RATM vs X Factor Joe

I am sitting here, gleeful. For the first time in about 15 years I listened anxiously to the UK Top 40 and the result was music to my ears - Killing in the Name Of, a track which reached a mid-20s position in the chart over 16 years ago had achieved the unthinkable - Christmas No 1. I'm not a massive Rage Against the Machine fan and I'm sure lots of people who bought their single this week are the same. But this outcome is a victory on many levels and I cringe when I hear 15-year old girls talk about how this campaign was an attempt to 'sabotage' Joe's success. Sabotage would have entailed burning the warehouse housing Joe's single or barricading HMV. It wasn't really about Joe. It was a battle for musical democracy, a battle against Cowell's media monopoly and a lesson that no campaign is too ridiculous in the age of social media.

In the same way that tension builds up in a country before a political or social revolution, the threat to dethrone what has seemed like a benevolent dictatorship of mediocre music has finally come to fruition. Despite being a massive X Factor fan, I'm not actually interested in the music produced by the winner. I watched it because there's nothing more satisfying than sitting and passing judgement on people who are trying to 'make it' in the music business. As a bit of a music snob, watching an 18-year-old singing Elton John songs (no matter how good he is) is never going to convince me that such an act is worth spending money on. I like bands. Bands who have struggled, who have gone from nothing to something through years of constant songwriting, playing small gigs and probably ditching a drummer or two. Bands who actually create music, using instruments and who can make you mosh when you watch them live. The X Factor represents the exact opposite of this. The winner's single appeals to those who have no real grasp of what it takes to write an awesome song and have probably never played an instrument in their life. It's for musically fickle glory supporters. I actually said in the office this week that whoever voted for Joe should be forced to pre-order his album a year in advance - I bet only half would actually want to listen to it by the time it was released. Joe is a good singer, but he's not cut out for a career as a pop star.

This whole campaign also proves that (despite most people's assumptions), Facebook is actually controlled by people in their twenties and thirties, not teenagers. RATM were a band of the nineties - in the era of Seattle grunge, the Beastie Boys and properly hard hip hop. The people who bought Rage's single this week are the same people that were teens in this bygone era - where guitar-based bands ruled the charts and saccharin ballads only cropped up once in a while. In the last few years it was thought that these particular consumers of music had no part to play in the shaping of the Top 40 - a thought which has now turned on its head. As I get older I always think music was better back in the day. Lots of people think the same - hence why a 1992 song could become No 1 in 2009. Joe was still in nappies when Rage first released Killing in the Name of, he probably had no idea who they were before this race kicked off. He's only ever known the chart music of the Noughties - lacklustre, over-hyped and hidiously commercial.

At the end of the day, despite all the allegations by Cowell's people of 'hijacking' and 'sabotage', one fact remains - RATM sold more copies of their single than Joe 'I look like Cheryl's little brother' McElderry. If the Monster Raving Looney Party suddenly stole a general election because they got more votes than Labour or the Tories, there would probably be an equal amount of outrage but nothing concrete to disqualify them. In Britain we live in a democracy - musical, political or otherwise and there will always be 'upsets' when only one winner can prevail. I just happen to be on the winning team this time!

Personal vs Professional

Hello. Yes, I know it has been almost a month since my last blog. The reason for this is because I started a new job. That's right. Yours truly has found a new purpose. The job, is in fact very much like my old job, in a similar office and doing the same old fannying about with press releases, sending mindless emails and pretending to look busy and important on the phone. My experience over the last 2 weeks since starting my new post is not unlike that of starting school. Notepad and pen, check. Fully-functioning computer, check. Nice ironed shirt and polished shoes, check. The difference is, at school, your aim (high grades aside) is to make friends. You want to find people you will actually socialise with outside of the school gates. People who you can confide in and feel comfortable around. People who you don't mind being yourself with. At work, it's a different story. I think it's near to impossible to be FRIENDS with people you work with. The general nature of today's modern work environment means that while you need to get on with your colleagues - collaborate, discuss, formulate ideas with them; they're still colleagues, not friends. Colleagues can get drunk at Christmas parties and slag you off to your boss, they can think your idea is crap and not tell you, they can even steal your stapler and not own up to it. Why? Because they're not your friends! I might be painting a negative picture of work colleagues, but the truth is, if you start trying to be friends with them, it's hard to command respect when circumstances demand it and it's hard to be taken seriously if everyone knows that what you really care about in life is gin, dogs and listening to Ben Folds.

