am almost certainly not working on a band logo in my head right now!
Indeed, here we sit, only a couple of weeks later, and I could announce the latest track for the album. If there was one being worked on. Which there isn't.
It is to a largely upbeat tune - something akin to Fall Out Boy's more commercial stuff.
Not sure where the inspiration for the lyrics came from, to be honest. It is funny how my songs seem to come from almost subliminal means. A half noticed drop of a leaf into a puddle, perhaps? Anyway, it's called: (I have a crush on) A Gloom Pop Girl.
I mean, what's all that about, eh? A psychologists dream!
And I said to them: "Look. There is no upcoming album. Because there is no band. Why do people keep asking about this? I tweet about there being no band all the time! I can't play an instrument and I have never sang in public. Not even along to anything. However, I will ask you this: how many tracks are on the greatest album ever made - God Shuffled His Feet, by The Crash Test Dummies?"
And they replied: "12, including the hidden track."
And I said: "There you go."
To be honest, I was thinking about not answering their questions anymore after this. Maybe if I just stopped mentioning I have no band at all, this nonsense would stop? I could then go on my own ways, far from this madness.
Later this month I met Laura - AKA She Makes War - who was in town performing at a couple of venues.
She Makes War describes her music as Dramatic Gloom Pop. Confusingly, Laura is not all that gloomy. Laura is rather effervescent and lovely.
Laura is also very talented and multi-skilled, busily writing and performing She Makes War songs and directing her own music videos. Laura is confidently pointing towards much of the interesting and vibrant relationship between musician and music fan using social networking.
Laura maintains a comprehensive online presence keeping all of her artistic credit as well as control of promotion and a business freedom.
She is also totally cool. We follow each other now on Twitter, you know.
I don't mind saying I was initially in awe of her. I mean, a real life cool musician person talking to me. Wow.
Naturally, in the course of conversation, I mentioned that I did not have a band. It was pretty much at the start of the course. Basically to impress her.
I explained that I had no band called Greville and the Tombstones, wasn't in the progress of recording an album nor was I performing any time soon. I mean, OK, I've written songs... with basically no musical accompaniment...
Not sure it did impress, but Laura was intrigued. She passed me her band business card.
Laura asked: "Do you have band merchandise?"
"No."
"You should think about it. You should come up with band art work and use it to sell things to your fans."
And immediately I did think about it. Because She Makes War also makes excellent suggestions.
Obviously there would be the Greville and the Tombstones cuff-links. For younger fans - Greville and the Tombstones knitted-to-scale figures. And ladies could purchase vest tops of a selection from a small colour palette. That would be something! Selling band merch!
Later on I saw Laura play as She Makes War. Fair to say, She Makes War made a terrific impression on the varied demographic in a small, traditionally apportioned old town bar. Laura has a mesmeric stage presence - very watchable, and listenable. She Makes War is exciting. I had a thoroughly good time and would like to see her perform again.
It is also fair to submit Laura has reignited my passion for not being in a band. I am almost certainly not working on a band logo in my head right now!
Indeed, here we sit, only a couple of weeks later, and I could announce the latest track for the album. If there was one being worked on. Which there isn't.
It is to a largely upbeat tune - something akin to Fall Out Boy's more commercial stuff.
Not sure where the inspiration for the lyrics came from, to be honest. It is funny how my songs seem to come from almost subliminal means. A half noticed drop of a leaf into a puddle, perhaps? Anyway, it's called: (I have a crush on) A Gloom Pop Girl.
(I have a crush on) A Gloom Pop Girl
All shade and hair in a twirl,
She plays songs of gentle doom.
The darkest star in the planetary constellation,
An electro-lightening complication,
I feel iron tide in blood as amps charge the room,
I have a crush on a gloom pop girl.
Because I like my castles in ruins,
I like my clouds coloured grey.
I like my birds to be ravens
And I like the desolate turn of the day.
The melodies uncoil and unfurl,
Misery, all is lost to her voice,
Melancholic comfort of warmth in midwinter coat
Heartbreak found of old love’s note
The subtle indifference of Hobson’s choice
I have a crush on a gloom pop girl.
Because I like my castles in ruins,
I like my clouds coloured grey.
I like my birds to be ravens
And I like the desolate turn of the day.
My emotions transfix in bleak whirl
Pasted in a Victorian scrap book
Curled corners of pictures, the failure of glue
Blurred image inks distill into blue
Unevenly spread where these hands shook
I have a crush on a gloom pop girl.
Because I like my castles in ruins,
I like my clouds coloured grey.
I like my birds to be ravens
And I like the desolate turn of the day.
