Viewermusic - ab's blog

Henrik Bloodhammer: Sales Assistant

2011-03-15T06:35:00.001-07:00

perhaps the most annoying thing about living in the picturesque and historic municipality of york (uk) is its sporadic invasion by vikings. just as goths flock to whitby bay, mods to brighton beach and flies to fetid turds, so too do faux nordic wannabes converge on our fair city.

for one week every year, seemingly normal and sober individuals - bankers, sales assistants, plumbers, kitchen fitters and the like - all don ancient viking garb and head on over to york. here, to celebrate the fact that battle hardy scandinavians raped, ransacked and pillaged their way across the country, a festival is held in their honour.

and so it was just the other week, slap bang in the middle of this annual nordic gala, i rounded a corner to be confronted by a rotund behemoth with a big blond beard, helmet and patterned circular shield. he strolled past the shopfronts of ladbrokes and argos as if it were the most natural thing on earth to be dressed in the archaic regalia of a ninth century seafaring shagnasty.

which of course it isn't.

now many of you may take umbridge with this particular gripe. you might be thinking "calm down a.b. - chill. how could you possibly be offended by a harmless pastime - a living history that celebrates our heritage and educates children and the ill-informed of old customs and times gone by?"

well i'll tell you for why...

first of all I have a problem with all this “living history” malarkey. over the centuries that have elapsed since the invaders washed up on blighty's shores, our attitude to them has softened somewhat. when these fierce warriors first moored their longships to our coastlines and marauded through our townships raping, ransacking and pillaging all in their path until their appetites were sated, it is safe to assume that the english populace of the time were far from enamoured by the norsemen. fastforward some 1145 years and we virtually hero-worship them. they are sympathetically portrayed in movies, comic books and children’s stories. the annual festival in york is a celebratory affair, lauding their technological achievements and cultural impact.

now I’m not denying for a moment that they had a great impact on us culturally or that they were gifted tradesmen and builders. my point is that they were invaders – and rather brutal ones at that. we don’t treat other such invaders with the same reverence. you don’t see people in warsaw goose-stepping about in nazi uniforms in the name of living history, and we’ve been apologising for the atrocities inflicted on indigenous peoples in the name of the british empire for years. but the vikings… we’ll they’re all right aren’t they? they’re cool – with their big beards and their longships. don’t go knocking the vikings.

but my biggest bugbear by far is this issue about it all being a “harmless pastime”. now i happen to be of the opinion that a group of middle-aged fantasists carrying battleaxes and screaming visceral war cries are from harmless. in fact i think they should be put on some sort of register. don't get me wrong - i have nothing against pre-pubescents dressing up and acting out imaginary battles with plastic swords and toy guns, but when you're 46, your name's norman and you're office manager for a reputable retail chain, alarm bells should start to ring.

if you like valhalla so much norman why don’t you go and live there?

Confessions of a Cyber Junkie

2011-01-10T15:48:00.000-08:00

i am a coiled spring loaded with artistic endeavour. fingers poised on laptop keys, i stare intently at the screen. i have carefully contrived the scene: the room is bathed in subdued light; a freshly opened bottle of cheap red wine sits invitingly on the coffee table. i can feel the creative juices boiling and bubbling to the brim.

it is at this point when, just as the muse is about to bite, i spot a (1) in the facebook tab i had instinctively opened upon logging in. the bracketed number serves as a visual alert to some event - perhaps inconsequential, though potentially seismic - unfolding in my cyber social circle. how could i focus on my magnum opus with this unknown nagging at the back of my mind?

i had no other option. i opened the tab and followed the link.

as is transpired, the event in question was far from earth trembling. a friend of mine - who i can't actually recall ever having met - had posted a comment on a video of me performing an elaborate dance routine using tables and bar stools whilst ripped to the tits on ale and vermouth. said video had been taken on someone's mobile phone and duly posted on the world wide web for all and sundry to view and share.

