Rock n roll never did die...

It just moved to Japan and put on a dress.

The pandemic has really been tough on everyone. So I don’t think I am alone in feeling pretty down during the first twelve months (kind of got used to it now). The thing that helped greatly in getting me out of that funk is stumbling on Japanese female fronted rock and metal bands.

There is some great music still around in the west. But I did feel like I wasn’t finding anything new. Anything that would light a fire under me. Don’t get me wrong; there is new music that I adore; Gorillaz, Lana Del Rey, Arctic Monkeys (ok, newish) but these are all established artists. Sometimes you just want to find something new, you know? That was me. Hankering after the new. New to me I mean, not necessarily new new. And then something popped up on my YouTube recommendations. A strange little thumbnail of three young Japanese women in dresses fronting a heavy metal band. Babymetal you say? The scepticism was strong. And yet, it turned out to be just the tip of an incredible iceberg.

The UK and the US are usually where I find my favourite music. Historically, they are the two places we think of when we consider what we assume is the best (right or wrong – you know what they say about assuming) – Cool Britannia has the edge over America for me – the Beatles, Muse and Led Zep over Motley Crue, Pearl Jam and Nirvana. The Clash over the Ramones.

But now? I honestly think Japan may have eclipsed them both. May I present exhibits A through C m’lud?

Exhibit A: Lovebites

A five piece full on metal band where every last member is a god damn virtuoso. Backbone of the band are founding members Haruna (drums) and Miho (bass – unfortunately recently left), both absolutely flawless beasts on their instruments. Guitarists Midori and Miyako are both jaw-droppingly good, trading solos and playing the chunkiest riffs, and I love the way most of the time Midori has a huge grin and Miyako looks like she’s about to murder you. And then there is singer Asami. My goodness. I think the thing that I like least about most heavy metal is the shouty, growly, screamy vocals most bands have. There are exceptions (hello Jinjer), but it frequently puts me off. So when these four women put out the heavy technical metal and this petite lady stands out front and belts these operatic vocals over the top of it, it’s like a revelation.

If you want to give them a try, I started with Holy War. It’s astonishing. Long intricate solos, powerful vocals and relentless drumming. Maybe try Don’t Bite the Dust after that. They’re clearly having fun with a lighter tone, but it’s no less astonishing, particularly Asami nearly blowing the roof off with the strength of her voice. The closing argument for exhibit A m’lud, would be Swan Song, in which we find out that Miyako is every bit as good on the piano as she is on the guitar.

Exhibit B: Band-Maid

Now I appreciate that the full on power metal stylings of Lovebites ain’t gonna be for everyone. As amazing as those women are, heavy metal simply makes some people’s ears bleed. Band-Maid are not metal. Band-Maid are rock. Hard rock, true, but rock nonetheless.

The thing that hits you first about Band-Maid is the look. The gimmick, if you will. The women are dressed in maid outfits. All five did at the beginning, but now it’s most obvious on the two guitarists and the rest of the band look a bit more subdued. It’s kind of unusual, but having a look to make you stand out isn’t new in rock ‘n’ roll. Consider the man in black himself, Johnny Cash. Slash’s top hat, or Axl Rose’s weird drainpipes and bandana combo. Angus Young in his naughty schoolboy outfit. Hell, one of the greatest live bands ever, Kiss. Dressing up is nothing new in rock. The look is the brainchild of the guitarist, singer and band founder Miku, who prior to being a rock goddess, worked in a maid café wearing an outfit much like the one she wears in the band. It doesn’t take long for the outfits to become the least interesting thing about them.

Miku writes the majority of the songs and really feels like the heart of the band to me. Drummer Akane and bassist Misa form the disgustingly precise rhythm section and lead guitarist Kanami is, well, phenomenal. Lead singer Saiki isn’t verging on operatic like Asami of Lovebites, but still has a voice that fits the band and the music like a glove.

If you want to sample them, you might want to start with Domination. The guitar and bass tones, the literally perfect drumming. It’s to die for. Latest single Sense boggles the mind with its layers and intricacy while still being nothing but hook. The only thing better than playing that song is playing it twice. Closing argument for exhibit B m’lud is my favourite of theirs; Dice. That rhythm section opening up, followed by the riffage. Can’t beat it. Don’t get me wrong; Sleaford Mods are great an all, but I know what I’d rather have in my ears.

Exhibit C: Babymetal

Here’s where it gets weirder. Back to the first of these bands I found. And the one I still love the most. I feel like I’d get into a right argument with my younger self about this. When I always used to talk to people about music I would put great store in the fact that the bands I loved were all self-made. Not assembled by a record company, but formed from practising in garages and a name made by playing gigs in tiny venues, working their way up to signing that elusive record contract. If you didn’t come up that way, you weren’t worth my time. I’m a bit older now (who am I kidding; a lot older), and I can see that I was a little young and stupid back then. I still have respect for that way to come up; hell all my old favourites did it that way – Oasis, Blur, Muse, Arctic Monkeys (with help from MySpace), but I am now aware that it’s not the only way to get legitimacy.

Pop music in Japan is quite different. In Japan there are idols. Performers that are picked and trained from a young age, every aspect of their act planned meticulously. It’s a way that doesn’t necessarily appeal to me, but just over 10 years ago Key Kobayashi, a producer working at Amuse talent agency and long time metal fan frustrated with the staleness of the metal scene, had a brain wave. Take the J-pop that was his and Amuse’s stock in trade, and back it up with heavy metal instrumentation. He had the brainwave, he assembled the group, he produced them and took responsibility for their direction.

So Babymetal. Three young women singing pop melodies over heavy metal. They don’t play instruments. They don’t write their songs. Anathema to what my teenage self thought mattered most in music. Sounds weird, right? Turns out it’s actually amazing. I get all the things I love about my favourite music – thundering drums and bass, overdriven guitars, and then it gets made catchy. I mean ridiculously catchy. You don’t know what the words are, but the melodies are jammed into your head.

Somehow it’s more than that though. It’s more than the music. It’s hard to truly see how effective Babymetal is until you see them live. It’s a spectacle. Backed by a live band of session musicians that are the very best Japan has to offer (a few different members rotate in and out, but largely it’s the same relatively small group of people), their songs come alive. Choreography; that’s another thing my teenage self would set no store by; who cares if you dance? Just meant you weren’t a serious artist to me. Man I was dumb. The three members of this band have specific choreography for every song, meticulously planned and performed. To manage that level of cardio and then to sing in key is frankly inconceivable to me. I think one way for me to illustrate it is this: the difference between hearing the studio version of a Babymetal song and seeing it performed live is the difference between listening to a song from the Rocky Horror Picture Show soundtrack and being at a live performance of the show surrounded by devoted cosplaying fans. The first one is fine, but the second one is on another level entirely.