[Power chord moment]
Hey, hey, hey!
Oh, Hey!
Hey!
Gas lit film flickers away!
It sparkles down on your skin!
Danger but not feeling peril,
A vile of poison bottled in crimson,
A rusting shield under skies of gloomy weather,
I see we can get through this together
Now I know others share imperfect vision
I have a crush on a gloom pop girl.
Because I like my castles in ruins!
I like my graveyards overgrown,
I like my birds to be ravens
And I like my tombstones uneven and prone.
I mean, what's all that about, eh? A psychologists dream!
Tuesday, 17 July 2012
Beautiful people are people too
I overheard a conversation between two women. It might have been one of the saddest conversations I have ever had the misfortune to have eavesdropped on. One said to the other:
"My daughter has almost finished her medical degree to be a doctor. She is doing really well, but she is finding certain things difficult. She knows she is too pretty now. She is having to make herself deliberately less attractive so she can concentrate on her finals without constantly being distracted with other students wanting to be around her all the time. She didn't ask to be so beautiful. It is such a shame."
Wow.
Let's just think about that fact: A girl born so unbelievably beautiful is uglifying herself on purpose, in order she becomes less popular. What cruel cards of fate the Gods deal!
What century do we live in where a young, exceptionally good looking girl has to stop GHD straightening her hair just to get a little time to herself with her laptop to become a medical doctor? The 1400's?!?
What this poor lass needs is a champion. A hero that's up for the fight. Thankfully, one such person exists. In the South of France.
Ms. Brick, a journalist, used her column some weeks ago to highlight this very problem for herself - also a very good looking person.
Brick, too, is afflicted with beauty. She is dragged down by the cursed consequences of her being stunning: Barmen point blank refusing payment for drinks, men on the street insisting to pay taxi fares wherever she exits the cab, boys forcing bunches of flowers into her hand as she goes about her business at the market - and the examples go on.
This may all, at first, appear lovely. But Brick is quick to say otherwise. Jealous friends, distracted males and resentful wives have made life unbearable. Women judge her, men can't help but want to be with her and wives are confrontational and hurtful.
Brick - despite the good fortune of having a name which conjures no connotation to beauty - claims she has lost out throughout life due to her face. Female bosses have overlooked her for promotions and friends have not let her be a bridesmaid because she would upstage the bride.
And why? Just because she is a woman who enjoys wearing short dresses, confessed in an earlier article to aggressively flirting with any man to get ahead in life and who, thanks to an older husband, hangs around a peer group some 10 years older than she is?
Brick has been reduced on occasion to dress down in jeans and a (in her words) "albeit pretty, demure top" just to get on with her day without attention. Now entering her 4th decade on this planet, Brick states she is welcoming her body's decline - to become like the other, older wives of the men she speaks to, whose bloom is quickly fading. In this way, Brick hopes to be seen for who she is, under her excellent skin and award winning bone structure.
As it turns out - folk were quite happy to tell her what she is seen as now, even before her bloom has over blossomed. Brick became the eye of a huge twitter storm. To paraphrase the response: it was not all supportive of her plight.
Things got so bad Brick went on TV to put her point across that most of the "haters" were women - thus proving her point (women make the lives of prettier women worse). "I am coming out loud: I am a beautiful women". But the Twitter-verse did not see reason. If anything - Brick had somehow made it worse.
Hell, even I partook in a little Twitter chat about her.
But - what if Brick was right. What if she is in a world of ugly people, like Bolt being in a world of slower at running people. But, unlike Bolt who gets adulation and sponsorship - she is shunned, talked about behind her back and responsible for domestic tension among her friends. And there is nothing she can do about it. I mean, at least Bolt could walk to places.
Indeed, you will have by now noted I have not linked to the articles nor posted a picture of Samantha Brick. This is for your own protection. I would hate for me to be the reason you are seen to be looking upon her and being responsible for your marital break-up, you trying force a bunch of flowers through your PC monitor to her or be turned to stone.
As a compromise I drew this picture:
If you really want to take your chances, feel free to Google her. But I want nothing to do with it.
Brick has to live with her face everyday. You don't have to. The burden must be awful.
The thing is, Brick clearly was onto something as the conversation I overheard at the start of this blog proved. Could it be Brick, by putting her gorgeous head above the parapet she has become the zenith point of this hitherto under-represented human rights issue?
I believe so.
Brick may very well be the Rosa Parks of very, very good looking women. In years to come she will be seen as the suffragette of younger women claiming the right to seek out attention from men through their good looks and fashionable skirts for their own selfish needs without guilt and harassment from those men's wives.
