'huge, queer and tawdry' but 'much admired by the public'

Very nearly went a whole calendar month without seeing any gigs there, which is most uncharacteristic. Just managed to avert that on January 31st, courtesy of Desperate Journalist at the Monarch, whose Friday nights were once Nuisance &c, and are now hip hop nights for tiny children in very few clothes. It was well Polanski. The next night, Joanne Joanne at the Dublin Castle, which has not changed, nor is it ever likely to; and since then, Gene covers at Nuisance and the newly-expanded Soft Close-Ups. Which is to say, I'm back in the swing. Earlier gigs I never got round to writing about include Dream Themes in Kiss make-up, the McDonalds (who are apparently not a novelty band), or Untitled Musical Project's drummer having some kind of meltdown at their comeback show. Alexander's Festival Hall have gone pleasingly 'el, and exliontamer's third band, Violet Hours, make the best musical use of 'The Waste Land' I've heard since the late nineties, when it was incorporated into one of the few bits of DJ mixing I've ever appreciated.
I've also been to more Daylight Musics than usual. Somewhat to my surprise, it really suited the Penny Orchids - when they're a little quieter, in a much bigger space, the nuances of the sound get much more room to affect, especially when hospitalsoup takes lead vocals for the first time I've seen in far too long. The festive Festivus show was also a joy but, as ever with Daylight Music, you don't half get some odd stuff turning up on the bills. When it's a man playing Philip Glass on the massive organ, that's a joy. But it might equally be someone like We Used To Make Things, a large band who are half brilliant (a suave brass section, a black Rosie the Riveter with an almost holy voice) and half terrible (four Mumfords, one played by Robert Webb, plus a singer who appears to be the horrible result of the realisation that Bobby Gillespie = Bee Gee).

Aside from gigs, there's been X-Wing and arm-wrestling, brunch and - most of all - Bruges. Which really is, as a wise man once observed, a fairytale fucking town. Some of its sillier museums (plus the one thing we wanted to see while changing trains in Brussels) were closed due to our visit being slightly too off-season, but we could still see the Belfort and the Bosch, canals and churches, the windmills and cormorants guarding the perimeter from the modern day. It's remarkable how it can be so mediaeval and yet still alive; you'll see a wall decorated with memorial medallions, assume they're all centuries-old, then look at the dates and realise that while some are, others come up to the 1990s. Yet still the continuity and style are maintained. In that sense it feels far less stuck in its own past than an ossified city-that-was such as Paris. I can also see exactly why they're filming Wolf Hall there; accordingly, it made for the perfect holiday read. But of all its strange and marvellous sights, the most remarkable must be the Michaelangelo sculpture. Not because it made its way outside Italy in his lifetime, but because it's a woman who actually looks like a woman. Madness.

Viewing: Anchorman 2 and Hobbit 2 are both much what you'd expect from their predecessors, and of course that works better for the former than the latter, which is still fundamentally a mess. There's simply too much happening, and too much of that jars with the original story even if it's ostensibly part of the same world. The abiding impression is of those stories which, in trying to make the most of a shared universe, instead simply draw attention to its cracks, and leave you wondering why Superman doesn't sort out all those non-powered crooks in Gotham. On the other hand, I also watched the first American Horror Story and while that's likewise wildly overstuffed with characters and incidents, the effect is much less queasy - simply because they were always conceived as parts of the same whole in the way the Necromancer and comedy dwarves so clearly weren't.

Lots of films I put off writing up, from the tail end of my Lovefilm trial (like some sort of hippy judge, I always acquit) and elsewhere. Like Berlin Express, a flagwaver about Nazi plotting in the rubble of postwar Berlin. Our Heroes include representatives of the four Allied powers, and the Good Germans - can they all work together to deal with the threat? Of course they can, leading to an ending which I think would have been outdated by the film's 1948 release, and is bleakly hilarious now, where the American and the Russian say friendly farewells in front of their respective compatriots. So with hindsight we know that the heroic Yank nutritionist is going to be ruined by McCarthy, and the stolid but brave Russian will die in Stalin's terror. Oh, and there's a traitor, too. I wouldn't spoiler it but, well, which allied power was best at collaborating with the Nazis? Exactly. They did use the real ruins of Berlin for sets, though, which combined with the voiceover makes some sections practically bombing p0rn. A curiosity rather than a classic.

Unlike Arsenic and Old Lace, which may be the perfect screwball comedy. Well, not quite perfect - the thuggish brother who supposedly looks like Boris Karloff was in fact Raymond Massey, because Karloff was too busy playing the part on Broadway to be in the film. The fool - now most everyone who saw him will have gone to dust, while the rest of the cast are immortal, most particularly Cary Grant who was never more devil-may-care, impossibly elegant even while falling over chairs and otherwise acting the chump. Though even when he disappears for long stretches, the rest of the cast can carry things just fine.

