The Ha Ha Wall

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Michael.
Michael who?
Right. You'll do for the jury.

The Blackest of Sheep

Everybody claims to be the black sheep of their family. Statistically speaking, such claims are most often made during family holidays. But for the blackest of sheep there is no such thing, and no more have I felt my blackness than last week when a chain of events confirmed my position on the outer branches of the family tree.

"We're planning a family holiday!" my sister Uma said, in a barely audible mixture of excitement and poor network reception.
"Oh yeah? Where to?" I said, in an audible yet curious mixture of fascination and fear, remembering the rows and sulks of family holidays past.
"The South of France."
"Cool," I said, assessing the relative pros and cons of location versus company in my mind. "I'll have to call you back later," I looked at my watch. "I've got a date."

During which, incidentally, my mum had phoned and left a message on my machine. "Hi San," it started. "We’re trying to book a family holiday and need to ask you something! Can you call us back?"

And so I did, having decided that being in the South of France might outweigh actually being with the family. But, it turns out, I had misunderstood my mum's message. "We were trying to book the holiday on the Internet," she explained. "But couldn't work out what the security code was that they were asking for. Don't worry though - we worked it out and booked the four tickets."
"Only four?" I asked.
"Yeah," my mum replied. "You don't mind staying behind to look after the dog, do you?"

Emo

Emo is neither a flightless bird nor a Sesame Street inhabitant. It is, as it happens, the vehicle, albeit a shoddy one, for this characteristically overdue post. It is also an alternative music sub-genre that favours raw, unfettered expressions of emotion over melody, craft or any form of subtlety, spawning a gut of guitar anthems for the misunderstood college guy whose love for the girl next dorm goes unrequited. Boo-hoo.

The problem with Emo bands such as Dashboard Confessional is that, unlike the universal disgruntlement of say The Smiths or The Cure, they're so lodged in adolescence that nobody past sophomore year is able to connect with their music.

I mention it because just now I was myself connecting with music, browsing the iTunes online music store and stumbling across Emo in the unlikeliest of places. I was looking for an Audiobook to help with my train journey to London tomorrow and found that by How to Make People Like You in 90 Second or Less is the suggestion that "you might also like Dashboard Confessional". A case of Apple knowing its customers, me thinks.

So, I'll save you the confessional and hope that you like me beyond our first 90 seconds. It's usually in my second or third minute that the appeal really kicks in, and the seldom used nickname, Sharma the Charmer, begins to take effect. Imagine then, if you will, three weeks in my company. For America, land of the free, home of the brave, that dream will soon be a reality, as I venture beyond the window shopping of iTunes to the booking counters of online travel agents. That’s right – I, like Eddie Murphy of the 1988 film of the same name, am coming to America. So lock up your daughters, or indeed your mothers, I’ll be there April 2nd to 23rd.

The Michael Jackson Porn Collection

"You need to write in your blog," she said. "That's what you need to do." And it was those words, from an estranged, and indeed, strange friend over the Atlantic that tonight compels me write. I had called her in the post-Celebrity Big Brother buzz when, after watching such C-list luminaries as Channel 4 racing tipster, John McCririck and former Mrs Rocky, Brigitte Nielson, I felt a sudden need to exercise what was left of my A-grade personality before the Tube sucked away the remainder. Unfortunately, first choice recipient - and one of few friends my own age - was otherwise engaged - and so it is with you, lucky runner-up, that I share my thoughts this evening.

You, dear reader, round off my otherwise 'square of friends', into a perfect circle. My social life, you see, tends to coincide with university holidays when student types - all hair and no money - are back in town for their jollies. December therefore was a particularly busy month. Now, somewhere a fat lady has sung, the window of goodwill between Christmas and New Years has swung shut, and students are back to the all work/no play drudgery of University life. In their absence I prowl the Internet message boards, looking for the human connection suddenly withdrawn from my life.

I never find it. But I did return to a message board that I'd come across in researching an earlier post that quietly exudes a peaceful sense of community amongst its 1000+ members. They're all committed to their cause, passionate about their subject and abide by the simple rules of their community: never say "Wacko Jacko." They are the members of the Michael Jackson Discussion Board and eagerly debate (though admittedly only one side of) the King of Pop's upcoming trial. They've gathered an archive of 500+ and surprisingly balanced articles on the subject and it is a minor detail from a major document that I'd like to share with you.

