Speccy Bastard

Apparently the ZX Spectrum is 30 years old.

That makes me feel very old. I think the Spectrum was the third computer/games console I laid fingers on. The first was a BBC Microcomputer at primary school, and the second was an Atari 2600 (I think) owned by a friend. That was also the first time I played a game involving the Super Mario Brothers.

The same friend and his older brother also had a ZX Spectrum, and I remember watching them in 1987, sitting for what seemed like hours programming in a BASIC game. It was distinctly underwhelming.

It's almost strange that in today's modern society you can take computer classes for programming now.

But by 1988/89, I was desperate for a computer of my own, and Mither and Faither (or Santa Claus anyway) very generously bought Baby Brother and I a ZX Spectrum +3. Not only did the +3 boast 128k of RAM, but it had a built-in floppy disk drive, which was a revelation in the tape-dominated home computer market.

I actually broke our first Spectrum on Xmas Day, jamming the power cable into the back of the computer upside down and bending all the pins.

But we got a replacement, complete with a disk of six games that I still love to this day:

• Gift From The Gods - based on Greek mythology, you float around a sprawling underground maze attempting to find stones that will unlock a gate.

• NOMAD  - An armoured droid (NOMAD stands for something something Mobile Attack Droid) batters around a spaceship shooting stuff.

•  Mailstrom - You play a postman in a post-apocalyptic England. Deliver the letters and futuristic violence. Dark humor persists.

•  Daley Thomson's SuperTest - Follow up to Daley Thomson's Decathlon, the sports were more obscure, but the button-bashing was just as fun.

Those games would comfortably run on a modern mobile phone. But at the time, they were cutting-edge. Games on the Spectrum generally had very high playability - they had to, as the graphics and sound were so weak.

Days spent playing Chucky Egg, Dizzy, Footballer of the Year, the games above and hundreds of others are amongst the happiest memories from my childhood.

And now I've found all of the games above on an emulator site. That's my weekend sorted...

The Force Wasn't So Strong

Maybe the Force wasn't as strong in young Anakin Skywalker/Jake Lloyd as we were led to believe...

As seen here

Confusion

Reading Cracked.com's 13 Current Events as Understood By Five-Year-Olds this morning reminded me that, as a child, I thought Neil Kinnock was the first man to walk on the moon.

Sunday Soul: Stevie Wonder - Superstition

Live from Sesame Street!

Snow Rest For The Wicked

How much I wished I was a child today.

When Baby Brother and I were younger, we lived around 30 miles from our high school, so when winter hit properly, we could often be snowed in for a whole week, six-foot drifts making the roads unpassable for all vehicles, never mind school buses.

But instead, as Aberdeen was smothered beneath a blanket of white powder, I was in my company's office from 8am to 5pm attempting to make sense of dozens of interlocked spreadsheets forecasting vessel utilisation and other equally riveting topics.

What I would have given to have instead spent the morning launching snowballs at Baby Brother and sledging down increasingly steep slopes, before moving inside once I'd lost all feeling in my extremities to warm up beside the fire.

Up In The Sky

I'm a tad weary today, as last night saw me turn back the years by visiting the Aberdeen Exhibition and Conference Centre to watch Oasis.

Oasis at the AECC was the first concert I attended (discounting festivals) back in 1997, shortly after the release of Be Here Now.

Since then, I've seen the band a further three or four times (unlike my friend Billy, who accompanied me last night, who has seen them 20 times). Since the last time I saw them, they've released two albums and seen the emergence of Liam Gallagher as a songwriting force to match his brother in quantity if not quality.

There's an atmosphere surrounding Oasis gigs that's unlike any other. For a start, it seems more Neds come out to watch the Gallagher touring circus than attend other gigs - it's not always entirely pleasant, but it's unique.

Furthermore, the number of people considerably younger than me who attended was quite surprising - we spotted countless youngsters who weren't even born when Definitely Maybe was released - and that's not an entirely pleasant thought either, given that it soundtracked my teenage years.

