This blog posting has been welling up within me for some time. Please excuse any rage-induced incoherence.
I take seven or eight trips to Leeds each year - a journey that I can make with either Jet2 or Flybe. Both cost roughly the same amount when travel costs to from the airport is accounted for - so I used to just plump for whichever was flying at the most convenient time.
Then, a year ago, Jet2 started playing Radio Aire’s breakfast show at their hapless passengers during the flight, thanks to some particularly unimaginative cross-promotional deal. Faced with enduring an egregious blend of Smashey & Nicey style forced chuminess and breathless updates on whatever traffic jams had happened in Leeds that morning, I made the obvious choice to travel only with Flybe in future.
Since December, though, Flybe seem to be doing their best to get rid of me, too. Yes, kids, they’ve got themselves a piss-poort in-flight radio service. “ON THE AIR…. IN THE AIR!!!” yells the bloke who also does the links on the in-store radio in your local Spar corner shop. No, I’m not making this up.
Worse yet is the content of this “radio” service - namely, three songs played over and over and over again.
First up is the Kaiser Chief’s “Oh My God”, a particularly poor song that improves no end if you recite the lyrics in a sarcastic tone of voice (qv. Blur’s “Song #2”). Go on, try it: “Oh my gawd, I’m so excited. I’ve never been so far from home before.”. etc.
Next, the bastards choose to inflict on us a song that goes something like:
And so on. All very reasonable, you might think. Another song continuing the theme of travelling; very apt for an airline; etc; etc. BUT NO! YOU HAVE NOT YET UNDERSTOOD THE FULL HORROR OF WHAT I HAVE EXPERIENCED! For my textual representation of the song fails to convey the staggeringly poor technical ability of the “singer” responsible.
As a quick pronunciation guide, try to think of the “Hoo-oooh-ooome!” as sounding like a hyperactive 7 year old bullying a slow learner by pushing his lower lip out with his tongue and yelling “Duuurrrr-urrrr!”. The “Duurrrrrr-arrrrr-arrrrgh!” should sound similar to the noise made by an elderly dolphin experiencing the joys of reciving anal sex from a very large and well-endowed walrus for the first (and probably last) time in it’s life. Finally, the “Wuh Uh Wuhnnuh Guh!” component harks back to that hyperactive bully, this time putting on a deep voice and shouting “Duh! My name’s Billy Beggs and I can’t tie my own shoelaces!”.
Sounds astoundingly poor, yes? Yes.
Finally we reach the crowning achievement, the absolute pinnacle of the heap of shite that pours forth from the tinny speakers. A song sung in a peculiar strangulated style approximating that of upper class ladies in the 1930s by what appears to be a pre-Tony Hatch incarnation of Petula Clarke. The lyrics are as follows, and, I swear, they are absoltutely verbatim:
JESUS FUCK! JESUS FUCK! JESUS FUCK!
That’s not a fucking fact you fucking cretin! At very best, that’s merely a vague approximation - I should know, I dole out enough of ‘em myself. More likely yet is that it’s a finger-in-the-air guess, or even a complete fabrication. Certainly no sources are cited, and no original research on the matter appears to be forthcoming. Yet another repetition of the “ON THE AIR - IN THE AIR!!!!” slogan is the only explanation we get at the end.
What’s that? You suggest that she may merely be making use of poetic license?! Jesus fuck! Have you not read the lyrics? Let me repeat two key lines:
No, I’m sorry. Her poetic license has been revoked.
Obviously, both Jet2 and Flybe have decided to cater only for the mentally enfeebled. May I suggest that, if you do not count yourself as being amongst that group, you take a look at http://www.seat61.com/NorthernIreland.htm before making your next trip to Great Britain?
Magic carpet ride; beer; wine; special bouncing medicine; “there were ten in the bed” (oh god); sleep; rain; gazebo!; bacon sandwiches; jumping about; the dears; screaming; the go! team; Ladyflash with crowd participation!; dancing about like a mad thing; bouncebouncebounce; sleeping pills; sunshine; polite punk; cold beer; the securityppl at the front of the new bands stage; nu-shoegaze; headbanging; sweaty drummers; the magic numbers; smiley people; tiredness; sleep.



Some parts weren’t so hot, though:
Rain; Cash machine; Green day’s evil security demands; that barrier thing that stopped you getting close to the main stage; 500ml bottles of water costing more than a pint of beer; sunburn; traffic on the m7
well worth it, though.
Next stop: The Green Man. Huzzah!
I watched some of yon “Live 8” nonsense last night… don’t think I’ve ever come across anything quite so poor on the telly before. Really rather shocking.
A gaggle of coffin dodgers, smackheads, kiddy porn mongers, and some of the more insipid bands that you might have found in the nme when they were going through a crap patch two or three years ago. Oh, and convicted monopolist, Bill Gates - whose presence on stage was at least less hypocritical than that of most of the musicians.