I’ve written all these words and haven’t even got to what sets Babymetal apart from literally everyone, and that is one Suzuka Nakamoto (stage name Su-Metal), their lead singer. I do not really know how she has the effect she has on me, I just know that there is no other performer that comes close. She’s not the most technically gifted singer out there. She’s a soprano with a range of just over 2 octaves (G3-G#5 for the musical among you). Compared to the more than 3 octave range of Floor Jansen for example, or the possibly greatest ever Freddy Mercury with his almost four octave range, it doesn’t sound much, but it’s worth remembering that Su is only 24, and singers don’t come in to the full range of their abilities until 30 or older. But it’s not range, it’s power, it’s tone, it’s warmth, it’s emotion. Put simply, on my least favourite Babymetal songs, Su’s voice makes me grin. On my favourite Babymetal songs, Su’s voice melts me.

She might not have the same effect on you and that’s fine. But if I may be permitted to present my three pieces of evidence m’lud.

First off, Road of Resistance. This is Babymetal’s call to arms, and is an absolute masterclass in crowd control and interaction. Su just turned 17 the month before this and she is already world class, able to lead a packed crowd of 20,000 through an extended singalong like she’d been performing it for years, when in truth I think it was only the third time they’d played this live. The part near the start where she parts the crowd with nothing more than a silent gesture accompanied by a death stare like a little Asian Moses is bonkers yet amazing.

Next, Rondo of Nightmare. Rondo is a musical term for a repeated refrain that changes as it repeats, forming part of a larger piece. Su is singing about being chased by an unseen monster in a repeating nightmare that she is unable to wake from, making both the song and the subject matter a rondo. The intro gives you some idea of just how good the live musicians behind them are – I have some new guitar heroes – in order of their moments in the spotlight, Leda Cygnus (blue guitar), Takayoshi Ohmura (gold guitar), Boh (bass) and Hideki Aoyama (drums). Raise a glass to Boh, mind-blowingly talented bassist – you can tell he’s usually a jazz musician, yes? And then the song starts, with Su (16 at the time) on a platform fully 8 feet in the air with no barrier, almost certainly unable to see anything with the lights on her. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen this and I don’t think I’ll ever get over it.

Final submission m’lud, is No Rain No Rainbow from Su’s birthday concert – she’d turned 20. This is much less metal, and more power ballad, in truth an homage to 80s Japanese rock gods X Japan’s mega hit Endless Rain. A couple of things about this performance. It was in Su’s hometown of Hiroshima (yes, that Hiroshima; I have heard that Su’s grandparents were survivors of the bomb). It was the first performance without one of the original two backups Yui Mizuno (stage name Yuimetal), who couldn’t perform that night for health reasons. I think the song is in part about realising that the bad times make the good times all the more meaningful – without the rain, you don’t get the rainbow you know? About loss in a way. With it being her birthday, in her hometown, and missing a one of the members that she’d toured the world with for the last half a decade or more, you can see Su felt every moment of this performance deep in her bones. To make it hit even harder for me, one the guitarists, Mikio Fujioka, an absolute wizard on the guitar and my favourite of all of Babymetal’s backing band members would die a few weeks after this age 36, falling from a viewing platform while stargazing on New Year’s Eve. One of the things I love about Su is her complete lack of vibrato. None of that Mariah Carey-type warbling for her – she hits the note and she blasts it out consistently, powerful enough to cut straight through the metal instrumentation. However, during the second verse there is a little bit of vibrato added where Su’s voice cracks just a little and her eyes fill with unshed tears. Through sheer force of will she brings herself back under control and delivers the rest of the song. It’s a performance that leaves me a wreck without fail, but in the best way. All the endorphins.

So I’ve rattled on for a long time and probably not explained to anyone adequately how these bands have re-energised me and re-invigorated my lifelong love of music, but I felt I needed to write about it.

Have I been wrong all this time? (Spoiler: No. Maybe, a little.)

I’ve always kind of hated text speak. ‘m8’? What the fuck? How hard is it to type ‘mate’? Useless cretins. I’ve only ever used ‘lol’ twice, and both times it was sarcastic for things that were decidedly unfunny. Emojis and all the associated pictures that you can add to your messages feel like an evolution of that text speak that annoys me so I don’t use them. I never mind it when other people use them, but because text speak always annoyed me, I’ve always refused to use them myself. They say a picture paints a thousand words. Well, give me the thousand words any day. Words can make you understood if you use them correctly. Words have immense power. Power to uplift, power to crush. Power to deceive (just ask most of the UK press).

I’ve tried at times to describe, a little, what it means to me to have Rach in my life, and how I might have turned out without her in older blog entries. Most people know a little about how it feels to be in love. About how having someone there to support, share and experience with makes everything make a little bit more sense. And because most of you know, I’ll not waste time trying to explain how she fills up my heart and soul with a warm glow every day, or how literally everything would be worse without her.

Instead I’ll come to the point (such as it is). She uses smiley faces, colourful heart pictures and other types of emojis in her texts to me. When she affectionately calls me a dork because I have to finish on the hour when doing overtime, not half-past or quarter-to, followed by a smiling face, or a kissing face and some hearts, it genuinely makes my day. I grin and have that little floating-on-air moment you have when you get confirmation that someone you love loves you in return. And I got it because of the emojis I refuse to use.

Still not doing text-speak. Always ‘you are’, or ‘you’re’, never ‘ure’. But knowing now how they can sometimes brighten a day, I may occasionally start using a picture or two. To be honest, the thumbs up in Skype is also a pretty useful thing when you’ve got nothing else to say, but saying nothing feels a little rude. So, maybe the occasional picture along with the words isn’t so bad after all.

I suppose you’ve still gotta hope, right?

There’s been a lot of stuff getting me down lately. Following the 2016 illegally fought and won advisory referendum on our membership of the most successful peace-project in human history (yeah, alright, I’m over-egging the pudding a bit; I know the EU isn’t perfect, but it’s a damn sight better than any possible outcome we’re now faced with), the UK press are still pushing for this fucking catastrophe and since then we’ve gone from ‘£350 million a week for the NHS’ to ‘People will have the food they need’ and ‘Nah, we won’t abide by the law if we don’t feel like it’. This is not the same thing.