So I got thinking about me, the person i.e who I am with friends and family. And me, the professional, savvy and hugely (cough) efficient professional. Those who know me, will know that on an average day my favourite pastime is doing very little. I like to sit, study a variety of media, eat, drink and pratt about on the Internet. It may sound insanely nonchalant but achieving this state of being is actually quite hard work. I need to ensure all my personal admin is complete, the food shopping is done, the kitchen is clean and then some. Only when these banal tasks are finished can I reach my true state of being - that of a fairly lazy yet introspective watcher of the world. Someone who only talks to people they want to talk to rather than talk for the sake of talking. This persona is something only my friends should know. Imagine if this is how my work colleagues knew me? I'd be considered an ineffectual and unmotivated 'blue sky' thinker rather than doer. The kind of person that spends more time organising their inbox just so they don't have time to send important emails. When I'm at work, I am a different person, no doubt about it. I talk to people because doing so will get me ahead, I ruthlessly plan tasks so when I execute them I'm confident in doing so. I prepare thoroughly for meetings so I don't come across as flaky. These are traits a boss wants to see an employee, they're not qualities that people necessarily want in their friends. Some people might say it's deceitful to not be yourself at work - but I think that the personal 'you' and the professional 'you' can happily co-exist. Why? Because there are still core elements of 'me' that exist across both persona - the things that really make me, me. When I left my old job, my leaving card said things like 'we will miss your dry wit', 'I won't have anyone to curtly dismiss my taste in music and men' and 'who will I chat to about Jack Bauer now?'. The personal clearly left it's mark, even though at work, I have been, and will continue to be, professional.

PORK

I have a problem. I think...in fact I KNOW... that I'm addicted to pork products. The reasons for this are twofold. One, I grew up in a predominantly vegetarian household and now comes my gastronomical rebellion. Two, as a non beef-eater, all of my red meat intake must naturally come from pork. And the thing is with pork, is that it comes in many guises and can be consumed at all times of day in these various guises. Which is why, when I think about my diet for the last couple of months, there is a hell of a lot of pork involved. Which is probably why I've failed to lose any weight despite my good intentions of walking home from work and eating leaves for lunch. Take breakfast - a hearty English breakfast contains bacon and sausage - PORK. Then lunch - ham and cheese sandwich, BLT, gammon and chips - PORK. And for dinner - spaghetti carbonara, sausage and mash, roast PORK. It's no wonder that I'm turning into a little pork pie (mmmm, pie). And then there are the really good things in food life - pepperoni pizza, beautiful cuts of meat on a charcuterie board, delicious chorizo tapas. I mean seriously, there's no escaping the porky goodness of today's culinary world. And it is this world that I blame for my addiction. Everywhere I look, pork products are there, ready for consumption - morning, noon and night. It's a good job swine flu can't be caught through eating pigs - I'd be in big trouble. And there's no substitute for pork - no one wants lamb sausages in their fry up or cuts of chicken in their antipasti. No. Pork is king and I am its humble queen. www.lovepork.co.uk

Kings of Convenience: Barbican Hall, London

I have just returned from an enchanting evening at the Barbican where I spent almost two hours listening to the effortless harmonies and sublime guitar riffs of Erland Oye and Eirik Boe a.k.a Kings of Convenience. I'd been lucky enough to catch them at the Royal Festival Hall five years ago when they released Riot on an Empty Street and knew that I was in for an understated but sincerely enjoyable musical treat. They started at the very mellow end of their repertoire, introducing us to some of the material from their forthcoming album Declaration of Dependence. The two of them stood neatly on stage in perfect harmony, seamlessly interweaving sweet threads of guitar. The fourth song was the one that struck a chord (yes, pun intended) with me - the melancholy, spellbinding and tearjerking I Don't Know What I Can Save You From. And I did jerk a tear because this particular song took me back to days lounging around in the smoky, sunstreamed living room of the house in which I lived during my 'coming of age' second year at university. It was the year I realised I didn't have a clue how I was supposed to proceed in life and that success is something that you have to attain and is never, ever, inevitable.

The second half of the set was suavely upbeat, to the point where everyone was standing up, swinging their hips and singing along. The duo were joined by guest musicians - an Italian double bassist who looked remarkably like a compressed version of Liverpool manager Benitez, and a very talented violinist who went by the name Tobias. The ambiance metamorphosed: away from the serene duetting of guitars to a geeky but chic 'hey we're your friends come and party in our living room' vibe. Across the two hours, the musical build-up was perfect, with everyone getting more and more involved - cheering, dancing, clapping. Not what you would have expected from a pair that have often been described as a modern day Simon and Garfunkel. And they had great banter - mellow, precise and perfectly pitched, just like their music. Basically, as Scandavian folk music goes, these guys are at the top of their game and (on a personal note), I'd happily marry them both.

Guitar Hero: Sheer Awesomeness

For a girl, I am fairly adept at video games. At the age of 9 I had mastered Tetris on the Gameboy and Sonic the Hedgehog on my beloved Megadrive (RIP Sega consoles). More recently I find myself constantly beating boys at Mario Kart, especially if I'm Yoshi in the Nostalgia Kart. This makes me about 6/10 on the scale of awesomeness. But now, I have discovered that I've reached a hearty 8 on the aforementioned scale through my immense capabilities on...Guitar Hero.

