Bloody Earworms

Black Lace - Do The Conga

As you may, or may not, know…or in fact care, I am a Wolves fan based down in The Big Smoke. The land of cockles and muscles, apples and pears and Danny f**king Dyer has treated me well since I moved down. The only down side of this is due to added expenses, as well as a habit for spending all my hard-earned money on beer and chicken, I have to contend with watching our games in my bed, armed to the teeth with ginger beer, shouting rubbish insults at my laptop.

However, on Sunday, I got the chance to venture to lands new and far.

Someplace warm. A place where the beer flows like wine. Where beautiful women instinctively flock like the salmon of Capistrano. I’m talking about a little place, called Fulham (Thanks Dumb and Dumber for that line)

Yes, I decided to go to a pub, in Fulham, where it is likely I would the only Wolves fan in the pub. (I’d like to note that I also hadn’t…HADN’T been drinking when I made this decision)

I took my good friend Jason ‘I just support football’ Jones, along for the trip. After all, if I got lost in the wilderness of Fulham and had to stay alive, I’m definitely not going to eat my own arm!

We reached Fulham after a fair amount of trouble (this is however another story, and will undoubtedly be in the deleted secions of the special edition of this blog post)

We had to shield our eyes when we got off the bus, something was radiant, almost burning our eyes. When we had adjusted to it, we were met with something that would set the precedent for the rest of our visit.

A gold laced curtain, embroidered with the words ‘Welcome to Fulham’

As we stared at it, it was opened by its tassels by a dole of doves. We slowly walked through, hesitant about what we would encounter. Instantly, we were surrounded by fountains, pouring diamonds down a rock face made of girls. Girls made of gold, (not the TV show) dancing whilst feeding the fish in the pool with Rolexs. We tried to stand on the road, but they were slippy. Looking down, the streets were paved with rubies, we couldn’t move, we needed help.

At that moment, we were met by a herd of swans, wearing top hats and waistcoats with golden pocket watches. One of them came over to us, he had a badge on him that said ‘Taxi’

‘Where to sir?’

‘Ummm…the pub, please’

‘Oh I see young sir, off to the game of the football are we? I say, it should be quite a spiffing game!’

‘Urgh…yeah…spiffing’

And off we went, high above the skies. Below us we could see children, riding around on their Ferrari scooters. The local swimming pool, filled to the rafters with families, swimming through the sea of caviar. The ponds where the lilies were cucumber slices, the fish were tuna and the water was Pimms.

The swan lowered and landed in front of our destination. And with a ‘cheerio’ and a tip of his hat, he was off again. We watched as he flew off.

‘What the hell is this place?’

‘God knows mate. But it doesn’t look cheap. All I can afford is a Tesco reduced cheese and pickle sandwich’

Armed with our reduced sandwiches, we went into the pub. Walking past the hat and tails bankers, sitting in the leather chairs, smoking their pipes and reading their copies of the Financial Times, we found a spot at the back.

What proceeded to occur over the next two hours shook their society as they knew it.

Their world was crumbling, and all because of 11 guys, half of them Irish, wearing gold, who were obviously pumped up, but not in the way Danny Murphy likes to talk about.

They kept on looking at their pocket watches, both hands spinning backwards at a furious speed. The fruit in their pools of Pimms quickly dissolving, turning their fair ponds into a mould infested stink bath.

The most professional and positive performance I had seen from us in so long time was met by a collection of sighs, which turned into shouts and screams, and was followed by men choking on oysters and gold infused champagne.

And there I was, sat there, in my shorts and my trainers which are battered having been in both an ocean in Spain and the canal in London, smiling like I’d just stolen their Waitrose priority card off them.

The looks on their faces behind their monocles said so much. They were seeing a team, who they thought they should at least pick up a draw from pass them off the park, create countless more chances and defend against them like a wall made of George Elokobi’s chest.

Fulham couldn’t be more miserable. I couldn’t be happier.

And for some reason, whenever I am really, really happy…I start singing…Do The Conga.

It’s an awful habit, one that I’ve tried to seek help for. But at that moment in time, I could have done the conga with somebody suffering from leprosy and I wouldn’t care.

So we left the pub, with a skip in my step, and a conga in my head, to catch the swan back to normal civilisation. He was waiting outside.

‘Back to Central London my good man…or swan…whatever’

He looked at the smile on my face, then down at my trainers, and then back at me.

‘F*ck you and your crap f*cking trainers, you Wolves supporting bastard’

And that, ladies and gentleman, was Fulham.

The Dillinger Escape Plan - Panasonic Youth

Try whistling this.

It’s really fucking hard.

You’ll end up sounding like Popeye shagging a kettle whilst having a seizure.