Over the pond, people are still sending ‘thoughts and prayers’ to families of shooting victims, while at the same time making it easier for any Trump-inspired numpty to buy an automatic death machine.

Still no sign of governments anywhere doing anything to tackle climate change that might actually make an appreciable difference – no, setting fire to the Amazon rainforest doesn’t count. But, there might be reason here for hope. For young people all over the world are no longer content to sit back and watch their future burn and are fighting back. Awareness of the scale of the issue is increasing everywhere and rich old white men are working hard to discredit the movement by launching consistent personal attacks on young figurehead Greta Thunberg. So far, little significant change has happened, but the movement is gaining ground and if the tide turns, then maybe climate change won’t be the civilisation-ender it’s gearing up to be.

Too many powerful people with a vested interest in things staying the way they are preventing real change for there to be anything more than a tiny chance, but you never know, and I’m trying not to take the ‘it’s a lost cause, might as well give up’ route, like Jonathan Franzen, who, quite frankly, appears to be trying to convince people not to disrupt the status quo so he can live out the rest of his life not having to give a shit. (I'm not linking to his article, because it's the last thing he deserves, but I will link to this glorious counterpoint.) It’s hard and there are still days when all feels lost, but kids with a lot more to lose than I have (I’ve already had 40 years, they haven’t) and people much, much smarter than I am haven’t given up yet. I suppose I can do no less.

Occasional feature: Ending with a song loosely related to the post (or more like a lyric I can take out of context and loosely relate to the post):

The Strokes: Heart in a Cage: “So don’t teach me a lesson, ‘cause I’ve already learned; the sun will be shining and my children will burn.”

Weeks without wi-fi.

I recently spent a week with family and friends in the Brecon Beacons at the 2018 Green Man festival. It’s a relatively small independently-run music festival that is a bit different to the behemoths like Reading or Glastonbury. We spent the first three days walking, playing tig in the dark and making tie-dye t-shirts. The last four days are generally spent camped out in front of a big stage listening to whomever turns up. Usually it’s people I’ve barely heard of but am usually pleasantly surprised by – Baxter Drury, Anna Calvi and War on Drugs were probably favourites this year.

The kids love it – this is the second year we’ve been and towards the end of it Katie noted that she’s looking forward to going home to the wi-fi, but she hasn’t missed it as much as she thought she would. I think to have this time away from constant access to the online world (I know other people’s fancy mobiles still allow them access, but none of that for me or Katie – at least until she’s older) is crucial. I embrace the possibilities and the promise of the Internet as much as the next person, but to be away from it all is so refreshing. Even if I do enter modern times and eventually get a posh phone I still want to make a point of disconnecting when away on holiday, because there is a positive mental, emotional and physical effect of leaving all that behind, especially at the moment with so much of it being toxic.

Multiple people shared a story on various social media platforms recently about how those making their fortunes in tech that we all consume so avidly strictly limit their own children’s access to that same tech, ensuring their childhoods are spent in the physical world. One of the most sought-after schools in Silicon Valley has a total technology ban for under 11s. I don’t know how much of that is true (after all, how far can you trust something shared over social media?), but it isn’t something that would surprise me.

Unplug. Go to a gig. Get lost up a mountain or in a forest for a day. Spend a week away. The circus of fools will still be here when you get back.

Newish occasional feature: Ending with a song relating to the post:

Animals: We Gotta Get Out of This Place. “There's a better life for me and you.”

Getting older? Sure. Wiser? I couldn’t possibly say.

I just had a birthday. 39. Thirty-nine! How did that happen? It’s a weird kind of hinterland age – half the people I know insist it isn’t old at all, while half are either too polite to agree or are in the same boat with me.

It’s strange, because I still feel like the same person I’ve always been – you don’t feel older exactly – you just are. Sure, you have more experience so might have made different decisions knowing what you know now, but that’s hardly something new.

I am making a bit more of an effort to take joy in the moments and places I can find it, because it feels like it’s more important at the moment in a world where too many people seem bent on making life as joyless as possible. So I took some time off work, bought some new CDs and Blu Rays and soaked up as much of the best parts of my life as I could. Went to the beach with my family on the weekend. The sun was shining but the sea was most definitely still cold. My eldest loves the water though, so I allowed her to convince me to get in, and had a great time just spending time not as a parent, but as a play mate, just remembering the simple yet potent joy of being young and spending a day at the beach.

I felt a few things wrapped up in a towel drying off afterwards. One of those things was cold. However, another was refreshed and enlivened. It seems that the way to stop myself feeling old is to act as though I’m still young! Is that wisdom? I don’t know. Sounds a little bit like it.

New occasional feature: Ending with a song relating to the post:

Oasis: Stay Young. “Stay young and invincible.”

Bristol: The new Birmingham and Aberystwyth.

Unless you’ve read this blog avidly for years, it’s unlikely that title makes much sense. So, to recap. Once upon a time I spent a night out in Birmingham and fell in love with the city again after being jaded for quite some time. It was everything it has a reputation for not being. I wrote about it.

I also had occasion to revisit an old haunt of mine, Aberystwyth, and found it less than it was. Miserable, with hen parties in full flow. At lunch time. I wrote about that too.

Recently one of my best friends got married and I assisted in organising the stag do. We decided to spend two nights in Bristol because, well, none of us had ever gone to Bristol before and it was between where we live in Telford and he lives in Wales. Bristol, it turns out, is fabulous. Before this, Bristol to me was basically a huge car park that we would pass on the M5 on the way to the south coast, but it is vibrant, bustling and alive in that way the best cities are. We spent a lot of time on a stretch of bars and restaurants on a kind of artificially created harbour, where we frequented a cider bar on a boat, a pub full of retro arcade cabinets (unfortunately the quid a go they cost isn’t quite so retro), a jazz bar, a rock pub and several others.

Head to the middle of the city, however, and you enter the ‘old town’, where 700 year-old stone arches are surrounded by newer buildings and quiet bars with supposedly haunted toilets. There are many, many places to eat and drink, most of them fabulous. That overwhelmingly positive feeling I got on that night out in Birmingham suffused the whole experience.

I was, however, also put in mind of that time in Aberystwyth, and this is because there were loads of stag parties and hen dos. They were everywhere. But hey, we were one of them, so how hard can you judge them really? During the second night out this reminder of that disappointing visit to Aberystwyth turned hugely positive as well, as we managed to team up with a hen party and saw the night out until almost 4am drinking, talking, laughing, dancing and generally having the best damn time I’ve had in, frankly, years. I’ve written before about how much I love cities, and Bristol is now right up there with London and Birmingham. If money was no object (yeah right, keep dreaming) I would take some close friends and spend as many weekends in as many different cities all over the world as I possibly could.