We opted against watching the support act, arriving in the concrete and steel shell of the AECC around fifteen minutes before the lights dipped to signal the imminent arrival of the band on stage. The taped intro of Fuckin' In The Bushes blasted out of the speakers and Billy and I launched ourselves into the crowd in a manner not befitting our combined 55 years walking the Earth.

The setlist was a curious one - Live Forever and Acquiesce, both of which would be regarded as amongst Oasis' best work, were omitted, while The Meaning of Soul and Slide Away were both given rare run-outs. The Masterplan and an acoustic guitar version of Don't Look Back In Anger were highlights, as were the furious blasts through Supersonic and Morning Glory.

The Shock of The Lightning suffered from a false start, the band stopping halfway through in an attempt to stop people being crushed against the barrier at the front of the arena (Noel: "Hey, hey, hey, hey, don't start booing. Everyone take one step back. We can't have the people down the front dying before they've bought a t-shirt.")

Champagne Supernova, as always, was a highlight, before the encore closed with the now-traditional cover of The Beatles' I Am The Walrus.

There was little banter between the band and the crowd, and at times it looked as though they were going through the motions - but how easy can it be to motivate yourself for a gig on a cold Sunday night in Aberdeen?

Nonetheless, Oasis and their singalong anthems are still a big part of British life. They won't be going anywhere anytime soon.

(I may post video footage if I can work out whether it's possible to rotate videos recorded on my phone.)

The Kids Are Alright

I'm knackered.

Over the weekend, Dungroanin' played host to an old schoolfriend of Mrs Wife's, accompanied by her two-year-old son.

It's been the best part of 23 years since I lived with a two-year-old boy, and at that time Baby Brother was more of an apprentice than a hindrance.

I've been up more climbing frames, down more chutes and round more roundabouts in the past two days than in the previous two years.

And our little visitor is at the stage where he needs to know what everything is, why everything is, where everything is and who everyone is.

Mrs Wife's rabbits, Pepper and Dylan, have now been rechristened Paper and Dinnae, and were a source of much excitement. As was the local park, the beach, dogs in the park and a football-shaped bottle opener that emits a crowd noise every time it's used.

But the 5.30am wake-up calls have taken their toll, and I'm now feeling more exhausted than I did at the end of the working week.

Just as well we were able to send him home today....

Universal

Mrs Wife and I watched the movie Cocoon last night.

It's the first time I'd seen the movie in what must be at least 10 years, but is probably considerably more.

There's something about family-friendly American movies from the 1980s that I just can't get enough of, and I've never quite been able to place my finger on it.

Maybe its the cheesy 80s pop that blares from every car stereo - a curious blend of pop hooks, synths and watered-down faux hip-hop beats.

Perhaps its the fashions that taste forgot, brought back into our sitting rooms as though from another world.

But most of all, I think it's the simplicity of the sets and the action. No CGI-assisted action; no computer animation; just wholesome family fun in a world before Pixar.

The list of those films is, I think, nearly inexhaustible. In addition to Cocoon, the films I'm thinking of are Batteries Not Included, Jaws, TeenWolf, Ferris Bueller's Day Off (perhaps not quite so family friendly), Home Alone, The Goonies, Weird Science, The Karate Kid and Back To TheFuture.

I was born in 1980 and therefore didn't hit my teenage years until the mid-1990s. So I grew up with those family films. And they showed a different world, which although broadly similar to mid-1980s Scotland, still looked alien to me eyes. America was a land where it never seemed to rain, where the toys and sweeties were different from those available on this side of the Atlantic and where aliens could feasibly be found living in your garage.

I doubt we'll ever see their simple likes again.

Another Sports Day

Writing about sports day yesterday got me thinking again about the sports days I took part in as a boy.

As I mentioned previously, I was, for a few of my years, a half-decent sprinter, winning the McGregor Cup as Senior Boys' 100m champion in both of my final two years at school.

Unfortunately, this success didn't translate to other events, and I was never crowned overall champion, although Baby Brother achieved that feat a few years later.

