Spot The Difference with Macklemore

About five years ago, whilst holed up in the rural recesses of southern Japan, I received a phone call from a dear friend. I say phone call; what with being separated by the vast expanse that is the snowy wilderness of Russia, this call was brought to glorious life via the then relatively new and awe-inspiring medium of Skype.

Yeah, that's right, I was totally using Skype before any of you wannabes even heard of it! (Being ironic here; more on that later....)

Unlike the inoffensive ranblings and general platitudes that I had become accustomed to, however, this conversation began with some urgency.

"Grae!" Cried my friend in a panicked tone, previously unheard of in his usually dulcet Welsh ambiance. "You need to burn all of your clothes!"

"Crickey O'Riley!" I gasped, clutching my tattered green velvet jacket "Why by great Blessed's beard would I do that??"

And then he uttered a single word that to this day sends shivers down my stylish yet affordable spine...

"Hipsters."

hipster¹

hɪpstə/

noun

informal

noun: hipster; plural noun: hipsters

1. 1.

   a person who follows the latest trends and fashions.

Origin

1940s (used originally as an equivalent term to hepcat): from hip³ + -ster.

Hipsters, it transpired are young semi-professionals who dress in mismatched vintage clothing,  women's scarves and/or witty/nostalgic t-shirts, have been listening to every indie band under the sun before you ever heard of them, drink rum and cokes, smoke Malboro Lites and are generally better than you could ever be, ever. And they freakin' hate Coldplay. Sadly, as hipster as it is to say, I was hipster before hipster even existed. Seriously. Ask anyone. It's true. 

Today, however, I found myself walking through Waterloo Station, humming the Kinks to myself, as is the fashion, only to discover that the 2014 incarnation of the hipster seems to have spiralled somewhat out of control. 

As I stood outside the station (smoking a Marlboro Lite, wearing a pashmina and not 

listening to Coldplay) a horrifying reality dawned upon me;it is now nigh on impossible to tell a hipster from a homeless person.

As I watched one would-be homeless gentleman walk past, his scruffy shoes dragging on the ground and his patchy jacket flapping in the breeze, he pulled out a brand-new iPhone seconds before being greeted by a group of like-fashioned colleagues. Moments later, a young woman who I was certain was a member of our generation's yuppie elite approached me and asked for fifty pence, explaining that she had sold out of Big Issues today but was still short of enough for the shelter this evening.

My mind, dear reader, has been blown. Is this seriously the fashion today? A time when young people, earning enough to live in London and socialize therein choose to dress like beggars, whilst the street societies actually look healthier and smarter? It beggars belief! (Excuse the pun)

Young people! Sure, keep your vintage jackets, your pashminas, your ironic t-shirts, but please, have some self respect! Get yourselves to a decent charity shop and find something that doesn't look and smell like R-Kelly pissed on it! You are giving hipsters a bad name. And, as one of the first of your kind, I take offense!

Busking Makes Me Feel Good with Journey

I never intended to be a singer. Indeed, I was told quite implicitly by my dearest friend at the age of fifteen that I "couldn't shout for coal", apparently a Northern phrase for being completely tone-deaf. With him having been the lead in the school choir, and more recently boasting a spate of prestigious West End roles, I had no valid reason to dispute this.

I have however (possibly moreso in my own head) always had something of a talent for voices, so upon moving to Aberystwyth at eighteen and discovering the joys of karaoke, I set about dedicating a "Song for Wales" each week during our drunken singathons. So somewhere, amidst raspy Cerys Matthews renditions and my booming Tom Jones, there came a time when I began belting out some Stereophonics tunes. It was at this point some inebriated fool informed me that actually, I had a cracking voice.

Since those heady days, I have found myself hiding more and more behind the crummy old guitar I found in the loft, finding comfort in the likes of Counting Crows and Bruce Springsteen. It wasn't until I moved to Japan however, and my girlfriend half-jokingly suggested I go for the house musician job being advertised at a local bar that I really discovered the power that music had over me.

On stage, one loses oneself. There is a true comfort in sound, when you're caught in a lyric, the crowd, however small, however previously rowdy, suddenly intoxicated by the music that you yourself are creating; in that moment, time stops and suddenly you are the lord of your own harmonious kingdom. When the song ends and you step away from the mic, the harsh reality of life inevitably returns, but for a few moments, you become a celebrity in your own right. There's still a small Northern voice in the back of my mind, adamantly telling me I can't sing. But you know what? For the most part I ignore it and just enjoy the moment.