The Smoking Gun, God knows how they do it, have got their hands on some sealed documents from the case against Michael Jackson. They have, of course, unsealed them and put them online. It turns out that hell-bent District Attorney, Tom Sneddon, so busy with actual cases against actual criminals, had no time to write a new document and instead copied and pasted entire paragraphs from a 1993 case against Jackson that, although settled out of court, is worth noting, two Grand Juries failed to indict.

However, what's new ten years later is the discovery of - shock horror - pornography under Jackson's bed. A couple of items don't count, in my estimation, as porn, though they appear on the police inventory as such. The first, the dubious sounding, "Chop Suey Club" is described in Sneddon's document as containing "photos of nude young boys." While it may sound to the uninitiated like some Asian rough trade volume, the book is actually by famed fashion photographer Bruce Weber and available on Amazon. (Check it out.)

The second, "Poo-Chi," detectives wrote, contained "photographs of female groin area." Officers, they only look like the female groin area! The volume is the, um, inventive work of Mayumi Lake, who photographs underarms and knees to create the illusion that you are looking at a woman's nether region. Very funny, Mr Jackson. Though we didn't expect you to have a sense of humour.

Funnier still and perhaps more unexpected is the actual porn discovered in Jackson's bedroom and the thought with which I'd like to leave you agiggling tonight. Amongst such mainstays as Swank, Club, and Couples was a Director's Cut DVD of the Hustler produced documentary, 'Pimp's Up, Ho's Down.'

And if you're surprised by Jackson's taste, consider the black fedora, the single white glove and the sequined socks and it all begins to make sense. Cha'mone!

Please Replace the Handset and Try Again

I don't like people going through my post, or checking my e-mail. And I'm not too fond of others hearing my answer phone messages either. And so it was with reluctance that I hit the play button last night in my parents' company. They had given me a ride back to my apartment and insisted that I stop its beeping by checking the machine for messages. They then assumed their positions around the phone, and unnecessary as it was, stared at it as it began.

The first was a message from my ex-girlfriend Beth, with whom I still share a close, though not geographically close, friendship. After all, we were together three and something years and, although we see other people (but not actually each other – Beth being in California), like close friends we occasionally say 'I love you.' No big deal. However, all but those three words were inaudible, and if this message were a stick my parents would have had the wrong end. They looked at each other and then back at the machine as it beeped onto the next message.

It was me, leaving a memo for myself and, rather bizarrely, one for the apartment: "See you soon," I said. Then, like the unwelcome encore to my answering machine circus, the final message began before a bewildered crowd, who listened with some bemusement as my friend Pam did her turn as a young and very much alive Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday to a similarly iconic and living President Kennedy. "Happy Birthday Mr President," she sang in her breathy – I’ll say it – sexy voice. "Happy Birthday to yoooooooooou..."
"End of Messages," the machine announced.

And with that my parents shifted their gaze from the answer phone to their son, ten months from his birthday and clearly not the President of anything. Blushing that maroon colour Indian people do, I switched off the machine and said with a shrug, "probably got the wrong number."

Curb Your Enthusiasm

I was surprised to find my parents enjoying the HBO sitcom, Curb Your Enthusiasm. My dad, I think, sees himself as a sort of Larry David figure, bald and broody, albeit without a career in Hollywood, experience in stand up comedy or the hit TV show Seinfeld in his writing credits. When I left the DVD box-set of its second series at my parents place for a couple of days and returned to find it still in its case I asked whether they'd like to watch an episode. "Nah, we've seen it before," my mum said. "No, this is the second series. I haven't seen it yet. Shall I put it on?" "No, that's alright. We saw it yesterday." "What - all of it? Back to back?" "Yep." "In two days?" "Yep." "There are ten episodes here," I said, taken aback by their marathon session. "Well Dad, what did you think of it?" Without turning to face me and with his enthusiasm clearly curbed he said, in all seriousness, "a bit repetitive."

Technical Problems

Though a feature in Fortune Magazine is still a long way off, my recent move to self-employment has brought with it the sort of fiscal benefits not enjoyed by much of my peer group. As a result, it is with surprise that I read my bank statements in black ink and with absolute recklessness that I purchase and surround myself with gadgetry of the highest order. As I sit in my lounge typing this, an iPod plays through the JBL Creature Speaker system, a Marks & Spencer Ready Meal cooks on timer to coincide with the start of The West Wing and a video fireplace loops and crackles on the DVD recorder.