My inability to convert my sprinting prowess to other events reached its peak when I was around 14. At the end of each school sports day, the final event was always the boys' open 1500m race, an event in which every boy in the school was entitled to compete, regardless of age.

Entering the event as a fresh-faced 14-year-old, I had no grasp of the concept of pacing myself. If I did something, I did it flat out, as befitted a sprinter.

Lining up alongside my fellow male pupils, I was one of the younger runners. But, as the gun signalled the start of the race, I flew out in front of the pack, determined to rattle around the track as quickly as possible.

For the watching crowd, comprising every other pupil in the school, all of the teachers and a few bored parents, it must have been some sight. By the end of the first lap, I was 200 metres in front of my nearest challenger, a senior pupil four years older and considerably fitter than I was.

As I crossed the line at the end of the first of my three laps, I received some sterling advice from those congregated at the line:

"Slow down!"

"You're running too fast!"

"Move into the inside lane!"

True enough, by the midway point of the second lap, my lungs and legs were burning, and the runners behind me were closing in fast. By the end of that lap I was second.

Midway through the third lap, I thought I was going to die, my legs barely willing to carry me any further, my heart dancing to its own private hardcore rave compilation and my lungs wondering what they'd done to deserve the punishment I was inflicting upon them.

Finally, desperately, I stumbled over the finish line in seventh place, staggered to a nearby grassy bank and collapsed.

The world was spinning and I could see spots flashing wildly in front of my eyes. It took me a good 10 minutes to summon the energy to stand up.

The lesson I've learned from that race?

If nature had intended me to travel 1500 metres in one go, he'd have given me wheels instead of legs.

Sports Day

Today, as I made my way to the train station, there was a chill in the air, but it was a chill that suggested that another day of warm sunshine beckoned.

Mornings like that, when the smell of cut grass hangs in air alongside the morning mist, always remind of sports day at high school.

I'm not sure if this situation was replicated at other schools, but at the high school I attended, there were two sports days - an individual sports day and a team sports day.

At the first, the individual sports day, each competitor was out for personal glory, taking part in as many events as he or she saw fit, the person with the most points at the end of the day winning the individual sports trophy for that year.

A week later, the official school sports took place, with the school's three houses competing against each other for the collective bragging rights. And the events couldn't be rigged - no single competitor was allowed to compete in more than two individual events plus the relay race.

In those days, I was a fairly formidable sprinter, at least within the context of our school. And from first year onwards, it became apparent that taking part in the individual sports day was a great way of missing a day's lessons.

I competed every year from first until sixth year, even in the years when Standard Grades and Highers were doing their damndest to suck the will to live from all who cowered in their shadows.

It was a fairly easy decision - a day in a stuffy classroom with algebra, iambic pentameter and the farming habits of Amazon indians, or a day spent running around in the sun.

Those who participated in the individual sports day fell broadly into three camps:

A) The Competitors. These were the individuals who saw, in sports day, a chance to bag some glory through lifting a silver trophy at that year's prize-giving ceremony, their parents beaming happily from the audience. Their ambition would know no bounds - warm-up exercises, knee braces and isotonic sports drinks were all employed as they attempted to get their grubby paws on a trophy.

B) The Skivers: These people were at sports day simply as a way of avoiding the book-based horror within the school's walls. What they lacked in physical prowess and athletic endeavour, they made up for in journies to the sweetie machines or escape bids to smoke a fly fag around the back of the science block.

C) The Complete Bampots: Even at the age of 13, there are some people you can pick out as being a bit special. They may not have a brain cell to call their own, but when they're 6'2" of rippling muscle before most of their classmates' balls have dropped, you know it's best not to point out their shortcomings.

I was somewhere between groups A and B: I turned up half expecting to do well, then remembered that I can't run for more than 200 metres without coughing up semi-vital internal organs.

But, from the age of about 15, I was almost unbeatable over 100m, when limiting the competition solely to other pupils at my school. I say almost, because there is always one....

