Before I start my blog, I want to resolve this awkward situation about me posting on this site. Is this site still used? Is it still read? If you do read it, can you comment; feel free to insult me and the article, but just please confirm your eyes did in fact pass over this shitty font. Thanks.

So, let’s take a recap. Arctic Monkey’s fourth album ‘Suck it and See’ will be released in just under a month and a half, with James Ford, whom produced ‘Favourite Worst Nightmare’, returning for producing duties. Whilst it would be unreasonably harsh to call ‘Humbug’ a disaster, it is fair to state that Josh Homme’s influence was a little bit too heavy-handed on the album, and with the exception of the sublime ‘Cornerstone’ and the glorious ‘Secret Door’, it almost felt that they had matured too much, resulting in songs, like ‘Potion Approaching’ and ‘Dangerous Animals’, which were lacking in the usual wit and flair that they are adored for.

We have already been blessed with two tasters from the upcoming LP, with both each respectively supporting and contradicting drummer Matt Helder’s claim that the album is ‘more poppy than Humbug was’.

‘Brick by Brick’ was the first track to be released. Straight from the start, with its raw, White Stripe-esque riff, it is evident that they have advanced from the ‘Humbug’ sound, though certain elements remain, as they still have a penchant for those perfectly restrained, fuzzy guitar solos that sound like they’re trudging through quicksand. Turner’s lyrics are also position themselves away from the joyless affair of ’Humbug’, with brash claims that he wants to ‘rock ‘n’ roll’, ‘steal your soul’ and ‘feel your love’, which come as a welcome relief.

The first single from ‘SIAS’ was the considerably darker ‘Don’t sit down ‘cause I’ve moved your chair’. Whilst the title might evoke playful images of Turner removing Helder’s drumming stool, resulting in a giggling chase around their massive American studio, the song is full of impending danger and lists the ‘sort of ridiculous things you can do that are probably more dangerous than if you just sat down", according to Turner. The lyrics seem too cryptic on first listen, but after repeated plays, Turner’s sly wit shines through: ‘Wear your shell-suit on Bonfire night’. Granted, ‘Going into business with a grizzly bear’ comes across as clumsy and rushed, and not just because of the Grizzly Bear’s natural financial prowess, but because they could have easily inserted ‘Claiming Humbug’s better than Favourite Worst [night] mare’ instead, which is far more risky activity to partake in. The heavy, chugging riff displays the touch Josh Homme left on their sound, which compliments Turner’s newly perfected croon.

The video is also quite striking. Gone are the days when all that was required of them was to appear in front of a camera with that pose of awkward youth. The video successfully manages to mimic that effect of when you tightly close your eyes and open then again (just me?) and conveys their transformation from the shy teenagers, into the ‘Bigger Boys’ that steal ‘Sweethearts’, whom strike one as far too cool and aloof to serenade over domestic tiffs and Sheffield nightclubs.

Turner’s voice has also matured and there is now no longer any trace of the former spiky snarl; replaced with an unnervingly seasoned purr. It’s not going to help fend off the inevitable comparisons with John Lennon, what with him evolving from the kitchen sink poetry in a band of scallies, to a bohemian new life in New York, with a trendy girlfriend, crooning cryptic ditties. The analogy isn’t completely accurate thankfully, as the transition seemed to occur during The Last Shadow Puppets, which would mean well known shirker, Miles Kane would play the part of Yoko Ono, well known...oh yeah.

So, while many were delighted when Helder’s claimed the new album was to be more ‘poppy’, the new material doesn’t really support that. However, it clearly demonstrates how the band has managed to stay relevant, through their constant progression and maturity, when so many of their contemporaries have tried to emulate them, only to add mass to the ever-growing indie landfill.