I am even beginning to buy first hand clothes, but in my black pinstripe suit and white iPod cable collar I'm just a crosshair for the countless charity collectors and insurance sellers that stalk shoppers on the High Street. As I appear less and less shabby it becomes more and more difficult to disguise my sudden wealth from their persuasive, guilt driven rhetoric. "You look like a well off guy," they start. "Surely, you could spare £2 a month to help poor, endangered, penguins learn to fly. Your money would go to restoring their confidence and letting them know that we believe they can."

Their spiel sends me into the shelter of a nearby shopping centre, where the soft lighting and soft music makes me feel calm and where I inevitably spend much more than £2 a month on some sort of gadget that promises to make the running of my life a tiny bit easier. The new Chip and Pin system, by which you enter your pin number rather than signing at the checkout, certainly makes such purchases a breeze – and far more secure. Or at least I think so.

I was at a checkout the other day when I overheard a reaction to the new technology that was so utterly English in its manner. "This Chip and Pin's a new thing, isn’t it?" said the lady behind the counter. To which the customer replied, "I know." And then with disdain, "It's ridiculous, isn’t it?"

The San Sharma Show

A post this overdue must, of course, begin with an apology. And an opening sentence that mundane should end with one too. So for both I am sincerely sorry. My life, now that I have one, has undergone a transformation of the nip/tuck kind. I don’t have a new nose unfortunately, but I do have a new apartment, a new 12-month contract and a new sunny outlook on life, a disposition completely at odds with the tone of this blog. Formerly a dumping ground for the malcontent, my blog has fallen silent through a period of, dare I say it, relative contentment – a good patch. Rest assured however, any grievances have been duly noted and you should expect reference to them in the ensuing posts. Without further ado I welcome myself back onto the stage and thank you, the audience, for your patience.

Home Alone

Thrilling Me Softly

When a Dublin quintet opened for Morrissey last year and introduced themselves as "the Trills", a capacity audience at London's Albert Hall paused and asked, "the what?" That summer The Thrills, as they became known, dominated the airwaves with their take on Sixties sunshine pop and now, after a fittingly bleak English summer, release their sophomore effort, the darker, sometimes sinister, Let's Bottle Bohemia. The critics this time around are far less unanimous in their praise and I, feeling more aligned to the New Musical Express than regional newspaper, The Shropshire Star, am inclined to say that I don't like it, it's rubbish and Pete Doherty is God.

However, none of those things are true, at least as far as I know, but my relationship with The Thrills prohibits an objective review. It began a holiday romance and, having simultaneously returned from the West Coast of America, the band and I traded beached tales and sun-drenched stories of our time in California. "Let's go to San Diego," sang front-man Conor Deasy in all the excitement. "That’s where all the kids go!" And it sounded like a good idea. I would work, save up the cash and follow the kids to Southern California.

However, that plan never came into fruition and a year later we meet again, glancing awkwardly across a non-smoking Irish bar, as you do when you recognise an old flame. But what was ablaze before is now but a glimmer of hope in the dull disillusionment that this country generates in its young. With their debut album, So Much for the City, The Thrills and I shared a professed love for the West Coast and, evidently, the tunes of The Byrds and The Beach Boys. But behind those deceptively upbeat melodies was the longing and loss that marks the end of a summer holiday. Its follow-up, Let's Bottle Bohemia, however makes no effort to disguise its gloom, with song titles such as 'Faded Beauty Queens', 'Our Wasted Lives' and 'You Can't Fool Old Friends with Limousines'. Now when we meet it is to moan about how much it sucks to be here.

"Is this what they call 'love'?" Deasy sings in album highlight, 'Saturday Night', a tirade about the Great British nightlife. And tonight, which is actually a Friday, I found myself asking the same question, sitting under the disco lights with my mate, Sukhi, relinquishing conversation to the Top 40 at top volume, and watching what Deasy calls "dry humpin' on dance floors." "Is this what they call 'sex’?" he continues.

