King Billy (Goat)

Puck Fair is one of Ireland's premier (and oldest) cultural events. Turns out that our friend Anita, who lurks on this blog, is Puck Royalty. The Fair's disastrous cross-border goat trading problems have reached the front page of the national press and her da's quoted. Looks like she'll be donning a goatskin if the passport doesn't appear.

She's moving to Stoke - hope she doesn't expect this (or any other) sort of cultural activity…

Rude management gits

I'd almost forgotten: some months ago, it was announced that the university, despite being several million pounds in deficit, had contracted McCann Erickson (a very expensive advertising/PR firm) to do some promotional work for us, even though we have all the resources to do it ourselves. I mailed the director of communications on April 9th to ask how much it cost - no reply so far.

So I've mailed him again, having heard that he mentioned my mail to his colleagues:

Dear A....., I mailed you several months ago asking you about the McCann Erickson arrangement.

Due, presumably, to an oversight, I appear not to have received any sort of reply from you. Do you think you could address my query?

Yours with thanks and in anticipation of a speedy response,

Ma dawg gone left me

I hate country music. Rhinestones, whining, reactionary lyrics. That's what I thought anyway. Turns out that loads of the music I like is country - bluegrass, Appalachian stuff, some Loretta Lynn, lots of Johnny Cash and today, the Diana Jones album I bought a few days ago, Better Times Will Come. I can't pretend it's folk or any other sub-genre, despite the presence of good violins. It's country, and it's great. There, I said it.

However, I will remove my ears with a grater rather than ever listen to Country'n'Irish.

My bike looks ace now: bright blue handlebar tape, bright blue tyres, gleaming chrome and almost working brakes. Perhaps tomorrow I'll go for a ride before work. I swam today - felt pretty good until Neal appeared, did his 40 lengths in 20 minutes and still looked fresher than me. The fencing season's over until September, which is a little frustrating, though really it's too hot to put on four layers of kit, some of them metal.

'Artless git

Now that my debit card's gone, I keep seeing things I'd like to purchase. Oh well, it's good for what passes for my soul, and as one of you pointed out, I can catch up on the books I've bought. I've almost finished the Eric Gill, so perhaps something lighter and fictional next - though I really want to buy some (of the more demure) Gill prints now, despite having no wall space.

My collection of framed prints and posters are in the office. I have the Reds exhibition poster (a historical one on the Communist Party of Great Britain, staged at the People's History Museum in Manchester), a Tree of Literature in Danish, 6 CND reprints of their early posters, a brilliant dayglo 1970s poster of Angela Davies, a limited print of David Jones's Cara Wallia Derelicta (Gwalia Deserta) and a stunning batique of a yacht in the rain, done by Bev, my old fencing coach. I remember a patronising academic telling us penniless postgrads that we should be investing in prints and we all laughed at the idea of having money for art… I'm also really keen on Clifford Harper's work - emotion beautifully muted.

Sssshhhh…

The Guardian has a piece today on how to arrange your book collection. They're very scornful of my chosen method: alphabetical. Actually, mine's alphabetical for anything bought more than two years ago. They go from floor to ceiling on all four walls, including the 20,000+ vinyl records, but not the CDs, which are stored here and there. Everything else is piled in any space on top of properly shelved books. Then there are vertical columns of books behind the wardrobe, a 1m x 1m x 1m cube of unread books on the floor, then some piled randomly, then a stuffed bookcase at work and a few piles on my desk.

One of the wittily contentious things this article proposes is how to arrange your library to attract people.

The "I'm desperate for a shag', female version

Doesn't really require books – it's the last thing a man will notice. But on the off-chance you bring someone home who can read, it might be an idea temporarily to lose anything too intimidating by Andrea Dworkin.

Unless you're a lesbian, in which case you might like to put it on the coffee table.

Ladies: do not listen to this at all. Should I ever enter your house (that isn't entendre, by the way), I'll go straight for your bookshelves. I may well read a book or two right then and there. Or I'll leave in high dudgeon having seen Dan Brown, Coelho, or others of that ilk. Critical theory particularly appreciated.

