It's been a while...

Evening all. I don't know why it's taken me so long to write a new post here, being jobless now for about a month. Still, I've done it now so there you go.

Whilst working on some local rag some months ago, I was sent on a mission to the local magistrates' court to cover the day's action- less interesting than it sounds if possible. Anyway, two agonising hours in, enter Mr DVD Robber (an unfortunate name; he was actually in court for defacing five pound notes with rubber stamps of Fern Britton's arse). When asked how long he'd been seeking employment, Mr DVDR replied:

"Six years."

Fuck me (I didn't shorthand that). Six years? Six years of Trisha, Cash in the Attic and Countdown? Six years of cheap vodka and spliffs on a Friday night? Six years of a deep sense of waste and worthlessness? Actually, I suppose not- not with all those copies of Maid in Manhattan he'd been lifting from the local Woolworths. But still, six years?

What could one do with six years wandering the employment wilderness? You'd think the world would be at your feet; globetrotting across the seven seas, meeting endless numbers of fascinating people and fulfilling all those little things you always wanted to do- the novel, the photo gallery, the lifesize Darth Maul gimpsuit.
But it's not that simple. With no job (and I know I speak not only for myself) each day seems to take the wind out. It's like getting a kidney shot from Ricky Hatton but with that super slow-mo Sky camera. It's taken me all of a month to write this article, for Christ's sake!

Oh well. Bring on the ladyfriend returning in a few days. Bring on Brick Lane a week later, and Seven Sisters a week after that. I might even get another post in by then if I'm feeling really adventurous between Doctors repeats.

I think I've read about half a dozen reviews of XX Teens' Welcome to Goon Island, all of which have given distinctly average scores to the Mute's post-punk quintet. Well, I can tell you now they're all categorically wrong. This LP is a beauty, a real kick up modern post-punk's skinny-fitted backside.
Fair enough, some of the lyrics are so ridiculously abstract they'd make I am the Walrus sound like a World Service report. But spare these London boys their two cents of art-school oddity and you're left with a album that, given the Teens' vampish faithful, is packed with catchy, poppy dancefloor numbers. To reference the NME, imagine Mark E Smith smoking crack with OMD (whilst falling down spiral stairs onto Noel Gallagher who's walking David Bowie's dog, who's just taken a crap on Ian Curtis' pants). I've got the attention span of a goldfish watching The Hills, and I can listen to it through. Trust me- if you value my judgement, that's a huge compliment.
Oh, and watch the video to the sprawling Only You; dumbfoundingly fitting.

Anywho, that'll do for tonight. I'll have more for you in the coming days. That's if I can drag myself away from the women's coxless fours (I can shorthand that pretty quickly).