With Let's Bottle Bohemia, The Thrills are again remarkably in tune, not just musically (as expected), but somehow, and rather unfortunately, with my current state of mind – once thrilled, now somewhat disenchanted. "Is this what they call 'hate'?" Deasy asks in 'Saturday Night', and in his breathless, once intense, now tired vocals, kills me softly with his song.

Here's hoping the next Thrills album is more upbeat. As much for my sake, as theirs.

What Not to Wear

It ain't the air in your new Nikeees that puts the spring in your step, or the bottled bohemia of your new brown cords, and it sure ain't that trucker cap. But there is something about wearing new clothes that makes you feel a certain...je nes sais pas. (And there is also something about discussing fashion that necessitates un peu de Francais, non?)

There is sadly something about my financial situation too that demands I shop for clothes at thrift stores. But, I am told, buying "second-hand" is the new "full price", and there are plenty of bargains to be found. I stumbled across one yesterday: a classic, three-button, black leather blazer for under £10. Wearing it today has made me feel a little, dare I say - cool.

In fact walking with it provoked the sidewalk flirtage of a really hot girl. And I attribute this wholly to the jacket. I was otherwise having a pretty bad hair day, but nonetheless this young lady, with great style herself, smiled from across the street and waved. A little stunned, I returned the gesture with regrettably uncanny likeness: a girly wave, all five fingers a-fluttering. We both laughed at this but unfortunately deadly traffic kept us apart - isn't that always the way? - and as a big truck passed she was gone. I don't mean dead...the truck didn't hit her, but I thought to myself, two lanes was probably a safe distance. Second-hand clothes can really stink.

As mine hangs in the Febreeze, I'm watching What Not to Wear, a TV show that inspires this entry, and the rather less profound thought that its presenters, Trinny and Susannah, if it were at all possible, could combine to make a very hot woman. That face and those breasts (respectively)...Ooh la la!

Films Dogs Might Enjoy

And that, readers, is the topic of a BBC Radio Shropshire discussion. I urge you all to tune in, if not tonight, whenever you're in the area. In fact, it's worth moving to the area - the late night DJ is really that good. Still not good enough however, to keep my friend, Pete, in town. He's moving back to Uni tomorrow, but not without a few fond memories of a fairly fun summer. Tonight will surely rank up there with some of the least rank evenings of the past few months, as plans for a farewell few in Shrewsbury were shelved in favour of drinks at Telford's newest and I suspect only Italian American bar, Frankie and Benny's.

We arrived feeling a little underdressed but nevertheless utterly surprised at Telford's alarmingly large, pinstriped Italian American community. To our further surprise was the way in which bar staff served glasses on napkins and lit our cigarettes for us. (So impressed was I that I gestured a tip on the counter, which was ultimately retracted and spent on booze. There's a tip for you.)

Nothing could prepare us however - not even the Italian for Beginners tape playing in the bathroom - for the surprisingly moving speech by one half of the Frankie and Benny brand. With the words of leadership and wisdom usually reserved for the Presidents, football coaches and Morgan Freemen of American movies, Frankie or Benny (it was hard to tell which, or if indeed it was either), spoke to the small crowd of kitchen staff, waiters, bar men, managers and us, waiting patiently for our mention in the long list of thank yous.

It never came. The applause signaled the end of the speech (though I half expected an orchestral crescendo) and, drying a glass (I suspect, only for effect), the bar man leaned in. "We actually don't open until Monday," he said. "This is an invitation only event."

Then, with a courtesy not bestowed the Italian American stereotype of cinema, we were politely asked to leave. "You guys just sort of snuck in," he said. It was the easiest break in yet, and a rather painless break out. No violence, no guns, no hitmen: hardly Reservoir Dogs. Now there's a film a dog might enjoy...I'm calling Radio Shropshire. Goodnight.

Whatever happened to Corey Haim?

http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&ie=UTF-8&q=%22corey+haim%22 If you were wondering...

It's great to be here in...Knoxville, Tennessee

Such is the enormous power of the Internet that I can locate my visitors geographically; though - no longer concerned with the surfing habits of my ex-girlfriend - I've neglected that resource somewhat lately. This afternoon however, in a fun filled lunch hour, I got back in the habit, so to speak, and was alarmed at the stats, which, they assure me, don't lie people. They beg the question however, who do I know in Knoxville, Tennessee? And to all my fans in Croatia...who are you?

http://guru.msn.com

Like all cow-respecting, yoga practising, PVC preferring Hindus we have our own guru, a holy man who tours his teachings to families nationwide, who, in return for his wisdom, blessings and soothsaying, house him for up to two weeks. We did so a few summers ago. In fact, he insisted that he sleep in my bed, since - and I may have chuckled when he said this - it was untouched by the impurity of sex. Still, I let him have my bed. After all, he had just chewed part of his dinner and offered it as a sort of Holy Communion, and, after reading my cousin's palm, told him he had the hands of a killer. It was the least I could do.