....Jimmy (I've changed his name to avoid any future repercussions) was a machine. He didn't so much fit into group C as define it. There are people you describe as solid who don't deserve the accolade. Jimmy wasn't one of them.

I'd encountered him on a running track once before, during a relay race. My team was doing well, and I was leading from the front on the final leg.

Then I heard Jimmy.

That's right, I heard him coming.

Snorting like a charging bull, he was closing the gap on me, his arms and legs seemingly replaced by steam engine pistons.

And, in a blur of thunderous gristle, he was past me and through the line.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Jimmy, not renowned for his ability to work with calculus, is now in the army. Never mind tanks and guns - just set Jimmy at those Iraqi insurgents. He'll take down the whole of Basra in a day.

Play Time

I'd imagine some of you will already have seen this video that Mrs Wife sent me a couple of days agao, but it was the first time I'd had the pleasure.

I think I was probably around three years old when I first got into StarWars. I had loads of toys, presumably from the Return of the Jedi series, as the third instalment was released when I was three.

Loads of them are still squirreled away in my garage, awaiting their rediscovery to fight more intergalactic wars on my sitting room and bedroom floors.

Many of them have seen better days - I've got a Gamorrean Guard with only one arm, Darth Vader's lightsaber was lost many many years ago and the C3P0 toy that had removable limbs was never reunited with his arms and legs after an outdoor play session sometime before my seventh birthday.

My StarWars toys are amongst the few surviving figures from my childhood days - my Thundercats and He-Man toys were torched in a bonfire in the mid 1990s shortly before we moved into a much smaller house.

(Incidentally, you've never seen a toxic cloud of smoke like the one generated by a bonfire of plastic toys from the 1980s. I'm surprised that Faither wasn't made to sign the Kyoto Protocol after that incident.)

But, as ever, Ebay comes to the rescue. There are hundreds of people selling vintage Thundercats and He-Man toys.

I wonder what Mrs Wife will think when the postman starts delivering 20-year-old toys to Dungroanin'?

Word Association

Recently, I've been reading CS Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia, books I haven't read since I was around nine years old.

They've been a tad disappointing, if I'm honest, but I suppose I should have expected that, given that they were written for a young audience more than 50 years ago.

I've been reading a lot more since my transformation from car-bound commuting drone to train-bound commuting drone, and I now spend around an hour and a half each day immersed in a world of Fauns, Dufflepuds and Marshwiggles. (I think I should probably read War and Peace or something equally weighty once I've finished the Narnia series....)

Today, on my journey into Aberdeen, I reached chapter nine of The Silver Chair. And if any one passage summed up the differences in the use of language in literature from 50 years ago, it is the following excerpt detailing how a girl called Jane curried favour with the inhabitants of a household of giants:

"She made love to everyone - the grooms, the porters, the housemaids, the ladies-in-waiting and the elderly giant lords whose hunting days were past. She submitted to being kissed and pawed about by any number of giantesses."

Maybe it's my dirty mind, or maybe any other grown-up would think the same, but those two sentences sound more like the script for a Jenna Jameson* movie than a passage from one of the world's best-loved children's books.

Given that the books are a thinly-veiled allegory for Christian teachings, perhaps Clive Staples Lewis could have chosen his words slightly better.....

* Jenna Jameson is, I believe, the female star of many pornographic movies. Having never seen such a thing, I base this reference entirely on sources from the internet.

And that means Wikipedia, before any smart arses pipe up about my internet browsing habits.

Beadle's Not About

So Jeremy Beadle has passed on to that great bloopers reel in the sky.

I think the news on Radio 1 summed Beadle up perfectly this morning, when it described him as "famous in the 1980s and early 1990s".

I was never much of a fan of Beadle's About, but was entertained for many years by You've Been Framed, which he presented in its early years as Sunday night prime time fare.

And a quote from the man himself summed up what was probably many a person's view of him - that you imagine he'd be a bit of a dick, but was a likeable enough chap when you met him face to face.

But now he's gone.

Unless this is all a big prank and he's going to leap out of the coffin at his funeral, dressed as a traffic warden....