It may be too late for the poor, beautiful medical student, but we can only hope it won't be for the stunningly beautiful young doctor yet to come. We can only hope Brick, in highlighting this human tragedy, has somehow made a difference in allowing the girl even the remotest chance to carve a semblance of a reasonable life of being a doctor and terrifically good looking.
"My daughter has almost finished her medical degree to be a doctor. She is doing really well, but she is finding certain things difficult. She knows she is too pretty now. She is having to make herself deliberately less attractive so she can concentrate on her finals without constantly being distracted with other students wanting to be around her all the time. She didn't ask to be so beautiful. It is such a shame."
Wow.
Let's just think about that fact: A girl born so unbelievably beautiful is uglifying herself on purpose, in order she becomes less popular. What cruel cards of fate the Gods deal!
What century do we live in where a young, exceptionally good looking girl has to stop GHD straightening her hair just to get a little time to herself with her laptop to become a medical doctor? The 1400's?!?
What this poor lass needs is a champion. A hero that's up for the fight. Thankfully, one such person exists. In the South of France.
Ms. Brick, a journalist, used her column some weeks ago to highlight this very problem for herself - also a very good looking person.
Brick, too, is afflicted with beauty. She is dragged down by the cursed consequences of her being stunning: Barmen point blank refusing payment for drinks, men on the street insisting to pay taxi fares wherever she exits the cab, boys forcing bunches of flowers into her hand as she goes about her business at the market - and the examples go on.
This may all, at first, appear lovely. But Brick is quick to say otherwise. Jealous friends, distracted males and resentful wives have made life unbearable. Women judge her, men can't help but want to be with her and wives are confrontational and hurtful.
Brick - despite the good fortune of having a name which conjures no connotation to beauty - claims she has lost out throughout life due to her face. Female bosses have overlooked her for promotions and friends have not let her be a bridesmaid because she would upstage the bride.
And why? Just because she is a woman who enjoys wearing short dresses, confessed in an earlier article to aggressively flirting with any man to get ahead in life and who, thanks to an older husband, hangs around a peer group some 10 years older than she is?
Brick has been reduced on occasion to dress down in jeans and a (in her words) "albeit pretty, demure top" just to get on with her day without attention. Now entering her 4th decade on this planet, Brick states she is welcoming her body's decline - to become like the other, older wives of the men she speaks to, whose bloom is quickly fading. In this way, Brick hopes to be seen for who she is, under her excellent skin and award winning bone structure.
As it turns out - folk were quite happy to tell her what she is seen as now, even before her bloom has over blossomed. Brick became the eye of a huge twitter storm. To paraphrase the response: it was not all supportive of her plight.
Things got so bad Brick went on TV to put her point across that most of the "haters" were women - thus proving her point (women make the lives of prettier women worse). "I am coming out loud: I am a beautiful women". But the Twitter-verse did not see reason. If anything - Brick had somehow made it worse.
Hell, even I partook in a little Twitter chat about her.
But - what if Brick was right. What if she is in a world of ugly people, like Bolt being in a world of slower at running people. But, unlike Bolt who gets adulation and sponsorship - she is shunned, talked about behind her back and responsible for domestic tension among her friends. And there is nothing she can do about it. I mean, at least Bolt could walk to places.
Indeed, you will have by now noted I have not linked to the articles nor posted a picture of Samantha Brick. This is for your own protection. I would hate for me to be the reason you are seen to be looking upon her and being responsible for your marital break-up, you trying force a bunch of flowers through your PC monitor to her or be turned to stone.
As a compromise I drew this picture:
 |
| This is equal to but not the same as the beauty of Ms. S Brick |
If you really want to take your chances, feel free to Google her. But I want nothing to do with it.
Brick has to live with her face everyday. You don't have to. The burden must be awful.
The thing is, Brick clearly was onto something as the conversation I overheard at the start of this blog proved. Could it be Brick, by putting her gorgeous head above the parapet she has become the zenith point of this hitherto under-represented human rights issue?
I believe so.
Brick may very well be the Rosa Parks of very, very good looking women. In years to come she will be seen as the suffragette of younger women claiming the right to seek out attention from men through their good looks and fashionable skirts for their own selfish needs without guilt and harassment from those men's wives.
It may be too late for the poor, beautiful medical student, but we can only hope it won't be for the stunningly beautiful young doctor yet to come. We can only hope Brick, in highlighting this human tragedy, has somehow made a difference in allowing the girl even the remotest chance to carve a semblance of a reasonable life of being a doctor and terrifically good looking.
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