Fighting Fat

I’m fat, and I’m obsessed with my weight.

There, I declared it, like we’re at a Fatties Anonymous meeting. I balloon up and down like a bungee jump of pounds piling on and off. I lead a lifestyle that involves soundchecking when I should be cooking, and performing when I should be eating, and eating when I should be sleeping. And drinking beer consistently. So after getting some random Twitter advice from comedian Richard Herring (some people go on Twitter to follow and fawn at celebrities), it appears I go on to get dietary tips. Well, he was very nice and recommended www.fitday.com, where you keep a food diary and an activity diary. I learnt yesterday that just by having a professional lifestyle where I’m ‘mostly seated, with some movement’, I automatically burn 3,093 calories. So typing this now, constituting the movement of furious finger-tapping must be a good few hundred calories worth of effort. Who said blogging was a waste of time? As you have to write everything down and find the appropriate calorie profile for it (or customise your own food entry for when your mum sends you home-made samosas with your dad), you get a distinct view of your eating habits. I get to look at charts monitoring my progress and weight lost versus weight expected to lose. I have to lose 0.25 pounds a day to reach my optimum weight by the time my wedding arrives. Oh yeah, and according to the draconic measures of the fatty chart, I am narrowly mildly obese for my height. So, my optimum weight by the time my wedding comes around would be just ‘healthy.’ I’m getting obsessed, trying not to fall apart at midnight at drink loads of beer and have a chicken curry with egg-fried rice on the way home. I’m getting up 37 minutes earlier to be able to change, warm-up and do a quick thirty minute exercise. I’m up picking up foods to eat that have the calories written on the packet. I’m monitoring. I’m getting obsessed. Yesterday I went in to buy some healthy snacks from the supermarket and found myself in the Slimfast range staring at their healthy 100 calorie snacks of chocolate and peanut butter and other things and a Slimfast shake of peach and mango, and I thought why not? At lunchtime, I scoffed it all down, feeling painfully hungry and agitated afterwards, entering my stats into the website and watching the breakdowns filter down through my eyes like matrix code and I thought, holy moly dom joly, I’m due an eating disorder about 13 years too late? Now that I work with dad, and thus see my mum less because I don’t need to ever see my dad really, she keeps sending homecooked food with him so I remember her fondly. I can’t resist but according to this website, Indian food ain’t too good on the ol’ calorie front. I worked out that I can drink 20 beers in a day and meet my calorie allowance. Maybe I’ll turn to alcoholism to get me through this difficult time.

While we’re on the subject of mental obsessions, we all know Kanye West can be precious. His ‘why can’t you let me be great’ rant on his blog was a highlight, proving the man can’t really take a joke, especially about himself. His latest album, a difficult post-breakup/mum-death musing, called ‘808s and Heartbreaks’ was met with much bemusement in his autotuned vocoder singing voice and his soul-bearing confessional tone, a novelty considering his world-beating usual bravado. I won’t listen to ‘808s and Heartbreaks’ again, the listen was that painful, and I’ll never review it because the only time I heard it, I struggled to get to track 5 before turning it off. The beats were incredible. But anyway, the point is, Kanye is an immense lyricist, full of charm and charisma, and would you believe, humour. So, hearing him on the new N.A.S.A. album with Lykke Li and Santogold, on an proper electro-hop tip, destroying a beat with his off-beat drawl and sick lyrics is a real joy. It’s the obvious stand-out single. It’s absolutely incredible. I’ll be reviewing N.A.S.A.’s album tomorrow, but in the meantime, just know... Yeezy is back.