Bristol: I would recommend it.

On the buses.

I quite often get the bus to and from work. That’s because my wife usually needs the car and we can’t afford/wouldn’t want a second. I sometimes find that there are things that take place on my bus route that give a brief glimpse in to a whole other world of lives lived; a small peek of some of near endless micro-universes out there that I will never register on, and that will never register on mine, with the exception of this brief moment.

There was the young girl getting the same bus home as I was, and the giant douche that sat next to her. I’m no good at guessing ages, but I wouldn’t put her older than her mid-teens at a guess. Sitting there, minding her own business, while this tall overweight guy, probably in his mid-twenties, gets on and plonks himself right next to her, even though there are plenty of other free seats (a major breach of bus etiquette), and, for want of a better phrase, rather aggressively invades her personal space. It made for quite an uncomfortable journey, her shrinking and looking resolutely at her phone or out the window while he looks, without the slightest hint of self-consciousness, at her body. Now, this looked disturbing to me, but perception is the mother of deception, and I couldn’t say for sure that what I saw was what was actually taking place. I did, however, keep an eye on his behaviour for the rest of my journey. Not that I know what I might have done had he crossed yet further over the line, but we all like to think of ourselves as decent people that would take action to prevent suffering if we could, don’t we? As it happens, she got off, without him following, at my stop. And then proceeded to walk the same way as me. Right up to the point she passed the front of my house. I dread to think how much more stress I put on her as I followed her along the streets, silently, in the dark. I think speaking up and saying something like ‘Don’t worry, I’m not a weirdo!’ would fail to improve matters.

There was the time when we were queueing to get on the bus that had just arrived, late as it often is lately. A woman, with seemingly limited knowledge of social etiquette, walks up to the front of the queue, presents her ticket to the driver and walks on. Nobody said a word, but you could feel their outrage at this stranger in their midst, not doing things right. Of course, I did mention above about the pitfalls of perception, and it’s true that this is just what I thought. I was, essentially, making up a story in my head about what I thought everyone was thinking – the queue-jumper I assumed just lacked the appropriate cultural knowledge regarding the British obsession with queueing, and then, when I saw everybody’s silently aghast faces I assumed they were all justifying the awful things they read in the newspapers about migrants being something less than they are; less than human. All because she walked onto a bus. Of course, none of that could be even close to the truth.

Coming home late one Friday night and three drunken guys stumble on the bus I’m sitting on, head to the back and proceed to act like drunken buffoons. Before we leave, a woman steps on and asks for help. It seems she’s an off-duty nurse or possibly a paramedic and she’s worried because an injured drunken idiot she was treating has wandered off. She asks for help finding him and without even the slightest hesitation the aforementioned three guys simply get up and go to help – no questions, no asking for refunds on their tickets, just concerned with helping this woman find her injured charge. When you take the time to observe people and see them as people first rather than stereotypes and caricatures, then even people that would usually annoy the shit out of you are, when you get right down to it, alright.

Behind a guy in the queue once he only had a fiver to pay for his ticket, but the driver had no small change. I offered him the 60p he needed for his ticket, for which he was surprised and grateful. And then he surprised me by turning around and handing me his £3 change. Positivity breeds positivity, compassion breeds compassion and conversely, negativity and hate breed only…well, I’m sure you can finish that thought for yourself, but try taking a moment to think of all the small occurrences every day that illustrate the inescapable truth of it.

Stepped off the bus one night only to get slammed into by some fool on a bike flying down the path. I’m not exactly small, but the force of this collision literally sent me flying, leaving me sprawled on the pavement. Stumbling to my feet, I dust myself off and take out my headphones. My first, irritated thought was along the lines of What the hell did you think was going to happen when you saw a bus stop at bus stop on the very path you were cycling along like you had a rocket up your arse? But I don’t articulate this, and instead take a look at him. He is clearly mortified, genuinely apologetic and concerned for my welfare. What good will me having a rant at him do? Bugger all is the truth. Luckily I’m big enough to take a hit like that and get back up, I reassure him. I’m a little dazed, but I’ll be fine. He’s shook up enough that I get the feeling he’ll be more careful when buses pull up in future, so he’s unlikely to be smashing into some kid or old lady any time soon. When I arrive home and start to explain what happened to Rach, I can’t help but have a very brief cry; it seems I was affected by the smash more than I thought. Soon resolved by hugs and a cup of tea though. Long story slightly less long, I’m fine.

The only thing that has genuinely pissed me off on a bus recently is a driver. They’ve recently rearranged the routes where I live, and while I don’t really see that there’s much to complain about, the bus I catch to work in the morning is always late. Sometimes 5 minutes, often 10, routinely 15, sometimes 20 or 25. It’s a bit annoying – clearly the new route or the times need tweaking a little on a weekday morning. On a Saturday I was taking my 2 girls up to town and the bus turned up, on time, and I was helping my 8-year-old count out her change for her ticket. While clearly trying to stay cheerful but just as obviously getting annoyed, the driver basically told us to hurry up. I very nearly launched into a moaning rant right there – not once has any of the drivers who were late in the mornings shown the slightest hint of apology, not once indicating they give a shit about being so late so often, so where the frick does this weekend driver get off being pissed off by my daughter practising counting out change? I didn’t though. I held my tongue, because do you know what that driver did? That driver gave me the idea for this blog. So there you go – annoyed and inspired in equal measure.

So there it is. A quick glimpse into the lives of some of my fellow bus adventurers. As usual, I don’t really have a point, but the general gist is, as usual, we should all try to be a bit nicer in what we do every day.

The city is alive.

I recently had the good fortune to spend a night in London. Living in the Midlands, London is distant enough to me to feel like it may as well be another country. I know it’s down there, and I know as far as most of the world is concerned, it’s the only part of this country that counts. Sometimes I feel like I’m the equivalent of an inbred farmer in the sticks, considering himself almost a different species to these fancy city folk. The sensible part of me knows that cities are full of people not that different to me; the difference being that there are more of them; something you’d think would put me off, but for some reason doesn’t.

