Posted in Writing

Oh Lordy, It’s the VMAs

I haven’t watched MTV’s Video Music Awards in years. I don’t know what I thought was happening with it in my absence but I reckoned it would be pretty much the same as it used to be except with more hashtags and less plaid.

It appears I was quite wrong. I decided to watch it last night because I had a tube of Pringles to get through and I don’t feel as guilty when I accompany them with feature length things on the internet. It makes obscene Pringle consumption more of an accessory as opposed to a crime in itself.

As I got through the first 15 minutes of vague girl-on-girl action and bondage-themed outfits, it slowly dawned on me that I had no idea who anyone was. I know everyone says that when you get to my age but really, I barely recognised any of the names that won awards that entire night, I was genuinely surprised by this. Although expectantly weaker, I really thought I still had a grip on popular culture. I do not!!! Who the fuck is ‘Fetty Wap’??? And why does this person’s name sound like northern slang for a bit of cheeky masturbation?

Someone I did recognise was Britney Spears. She was there. Although she clearly had no idea she was there. Looking at her dead, fragile eyes blinking in the spotlight on stage, I think she was in a land created entirely by herself. One which featured double-denim sewn together with Justin Timberlake’s soft curls, a lifetime supply of fried chicken and possibly meth. She looked done, completely void, like she’d forgotten her child in a motel carpark and couldn’t quite decide if she could be arsed going back for it. It was quite sad really.

Another person I had heard of was Justin Beiber. Unlike Britney, he very much knew he was there. A harsh, jarring reality for him – it was as if he had suddenly realised how depressing his world was as soon as his performance started. I found it quite difficult to watch, I have more energy when I have one of my hangover-PMS combos. At the end of the song he literally broke down in tears, bawling his little eyes out because he is essentially a child and the entire world fucking hates his guts and wishes he had died in a fire as a baby. I give the poor kid 5 years.

Kanye and Kim. They’ve been done to death on the internet so I’m not going to talk about how they were dressed as if they were playing the part of foliage in a school play, or how Kim’s left breast is going to give me nightmares for the next 6 months, or how her face. Just her face. She’s younger than me, yet she looks like a permanently suspicious, swollen pensioner with chronic allergies.

No, what I will talk about is the “vanguard” award that Kanye won. I don’t even know what that award is or means or implies but the delusion of it all was bone-chilling. You see, Kanye West is a cunt. This is fact. He is a tantrum-throwing bully who thinks his job on this planet is to make empires cool again. He is comedy to the extreme. Before watching this year’s VMAs, I thought everyone knew this. I thought we were all in agreement like “Golddigga was an absolute smash of a song but let’s just make sure he never gets outside without being accompanied by an adult.”

I can’t believe how wrong I was. People are lapping this shit up! I know this because not nearly enough piss was taken out of him on the internet after his questionable, 11 minute acceptance speech. His ramblings were confusing yet dangerous all at the same time and preceded by an equally baffling introduction video which I have transcribed below:

“The artist aims for perfection. He wants to be the best. Every day is spent pursuing the images the artist dreams. When we see his work, we feel its energy. It transforms us. He advances culture by destroying what came before, so we can start anew. He doesn’t just feel. He follows his truth wherever it leads. If his honesty brings chaos, it doesn’t make him wrong, it makes him a person. It’s important to stay idealistic, to be vocal, to see the world through eyes of a child: free, open, full of wonder and imagination. He shares these dreams with us. We have to fight for our visionaries. We won’t go gently into victory. And we’re better for it.”

Well you can fuck off if you think I’m going to fight for Kanye. He wears ridiculous leather tracksuit bottoms and refers to himself as “God’s vessel”. Bear in mind that this was all pre and con-cluded by Miley Cyrus dressed like a dead clown-prostitute talking non-stop about how much pot she smokes like she’s the first person to ever try it. Completely surreal.

As the camera panned around the venue, the whole room looked like they were just holding it together and no more. None of them can walk unaided and they can’t move their faces at all. It’s like they know that at any minute all their collagen could expire simultaneously and they will fall to the floor en masse, smashing into a million pieces.  “I’ve just got to make it through the next hour without melting, please don’t let me melt ’til I get home, people can’t see me in my true form.” The desperate, straining panic in their faces about the only thing the surgery can’t hide.

My experience of watching the VMAs after so long has left me feeling 20% sad that I’m so out of touch and 80% grateful that I’m so out of touch. I’m not going to lie, I feel a little bit like I’ve been discreetly booted out of a club that I used to be so knowledgeable and active in. I remember the good days when the ceremony was dominated by Beck, Rage Against the Machine, Tupac, Alanis Morissette, Tracy Chapman, Garbage, Smashing Pumpkins, Alice in Chains, Blackstreet, Nirvana, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Dr Dre, Missy Elliot, Prodigy etc. The majority of whom had things to say. Last night I watched Nicki Minaj punch herself in the vagina about 20 times whilst singing about ass and pussy, how she is better than everyone else and hates everything that cannot satisfy her sexually or financially.

