Such Treachery

So let me start of by apologising, to those that care, for the absence of a Friday Night Music Club last night. The mix is done, but at the end of another gruelling week, I just couldn’t muster up the energy to write it up, especially when, having watched both series of the UK version along with the first season of the Australian version, I was nearly at the end of the second series of the antipodean version of The Traitors.

No spoilers for any of them here, I promise.

I didn’t watch the first series of the UK version at the time of transmission, and having seen it plastered all over social media at the time, I had taken against it, assuming it was just another reality show that I wouldn’t like (see also Love Island – I just don’t get the appeal). But when a friend (Hel, of course) got in touch after S1 had concluded to ask if I’d watched it, and seemed genuinely surprised to find when I answered in the negative, telling me that it was something I’d absolutely love, I determined to watch it sometime.

And then S2 came around, and although I hadn’t got round to watching S1, I thought I’d give it a go. And to say I bloody loved it is an understatement. The thing is, and don’t ever tell her I said this, but Hel is always right, as I’m sure her husband has found out since they got together.

In case you’ve been living under a rock for the past couple of months and haven’t watched it and/or, more importantly, haven’t seen who the winner(s) were, then let me explain the concept: it’s The Apprentice meets Big Brother meets a Murder Mystery Weekend (70s Jon Pertwee-hosted gameshow Whodunnit? is a solid point of reference, for those old enough, and with a memory that isn’t addled by drink, drugs, or a delicious combination of the two, to remember it), Twenty-odd cash-hungry egotist twats go to (in the UK version) a castle in Scotland where an unspecified number of them are secretly selected by host, the perma-orange fringed goddess Claudia Winkleman to be Traitors, the rest are the Faithful. The Traitors get to ‘murder’ one of the Faithful every night, the Faithful have to work out who is a Traitor, and get to vote to banish one contestant every episode, usually, accidentally , a Faithful (“Ooops! Aren’t we stooopid?”). If any of the Traitors are left standing at the end, then they win all of the prize pot, which is added to every day by way of a daily task.

It’s absolutely fascinating stuff, watching the Faithful try and sniff out the Traitors, generally getting it wrong, and watching the gameplan of the Traitors play out. I lost count of the amount of times, over the four series I’ve now watched, I found myself thinking just how utterly stupid some people are (perhaps to be expected in the Aussie version – JOKE before I get swamped by angry messages) but then, the viewer knows who is a Traitor from the off, but that doesn’t dampen the emotions.

A tune (the only one I own with the word Traitor in the title):

The Sugarcubes – Traitor

Unless you count this too (any excuse to post some Kirsty!):

Kirsty MacColl – Treachery

Anyway: Friday Night Music Club will be back next week. Honest.

All of this treacherous talk leads me neatly on to the question of why things are so gruelling for me at the moment. Well, it links to a somewhat oblique reference I left here recently about having some news which I couldn’t divulge just yet. But the cat’s out of the bag at work now, so there’s no longer any issue with me writing about it here, as long as I’m not dumb enough to mention who my current employers are.

As many of you will know, I work for one of the London Borough councils. I lived in said Borough for approaching 10 years. A couple of years ago, when my landlord decided to sell the flat I lived in, the new owners swiftly served me with an eviction notice, as they wanted to completely refurbish the flat so they could charge loads more than the rent I was paying (at least, that’s what I’ve convinced myself was the reason…who knows…?), which had almost doubled in the time I lived there.

Unwilling to go back to flat-sharing with complete strangers, and unable to pay the amount it would cost me to rent a place on my own anywhere in London at the short-notice I was given, I moved north to Peterborough, the area where I grew up. I got management’s (verbal) approval to work from home, as I and all my colleagues had done during lockdown, on the condition that I came into the office for monthly team and any other important meetings I needed to attend, and on the understanding that the situation may change at any time.

Last year, the situation changed; we were asked to come into the office twice a month. This was for those of us who did not live locally; everyone else had to go in more frequently. But twice a month? No problem. It’d be nice to see everyone every now and again.

But I could see trouble on the horizon, so stuck my CV on a couple of those Get-a-New-Job apps. The problem was that were I to take a job locally, I’d lose out on London-weighting with my salary. Consequently, nothing I saw or was contacted about tickled my fancy or indeed my wallet, for that matter.