We got there by train – first to London Euston, then Underground, then another short train journey into Croydon. The thing that strikes me about London, is the sheer numbers of people, all different and no doubt complex, yet all specks besides the city as a whole, like stars in a galaxy. We got to our platform in the Underground, only to find our train was jam-packed. As I was preparing to force myself into this mass of bodies, my travelling companion, with the benefit of more experience in this, placed a hand on my shoulder and motioned me to wait and let the train go. I then learned that there was another train coming along in a mere 90 seconds. And another 2 minutes after that. On and on, day and night. The number of people constantly moving in, out, through and under the city is mind boggling. The roads are almost never free of buses – usually there are 2 or 3. To use a car to get around London seems ludicrously inefficient.

Endless movement, endless offices, endless new buildings going up, endless restaurants, apartments, banks and hotels, endless people. It adds up to something that while made up of these separate parts, feels somehow beautifully alive in its own right, and I love that about it.

It makes me want to tour cities everywhere, to see how each melting pot of humanity feels, to see if they are different. It’s why I’m drawn to fiction where a city becomes a character in its own right, like Ankh-Morpork in Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series, or New Crobuzon in China Miéville’s Perdido Street Station.

Cities are alive, and, while certainly bad for the environment, the wealth of positive inspiration I get from them manages to quiet the concerned ecologist in me.

The value in repetition.

I’m a repeater. My favourite records are played again and again until they wear out and must be bought again (Definitely Maybe, Parklife, Grace, Is This It?, Different Class, Songs for the Deaf and Appetite for Destruction amongst dozens of others, if you care). Throughout my childhood I re-watched my favourite films to death (The Time Machine (1960), War of the Worlds (1953), Goonies, Gremlins, Ghostbusters and Indiana Jones) and that hasn’t changed much since I’ve got older apart from the addition of a few others – Pulp Fiction, Lord of the Rings, and Fight Club along with many more. The hours I sunk into playing through Sonic the Hedgehog, James Pond, Alex Kidd, Road Rash, Flashback and Street Fighter II and more over and over again in my teens I have no doubt would be terrifying were they ever to be added up, and more recently, I’ve been through the Gears of War campaign more than once and can see myself playing though GTA V again before too long.

There are, I don’t doubt, many people who have quite the opposite point of view; when you’ve seen a film once, you’ve seen it, so what’s the point of seeing it again? But if I love it, why would I not want to see it again? Those records, those films and those games became a support system for me while negotiating the difficulties of adolescence. They were friends, they were retreats – they were my happy place. They still are, in a way.

Books also had their place. I’d like to be able to tell you that I loved books above all those other things; that I used to spend hours, days even, lost in them. Alas, I wasn’t that bright. I did like books – I would read Roald Dahl, comics and adaptations of my favourite films. As with films, music and games, I would re-read my favourites – Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, George’s Marvellous Medicine and a junior version of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade – that would all become dog-eared and well thumbed, and later To Kill a Mockingbird would become my favourite. This recent article about books written for children kicked off this whole train of thought. It makes a good point about the validity of children’s books, as they have to be written with repetition in mind. They have to be robust enough to stand up to kids reading and re-reading them over and over again. While as adults we certainly do re-read our favourites, they are never tested to the extremes kid’s books are – I particularly like the Neil Gaiman quote in the article about how while he can’t justify every word of American Gods, he can of Coraline. Does that mean he thinks Coraline is a better book? I doubt it, but it does sound as though he takes special care over his children’s books compared to his adult books, and it’s probably because of the retellings the children’s books are subjected to.

But I didn’t really get into reading until I got into my teens, when I found Robert Jordan, Professor Tolkien and Terry’s Brooks and Pratchett. I am in fact re-reading Pratchett’s Discworld series at the moment. I wrote this this ages ago about how you generally have differing points of view when coming back to something like a book series or TV show later in life, and a similar thing has happened with Discworld. My favourite hasn’t changed – previously it was Small Gods and so it proves to be the case still – the conceit that gods are only as real as they are believed to be and their power diminishes with their belief, leaving them to essentially die along with their last believer is such a stroke of inspired genius that I doubt Pratchett will ever top it (although he’s come close a few times). Taking the series in more general terms, however, my favoured stories were always the ones that involved the wizards of Unseen University, or Death. While they are certainly the funniest ones still, I’m much happier this time round in the company of Watch Commander Sam Vimes and witch Granny Weatherwax. I could be well off the mark here, but they feel somehow truer, as if their righteous fury at the injustices of the world is closer to Pratchett’s true view of the world and echo the points he’s really trying make under the funny. This piece written by Neil Gaiman about Pratchett and his anger being the ‘engine that powered Good Omens’ might suggest I’m not that far off the mark, after all.

As usual, I don’t really have much of a point, but I suppose what I’m getting at is you should spend time in the company of the things you love.

People: not all bad.

I’m not unaware that this blog will often contain rants about the stupid and ridiculous things people do for the most stupid and ridiculous reasons, which, frankly, can sometimes get a little depressing. Sometimes it’s worth making a conscious effort to remember that we are responsible for brilliance.

There is a lump of matter in our skulls that can think its way beyond primal survival instincts and contemplate its own mortality and place within the cosmos. It can ask and answer questions about not only its origins, but the origins of the universe within which it finds itself. We can place ourselves in the shoes of those who are less fortunate and help them.

Complex and sophisticated languages, music, architecture, storytelling and many other forms of creation and expression. Not only the ability some have to create, but the ability of others to appreciate it. To respond on a deep emotional level to another person’s creation and either understand what it was they wanted to say, or take an entirely new interpretation of it beyond the creator’s original intention.

People you wouldn’t look at twice on the street are transformed into desirable, sweaty sex gods/goddesses if they’re standing in front of you playing music that fills your head with noise and your bones with vibrations. Moving pictures or written words become real and important because we have an imagination within which they become tangible things.

I know there are a many people in the world who aren’t in any kind of position to appreciate these things the way I can, and I know there are many things that aren’t right in our world – hell I usually moan about most of them right here, but we still have potential. Maybe we’ll realise it before we go under.

Everything’s okay.

Nothing, in the end, when you get right down to it, matters. Sure, they matter to you, but that doesn’t mean they, you know, matter. Everyone has concerns, fears, good times and bad times. While your own personal experiences and those of the people closest to you mean something to you, they don’t to most people. Widen your perspective a little. Whatever you do today, and whatever happens to you, will have no effect on the sun coming up in the morning. It’ll have no effect on the Andromeda galaxy, which is, arguably, more important by virtue of taking up more space than you do. What effect do you think you have on the universe at large, compared to what effect it has on you? We inhabit such a microscopically tiny and unimportant corner of the universe that the idea that all of that was created just so we could have a half-decent view at night makes the idea of the creator myth found at the heart of most religions ludicrous. None of it matters.