Having relinquished (most of) his worldly belongings, the guru is actually homeless and survives on the kind donations of temple goers, the support of priests, and the communication link provided by his otherworldly Nokia mobile phone. It was from said device that my mum received the message that the guru is now undertaking a vow of 'silence' and, in his liberal interpretation of the vow, can only be reached by e-mail and instant message. I better go - guru_uk@hotmail.com has just signed in...

The Best a Man Can Get...

(...and pretty good for a woman too.)

I've often wondered where it will all end. When Gillette brought out the Mach 3 in 1999 I thought they'd peaked. "Four blades surely," I thought, "is too much." And yet, Wilkinson Sword, "makers of the finest swords and knives in the world since 1772" (and David to Gillette's Goliath since the Sensor Excel days of '92), this week announce the release of Quattro, "the world's first four blade razor..." As if we're supposed to gasp in amazement...when to be honest, anyone who can count might have seen this coming. Four, after all, follows three. The sword makers turned cosmeticians may see themselves as a cut above the rest now, but in five years time will run into problems when U.N. Special Forces are called in to keep 9-blade razors - weapons of face destruction - off the streets.

Their rivals meanwhile are wise to explore other avenues and, having acquired Duracell International, release the truly awe inspiring - and I did actually gasp when I saw this - battery powered, vibrating triple-blade razor, the M3Power. Although a somewhat unnerving experience to hold three blades against your neck in an unsteady hand, the latest offering from Gillette delivers a remarkably close shave. And when I switch it off I can almost hear the boffs at Wilkinson Sword. "Got it!" they exclaim. "How about...five blades?!"

Burn It: 'Songs in the Key of Death'

"Are you dead?" said the voice at the end of the line. It was very dark, I thought. And I was lying down. "No," I said, a finger on my pulse. "What are you doing?" "I’m calling you from Puerto Rico!" It was Beth, my ex-girlfriend in the Caribbean with current beau Krishna, delicately reminding me at 3:23am that our lives could not be more different. "I'm having pena colada and sangria – on the beach!" "You shouldn't mix your drinks like that, Beth." "Why haven't you e-mailed me with that advice?" she asked. "I thought you were dead."

I am indeed alive and well, fret not loyal readers (or royal leaders). I do apologise for my absence but this is in no way an indication of my demise. Continuing with the theme however I present to you the third in the Burn It series, following 'Songs to Fall Asleep' and 'Wake Up to'. A mix CD on the subject of death would therefore be called 'Songs to Die to', but deeming that a title too bleak I call this compilation 'Songs in the Key of Death'. Enjoy, if you can.

Songs in the Key of Death (Total time – 1:14:08)