Recently, I've been earning a little extra money busking on the streets of Durham. The smiles from the passing public make up the majority of my earnings, but seeing them singing along, knowing that in some small way I have brightened up their day is payment enough. Having a two year old girl stop dead in her toddling tracks to stare up at you in awe is one of the loveliest feelings you can have.

Of course there is the occasional comedy genius who decides a good heckling is in order. "Get a proper job!" Is usually the witticism of choice. But consider this when questioning the validity, and indeed the price of hiring an entertainer;

1) Minimum wage is £6.31 an hour. I have a "proper" job. Said proper job is exhausting and soul-destroying. But can I afford the rent on a flat? The upkeep of 4G network? A new pair of slacks? No. As Tesco so finely put it, every little helps.

2) Training. Sure, it's not your 

mandatory diploma, required and then scoffed at by every potential employer, but the hours spent perfecting your craft are surely worth the little extra monetary gratitude? After all, it's a very lucky man indeed who picks up an instrument for the first time and is instantly a pro.

3) Can you do it? If you can, then do. But if not, consider it a service. You wouldn't complain about hiring a plumber or a chap to service your laptop, so why bemoan a more inspirational talent?

But most importantly, don't take away our music. Imagine a world like in Oscar's Orchestra! The world needs music, and the musicians need it even moreso. It is our life, and when we play, it is our world. We're just working hard tryin' to get our fill...

Stranded on a Desert Island with Nicki Minaj

I miss Hannah Montana.

I know it's cliche these days to ramble on about Miley Cyrus and how far down the wrong path she's gone, but y'know what? She chose her path, let her live with it. But I do genuinely miss Hannah Montana.

I have a theory that the real Miley died some time between the H.M finale and the release of the deplorable We Can't Stop. Some tragic accident... Possibly from being smothered by an over-bearing Billy Ray... and has since then been replaced by Justin Beiber, thus explaining Beiber's gradual decline into drug-fueled debauchery; he simply cannot cope with the duel life of a famous transvestite. In replacing the real Miley, he has essentially become a real-life cross-dressing Hannah Montana, without the perks of hilarious sidekicks and every shoe in every style, every colour.

And so today a question arose; given the choice, which would be the lesser evil; having to join Miley in her current coccaine-fuelled carnation for a romantic evening of frolics, or spend the rest of your life stranded on a desert island with the multiple personalities embedded within the musical peacock that is Miss Nicki Minaj?

It's a tricky one, but there are two major factors to be considered when making this life-changing choice;

1) The annoying:amusing ratio

2) Induction of murderous rage

Let's begin with the date with Miley. Frankly, I couldn't imagine being able to put up with the company of Miss Cyrus for more than a grand total of two minutes. Harsh, yes, but after that initial "oh, it's Miley Cyrus" (see my previous entry on the joys of celebrity), she really has very little going for her. To look at, she is a train wreck, and will inevitably be sticking her tongue out like a handicapped giraffe for much of the evening. Her conversation will in no way be endearing, referring for the most part to her infamous addition to the English tongue (the word "twerk", not the aforementioned giraffe tongue) and her many, well advertised misdemeanours at parties of the rich and famous. She will inevitably attempt to do something shocking, be it straddling a table/waiter/nearby tractor, lighting up a crack-pipe mid-conversation or removing her clothes and causing general nausea. Honestly, I'm not sure I could cope with ten minutes, let alone a whole evening without a homicide occurring.

So, Nicki, it looks like we'll be spending an eternity on a desert island. But you know what? I don't think it'll be all that bad. Surely you can fashion something amusing to wear from the local foliage? True, you'll stuggle to get any more plastic surgery on the island, but I'm sure we can attach a coconut or two somewhere or other, and that would certainly match a palm-frond bikini. The multiple personalities in which you pride yourself would allow for a change in conversation when boredom inevitably sets in, and if all else fails, I'm sure you're buoyant enough for us to at least attempt an escape. And to be honest? I quite like your music. We all have our guilty pleasures... But try not to bang on...

Building a Brighter Future with Lord Business

Last night I had a terrifying vision of the future. A future in which I become Will Ferrell.

I have always had something of an obsession with Lego. From a very early age I remember waking my parents up at the crack of dawn by emptying buckets of bricks onto the playroom floor, their glass-like crashing resonating throughout the house. One of my earliest memories in fact is of the day my mother, like some great Japanese kaiju, destroyed an entire city in one foul swoop whilst I was at kindergarten.

