Wednesday, 27 April 2016

Oh Rupert....

When he’s not remotely uploading baby penguin porn on to the laptops of editors that have upset him, Rupert Murdoch likes to relax by wearing a specially made ceramic urinal bonnet and having blindfolded Aboriginal boys piss in his face. All the while, and it’s this specific detail which brings the media mogul to orgasm, his latest trophy wife (at the time of writing it’s heartless ex Jagger spunkbin Jerry Hall) needs to softly coo “Time for Tubby bye bye, Time for Tubby bye bye” at the nonagenarian’s urine-speckled features.

None of that’s true, of course, but that’s unimportant. Truth is in the lie of the beholder. And when your goal is world domination, little things like dignity and people’s feelings are just minor potholes in the road.  The stresses of the megalomaniac are unknown to us, just as their wealth and power lust seem unimaginable so their problems must seem exponential too. We may quietly sympathise with the widow whose husband has died at a football match, or the mother of a missing child whose deleted voicemails give temporary hope they may yet be found but what are these worries compared to those of a man in pursuit of a controlling interest in a news channel that employs Eamonn Holmes? We all neglect things in personally turbulent times, our families, our appearance, our finances – the truth is just something we can mend at a later date.

People staring at the front pages of today’s newspapers may find themselves appalled by the lack of prominence given by Murdoch’s papers to the decisive verdicts handed out at the Hillsborough inquest yesterday. Some might say this is a final insult to those dead football fans, crushed as they were by an incompetent police force in thrall to a right-wing psychopath,  and then lied about by a press deeply in love with the same woman. Perhaps it is easier to see Murdoch and the South Yorkshire Police Force as rival lovers, both desperately yearning for the affection of a cold, distant woman. Love makes us do desperate things. It makes us believe supermodels half our age have genuine affection for our bald, wobbly, melanoma scarred bodies and not the billions in our account. It makes us rob pension funds and move our cash into our spouses names when we’ve been rumbled as a celebrity paedononce. It can even make us campaign for over a quarter of a century to clear the names of our loved ones when they have been besmirched by a national media in order to save the necks of Establishment figures. Love, love, love, love, love. It’s called love and it belongs to us.

All Murdoch has ever been guilty of is love. He craves your affection. And right now, when he refuses to issue even the slightest mea culpa, he leaves himself at his most vulnerable. Just as the shamed husband queues forlornly at the florist so the speckle headed press baron makes Sky Sports and Movies available to new customers at their lowest ever price. He can’t tell you how he feels in words. He’s not Julia Roberts, stood before Hugh Grant asking him to love her. He can’t go near Hugh Grant, not since Leveson. Truth, well what does it matter when love is at stake.

Don’t boycott his papers, don’t cancel his channels.  That’s kicking a man when he’s down, pissing in his pockets, robbing his money, slandering his name. And we’re better than that.

Tuesday, 19 April 2016

Cormac McCarthy on...the Brexit

For the next month they would eat only food native to the island, they would eat no snails. They had banished the Peugeots from their garages and filled their wine cellars in with ales named things like Admiral Crichton’s Foggy Dew and Blunderbuss Familiar. They censored their speech to remove words not entirely of the vernacular. Guttural sounds, the murmurings of something primitive, fearful, mad. Their names seemed demonic, monstrous – gods of a fallen civilization now forgotten. Gove, Farage, Boris. They gave speeches to men of the same mind and age. A tribe formed, Brexit.

They spoke of the gravy train and the butter mountain and the free market. They looked to the East and shuddered. They looked to the West and were shuddered at in turn. Under a Union Jack they strode from one golf club to the next, a procession of monoglots. They marched on. They marched like men invested with a purpose that they themselves were only partly convinced of, shaking, angry and uncertain..

They spoke of Brussels as inquisitors from Spain once spoke of roasting human flesh. All day they preached their gospel to no one but those they had already converted. Their leader, thatch haired, wild and insane, eyes haunted by a gamble that he knew now would not pay off. The sound of failed dice in his voice, the mechanical rumble of a rusting roulette wheel his faltering heartbeat.

They spoke of monsters to come from the Levant, demons already here from the Carpathians. The earth beyond the white cliffs was spiteful, infectious and corrupt. The Channel was their friend, the Tunnel their foe. They said the enemy had lied. That ten, no fifty million invaders lay waiting to plunder their savings, savage their children, eradicate their culture. They were listened to, they were scoffed at, they were applauded, they were ignored. The clapping warmed their hearts by day, in restless sleep their dreams were all of running, weeping, pointing and hiding.


