Swervedriver are a band that fell between the cracks. Too heavy to hang with the shoegazers whose doorstep they were dumped on in the early 90s, they were also a little too hazily melodic to be fully adopted by grunge – despite early support slots with Soundgarden and Smashing Pumpkins. A quartet of guitar-slinging lone rangers, the Oxford band have always seemed out on their own, with a sound of their own.
And it’s an impressively intense sound, even in the atmosphere-free surroundings of a drab and less than full Islington Academy. The band – founder members Adam Franklin and Jimmy Hartridge, along with former Supergrass bassist Mick Quinn and drummer Mikey Jones – kick start the night with Mary Winter, a stand out from their recent Future Ruins album. It’s also an instructive introduction to their extra abrasive, more-in focus spin on the Valentines’ amorphic noise.
Like MBV, Swervedriver play loud. Stand at the back of the room if you want, you’ll still end up feeling like you’ve been lashed to a speaker and forced to withstand the distortion rather than listen to it. That muscular aggression continues through MM Abduction’s sledgehammer chords and the Morricone-gone-metal of Last Train To Satansville, Franklin’s drawled vocals drowning under an endlessly looping howl of feedback.
Of course, this being Swervedriver there’s sugar sprinkled on the sandpaper. Duel and Autodidact are fuelled by propulsive melodies, while an epic Deep Seat explodes dramatically, spraying shards of pretty noise across the drab room. Perhaps the highlight, however, is an early outing in the set for 1992 single Never Lose That Feeling, which has never lost its free-wheeling, fuzzy magic.
Throughout, everything is about that sound they’re making. Forget strobing light or stage pyrotechnics, this is music to soundtrack the epic road trips you take in your head.
They sign off with the detached cool of Rave Down from their debut Raise, and saunter away into the night unfussed, as if the last couple of hours never happened.
Thirty years on, while contemporaries like Ride and Slowdive are finally getting their dues, Swervedriver are still out on their own – but you get the feeling they wouldn’t want it any other way.
The Cure’s remarkable eighth album Disintegration turns 30 this month – and I wrote about it here for the NME. Go have a look!
Oh, and if you’ve never listened to the album before, go have a listen – it’s a beautiful, bleak and broken-hearted wander through Robert Smith’s anguished state-of-mind as he contemplated his own 30th birthday.
So Ukraine has elected a comedian, Volodymyr Zelenskiy, to be its new president. Well done, Ukraine, strong work. We’ve had a comedian in the hot seat for the last few years and I can promise you, you’re in for a wild ride.
Seeing as we’re on the subject, now seems the perfect opportunity to take a look back at some of the high points of Theresa May’s comedy career. There are plenty to choose from – when you’re as naturally funny, versatile and technically gifted as Theresa is, you’re going to rack up the classic moments.
What better place to start than with her remarkable headlining slot at the 2017 Tory party conference, a gig that has gone down in stand up history. Sure, Ricky Gervais can claim all sorts of records for his live shows, while the late great Richard Pryor usually tops the best-of polls, but the flawless set Theresa unleashed that day was equal to anything they’ve achieved, and right up there with Dave Chappelle’s Killin Them Softly and Bill Hicks’ Relentless.
The Conservative Party Conference 2017: A gig that has gone down in stand up history
It was one of those performances. Everything worked for Teresa. Her timing was so precise it could only be measured in Planck units; she dreamed up an inspired ‘having a cough’ device, which allowed her to bring an element of tragicomedy to the show; she even sprinkled visual gags into the heady mix, arranging for a single letter from the hilarious, ironic slogan strung up behind the podium (‘Building a country that works for everyone’) to detach itself at a key moment and dive decisively to the floor. Now, that’s how to drop an F-bomb, Frankie Boyle.
Perhaps most impressively, Theresa did something she’s not known for: she collaborated, bringing in prankster Simon Brodkin and deadpan specialist Philip Hammond to help keep the comedy fireworks exploding. It was an unexpected but thrilling move, and one which gave the PM(SL) the chance to set herself up for some seemingly-off-the-cuff but surely meticulously planned one-liners. When, bang on cue, Brodkin poked a fake P45 in her face, Theresa unleashed the cutting quip, “I was going to talk about someone I’d like to give a P45 to, and that’s Jeremy Corbyn.” Burn, beardy, burn.