While it might sound rather depressing to some, to me that is a great source of comfort. To feel confident that this life isn’t just a test to see if you can make it into to an invite-only everlasting heaven is pretty damn freeing. Plus, even heavenly bliss is bound to get boring if it never ends, don’t you think?

I’m married, have children, family and friends. They all matter to me, and I matter to them, but I’m not arrogant enough to think that we matter in other terms. If I disappeared tomorrow along with everyone important to me, do you really think the universe would give a shit? So, what’s to stop me from doing whatever – shotgun rampage, stop going into work, stop paying my TV licence, walk naked down a busy street and dry-hump a tramp? Where’s my sense of morality? Well, it's probably some complex question of evolution that we’ll never really understand completely, but that doesn’t matter. The way I see it, it doesn’t really matter that it doesn’t matter. That sounds a bit silly, I know, but if I’m too unimportant to affect a cold uncaring universe, then all that really exists for me is my smaller, immediate universe. Andromeda is out there, but so what? So just because it is impossible to affect things on a large scale, it doesn’t mean there’s no reason to care on a smaller scale. There’s no reason not to do your best to positively affect the minute pocket of universe you exist in. Just take comfort in the fact that if somehow you fail, the universe won’t condemn you for it; it won’t even notice.

If what you do doesn’t matter, then all that matters is what you do.

Magic.

Considering most of the people I know, this is probably preaching to the converted, but hey, it’s been a slow month. You don’t need to look to faith, neither do you need to look to Penn, nor Teller for magic. Not real magic, anyway – that’s merely clever chicanery. Just pop to a book shop, or a library, and it’s everywhere. The way you can get hooked on the right words, the way Katie will explode with delighted laughter at the insults Willy Wonka and Grandma Georgina trade during Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator, the way an author can leave your head spinning by merely stringing words together.

Thanks to one of our local libraries, I’ve recently had the good fortune to read the following:

Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse 5, Cat’s Cradle and Breakfast of Champions, all three bona-fide classics of American fiction. Vonnegut’s writing style curiously echoes that of J. G. Ballard, in that it is largely descriptive and unemotional, but occasionally you get suckered by a passage of such breathtaking beauty or haunting pain, you feel like you’ve been punched in the gut; particularly in Slaughterhouse 5 which recounts much of Vonnegut’s experience in World War 2, during which he was present at the bombing of the German city of Dresden.

Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane, which recently won book of the year, for obvious reasons. There are some books you read that just hit that sweetest of spots and transport you to that moment in childhood when you are finally able to read for your own pleasure and you discover such wonders that you never suspected your imagination could hold. It’s like that, and every page holds such joy that the spell it holds you in doesn’t break, even after the final page is finished. With the exception of Good Omens, which was written with Terry Pratchett, I’m quite late to Gaiman, but boy am I glad I caught up. American Gods, Stardust and Anansi Boys are all marvellous, if not quite as transformative as The Ocean at the End of the Lane.

Jasper Fforde’s The Song of the Quarkbeast, which is set in one of Fforde’s wonderful alternate versions of the UK. Aimed at younger readers, it is not quite as engaging as his other work, particularly the Thursday Next series and Shades of Grey, but is still great. Fforde is one of those writers that have such an astonishing grasp of the English language that genius wordplay and clever puns abound in his novels. The Thursday Next books are, if you can believe this, as good as Pratchett’s Discworld series. They are out there, no doubt, but if you’re not put off by all the weirdness then Fforde’s writing is hugely enjoyable.

Do yourself a favour and read some of them for yourself.

Why? This is why.

During my Interweb adventures recently, I came across a strange thing. One of those single people, waxing lyrical about how amazing being without a lover is. It would seem this person considered being in a relationship pretty much equivalent to death. Why would anyone want to be with the same person for months, years, or, worse, their entire lives? While I was glad this person was so happy with their state of affairs, I felt it might be worth exploring that question. Why would anyone want that? Well, in my case, here follows just a couple of reasons.

Because she couldn’t step on an insect for any amount of money – she could not live with the guilt. Because she loves to run for the sheer love of running, not for competition, not for ‘self-improvement’ (ugh), but for fun. Because there is nobody she won’t see the best in – a skill with empathy unmatched by anyone else I’ve ever known – a skill I’ve learned much from. Because even after 16 years, I still want to jump her bones every single time I see her. Because she loves me for (or in spite of) the silly things I spend time and money on. Because she saved me from all the other lives I might have lived without her. Because when our daughters are grown, they will look back and consider what their mother did for them, and what she instilled in them, and they will be overwhelmed with gratitude.

Not so grim up North.

We went to Blackpool the weekend just gone. Now, the last time I went to Blackpool I was ten. That’s 22 years ago. In all that time I’ve retained fairly strong memories of it. I remember adoring the Pleasure Beach, loving the Sandcastle, watching the dazzling Illuminations, being on the Piers, up the Tower. Hell, even enjoying a visit to Madame Tussaud’s (although I was too scared to go through the horror exhibit). Feasting on rock, sugar dummies, candyfloss – enough sugar to fell a horse. The donkey rides on the beach. All those things, and probably more that I’ve forgotten. The overwhelming memory is one of joy.

It seemed that as I got older, I became aware of a different type of reputation Blackpool has. An unpleasant place full of stag nights and hen parties, where drunken fools with condoms on their heads rule the streets, a scummy beach and a sea full of, literally, shit. While I accepted that this must be the case and that the Blackpool my ten-year-old self loved so much had gone, I never forgot what it was like to visit that place as a child.

It was, therefore, with some trepidation that we began to approach Blackpool that Saturday morning, invited by family. In my childhood memory I remember seeing the Tower, and feeling the excitement it generated, and a nostalgic echo of that resurfaced upon seeing it on the road this time. Before long, also from some distance out, the Big One came into view. The Big One is around a decade old now, but is still a hugely impressive sight. I remember reading about it when it premiered – the tallest and fastest roller coaster in the world. I adore Alton Towers and love roller coasters, but I could well imagine myself chickening out of going on this beast. It’s no longer the world’s tallest or fastest, but it still holds the record for tallest in Europe.

The views along the promenade are much as I remember them, the Tower and the Central Pier on one side, and the Pleasure Beach, Sandcastle and South Pier on the other. I don’t think I ever went to the North Pier, and it remains a mystery to me. Yes, it’s cheesy, yes it’s typically English, yes the beach really isn’t up to much, but the giddy rush of pleasure I got from revisiting one of my most treasured childhood memories was enough to get me excited all over again, 22 years on.

