Jedward Returns

Hello. Tomorrow it's the final of the XFactor. And even though John and Edward won't be there in person we'll still all be wondering what 21st Century Britain would feel like with them at Number One and David Cameron at Number Ten.

And because we're all missing the cheeky Irish twins, here's a picture of them as drawn by my 2 and a half year old daughter. John is the one on the left. My daughter's picture of David Cameron was too hideous to publish. C'mon Joe!

In Praise of the X-Factor

This is the first series of the X-Factor that I have watched. Before, I was of the opinion that it wasn’t my sort of thing so I ignored it. Now, I love it.

Before, the slings and arrows of its pop-rageous misfortune were as mysterious to me as the controls of the Hadron Super-Collider. Now, the faces of the contestants are more familiar to me than some members of my own family. Before, I used to be the sort of person who went out on Saturday nights. Now, I am not. I am married and have a child.

It is popular to knock the X-Factor. Many would criticise it for being a flimsy and insidious blemish on our otherwise golden TV schedules. But hang on, the X-Factor is a talent show! And all talent shows have a bit of whiff of shitness about them, don’t they? To criticise the X-Factor for this is rather like complaining that your grandfather is old. Or that Monday would be better off in the middle of the week. Obvious. Pointless. Lazy.

The very idea that the X-Factor is dong any real damage to our children/culture/musical heritage is to ascribe it with way, way too much heft and muscle. According to some, the show must be stopped or the Earth will fall – as if animated by the hand of Terry Gilliam – into an intergalactic sausage mincer of Armageddon.

A recent critic of the X-Factor has been Sting, who referred witheringly to the contestants as karaoke singers. Now, I really like Sting records. I own several and even listen to them but that doesn’t make me agree with him. He seems to think that shows like the X-Factor (and excuse me, but how many others are there anyway?) are the death of popular music. And yet I bet Mrs Sting has a Will Young CD in her car. Sting has kids; I bet one of them really likes Girls Aloud. And so a tiny fact sustains me… That even though he’s made a mountain of money from making ‘proper music’ the teensiest fraction has probably been spent on a Leona Lewis tune or two for one of the 47 ipods used at Sting Towers. And that fact ought to eat away at his insides like a giant bubblegum-pink tapeworm with Dannii Minogue’s face on it.

The other evening I heard Stuart Maconie and Mark Radcliffe grumbling about the X-Factor. They’re two gentlemen whose views I usually find are worth hearing but not on this occasion. They moaned about how the show was doing real damage because it was the only way the ‘the kids’ were able to find out about music. They made a kind of mewing noise, like two pensioners who had both just picked two particularly acidic sherbet lemons from a paper bag and were in mild dental discomfort. They said that proper music like Kate Bush and whoever would just die if the only place music could be found on TV was the X-Factor. What rubbish! When I was a kid, I listened to the chart show on a Sunday night and I watched Top of the Pops once a week and THAT was the only music I listened to. My record collection was not built thanks to Arena or The South Bank Show. Then I liked Rick Astley and Erasure and ABBA. But I was fifteen for goodness sake. Now I’m older, I still like all that stuff but I also like Tom Waits and Bob Dylan and Aretha Franklin. And John Coltrane and Puccini and Mahler for that matter. It’s OK, don’t worry. A generation of X-Factor viewers won’t grow up thinking Mariah Carey is the one true God.

Anyway, the ways you ‘find out about’ music in 2009 are very different than they used to be. I still listen to Radio One occasionally and hear something new. But mostly I’ll explore iTunes, where this year I’ve discovered the XX, Devendra Banhart and Little Comets. I’ll still listen to ‘We Don’t Have to Take Our Clothes Off to Have a Good Time” by Jermain Stewart and the world won’t end! Plus Later… with Jools Holland is still doing good business on BBC 2. That’s pretty accessible.

The X-Factor underlines the trouble with talking about culture in general and music in particular. Even the smartest minds and sharpest pens seem unable to avoid falling into the most obvious trap. Surely you should be able to say that you like something without having to proclaim its relative merits? The critics’ ego can’t help itself. “If I like it, it must be good. If I don’t like it, it must be shit!” If you criticise the X-Factor for being lowbrow and somehow corrosive it doesn’t matter how many syllables you use to do it, its still basically just playground name-calling.