Bang on cue, prankster Simon Brodkin does his bit
Her skit with Chancellor of the Exchequer Hammond was equally on the money. The Hamster’s task was to play the part of an undermining underling, who leaps to the podium to proffer a sarcastic cough sweet to the spluttering and supposedly struggling leader. The moment looked so real but was, of course, another pre-planned set up for yet more weapons-grade May shade.
“I hope you notice that, ladies and gentlemen,” she proclaimed, “the Chancellor giving something away for free.”
The auditorium erupted. The Tories’ jester-in-residence Boris Johnson was so blown away, he temporarily lost the ability to stand and had to be coaxed out of this micro-coma by Amber Rudd. Indeed, his mental capacities have remained impaired ever since, such was the power of Theresa’s performance. It’s reassuring and humbling to know these images have been beamed out into space, and that all intelligent universal life can see how far we’ve come.
Amber coaxes Boris from his micro-coma
Following up Live At Conference 2017 12 months later was always going to be a big ask, but credit to Tezza, she wasn’t ready to rest on her already monumental achievements. Indeed, she’d she’d been working on some sensational new material and in August 2018, like every sensible comedian, took the embryonic routine out on the road in order to knock it into shape, to fine-tune and hone the piece before bringing it back to the bright lights of Conference.
She opted to road test the set somewhere off the beaten comedy track – again, a wise call – somewhere she knew she wouldn’t be able to rely on easy laughs from an already sympathetic crowd. So it was during a short tour of Africa that audiences first got to see Theresa’s daring but inspired freaky comedy dancing.
Channelling her natural born gift for physical comedy and hinting at undocumented stints studying at the École Internationale de Mimodrame de Paris and the Royal Ballet, Teresa seamlessly fused the rhythmic ability of a tipsy diabetic divorcee aunt with that of a malfunctioning homemade robot. Once seen it can never be forgotten. Yay.
Do yourself a favour and check out clips of the Tezdog practising her moves during those wildly creative days in Africa. It’s the equivalent of watching The Beatles recording takes during the sessions for Sgt Pepper’s, Vincent conjuring sunflowers upon canvas in Arles, or God arranging the stars in the sky on Day Four of Creation. Yes, check out those remarkable African tour clips and look at the faces of the lucky crowd gathered around Theresa. They appear stunned, don’t they? Lost for words. Confused. Maybe even slightly scared. You’d look like that too if you found yourself quite so close to a broiling cauldron of genius in full effect.
Satisfied the routine was as sharp and on point as possible, Theresa knew she could take the risk of making it the opening to her 2018 Conference performance. To the strains of – wait for it – Abba’s Dancing Queen, (so clever – so Theresa), she staggered onto the stage and lurched weirdly towards the podium, her rigid limbs jabbing and stabbing away as Agnetha and Anni-Frid cooed ecstatically in the background. It was a riot. Once behind the podium she hit the astonished crowd with a sucker punch call-back: “You will have to excuse me if I do cough during the speech!” Sensational.
Of course, front-loading your set with such perfection is always a risky move, and, as it turns out, much of what followed has been forgotten, apart from a LOL-tastic gag about how austerity was over. All in all, however, it was still a worthy follow up to an iconic moment in modern comedy.
Since then, Theresa’s been busily experimenting with different comedic tropes. In the last few weeks, she’s proved herself a master of one of the fundamental devices in comedy: repetition. The way she’s brought back her deeply unpopular Brexit deal, time and time again – a fourth attempt is rumoured for next week – has been side-splitting, like watching a drunk running into a brick wall over and over and over. The repetition has started to move into the realms of the absurd. Samuel Beckett would have approved.
But before anyone starts worrying she could be heading off down some surrealist comedy rabbit hole, or looking to go all edgy (her taboo-challenging reactions to Grenfell and the Windrush scandal were a complete joke), Theresa’s also made it clear she can still mix it with the mainstream. Her recent impression of meerkat Aleksandr Orlov – who, coincidentally is rumoured to be weighing up running for president in his homeland of Russia – showcased her often overlooked gift for mimicry.
She even has that most mainstream of comedy accessories: a catchphrase, which is repeated up and down the country, from the ravaged north east, through the furious West Midlands and into darkest Kent. All together now… “Brexit means Brexit!” Ahh.. it’s funny. It just is.