What systems do you use? One or two of you, I know, will say that one's piled on top of the other one, but this is for the rest of you. Size? Genre? Degree of affection? Mark uses the Dewey Decimal system, which I respect. I'll use it when I finally get a place with enough room. I'd like a poetry corner, though that smacks of ghettoisation a little. A proper library in dark wood with a rolltop escritoire, ladders on runners, a wood fire, squashy armchairs and a card index. Someone snoozing in one corner as rain beats on the windows, a marmoset nibbling on a Jeffrey Archer in the other (my version of a shredder). A clock ticks, Radio 4 mumbles warmly from concealed speakers, a violin case sits on a side table and on another Marmite on crumpets await. I of course will be wearing a dark, three-piece tweed suit and a tie knitted by Anne Shirley, who's finally dumped that awful Gilbert cad (he turned out to have been a devotee of 'Hunnish practices').

Or, an ultra-modern German/Scandinavian-style glass and steel building, zero-carbon, naturally-ventilated, Passivhaus machine for reading in, perched on a cliff overlooking one of Norway's fjords.

Well, it beats Whitmore Reans: my place look's like Bernard's back room in Black Books, which is funny because he's right about everything as much as David Mitchell

Who let the dogs in? Gill did.

Back from the dullest meeting on earth, held in a weird, circular classroom. In between interminable discussions of grades, I sneaked a few pages of Eric Gill. Somewhat distractingly, I got to the discussion of his diary, particularly the record he kept of sexual congress with dogs. Admin was suddenly a welcome task…

Mercury rising

Mercury Prize nominations are up - now the NME awards are simply an excuse to plug hairgel and because the Brits are merely for best marketer, they're the closest the pop world gets to credibility (though I rate the BBC Folk/World awards).

Florence and the Machine 5/1

Kasabian 5/1

Bat for Lashes 6/1

La Roux 6/1

Glasvegas 6/1

Speech Debelle 8/1

Friendly Fires 8/11

The Horrors 8/1

Lisa Hannigan 8/1

The Invisible 10/1

Led Bib 10/1

Sweet Billy Pilgrim 10/1

Which of these do you rate? Obviously the folk ones are merely window-dressing, they won't win, unfortunately. Florence and the Machine have had a lot of press interest but there's a suspicion that there's more style than substance. The Horrors might get a nod for following an emo-by-numbers debut with a very interesting sophomore album. On the other hand, there's a groundswell of press opinion that this is the year of the electro woman, so it could come down to Bat for Lashes v. La Roux. Glasvegas produced an LP that sounded like Oasis after a couple of years on a Liberal Arts degree, but they haven't really broken the mould. Your thoughts?

Life comes to a juddering halt

I'm about to experience life as a non-consumer for a week or two, thanks to some utter, utter, bastard who defrauded my debit card last night. He or she managed to pay for two lots of 'phone credit then had a £300 transaction refused, so I won't lose anything, but it'll be quite a while before I get a new card, change all my online accounts (ABE, Amazon, Apple, loads of others) and start buying books again. What a monumental pain in the bottom. Well done to Co-op Bank though - they caught on very fast.

On the agenda today - final exam board meetings to get through the resit grades, do some more bike fixing (I just bought some bright blue tyres to go on my ancient bike - quality turd-polishing) and perhaps even some proper work.

And finally

Happy birthday to my sister Catharine, who is 33 today and back in New Zealand. Hope she didn't fly Air Kiwi - it's a flightless airline (sorry).

Here's one for Deer Friend

It's a modern folk song. Zoot won't like it because there's no guitar picking. Or guitars. It's Éamon Doorley, Muiréann Nic Amblaoibh, Julie Fowlis and Ross Martin singing Pe in Eirinn I, from the fantastic Dual album. I think this song's in Scots Gaelic rather than Irish, but the difference is marginal anyway. I'm sure Emma will correct me if I'm wrong.

It's good news for me too: some Habermas and a Diana Jones album in the post. I spent my parents' generous birthday present on a Nikon 55-200 vibration reduction zoom lens and some cycling gear.

Powered by Podbean.com

Everybody's a comedian

My old friend Adam seems simultaneously to have discovered political satire and Photoshop. I don't necessarily endorse his views - I'm a bit more left wing, though no fan of Brown. He's right about Blair, and Stalin did remove friends from photographs as he had them executed. Adam: do you think that Cameron is any less evil?

I may as well give up

Yes, David Mitchell not only shares my opinions, he writes about them much better. This week's column was on cricket, holidays and air travel - I don't disagree with a single word, though I'd be a little harsher in the selfish bastards who think that unrestricted air travel is their right. Being a fan of the 1930s, I've no compunction about consigning people into camps and I regularly fantasise about using grenade launchers on SUVs.