Eight More Things About Me

My favourite Fred Astaire-loving wiseass Jooette has tagged me with the Eight Fascinating Facts meme.

I've actually done this one before, but what's another eight facts between friends? So here are facts nine to 16:

1: The first football match I ever attended was a friendly between Brechin City and Rangers in 1990 or 1991 for Dougie Scott's testimonial. I think the score was 6-4 to Brechin. Ian Durrant scored a penalty and Mark Walters, Terry Hurlock and Colin Scott all played for Rangers.

2: I have eight Standard Grades, seven Highers, two Certificates of Sixth Year Studies and a Bachelor's degree in Journalism. Oh, and National Certificates in Art, Music and Keyboard Skills.

3: I've scored two goals in the Aberdeen Oil League this season. Our team hasn't won a match yet.

4: I collect Hurricane cocktail glasses from Hard Rock Cafes around the world. So far, my collection covers Rome, Sydney, Edinburgh, Madrid, Melbourne, Singapore, New York, Cancun, Paris, Kuala Sumper, Surfer's Paradise and Hollywood.

5: Wales is the only country in the British Isles that I've never been to. For some reason, it just doesn't appeal.

6: The first dance at my wedding was Here, There and Everywhere by The Beatles.

7: This year, I'm spending Xmas with Mrs Wife's parents for the first time before jetting off to Brussels for New Year.

8: I attended four different Primary Schools and one High School as a boy. My first school had several hundred pupils, my second had nine when I started and seven when I left, my third had three when I started and five when I left, and my fourth had 13 when I started and 11 when I left.

So, weren't those facts just scintillatingly exciting? I'm meant to tag eight more bloggers to play along, but I think everyone should play if they want to and ignore it if they don't.

Through The Wardrobe

In the past week, I've started reading The Chronicles of Narnia for the first time in almost 20 years.

I remember as a boy thinking that The Magician's Nephew, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe and Prince Caspian were all brilliant, but becoming progressively more bored as the series progressed.

I'm not sure what has made me decide to start reading the books again. I bought one massive compendium of all seven whilst in Australia four years ago, and carted it around the world back to Scotland, unread in the eight months that journey took.

Maybe it's because the strange workings of my mind associate Narnia (snow, White Witch, fir trees) with Xmas. Whatever the reason, I'm now approaching the end of The Magician's Nephew, and I'm finding the experience of re-reading the Narnia books a bit strange.

Firstly, the language used by CS Lewis is occasionally archaic, as one would expect from a series of books written 50 years ago, a world before the mass arrival of the motor car, before every house in the world had at least one telephone, and before everyone in the world had a television.

And what has also struck me is the blatantly obvious Christian references, which weren't so readily apparent to an eight-year-old devouring these imaginative tales for the first time.

By the time he wrote The Magician's Nephew, Lewis had already penned five of the Narnia novels, and must have had a clear view of how the series would end. The comparisons with the New Testament, as seen through the eyes of a cynical 27-year-old cynical journalist, are inescapable.

But perhaps the strangest thing is that I can't really remember how the story unfolds. Although almost 20 years have passed, I thought I'd remembered the story pretty well. But each chapter so far has been like I've been reading it for the first time. Cinematic and television versions of the Chronicles have kept certain aspects fresh in my mind, but now I'm having doubts about how accurately I've remembered the rest of the books.

Which has set me to wondering - have I forgotten what happens in some of my favourite literature?

There's only one way to find out - by re-reading Treasure Island, the complete works of Roald Dahl and Enid Blyton's Enchanted Wood tales.

I may be quiet for some time.

Memories Are Made Of This

Dry, cold, cloudless winter nights like this evening remind me of childhood, staring up at the stars, the tingle of the cold air against my cheeks.

It's strange how one small thing can transport us to a different time or place. Any time I hear If You Tolerate This, Your Children Will Be Next by Manic Street Preachers, I am back in my bedroom in Napier University's Craiglockhart halls of residence during my first week of university.