That’s the thing about Theresa, she’s a comedian of the people, for the people. Indeed, she’s truly building a comedy that works (f)or everyone. Volodymyr Zelenskiy has an awful lot to live up to.
“When we first started, we used to play Chelsea Girl twice,” says Ride frontman Mark Gardener, namechecking the band’s infectious, buzzing 1990 debut single, before treating the Moth Club crowd to a second, razor-sharp run-through of their latest release Future Love.
It’s an appropriate call-back: the bittersweet jangle of the shoegaze pioneer’s new track channels their most tuneful moments, and suggests 2017’s impressive comeback collection Weather Diaries marked a true creative rebirth. Like their early 90s Thames Valley pals Slowdive, Ride appear determined not to tarnish the reputation their genre-defining early work garnered during the 20 years they were apart, and Future Love fits seamlessly into a setlist that takes in their finest moments.
Ride in their early 90s heyday
This being a tiny but packed fan club gig, the band are playing to a partisan crowd. Still, it’s difficult not to be genuinely impressed by the raw, metallic edge of songs like Seagull, Charm Assault and Drive Blind, all of which cut even deeper live than on record. Ride never deserved the accusation of being fey home counties fops that was flung at them by the music press during their first flush of success, and in the cramped, glitter-ceilinged setting of the Moth Club the brutality that lies beneath the beauty of their sound is impossible to ignore. It’s ear-crushingly loud.
That’s not to say they don’t let the beauty take centre stage at times. The Oxford four-piece have always done the whole dreamy guitar thing better than most and the more delicate moments of the set, such as the languid Catch You Dreaming and indie classic Vapour Trail, are undeniably mesmerising.
Casting the same spell at the huge festivals they’re heading to this summer will be a tougher task, but on this evidence Ride are certainly worth their second spin.
Stop trying to make me watch Game Of Thrones. Just stop. You’re wasting your time because I promise you, I am NEVER going to watch Game Of Thrones.
I don’t care how incredible it is. It’s irrelevant to me whether it’s actually way more than just a show about ridiculously-named hairy guys hanging out with dragons, wolves and naked women. It makes no difference how many million people tweeted about its celestial amazingness during the season 8 opening episode. I don’t even care that the guy who writes it looks like Santa Claus. I’m never going to watch Game Of Thrones.
Way more than just a show about hairy guys hanging out with wolves
Believe me, it’s got nothing to do with a lack of time in my life. Over the last few years, for example, I’ve somehow found the hours to rewatch every episode of ‘Allo ‘Allo (actually amazing). I’ve even willingly wasted what must amount to days on terrible reality shows like Big Brother, I’m A Celebrity and even Love After LockUp (also actually amazing). According to the internet, it would take two days, 15 hours and 30 minutes to watch all 67 pre-season 8 episodes of GOT. Coincidentally, that’s exactly the same amount of time it would take not to watch all 67 pre-season 8 episodes of GOT. Which is what I’m going to do.
Let’s get one thing straight, I can honestly say my refusal to watch isn’t snobbery. That should be clear from the shows mentioned above. And there are many people I respect and admire who are confirmed GOT addicts. They insist it’s way more than just a show about ridiculously-named hairy guys, dragons, wolves, naked women etc. They tell me regularly I should definitely, definitely watch Game Of Thrones. I tell them regularly I’m definitely, definitely not going to watch Game Of Thrones.
Way more than just a show about hairy guys hanging out with dragons
Unfortunately, though, it’s almost inescapable. The first email I received this morning was from a PR announcing that the season 8 premiere has been the most-talked about GOT episode of all time. Apparently 3,857,823 tweets were posted discussing it. Good, that’s fantastic, it’s nice that people are passionate about stuff. But guess what? I’m passionate about not watching Game Of Thrones.
Two years ago, around the time HBO started defecating season seven all over the cultural landscape, I was so fed up with the constant Throning on Twitter that I found myself trying to block it by adding several variations of the show’s title into the muted words section of my account. I put in all the combinations and hashtags I could imagine. It didn’t work. In fact, just now I logged onto Twitter, hit the search icon and the main story under the ‘For you’ tab was some guff about a GOT character called Cersei! Below that, the first item on the ‘What’s happening’ list was a link to a bunch of GOT memes. ‘What’s happening’, Twitter? I’ll tell you what’s not happening, Twitter – I’m not watching Game Of Thrones.