To this day I still fill with excitement whenever that tell-tale jingle peals from beneath wrapping paper, and will freely admit that my favourite present of last Christmas was the Wolverine vs Deadpool play set, possibly the coolest Lego set of all time.

So it has been with childlike glee that I have been anticipating the release of the new Lego Movie, which finally hit UK cinemas last Friday (oh, what a Valentine's present!). Those around me, much like the critics before seeing the final piece, have been dumbfounded by my fascination, and in all honestly, I had a feeling that in reality it would just be a simple family fare worthwhile of a few chuckles. 

But dear god, am I glad the world has been proved wrong.

The Lego Movie is by far one of the smartest, most beautifully animated, and surprisingly moving films that I have ever had the pleasure of viewing. Throughout the first few minutes of the film I sat grinning like the Cheshire Cat as the intricate landscape of Bricksburg built itself before me. No detail has been forgotten in this world, from the use of random pieces when that exact brick is unavailable, to the tiny serial numbers underneath each brick and even the gradual wear and tear that the pieces have undergone through years of enjoyment. Indeed so exact is the animation, and so perfectly performed, had I not known that the entire world was computer generated, I could happily have believed that painstaking lengths of stop-motion had brought Bricksburg to life.

The story is childlike in its simplicity (a factor that makes so very much sense in the beautiful reveal towards the end of the movie), and each of the main characters is filled with their own personality without ever feeling contrived or characatured. The humour is infectious throughout and we truly feel the plight of our heroes, buying in to Lego-verse without question.

But this is not simply a comedic adventure story aimed at primary schoolboys and nostalgic geeks with too much time on their hands. Without giving too much away, The Lego Movie is a film about family, about growing up and about what these things mean in the modern world. It's easy to hold on to nostalgia, and to long for everything to be in its place, but eventually there comes a time when we must make changes, and embrace them.

This is not a film about Lego, it's a coming of age film to rival The Goonies and Stand By Me. And I do not say that lightly.

So forget your hang-ups and your snobbery, trust me; this is the movie to warm the cockles of the coldest hearts. Even if they are made of plastic.

Stalking Celebrities with Taylor Swift

We all have a strange obsession with fame. The glitzy, glamourous, glittering bubble that surrounds the rich and famous is one that although we may not necessarily want to envelop ourselves in, we all long to be around at some point in our lives. Indeed, we, as a species, seem to revel in regaling stories of the brief moments in which we have been touched by the stars (figuratively of course; we don't need any more court cases going on right now!), and after being asked on a number of occasions over the last week by curious students whether or not I have ever met anyone famous, I have come to realise two things;

1) The fascination with stardom is a global phenomena. No matter the country, there is always a buzz in a conversation, a moment of fleeting impressment (that's a real word by the way! I'm filled with a feeling of impressment right now upon discovering that!) when someone in the room regales you of their all-too-brief brush with a B-lister.

And

2) I've had far too many all-too-brief brushes with B-listers.

Having met someone more interesting than yourself suddenly elevates (albeit momentarily) other people's interest in you, giving you a sudden semi-stardom, which inevitably fizzles out when someone else in the room remembers that they once snogged Jonny Depp's third cousin twice removed.

Over the last few years I've had a few rather memorable encounters with minor celebs (most of whom are barely famous outside of London, let alone the UK), including being told I have beautiful hair by Jewish comedian Simon Amstell, having a lunch with Sir Kenneth Brannagh, being advised by the legendary Matt Berry where to buy his stand-up DVD for the lowest price, running head-first into a very grumpy Martin Clunes, sharing a pint and a fag with Alan Davies, cooking for both Welsh rugby coach Warren Gatland and John Barrowman and his Barrow-mum, and maybe my favourite, watching Rhys Ifans being drunkenly thrown out of a pub.

There have been many more random encounters besides, but do they make me more of an interesting person? Well no, of course not. They just give me a vaguely interesting story to tell and a nice piece of noslgia to look back on.

The reason for this ramble? A few days ago whilst doing some cover work in Leicester Square, I happened to witness the setting up of the red carpet for the new George Clooney film (vaguely interesting/nice piece of nostalgia). After finishing work for the day, I decided to ask one of the security guards at what time things would be kicking off. With the wry smile of a haggard Scotsman, he informed me that the cast would be arriving around six thirty and, with a glance down at my laptop bag, informed me that they would be "ready for my lot".