The album from which the single was taken, This Is My Truth, Tell Me Yours, was released on the Monday before I moved to Edinburgh, and it was on heavy rotation in my small shared room in those first few days away from home.

And so, even now, if I hear any of the tracks from that album, I can remember those exciting times when I went from living at home with Mither, Faither and Baby Brother, essentially being waited on hand and foot, to fending for myself, living on pasta, pizza and anything with cooking instructions on the packaging, drinking every day and spending every waking (and sleeping) hour in a five-floor building with 200 other 18-year-olds.

Now, more than nine years later, those songs still remind me of those first steps into life beyond the family home, Brechin and schooldays. I wonder what songs will remind me of being 27 when I reach 35?

What's Wally Wearing?

This morning, shortly after 4.30am, someone from Australia arrived at this website having searched on Google for "What colour socks does Where's Wally wear?".

Aside from being a semi-tongue twister, it's a good question - why don't we know what colour socks the world's best hide-and-seek player wears? Red and white tammy, Hamilton Accies jersey, blue drainpipes, brown shoes, bulging backpack and walking stick - but what of Wally's underwear situation?

I demand answers....

Quizzical Education

Tonight, in an effort to forge bonds between co-workers where there were no bonds before, our company is holding a quiz night.

My team of four, which includes Mrs Wife, one of my colleagues and his own Mrs Wife, will be up against everyone else from the office as we attempt to prove we're the brainiest of the lot. (In fact, all we should be aiming for is to avoid finishing last).

A quick spell of random questions this morning between myself and my colleague proved one thing - I don't know half as much as I thought I did, and I know considerably less than I did when I was a kid.

As a teenager, I represented the whole of the Brechin area in the Masterkid of Angus competition. And whilst at high school, I appeared on Radio Tay several times as a member of our school's quiz team. (Good God, why didn't anyone tell me to STOP BEING A GEEK!)

Back then, I think I had a pretty good grasp of 'general knowledge' - ie, loads of useless crap that somehow lodged itself in my brain.

But I'm finding that nowadays, that crap doesn't stick as well as it used to. Maybe it's because I have to work for a living and remember relevant facts about the oil industry, not to mention deadlines, which reports I should be working on, which databases I need to update and the like. Or maybe I just don't have the time to sit and read newspapers and magazines the way I used to, devouring information for information's sake.

These days, when I get home from work, I'm quite content to sit in front of the television or play computer games. And no-one ever won a general knowledge quiz through their ability to recall the plotlines from Lost, or the best players in Football Manager 2007.

Or perhaps I'm just getting stupider. Brain cells die and are never replaced - that's a fact of life. And as my head fills with new knowledge, such as information about mortgage rates, the price of fuel and the ins and outs of squirrel sex, maybe there's just no room in my head to remember which is the most common element on Earth (it's hydrogen) or what the Rolling Stones' first single was (I Wanna Be Your Man).

I'm sure we'll found out this evening.

Soundtrack of My Life

Each month, Mojo magazine interviews three celebrities or musicians for its All Back To My Place page, asking the same questions each month. I figured I'd prepare my answers just in case they ask me for the next issue.

What music are you currently grooving to?
I don't know if it can be classed as "grooving", but I'm listening to The Enemy's debut album We'll Live and Die In These Towns a lot. It reminds me of The Jam, in a kind of vitriolic, call-to-arms, sound of the suburbs sort of way. Nowadays, I listen to music most when I'm driving to and from work, but I have a car share, so I tend not to subject her to anything too outrageous or loud. I'm also waiting for my copy of Hard Fi's Once Upon A Time In The West to be delivered.

What, if push comes to shove, is your all-time favourite album?
The Stone Roses' debut album has been my favourite album since I was about 18. I can't really put into words what it is that makes it so important: the whole package transcends the individual songs and the individual players. But the opening rumble of I Wanna Be Adored, the psychedelic punk of Made of Stone and the epic closer I Am The Resurrection are enough in themselves to make it the greatest record of all time.

