Q - Did you hear about the comedian who completed his unfunny set very hastily?
A - It went without a LOL in proceedings.

Every dashing young desperado with even a passing interest in music dreams, at one stage or another, of forming a band with his / her mates - and many have ended up doing so, especially since the technology has become affordable to all, and since punk rendered obsolete the boring old necessity of having a modicum of musical ability. I suspect, however, that many down the years have fallen by the wayside at the difficult first stage - finding a band name.

There are endless naming paths open to fashionable young chaps in this year’s trousers; you can go wacky (”Manic Street Preachers”, “Ned’s Atomic Dustbin”, “Electric Light Orchestra”), you could go for “(X) and the (X)” - (e.g. Cliff Richard and the Shadows, or Simple Minds’ first incarnation “Johnny and the Self-Abusers”); or maybe try “Definite Article + Something” (The Fall, Cult, Move, Kinks etc), or even just a one-syllable effort, as was particularly vogueish during the ’90s (e.g. Blur, Jizz, Ride, Cast, Guff, Cud, Wang, Pulp, Belch or Flob.*)

Whether they’re looking for something punchy, zany, clever or witty, some bands do well, others far less so. For every “Rolling Stones” there’s a “Kajagoogoo”, and for every “Bill Haley and the Comets” there’s a “Fast Breeder and the Radio Actors” (an early tantric manifestation by Sting). But some names are simply appalling - here are my top 5 offenders. With all the words available in the English language, you’d think that 3/4+ intelligent people together would be able to come up with SOMETHING better than this crap:

5)  “The The“  - must have seemed very piquant to head honcho Matt Johnson at the time, but the novelty wears off after about 10 seconds. A clear case of “no, I write the songs, so I’m choosing a witty name and I’m blummin’ well sticking to it!” A shame, because the Johnson’s dystopian visions, driving melodies and scathing rants are otherwise largely brilliant. (Incidentally, a by-product of the band’s name is that it renders selling “The The” rarities on eBay extremely challenging. Cheers, Matt.)

4) “Dumpy’s Rusty Nuts“- Really? If you say so.

3) “Does It Offend You, Yeah?“ - Fuck off.

2)  “30 Odd Foot Of Grunts“- if this was Russell Crowe’s “vanity project”, then with a name like that, he must have a fairly low opinion of himself.

And finally 1) “It Bites“ - a particularly tragic case, because the band concerned (a great personal favourite of mine) should, fuelled by astonishing amounts of talent plus large wodges of Richard Branson’s dough, have heralded a new dawn for progressive rock in the mid ’80s. Sadly, they split after only 3 albums, stymied a) by being best known for a “novelty” song (”Calling All The Heroes”), and b) by having the WORST SODDING BAND NAME IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD, EVER. (Seriously - HOW did they get to the point of signing a record contract without someone - or rather many, many people - taking them to one side and saying “Lads - you were great tonight, but joking apart, “It Bites” is a shit name. Change it. Change it NOW.”)

PS - dishonourable mention also to “The Beatles”, which is a pretty poor effort - although in their case, the music was so good that it has detoxified the craptacularly cheesy pun.

(* - Some of these may or may not be figments of my fading, low-grade-indie-addled, powers of recall…)

The latest annual meeting of the IWC (International Whaling Commission) ended last week in its now-traditional manner - abject failure. Four days’ worth of bickering, with much of the time probably taken up by debating issues like why some delegates’ hotels had softer toilet-paper, and whether the letters “IWC” on the organisation’s headed stationery should have full stops after them or not. There was one great accomplishment - from now on, it won’t be possible for Japan to just turn up to these meetings with brown envelopes stuffed with Yen and give them to small, poor nations with no real interest either way in order to buy their votes. From now on, at least they’ll have to transfer the money in a traceable manner into the small nations’ bank accounts. Ground-breaking stuff.

Japan remains the nation most determined to kill large numbers of whales, and one of the reasons trotted out by its embassies (amongst others, like the utterly ridiculous claim that “they eat too many fish“) is “cultural tradition”. Now, I was under the impression that the mark of a civilised society was shedding its more bloodthirsty, cruel and primitive “cultural traditions”; hence we no longer enslave black people, we no longer burn witches, and we no longer live in caves communicating in grunts and throwing faeces at each other. But OK, Japan, I’ll take your bait (or rather take your exploding harpoon in the head) - and I’m prepared to work with you on a compromise which enables you to maintain your “cultural tradition” whilst leaving the whales in peace.  Ladies and gentlemen, I give you - drag whale hunting! Get a fleet of massive motorized inflatables, place them somewhere in the Southern Ocean (Japan’s “traditional cultural” whale-hunting grounds, thousands of miles away from home), and then let the Japanese whaling ships go searching for them. For added realism, you could program each inflatable to churn out gallons of blood and make horrible noises once hit by a harpoon, and as an incentive for the hunters, you could place some of the 6000 tons of frozen, unwanted whale meat which Japan keeps in deep freeze inside each inflatable. (This can eventually be re-used as no bugger wants to eat the horrible stuff; if it does ever perish or run out, dog food could be used as a substitute, as it’s probably a bit more appetising.)

Sorted! No, really - you’re welcome. I work for free, for the mutual benefit of whales and “cultural tradition”. (But having said that, any redundant Yen-stuffed IWC brown envelopes are gratefully accepted.)

