The 2010 Election. My last word.

Forgive me for another political blog post. Social networking frenzies, televised debates and the prospect of submitting my first general election vote have made me very excited. Well, apart from in the past few days. No, since the last leaders' debate, I've felt quite petrified.

I really shouldn't be. I am confident that this country has enough altruistic souls to vote for MPs who won't cut vital public services. I am confident that this country is mostly made up of people who want all to be treated fairly. I am confident that the people of this country want to see the world flourish. And I am confident that this country is made up of accepting, peaceful people, with the maturity to invest their precious vote in a party who will restore a sense of dignity to our parliament.

So what am I scared of? I'm scared that I'm hoping for too much. I'm scared that all of these brilliant, important and very worthy voters are being misled not only by the presumed safety of familial voting traditions, but by certain members of the mainstream media.

As the papers have shown their support for parties, you'd have to have been living under Eric Pickles' blubber for decades to have been shocked at any alliances.

Also, you'd have to be similarly incapacitated to not realise that many of these publications have been willing to disproportionately represent incidents on the campaign trail long before they pledged their allegiances . Charlie Brooker's column this week begins with a nod to just one example of how skewed the media's representation of this election has become.

And another more serious example of warped press has been highlighted by Benjamin Cohen of Channel 4 news (and founder of PinkNews). This is the recent non-story of gay-curer Tory candidate Phillipa Stroud who has sent Twitter in a frenzy, yet will never receive as much media lampooning as Brown did during Bigot-gate.

The leadership debates provided the media with another opportunity to manipulate voters. We've been encouraged to pick apart leaders of the party instead of looking to our own local candidates' policies. This would be great if we voted in a presidential system, but we don't. Obama's name has been dropped in this election run-up more times than Katie Price's knickers, and it is useful to compare the US and UK. The pertinent dissimilarities are that we don't vote for our leader, and we're a tiny island. But these just make the similarities all too eerie: we have just as many issues, a similar gaggle of nutcases running for office, and the same media fatcats in charge of our press.

I'm not disillusioned with politics, but I'm concerned that we're looking to partisan news sources to tell us about the three men most of us will never have the chance to vote for.

The 2010 election is one where we have never before had so much information readily available to us. But be careful where you get it from.

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*In case you don't know, this latter incident is when Brown called a spade a spade. I think he should have just called her an idiot and left it at that. If you were to meet the Prime Minister, a man with a fancy education and a right nice suit, with the BBC filming you, you'd surely not think to say something so crass as: 'These eastern Europeans, where are they all flocking from?'

** I put a photo of Paris Hilton up top so you'd pay attention to what I write.

Loads of 'sleb goss

During what has been a shocking hiatus from blogging, this is what I've been writing. It's been tricky, as I am incredibly adept at remembering useless celebrity facts, but I don't agree with slagging people off without knowing them, or spreading rumour without a basis in fact.

As of this week, there will be no glorification of famous-for-being-famous types. More details to come...

Qype

I've just realised that I'm going to write restaurant reviews. And I'm going to write them somewhere where I am real easily published. Which is here. 

Pissing on Climate Camp

Every media resource had differing opinions on Climate Camp. To the right-wing media, it was a hippie-festooned mess, to the left-wing media, it was a well-organised campaign hearkening back to the demonstrations held on that very same patch of grass in south-east London hundreds of years ago.

I went there on Saturday night at 12.30am, and all I saw was a tiny fenced off area covering a tiny portion of Blackheath. I did a really long wee at the fence. No-one inside the designated rowdy hippy area was awake, let alone rowdy.

Why did I decide to piss on the fence? Two reasons. I really needed a wee, and, as always, wanted to be able tell a good story. As the wind helped me drip-dry from one of the longest pisses I have ever had, I looked around the campsite.

I found it interesting that all these environmental acitivists were kept within a small locus, unable to use the rest of Blackheath freely. I don't know who set the barriers up, but the whole area dedicated to Climate Camp was about a quarter of the size of the funfair next to it. I like that the media decided to give Climate Camp a disproportionately large amount of coverage, showing that what the campers were doing had an importance behind it exceeding that of the gaudy funfair.

Ultimately, I hope that the issues surrounding climate change and the 10:10 conference will be addressed more so than locals' issues surrounding the possible nuisance of a couple of hundred stoners chilling out on some public land for a week.

At least they used portaloos.

Frankie Knuckles and Esser Chuckles

Frankie Knuckles has helped me over the past couple of days to get some work done.

I also impromptu left the library to get to the Cavern to see ESSER.