Then in January, the goal posts got moved again. We received an email advising us that: “…the required number of days in the office as per the ‘Smart Working Policy’ are to be strictly applied.

This is 2 days per week in the office for staff and 3 days per week for managers.

The 2/3 days per week rule is to apply regardless of whether people have children, people live a long way away, people have mobility issues, and “everyone else”.”

You’ll note that two of those ‘regardless’ stipulations – mobility and proximity – apply to me. To quote Kris Kristofferson: it’s nice to learn that everybody’s so concerned about my health, .

Whilst I can legally drive, I haven’t done so for over 20 years, and in any event, my current medical condition makes it unwise for me to be in charge of a car. So, when I travel into the office, I have to use public transport, namely the UK’s glorious and notoriously cost-effective railway network.

Sheena Easton – Morning Train (9 to 5)

On the days when I have to go to the office, I catch the 6:05 train from Peterborough. I get home at around 19:30, if I’m lucky and there’s been no delays.

It’s exhausting.

And: it costs me just shy of £60 each time I go into work. Do the maths: 8 trips per month at £60 a pop works out at around £480.00 per month.

Just shy of £500 a month, just to go to work.

Ian Dury & The Blockheads – What a Waste

The decision had been made for me. Suddenly, it no longer made economic sense for me to stay in my current job; London-weighting no longer played a part in my decision making.

The Band – The Weight

This week, I was contacted by a firm who had spotted my CV online, who will offer me a salary comparable with my current one, who are happy for me to work from home 100% of the time, and if I’m succesful, will include that as a clause in my contract.

I spoke with them on Wednesday, and passed the initial screening interview. I now have a full interview with them this Friday.

I can tell you all of this now as I spoke with my line managers earlier this week to tell them where I’m at. Admittedly, this was prompted by someone within our ranks telling them that I “wasn’t happy”. To be fair, they’ve been remarkably understanding; it wasn’t them who brought in the new rules, they can’t change what has been set up by those further up the food-chain than them, but they can see why I have to leave.

Marvin Gaye – Got to Give It Up (Part 1)

Wish me luck, folks.

More soon.

Friday Night Music Club

Evening all.

After declaring on here a couple of week’s ago that there would no longer be themes to these mixes, I found that on the first completion of this week’s mix, that’s exactly what I’d gone and done. You’ll probably guess from the first couple of tunes, and then another couple later on, this was going to one which featured nothing but pop records

So having painted myself into a bit of a corner, I had to U-turn faster than Liz Truss’ car in Autopilot mode; fortuitously, me dropping a load of pop songs from a mix and sticking a whole load more in their place doesn’t have the effect of crashing the economy. Again.

Because this week’s has been subject to several revisions, I’ve not had time to write any sleeve notes again. I’m sure you’ll learn to live with that.

So, here you go: 18 songs, 63 1/2 minutes of partly poppy fun:

Friday Night Music Club Vol 22

Look out, track listing incoming!:

1. The Lightning Seeds – Ready Or Not
2. Blur – Popscene
3. The Associates – Party Fears Two
4. Courtney Barnett – Nobody Really Cares If You Don’t Go to the Party
5. Cansei De Ser Sexy – Let’s Make Love And Listen To Death From Above
6. 5ive – Everybody Get Up
7. Blink-182 – All The Small Things
8. Girls Aloud – No Good Advice
9. Black Kids – I’m Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How To Dance With You
10. The Sugarcubes – Hit
11. Snoop Dogg feat. Pharrel Williams – Drop it Like Its Hot
12. Britney Spears – I’m A Slave 4 U
13. Charlotte Church – Crazy Chick
14. Scissor Sisters – Filthy/Gorgeous
15. The Sweet – Ballroom Blitz
16. New York Dolls – Personality Crisis
17. The Smiths – Sheila Take A Bow
18. The Charlatans – North Country Boy

More soon.

Same Title, Different Song

Did you ever have one of those conversations where you suddenly felt very old?

Let me give you an example.

