The title says it all really. Just as I was getting into the idea of blogging; writing down my daily beefs or shouldered chips, I ended my year-long relationship with the Internet, before I could even sign up to twitter. Don't worry, it was an amicable split, and now we're reunited - but make no mistake, I had to make the first phone call.
Obviously it would have been too simple to write all my ideas from the past two months into a blank work document and upload it now, so I just stored some things in my working memory and forgot others. Again, it matters little because doubtless they'll be remembered during future writings and humorously affect whatever I'm thinking at that time - whenever that may be.
Summing up eight weeks is going to be difficult, especially with the way my mind works - you know the drill, forever lost in a world of tangents, frequently ambling down a thoughtual cul-de-sac only to turn round at the end with no idea how i got there - much like now.
Hmm.
Ah, yeah, summing up the last eight weeks is not going to be easy when so much is going on in the today. Firstly, there's the swine flu or pig flu, or whatever jokey bacon/pork nickname you've already devised. I read today that normal flu kills up to 500,000 people per year, pig flu has so far managed a few hundred, and now the Government has ordered masks, so i'm sure we'll be fine.
Today also taught me that scientists have developed a flourescent dog (no joke!), with luminous red paws. For the record, I know that flourescent and luminous are technically different, but I don't care, the point remains the same.. it is not something a dog needs to be. Not unless it's for Paris Hilton, or a lollipop lady.
This morning had me worrying why the Lion, the King of the Jungle, lives in the savannahs (nowhere near the jungle)... did he move out? Fail to pay his jungle tax? Or was he framed for murder by the monkeys?
Do monkeys even live in the jungle? I toyed with typing "elephants" instead of monkeys, but i'm pretty sure they don't live in the jungle either. In fact, in one and a half paragraphs I've ruined the Jungle Book for myself and that was never the intention.
Tangent alert. Anyway, this morning is as far as my aforementioned poor memory will currently reach but, now with some of the mindular undergrowth out of the way, next time I write I may be able to see the wood for the trees.
Oh, it's just hit me, the original point of typing was this...
Bought Frank Hamilton's EP on a whim. Brilliant.
Maybe I'm better equipped for Twitter.
Thursday, 30 April 2009
Sunday, 25 January 2009
Big Ideas? Or Does James May Just Have Well-Trained Ears?
Flicking through freeview this evening, I stumbled across an episode of James May's Big Ideas. As the show gradually harnessed my ever-wavering concentration, May's confrontation with a hi-tech robot, capable of learning new words and making simple judgements, led him to ask if artificial intelligence would ever be capable of creativity.
To test this, he played two pieces of classical music on piano. One written by world-famous composer Ludwig Van Beethoven, the other produced by a computer, but in the style of the German symphonist.
May's argument was that the computer-penned piece was not "creative" as it had imitated previous patterns, randomly regenerating them to form a new score, whereas the real Beethoven piece contained emotion to which we can relate - to me however, both pieces sounded on a par (with the generated piece edging it in my opinion).
This got me to thinking, is there really emotion in music itself, or is it more to do with the emotion that we as individuals attach to it?
For instance, I know that Beethoven's most famous works were created in spite of his deafness, a remarkable achievement, instantly making the music more impressive to my untrained ears.
Again, fans of any musician who was brought up into poverty, has overcome illness or dealt with massive bereavement probably hang to his or her every word, whereas those unaware of the background story may listen and continue unaffected.
In fact, if you told me that James May's computer-generated symphony had been written by a blind 16-year-old boy as his father uttered his dying words beside him in the family home, then I would probably be fooled into finding the piece very emotive.
Maybe this is the future of pop music? Artifically produced music with a false background story to give it human interest. Maybe it's the present and we just don't know it.
Either way, having turned my mind inside out over-thinking the situation, I'm coming to conclusion that James May only included the segment on his programme to show that not only does he have an obscene knowledge of motor cars, a job to die for and a full head of hair, but he can also play the bloody piano.
