Tuesday, July 17, 2007

I only listen to Beirut for his back-up band.

I had a truly disturbing realisation the other day as I was listening to “The Velocity Of Saul At The Time Of His Conversion,” by Okkervil River. I abhor indie music.

Cue gasping and convulsions. Here is definitive proof of my ossifying into something crusty and old-maidish. There was a point of time when I took pleasure in “The Velocity...” and it’s quiet, reflective acoustic guitar, and lines like “Little needles of sodium unstitched the sky.” No longer – the very thought of needles of sodium unstitching the sky makes my fingers twitch and my headphones draw back a little in shock at the virulent hatred emanating from my ears. I am becoming one of those people who, were they forty and American, would not think twice before voting for Bush. Twice. I can see my future stretching before me: I will enter into a marriage of convenience, laugh away all attempts at converting any future leisure time into a period for education rather than entertainment, view excessive displays of sentiment from a state of grace beyond pity, cultivate a Humbert Humbertian attachment to an unattainable teenager when I am forty-five, and never have a change of opinion in my life again. But I couldn’t bear it – the haplessness of these young males [why is it always young males?] with their untrained nasal whines, unsurprising guitars and lyrics that attempt to back life into a corner in an attempt to be the first to articulate something too mundane for the rest of history to take note of. It’s a whole musical generation of Nick Hornbys. Unengagable with. But death is approaching with every breath; music should not be of a time-wasting nature.


On a point of genuine curiosity, which do you think is more hardass [by which I mean more likely to strike fear into the hearts of a distant army]: ‘The Ride of the Valkyries’ or the opening of Led Zeppelin’s ‘Kashmir’?

Monday, July 16, 2007



Well, considering the team is largely made up of men that turn out for teams like INTER. and BARCELONA. I guess a self-destruct was LONG OVERDUE.

Bitterness. Never have I supported a team through a tournament that was so deserving of victory.

Where have you gone, Gabriel Batistuta? A nation* turns its lonely eyes to you.

* -- by which I mean us drunken, swaying Malayalis holding on to our happy memories of Maradona.

Oh Zlatan, why couldn't you be Argentine?