Shortly after I started working for an insurance company in Cardiff, about 20 years ago now, I found myself as an Acting Team Leader on the Teleclaims section; “Acting” because the actual Team Leader had gone on long term sick, and they didn’t want to actually promote me in her absence because that would have meant paying me more.

The Teleclaims section was the first point of contact should you ever need to make a claim. Or, if you wanted to find out what was going on with your claim. In the latter case, it was an unwritten rule that you should never bother the person actually dealing with the claim. I was rather good at this; I’d have a quick read of the file whilst the caller was on hold, then call the handler, ask them if I was right about where I thought the claim was at, then reassure them I wasn’t going to put the caller through, I’d get rid of them myself. 9 times out of 10  I’d be successful, and I quickly got myself a reputation as “the bloke who never makes handlers talk to customers.” My popularity burgeoned.

It was for this reason, I think, that I found the title of Acting Team Leader foisted upon me. But now my job had changed; now I spent most of my time shouting at people to answer the phones rather than actually answering them myself, or, quite often, taking complaint calls and politely explaining to the caller why they were wrong.

See, I’m not really management material. But on the occasions when I’ve found myself in vaguely managerial positions throughout my working life, I’ve been a firm believer in leading by example. Don’t ask others to do things you aren’t prepared to do yourself, is my motto. In fact, one job I did ended rather abruptly, shortly after I confronted a manager who had told me to “Do as I say, not as I do,” and I told him he was a twat.

So when I was an Assistant Supervisor at Boots (check me out with all my not-quite-boss credentials), I felt awkward telling other people slightly further down the food chain than I to jump on the tills when it was busy, so I’d often do it myself. Then there could be no arguments when I did tell someone to do it. Plus, I got to have a nice sit down.

Anyway, back to the insurance company. It’s busy, and I decide to answer a few calls, one of which involves a policyholder whose name is Paul Newman.

Call completed, I, of course, cannot resist making a comment about having just spoken to Paul Newman to the folks around me. Not a particularly funny comment, I’ll grant you (although that was definitely the intent) but one which I thought would gain a reaction from somebody.

Instead, I was met with blank looks.

“Y’know. Paul Newman.”

More blank looks.

“The actor. The very famous actor,” I semi-pleaded.

A bale of hay blows through.

“Makes salad dressing…..?” I offered.

A wave of recognition.

And that’s how you know when you’re getting old. When somebody you know for doing the main thing they’re famous for is known by young people for doing something less significant. I now refer to it as “having a Paul Newman moment.”

To apply this to a musical setting: a few years later, I’m still working for the same company, but I’ve progressed. I now deal with potentially expensive claims, where people (say that) they’ve been injured in an accident with someone we insure. I find myself sitting next to a lad who has been transferred from a different office. Usual in-between work banter occurs, and it transpires we have a lot in common in terms of musical taste. (Later nights out would reveal that he also rather liked taking pills; needless to say, we got on very well. Also needless to say, for the very same reason, I’m not going to mention his real name.)

Steve. Let’s call him Steve.

In one of our we-really-should-be-working-but-nobody’s-checking-what-we’re-doing chats, Steve revealed that he really liked The Automatic, a somewhat perfunctory Welsh indie band, best remembered for their single Monster. Credit where credit’s due, though: our conversation took place before they’d had any hits (if indeed their hit count extends into plurals). But he had one gripe with the band: he hated the additional vocals which Alex Pennie often provided, finding them obtrusive and annoying.

“A bit like Einar from The Sugarcubes, then?” I offered.

Cue the blank looks from “Steve”.

“You know. Einar. From the Sugarcubes.”

More blank looks.

“Used to pop up in the middle of every Sugarcubes song, and just start shouting pseudo-avant garde nonsense?”

Is it me, or is it getting warm in here?

Turns out, in musical terms, you know you’re old when you know the name of somebody in The Sugarcubes who wasn’t Bjork. And some of their records.

Like this one:

The Sugarcubes – Hit

And, making a second appearance in as many posts, here’s a different song with the same title:

The Wannadies – Hit

And just to tie things up neatly, here’s a song by The Automatic which isn’t Monster and which isn’t the best example of a song which features Pennie’s irritating backing vocals. It is, however, a song about a sandwich shop in Cardiff, and I rather like it for that at least: 

The Automatic – Raoul

More soon (football permitting).