To test this, he played two pieces of classical music on piano. One written by world-famous composer Ludwig Van Beethoven, the other produced by a computer, but in the style of the German symphonist.
May's argument was that the computer-penned piece was not "creative" as it had imitated previous patterns, randomly regenerating them to form a new score, whereas the real Beethoven piece contained emotion to which we can relate - to me however, both pieces sounded on a par (with the generated piece edging it in my opinion).
This got me to thinking, is there really emotion in music itself, or is it more to do with the emotion that we as individuals attach to it?
For instance, I know that Beethoven's most famous works were created in spite of his deafness, a remarkable achievement, instantly making the music more impressive to my untrained ears.
Again, fans of any musician who was brought up into poverty, has overcome illness or dealt with massive bereavement probably hang to his or her every word, whereas those unaware of the background story may listen and continue unaffected.
In fact, if you told me that James May's computer-generated symphony had been written by a blind 16-year-old boy as his father uttered his dying words beside him in the family home, then I would probably be fooled into finding the piece very emotive.
Maybe this is the future of pop music? Artifically produced music with a false background story to give it human interest. Maybe it's the present and we just don't know it.
Either way, having turned my mind inside out over-thinking the situation, I'm coming to conclusion that James May only included the segment on his programme to show that not only does he have an obscene knowledge of motor cars, a job to die for and a full head of hair, but he can also play the bloody piano.
Saturday, 17 January 2009
A Headache The Size Of Europe
In my case, the finger of blame for a headache can usually be pointed squarely at the previous night and can be righted with an Aspirin and a fry-up.
But this week, it was neither grape, grain, nor a bang on the brain which knocked me for six, but a five-minute segment of the evening news concentrating on the disadvantages of a British move into Europe.
I could never claim to have an in-depth knowledge of this subject, as any articles read or information imparted always seems loaded with bias from one political extreme or the other, therefore I take it with a pinch of salt.
But traditionally, I have always been a supporter of the EU as a community in which members can share knowledge and expertise, learn from each others' mistakes and drive towards ambitions by competing to achieve common goals (lower carbon emissions, strong trade links etc)
The basis for this opinion comes partly from my understanding of a single European currency as the opportunity for a number of economies, some stronger and some weaker, to work together, helping each other out when a member runs into trouble.
However, if this was the root of my favourable stance towards the EU, then Thursday's news has hoisted me well and truly back up onto the fence by reminding me that along with a single currency, the objective of the EU is to have common laws for farming, policing and more.
This, to me, indicates a lack of logic bearing in mind just how delicately each different country must have tailored their farming and policing methods to suit their own climate, culture and traditions.
Surely forcing sunny Spain to adhere to the same farming conventions as snowy Sweden will only result in the meltdown of one or other's crop cycle? And would applying the same policing to both laid-back Latinos and booze-fuelled Britons not result in one side of the coin descending into widespread carnage?
As previously mentioned, I have never been a leading light on the subject, but thought I knew where my loyalties lay.
Whilst I stand by the fact that the EU has the potential to bring our continent together both politically and socially, it now seems that a united Europe (essentially a socialist ideal) is becoming evermore nationalist in its outlook. Is it in danger of undercutting the very democratic values for which it originally stood?
My answer: I don't know... But I do know I need an Aspirin.
Sunday, 23 November 2008
Doorstep Ignorance
Two weeks ago I was stood at a local bar drinking my 18th alcoholic unit of the week (by no means excessive, but this is a good week) when the guitarist onstage took advantage of a break between songs to ask.. "So, what's it like living in Preston?
There followed a conglomerate groan from the audience, comprising like-minded adjectives such lines as 'boring', 'dull' and rubbish (or raw-bish, in northern phonetics).
Now, I've lived in Preston for seven years; three as a student, four as a songwriter, five as a heavy-drinking singleton and two as a devoted boyfriend. Admittedly, this doesn't add up to seven - but there is a certain degree of overlapping.
Either way, I have lived here long enough to know that the place is anything but boring or dull.