Writing

I’m writing a new project at the moment that’s quite abstract and dreamy. It takes place in and out of different realities and different timescales, works on the power of real and fake memories, doesn’t always follow a linear pattern and often breaks that fourth wall by acknowledging the conventions of literature and trying its hardest to break them. It’s an interesting piece of work to immerse yourself in because often I don’t have to break any rules as the piece seems to exist outside of them. I’m always inspired by things like Wes Anderson films, that don’t follow a typical narrative strand, or meta-fiction like Charlie Kaufman that plays with the illusion of realities within fiction. Writing yourself into the plot of a film you feel is too ambitious to write is one of my favourite celluloid moments. Dave Eggers is good at playing with the idea of what a book is, striving to create a package that is so much more than the words, like McSweeneys or the entire impressive gamut of ‘A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius.’ There are so many different ideas now of what fiction could be that trying to cover new ground is almost impossible. This book works as a perchance to a dream, it seems to be taking the shape of a trail of thoughts, how memory works linking strands in like six degrees of separation, a spiderweb of anecdotes that comprise your life, from the quieter moments to the ones refined and reworked till they work in party situations, taking on a new form of reality, becoming a ‘bit’, a piece of your reality that works better as a fictionalised bit of humour or shock and awe. I know how the book starts and I know how it ends and it cannot deviate from those two strict points for the crux to work. It’s fun wading through the middle not knowing entirely if it will work. it’s an ambitious piece of work, asking a lot of its reader, asking for suspensions upon suspensions of disbelief. I don’t know, at this stage, if the finished product will ever see the light of day but it’s nice to throw yourself into a new piece of work.

Recently I have:

- Watched ‘No Heroics’ as an experiment as I wrote a script on the exact same idea that a commissioner liked but said had just been made. I like it, and it does my idea better. Mine was more narrative based where this done the situational observations and universe jokes much better.
- Listened to N.A.S.A.s ‘Spirit of Apollo’ album. With a guestlist of MIA, Rza, Ghostface, Method Man, Karen O, Nick Zinner, Santogold, David Byrne, Tom Waits, E-40, SpankRock and others, it’s an impressive castlist rocking out some amazing beats. Most eclectic album of the year so far and destined to be the hipster’s chosen hip-hop product for 2009.
- Read Art Spiegelman’s Breakdowns (and heard Christian Bale’s- arf) and it is a special piece of work.
- Stopped going out practically.
- Started rehearsing for a one-off Britishness Test next month.

Flakey

Snow is a great leveller. Yesterday’s snow-day brought out everyone to play. The privileged and the poor, the xxxtreme sports nuts and the yummy mummys. The photographers and writers. The workers and the worked. It was amazing strolling through local Alexandra Palace watching everyone revel in the blanket of white all around us. Importantly, it was nice seeing children and teenagers act as they should once more. The snow is a great leveller. The nostalgia and novelty was enough for snowfans to throw themselves about, dodging toboggans and sleds, snowboards and snowballs and just be children again. Having fun. Enjoying themselves regardless. There was no aggyness, no pebble-core snowballs, no fighting, just a reverence. Snow is a great leveller.

The first exchange that made me think ‘Oh, that’s what rudeboys do when it snows... they don’t go shanking fools in the park, they have fun...’ went like this. It was heart-warmingly cute. Two rudeboys looking immaculate in their white Nike hoodies and tracksuits tear up the hill with toys under their arms. They are both in their teens, and usually hang around down our road going up to front windows and staring in:

TEEN1: Bruv, this snow is long yagetme.
TEEN2: Shut up cuz... when we get to the top, it’ll be real.
TEEN1: Yeah but... come on man is it safe?
TEEN2: You think you’re gonna fall you just throw yourself off.
TEEN1: So either way I fall?
TEEN2: Look, bruv, let’s get to the top. Get the best spot. Fresh powder.
TEEN1: Yah... safe...
TEEN1: Yo bruv...
TEEN2: Yes mate.
TEEN1: Does it hurt when you fall?
TEEN2: I dunno, I ain’t ever fallen. I imagine so.
TEEN1: Yeah me too. You done this before?
TEEN2: Nah... first time...
TEEN1: Is it safe?
TEEN2: We’ll find out...
TEEN1: No one else is using a potato sack as a sled though bruv.
TEEN2: Exactly... we ride in style.

The second exchange, on the same hill, came from another cross-section of Alexandra Park society. The blond teenagers with messy floppy hair and military blazers with foppish scarves all stand in a circle throwing snowballs at each other from far too close.