Another brilliant comedy: I'm not sure if The Other Guys even got a cinema release in the UK, in spite of being the fourth full-length Will Ferrell/Adam McKay collaboration, which one would have thought to be Kind Of A Big Deal. If you've seen the others - Anchorman, Talladega Nights, Step Brothers - then yes, this is more of the same. Which is to say, a lot smarter than it looks - an action comedy which is genuinely furious about bank bailouts turning into more bonuses for venal incompetents, which uses its end credits to explain what a Ponzi scheme is and why we've all suffered. The supporting cast is excellent - Samuel L Jackson, Michael Keaton, Steve Coogan, a rather underused Anne Heche - plus the Rock, who plays much the same role he did in Get Smart. Poor sod seems to be such an obvious action hero that he can only get jobs as the joke action hero in the background of films about the other guys overshadowed by the macho cliche.

'Macho cliche' brings us nicely on to Predators, which does exactly what you'd expect and no more. It must be hard being Walton Goggins, though - whoever he plays, it's a joy seeing his character suffer, and a lot of it is just his face. That can't make for easy nights out.

And finally, Pieces of April, one of those almost parodically indie US films about a quirky girl and her family who don't understand. I was only really watching because Stephin Merritt did the soundtrack, but it was pleasant to be reminded what Katie Holmes was like before the Thetans got her, and it does have a minor role for Clay Davis from The Wire - as a domesticated schmuck, which is a bit tricky to process.

Even though I didn't stay quite to the end, Friday's Black Plastic felt epic. I think this may have had something to do with listening to the Afghan Whigs on the way there (and then not getting horribly lost because this time, dudes, I remembered to check the full address). Possibly the drunkest I have been...since the creepers incident, in fact. Earlier that day I had climbed my first tree since then - one which had creepers, creepers I carefully avoided. Because my back is fine now, and as soon as possible you've got to get back on the horse. Or tree. But not back in the tree on a horse, that's a guaranteed recipe for disaster.

On Saturday, I felt somewhat puzzled by the Guardian having a big article about Momus and giving Gyratory System, whose free show I am attending on Wednesday, Single of the Week. I also watched the new Peep Show which, if it felt like it was moving a little fast at times both for comedy (surely there was an episode's worth of laughs in Mark as the boss?) and plausibility (could a multinational cut the British office loose with such disregard for redundancy laws?), was still Peep Show, and thus a sign of life in British comedy, which I needed. First, I'd recently attempted Home Time based on a smattering of good previews - but even being able so easily to identify with the premise (getting 'round 30 and London life hasn't entirely gone to plan), I was unable to overlook the unfortunate issue that it really wasn't very good. And prior to Entourage on Thursday I caught a little Katy Brand. Katy Brand's Big-Ass Show is very much like the smell of vomit, in that while you know and remember that it is bad, a first-hand encounter always reminds you that it is far, far worse than contentment has enabled you to remember. What Paul Kaye and her from The IT Crowd are doing in it, I don't know. Couldn't they have got more fulfilling work, like advertising formula milk to Third World mothers, or peddling their arses on street corners?
Then out again for what I had thought would be a walk through the park (albeit under apocalyptic skies) to a cheap pub where we'd settle in for a while, but was in fact a pub crawl. I'm generally sceptical of pub crawls, especially ones which take place on a Saturday night, in the West End, in the rain, without the full addresses of certain key pubs. But, once we settled in at the Bear and Staff, a good evening. Not least because quite by chance my table gave me a perfect view of all the passing hen parties. Odd observation: without exception, the most attractive members of any West End hen party are within the first third as they go along the street. Shock troops, I suppose.
More importantly, I also made a glittery conker, and called him Glittery Conker, for reasons I hope are obvious.

Yesterday I teetered over to Green Lanes, which was closed for a free festival - ostensibly a food festival but I think demand had surprised them, although I did have one rather lovely Turkish honey ball (your innuendo here). Caught a couple of Irish bands too, one of whom entertained me by covering 'Anarchy in the UK' for a family audience, at an event sponsored by local businesses and attended by councillors and MPs. The speed of assimilation accelerates such that I'm convinced Rammstein's new video (actual p0rn, if you didn't know) will be on ToTP2 within ten years. Then home where I ended up watching Beerfest, which as expected is not on a par with Seth Rogen or Will Ferrell films, but as bandwagon-jumping goes, isn't too bad either.

Finally, these bats are adorable.

If you like Seth Rogen films, Will Ferrell films, basically any of the good comedies that have been coming out of America lately, you must see The Hangover. Went into it somewhat uncertain - against all those interlocking sets of funny guys, I didn't really recognise anyone in this except the dad from Arrested Development. But it is hilarious. There's little I can say without spoiling it, and you probably know whether you'll like it from the set-up; four guys go for a stag night in Vegas. They wake the next morning to find the room trashed, a tiger in the bathroom, and the groom missing. They have no idea what happened in between.