"WTF???" screamed the comment "LOL!!!"

perhaps i had met this person at a literary convention for the overly verbose.

no matter.

i navigated back to my home page, and couldn't help but scroll through the various latest statuses of friends, family, old acquaintances and complete strangers. these updates ranged from the banal to the obtuse - none seeming to serve any purpose whatsoever. there are not enough hours in the god damn day and there i was scanning the frivolous and trivial, scared that if i averted my gaze for just one moment i might become a hapless bystander - hopelessly lost and out the loop.

when does the arm become the wrist?

when does a casual dalliance become full scale addiction?

the first time i dipped my toe tentatively into the murky waters of social networking, i was blissfully unaware of the compulsion that would soon immerse me. within weeks i was amassing friends at a blistering rate of knots, seedily spying on their activities like a stasi informant. i watched online breakups and breakdowns. i saw blossoming relationships unfurl. hours and hours were wiled away on scrabble and mafia wars. i grew pre-occupied about the size of a virtual vegetable in my online farm.

in short; i was hooked. sure as lead is lead.

after 40 more minutes of pointless perusal, my creative juices were as tepid as a long forgotten mug of tea.

for today at least, the world would have to wait for my next little nugget of wisdom.

The Empire Strikes Back

2010-11-09T05:02:00.000-08:00

as george osborne finished his recent speech on the spending review, he sat down to a bellowing chorus of hurrahs and bravos. backslapped by a guffawing cameron and yellow tory apologist clegg, a pack of backbenchers behind him bayed like hounds. having just announced the biggest cuts to the public sector and welfare system in decades, the chancellor sucked in the plaudits like smoke from a fat cigar.

this distasteful scene is proof, if proof were needed, that this current crop of tory mps are pure unadulterated evil.

let us not be fooled - these savage cuts are not pragmatic economics. they are not an unavoidable response to the incompetency of the previous incumbents of office. a small state and a laissez-faire marketized society is ingrained in tory ideology. it is all very well for cameron to claim that “we’re all in this together” and present global recession as a kind of ‘let’s muck in war-effort’, but as we face the fire in the front line, these bunch of toffs are gorging on caviare and krug in their private club.

consider if you will the grim reaper himself – george gideon oliver osborne. beneficiary of a multi million pound trust fund and married to the eldest daughter of a lord, the slasher was born to sir peter osborne, 17th baronet and felicity-alexandra loxton-peacock. now these are not the names of normal people. nor are they likely to resemble the names of anyone you will ever meet.

the loxton-peacocks and baronets of this world do not mix in our circles. you won’t see them in a pub or at the ten items or less aisle at nettos. it is safe to say that these people are as far removed from everyman as is socialy possible to be.

so too can be said of cameron and his eighth cousin alexander boris de pfeffel (yes de pfeffel!) johnson. cameron is a descendant of king william iv, johnson a descendant of king george ii. both are alumni of the infamous bullingdon club (as is osborne) where pug nosed hooray henrys decked in prohibitively expensive dinner suits binged on champagne and veal - aristoknobs with the combined iq of a fencepost all destined for great things.

not only do these people have no empathy with most of the victims of their radical cuts, they actively despise them. in the case of the eton and harrow educated gentry that occupy office, they have been tought from day one that they are a breed apart. in the case of the others, they aspire to be.

being rich does not make you evil, but protecting the rich at the expense of the poor does. to line your own pockets whilst hammering those who have not been gifted the privileges you’ve inherited is morally abhorrent.

as unionists, activists and the disenfranchised take to the streets with angry banners and placards, it feels as though the bad guys have won. the greedy grasping empire stand firm against the will and spirit of the rebellion.

in these dark and testing times ahead, may the force be with you all.

Farenheit 451

2010-09-28T07:04:00.000-07:00

an acquaintance of mine - actually perhaps acquaintance is too strong a word - a person who, over the many years of having known them, i've come to regard as someone i met - was recently enthusing about an electronic gizmo he had purchased over the web. said person - shall we call him bob - is one of those technobores who prattles on incessantly about the latest gadget, buys it on release date and then parades it around with so much pride you'd think he'd invented the sodding thing himself. the piece of technical wizardry that had got bob particularly aroused on this occasion was the new third edition of the amazon kindle.

the kindle - for those of you who have been living in a neo-luddite bubble for the last 3 years - is "a software and hardware platform developed by amazon.com (subsidiary lab126) for the rendering and displaying of e-books and other digital media."