Friday Night Music Club

Evening all.

Just so you know, this week’s selection comes with one of those Parental Guidance stickers right across it.

Also, I’m writing this with the Wales v France match on the TV in the background, so if this is posted a little later than usual, you’ll know why.

Let’s get straight to it; we’ll pick up where we left off last week and a song that in all honesty should be the theme tune to this thread:

132. St Etienne – Join Our Club

Released in 1992, as you can see as a double A-side with “People get Real”, which the band had wanted to release as a single in its own right, but met opposition from their record label, Heavenly. So, they set about creating the most commercial record they could, and “Join Our Club” was the result. This was the second single to feature Sarah Cracknell, after founder members Bob Stanley and Pete Wiggs had ditched the idea of using a variety of lead singers – a concept which features (and works, but very little that St Etienne produces doesn’t) heavily on their debut album “Foxbase Alpha”, but which the duo decided against once they had worked with La Cracknell.

Next, to New Young Pony Cub (or NYPC as they are apparently now known), and this oft-over-looked single from their second album:

133. New Young Pony Club – We Want To

New Young Pony Club are one of those bands that don’t really ever seem to have quite broken through, despite supporting Lily Allen on an early tour, and also claiming a spot on the 2007 NME Indie Rave Tour, along with the likes of CSS, The Sunshine Underground, and Klaxons. I suspect that CSS and Klaxons, indie-press darlings that they were at the time, probably gained most of the attention on that tour.

An ex-flatmate of mine told me once that the next band had won some TV talent show or another – suffice it to say it was The X Factor – but since he also once tried to convince me that every song title on Andrew W.K.’s “I Get Wet” album has the word “Party” in it, and since his favourite groups were Kasabian and Mumford & Sons, and since he once came home telling me he’d just heard the most awesome Britpop band ever (he was talking about Longpigs, who you know, are alright and of course gave us Richard Hawley, but…), and since he used to eat Doritos whilst sitting on the toilet, I am, frankly, sceptical. If he’s right about any of those points (particularly the Doritos bit), I’m sure one of you will enlighten me.

Anyway, here’s:

134. Fangs – S.I.C.K.O.

And well, that leads me rather nicely onto this:

135. The Charlatans – Weirdo

When you think about it, it’s a miracle that The Charlatans are still going, let alone that they’ve been one of the most consistent UK singles bands for the past twenty-going-on-thirty years; when they started out they were considered little more than Madchester wannabes (a tag which, I’m pleased to say, they’ve consistently proved wrong on many times since, having outlived all of the main scene protagonists. No need for The Charlatans to reform, nosireebob. And no seven year wait for a second album, either) and they’ve constantly been beset with drama and tragedy. In 1992, original keyboard player Rob Collins managed to get himself mixed up in an armed robbery being committed by a friend, and unwittingly ended up being his getaway driver. He ended up getting a four month stretch at Her Majesty’s Pleasure for that. Rob’s car related bad luck didn’t end there though: he was killed in a car crash in 1996. In 2013, drummer Jon Brookes died from a brain tumour that had been diagnosed in 2010.

But The Charlatans always seem to bounce back, and of all the varied and wonderful singles they’ve released, “Weirdo” is probably my favourite, not least because the 12″ single contains the US version of “Sproston Green” which they always, but always, end their live sets with.

Anyway, since we seem to have drifted into the territory of songs with vaguely insulting titles, we may as well have the king of such things:

136. Goldie Lookin’ Chain – Your Mother’s Got A Penis

You have to love ’em, don’t ya?

Well, we’re now into Parental Guidance time, so please only continue if you are above the age of 18 and have the bill-payer’s permission. Or something.

Have they all gone? Good, then I’ll continue.

A song now that I mentioned in passing on these pages some time ago:

137. Fatboy Slim – Star 69

…and which I’m therefore not going to dwell on any further here. It just fits here, okay?

Many years ago, when I was working as a “chef” in a motorway service station restaurant, I bunked off one Sunday to spend the day with my friend Richard, who had invited me and a few others round for a day of roast dinner, drinking and watching films. The only film I can recall that we actually watched that day was “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” starring Whoopi Goldberg. I remember nothing about the plot.