TEEN1: Edward, you cad.
TEEN2: Darling, you were screaming for it?
TEEN1: But did I deserve it? Did the punishment fit the crime?
TEEN2: Darling, the punishment meted out matched the crime in act and intent.
TEEN1: Babes, don’t try and be funny. I am soaking now. Mother is going to destroy me.
TEEN2: She won’t, she’ll wrap you up warm and feed you soup. In fact, can we all come for soup?
TEEN1: It depends. How are you on winter vegetable?
TEEN2: I’m not too partial to swede.
TEEN1: Swede is not a winter vegetable you barbarian.
TEEN2: I do believe school’s going to be cancelled tomorrow.
TEEN1: Wonderful. Oh, and Edward?
TEEN2: Yes?
SMASH!!!! FACEFUL OF SNOWY REVENGE.

And thus, my faith in the youth of today and tomorrow was restored, they were given a reprieved and the world was momentarily unf*cked.

Aziz Ansari on MIA

Christian Bale loses it

Iain Archer - To the Pine Roots (Black Records 2009)

'To the Pine Roots' is Ivor Novello-threatening Iain Archer's new album, an ethereal collection of plaintive lost-in-the-forest acoustic mournful ballads that evoke the blackness of night and the yearning of loneliness. 'Black Mountain Quarry' is an off-kilter vivid scene of a man at war with his surroundings, unable to cope with the expanse of his surroundings, allowing them to tussle with his soul. 'Streamer on a Kite' and 'The Acrobat' show a literary affectation, with the songs taking a more narrative focus, both showing the pithy futility of life. Archer remains a struggling restless voice throughout, unwilling to give in to his isolation an separation from others. The tender acoustic pickings of 'Mia don't be lonely' reveal a lover in tune with the ebb and flow of his partner. This is an emotional album, as sparse and remote as Bon Iver's 'For Emma... Forever Ago' just lacking Bon Iver's conceit of loss and broken heartedness. This album is completely unfashionable and out of step with current trends, but works on the conceit that good songwriting will always be classic. This is a classic sound and Archer's mastery makes for a thorough concentrated listen. Worth immersing yourself in.

www.iainarcher.co.uk

Grammatics - Grammatics (Dance to the Radio 2009)

The prospect of an entire album by Grammatics filled me with a little trepidation at first. I really liked the single 'The Vague Archive' last year but an entire album by them didn't fill me with the energy and ebullience I felt it should. And in practice, it is as I feared, a little boring. I'm sure snarkier music journalists would be more contemptuous in their analysis but the simple fact is, this is a set of 11 dull insular songs, angular and teeming with teenage despair, but lacking in anything that draws you into its world. It's a music that seeks to join teenagers in a joint communal angst. It alienates any other age range through its insipid vague stabs at emotion. There is a complete disregard for melody, a forthright self-belief in something that should have been left on the demo table. The cutesy boy-girl synth play-off doesn't really work except on the single and 'Inkjet Lakes' which plays synths against violins in an effective way. No music should be as insipid and dull as this. Music should uplift or join us together, arm us against doom, it should move and inspire. You should love music more than life itself and this comes nowhere near any of those emotions.

The View - Which Bitch? (1965 Records 2009)

The View's new album sees them branching out from superior pub band Libertines-alike codecs that dogged their melodic hair-punk-pop a few years ago. A few years after their 'Hats off to the Buskers' containing a stream of catchy hook-laden hits, they're back. They open with a plinky-plonky honky-tonk barnstorming joke-tune of 'Typical Times Two' regaling us with tales of dirty girls and streams of one-night stands. '5 Rebeccas' sounds like how you'd imagine Oasis would be if they came out now with the vigour and energy they possessed in my teens. Strangest though is track 3, 'One Off Pretender' which begins in traditional Britpop retrospective fair before descending into weird arrythmic rapping, lacking any harness of the beat or necessity. It seems so incongruous, you wonder whether the View are trying too hard to not be the catchy hits factory they were a few years ago. The rest of the album picks up and plays down in similar forays into experimentalism. 'Unexpected' and 'Temptation Dice' both sound like vital Smashing Pumpkin numbers and 'Jimmy's Crazy Conspiracy' hits that stream of hitsville punk pop Skins incidental music brilliantly, with an anthemic shouty chorus. The subversive tuba bass is class and shows a winking rail against their roots. There are moments of great subversions to their standard fare and brilliantly catchy moments of true genius but ultimately some of the hints at experimenting with their pallette fall flat and others work. More like the opener, less of the rapping please. Leave that to the experts.