I love the X-Factor. I think it’s very entertaining and my wife and I are glued to the TV for an hour every Saturday and Sunday night. I was so impressed by one of the singers this week that I even voted for him. On the red button. SO THERE!

And then when it was over for another night, I decided that I’d quite like to listen to some Muddy Waters. So there, too!

To all you X-Factor haters out there, I would say this: I reserve the right to like what I want to like and not to be made to feel inferior if my preferences don’t meet the exactingly uptight standards set by the barons of taste. And besides, The X-Factor is only on for a couple of hours a week anyway, so if you’re that worried that it’s going to take us all to Hell in a handcart, why not spend that time volunteering at a local day centre and try to fix the fucking world that way instead.

Can We Win at a Trott?

Spare a thought for Ravi Bopara. Ommitted from the final Ashes Test squad on the grounds the 105 runs in 7 innings he's scored against the Australians isn't enough. Only in a England shirt could a promising and evidently talented player go from 'good enough' to 'not good enough' in 4 matches. It wouldn't happen in the West Indies and it certainly wouldn't happen in Oz. 

This year's England Ashes team has been a model of inconsistency. On top one minute, outclassed the next. But the selectors have been nothing if not true to previous form. Only they would elevate a player to England status, play him in a team where no-one has really found any form to speak of and then drop him like a stone when victory was in sight. 

At Headlingly, the England captain Andrew Strauss called for a period of calm reflection and no panicky decisions. Just how much influence on team selection does the solid yet conservative Strauss actually have? A calm decision would have been to let Bopara repay some of the faith that has been shown in him. If he was good enough at the start of the series, surely its much more reasonable to expect that his time would have come at the Oval and he'd score a few runs? Apparently not. Now, should he ever make it back into the England side he'll have to prove himself all over again. Fine work by the selectors and I'm sure that Bopara is just as miffed as he should be. He's been jetisoned in favour of an in form county player with no international Test experience. And to compound the madness, his replacement isn't even going to bat in his position - Number 3. The deeply unconvincing Ian Bell will step up with the newcomer Jonathan Trott batting at four. 

This is a decision that makes little sense. If Trott is good enough to play, then he should be good enough to play at three. If Bopara is struggling, just swap him with Bell. Selecting Trott makes no tactical sense. He's a greater gamble than leaving Bopara in the side. At least Bopara's had a good look at the Australian bowlers. I'd argue that he has just a much chance as Trott to make a few runs and help England to victory. Don't drop him altogether and risk destroying another potential England player's career before it even starts.

The Australians wouldn't do this. They stuck by the errant work of Mitchell Johnson for three Tests and were rewarded when he took six wickets at Headingly.

So can England win with Trott in the side? Of course they can but they'll need more of the spirit they showed at Lords. And they must win the toss. If conditions don't favour the batsmen, Ponting will choose to field first and Trott will be making his way back to the Pavilion before he's even had chance to get his brand new England kit dirty.

I suspect that Monty Panesar will replace Graham Onions. All the talk is that the wicket will favour him. And nothing will stop Andrew Flintoff from playing. And nor should it. He was greatly missed at Headingly and is really the only inspirational player in the England side.

Australia are beatable. But they have match-winners in their side and the only English player with that kind of skill is Freddie.

If the line-up is Strauss, Cook, Bell, Trott, Collingwood, Prior, Flintoff, Broad, Anderson, Harmison, Panesar then we have a chance. But all eleven will have to play their best. And the Aussies will have to slip up. And I ask you... which is more likely when the stakes are as high as this? One thing's for sure, The Oval is the place to be come Thursday morning.

Ashes to Ashes

Today I have been mostly watching the Ashes on TV.

A latecomer to the joys and sorrows of cricket, I find myself now unable to live without the regular updates that the new multimedia world can provide on this most ancient and noble of sports.

My wife doesn't get it at all.

But then she doesn't get the internet either, really. She is of the opinion that all it's good for is looking up what the weather ought to have been like during the previous 24 hours and self-diagnosing a seemingly endless variety of medical conditions. There's a term for this, that I didn't invent but is worth mentioning anyway and that is 'Cyberchondria'. Just love it.