Tasmin Archer - Sleeping Satellite

Why is EVERYTHING in this video spinning? It’s pretty pointless, unless the aim was to cause motion sickness to all viewers.

It should come with that as a health warning.

And a personal warning to Paul Weller to not cover it and to generally jog on. Stupid haired bastard.

The Coors ‘What Can I Do’

I’ve eaten too much fried chicken and drank too much ginger beer, and thought, been a while.

This song was the soundtrack to my holiday.

For the rest of my days, I will think about how I tried to sneak into a party run by Smart and was rubbish at it, and think of this song.

How I should never trust vigilante security guards, and think of this song.

And how I will always remember hearing my best mate shit himself, then throw up on the back seat of a bus, without anybody noticing and then not telling anybody about it, and think of this song.

All in all, it was an ace holiday.

I fucking hate this song though. 

Fleetwood Mac - Everywhere

I went to a house party, I got wasted, I went to buy more booze, left the party, couldn’t remember where I was so had to ring my mate Ben to come find me, he found me, pointed me in the direction of the shops, got there, they were closed, walked back, got lost on the way back, had to ring Ben to come find me.

Me mam is dead proud 

Saul Williams - Black Stacey

So went to get a cup of tea, and there was no milk, as a result, this song got stuck iny my head……I’m a horrible person.

Julio Bashmore - Batty Knee Dance

I really love this song, really do, and pretty much everything that Julio Bashmore has done/is doing right now. I’ve now had this song stuck in my head for about 3 days now.

And it’s been bloody torture.

Why?

It’s the same as when you hear ‘Entroduing’, see At The Drive In live, watch ‘The Godfather’, read ‘American Psycho’ for the very first time.

Because things like this make us realise that we just aren’t as talented as people like this, as cool, or as funny.

These are the types of people who can steal your partners and you couldn’t complain because you wish it was you that was being stolen. Who can stay up for days and look hot enough that mere mortals will melt at the smell of the mere smell of their vodka induced breath.

So, what am I going to do about it?!…Not alot, because im sure there’s plenty of talents that I have over Julio, like did he take Wolves to the Champions League final on Football Manager 10? Did he once eat 12 packets of Skips in 20 minutes at a house party? Did he once use a pint of beer to play octaves on his guitar with?

I bloody doubt it.

We’re all cracking in our own lovely ways.

This is the effect that a hangover and reading Norwegian Wood has had on me, but don’t worry, it won’t last long, I’ll probably listen to Elliott Smith when I get home.

T Williams featuring Terri Walker - Heartbeat (Mosca Remix)

Wouldn’t it be great to be able write songs for girls to dance to.

You’d be that DJ that girls swoon over, you know, like Brodinski before he started listening to hip hop and eating too much fried chicken.

You’d be able to get away with with wearing Cica Lights, walking around with a goblet and wearing a knuckle duster saying ‘I LOVE TITS’.

You’d have the opportunity to wear sleeveless Disturbed t-shirts which show off that totally gnarly tattoo of a dog shagging a cat you have on your pumped arms.

You’d be able to buy a hummer just for the sole purpose of filling it with seagulls, throwing in a fish to see what happens.

I wish I could be that guy, but I guess that’s what I get for liking Norma Jean and 2 Live Crew.

Amen ‘Coma America’

I used to be such a dick.

Raging on about how much I was into ‘politics’ and how I thought ‘capitalism is shit’ and that ‘business is shit’ and refusing to drink Coke because they are are a corporation. God knows how I lived through hangovers with that shitty attitude.

I look back at the stuff I used to do and think ‘thank god I’m just not that bothered about it anymore’, mainly because I would do really lame stuff like:

• Go around wearing my Che Guervera t-shirt and wristbands with communism stars on them saying ‘yeah man, all Americans are idiots, all they do is eat McDonalds and eat babies with cutlery made from money’
  
  
• Read up on Rage lyrics, then Google them to see what they were actually about, then spout on about them like I was an expert.

• Decide, whilst at uni, that it would be a great idea to write a long anti-George W. Bush speal about ‘how rubbish he was’ with the view of photocopying it and anonymously posting it around the uni site, simply because I had read two Michael Moore books and was really stoned (Hastened to say, I didn’t do this, mainly because I was really stoned)

Instead I sat on my sofa, stoned, playing Grand Theft Auto: San Andreas whilst eating sausage sandwiches. And I was much happier I did that, as nowadays it has meant that I have become somebody who is content with lying on my bed, playing Footall Manager 2011 whilst eating homous and pitta bread.

And you know what, that’s fine, better than what I would have become if I carried on listening to Rage, or even worse, Audioslave.

So yeah, totally fight the power, and all that.