Neal (posting there as Manuelelo for some reason) makes the reasonable point that it's the frequent long weekenders who cause the damage rather than a worn-out family taking the kids away once a year (a point Cynical Ben has made too), though he also thinks that encountering new cultures makes us empathise more. Really? Neal: I give you the British Empire, and any of the other empires you care to mention. I also reference the British in Spain - tucking into fish and chips, watching Sky, speaking English and STILL hating foreigners…

I may visit Germany in August: I shall be taking the train, and considering the journey as part of my holiday.

Nessun bloody Dorma? You're having a laugh

Cynical Ben has been to the opera - Rufus Wainwright's supposed revival of the genre in particular - Prima Donna, and came back with mixed feelings. Despite not being able to spell 'apparently', he's got some really interesting things to say about it. Here's the pennyworth I added in the comments section of his piece.

I was really interested in what you'd make of this. I'm not a huge fan of Rufus Wainwright, but don't dislike his music either. I applaud his adventurousness, and think that the classical world could do with some new blood. But: a classical composer who thought he could wander into a record company's office, toss off some songs he made up on the tube and expect respect would be laughed at, so I'm not sure who thought getting Rufus in would be a good move. Whether you're an opera fan or not, it takes a lifetime to understand the genre's requirements, history and limitations - only then can you start to break the rules creatively, as Shakespeare points out in Sonnet 130. The same goes for pop music of course.

This thing about bringing tunes back betrays the lack of understanding behind the project. I like tunes. However, modernism in classical music posed the central question of how prettiness and order, which tunes represent - though not always the former - can reflect into a world of mechanisation, mass slaughter and so on: a world without direction in a sense. Composers turned to other ways to order their music, or to disorder. Pop music, with some exceptions (Scott Walker?), largely but not entirely turns away from examining and representing the philosophical and existential dilemmas. That's why contemporary classical music is more challenging and experimental than rock and pop: even Glass's Doctor Atomic, which is post-minimalist and melodic, is still experimental. If Wainwright thinks opera is or should be about tunes, he's actually writing a musical.

On the singing style - I absolutely loathe the exaggerated warbling style (coloratura, it's called). Thankfully, this German Romantic/post-Romantic style is very much on the way out, so it'll be safe to go back into the opera house. Finally, everyone - opera's only the preserve of the posh in the Anglophone world. In Italy, it's a lot cheaper than seeing a Serie A match and everybody goes.

I just need to unload

I've seen some strange things today (and yesterday).

The Waterstones notice above the cycling books reading 'Peddle Power' - I don't think it was a sophisticated joke about selling cycling books.

Also on cycling-related matters, I treated myself to new handlebar tape, lights, lock and pump today. I didn't choose the lights available for £423.99! Now, I love cycling gadgetry. My ultimate bike is the Moulton New Series Double Pylon (c. £10,000) though any Moulton would be heaven. I have a 196os Moulton F-Frame (not my bike pictured) which needs serious restoration by an expert before I can ride it and an old Viscount racer which Neal's done up for me. But. Almost £500 for a set of lights. That's not rational.

Outside the bike shop, a man listens to a radio pressed to his ear. A silent radio. They're coming, you know.

Finally, some etiquette advice. If you go into a local pub in the UK, you don't take the stool at the end of the bar. It belongs to someone called Bob, even if he's not there. Even if you've been coming to this pub for 10 years. Even if Bob's dead. It's his place. Likewise at the swimming pool, there's a system called queuing, which is a fair way of providing space according to the order in which people arrive. I've been swimming three times a week for a year now, so I'm not Bob, but I know who the Bobs are. They arrive early, queue and wait patiently, swim in a stately fashion and nobody gets in their way.

Today, we were all patiently waiting for the 11 o'clock shift. At 11.55, two women walk in and go straight to the front. They object to waiting until 11 and stay at the head of the queue. Then when they appear in the pool, they hog a lane to themselves. Which is fine, if they're going to use it. But they don't. I did my 44 lengths in the time they took to do 7, in between a lot of chatting and standing around in such a way that nobody else could use it. Selfish gits. Sorry, it's really annoyed me: public amenities should be used with regard for the needs of others - it's how community works.

Oh yes, the other weird thing. Listening to the posh bloke (Ed Stourton) on Radio 4's Today programme, playing and discussing Slayer. Apparently the band's very popular amongst US soldiers as a soundtrack to killing Iraqis.

Enjoy the show, peeps

Morning all. How are you this sunny Monday morning (if it is sunny and Monday)? I had a lovely weekend. Amongst other things, Imaginary Friend and I saw the new Harry Potter film (it was quite effective) and I bought some books. Returning to Wolverhampton I was greeted by leaden skies and the most complete, shining rainbow I've ever seen - like one of those appalling posters with a Biblical quotation that Christian teenagers have in their rooms instead of Slayer/Backstreet Boys/whoever. I took a photo on my camera but seem to have lost that device. Perhaps it's at home.