And anyway, we don't need to worry about Swine Flu. There were at least 30,000 people at Lords today who weren't worried enough about it to stay away.

And you'd be hard pressed to find a more contagious looking group of folk than the MCC members. "Ahh, Tarquin, just back from the country, I see (cough)?"... "Indeed, Wilfred old chap (cough), Heavens! That Ponting fellow's a bit of an old goat (wheeze)... Wilfred? Wilfred? I say, excuse me is there a doctor in the pavilion?"

I digress. Cricket in general and the Ashes in particular seems to be perfectly suited to the wondrous panoply of offerings that technology can dream up. I'm watching the Ashes on Sky. Pausing live TV to wind back and see if 'that was a catch?' or 'was that a decent shout for lbw?' I'm calling up the scorecard on the BBC website and poring over bowling figures. And now I'm getting David 'Bumble' Lloyd to send me his latest thoughts, via Twitter to my mobile phone. I'm sure if I had an iphone I could download the 'app' which plugs me directly into Kevin Pietersen's brain. From there I could access all the various nightclubbing/sponsorship deals/types of haircut that he's so obviously pondering whilst he's at the crease. I mean, he's clearly not thinking about 'batting' whilst he's there, is he.

My TV doesn't have HD. Instead, I was watching in High Expectation. And that was the worst thing I could do. An England victory still looks likely but this evening at close of play, like many other England supporters I found myself thinking the worst. It would be just typical of the bloody Australians to knock off the remaining 209 runs or whatever it is tomorrow, without losing any more wickets and snatch a victory. 

But that's the thrill of the game. A five day contest, made up of tiny moments. Six balls in an over, ninety odd overs in a day. Anything could happen. Even the most unlikely event is only another delivery away. The tension mounts as a result edges incrementally closer. 

Boldly Going Again

If you are reading this it's logical to assume that you like Star Trek. You probably wouldn't be reading this if you aren't. But just in case, keep reading because you're in for a surprise.

In the 1960's a moderately successful American TV series was created. Forty years on, its a cultural supernova with catchphrases and dialogue that have entered common parlance and a grip, Vulcan-like on the minds of millions. But like any ancient star, it's been dying, decaying, decomposing for years, threatening to consume the universe it illuminates, in danger of going dark forever. Star Trek ceased to be cool decades ago, overtaken at warp speed by slicker, sexier shows in its genre like X Files, Heroes, Lost and Alias.

These last two shows came from the imagination of JJ Abrams, a TV producer and director with the same visionary credentials as Gene Roddenberry, Star Trek's founding father. It's appropriate then, that it is Abrams who's been given the task of breathing new life into Roddenberry's creation.

In its 40-odd years on screen, Star Trek has existed in various incarnations: The 'classic' series with William Shatner as Captain Kirk, a 1980's reboot with Patrick Stewart in command and three further shows, Deep Space Nine, Voyager and Enterprise. The Star Trek universe is expansive to say the least. Boldly, Abrams has been very public about his lack of affection for all of this. It's bold because it's the back catalogue of tradition that fans cherish and guard most fervently of all. Mess with it, mate and you'll find that space is a very cold and lonely place.

I must confess that I was expecting to hate this new version. Not because I have any loyalty to the old shows but because I was bracing myself for the impact of yet another disappointing Summer blockbuster, devoid of a script worth the paper it was typed on, another hollow sound and light spectacular without a heart or a brain.

Rarely have I left a cinema so energised. Star Trek is exhilarating. It's wonderful. It's fun. The stakes are high, the skirts are short and the phasers are set permanently to 'wow!' from the first frame to the last. I loved it. Walking from the cinema, I realised I wasn't alone. One other member of the audience put it best when he said "They nailed it". They certainly did.

I saw this film at the marvellous IMAX cinema in London. The screen is 20 metres high and 26 metres wide. I was sat about eight rows back and couldn't see the edges. At times I felt like I was actually in the film, not merely watching it. You wouldn't want to watch Vera Drake this way but it's perfect for a film like this.

So what's gone so right when so much has gone so boldly but so limply before?