for the princely sum of £109 you too could be the proud owner of this electronic reading device. each virtual book you purchase can be stored on the kindle's ultra- thin hard drive thus eliminating the need for books and bookshelves. also, as bob explained "it's lighter than a paperback and there is no glare off the screen because it's e ink technology makes it read like real paper. and listen..." he said pressing the device to my ear "it even sounds like you're turning a page."

bob grinned like a smug, patronising porky pig.

not wanting to enter into a protracted conversation, i simply smiled and said "that's great bob, a really good piece of kit," and let him walk away to no doubt bore some other poor sap with his technobabble.

for the next 30 minutes or so, i imagined how the converstion would have unfolded had i been inclined enough to argue with the fool. i am pretty sure it would have gone something a little like this:

ME: well, that's all well and good bob and i'm pleased for you... really i am, but i already have a device that reads like real paper and sounds like i'm turning a page... it's called a real book. and yes the kindle may be lighter than a paperback but i've never really found a paperback to be overly cumbersome in the past. i've never thought "christ this is heavy, if only they'd invent something lighter."
BOB: ah but the kindle can store 420,000 titles - that's the equivalent of carrying an entire library around with you. you couldn't do that with real books.
ME: true bob, but then why would i want to? where would i be going where i needed instant access to my entire book collection?
BOB: on holiday? it saves you packing lots of books in your suitcase.
ME: yes well when i'm on holiday i tend to have better things to do than read - like immersing myself in the culture, sightseeing, eating, drinking and whatnot. i don't need swathes of literature to keep me occupied. two to three books max.
BOB: (getting more and more flustered) there are other features - with it's text to speech capability it can actually read to you.
ME: whoopee shit. i'm quite capable of reading to myself thank you very much. And also bob, what happens if you get your kindle stolen? its the equivalent of a high brow burglar breaking into your home stealing all your books and then taking a dump on your pink shag pile - you have no reading material and you have to pay £109 to get your carpet steam cleaned.
BOB: (visibly broken) but... but... it's the future.
ME: well you can keep your brave new world. i actually like the feel and smell of proper paper. i like the dog eared pages and the creased spines. i like scribbled notes and underlined phrases. i like to lend and be leant books. if it ain't broke bob, don't go fixing it.

[a long pause]

BOB: you're right a.b. - i've been an idiot. clearly your argument is both astute and salient. i am wrong and apologise unreservedly for my irreverent babble.
ME: apology accepted bob. now be gone with you.

and with that, he was gone. i smiled and applauded myself on another imaginary argument well won.

Man & Chimp: A Love That Dare Not Speak Its Name

2010-09-15T14:57:00.000-07:00

a quiet night in detoxing after a weekend of excess, found me flopped on the couch in front of the telly. i started to scroll through the infinitum of listings but stopped when i reached channel 4. my thumb clicked on info and my eyes scanned the synopsis of the upcoming show with bug eyed wonderment.

in my heart of hearts i had half hoped / half feared that tv had plumbed the most unfathomable depths, but michael jackson and bubbles: the untold story had the potential to be the most unfathomable yet.

"a documentary examining the complex relationship between michael jackson and possibly the most famous moon-walking chimpanzee in the world, his pet bubbles"

possibly the most famous moon-walking chimpanzee in the world? only possibly? surely this was tongue in cheek - an outlandish mockumentary or surreal spin-off?

as it transpired...no. it was all too real.

narrated by a voice that had an air of both authenticity and gravitas, the show charted the highs and lows of a bond betwixt man and chimp. animal psychologists and monkey experts offered speculative insights into bubble's psyche whilst friends, family and general hangers-on talked at length about jacko's odd love of the hairy beast. la toya, jackson's waxwork sister, giggled as she spoke of how the prince of pop(TM) asked a number of doctors to fit the chimp with vocal chords.

throughout the 80s, michael and bubbles were inseparable.

ultimately though, this peculiar love story had a tragic denouement. as bubbles grew older, larger, and less and less adorable, jacko grew more and more disinterested and eventually farmed him out to a monkey sanctuary where the chimp still lives to this day. then, to cheer himself up, michael went out and bought himself a baby. as former child actor mark lester brilliantly opined:

"now michael had something that was not a monkey"

the most touching moment of the revelatory documentary was towards the end of the programme when la toya went to visit the now massive primate. as she crouched down stroking the cage and gazing lovingly at a clearly non-plussed bubbles, she gushed "do you remember me bubbles? tell me you remember me."

