1. Helen Chadwick retrospective, Barbican Gallery, London. Despite a somewhat confusing layout (but hey, this is the Barbican that we're talking about), a fine exhibition, which reminds you of where a lot of the Saatchi YBA Sensation Generation nicked their ideas from derived their inspiration. We particularly enjoyed the Piss Flowers and the pool of bubbling chocolate.

2. Brancusi retrospective, Tate Modern. An intelligently conceived, thoughtfully sequenced and commendably thorough exhibition; we learnt a lot. The only works I didn't care for were the roughly hewn giant wooden pieces; the rest were uniformly sublime.

3. El Greco, National Gallery. Ugh! Hated it, hated it, hated it. Aesthetically hideous (nasty colours, ugly compositions), technically hopeless (tiny heads, mis-proportioned bodies, ridiculous expressions), and spiritually bankrupt (lurid visions of purgatory and hell, expressly designed to terrify the masses, mingled with hagiographic portraits of the most mighty figures in the all-powerful Catholic church; the all-pervading stink of oppression). And don't even get me started on the honking, elbow-barging, upper middle class Culture Set that crowded round each painting, noisily explaining the bleeding obvious to each other, as if they hadn't just read it all straight from the catalogue.

Bonus points for giving Jesus an improbably enormous bulge under his robes, in the series of paintings where he overturns the tables of the money changers. (Me to K: "Check out Christ's cock!") Such are the (cough) lengths to which El Greco was prepared to go. (He wasn't just the Son Of God; his dunda was this big!)

4. Violent Femmes, Rescue Rooms. Deceptively simple, good-natured folksy tunes, played with precision and spirit, to a crowd who sang along with almost every word. Enormously enjoyable.

5. John Martyn, Royal Concert Hall. Desperately disappointing, especially in comparison to his outstanding performance in Newark from about three years ago. Much of the problem lay with the over-sized, sparsely attended venue; Martyn and his three-piece band just didn't know how to fill it, lacking both intimacy and a sense of occasion. Large helpings of dull jazzy noodling: too polite, too tasteful, too Demonstration CD In Hi Fi Shop. Martyn's vocals slurred and unintelligible, to the point of self-parody. Songs mushed into each other, all on the one level, making it impossible to maintain concentration. We left in the interval.

6. Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind. Many have praised it; we, on the other hand, were distinctly underwhelmed. (In fact, K walked out halfway through, muttering seditiously about "f***ing American adolescents".) Pseudy, hollow, faux-experimental; a big-bucks Hollywood attempt at a "cult" movie (see also the similarly underwhelming Donnie Darko). The whimsical implausibility of the plot (held together at times by some decidely creaky devices) was matched only by the creaky implausibility of the central relationship (Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet, annoying in equal measure). Beck's low-key acoustic re-working of The Korgis' Everybody's Gotta Learn Some Time was the best part of the film; expect it to be a carefully marketed "overwhelming public demand" sleeper hit before the end of the year. (Hmm. Low-key acoustic re-workings of 1980s synth-pop hits. Where have we seen that before?)

7. Dogs Die In Hot Cars, Nottingham Cabaret. Clean cut, polite-looking suburban types, playing dinky, well-crafted, sweetly melodic power-pop to a similarly polite-looking audience. Call me a grouchy old rocker, but it just didn't feel right. Not like a "proper" gig at all. No edge, no passion, no thrill. We preferred the two support acts: Nic Armstrong (twisted, wonky 70s pub-rock with 60s influences) and Headway (energised and cohesive; potentially massive).

8. Cesaria Evora, Leicester De Montfort Hall. A static, undemonstrative performer she might be - but nevertheless, the tender, honeyed, quietly seductive tones of the "barefoot diva" couldn't fail to thrill. Bonus points for the sit-down fag break halfway through the set, and for waving her fag packet above her head in gleeful anticipation as she left the stage at the end of the show.

9. K's 45th birthday meal. As of last night, we have a new favourite restaurant in Nottingham. However, since a large part of its appeal lies in its status as a well-kept secret, mostly patronised by a loyal set of regulars, I am loathe to name it. Maybe I'll just link to it instead. Yes, that's much more discreet.