Many have said that each new entry in the Star Trek log book has been thinner and weaker than the one before and so it's wise of Abrams to return to the original 60's show for his film. A back to basics approach if you like, similar to the BBC's tactic when it re-tooled its own 1960's sci-fi classic, Doctor Who. Don't build a brand new ship, instead take the trusty old vessel into space-dock and give her a refit. In this way, Abrams has cleverly allowed himself to have his cake and eat it. He's kept the old crew together but torn up every scrap of their original stories and given them all a clean slate. Audacious, to be sure. And it pays off in spades.

It's a brand new Star Trek that is somehow different and reassuringly familiar at the same time.

The Kirk/Spock dynamic so well-etched into the minds of fans is turned on its head at the start but restored by the end. Out go the beloved notes of the theme tune in favour of something new but carefully close to the original. The plot is a mix of bang up to date dialogue and old-fashioned Star Trek hokum.

Nothing illustrates Abrams' new philosophy better than the closing lines of the film, the almost proverbial mission statement: "These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise...", repeated by so many schoolboys with more ardour then the Lord's Prayer. Lines given to William Shatner, the actor who seemed to embody all that dated Star Trek so badly. Lines rescued from the refit by Abrams and given instead to the one member of the original cast to appear in 2009, Leonard Nimoy.

It's satisfying, exciting and spectacular. It has brilliant special effects and credible heroes and villains, too. Roddenberry would approve. In Abrams' hands Star Trek really could live long and prosper.

The Unshaven Pursuit of the Unexpected

There are two observations made about working in Radio which are repeated so often that they have gone past the realms of cliche and onto a much higher and more banal plain.

The first - who'd have thought it - is that because there are no cameras (unlike in telly!) you can turn up to work without 40 tons of make up and still do your job.

The second, and this is really insightful, is that if you work in Breakfast radio, you have to get up early. And that the noise of your alarm going off at 4.12am or whatever isn't really much fun.

Really? Can this be true?

Both of these observations were made this weekend in the Guardian's Saturday magazine. A photo article - capturing "Britain's best and most contraversial presenters" - was the magazine's cover story. What followed was ten pages of pictures of our 'favourite' broadcasters accompanied by little more than adverts for the programmes they present. Very, very lazy indeed. 

Not only that, the pictures were standard publicity shots - there might have been at least an attempt by the magazine to take snaps of these presenters actually in studio, actually doing their jobs, actually giving us something interesting to see. But, no. Pointlessly lame. Unless of course a really big picture of Chris Tarrant's face is what you're after.

It's also just struck me that of the 27 presenters mentioned, all but 7 work for the BBC. There's plenty of talented broadcasters working in commercial radio - but they were notable by their absence from this shockingly prosaic waste of paper.

Of all the comments made by the DJs and journalists featured, only one stuck in my mind because of its way with words and it came from an unlikely source: Nicky Campbell.

Unfortunately, I just can't take him seriously because he seems to take himself so very seriously. I'm sure he's very good but every question he asks seems like he's overcompensating for once having presented the TV gameshow Wheel of Fortune. Nicky, please stop trying so hard. Simon Mayo once fronted a Saturday night primetime show for idiots called Confessions and yet you can't hear him straining for credibility (even if in reality he is).

The comment that I found so memorable in an otherwise embarrassing use of ten pages of the magazine, was Nicky Campbell's description of what he does, five mornings a week. He called it: "The unshaven pursuit of of the unexpected." Marvellous. As a description of what radio is all about, its pretty much spot on for three reasons. One, that yes, you don't have to look your best in order to perform at your best. Two: Radio is the most instant of all media and what you're always after is an unexpected moment, something surprising, funny or moving which becomes the highlight of your whole show.

Most of all though, is reason three. On radio all you really have is words. They are your tools and in the right hands, wonderful things can be made. If you can't command the English language, you're never going to be a great broadcaster. I'm not saying that Nicky Campbell is one, but at least he'd bothered to think of an articulate response to a boring question and demonstrate a turn of phrase we could all be proud of.

Well done, Nicky. I think I'll start quoting you.

In the Loop... and ahead of the pack

This is Malcolm Tucker. He's the frighteningly believable but sadly only fictional creation of the cleverest man in Britain: Armando Iannucci.