1. 'Sheep Go to Heaven' – Cake Chosen as the opener primarily as to avoid interrupting the compilation's otherwise sombre tone. If you don't know it, the refrain is "Sheep go to heaven/Goats go to hell," which is about the most rational lyric in the song. Others include, "I just want to play on my pan pipes..." Don’t we all, Cake lovers? Incidentally, I know a girl whose younger brother sings in the chorus as part of a children's choir. Bit of trivia for you.
2. 'Jenny Was a Friend of Mine' – The Killers A deliciously sinister update of 'Girlfriend in a Coma', in which Morrissey sang, "there were times when I could have murdered her..." Here lead singer Brandon Flowers does just that, and admits it in a police confession that sounds like a cross between Joy Division and the Cure.
3. 'Atlantic City' - Bruce Springsteen "Everything dies baby, that's a fact," sings the Boss. "Maybe everything that dies someday comes back."
4. 'Lullaby' - Emitt Rhodes I saw The Royal Tenenbaums again last night, and was reminded why I love it so much. Not least because of the two for one offer on the Wilson brothers, but the soundtrack too is amazing. I was listening to it this morning and the shifting balance effect of this song made me think my iPod was dying. Reason enough, I think, to include it on this compilation.
5. 'If You Go Before Me' - Terence Trent D'Arby If you can stomach the conceited little poem that precedes the song, in which D'arby, the artist formerly known as wanker sighs, "I’ve been the hermit and the love thief" and uses the word "extemporise", this meditation on life after life is otherwise rather brilliant. It comes from his fourth and daringly titled album, Vibrator, which is more to do with death than sex but nevertheless connects the two on more than one occasion. "One day in the year," he sings in his remarkable son-of-a-preacher-man voice, "a bullet screamed and ripped straight through you." His performance is so believable you might just check yourself for exit wounds.
6. 'Rock N Roll' - Ryan Adams There is a chance that Adams, Ryan (not Bryan), will appear on every compilation I make without fail. And that it is because he is one of the most prolific and consistently good singer-songwriters in my collection. This, from perhaps his weakest effort, a mock-rockumentary of the same name, is not what the title suggests but a simple piano ballad. "I miss my best friend," a girl can be heard sobbing, taped and looped as the track fades to a sombre close.
7. 'The Scientist' - Coldplay A break-up song that's meaning is forever changed by a video in which Chris Martin, as if he didn't look strange already, sings backwards and like the Superman of the first film, reverses the death of his Gwyneth. It nevertheless wins the Free Willy tear jerker award and I defy anybody who has ever been in a relationship to listen Martin's falsetto refrain, "nobody said it was easy..." without a sniffle or goosebump.
8. 'What Will You Say' - Jeff Buckley Contrary to popular belief, April 5th 1994, when Kurt Cobain took his life, was not the day that the music died. Five months later and within a week of each other three classic records were released more complete and realised than anything by Nirvana. Those records were Definitely Maybe by Oasis, The Holy Bible by the Manic Street Preachers and Jeff Buckley's first and only complete album, Grace, which turns ten this month. It is a masterpiece of indisputable beauty, breadth and brashness, torn between themes of love and death, made all the more poignant but never overstated by Buckley's death in May 1997. 'What Will You Say' is taken from a live album, Mystery White Boy, and is a dialogue with the dead, a conversation with his estranged father, renowned folk singer Tim Buckley, whom Jeff never met but never quite escaped comparison. "Father, do you hear me? Do you know me? Do you even care?" he sings. "What will you say when you see my face?"
9. 'Fruit Tree' - Nick Drake Like Buckley, Nick Drake died before his career was fully realised. His records have since sold far more than they ever did in his lifetime, articles have been written, books and films proposed. The attention and respect his music now commands is justified. (Just listen to Five Leaves Left.) But the quest to understand Drake and his music is all the more intensified by his prophetic lyrics and eerie foreshadowing. The words of 'Fruit Tree' have become a reality: "Fame is but a fruit tree/So very unsound/It can never flourish/Till its stalk is in the ground/So men of fame/Can never find a way/Till time has flown/Far from their dying day."
10. 'Speedway' - Counting Crows Long before Counting Crows joined the likes of Phil Collins and Bryan Adams to record songs exclusively for children's animated films, they made some very brilliant very unchildish albums. This from their third, This Desert Life, is not their first to hint at suicide as a topic. The hint comes with the lyric, "I'm thinking about breaking myself" and continues with the line, "I'm thinking 'bout getting out," which is repeated into the song's fade.
11. 'I Know It's Over' - The Smiths Morrissey at his most morbid delivers a sensitive and intelligent song that brings the best out of his band mates - Mike Joyce (drums), Andy Rourke (bass) and Johnny Marr (guitar) - and a performance more expressive and honest than anything he's done before or (possibly) since. The image laden song about the end of a fictitious relationship is brilliantly framed by the lyric, "Oh mother, I can feel the soil falling over my head," and explained by a middle section, in which the singer equates his forthcoming death with a feeling of utter helplessness.
12. 'Exit Music (For a Film)' - Radiohead While on tour with Alanis Morissette in September 1996, Radiohead was sent the last half-hour of Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet and asked to write a song for the closing credits. Impressed by the clip, Thom Yorke wrote this for the film. His original plans to use lines from the Shakespeare play were (thankfully) scrapped, and he instead took inspiration from the scene in which Claire Danes's Juliet holds a Colt 45 to her head, whilst keeping in his its 1968 film outing. "I saw the Zeffirelli version when I was 13," Yorke explains. "I cried my eyes out, because I couldn't understand why, the morning after they shagged, they didn't just run away. The song is written for two people who should run away before all the bad stuff starts."
13. 'Whatever Happens' - Michael Jackson Michael Jackson's sales, despite his record breaking bad publicity, better reflect the state of the music industry than the quality of his work. He may not shift the units he did in the Eighties (when Thriller became the world's biggest selling album), but for a 'has-been' it is a remarkable feat to outsell new albums by Beyonce and OutKast with a second, hastily compiled greatest hits package (Number Ones), released the day police raid his house with allegations of child sex abuse. His last studio album, Invincible, is sadly overlooked in favour of the tabloid details of those allegations, but on closer inspection reveals a focused, highly polished - if over produced - R&B record. Here is an aging Michael Jackson, facing his mortality, no longer dancing with the dead with the vigour or youth seen in the landmark 'Thriller' video. "Whatever happens," he sings. "Don't let go of my hand."
14. 'Fields of Gold' - Eva Cassidy Alone, it's a remarkably peaceful ballad. As the soundtrack to a Cancer Research television campaign, it's haunting. Sung here by Eva Cassidy, the Washington, D.C. singer who died of cancer in 1996 at the age of 33, it's even more poignant, and an evocative example of the singer's ability to cut straight to the emotional core of her music.
15. 'Hold On' - Spiritualized Even Spiritualized's back-to-basics album, Amazing Grace, has the odd moment of grandiose. Here it sandwiches Jason Pierce's simple chorus: "Hold on baby to those you hold dear/Hang on to the people you love/'cause death cannot part us/If life already has/Hold on to those you hold dear." Listening to this song, as I seldom do, transports me back to a candle-lit apartment bedroom on Rue Bugeaud, where, with Pierce's instruction, I slow danced with an American in France, before life - and my return flight home - indeed parted us.
16. 'Higher Ground' - Stevie Wonder Stevie's fascination with Eastern religion produced something far funkier than Christian Rock could ever manage: "I'm so darn glad he let me try it again/Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin..." Beat that Christian rockers.
17. 'Sometimes It Snows in April' - Prince Not quite what you'd expect from the funk-lovin', pint-sized Musicologist, 'Sometimes It Snow in April' is as beautiful as anything I've ever heard, a love song for a dead friend that rewards upon careful listening. The one word in the chorus dissonant to the song's melody is "wish", since wishes, perhaps Prince is suggesting, can be incongruous with the lives we are forced to live. "All good things, they say," he sings, "Never last."

