Touch Screens Spell End for Jam

While driving along in the battered little bug of a Polo that I lovingly share with my girlfriend my hand couldn't react quick enough as the usually jovial, pug-faced Moyles merged into Jo Whiley. Not a physical change of course, an audio merge. God for fear what a Moyles/Whiley hybrid would look like...my mind jumps to some bizarre Godzilla-fighting foe.


Anywho. Immediately fearing what would be on the ageless mid-day DJs agenda, I prepared to change. Then, shock and destiny. She stalled first. Cursing her sticky fingers and the new 'cutting-edge' Radio One touch screens used by the DJs, that momentarily deprived us of a sample of her upcoming show. The screens are so bloody stubborn that she failed on two (count 'em two) attempts to play a track because of 'sticky fingers'.


Following a mid-day lecture with Anthony Mayfield, of Spannerworks, where he spent the breathes between explaining the scary extent of Google to subliminally sell his new iPod Touch. Like the old iPod but with fancy-dan touch sensitive gizmos and the like.


This got me thinking, as we move towards a world full of touch-screen technology, like Windows latest envisioning of laptop tech, what will happen to the sticky and fat fingered like me?

Will the sale of jam go down as people need the dexterity of their digits to access the web on even more fickle interfaces? What about the lowly purveyor of salty crisps? Sure keyboards get clogged now but touchscreens are a bloody nightmare. Is now the best time to invest in handwipes before a global surge of pissed of touch screen users swamp Boots to keep some ready at all times or simply nick those chemically-rich napkinettes from Taunton's KFC?

The only way I can see this ending is badly. Sure we must embrace technology, invite it in like a vampire from the cold and let it suckle at our necks of submission. I am not really a luddite I just have bloody, uncoordinated fingers that lead me to text such coherence as 'Yeah shurety, see buy yalter'...and what the hell does that mean when you are trying to text romance to your better half? So I suggest that we put a stop to it now and...revert back to pencils. But then I've made that point. Forgive me, for I am a dinosaur.

Is Amdy Faye Worth Going to Prison For?

The answer to that is a resounding no.

But that seems to be the likely outcome for some of those embroiled in the case at the centre of the Lord Stevens led crackdown on supposed bung-givers and receivers.

In fairness, I am surprised that Harry Redknapp hasn't been chased down the street by whistle-blowing coppers yet. The jowel-mouthed, Pompy boss has the air of a used-car-salesman about him and surely there can be no better footballing example of a cut-and-shut than the Senegalese wonder-bint that is Amdy 'all-arms-and-legs' Faye.

As a Charlton fan it has been an alarming sight to see a player simultaenously attack/defend/fall over/get sent off in the space of a milli-second...what a shame he was shipped out to Ibrox.

The other boss rumoured to be on the brink of indictment, dating back to the Panaroma/Bond tango, was Big Sam.

However, Sam is already locked in a striped jumpsuit on Tyneside and with his recent run of form maybe a stay at Her Majesty's Pleasure would be a better fate than being fed to Gallowgate End contingent.


Seemingly the blight of anyone's career is being linked with the England job. Front-runner Big Phil Scolari (another 'Big', compensating?) knocked ten shades of shit out of an opposing player in qualifying and blamed his 'fiery temper' on the whole event. Suddenly the man to revitalize English football looked like a Dad getting over zealous during a Sunday morning 11-a-side tournament.


Note Martin O'Neill who has refuted all interest from the beleagured FA and alas Aston Villa are ascending to the heady heights of Euro football even with Marlon Harewood leading their line. The glory days of Ray Houghton and Steve Staunton taking on the might of Inter Milan could come again.


At this rate expect Fabio Capello to be accosted for ruffing up a pensioner in the coming weeks. I am sure I made that joke about Rafa Benitez before...and it wasn't funny then...it was hilarious!

How You Know When You Are Old

There are very simple markers that alert you to the fact that you are indeed...aging. Now this isn't one of those tired rants about "blah, blah I'm out of touch" or "blah, blah isn't modern music cock?" Its a simple checklist so you can notice when you come to the stage of staring down the autumn of your years from the vatange point of your early 20s. I never said it was comprehensive but here are some of the things to look out for.


Question - Do you ever refer to someone younger than you as a 'youth'?


Answer - If so, then sadly you are old by definition.


Help - Pronounce it 'yuf' and suddenly you go from old-fogey to LDN, glow-sticking waving modern new romatic wonderkid. Or you still get a clip round your ear from your mum for not talking properly.



Question - Do you complain that music in clubs is too loud?


Answer - If so, then you are losing your hearing and...sadly...you're going to be the brand new driver of a zimmer frame my friend.