It's Malcolm's job to keep the flotsam and jestam of Government ministers - blown from one deeply held opinion to the next by the tide of popular opinion - in line. He throws himself at this task with such wholehearted, venomous force that to watch him go about it on the cinema screen is an experience akin to having your eyes sliced open with a rusty bottle-opener. I imagine. 

Malcolm is the main character in 'In the Loop', Armando Iannucci's big screen version of his rightly acclaimed BBC TV series 'The Thick Of It'. I'm happy to say that operating on the larger canvas of film does nothing to stretch the quality of the writing and perfomances on display. 

The strength of the TV series was a winning combination of biting political satire and swearwords. Happily, the same formula is at work in the film. Had they decided to have a swear-box on set, we could probably do away with the BBC licence fee instantly and run the Corporation on its daily takings instead.

The TV show successfully got the measure of Westminster. This film adds Washington and the United Nations into the mix. What you get is a seemingly limitless stream of invective from Malcolm as he tries to keep his Government's plans for war on an unnamed rogue state on track. The case for the real war against Iraq looks so flimsy now as to place it almost beyond satire, so the strength of the film is to use this merely as a backdrop. Instead it's an expletive driven romp which explores the failings of the human character just as thouroughly as it does Roger Melly's Profanisaurus.

Cabinet Ministers incompetently chase any opportunity to advance their careers. Their aides mumble backstage about their employers' shortcomings whilst demonstrating no more self-awareness themselves. And the American big guns show that stupidity, arrogance and hubris are definitely all amongst their super-powers.

In the midst of this circus is Malcolm Tucker (A word here for the actor Peter Capaldi whose performance as Malcolm can only be defined as exhilarating).

In one of the film's most satisfying scenes, Malcolm's puppeteering looks like it's about to flop and Capaldi's face shows the tiniest flicker of recognition that his barking, snarling tactics are for once useless. Another flicker and his split second of impotence is over but its shadow remains and that's what makes him the hero of the piece, if not quite the Ringmaster.

I strongly urge you to spend some time in the company of Malcolm when 'In the Loop' debuts at the cinema on 17th April. It'll be worth the admission price alone when you get to the scene about MP's expenses: Ultra-prescient genius. This film was written and shot months before we knew about the McNultys' or the Smiths' indiscressions - and that's what makes Armando Iannucci's commentary on the political game so clear-sighted. He does both the sophisticated and the base perfectly.

Actually, you might want to take a notepad in with you just to jot down some of the more choice put-downs and name-calling. If you get cut up at some traffic lights or spend too long on hold to your bank, they'll keep you going for a year. The trouble is, they come so thick and fast you'll certainly need shorthand.

Time to Spotify

The other day a friend of mine, much more internet-savvy than me, demonstrated yet another way to spend hours online instead of doing real life stuff: Spotify. 

It's wonderfully simple idea - like all the best ones, I suppose - based on the sharing, caring ethos of the more marvellous regions of the internet. If you want to listen to a piece of music, why should you have to pay to own it on CD or even download it from iTunes?

Let's face it, only a few of us listen over and over again to the same album the way we used to do when you could still buy records in Woolworths. Spotify is perfect at serving that desire, so common in music listening: the immediate need to listen to one particular track (or album) in full, just once. If you don't own it, or can't find it on your shelves then before Spotify, you'd have to buy it again if you wanted to hear it.

Now a whole world of musical treats is just a quick search away - All for free. All Spotify asks in return is that you tolerate a 20 second advert for another piece of music at 5 song intervals. That's roughly 2 adverts per album. Not a high price to pay for the privilege of listening to all of Hunky Dory by David Bowie without actually owning it, as I did this evening.

I should mention at this point that I've no idea whether Spotify is old news or not. It's possible that I'm crowing about an application that's about as cutting edge as paper. I recall the actions of my grandfather in 1983 when he took delivery of a Freezer. He went door to door in his street to tell his neighbours about the brand new, life-changing aparatus sat in his kitchen only to discover that everyone had a freezer in 1983. And more than one television in the house, in some cases.

So there it is. I am becoming my own Grandad.

At least there's no need to spend my pension on music anymore.

Time to Spotify, and spend the surplus on Central Heating.