John Martyn 1948-2009

What a sad day. John Martyn, a man responsible for some of the most moving, emotional and powerful music ever, died today aged 60.

Whatever your plans are this evening, find some time to raise a glass of red and enjoy some of his amazing work.

Solid Air

Couldn't Love You More

May You Never

Sweet Little Mystery - "Now don't fall over!"

RIP John, and thanks.

Another Sunday hangover

So I listened to this for some of the day - Reckoner.

An old gentleman

I'm going to continue with the gym theme for one more post if I may (and I may), by commenting on the unusually high number of 'seniors' that frequent Balham Leisure Centre. It's pertinent to mention it now because of the surreal experience I had this morning.

In the midst of one of my epic and, frankly, futile sessions of endeavouring to increase my weight from a paltry 6 stone to a gargantuan, Adonis-like 6 stone one pound, I noticed a sweet old chinese fella, in his sixties if not seventies, ambling over to one of the leg press machines. He walked with a slight hunch, big baggy clothes on and one of those baseball caps that's so small and pastel that it gets called a sunhat. It was more ornament than item of clothing, perched on his head the way it was; strictly speaking he wasn't actually wearing it.

After assimilating my thoughts and feelings on the hat, I noticed the slogan on his sweatshirt. At a glance I thought it said something along the lines of Zero to Hero. 'How lovely', I thought, 'probably a gift from a consortium of grandchildren who all chipped in to buy this much-loved relative a long-lasting reminder of their affection.' It was only when I re-read the text properly that I realised the sentiments being offered by this decrepit man, diligently making his way through 1 set of 3 reps in a foolhardy attempt to fend off his impending death, for the slogan actually read:

 Zero to Horny in 25 Beers.

Disturbing.

One for the lexicon

I've invented a new sub-section of dance music - it's called gymnasium house. It's the type of music that evokes vivid mental images of obese women on exercise bikes at spinning classes, huge arses wobbling and banging about while the instructor shouts in time to the music '1..2..3.. ready... and FAST, FAST, FAST, FAST' while enthusiastically pumping his/her arms in the air.

What's so wonderful about it is this: if music shops and websites pick up on it, I will never waste a single moment of my life looking at CDs by those artists whose music would be found in the gym house section. 

The archetypal gym house track is this one. Others include this shame and this shambles.

So there it is - Gym House, coming soon to all good music shops and websites...

F1 Palpitations

If you didn't see Lewis Hamilton become World Champion at the Brazilian Grand Prix yesterday, here are the last couple of laps. Since Formula 1 championships are sometimes over five or more races before the end of the season, and races can often be so boring, this was a particularly tense affair. Watching Ferrari celebrating oblivious to the knowledge that they'd lost the championship on the last corner gave the same sort of childish pleasure derived from watching opposing football fans celebrating a goal that's been disallowed.

Happy Halloween

An inordinate amount of attention has already been lavished on 'Sachsgate' so I'll try to keep this short in the interest of common sanity.

This, but for the media, wouldn't be a big deal. Russell Brand and Jonathan Ross crossed the line; they apologised. The end? Of course not. You could almost here the stampede as the politically correct brigade made for their keyboards in a state of almost frenetic sexual ecstasy. Some members of Comment is Free on the Guardian's website drew some inspired comparison's, like: 'I work in the NHS, another service paid for by the public, and if I made comments like this to someone I would lose my job.' Does it get any more irrelevant than that?

The vitriol and self-righteousness being drummed up by the Daily Mail and sanctimonious airheads alike is far more detestable than Brand and Ross egging each other on until they overstepped the mark and offended one old, unfunny slapstick comedian.

This is just another case of manufactured outrage, as pointed out by Peter Tatchell  and most annoyingly, it's another example of the increasing weight society gives the notion of something being 'offensive'. Brand's jokes were juvenile and embarrassing but claiming they offended you as an average Radio 2 listener is a little far fetched. Sachs may have been offended to hear his Satanic Slut granddaughter had got off with Brand, and at the manner in which he was told, but can anybody else really be offended by the whole thing? The fact that Gordon Brown felt the need to comment is laughable; I guess he'll be wanting to table a motion relating to Gordon Ramsay's treatment of others at the next G8 summit. Then there's boring know-it-alls like Paul Gambaccini; with men like him on the Radio 2 roster, they needn't worry about the ratings now Brand's left.

People love a witch-hunt and they love feeling indignant. Acting offended is one of the easiest routes to both these things. As Stephen Fry points out, if you hear someone say 'I'm a bit offended by that' often enough the response should be 'so fucking what?'.

Stella

As one of few amongst my peers who will readily welcome Stella into my fridge and body, I thought it was fitting that I should write a short entry on the revamped artwork. The new can seems a bit classier to me, I prefer it without the gold top and horizontal red pinstripes and like the echoing of the details from the official Stella 'chalice'. As the creative director in charge of the new design puts it, 'we have focused on the logo as the 'hero' of the packaging, reinforcing the premium cues and making it more modern, ownable and distinctive.' Quite.

Lager is particularly topical today, as I've been rendered largely incapacitated by the Peroni that accompanied Sheffield Wednesday beating Sheffield United yesterday. Can't do anything but read and watch a soothing John Martyn and Danny Thompson performance.