Help - Before anyone cottons on that your wee earbuds can't handle the music, shout 'it needs to be louder'. Aha a clever charade and suddenly everybody is your best friend and will buy you a hot mug o...I mean a sambucca...with tabasco in it...on fire...off your mate's head. Yeah, now you're on fire...excuse me while I gag on the reflex to say 'quite lidderally' in my best local DJ voice.



These are two examples of just how easy it is to age, it's natural look at Geri Halliwell, but you can't stand at the water's edge and shout: 'why don't you pis...oh my shoes are wet'.

The End is...Not That Bad

So it finally happened. The Sopranos ended on E4 Sunday night. Anyone not wishing to know two things: 1 - don't read on and 2 - congrats for making it this far because this is seemingly the worst kept secret since Prince Charles starting being seen in public with ol' horseface.


This is the obligatory gap for skim-readers who will bitch about spoilers despite the disclaimer some thirty words ago.



Anywho, back to the bravado. Wasn't it just right? In a hail of bullets, Tony introduced himself as 'da bad guy' and took down everyone inside his club with an automatic weapon....no wait...that was Scarface. So he um...swivellled in his chair, resigned to a life of crime that his wife would never be allowed in...nope The Godfather. Shit, so what happened?!


Nothing.


As the family known as Soprano sat down to the not-so-dolcid tones of Journey, Meadow entered the restaurant and...FADE TO BLACK. It just ended. Cue 7 seconds of black and the credits roll in silence.


What a shot. America is left mouth aghast unsure of how to proceed. A nation that needs closure left hanging on a knife-edge on the one thing they thought could bring them a definitive climax. Upwards of 30 people have been slain in the North Jersey mob drama - the audience has got used to things going down with a bang.

But no. A whisper. A quiet hush. Tony looks up and it fades away....as Steve Perry croons over those dying seconds...'it goes on and on and on and on'. Nothing definite, because - as Chase, so grounded in reality realises - nothing is.


Hold your theories. I'm happy with this. The black humour, politic treasure chest that was The Sopranos now sleeps with the fishes but long live the tributes.

The B-Movies' Dead! Long Live The Stath

In a time when the buddy-love-in 'Grindhouse' can't be met with the aplomb it deserves for catching the who-gives-a-fuck nature that is the fundamental essence of the B-Movie, what hope does this genre of film have? What kind of Premiership would we have if suddenly they got rid of all the fizzy pop leagues below it? We need are D-DVDs (thats Direct-to-DVDs kind shrew), we need our Chuck Norris' and Wesley Snipes, we need something to stock bargain bins across our blessed land.

Where amidst this pile of debris and unforgiving world of cinema are we going to find our half-assed, badly constructed monstrosities that clog the late night channels and drain our brains of the necessary fluids it takes to make us function.

Oh look...a balding, slightly muscular man on the horizon. Is that Ross Ke...no it's JASON BLOODY STATHAM.

The cockney-tongued, wide-boy has turned the B-Movie genre on its head. From amidst the dated archives of Badmovies.org that depend on 'Dolemite' and other explotation flicks for a cheap laugh, The Stath (copyright Empire Magazine) has brought the sub-genre roaring back into our faces like a football coverd in fire kicked by God.

After such ribald hits as 'The Transporter' and...uh...'The Transporter 2', the former stock character in Guy Ritchie's gangster wonderland decided to try his arm at 'Crank' and, you know what? Critics bloody loved it.

But where now? Well Chuck Norris would fight Bruce Lee. DING!

The Stath vs. 'Bruce Lee 2.0' Jet Li in upcoming kung-fu, fightfest 'War'.

But then what?

Well he has signed on to play, get this, Frankenstein.

No not Boris Karloff's big bolty-necked bastard being chased by peeved villagers but this mother hubbard in 'Death Race', a remake of 1975 B-Movie extraordinaire '
'Death Race 2000', a stupid look into the future where America ruled the world (hey wait...) and sanctioned a bloody race across the country where pedestrians are worth points.

But will it worked. Well, it certainly worked for one of it's original stars

All Aboard the Hype Machine

With the gallant euphoria that follows a small lottery win, England players crumbled to the turf after their heady victory over Australia. The old enemy, in rugby terms at least, vanquished. The unknown position of under-dog suited the English, who found some of that plucky Blighty resolve and come good when it mattered.

Penalty after penalty slotted home and the score ticked like a poorly wound clock just pegging ahead. It was a slow deliberate battering of the flashy, technical Aussie outfit and now, from seemingly nowhere, England are in the Final Four.

This being a place that may has well have been on Jupiter when England trudged off the pitch thoruoughly outplayed by the Springboks in Paris. Now, there is no lamenting the 36-0 scoreline that blazed so brightly in the St. Denis sky only a short time before. That is in the past.