I had a chat with him afters. Being a bit obnoxious my friend had called him Rufio and then I'd stolen his roadie's jumper. Here's my exclusive post-Cavern interview with the band.

Esser's band: Oh god, we thought you were Adam

Me: No, it's me.

(Adam shows up)

Adam: Watch out for the rich tea biscuits

Me, answering the rich tea biscuits: Hello? Oh, oh it's for you. (passes biscuits to Adam)

Adam: Oh hello?

Me: So guys are you all absolutely fucked? You look fucked when you perform, which is nice.

Esser: Yeah, we're fucking wasted.

(Soundguy starts to take photos of me on his blackberry)

Esser: Do you have a spare cigarette?

Me: You can have THIS one, Rufio.

Esser: Me? Really? Thankyou so much. Why did you call me Rufio?

Me: I just do not know. Are you on twitter?

Esser: Oh yes.

Me: I'll twat you.

Bandmates: We've got to go now, are you coming or going?

Me: Oh goodbye.

The music is a bit like Lily Allen for boys. I liked it.

Larry Levan and a whole host of other people

A couple of Popbitches ago this marvellous piece was featured:

>> Miami splice <<
Sam/LiLo: not the new Larry Levan

Honk writes:

"A friend was in a Miami club this week where

Sam Ronson and Lindsay Lohan were booked to DJ.

They shared a single laptop between them, indeed
Lohan seemed to be 'rocking' a room of 600

using nothing more sophisticated than iTunes.

And it showed, as her four-second attention

span meant guests were treated to something

akin to the 'intros' round of a pub quiz. Lohan

disappeared to a crouching position behind

the decks for a good 10 minutes whilst she er,

blew her nose and Ronson took over. She at least

tried. 15 minutes later, they'd packed up, the

club emptied immediately, and a real DJ took

over and played to a near-empty club."

I wrote an article about Lindsay Lohan and Sam Ronson. Why, despite not being amazing role models, are brilliant because their relationship can serve to teach some home truths. Like: not all girls need to be super-feminine to get laid, but that's cool. Or that really generically astoundingly hot girls do fancy other girls. Or that people don't have to define their sexuality anymore.

The shortened article is here. The full article is remarkably defunct now, as a whole load of shit happened. But I wouldn't want to write any further on that in case the whole thing changes again.

Changes is the name of a song by Larry Levan. He was a DJ and producer in the 70's- 80's.



He's credited as the founder of dub, and dubstep is meant to be a derivative of dub. But I think it's a bit like taking that little plastic thing on the tip of your shoelace of your Nike Air Force IIs and putting it in your nose. Dubstep takes a small, irrelevant element of dub and makes it really dangerous for no particular reason other than to look a bit hard.

Larry used to play at the Paradise Garage in New York. People used to have sex on the dancefloor. Men used to wear heels and big hair and women were mostly made of sequins. The Paradise Garage probably reeked of poppers. When I was 14, my mum found some poppers in my bag and made me pour them in the sink. She muttered "Smells like Studio 54".

Remember that scene in Forrest Gump when Jenn-nay is in a bar doing lines and KC and the Sunshine band is playing? Well, yeah, a bit like that. I think Jenn-nay had a cooler life than Forrest. Like when Lynyrd Skynyrd's Free Bird is playing and she's about to jump out of a window a gajillion storeys high? That was cool. She was played by Robin Wright Penn who was married to Sean Penn who was married to Madonna and is also known to hang out with Lindsay Lohan. Who got compared to Larry Levan.

Madonna used to go the Paradise Garage. The promotional video to Madonna's first song, Everybody, was filmed there. Not that Youtube will let me find it. Wikipedia says: "The song introduced classic Madonna themes like individuality, dancing and singing as forms of self-expression, as well as the optimism that dominated the first five years of her career."

And now I kind of wish, oncemore, I could do my dissertation on Madonna. Enjoy:

Pink News

So yeaaaah, I've been doing some amazing work experience for the UK's biggest gay news website. Here's some linkage:

Serious Stuff

Patrick Wolf

Alan Carr

Bruno

Elton John

I really enjoy working here. It's in King's Cross, so I get to bump into all sorts of vagrants, prostitutes and miscreants. There's a halfway house up the road from the office. All of the people there always wear at least one item of cool clothing. They tend to ask me for a cigarette. Or 50p. I told one woman I didn't have 50p and she called me a 'fucking liar'. She was right. I did have 50p, and I spent some of it on a delicious sandwich.

Confessions of a Shop o Phobic

Sophie Wilkinson tells all. Or at least tries to.