So why am I mentioning this now, I hear you wonder? Well, the only thing that I do remember is Richard commenting that “Nobody swears like Whoopi swears”. That may have been true in 1986, but no longer I fear. I say this not in any kind of “Kids of today, eh?” rhetoric, but because…well…here’s Peaches:

138. Peaches – Fuck The Pain Away

Saucy.

And speaking of sauce, no selection of rudeness would be complete without a nod in the direction of the Purple One:

139. Prince – Sexy M.F.

Much as Fatboy knew that releasing a single with the words “What the Fuck” repeated quite a few times was unlikely to attract much airplay and so tucked it away as a AA-side, Prince knew to abbreviate his title and provide an edited version for radio use.

A change of pace now. Just as bands often punctuate their live sets with slower songs to give the audience a chance to get their breath back, so does Friday Night Music Club, and the moment has arrived where I get to do one of the things I love to do most these days: have a good sit down.

Still room for some abbreviated swears though.

140. John Grant – GMF

And whilst we’re having a few moments of quiet cursing, here’s eels, who aren’t afraid to dispense with the abbreviations:

141. eels – It’s A Motherfucker

Many years ago, I had a (now ex) friend round at my place once when I happened to play “Gorecki” by Lamb. If you don’t know the song, it’s a quite, quite beautiful, fragile thing, not a million miles away from Massive Attack’s “Teardrop”, neither of which would be out of place in my “Late Night Stargazing” thread (and which will feature there soonish, once I stop thinking of songs I’d rather post there). Anyway, she had never heard it before, and made me play it another two or three times. As she loved it so much, I did what I often do when someone tells me they like a song I’ve played them: I made her a mix CD with it on.

She was very grateful. Or rather, she would have been had I not, in her words, “totally ruined it” by placing this song immediately afterwards:

142. Tenacious D – Fuck Her Gently

I am 46 and single. That may go some way to explaining why.

It seems appropriate, then, that I post this next: a band that I’m quite simply staggered to see I’ve not posted anything by here before. This is something I shall have to rectify immediately:

143. Teenage Fanclub – Some People Try to Fuck With You

I went to see The Fannies (see? even their nickname is rude) in Bristol about ten years ago, when they were promoting their greatest hits album “Four Thousand Seven Hundred and Sixty-Six Seconds – A Short Cut to Teenage Fanclub”, and I took the opportunity to purchase some official merchandise, namely a t-shirt bearing the band’s moniker upon on it. I have subsequently learned that wearing such a t-shirt gains you some disapproving looks from people who are unaware of the band’s existence. I no longer wear it outside.

It’s not often that I post a Number One single on these pages, but here is one such occasion:

144. Cee Lo Green – Fuck You

Of course, Cee Lo had to change the lyrics to “Forget You” in order that the single might attract any airplay, but we’re having none of that cleaned-up-version nonsense here tonight.

Now to something a lot less well known, which is a shame as it’s rather fine:

145. The Bird and The Bee – Fucking Boyfriend

(Apologies if I seem to be rattling through these now. It’s because I am. Got a bit too engrossed in the rugby, see).

So, finally, the closing track from their first album “Life’s Too Good”, an album which properly introduced us to the wonderfully bonkers Bjork (though the Festive Fifty-topping “Birthday” had seriously whetted our appetites). This is one of the few songs in their canon not to include Einar butting in with an incoherent rant, a practice which always came perilously close to spoiling their songs in my book. Almost, but not close enough.

I was once discussing Welsh popsters The Automatic with a work colleague, who bemoaned the presence of Alex Pennie on their early records (Y’know, when they were kinda famous); he hated his vocal style and found him intrusive.

“Ah,” I said, nodding sagely “like Einar from The Sugarcubes.”

He looked at me blankly.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

I have rarely felt older.

146. The Sugarcubes – Fucking In Rhythm And Sorrow

That’ll do you for tonight.

More soon.

As Columbo used to (sort of) say….

….”there’s just one more thing before I go.”

Today is my birthday. So this seems appropriate (and no, it’s not that Wedding Present cover of the Altered Images song, for a change):

 The Sugarcubes – Birthday

Cheers!