10. The holiday is booked. We're off to Peru!

UPDATE: The poll is CLOSED.
He is back amongst us.
Our work here is done.
Let rejoicing abound.

She's done it again, the silly old moo. Flounced off in a huff, because she thinks she's a failure. Honestly, what is she like?

As someone who feels partly responsible for this sorry state of affairs (Naked Blog finished at 51st place in my completely pointless, meaningless, and now, as it turns out, actually quite damaging popularity chart), I feel it incumbent on me to knock some sense into that silly head of hers organise a show of support for one of the biggest drama queens on the block one of the best weblogs around.

Seriously, though. Naked Blog is the first blog that I turn to every day, and I simply can't imagine life without it. And nor, I imagine, could many of you. So, let's tie a hundred virtual yellow ribbons round that old cyber-oak tree, by means of this poll. If you care, please vote to save one of our most treasured national institutions. And - if you'll forgive the shockingly uncharacteristic link-whoredeom which I am about to exhibit (*) - then PLEASE TELL EVERYONE YOU KNOW.

We can do this, people. Vote now - vote wisely - vote with all your might and main.
The lines are open... NOW.

The Naked Blog Petition.

Would you like Peter of www.nakedblog.com to start blogging again? Yes. Without Naked Blog, the world would be a poorer place. No. What does that silly old Scottish poof know about anything? Don't care. Never read him. Current Results

(*) I saw that.

Big Hard Excellent Fish - Imperfect List (1990)



In terms of the numbers of e-mail requests received for it, this track comes second only to Cristina's Is That All There Is? What's more, Morrissey has apparently been using it as introductory music on his current tour; it is being played it just before he takes to the stage. In which case, this is the perfect time for a re-post.

Here's what I said about the track last time round:I have also transcribed the lyrics, which can be read here.

...as mine has done over the past few days, (what I thought was an extended hangover turned out to be another rather tiresome bug, of the sort which isn't quite enough to keep you off work, but which is just enough to sap you of most of your life-force) then the best thing to do is a) make pseudo-meaningful lists (see post below) and b) turn the lists into pseudo-meaningful pie charts.

MOST LINKED UK WEBLOGS: BREAKDOWN BY GENDER.



MOST LINKED UK WEBLOGS: BREAKDOWN BY GENRE.



(Actually, I'm just blocked on the next question in the questionnaire. Soon come, no doubt.)

The most linked UK weblogs, May 2004.

Disclaimer: This means nothing. But it's still kind of interesting, nicht wahr?

Talk amongst yourselves.

Demian asked:
(a) Do you remember the showering naked couple sculpture in the Arndale Centre in the 1970s and (b) what did you think about it as a young un?

Here, Demian is referring to the huge, gold coloured "Adam and Eve" statue-cum-water-feature that was situated in the middle of the main concourse of Doncaster's Arndale shopping centre (now the Frenchgate centre), when it first opened at the end of the 1960s. (Indeed, not having properly visited Doncaster since 1986, I had only recently learnt, with some mild dismay, that the statue had been removed.)

I suppose that, with hindsight, shoving a gigantic sculpture of two naked people having a shower together into the middle of a shopping centre was quite a racy gesture for its day - though a lot less racy than the soft pr0n film titles (Naughty Knickers; She Lost Her You Know What) which regularly adorned the front of the Odeon cinema on the High Street. But I was too young to snigger. As far as I was concerned, this was simply a depiction of Mr. Adam & Mrs. Eve, innocently pleasuring themselves in the Garden of Eden.

And oh, what a garden of delights was to be found in our gleaming new Arndale Centre! Along with the new tower blocks at the edge of town, this was the clearest sign yet that Doncaster, like every other progressive, forward-thinking city, was busily transforming itself into the Space Age Metropolis of my dreams. For me, in thrall to everything that was smart, sleek and systematised, this transformation couldn't come quickly enough. Tear down the Ancient; make way for the Modern. Chairman Mao would have been proud.

So, while more seasoned eyes saw only tawdry tat, which would date faster than the "unisex" fashions in the newly opened C&A, I viewed the Arndale Adam & Eve as a thrilling symbol of the unstoppable march of modernity, heralding an endless series of ever-brighter new tomorrows.

We weren't to know.

Labels: questions