Even in the real world Game Of Thrones is taking over. Quite apart from the inevitable ads and promotional campaigns that prod you towards watching, pubs are showing season 8 episodes live. Restaurants are creating themed menus. In the US, there’s been season 8 marketing collaborations between GOT and products as varied as Bud Light, Urban Decay, Johnnie Walker whisky, Oreo cookies and Adidas, who are cashing in with some limited edition trainers. And it’s all working because I’m totally planning not to drink Bud Light, eat Oreos or slap on some Urban Decay while I don’t watch Game Of Thrones.
Obviously, none of this is Game Of Thrones’ fault. I realise it’s my problem. After all, how can so many millions of people be wrong? It’s Ed Sheeran’s favourite show, for Christ’s sake! He even appeared in an episode – and obviously what the world needs right now is more Ed Sheeran.
GOT x Ed = me not watching GOT
Yes, I repeat, none of this is the show’s fault. After a period of self-analysis (two days, 15 hours and 30 minutes, to be precise), I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s the lazy assumption the whole world is watching GOT that really bothers me, rather than the show itself. The way almost every so called news website seems to think we’re all eager to have an endless jet of GOT-related content vomited into our brain-buckets via our screen-fried eyeballs.
And there’s so much of it! ‘The 38 times Jon Snow wasn’t really dead’, ‘The 12 ways the GOT opening credits might have predicted the Notre Dame fire’, ‘The one really naughty swear word you can make using just four letters from the name Sandor “The Hound” Clegane’, ‘The 27 best games that aren’t Game of Thrones’, ‘A list of 16 famous thrones’… It really is relentless, like you’re being beaten into submission by a sword-wielding hairy man riding a naked wolf. But incredibly, almost magically, the onslaught only hardens my almost spiritual resolve not to watch Game Of Thrones.
Sandor ‘The Hound’ Clegane, yesterday
Yes, obviously I recognise the sky scraping irony in complaining about GOT saturation while throwing more Throne-dung at the i-wall but this is what I’ve been driven to. It’s cathartic. And until doctors find a cure for GOT, it’s all I’ve got. All I’ve GOT… Got/GOT. See, it’s everywhere! Even the English language is turning against me.
You might not have noticed but Simon Cowell’s been in the news a little lately, talking about the future of The X Factor. Ah, The X Factor… Now, I don’t want to sound like some tragic Brexiteer nostalgist but there was a time, in the not too distant past, when The X Factor was #GreatTV. A time when families up and down the land would gather round the TV of a Saturday night, desperate to know what Leona would be singing, what Wagner would be wearing and which contestant judge Louis Walsh would compare to “a little Lenny Henry”.
Sadly, that time is long gone. Last year’s X Factor averaged ratings of just 5 million per episode, a far cry from the staggering 17 million it achieved during its 2010 zenith – aka the year One Direction only managed to finish third, the big losers. Tellingly, no one remembers who actually won last year’s series. Not even last year’s winner.
There are many reasons for the show’s decline, too many to speculate on here. But it surely didn’t help that the 2018 judging panel included Robbie Williams, alongside Robbie Williams’ wife. What was Simon Cowell thinking? Imagine putting someone with no musical credibility whatsoever on the panel, alongside Robbie Williams’ wife.
The 2018 judging line up… inspiring stuff
Crucially, The X Factor’s dip in fortunes has meant that, for the last few years, it’s been obliterated in the ratings by its Saturday night rival Strictly Come Dancing. It genuinely must have hurt Simon that viewers* were turning their backs on his show. It must have stung to know that the nation would rather watch someone from Casualty do Contemporary than listen to him get the basics of percentages so badly wrong on a weekly basis.
One thing’s clear, however: Simon is one million per cent not a quitter (apart from the time he quit so he could launch The X Factor in the US, installing Gary Barlow as his replacement on the panel and effectively heralding the show’s decline). Ok, so Simon’s sometimes a quitter – but this isn’t one of those times, right? He may be stuck in a rut fashion-wise – those deep Vs and tent-like, super-confusing men’s boyfriend jeans now appear to have actually become his top layer of skin – but it’s clear he’s not afraid to shake up his show to entice viewers* to return.