Saturday, 2 April 2016

Fourfoots Top Forties volume 3

Forgot to post this on Monday.

Everything from the epic timeless Trammps to the glam wonder of Earl Brutus. Wu-Tang, Manics, Dylan, Cure etc...

Monday, 21 March 2016

Fourfoots Top Forties vol 2 - Lay Your Head Down.

Another week, another forty songs for your enjoyment.

The Atlantic glamencholy of Cesaria Evora, the sinister stylings of Ween, the peerless pop magic of the Carpenters. The title of this playlist comes from the lyrics of the cajun tinged Dark Dark Dark whose In Your Dreams is a highlight.

Something for everyone.

Monday, 14 March 2016

Fourfoot's Top Forties

Bored, I decided to devise a series of weekly top 40 playlists based on the shit I like.

Enjoy, share, whatever.

Funkadelic, The Orb, Mark E Smith and Ivor Cutler rub shoulders with Leadbelly, Tom Waits and Nina Simone.


Tuesday, 16 February 2016

A Villanil

A Villanil

(apologies to DT)

Do not go gentle out of that top flight,
Our fans should cheer and rave at close of play;
Rage, rage against the relegation plight .

Though Weimann at his end knew Derby was right,
Because his wages had not proved frightening he
Did not go gentle out of that top flight.

Grealish, the local boy, crying how bright
Their frail legs might have danced on Match of the Day,
Rage, rage against the relegation plight.

Guzan who caught then dropped the ball in flight,
And learn, too late, they gave a goal away,
Do not go gentle out of that top flight.

Chairmen, in debt, who see with blinding sight
The money spent on Nzgobia and Gueye,
Rage, rage against the relegation plight.

And you, Micah, fallen from such dizzy height,
Curse, bless, me now with your first team, I pray.
Do not go gentle out of that top flight.
Rage, rage against the relegation plight.

Monday, 11 January 2016


There will be millions of words written today on how David Bowie impacted upon the lives of millions more. That's a clumsy sentence but the world feels slightly less magical today and it's affecting me.

I was about 3 when I first saw Bowie. The gatefold sleeve of Aladdin Sane. My parents couldnt afford many records. So this one must have been one they needed to buy. And the sight of this naked silver andrgoyne with his proto-Potter flash of make up is a core memory, as Joy from Inside Out might have it. This image and the sounds that emanated from my dad's tinny Fidelity record player (4 speeds!) are enough - I am in love with pop music.

I find out that Bowie is from just down the road, my dad went to school with him. My mum sells his mum fags and newspapers at RG Haines. He had awful teeth, so did I. I felt a connection.

Ashes to Ashes goes to number 1, I'm 9 and the most terrifying, gripping, strangely upsetting pop video I have seen at this point of my life is Top of the Pops.

1983, I am 12. I've started getting pocket money and buy a new 7" single each week. Bowie is the first artist that I buy more than one record buy. Let's Dance, China Girl, Modern Love. Pop music. I can't tell the world how cool I am because that same year I buy records by Toto, Men at Work and Culture Club.

We grew apart, Dave and me. I discovered all the bands he inspired - Joy Division, Smiths, etc. I never get my teeth fixed and my indeterminate gender issues are a problem not worth sharing with anyone in the tiny Ceredigion village where I find myself as a teenager.

I left school and went to college. The kid in the next room to mine plays Queen Bitch continually on his guitar. One night, you and your mate The Monk, fed up with playing James records to student teachers, stick Low on and leave the album to play in its entirety. You are amused, no one else is.

You get older, Bowie songs get on the radio, you turn them up and sing along. Streaming allows the world to jump in and out of that glorious back catalogue. You make a mental note to see him live if he ever returns to the stage. You play Changes and Oh You Pretty Things to your little girl. She loves them.

One morning, you turn on your phone and Twitter tells you David Bowie is dead. 2 days after dropping a new LP. Cancer. He knew it was the end. Social media explodes with genuine heartfelt grief and you find yourself for the first time sobbing for a star you never met.

Bowie lived the most extraordinary of lives. Carpe Diem doesnt do it justice. His death robs us of an artist whose best work may yet have been to come. When I found myself crying to The Prettiest Star earlier I realised I wasnt crying just for him, but for me. All the times I could have reinvented myself, created something, done anything even remotely out of the blue and I didnt. I chose to live an ordinary life because only the brave do otherwise.

Rest in peace, David. Everyone says Bye.

Note: A personal Bowie playlist here