It was shocking just how much the Pleasure Beach had changed. The Pleasure Beach is the most visited theme park in the UK, surprisingly more popular than Drayton Manor Park, or Alton Towers. When I was last there, the Big Dipper dominated the park, and was by far the highest thing in sight. Standing below it was dizzying, riding it looking below even more so. Now, it is surrounded by more than one ride that makes it look a little fish in a big pond. It doesn’t reach as high as Infusion, and barely stretches a third of the height of the Big One. The Revolution, which once seemed so mighty, is dwarfed and seems rather paltry by comparison to its newer cousins.

The first stop was Nickelodeon Land, newly opened this year, as it was really for Katie we came. Katie’s current favourite TV show is Dora the Explorer, so it was to Dora’s World Voyage we headed first. Rach took Katie on while I stayed with Emily. I did feel quite bad for Emily who had no choice but to sit there and watch everybody else have fun. Katie had been buzzing with excitement for days, so finally getting to try a ride out made her grin from ear to ear. What I’ll remember mostly from this two-day trip is Katie’s blissed-out smile barely leaving her face. As we moved from Spongebob Squarepants-themed rides to a Rugrats-themed log flume, Katie looked like she couldn’t have conceived of a place where it was possible to have so much fun. Meeting Dora left her quite stunned, so we had a bit of a break there, lest we break her and spoil her for good. Also, it started to pelt down. As we walked off, it was quite funny watching a three-piece girl band come on after Dora and with no audience whatsoever due to the pouring rain, launch into Walking on Sunshine. There is almost nowhere in the Pleasure Beach to shelter from the rain, so we all got thoroughly drenched, including poor Emily who, thanks to her absent-minded parents, had no rain cover for her pram.

After drying off and waiting for the rain to ease, we ventured back out, where Katie tried the biggest ride so far, the Flying Machines. They work a bit like the Flying Dutchman, and, obviously, Katie loved them. We moved on to one of a few carousels, which moved rather fast, had horses that were bloody difficult to hold onto and made me very nervous trying to ensure nobody fell off. Katie was oblivious, totally fearless and loving every second, shouting “Giddy up Horsey!” and “This is the best ride ever!” as we flew round.

I had been staring at it all day, and I was eventually persuaded to go on the Big One. The thing about roller coasters is the build up. The nervous excitement as you get pulled up the ramp, and the way your stomach flips as you go over the crest just before plunging down the other side. The Oblivion at Alton Towers is particularly cruel, as it pauses for a moment right on the edge of its vertical drop, just to extend that terror. And then, you’re over and the adrenaline rush comes. It’s addictive. The Big One is so high that much of the joy of the anticipation dissolves, leaving you with a terrifying pit in the middle of your stomach. The climb is horrifying. It lasts forever. The signs don’t make it easier, helpfully informing you when you pass 100 feet, then 200 feet and you just keep climbing. The view is astonishingly spectacular, and is something you would usually only get from the window of a plane or a helicopter. Going over the crest is sickening. Mercifully, it doesn’t pause at all. Then comes the 205-foot plunge and it all makes sense. When the anticipation is that much worse, the adrenaline-fuelled pay-off is that much better. It is incredible. My body was buzzing so much from the release of chemicals that my legs had gone warm. After all of that fearful build up, your stomach doesn’t flip over as much as you expect – not even as much as it does on the Oblivion. The rest of the ride is also very good, including a second crest nowhere near as high as the first, but still higher than anything else in the park. It’s also much longer than I’m used to. The rides at Alton Towers are great, but they are over extremely quickly. The Big One gives you an extended ride after the initial drop.

After taking Katie on a few more rides, we headed back to our hotel. We walked back through the Illuminations, which Katie did enjoy, but as she was already an hour past her bed time she was a little too tired to really enthuse about them. Emily, on the other hand, after a cold and wet day suddenly came alive, and was utterly mesmerised by the sea of flashing colourful lights. The Tower looked particularly impressive.

The next day we took Katie to the Sandcastle, which is the largest indoor water park in the country and just over the road from the Pleasure Beach. Katie loves going to swimming pools and playing in the water, but this was the first time she had seen something like a water slide and that look of surpassing happiness became once again fixed on her face. There are few things that please a parent like that kind of face on your child. We started gently, with the smaller slides, and gradually got to the bigger stuff. Each time we went down a slide, she would jump up and down in excitement and shout “Again, again!” Even Emily could have some fun this time.

Afterwards, Katie was utterly knackered, and we made plans to set off, but not before experiencing some of the other side of Blackpool. We had lunch opposite the Central Pier in ‘family friendly’ pub Uncle Peter Websters, with shit-stained toilets and menu with almost nothing available, which didn’t appear very friendly to our family at all. We then had a quick trip onto the beach, as the weather had been sunny and warm all day, the polar opposite of yesterday’s downpour. Well. Maybe it’s because we were so close to the Central Pier, but the scummy brown foam coating the tidal pools and being washed up on the beach was certainly in line with the reputation Blackpool’s beach has got itself. I do wonder about parents just letting their kids play in the scum pools. I do not lie; there were kids playing in the scum pools.

On the whole, the weekend was as expensive as a week in a caravan park, and at times the Blackpool I hear people talk of in disgusted tones definitely made itself known. However, the memory that will mostly remain is again one of joy – some mine, most Katie’s. And I did come home with some rock and a sugar dummy.

Sometimes technology is awesome.

Much of the time I'm a right old bastard when it comes to embracing the new. The prime example of this would be mobile phones, or mobile devices as they should be called nowadays, having evolved so far beyond simple phones as to be only one step away from taking over the world in an horrific trapper-keeper calamity. I still hate mobile phones, no matter how brilliant they undoubtedly are.

However, where I very much make an exception is in the way I'm beginning to consume music. For the longest time, online was anathema to how I thought music should be collected. I would always argue (rightly, I still think, in many cases) that there was no substitute for discovering music than spending an afternoon in a music store, browsing endless shelves of CDs. I arrived too late for LPs and I'm very glad of that fact, for they are shit. I like my noise crystal clear, thanks all the same. You know the 'warmth' those aficionados go on about? It's known by another name: poor quality. This attitude towards the humble LP would offer clues as to how I would come to embrace new technology in the future, but for the longest time I would not join the download bandwagon. In a way, I still haven't; I don't download music, I still buy CDs, but I no longer use music shops and NME (at least not exclusively, but I will forever be in debt to NME for turning me on to Polly Scattergood) to discover music I've never heard before.