What was the first record you ever bought? And where did you buy it?
It was the soundtrack to the movie Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on cassette from John Menzies in Dundee (now replaced by a Tesco Metro) in 1990 or 1991. I'm always surprised when rock stars are interviewed and asked what their first record was, and they say The Jam, or The Beatles, or The Sex Pistols. I went through a long phase of liking shite pop music, a phase I call "being a kid". Kids don't buy Sex Pistols records - they buy novelty records, movie soundtracks and pop. Anyway, the soundtrack to Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles included the awesome T-U-R-T-L-E Power by Partners In Kryme, This Is What We Do by MC Hammer and 9.95 by Spunkadelic, all of which I have recently downloaded from the internet. I think I might still have the original tape hidden away in either Mither's or Faither's loft.

Which musician have you ever wanted to be?
Anyone who can play an instrument. I envy people who can pick up an acoustic guitar and rattle off five or six songs faultlessly to entertain a roomful of people. I'd love to be able to play drums like Dave Grohl, bass like Flea or guitar like John Squire.

What do you sing in the shower?
I always used to sing in the shower, but nowadays I get up at 6.15am, which means that I tend not to, for two reasons:
a) 6.15am is not a "singing in the shower" time of day
b) The bathroom at Dungroanin' is en suite, and Mrs Wife would probably not care too much for being woken up at 6.15am by me running through a medley of Super Furry Animals songs.
On the occasions when I do sing, I find that Elvis songs sound great in the shower, as the cubicle makes my voice, which is quite deep (especially when I'm tired), echo. So I'm quite partial to belting out Devil In Disguise and Suspicious Minds. I also like singing Reef's Naked, for someone reason that I haven't been able to fathom, but which may well be Freudian.

What is your favourite Saturday night record?
If it's one record that I'll put on before going out, it's The Stone Roses' debut album, cranked right up so that the bass rattles the windows. I have to listen to the whole thing, finishing with the instrumental at the end of I Am The Resurrection. However, in this age of CD burners and MP3 players, it's all too easy to make up a playlist especially for Saturday nights. When I was at university, my flatmate and I made a going out CD that included Primal Scream's Kill All Hippies, Nirvana's Smells Like Teen Spirit, The White Room by Cream and White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane, amongst others. No-one else liked it, but we thought it was ace.

And your Sunday morning record?
I tend not to listen to music on Sunday mornings, but when I do, it can be almost anything. A bit of Motown can start the day nicely, as can The Beatles. Probably not Metallica, Motorhead or Probot though.


I know many of you can't stand memes, but if you want to play along, feel free. I'd be especially interested to hear how The Tomahawk Kid and Erica would answer.

Sumptuous Cinema

This weekend, Mrs Wife and I, having nothing better to do, went to the cinema twice.

In back-to-back showings, we saw Transformers and The Simpsons Movie, finishing a fairly lengthy run of kids' movies that we've seen lately. So, how did the summer's big blockbusters fare?

Transformers was, quite simply, awesome. I may be exaggerating ever so slightly, but not much. You see, for someone who was a five-year-old boy in 1985, it doesn't get much more exciting than seeing Optimus Prime and Bumblebee appear on the big screen and transform before your very eyes. The effects were incredible, and the violence was pretty good for a kids' film. My only disappointment was that Hot Rod wasn't in the movie - but maybe he'll make it into the sequels.

The Simpsons Movie was a bit of a disappointment. Which shouldn't really come as much of a surprise, as the show itself has been treading water for a long time. The general impression I got was that if you'd seen the trailers, you'd already seen most of the funniest jokes. It wasn't a complete turkey, because The Simpsons is still funnier than most other programmes kicking around at the moment. But when the asides and throw-away jokes are funnier than the main plot of the movie, something isn't right.

So this evening, when I have three hours to kill between work and a football match, I'm going to the cinema again. Unless Die Hard 4.0 or Goldfinger is on, I'll be going to see either Transformers or The Simpsons Movie again. Optimus Prime or Homer Simpson? More than 20 years later, there is no competition.