A deliciously deep v and his go-to leg tents…
So, what’s Simon’s latest genius idea to give The X Factor its, erm, X factor back? How does he plan to wrestle the Saturday night crown from Strictly’s spray-tanned hands? Simple: by turning The X Factor into Strictly Come Singing. Because, let’s not kid anyone, that’s exactly what his heavily rumoured celebrity version of The X Factor is.
And do you know what? It might just work. Ok, he busted that move once before, in 2006, and it wasn’t a hit – but back then the main show was in its prime, so a spin off starring such legends as Chris Moyles, Gillian McKeith and James Hewitt was unnecessary. Now, the situation is critical, The X Factor has all but expired.
One of the reasons The X Factor originally succeeded was because it was all about the singers. Back in 2004, few people really cared who those three so called experts (Cowell, Walsh and Sharon Osbourne) on the panel actually were. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the talented unknown singers and their passionate performances.
But then Simon started getting greedy, adding judges – established, talented pop stars, and Cheryl Cole – and engineering feuds and fallouts on the panel. Inevitably attention started to stray from the contestants. And you know what? The moment the press starts speculating on what outfits the judges will be wearing (Simon not included: deep Vs etc), and not the contestants, you know the jig’s up.
But, if Simon manages to book the right celebrity line up then the attention could once again turn to those screeching away on stage, rather than the four or five, or perhaps even six, ego maniacs sat out front on the judging panel.
And then – (Leonard Cohen’s) hallelujah – the viewers* will ditch the dance floor and surely come flooding back.
The hype machine has been in danger of overheating these last few weeks, channelling all its efforts into making sure the world is aware that Ricky Gervais has a new series, After Life, streaming on Netflix. Ricky, meanwhile, has spaffed a few more gallons of gas into the machine’s fuel tank by insisting that the show’s the best thing he’s done. Well, he was never going to say it’s a steaming pile of Lee Mack, was he?
Regardless, it’s fighting talk from the man behind such genre game-changers as The Office and Extras. But is he right? Is this his masterpiece? In a word, no. Still, you’ve got to admire the way Gervais balances the brutal with the broad while telling the story of angry, suicidal widower Tony. As the likes of The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, BoJack Horseman and arguably even I’m Alan Partridge have shown, it’s not impossible to find dark but relatable humour in subjects like grief, suicide and depression, but it’s a tough trick to pull off.
And After Life really is broad. The setting is a quiet English coastal town, with the kind of blue skies that only exist in childhood memories and a glorious stretch of sand within moping distance. Ok, there seems to be a mugging problem that the local coppers need to get a handle on sharpish, but it’s hardly Broadchurch. The supporting characters, meanwhile, are so accepting of the appalling way Tony treats them that, at certain points, you’d forgiven for wondering if the show is eventually going to reveal itself as some kind of weird, British seaside version of Westworld.
Here’s what it feels like: you know how Hollyoaks sometimes does a grown up and gritty late night spin off, in which all the regular characters are suddenly swearing and swigging meths inside strip clubs? Well, imagine if Doc Martin, with its idyllic location and grumpy Martin Clunes combo, did the same. Imagine the mildly misanthropic eponymous GP being supercharged into an out of hours, gin-soaked, smack-smoking megabastard. Imagine that and you won’t be a million miles from the tone of After Life. By the way, who wouldn’t want to watch that version of Doc Martin?
The humour itself is also a blend of the malicious and the mainstream. On the one hand you have Tony viciously tearing into friends and strangers alike – his insistence that a 93-year-old victim of one of those previously mentioned muggings couldn’t be scarred for life because of her age, is a highlight. On the other, the gently absurd stories that Tony chases in his job as a local journalist affectionately poke fun at the idiosyncrasies of small town life and just about manage to avoid being patronising.
Away from the laughs, After Life is, of course, a show about pain – Tony’s emotional and existential pain, mainly. However, it’s also about the backside-clenching pain experienced by viewers whenever Tony drops one of his hurtful truth bombs, or truthful hurt bombs – either works.
Gervais, as we know, has a talent for that. Remember the bit in The Office’s Christmas special when irritating, pregnant Anne is verbally taken down by one of the guys from the warehouse, after she complains about him smoking near her? Well, After Life is filled with similar tough-to-watch moments. Except, in this case, it’s even tougher because, while Anne was a wholly unsympathetic character, the victims of Tony’s nihilistic fury rarely deserve it.
