To introduce myself: I’m a Bristol-based media-bod and writer, trying to make my way simultaneously in the worlds of worthy TV documentaries and, when I’m not doing that, writing, performing and otherwise tinkering with words (poetry and short fiction).
Truth be told, I know not whether you, Dear Reader, exist; or indeed whether my petty wafflings and occasional profundities will lure anyone in to this blog for very long.
However, after seeing that I can also (techno-joy and wonderment!) add photos to this blog directly from my mobile phone camera, I thought I would start one nonetheless – as a repository of sorts…For things which catch my eye, phrases that pass through my mind and may go nowhere at all, for little happenings which I would like to hold on to. So, and be not put off, this is just as much for me as it is for anyone else: isn’t all blogging? Alack for this twenty-first century, for we are all ‘celebrities’ now…
On which topic, I went to see Sam Sparro last night. Black and Gold? Slick and Bland more like. Though he does have a great voice and some nice pop songs, it all felt a little too packaged and shiny, like some salad which, when it’s been open for more than a few hours, will start to blacken and produce fetid liquid in the packet. Let the boy breathe!
Mr Sparro came on wearing a white Tyvek ™ baby-grow with a multi-coloured label for his surname hung around his neck. It appeared as though he had been labeled before being put on the bus to camp. In summary: it did nothing for him. The only time Tyvek baby-grows are acceptable, we agreed, was for actual babies in potential bio-hazard areas. His next outfit looked as though he’d spilled primary-coloured down his front (get the boy a bib) and then he appeared in a black, huge-shouldered cape and gold disco shoes for ‘Black and Gold’. Underneath this was a gold-trim black tunic, which I can only imagine would have gone down a storm at a Roman disco.
Still, his backing singers were nice – three impressively-bosomed and lively black ladies, one of whom was the singer from Oh My Gosh by Basement Jaxx. I think it was all over for me when they did a selection of mid-nineties dance classics as the encore. Don’t play it again, Sam.
Anyway, I hear the Julbott (my splendid housemate-Landperson) and must go and feed her some stuffed-crust pizza as promised…
Until next time, Computer-Screen…