Forgive me if I don't get too carried away with the future.

France are an entirely different prospect. Written off, ridiculed and resigned to the dustbin as soon as Ignacio Corletto decided to piss wildly on Nicholas Sarkozy's bonfire on the opening night of the tournament.

Our Gallic cousins regrouped, reformed and readdressed (a lot of 're's) and tinkered manically. They tightened the second row, put faith in the base of the scrum unit and put an unknown at the central reservation - with fly-half being the position that has blighted England's campaign. We couldn't even manage to see of the US convincingly without Superhero Jonny and the French keep famously tempremental numero dix Freddie Michalak in reserve...aren't they lucky?

What happened when they clambered battered and bruised out of the most turbulent group of the whole competition? They ended up in Cardiff, in their own bloody competition the hosts had to leave the country to proceed. And if that wasn't enough they met with the favourites in full flow and...the French prevailed. Questionable forward pass aside, the French 'turned up' as they so famously don't...ask any rugby commentator for clarification of 'which France will turn up'/'blowing hot and cold'/ cliche ad naseum.

England's victory was a drop in the ocean compared to the French victory. They tackled well, attacked smartly and defended as if plugging holes in a sinking ship. England lack the verve to penetrate such a resolute line, despite Sheridan's mercurial form the scrum will be evenly contested and Moody & co will get used to prospect of turning up to rucks to be greeted by the groggy smiles of the Betsen, Dusatouir and Bonnaire already stealing ball.

In fairness, England have peaked. France have turned the tournament on its head and now seem destined to make a go of it. Still, at least 'Dad's Army' aren't drowning their sorrows like those in Auckland/Sydney/Dublin/Cardiff just yet.

Technology Be Damned

Everything everywhere is destined to break at the touch of a button. This is the world we now live in.

Computer's crash, train's don't run on time and the more you shout, scream and put people in giant wicker effigies over it, the more likely things are to go belly up.

Computers were built like a fantabuolous house of cards; in a perfect world they are amazing, if somewhat more useful than a house of cards, but one strong gust of wind or sleight change and....ERROR ERROR ERROR ERR:1287 ERR:5637, 'CAN NOT READ DISK', 'DO YOU WANT TO REBOOT: YES OR YES?', 'EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE IS LOST', 'YOUR LIFE IS POINTLESS', 'THE END IS NIGH'.

When it comes down to it, in all honesty, pencils are brilliant.

There is the old addage that the Americans spent billlions and billions of dollaradoos on creating some fandangled pen that could write in space/upside/on God's face and do you know what those pesky Russians took upon their spaceship to the moon?

Pencils.

You can't go wrong.

It snaps, get another. It goes blunt, sharpen it.

Need the news? Buy a newspaper. And use your trusty pencil to fill in the crossword...mmmh...solution!

Trust me, you won't spend your Sunday in Comet explaining to mouth-breathing Gavin that the PCP Port is clogged with your innerds after you physically attacked the bastard when it finally caught up to your fumbling and tried to simultaneously open 8,000 windows and had what can only be described as an electro-stroke.

Let the luddites reform; we're bringing back the pencil.

The Curse of the Idiot

Ever had one of those days where you try to help and everything goes horribly wrong?

You offer to courier an antique-looking gnome of an old lady across the street and the poor dear trips and falls on a loose paving and ends up shattered into a million tiny pieces all across Woodville Road.

Or you decide, out of the kindness of your heart, that maybe that guy crouched in Smiths' doorway could do with that 50p you'd been saving for a Kit-Kat a tad more than you. Feeling Michael-Jackons-in-Smooth-Criminal cool you toss the octagon his way and it ends up lodged in his eye like some quasi-chrome eye-patch. Shuffle feet and move on.

Today was one such day. My loving girlfriend decided to bestow her driving licence into my care: not a child, or her mother's finest china. A rectangular piece of plastic as big as a matchbook. 'No problem' I thought before stuffing it into my battered jeans. Oh yee of little faith.

What ensued was a mad-capped turning out of pockets that fell somewhere between the aesthetics of a schoolboy caught using a sling-shot and the manic insanity of a news report stating that H&M had sewn the secret of eternal youth into the pocket lining of every millionth pair of ill-fitting six quid jeans.

Raised voices, panting and sweat without any of the usual fun shenanigans. You can only deliver 'Are you kidding?' so many times before you feel like a talentless contestant being told that they have warbled their way through the seventy-fourth series of X-Factor and have to be forcibly restrained by twerp-du-jour Fearne Cotton before real muscle can escort you off the premises.

Bloody brilliant. Now I feel that I have fallen on the dependency level to somewhere between guarding the corner flags a la Father Ted and milk monitor. Now that's depressing.