So another Wimbledon’s finished, and despite always cherishing the annual opportunity sitting in front of my computer in my pants pretending to work whilst actually watching sport for two weeks solid, I’m absolutely delighted that it’s all over. But wh, you ask, y?

Firstly, because my best friend’s stubborn and repeated refusal ever to back Novak Djokovic continues to help maintain my wine habit, and secondly because I won’t have to hear the phrase “change-up” for another year. The phrase apparently derives originally from baseball - and it’s fair to say that it also derives me nutty.

Used liberally by all the commentators, a “change-up” seems to mean any variation in a player’s tactics during a rally (or indeed on a serve). I sort-of understand what they’re getting at, but occasionally get confused when the variation to which they’re referring takes pace off the ball; for instance, a slower serve, or a slice - these, logically, you’d think, would be a “change-down”.

I do feel for these commentators though; finding correct vocabulary must be a constant nightmare. Hmmm… if only the English language had a simple word for “variation” which could encompass both these senses; of speeding up the play, and of slowing it down. Oh hang on, I’ve got it! How about JUST SAYING “CHANGE”, FOR FUCK’S SAKE?

Many thanks to TM for the enclosed screen grab, showing that the BBC at least has its reporting agenda correctly prioritised…

Thank the good lord for the BBC Philharmonic’s safe deliverance. For a horrible moment, I was reminded of the recent events in Egypt; hundreds were dying, battles were ongoing, one of the West’s key “friendly dictators” was about to fall, and a corrupt regime of 30 years’ standing was finally going to get its come-uppance with massive implications for the status quo in the Middle East… but all I (and, I assume, any other right-thinking citizen of Her Majesty’s United Kingdom) could think was “how ARE those poor couple of hundred British tourists in Sharm-El-Sheikh going to get home? Won’t SOMEONE think of the children? Ah, thank GOD! Richard Branson has sent a charter plane. Oh, the relief!”

Q - Which 1990s pop band is much-loved by corvids who provide a service whereby they act as a neutral third party which holds payment until a transaction is concluded to the satisfaction of both buyer and seller?

A - Escrow Club 7.

(* - for  any newcomers, COSPJ stands for “Crap, obviously-self-penned joke” (the first adjective clearly extending to the title of this post). By the way, I didn’t cut and paste the subsequent exchange from Facebook; everybody just happened to comment REALLY quickly. Honest.)

As my regulars probably know and are sick to death of hearing about by now, I sell vinyl & CDs on eBay for a living. One rather dank, secluded creek within the great river of music which is surprisingly fecund sales-wise is brass band albums. I’m not really sure why - mind you, the population of Yorkshire apparently tops 5 million, so that probably explains it, even taking into account the fact that most of them don’t have electricity yet.

Anyway - I was listing an LP by the Metropolitan Police Brass Band dating from 1980, and had to share the cover with you. Bear in mind that these were the “glory” days of the now-disbanded SPG, who used to delight in beating to death, or at least the crap out of, ethnic minorities during the many and varied protests which were taking place in London in the early years of Thatcher’s premiership. Clearly you were unlikely to see black or Asian people actually in the Metropolitan Police at the time, let alone in its brass band, but the album’s marketeers obviously felt that it was important not to seem overtly racist… solution? Lots of lovely cuddly token ethnic kids on the cover. And one of the band wearing a leopard skin (?). The Magic of the Met indeed.

This morning, whilst in the middle of the mind-numbingly dull task of painting every room in an empty flat with only my DAB tranny for company (woof!), I suddenly tired of my usual diet of Radio 5 Live (the BBC’s attempt to appeal to the Daily Mail demographic by means of phone-ins which feature mostly shouty builders called Dave who start sentences with “I’m not racist, but…” and self-righteous stay-at-home mums from Tunbridge Wells), so I turned the dial to see what I could find, eventually alighting on Planet Rock. “Dr Feelgood” by Motley Crue, “Spirit of Radio” by Rush and “Heart of Gold” by Neil Young were the first three tracks served up for my delectation; I was impressed. Then came the adverts; first up, a plug for the latest issue of music mag “Mojo”, featuring a Neil Young interview and an exclusive CD with a re-interpreted recording of his classic album “Harvest”. Fan-bloody-tastic, I thought; even the adverts are good! I belong to a demographic after all! FINALLY, there’s a radio station for MY kind of guy!

And then the next advert came on: “Over 50? Overweight? Struggling to control your cholestorol levels? Then try Flora ProActive.”

Yeah, cheers for that.

Individually, I quite like tea and parties; but put the two together in a political sense, and you have something about as pleasant as having a pot of freshly boiled Earl Grey poured into your vulnerable constituencies. Erm, at a party. (Or something.)

However, irrespective of trenchant, well-thought-out criticisms like these, the Tea Party brand of politics (which as far as I can tell involves a) calling everyone “folks”, b) not knowing anything about basic economics, and c) screaming “Nazi Communist Gay Muslim!” loudly and repeatedly at anyone who dares to point this out), is on the march in America - and if their atrocious batshit crazy Mama-Milfy arsehole of a spiritual leader, Supreme New-Word-Creationist Sarah of Palinestine, were to win the Presidency next time around, reasonable liberal folk, sorry, people worldwide would doubtless soon be looking back at George W(ub)Bish’s buffoonery-masking-corporate-nastiness brand of pure evil as “the good old days”…

75,000 new apprenticeships announced in George Osborne’s spending review? Aren’t the 16 obnoxious zit-faced 20-something tryhards competing for “Lord” Alan “Sralan” Sugar’s attention enough already?