I went to bed last night with distinctly uneasy and apocalyptic thoughts – but is this simply a case of natural progression? Am I just becoming my parents who in turn didn’t want to become their parents? Is the same thing going to happen to my unborn child one day or is there something genuinely wrong with the entertainment industry nowadays?

I need to stop ending my articles with questions. I’m starting to sound like Carrie fucking Bradshaw.

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Posted in Writing

My New iPad – Not Just a Lover but a Best Friend

Two months ago I turned 30.  The night before the big day I went to sleep disliking Sheryl Crow but woke up the next morning thinking she was a truly exciting and valid artist.  It really does happen that fast.  I got up and was relieved to see that there was a substantial amount of presents in the corner of the living room.  This was good, I needed something to distract me from the sudden realisation that I was going to have to start thinking of a valid reason for being unmarried with no kids.  ‘I can’t be arsed’ and ‘I’d rather spend the money on beer’ was now going to make me sound more like an alcoholic lesbian than a care-free youth.

I was genuinely surprised (and slightly teary) to discover that my first present was an iPad.  People have suggested to me that this ‘oversized iphone’ is an unnecessary, almost gimmicky bit of gadgetry.  To them I say: “Fuck you!” and then I say “You need to re-evaluate the shambles that is your life and take responsibility for the fact that you just air-quoted the phrase ‘oversized iphone’, now be gone!” and then I say “Damnit, that would have sounded amazing if I had thought of it before they got in their car and drove away…………three weeks ago”.  Reluctantly, however, I am going to have to agree with these gimps.  No one needs an iPad, not even disabled people, and they need everything. It doesn’t really do anything that other products can’t already do, but if we all thought like that we would never have been blessed with such gems as: The Jesus-shaped toast stencil, the plastic banana protection case, the Slanket, the George Foreman Grill or literally anything sold by JML in all good Poundstretcher shops.

In other words, I am in love with my iPad.  Completely and utterly, head over heels, madly in love with my iPad.  We sleep together, we shower together, we cook together, we drink together, we sing the timeless Foreigner classic ‘Feels Like The First Time’ together………it’s our song.  The main reason I love the iPad is motivated by complete laziness.  It’s not so much what you can do with it, it’s where you can do it.  I can personalize it to the last detail so that it only contains things that I want to read about/watch/listen to and then take it with me to work, on a plane or, more importantly, to the bathroom. No more having to turn on the TV if I want to watch TV, no more having to buy a newspaper if I want to read a newspaper and best of all, no more having to boot up my piece of shit laptop to check my emails.  In comparison my laptop is like a giant, bumbling, club-footed beast, offensive to the point of Lady Gaga’s face.

Despite all this love, it pains me to say that there are two slight flaws with my new possession.  The first one is the bed sores that I have been gradually developing over the past couple of months.  The iPad makes it almost impossible to get out of bed.  This is my morning routine:  Wake up, pick up iPad, open facebook, try to scratch my eyeballs out to stop myself from having to read the immense pile of shit that some people feel the need to share with the world, close facebook, open Twitter, see if it is possible for Kanye West to be any more mental, close Twitter, open BBC News, read about Chilean Miners, close BBC News, open ITV Showbiz News, stare at Cheryl Cole’s amazing face, close ITV Showbiz News, open this blog, see if anyone has left me a comment (that would be a no), close this blog.  By the time I have done all this it’s like 2 o’clock in the afternoon and I have bed sores, but holy shit I am INFORMED!

The second flaw is the necessity to sacrifice one arm in order to carry the iPad around the house with me everywhere.  I’m basically an amputee.  I’m eligible for the 2012 Paralympic shotput event and I’m learning how to play the piano with my feet. If I’m honest it’s not ideal, but do not panic because I have a plan.  I watched this programme last week on Bravo called ‘We Find Your Medical Misfortune Fucking Hilarious’ and it featured this giant fat woman who had misplaced her TV remote.  Turns out it had made its way between two of her fat rolls and had been sitting there for like 18 months.  In that time the skin had engulfed the remote and kind of merged with it so that the remote had actually become part of the fat woman.  I thought this would be a great way to enable me to keep both hands free while still having the iPad at my fingertips.  It’s been a couple of days and so far it hasn’t even latched on but I’ll keep you updated on any progress.

Now that I have covered the pros and inconsequential cons of the iPad I am going to retire, re-group and eventually return to write a completely useless guide to the apps that I think deserve a place on my home screen.  In the meantime I suggest that you sell your children to Somalian pirates and go buy one immediately. Just sit back and let Steve Jobs put that snooker ball in your mouth, I promise it hurts good.

It would have been 5/5 fists but I’m retracting one because iTunes does my tits in: 

Have a listen: Foreigner – Feels Like the First Time