The brilliance of Guitar Hero lies in the fact that a) you need to have a good sense of rhythm and musicality and b) you need to be super dexterous . This latter point makes it an especially good game for slender-fingered girls who admire attention to detail and have super sharp concentration levels. Boys who play the game generally lack these skills and tend to hammer away at the strangely buttoned guitar fretboard, missing notes fairly often and are thus not able to rack up scores that would make Metallica proud or five star performances. Basically, my point here is that girls should start playing this game (despite the hideously degrading advert featuring Hugh Heffner and a bunch of guitar wielding models in their underwear). Everything that usually makes us 'losers', i.e. being overly diligent, being able to unwittingly multi-task, being sticklers for accuracy is what will make us triumphant over our male counterparts with this particular game. More importantly, it rocks hard. Playing riffs to classic tunes is an excellent way to pass the time. The new game - Guitar Hero 5, even has some modern schmindie in the mix. I have been playing it so much recently that my eyes are constantly frazzled and my hand is a misshapen claw. But it's worth it - and I hope the rest of you ladies give it a go.

RESTAURANT REVIEW: The Boxwood Cafe

It was only a matter of time before I started unpicking Gordon 'Fucking hell' Ramsey's empire. A few months ago I had a rather lacklustre experience at The Narrow - his gastropub in Limehouse. After reading an article in one of the London freesheets about how his gourmet fishcakes are in fact made in a Clapham warehouse, I was weary of the food. I needn't have been. The food was fine, it was the service that was below par. Sketchy waiters who didn't know the winelist and took a lifetime to bring a plate of runner beans was a bit lame. But hey, Ramsey himself probably has little to do with the place. The Boxwood on the other hand, is a different beast. It's a slice of Gordon's soul - big flavours, bold presentation, poncy but hearty food and an air of elegance and elitism in the restaurant itself. And from experience, it was all those things.

My starter of garlic and herb encrusted scallops came in almost fake looking shells (the kind of thing you would see in hotel lobby toilet). They tasted good - extremely succulent with a pleasant crunch. Some sort of puree might have added a bit of oomph, but I was more than satisfied. My companion (the boy), on the other hand said of his starter "It could not have been better". What was it? A taglioni of brown and white crab with chilli and parsley. Being a non-fan of crab, I didn't sample the dish, but it looked impressive and from the buttery grin of my companion, it delivered. For mains, I ordered an extremely rich dish of poached AND roasted chicken with parmesan risotto and a thyme jus. Every mouthful packed a punch. As I was getting to the end of the dish I felt like I'd run a culinary marathon. I had to sit for a good 45 minutes and let it go down before I could even fathom getting up again. Mmmm. The beau ordered a plate of classic unethical Ramsey - veal and fois gras burger. To me, it looked just like a dish from GBK. But again as a non-cow fan, I wasn't the best judge. I did try a chip, and that was pretty awesome, so I'm guessing the rest of it was too.

So, the service. It was far from the shambolic affair of The Narrow, but I was still a bit miffed at the mediocre English language skills of the French waitress and the fact that I had to make eye contact with another waiter to get my wine glass filled. I'm guessing that because it was a Monday lunchtime, the vibe was that of wannabe creative business lunch. A Saturday night might have seen more a feisty, Ramsey spirit. But I went for the food, and got what I wanted.

www.gordonramsey.com/boxwoodcafe

Tonight Matthew, we're all going to be Michael Jackson

It was my birthday of late. Grappling with the idea of a theme for a party, there was really only one that was appropriate this year - Michael. Jackson. On hearing of his death, I was gutted. The man was a genius. Crazy, but a genius. But there's a very fine line between the two anyway. Since he died there has been a constant stream of television programming that (often badly) hash together his life, trying to include all the elements: the family, the Jackson Five, the rise to solo fame, the album sales, the marriage to Lisa Marie, the kids. The only things I ever cared about were the tunes and the showmanship. No one could, or will ever be able to dance like that man. No one has transformed themselves through the eras of funky disco, 80s powerchords/guitar solos, geeky early 90s pop and (although it's the worst of his stuff), R n B.


So in honour of the man (and my birthday) a few close friends and I celebrated the spectrum of his musical existence, with costumes, alcohol and cheap imitation moonwalking. The result was brilliant, side-splitting and often ironic. We had 'Don't stop til you get enough' Michael with bow tie and mega-fro. We then had late 80s Jacko complete with fedora hat, sparkly glove and aviators. Representing the 90s we had 'Earth Song' MJ, whiter than white with an even whiter vest/shirt combo. It was a quality state of affairs - so many representations of The King of Pop (and yes, he fucking WAS!) in one room that we totally blew the lame party in the flat above clean out of the water. Michael, I hope we did you proud.