Raced through the last season of Battlestar Galactica this week and can't help but feel disappointed. ( she was a grand old lady - spoilers below and likely in comments )

Finally succeeded in seeing the Wellcome Collection yesterday. I had expected something more thoroughly medical in theme, but between the sex toys and torture implements and pictures of Wellcome himself in fancy dress with the 'tache to end all 'taches, I conclude that it's not that far from Sir John Soane's, just with a little more pretence towards being something other than one rich bloke's collection of crazy stuff.

I find Scott Walker talking about the thinking behind his recent albums considerably more rewarding than the albums themselves. But mainly I find myself thinking, why do I still not own Nite Flights?

There is much in this world that, while undoubtedly unpleasant, is not really worthy of note or comment. For instance, one can no more be surprised that reliably loathsome Mail Grand Inquisitor Paul Dacre is ranting about the BBC "destroying media plurality in Britain and in its place imposing a liberal, leftish, mono culture that is destroying free and open debate in Britain" [free registration required] than one can be shocked to find Satanic Verses ban enthusiast and general errand-boy of the Caliphate Keith Vaz MP proposing laws against cheap booze. When Dacre says of the Max Mosley trial that "most people would consider such activities to be perverted, depraved, the very abrogation of civilised behaviour of which the law is supposed to be the safeguard. Not Justice Eady. To him such behaviour was merely "unconventional"...But what is most worrying about Justice Eady's decisions is that he is ruling that - when it comes to morality - the law in Britain is now effectively neutral, which is why I accuse him, in his judgments, of being 'amoral'" - well, one hardly expects Dacre to have the wit to recognise the distinction between crime and sin, which even a loon like Kant could spot. He's the Kommandant of the Mail, of course such niceties are beyond him.
But here's the first noteworthy bit - why is this poison being hosted on the Guardian's website? Has their moral confusion really gone that far?
And even more so, consider this passage:
"The judge found for Max Mosley because he had not engaged in a "sick Nazi orgy" as the News of the World contested, though for the life of me that seems an almost surreally pedantic logic as some of the participants were dressed in military-style uniform."
Paul Dacre appears to be saying that, as near as makes no difference, all members of any military are Nazis. I've heard that line from witless anarcho-syndicalists, but from the editor of the Mail? In the week of Remembrance Day? If ever there were something which merited national outrage, a campaign of complaints by people who've not heard the whole story and shamed resignation, I think this would be it.
On the plus side - hey, at least the old 'Hurrah For The Blackshirts' Mail finally seems to have concluded that Nazis are a bad thing.

After watching Pineapple Express, Step Brothers and Tropic Thunder on Sunday afternoon, I was musing on how glad I was of the self-indulgent state of modern American comedy, where they're increasingly happy to sideline the sappy romance elements and just make, y'know, FUNNY FILMS. My mistake was then to attempt to watch Bad Lieutenant, which was every bit as silly while being convinced that I IS SERIOUS CINEMA. Did people really get excited about this? It wasn't even gruelling, just bad pantomime.

Free with today's Sunday Times - a ten track punk compilation CD. Who's spinning faster in their graves, the team from the 1976 Sunday Times or the 1976 punks?

Last night's Doctor Who managed the remarkable feat of making me nostalgic for 'Evolution of the Daleks'. What utter, utter rubbish.
- A spaceship seemingly designed by the same shipwrights as in Galaxy Quest, to maximise dramatic peril without any regard to plausibility. Oh, and it's also the universe's one piece of sonic screwdriver-resistant tech, because otherwise we'd have no plot - so instead the doors are operated by a pub quiz machine. And one requiring answers from the early 21st century, at that. And when Martha needs to check the answers to this inexplicable system, she doesn't ring a mate, or her sis - no, she rings her mum, the one person guaranteed to give her grief.
- Riffing off old episodes? Fair enough if you're talking old series, but don't rip off one from last year, especially not when that was a classic and all you're going to do is detract.
- Cyclops from the X-Men minus his personality does not make a good antagonist.
- If you're going to do real-time, do it properly, and if you're calling the episode '42' at least make some kind of effort at a 24 pastiche rather than just leaving it hanging.
- The big reveal was slightly less atrocious than what had come before, but "you should have run tests"? Seriously, Doctor, what kind of lifescan would pick up on something like a sentient star? And as regards the old sentient-star-doesn't-like-being-used-for-fuel bit - I wasn't expecting Star Maker but even Venus on the Half-Shell did it better, and that was the fairly talentless Philip Jose Farmer doing an extended and inexplicable Kurt Vonnegut in-joke.
Inexcusably bad.

pippaalice has cats. Cats who peer. The manner of the peering suggests that they are either plotting, silently judging humanity, or attempting to physically alter the world with their mighty feline brains. They alarm me.

For the particular attention of augstone - http://www.funnyordie.com, a site with loads of toot but also exclusive online Will Ferrell goodness.