Understandably, when the balancing act between broad and brutal is so precarious, you can’t expect to pull it off every time. The way Tony treats drug dependent Julian [Tim Plester] – and the lack of any real repercussion for his actions – feels almost insanely misjudged. And Tony’s handling of the bullying of his young nephew isn’t far behind. Both are simply swept under the forgiving carpet of the show’s ending.
Talking of which, some reviewers have complained that After Life’s climax is mawkish and sickly sweet. Certainly, as Tony’s pain eases and poignancy takes over, the schmaltz arrives by the lorry load. And his realisation that there’s nothing wrong with wishing happiness for good people is hardly revolutionary. But hey, perhaps in divisive times, such simple and, yes, broad messages manage to carry a little more weight.
After Life is streaming now on Netflix. Main pic credit: Natalie Seery.
This year marks the 80th anniversary of Geoffrey Household’s classic 1939 novel Rogue Male, a tense and taut thriller complete with failed assassinations, desperate escapes, a relentless pursuit, psychological trauma and a hero who spends much of the book’s second half literally hiding like a hunted animal in a hole in the ground. Not sure 007’s ever had to do that.
Briefly put, it’s the tale of an unnamed British adventurer who comes within a hair’s breadth of assassinating an anonymous European dictator (Household later admitted it was meant to be Hitler), before he’s apprehended by the authorities. Despite being tortured and left for dead, he manages to stage a miraculous escape back to England. But, with his enemies still on his trail, he realises he’s no safer on British soil than he was on the continent – and so he attempts to disappear from the face of the Earth, and into the earth.
While the book owes a debt to the more widely known The Thirty-Nine Stepsand Riddle Of The Sands, for me Rogue Male is easily their equal. It stands up to repeat reads, thanks to a perfectly judged mix of pursuit and paranoia and the almost cartoon-like stiff upper lip and self possession of the hero, which gradually begins to crack under the pressure of the manhunt.
But it’s the literal escapism at the heart of the novel that provides its greatest appeal. The more firmly that surveillance and social media take hold of 21st century life, the stronger Rogue Male tightens its grip on the imagination. As anyone who’s watched Channel 4’s Hunted will know, try dropping off the radar in 2019 and you’ll be lucky to get beyond the end of your road before a helicopter swoops down and Peter Bleksley leaps out and body-slams you to the ground. Fortunately for Household’s hero, he exists in a time where going off grid, whether through choice or necessity, is a more realistic proposition.
That’s not to say he finds it easy. In fact, despite living in the CCTV and mobile phone-free Britain of 1939, it’s impossible for him to disappear completely. And, even though he takes that drastic step of holing up in a sandstone burrow somewhere in deepest Dorset, he’s still not quite able to give his nemesis, dogged, oily undercover hitman Major Quive-Smith, the slip.
Of course, the poor guy’s not helped early on by the whacking great bandage he has around his head – a result of the nasty, Nazi-flavoured roughing up he receives at the start of the story. And his decision to make some of his escape on a laughably conspicuous, homemade aluminium tandem bike, complete with its own sidecar-slash-pram, seems a little misguided. Still, being a resourceful sort, he makes a decent fist of vanishing for a while and possibly would have got away with it indefinitely if it hadn’t have been for that pesky post-mistress who recognises him from a description circulated by the police.
I won’t spoil the plot any further, not least because it seems Rogue Male will soon get another chance to emerge again from its own cultural hiding place. Three years ago it was announced that Benedict Cumberbatch is set to star in a new film version, although at time of writing the project appears still to be in production. It won’t be the first time the book’s been adapted, however. Just two years after publication it made its first leap to the big screen, in the shape of Fritz Lang’s 1941 movie Manhunt. And, in 1976, the book was turned into an underwhelming BBC TV film, starring the legend that is Peter O’Toole.
Peter O’Toole does his best in the Beeb’s underwhelming 1976 adaptation
With any luck you won’t have need to spend a few weeks living in a dank, dark vault dug into the side of an ancient holloway anytime soon. But if you do, make sure you have a copy of Rogue Male to hand. The hours will fly by!