Discontent
Preston is a charming town steeped heavily in Lancastrian tradition. It centres around a beautiful old museum overlooking an old-fashioned flagmarket leading to a rustic covered market left behind by the days of mining, milling and industrialism.
On hearing the collective discontent regarding the surrounding town, I waited a few seconds before mumbling the words "miserable bastards" under my breath, (or baargh-studs, in London phonetics) much to the amusement, and agreement, of those within earshot.
Since that moment, however, I have realised that my aforementioned reaction was somewhat hypocritical.
Originally, I hail from Barnet, North London; well inside the M25 and 20 minutes on the train from the city centre. Quite famously, London is one of the most picturesque, interesting and historical cities in the world - yet i spent my first few years in Preston describing my home city with the same word - shithole!
Landmarks
Last weekend, I returned home for the weekend and spent a few days wandering around the Square Mile reminding myself just how many stunning landmarks lay within walking distance of one another.
Rediscovering the tacky billboard haven of Piccadilly Circus, the pure Britishness of the museums and oversized bronze lions at Trafalgar Square and the magical Dickensian backstreets around Borough Market, it's easy to see that London is spectacular.
Appreciate
Yet as a youngster years ago, clouded by crowds and disillusioned by the stress of the rush hour and the underground, I still to came to the same conclusion about London that many Prestonians have of their hometown.
I guess if you grow up somewhere it's easy to think of even the best sights and monuments as just part of the surroundings. People say that you only really appreciate your hometown on your return.
Maybe it's true that familiarity breeds contempt or absence makes the heart grow fonder or something like that.
All this said, one thing is for sure... but for all the roadworks, Preston still has the capacity to be a charming little market town. Well, that and the fact that I certainly won't be referring to London in the same breath as 'shithole' again.
There followed a conglomerate groan from the audience, comprising like-minded adjectives such lines as 'boring', 'dull' and rubbish (or raw-bish, in northern phonetics).
Now, I've lived in Preston for seven years; three as a student, four as a songwriter, five as a heavy-drinking singleton and two as a devoted boyfriend. Admittedly, this doesn't add up to seven - but there is a certain degree of overlapping.
Either way, I have lived here long enough to know that the place is anything but boring or dull.
Discontent
Preston is a charming town steeped heavily in Lancastrian tradition. It centres around a beautiful old museum overlooking an old-fashioned flagmarket leading to a rustic covered market left behind by the days of mining, milling and industrialism.
On hearing the collective discontent regarding the surrounding town, I waited a few seconds before mumbling the words "miserable bastards" under my breath, (or baargh-studs, in London phonetics) much to the amusement, and agreement, of those within earshot.
Since that moment, however, I have realised that my aforementioned reaction was somewhat hypocritical.
Originally, I hail from Barnet, North London; well inside the M25 and 20 minutes on the train from the city centre. Quite famously, London is one of the most picturesque, interesting and historical cities in the world - yet i spent my first few years in Preston describing my home city with the same word - shithole!
Landmarks
Last weekend, I returned home for the weekend and spent a few days wandering around the Square Mile reminding myself just how many stunning landmarks lay within walking distance of one another.
Rediscovering the tacky billboard haven of Piccadilly Circus, the pure Britishness of the museums and oversized bronze lions at Trafalgar Square and the magical Dickensian backstreets around Borough Market, it's easy to see that London is spectacular.
Appreciate
Yet as a youngster years ago, clouded by crowds and disillusioned by the stress of the rush hour and the underground, I still to came to the same conclusion about London that many Prestonians have of their hometown.
I guess if you grow up somewhere it's easy to think of even the best sights and monuments as just part of the surroundings. People say that you only really appreciate your hometown on your return.
Maybe it's true that familiarity breeds contempt or absence makes the heart grow fonder or something like that.
All this said, one thing is for sure... but for all the roadworks, Preston still has the capacity to be a charming little market town. Well, that and the fact that I certainly won't be referring to London in the same breath as 'shithole' again.
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