Holiday in Wales

Donkey Bonding

"Better donkey bonding," or so the saying goes, "than donkey searching." And if you're unfamiliar with those words of wisdom you obviously don't know Alexandra, Pete's lady friend from Greece where that saying, which she translates for us here, is the equivalent of our "better safe than sorry." In the week that I knew Alexandra there was indeed a degree of bonding, albeit minus the donkey (perhaps Pete), and now that – a week on – she's back in Greece, preparing her place (and attractive girlfriends) for my upcoming visit I’d like to dedicate this post and picture to her.

Pains, Trains and Polyphonic Ringtones

The 8:32 is cancelled. But I'm on time. And with forty minutes to spare (or despair) I retreat to the station's humble waiting room, in which a girl, whom by probability I assume is a hairdresser (I've met three in a week) smokes beneath a no smoking sign and a teenage boy fulfils a stereotype: trucker cap, low rider jeans, skateboard. He's listening to what sounds like The Clash. "It is," he responds, when I ask to confirm.

Our conversation, if you can call it that, is interrupted by the polyphonic ringing of his phone, which plays the theme from Indiana Jones, somewhat ironically. I see this guy five mornings a week and have concluded that unlike the Harrison Ford machine of machismo he is largely a man of inaction. He sleeps on the train and I’ve yet to see him use his skateboard. Still, the thought of him leaping aboard, whip and skateboard in hand, clutching at his trucker cap before the train door closes, passes the time and elicits a silent chuckle. You might call it a smile. It too is interrupted by a polyphonic ringtone. This time mine and a text message from my boss, Em. "Meeting at 10. Will you make it?"
"I think so," is my response. "Unfortunately."