It wasn't until moments after I had thanked the burly chap and was already halfway across the square that it dawned on me that he had mistaken my satchel for a camera bag, and had thus confused me for one of the bevy of paparazzi frantically securing their locations around the area. 

Watching these tired, somewhat desperate photographers I realised just how determined some people are to have their lives touched by the famous. Without the public's need for a glance into glitz, these gentlemen wouldn't be here. Indeed the carpet itself wouldn't be here in the first place.

So perhaps it's a good thing? Celebrity keeps photographers in work, gives us wannabe writers something to waffle on about, and gives Joe Everyman a little excitement in his day-to-day life. Me though? I'm not all that fussed. The stories are nice to share, but at the end of the day, celebs are nothing more than (hopefully) talented people who have struck it lucky in life. So smile if one passes you on the street. Maybe tell them you're a fan; you might get a trendy new profile pic, or even manage to share a drink or two with someone you admire. But the obsession? The endless magazines? You can keep them. That said, if there's a position going as Taylor Swift's official stalker, I'll be snapping away with the best of them! 

Job Hunting with Baz Luhrmann

Looking for work is possibly the most soul destroying venture any human being can set upon. Being told by an infinite amount of complete strangers that despite your experiences, your qualifications and your talents, you still aren't capable of performing often the most menial of tasks can push a man about as close to the edge as one can get.

I've spent over a year now trying to escape the clutches of the service industry (a sector that for all its faults, has seen me through my education and, for the most part, the majority of my vices) and despite having been on the verge of giving up and becoming a hermit on many occasions, it looks like things are finally on the up-and-up. The old adage about waiting forever for a bus rings rather true.

During the course of this eternity I have picked up a few tips on surviving the hunt, so in the footsteps of Baz Luhrmann, I will dispense this advice now...

1. Wear Sunscreen

If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proved by scientists, whereas the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.

2. Reed.com Is A Douche

Same goes for Indeed.com. These sites are filled with jobs. Thousands of them in fact. And you know what? You could very easily do just about every job on there. The problem is, the simplicity of uploading your CV and cover letter, pressing a button and then thinking "yeah, that's another one done" means that everyone is sitting back, doing exactly the same. As such, you can apply for thirty or so jobs in an hour, think "wow, that was easy", then do it again, and again, essentially spending a whole day applying for jobs. Great! Productive! A hundred jobs applied for! And will you hear from any of them? No. Because every bugger in Britain has just done exactly the same. Save yourself the hassle, decide what route you're heading down and visit the individual sites of companies in that sector. That way at least you know someone's going to read your application. And maybe you'll get a response for your trouble!

3. Don't Listen to Platitudes

They will only get you down! Yes, casual acquaintance/family member/barman, I'm fully aware that everyone else is in the same boat, and I know too that I just have to keep my chin up, and yes, I'm sure something will come along eventually (it actually will), but do you know how many times I've heard it? Too sodding many, that's how many! Unless you know a guy that knows a guy with some work going, keep your "helpfulness" to yourself. Or buy me a pint. Either or.

4. Network

Everything in this world boils down not to what you know, but who you know. You could have more letters after your name than there are characters in the Simpsons, speak two dozen languages and be more charming than early-nineties Hugh Grant, but if your helpful mate hasn't got a guy that knows a guy, you're fighting an uphill battle. So get out there and introduce yourself to people in your field. Even if they can't help you themselves, chances are they'll have some tips. And they'll probably know a guy.

5. Change Approach

If you're applying left, right and centre, and nothing is coming back, rethink your plan of attack. Maybe your CV needs tweaking, perhaps your cover letter isn't strong enough. Have someone take a look over them; there's nothing like a fresh pair of eyes to help get a new perspective on what has, to you, become nothing more than a memorised piece of script.

6. Stay Positive

It sounds obvious, but sometimes it's all we can do. If you let yourself get down, it becomes harder and harder to climb out of the barrel. If you feel yourself giving up, take the afternoon off. Go for a walk,  or a coffee with friends. Maybe watch a movie. Just something to take your mind off being broke and unemployed for a couple of hours. Then see point number five.

I wish you all luck. But you'll get there eventually. And everyone's in the same boat. 

Fucking platitudes...

The Trailer Trap with Kelsey Grammer

I try not to get too excited by trailers. I love going to the cinema, and often enough, save for the mandatory overpriced bag of revels, getting myself in a girly whirlwind of excitement over whatever Hollywood has up its well-lined sleeve is the highlight of my day out.