Resting on the laurels of a sensationalistic article in the Shag Mag, I’m afraid to say I’ve been stumped with what to tell the attendees of this year’s superb RAG Fashion Show about, well, fashion. I could tell you all how monotonous the blonde hair, Ugg boot and gilet combo has become, but we’ve all known that truism for as long as Exeposé has been in print. As you will find in this programme, it is remarkable how many different trends, styles, concepts and fads are displayed by a university that faces all too much unnecessary criticism for lacking in diversity. What we put on to brave the erratic weather, hills and slightly overheated library is so clearly an expression of our individuality. Despite my best efforts, I am not Karl Lagerfeld. So I’ve felt wary of dogmatically telling people what they should wear, when, without too much bragging, my Shag Mag article really did seem to have a strong effect upon some lucky readers.

I’ve been a purveyor of many a trend during my studies at Exeter; an outright obsession with stash has thankfully been phased out by an affinity for knitted jumpers, baggy t-shirts, skinny jeans and a pair of, ugh...Uggs. What is there to say about such a simple look that has been so demonstrably inspired by photos of myself at four years old? I was lost. I was bewildered. I was, quite frankly, worried. I lit up a Camel Light. As it burnt down to the tip, I thought, maybe, I could talk about how bloody cool I think smoking is. However, an article attempting to justify the stylish glamour of such a dangerous habit would be deleted from an official university publication faster than the ‘Lash, Banter, Bolt, EURFC’ vests got covered in vomity cider and black at their Timepiece debut. Perhaps my fear of fashion journalism stems from a self-righteous apathy towards consumerism? Recent attempts at shopping have been somewhat hindered by two things: a crippling fear of any shops beyond Sidwell Street during ‘these harsh economic times’ and the inevitability that anything from Topshop looks good for a couple of days before you turn up to a club wearing the same dress as an acquaintance. In the past six months, girls have, statistically speaking, felt more anger towards a friend who copies their getup than one who steals their boyfriend. How could I put my problems with fashion behind me and retrieve some semblance of style consciousness? Was I doomed to remain dressed ‘like playdays’, as a good friend once put it?

I turned to the internet for answers, and more importantly, eBay. I trawled around and found the most wonderful jumper; it looked exactly like one I’d found in a charity shop a few weeks back, the one which my male friend laid claim to, as he had £2.50 spare change, and I only had my card. And you really can’t pay for charity shop fare on card. The auction was in its last three minutes, and the highest bid so far was 99p. For one moment I worried my account was inaccessible after a deabaucle in first year. I’d refused to pay for a hideous bag which I’d bid for under the misguided illusion that anything described as ‘NU RAVE FASHIONBAG brandNEW (last year)’ would feasibly look better than a poached toad as a handbag. I eventually decided there’s little to go wrong with a jumper. But by the time I placed my bid, the other bidder outbid me. Filled with rage, contempt and disappointment at my loss, I swore off eBay for the last time. Soon, the word ‘bid’ eventually stopped swirling around in my mind.

I was losing at this fashion game. Princesshay was no longer an option. I needed something more. I needed to make a spontaneous, hungover decision to go to Bristol for the day. As I entered the West Country’s biggest shopping mall, I knew what I was headed for. My heart pounded. Meeting your clothes-store soulmate is a bit like hooking up with someone you’ve met through a friend months before. You both know the other exists, and you both know you like what you see. However good a potential romance would be, circumstance has it that any indulgence of your desires would result in catastrophe. But I forgot my friends’ previous claim on the shop, threw caution to the wind and all ideas of practical student budgeting to the wayside. I stepped into American Apparel and there were fireworks. If heaven had fireworks. Now that I own half of the shop, I feel like I’m in a position to give a few fashion statements:

1. Always borrow clothes. Keep them. Deny taking them.

2. Don’t read the writing on a t-shirt out loud. Never beg people to read your own t-shirt.

3. Sam Ronson and Lindsay Lohan are here to stay and they look fucking brilliant.

4. Hairspray and backcombing is not just for those from Surrey and does not cause follicular damage.

5. Trippy patterned jumpers are for life, not just Christmas.

oh snap

Just a quickie, as I'm staying in from what looks to be an amazing night out so I can get going on a 4000 word essay due in for next week. So that I can get started on the 3000 word essay ALSO for next week. Although heavily tempted by tonight, my wingman got a case of major stomach poisoning. How bad? So bad her housemates thought she was throwing up.

I stumbled across this in my inbox. I don't know where it came from but it's funny, irreverent and worth the procrastination:

www.readplatform.com

Wish me luck.