listen - la toya - two points:
a) its been about 20 years since you clocked eyes on the creature and since then your face has been ravaged by so much surgery and botox that you look like something out of the thriller video.
b) he's a fucking chimpanzee - stop asking him questions.

la toya tearfully waved goodbye to bubbles and the lilt of incidental strings were heard. the programme ended with a sublime piece of wisdom from the animal psychologist;

"celebrity might have killed michael jackson, but bubbles survived."

indeed he did.

as the credits rolled, i sat slack jawed feeling dirty, sullied and soiled. i may rant and rave about low brow telly with its dumb-it-down ethos, but secretly i am just as much a victim as the rest of you.

car crash trash like this is hypnotic, addictive - a cheap drug, a nasty habit and try as you might… you just can’t beat it.

It's Not You, It's Me

2010-09-07T08:52:00.000-07:00

hello

it’s me.

please don’t close this screen. just hear me out. a few moments of your time – that’s all I’m asking.

i know its been a while since i was last in touch. well, quite a long while in all actuality. in fact 223 days have elapsed since my previous blog which is unforgiveable i know. believe me - it's not that i haven't wanted to contact you. how can i convey quite what i mean? its like that old adage of taking an overdue library book back – the longer you leave it the more complicated and uncomfortable it becomes.

i’ve done a lot of thinking and growing up over the past 7 months and i’ve come to realise that i really want to make this work.

i know i can change and become a better person.

i want to engage with you through laconic outbursts and rambling effusions.

i want to pour forth my thoughts, grab you and connect.

i want to look inside your dark troubled souls and get to know you, both individually and as a collective.

the procrastination stops here. i promise that from now on i'll be more fluid and frequent than a bad case of the trots.

through nurture the humble acorn becomes the mighty oak, and so too can our bond blossom and grow.

all i ask is for one more chance.

with all my heart

a.b

Thieves in Gucci Suits

2010-01-28T01:44:00.000-08:00

25/01/2010 - today i was roused from weird dreams at the ungodly hour of 07:00. the mobile phone on my makeshift bedside table played the pearl and dean theme that had once evoked fond memories of a bygone cinematic age, but was fast becoming a source of irritation. the screen read "number withheld". i cursed at the unknown ignoramus on the other end of the line and answered the call.

ME: hello?
FEMALE VOICE: this is an important call from [insert name of evil credit card company here] for...
MALE VOICE: (delivered in manner suggesting he was selling furniture on a cheap tv commercial) mr ab johnson!
FEMALE VOICE: if you are not...
MALE VOICE: (in exactly the same pitch and timbre as before) mr ab johnson!
FEMALE VOICE: then please hang up. [pause] we are calling to remind you that you owe an installment of...
MALE VOICE: fifteen pounds and forty eight pence
FEMALE VOICE: this is made up of missed payments and...

i hung up.

monday morning - 7am - and already i was being pestered by pre-recorded morons demanding money by menaces.

what's the panic? you'll get paid - just as you always do. must you corporate slags deprive me of an hours sleep on the bleakest morning of the week to tell me something that i'm all too well aware of?

the good people of this world, who pay all their bills on time, borrow money one month and pay it off the next, who switch from firm to firm to lower their APR; these people don't earn you a crust. it's the interest accruing unfortunates like me who keep you in gucci suits and porsche cayennes.

and as for the banks...

up and down the country they are opening branches and executive suites that cater solely for "premier" customers, with savings in excess of 50k. One can only imagine what goes on in such ignominious establishments - smug buggers on chez lounges shovelling vol-au-vents and bourgeoisie titbits into their salivating cavities whilst being fanned with wads of £50 notes, clutched in the dainty hands of buxom cashiers.

what about me?

what about those of us who tiptoe over our overdraft limits and get charged £25 a pop for the privellege? who earn you thousands of pounds in fees and penalties? where's our buffet and comfy chairs? where are our buxom cashiers?

i ask only for what's rightfully mine.