That said, after the crushing disappointment that was X-Men, The Last Stand, I have learned not to rely too much on what the teasers throw at me. I'm sure you all remember Spring of 2006, sitting comfortably in your local Odeon, or, as I was, gathered around a computer in your housemate's bedroom, grinning to yourself as the Marvel logo filled the screen; "oh" you thought, "after x-men 2, how could Marvel possibly do any wrong??"

And then BAM! Wolverine being awesome! SHAZAM! It's Joss Whedon's cure storyline! JIMMINY! Dark Phoenix coming at ya like Cleopatra! FLAPS! Angel looks amazeballs! BOOMSHANKA! Magneto has a frakin' army! Juggernaut?? Sentinels??? Kelsey ruddy Grammer as Beast???? That was quite frankly the greatest trailer that has ever been! Even watching it back now as I write this, I still find myself believing that if I watch X3 again, it will truly be the most amazing film of all time.

But it's not. X-Men 3 sucks. So very, very much.

From that summer onwards, I swore that I would never again allow myself to get too worked up over a trailer, if only to avoid repeating that most heart-breaking of experiences.

And then it was Super Bowl weekend, and the inevitable TV spots flooded social media like a dancing Korean. And suddenly I'm excited for the summer ahead...

Captain America, The Winter Soldier looks to be the entry into the Avengers legacy that we've all been awaiting since the first Iron Man and I must say that despite my utter ambivalence to The Underwhelming Spider-man, Amazing Spider-man 2 could, potentially, blow some socks off.

But the one trailer that has me already lining up for tickets, is in fact the trailer that didn't even need to exist to have me lining up in the first place; Muppets Most Wanted. I'm a massive Muppets fan, and have been anxiously waiting for the new movie's release since the closing credits of their last outing. But this trailer... You know what, just watch it...

http://m.youtube.com/watch?v=-euRGagRB68

I love trailers. I also hate them. But whatever happens, I'm gonna love the Muppets!

The Importance of Being Nerdy with Nico Minoru

I don't go out drinking often. I'll go out on a Sunday evening and perform at the local open mic night because, quite frankly, it reminds me every once in a while, that somewhere inside me, there still resides something of an artist, and one, albeit through the medium of nineties era indie music, that can still move people to some degree.

When it comes to your typical "lads"'night out, however, I find myself reminded each time I venture upon one exactly why I hate the concept in its entirety.

I have never been "one of the guys". From the onset of my teenage years, I have found myself tending towards the female of the species for friendship; indeed, it has often been said that I am the gayest straight man that most people know. Do I find that to be a bad thing? Well, no, I don't. In fact, most of the time I take it to be somewhat endearing. Since "finding myself" in that typical, retrospectively pretentious way in my late teens/early twenties, I've always been comfortable in my oft seen as ecentric behaviour and fashion.  Waistcoats and scarves? A must in any weather. 

It pains me to find, as such, that after years of trotting the globe, being accepted for the bizarre being that I have found myself quite happily becoming, that I have returned home to be seen as little more than the outcastable oddball that I have tried so very hard to escape from.

Perhaps it is simply small town thinking (that's right Durham, I'm talking to you), but to venture out on an evening with one of one's closest friends, slightly more dressed up than your typical "too tight for your steroid-induced pectorals t-shirt" brigade and be ridiculed at every turn by fellows who can barely bring themselves to string a sentence together... Well, in all honesty, sometimes it just reminds me a little too much of the pathetic-ness of high school.

In all honesty, I'm proud of my nerdiness; without my love of comics, I probably never would have finished writing my children's book (yet to be published, but hey meathead, have you ever written a damned book?), never have travelled the world, and never have met the amazing people that I have along the way. 

You feel the need to mock us? Then do so. But remember, without the nerds, you wouldn't be bitching about what your girlfriend did on Facebook last night with the fella down the road, you wouldn't have 90% of the DJs that you're making bizarre hip movements that you call "dancing" to, and perhaps most importantly, you wouldn't even be in that ruddy nightclub in the first place. I mean seriously, have you seen the guys running these joints? Take away the booze, the bouncers and the blow, and even I could take half of them in a bout of fisticuffs.

So, in a piece of self-affirming rantage, I urge you all to be proud of who you are. Though if you're a beefcake bully douchebiscuit, you can go die in a fire for all I care. Face.