Despite this, lists rarely get the praise they deserve. It’s time for that to change, so here’s a list of the Top 10 lists. There are other lists of course but these are the only lists you’ll need…
1 Shopping lists
An oldie but still the best. Where would be without the humble shopping list? Hungry, probably, and therefore quite irritable and tired. We’d literally be listless. Doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?
2 To do lists
Truthfully, the trusty to do list would have beaten the shopping list to the top spot, if I hadn’t been compiling this list just before needing to go get some stuff for lunch. The to do list is a life-saver, a stress-buster and the ultimate way to kid yourself you’re being productive. What can match the satisfaction of slowly – and I mean very slowly – drawing a solid black line through another long-avoided task on a to do list?
3 Bucket lists
A good way to manage your limited time on Earth is to spend precious hours collating a bunch of things that, just before you die, you can tearfully regret not having done. True, the bucket list is mainly the preserve of the over-privileged – the kind of people who simply won’t be able to relax until they’ve ascended Everest strapped to the underside of a Sumatran elephant – but that doesn’t mean the rest of us shouldn’t be able to dream. And that’s what lists do, they allow us to dream.
4 Shortlists
Shortlists are emotionally powerful things. Imagine you make it onto the shortlist for, say, the Nobel Prize in Physics – it would fill you with joy, pride and expectation. If, however, you make it onto a shortlist for, say, a sudden and unexpected round of job redundancies, it would fill you with panic, shame and gut-bubbling terror. Sometimes you’ve just got to stand back and admire the raw, untamed power of lists.
5 Hit lists
Hit lists are handy. It’s impossible to get through life without making one or two enemies along the way. You could even argue that our nemeses define us. Where would Sherlock Holmes have been without Professor Moriarty? Churchill without Hitler? Gargamel without the Smurfs? Which begs the question, shouldn’t the plural of Smurf really be Smurves? After all, the plural of scarf is scarves. And the plural of, erm… [Note to self: must make a list of other words that end with a single ‘f’.] Of course, famously, hit lists also provided the inspiration for Cuba Gooding Jr.’s 2011 action vehicle The Hit List, a movie that, rather unfairly, never makes it into any best of lists – but more about those later.
6 Blacklists
A close cousin of the hit list, the blacklist is easily the most rock n roll list of all. Who doesn’t secretly want to be put on a blacklist for something? There’s definitely a certain cachet that comes with, for example, being blacklisted from a lame hipster bar for drunkenly trying to set fire to the giga-bearded barman’s distressed hemp dungarees. Seriously, wear any blacklisting like a badge of honour!
7 Best Of lists
When you unscrew a list, take the back off it and have a good root around inside to see how it works, you realise that all lists are essentially machines for saving you time. And best of lists do that very effectively. Why listen to all of Deacon Blue’s albums, which would take forever – believe me – when you could simply listen to The Very Best of Deacon Blue and emerge unscathed and still have plenty of time to rewatch Cuba Gooding Jr. in The Hit List? The main downside to best of lists is that they exist in the world of subjectivity. But that’s just my opinion.
8 Wine lists
On balance, wine lists should have made the top spot, but I totally forgot about them, due to events in a hipster bar last night.
9 Checklists
“What’s the difference between a checklist and a to do list?” I hear you ask. Good question, feel free to congratulate yourself for asking it. Well, the checklist is a more formal, technical version of the to do list. Let me explain. The checklist is something a pilot might go through before releasing the handbrake and putting his or her foot down on a 747’s gas pedal. You know, stuff like, “Are the doors securely fastened? Check. Has all the luggage been thrown carelessly into the hold? Check. Do we have enough peanuts on board? Check.” Of course, there’s no reason why a pilot can’t go through a to do list as well, but, on balance, that’s probably best done in his or her private time.
10 Franz Liszt
Ok, bit of a cheat this one but there’s little doubt Hungarian composer Franz Liszt should feature somewhere in anyone’s top ten list of lists. Arguably the world’s first rock star, 19th century classical king Franz was both a hit with the ladies and a generous philanthropist. I’m jamming now but he was surely also a fellow huge fan of making lists. One day I’ll make a Best of Liszt list…
So, I’ve finally caved to the pressure I’ve been putting on myself to stick some writing on the web. It’s likely to be a mix of stuff I find interesting, things I think worth mentioning and quite a lot of silly nonsense. What it won’t be is anything too serious. That’s available elsewhere, I reckon…
When I Disappear 