The crowd was dead. The people at the front might as well have brought along deckchairs for all the movement there was. The scissor sisters tried very, very hard to wring a bit of enthusiasm out of them, but went and ruined it all by playing a crap new song that noone knew.
Oh, and someone had a giant pre-1972 Northern Ireland flag. Christ, I know it’s coming up to the twelfth and all that, but you’d think that the BBC would’ve edited that out and digitally replaced it with something less offensive like, I dunno, a swastika or something. Robbie Williams had obviously seen it, and was parading round the stage like an ultra-camp orangeman - followed up by a weird mime of some lambeg drumming and a bit of cock-fondling. All rather distasteful.
Sir Wacky Thumbs Aloft was sat in some glass-walled studio pontificating about vladimir putin, and looking like a margaret thatcher impersonator on his day off. Afterwards, we were exposed to the horrors of “Velvet Revolver”, a band made up of most of Guns’n’Roses, apart from, er, either Guns or Rose. Their lead singer is some sort of celebrity junkie, and used to be in a poor grunge band, I think. He was wearing tight trousers, no shirt, and had eyeliner on. Now, skinny boys in makeup are usually a good thing - but not when they’re in their mid 40s, thanks. That, though, was nothing compared to “Slash” - a man who looks like a character from a Viz comic strip. He’s fat and old and decrepit, and wasnt wearing anything under his leather waistcoat. As a result, his tits were hanging over the top of his guitar in an utterly disgusting fashion. He then proceded to wander aimlessly around the stage with a fag drooping out of his mouth and his beer belly wobbling and glistening under the stage lights. ugh.
The Who were on next. “Who?”, cry the kids - some band yer granddad might’ve heard of. Their guitarist is most famous for being on the sex offender’s register. Dunno what the BBC were playing at with the shots of the nubile young girlie in the crowd stretching her arms up to him - very funny in theory, but not the cleverest thing to be broadcasting to an easily-offeded world, surely? At around this point, the BBC claimed they were going to have an interview with Peaches, but instead they wheeled on some buck-toothed 14 yr old who is apparantly bob geldoff’s daughter. ah well, i suppose I was stupid to’ve gotten my hopes up for a decent musician to be allowed near the place.
Pink Floyd were okay. The sneery indie kid in me wants to say “no good since Syd left”, but that’s not really true, is it?. They’re great, especially if you like that pompous prog thing (which i sort-of do, sometimes). Tonight we were “treated” to a reformation of er, their second or third lineup (not sure which) - impressive from the point of view that they’ve been suing each other for 20 years, but rather dull in reality - mainly because the lack of crowd response made it look like they were at a banker’s retirement do.
Connor left at that stage, so I turned the teevee off. I’ve since read that paul mccartney came back on to do the beatles’ infamous “wogs out” song, Get Back. But that, surely, can’t really have happened? Songs inspired be Enoch Powell’s speeches surely can’t go down well at a big charidee (sorry, “awareness raising”, not that the bands were doing much of that) do like that. Ah well. Oh, and he played Helter Skelter, too - which I’m quite impressed by, since it’s one of the best pieces of music that he’s been involved with. As I said… ah well.
Not really sure how the evening’s entertainment - the musical equivalent of “Last of the Summer Wine” - was supposed to have helped anyone in africa, but it at least did some good for prince charlie’s bank account, the mobile phone companies, and whoever got the £2.50-a-bottle water concession. bah.
Yes, thanks to the wonders of Sarah, Plan B, and slsk, I bring you… Afrirampo!
For the download impaired, they describe themselves thusly:
2 young Japanese girls rock duo from Osaka JAPAN!
Naked rock!!!!! Naked soul!!! Red red strong red dress!! Freeeeeeeeedam
paradice rock! Jump! With improvisation.
Sooo fantastic & wild performance !
wowowowowowowowowwoooooooooooooooooowwwwwwwww!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
They are star like shine flash, Interesting funny and sexy cute…. so real. same of in the stages or every lifetime this is great thing I think.
PIKA write is “our’s real music CuleCule stir japan Drop in River Nake. SOON OVER THERE STIRING. Every body Smile. Every body same. ONI also Supponpon(naked) brain rock sing and guitar ! So amazing. “SUPPONPON ROCK AFRIRAMPO ! “
sound man/ Bun
LOVE
NUDE MIND
I mean, how can you not love them?
In other news, Plan B also have a live review of the best new band from last year, 65daysofstatic. Best magazine in the world, ever? Well, it certainly beats the piss out of everyone’s least favourite soporific dadrock journal, the en-em-eh. I mean, jesus, does anyone who likes music like Coldplay? Thought not…