Elvis Perkins in Dearland - Elvis Perkins in Dearland (XL 2009)

Elvis Perkins' eponymous second album adds a layer of instrumentation with the recruitment of a full band and with the added layers of swaying and plucking comes a distraught mediation on death and grief, imbued with melancholy. Elvis sounds like an old soul with his old soul voice, crooning and splaying with the heart and passion of Louis Armstrong and the emotion of Marvin Gaye. Meanwhile in the background, a throb of saxophone and double bass adds a slight free-jazz buzz to proceedings, while the other multi-instrumentalists add in delicate tweeks of harmonium and auto-harp as well as the seemingly more generic guitar and drums. The album is full of intricate arrangements that belie the pretensions of modern songcraft. 'I Heard Your Voice' in Dresden carries through different moods and movements like an opera. This is a strong soft and sometimes quietly boisterous album, filled with emotive soundscapes evoking the loss and pain of love and mourning. Beautiful.

Charge of the PC Brigade

Strange weekend abounds.

On Friday, a story breaks in the newspaper that my publisher has changed the words of a famous children's song. The accusation is that it has been changed to be more PC as the original contains references to drunkenness and torture. Actually, it was changed for other reasons, and four months ago. Now the story has broken in the paper and the knives are. We field phonecalls from concerned citizens. We monitor newspaper messageboards go nuts. All over a sea shanty. Apparently we are destroying the core of Britain. The reactionary complaint mechanism of a Britain so defensive of its inability to harness its existing identity into a series of codecs, instead sweating the small stuff, unwilling to realise that their identity is clear for everyone else. Yet, this is another nail in the coffin for Nanny Britain, they tell us seething with rage. Actually, this is a nail in the coffin for forward-thinking Britain. Unable to know your history to shape your futures, marginalised sections of society feel they need to hold on to tiny parsecs of their culture, not knowing who they are. I want to help, I've struggled with my identity too. But I got to its core and I can help you Sun readers. First step, take a deep breath. Realise that this sea shanty is not important, it doesn't ruin the memory of your war hero ancestors, changing it is not rewriting history. Instead, you're changing the course that has been set out for Great Britain; you're stifling the children of the future with your inability to move forward.

On Saturday, we attend a wedding where two odd occurrences hold court. Firstly, the DJ looks like a thumb. There is no discernible distinction between chin and neck. Not only that but he's burly and bald and standing behind the decks like a bouncer. No one feels like dancing because they're scared of him injecting and ejecting them from the premises 'cos their name's not daaaahn.' He's stood next to a seated Pat Butcher-a-like, performing no obvious function other than staring at him morosely. Maybe she is Death and has promised him one last hurrah between taking him to the netherworlds. He keeps playing the same songs again, spiking the volumes up and down, staring in disbelief at an empty dancefloor and wondering why, when he goes from a hit to something obscure and poppy, no one is interested. He blows his wad in the first 45 minutes by playing all the uptempo wedding songs. By the end he's run out of CDs and is repeating a set, as if it's all preprogrammed on CD anyway. He tries playing Scooter but an audible groan and clearing of people makes him take it off. He forces the bride and groom to have the Hokie Cokie as their final dance. He smiles blankly as he packs up, knowing he'll be complaining about our lack of enthusiasm in the pub tomorrow.

I am introduced to a bewildered wedding guest as 'an Indian' which helps the confusion subside.

One of the guests is Jack Bauer. Or at least an English version of him. A soldier who is currently seeing action, obviously going through some things in his head, dealing with the lack of humanity in soldiering and then going to the ultimate love-in of a wedding. No one wants to engage him for fear of a lethal judo-chop when our feelings about the war emerge. He sits in the corner and seethes at the DJ spending the evening piping up with new and interesting ways to take him out and destroy him. He says that if we check out late due to oversleeping and if the hotel clamps our car, he'll run to the nearest B&Q, buy a bolt cutter and destroy their hotel with it. He is Jack Bauer- tightly wound and ready to spring into actionat any second. He gets drunk and we play some quiz machines later on. He threatens the machine when we get answers wrong, expecting it to fold under his super soldier gaze. I feel like the biggest wimp in the world. Now I know what Jack Bauer at a wedding would be like.

Frightening.

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