The Shape of Things to Come

2010-01-22T06:49:00.000-08:00

3/1/2010 - and so we slip seamlessly into the crisp advent of another year, leaving in its wake the most inappropriately monikered decade of any millenia.

the nougties (TM) suggests a carry-on coquetishness, a two fingered gesture to restraint and normality and a youthful, impish exuberance.

but the past 10 years were none of these things.

more so, they will be forever remembered as the decade when a functional illiterate became the leader of the world's most powerful nation, when the twin towers fell and the war on terror began. an age of crass television, celebrity obsessed tat and the mindless prattle of talent show upon talent show.

and yet, as the first 10 years of the new millenia smouldered to an end, from the ashes an embryonic phoenix formed.

the embarrassment of bush led the US to check it collective head and vote in its first african american president - a man who epitomised such hope of a better world that he was awarded the nobel peace prize without actually having done anything.

big brother closed its nauseous doors for the last time. the final christmas number 1 of the noughties (TM) - killing in the name of - was the result of an internet campaign to overthrow the rule of execrable mogul simon cowell and his minions of pubescent warblers. it smelt like revolt was in the air.

my new years wish, for what its worth, is that this is the shape of things to come. that the next decade will be a reaction to the last. that we'll strive to fight the status-quos and cultural lows. that we find our common voice and shout it from the rooftops, scream it at the billboards:

"fuck you i won't do what you tell me."

viva la revolution.

good night.

All I want for Christmas...

2010-01-22T02:05:00.000-08:00

25/11/2009 - and so it seems that the festive season is fast upon us. walking past some gaudy shop front today, the windows' bright white infantile scrawl informed me that there were just 32 shopping days left til christmas.

32 days of rabid consumerism
32 days of vendors eyeing us up like mutts at t-bone steaks
32 days of lying to children about some ruddy faced intruder breaking into their homes to leave garish trinkets beneath a prickly bush or green plastic replica.

but misanthropic diatribe aside, i welcome the birthday of the big baby jesus and all the gestures of giving and goodwill that he brings.

which is why i would like to take this opportunity to thank all the viewer fans and devotees who have been in touch via the information highway in the last few days to ask "ab - what is it that you would like santa to bring you for christmas?"

well... too numerous are the emails to respond to on an individual basis that i would like to take this opportunity to address you one and all.

what i crave, what i yearn and long for above all other things, is a benevolent dictator.

"a benevolent dictator?" you ask

"yes... a benevolent dictator" i reply

imagine waking up on a crisp december 25th and huddling around the televesion to learn news that whilst you were tucked up in bed awaiting the advent of yuletide, a big fuckoff coup had occured and our ambling, sychophantic melee of a government had been ousted by someone with a little bit of nous and vision.

someone with no interest in pandering to the press or appeasing the mob
someone with logic and guile and the ability to effect change.
a lady, a gentleman, or perhaps someone of indeterminable gender, who doesn't care for these faceless suits with their tootpaste grins and public school boy ties.

i know what you're thinking: "what about democracy ab? surely this is the cornerstone of society."

perhaps you're right.

perhaps i'm drunk.

but it strikes me that there are more people interested in voting someone out of a jungle than there are choosing between which cretinous imbersiles will get to guide us through another 4 years of abject misery.

all of which brings me to my original point... which i have forgot.

god bless you all.

and remember there are now only 31 shopping days left til christmas.

Daily Grind

2010-01-20T06:41:00.000-08:00

10/11/2009 - monday morning rolled around too soon and i'm slap bang in the middle of tuesday's daily grind. recollections of a lost weekend are scant and vague, doused in cheap gin and ale. i sport the scars of an overenthusiastic dance move on a slippery club floor. i am bored and worth so much more.

where is the fame i was destined?
where are my trinkets and things?
when will i be paid for my god-given talent - my wit, wisdom and devilishly good looks?

a saccharine tune slops out the speaker of a tinny fm radio. this caterwauling banshee from some talent show or other wails her way through yet another cover, ripping the soul out a half decent song... all the way to number one.

ker ching
ker ching
ker ching

all the while, i sit and hammer at keys. office based automaton. slave to a derisory wage. waiting for the day when the world sits up and listens. when viewer is mot du jour and mouthed on peoples lips. when we bag those breaks, crash the air and white noise goes:

gold
platinum
multi platinum

right now i would settle for pewter.

until then i persevere, waiting for the dying embers of a friday afternoon... and another lost weekend.