Most bands still release music the old-fashioned way, but there are a few who've experimented with new ways of releasing music. Arctic Monkeys made a name for themselves largely through MySpace. Radiohead released the phenomenal In Rainbows online, allowing the buyer to choose their own purchase price. Ash have abandoned the old 'new record every two years, release a few singles, tour relentlessly, repeat' rut they had become stuck in, and are now almost at the end of their A-Z project, where they've released a new single online every month for 26 months.

But where the whole thing really came alive for me is upon the discovery of Blip (http://www.blip.fm/) via Twitter, and upon the receipt of an invite to join Spotify. Blip allows me to listen to other people's favourite music from around the world, and it's where I've discovered many previously unknown artists from The Veils to Mazzy Star, and countless weird and wonderful cover versions, like Blondie's amazing version of We Three Kings. It also allows me to interact with people the world over with similar tastes to mine (who would've thought there'd be an American who liked Echobelly as much as I do?) Spotify allows me to do similar things - I can tailor a radio station to my own tastes, I can share playlists with friends, and I can road-test albums before buying them (thank goodness I listened to the second Elastica album before wasting my money). I can see Spotify leading the way to future technology where CDs are extinct, and people listen to music by streaming it directly out of the ether, and when you find that rare gem of an album or song so good it changes your whole life for the better, you can share it with others who'll understand instantly, instead of just going on and on about it down the pub to people who aren't really that bothered. I would, of course, be sad to see my CD collection go, but I can honestly say I think it would be much better that way. Bring on the future!

The best example I have yet seen of how this technology can work happened recently, thanks to Twitter. Amanda Palmer, that most amazing woman from The Dresden Dolls, who is married to Neil Gaiman, that most amazing man who writes the most amazingly beautiful stories, was accosted by a young music student outside the Berklee College of Music. That's in Boston. The other side of the world from me. The young man was named Tristan Allen, and when he sat down in front of a piano in Amanda's house, proceeded to blow her away. She tweeted about it. She then went on to showcase Tristan's talent to the world via the live video streaming website UStream. The kid was genuinely incredible. He would take well known pieces like the Halloween theme or a Philip Glass song, and just improvise the hell out of them. Thanks to this technology, I was (via a computer monitor, obviously), in Amanda Fucking Palmer's house on the other side of the planet to the sofa I was sitting on, listening to an impromptu performance of genuine excellence by a teenage music student in real time. To be able to share in the goosebump moment with Amanda as she discovers something amazing for the first time is incredibly exciting. It's so far removed from meetings with record company executives and the suicide-inducing X-Factor that it was like a ray of perfect sunshine in the midst of a miserable day. See Amanda Palmer's blog about it, including the entire streamed performance, here: http://blog.amandapalmer.net/post/962861244/my-answer-to-grayson-chance-presenting-tristan. It's over an hour and a half long, so if you haven't got time to watch it all (although it is highly recommended), go to the duet at one hour twenty seconds and be as amazed as I was at the 10 minutes that follow.

This is the potential of this technology. This is the benefit of making everyone and everything connectable. This, hopefully, is the future of music.

Birmingham: sunny, bustling, multicultural; beautiful.

I went out with some friends this week to Birmingham to celebrate a birthday. Living in a backwater like Telford, the only places to really go out are Telford, Shrewsbury, Wolverhampton or Birmingham. Telford is, frankly, shit, so mostly we go to either Shrewsbury (also shit, but posh as well) or Wolverhampton (less shit, but not especially brilliant). Birmingham is generally too far away to make it worth the effort, and it also tended to be a bit shit as well. This time, we all took a Friday off work and got the train down at Midday.

To say I was pleasantly surprised is an understatement - the place has definitely had some work done since I was there last. I know it's always had its fair share of fantastic things; old record shops; the Waterstones that fills a huge five-storey building with books; the pub that has a theatre on the first floor. However, those things aside, it always seemed a bit, well, drab. Grey. Maybe it was the weather, because sunshine really can do wondrous things, but this time the architecture looked more impressive, colours seemed brighter, and the whole place seemed cleaner and better maintained. It didn't feel like Birmingham used to feel. It felt more like London.

People thronged every street, which normally pisses me off something awful, but here it just made everything brighter and more cheerful. Me, who hates football, found it not altogether dreadful to be in a bar showing the World Cup. The bars were all playing great music, from Happy Mondays and Suede, through Blur, Pulp and Kasabian and onto Ellie Goulding and Florence + the Machine. Only a few momentary blips with Nickleback and Maroon 5 soured the soundtrack. After sampling a number of places, we settled on a relatively newly developed area on a canal full of different bars and restaurants. Fairy lights draping the bridge over the canal came on as the Sun went down. A band turned up on a small bandstand and started playing. The weather was great, the bars were full, the atmosphere was...bohemian. Don't get me wrong: I know a lot of Birmingham is shitty, I'm not that naive, even though many of my older and more cynical friends tell me often that I am. Funnily enough, my younger and slightly naive friends think I'm a bit cynical.

What I loved most of all though, is that people were fully mixing and integrating regardless of age, sex, race, anything. In certain circles, and in certain classes, at least where I live and work, there is a casual, supposedly inoffensive attitude of racism, homophobia and sexism. The kind of people that don't see anything wrong with the Daily Mail. The kind of people that hold Richard Littlejohn up as a beacon of common sense. It's not that these hateful attitudes have disappeared in our so-called enlightened society, it's just that the milder, more subversive form has become the accepted norm in too many places. I find it distasteful in the extreme, and I sometimes despair and wonder if it's everywhere. Well, it wasn't in Birmingham last Friday. Indian and Caucasian girls walked arm in arm, clearly either lovers or the very best of friends. Long-haired metalheads walked around with their blonde leggy girlfriends. Young black guys and old white men talked and laughed over the football, discussing the dissolution of Brazil's World Cup dreams. One girl was the spitting image of Scarlett Johansson - and that, I don't mind telling you, made my night. She was left to enjoy her evening with her friend without being approached by a pissed up bloke showing off to his mates. All the drunken walking arguments-against-evolution were probably back in Telford, diligently bothering anything female on two legs in sight. This is what a modern city should be.

After wading through the sinister, Daily Mail-fed attitude of non-acceptance and segregation under the surface of too many corners of my world for so long, to witness all these people simply enjoying time together made my heart feel good. And if that makes me a naive, wishy-washy, fuzzy liberal do-gooder as the Mail might label me, well then I'm proud to be exactly that.

It was however, really fucking expensive.