I hope you all enjoyed David Mitchell on Desert Island Discs. I was torn between hating his choices in music (apart from Elgar's Cello Concerto) for being utterly lightweight, and respecting his honesty. I suspect it's true that the music we find meaningful for the context in which we heard it, and the memories associated with it, is often banal: Mitchell chose music he may not listen to for its own qualities, but because it was associated with particular people, places and times. Amongst them were Katrina and the Waves' 'Walking on Sunshine', Radiohead's 'Creep', some Acker Bilk and Herb Alpert, the Elgar and Kermit the Frog's 'Rainbow Connection', which was a piece of genius with which I wasn't familiar.

Mitchell was, of course, charming, thoughtful and self-deprecating, and prepared to address the contradiction between wanting to go through life unnoticed and choosing a career as a performer. I did wonder about his presence on DID. They have widened their choice of guests recently, sometimes to the detriment of the show, which at its best can be a meditation on a life lived badly, sadly, wisely or well. Mitchell was the perfect guest in many ways: witty, thoughtful, distinctive: but he's only 35. His songs reminded him of his parents, his time in Cambridge. Let's have him back when he's 60, when he's faced love, loss, death, triumph and failure, and has more experience about which to be self-deprecating.

Anyway - well worth listening too, particularly for his views on fashion (essentially: showing off) and his self-portrait 'tweed on the inside'. As I suspected, we have a lot in common: nerds, still living in squalid student accommodation, alone, so very alone. Except that he's funny, gifted etc. etc.

It's on Radio 4 again on Friday morning. Or possible Thursday, I can't remember. It's not on Listen Again though for music copyright purposes.

Clean bowled

Well, that just about wraps it up for me. I've handed in a slipshod essay and Australia have handed the innings to England with about the same due care and attention - currently 150-7.

The humping dog USB object is still bothering me. There's a factory in China staffed by virtual slaves existing on a bowl of rice per day, churning out millions of humping dog USB sticks for decadent westerners.

Almost forgot: don't forget David Mitchell on Desert Island Discs (BBC Radio 4) on Sunday morning. I have a feeling it's going to be a weird, overly-familiar ride.

Er, thanks.

Amongst the many weird and wonderful presents I received this week, the weirdest was from Pritpal, my esteemed colleague.

He presented me with this:

It's a USB Humping Dog. Stick it in the USB drive, and it humps your computer. Admit it, it's the tasteful gift you've always dreamed about. It isn't, by the way, a memory stick. It's pure, in that it's designed for a single purpose which it performs successfully and noisily. Buy yours here.

Does cricket have an image problem?

Or, does English cricket have an image problem. A prize if you can spot anyone young, black, female or poor-to-middling in this wonderful slideshow, from which I've nicked this image. Gotta love those trousers.

Bowling my superiors a Googly

The cricket coverage is here. England collapsed in the lower order, then recovered for a while courtesy of Anderson and Onions. I know that some of you (in particular, Mrs Cynical Ben) wanted less sport, but I'm making an exception for fencing (because I actually do it) and cricket because it's an art.

The work proceeds excessively slowly because a) it's really dull and b) I don't know what I'm doing. The latter will be hidden under layers or smart-arse academic speak - I've already cited Derrida in French and gone on about the joys of poststructuralism, neither of which they'll understand. That's the way to communicate contempt…

Yes, it's Friday.

Morning all. I've got a stupid amount of work today, including the entire essay on Threshold Concepts that I've been reading for all week (yes, even staff write things at the last minute), so there won't be time for blogging. Here's Ashes Central: they'll post the Over-by-Over link there soon, I would think.

So what about today's Friday Conundrum. I'm feeling slightly delirious and spent yesterday discussing Art and Morality with Zoot and others (on another post), so how about something a little more relaxed? What's the rudest thing anyone's said to you? My choices are a tie. My headmaster's university reference for me told them that I was going to fail my A-levels, that I was a troublemaker and that I didn't deserve a place anyway. I know this only because the kind man at Derby University who interviewed me said that I didn't sound anything like my reference and sneakily let me read it. The other contender is the cousin at my sister's wedding who plainly said that I'm so repulsive that I'm doomed to a solitary life (the actual words were 'well, romance isn't for everyone, is it?' after she noticed that I was attending alone).