When asked to name the most cliché, masculine activity one could undertake, many may be inclined to suggest using your head to hammer nails into the wall for a shelf to place your Top Gear box-sets on or even biting your lip with such vengeance that you struggle to speak for days after, in order to ward off tears when watching Leonardo Di Caprio slump off the door into the frozen Atlantic. However, if we are to go by what the shiny dream-box in our living room threatens us with, it would appear that it’s shaving.
Anyone, by which I mean everyone, who has loitered in front of the television during the advert breaks, rather than reluctantly pulling themselves up to harass the National Grid for a cup of tea, will know exactly what I mean. The regular, platitude advertisements for shaving portray it as ripping pure testosterone off skin with as many blades as humanely possible to fit onto a handle. The topless model, who boasts of a skin so pure that it looks like he has never been troubled by rogue facial hair in his life, seems to take a perverse pleasure in slowly scraping the blade across his epidermis. After enough sickening gazes into the camera to even make Nigella Lawson feel a little queasy, a beautiful woman arrives to carefully caress the shaver’s face and they both frolic in front of their spotless mirror, before she’ll go back to the kitchen to cook him a low fat brunch and he’ll continue to wink at himself. Yes, I said wink. Rather peculiarly, there is no screen time for the wounds that leave the basin looking like an extra from the first scene of Saving Private Ryan or the foam that manages to hide behind your ear until you notice it in the mirror at about 10 o’ clock.

The real reason for the overblown and crude production is that shaving is, in fact, the least macho activity a man can partake in. Think about it. What do Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp and David Beckham have in common? They all look better with facial hair. A beard is an ultimate statement of manliness. It’s rugged, messy, stores food and was invented by Attila the Hun’s school bully. Therefore, the removal of this fellow fodder is alongside actually leaving the bathroom in a reasonable state, on the ever-growing list of Male Sins.

Shaving companies have had to formulate this fallacy in order to stay afloat. They abide by the general rule of ‘MORE BLADES= MORE MANLY’. Currently, Wilkinson and Gillette offer a razor with five blades, but it can only be a matter of months before they start selling miniature chainsaws to hack off excess facial hair. Terms like ‘hydration’, ‘irritation’ and ‘resistance’ are thrown around, as if they’re selling fish resuscitation, rather than an instrument for scything off protruding facial hair. And god forbid that the razor doesn’t ‘glide’ or feel ‘smooth’ against the skin, rather than ‘tug’ and ’pull’ it, as if the device has some harmful vengeance against you. Yes, the razor should pet the skin and conjure up a sensation not dissimilar to a swan rubbing a Johnson’s Baby Oil model’s arse across your face.

For some reason, I dislike shaving. It’s not that I can blissfully recall a more innocent age of shaving, in which a barber would employ a cut throat razor, and neither is it wholly the fact that my facial hair looks as if I’ve been slapped on the back whilst eating a honey and toothbrush bristle sandwich. The most vexing aspect is the expectation to really savour it; an experience so divine and pleasurable, that to not enjoy is inhuman. Well, to me, shaving is just another instalment in the necessary bathroom routine, rather than a much-anticipated opportunity for self indulgence.

Yes, I know it was Valentine’s day about a week ago, in which St ‘Clinton’s Cards’ rewards all those who have embarrassed themselves by opening their hearts, but I feel obliged to offer you some frank advice. It’s never a good idea to go to concerts with your other half. While you’re there to drool over the lead guitarist’s fretwork or to see what the lead singer has done to his hair, they will happily pretend they know the words to the band’s first singles’ B-side so you don’t get too friendly with any of the other fans. Or the relationship will have finished before the date of the concert has arrived and a crowd full of hyper teenagers is never a good place to be standing next to someone you’ve taken to avoiding eye contact with.
Last night, I learnt this lesson. Not first hand, but I suffered as a result of it. After my friend’s girlfriend broke up with him, I reluctantly agreed to take said girlfriend’s ticket and go and watch My Chemical Romance with him.
This was to be one of the first gigs I attended as a neutral fan. I don’t mind MCR. If one of their, admittedly quite good, music videos pops up on the music channels, I’ll keep watching, but I wouldn’t go as far as walking round Shrewsbury donning a jet black hoody with ‘DEATH’ emblazoned on the front.
However many would, it appears. I have never seen fans this excitable before. Before the band came on, what was effectively a PowerPoint with images of the band in their ‘Fabulous Killjoys’ attire, flashed up on the big screen and even a picture of an ear and a red sideburn was enough to trigger thousands of teenage girls to holler uncontrollably. Such was the level of rising frenzy, Gerard Way could have probably just put up an Excel document showing his tax returns, but as long as the font was the same colour red as Way’s freshly dyed hair, the crowd would have still let out the same painfully shrill reaction.
After the first support group, who were composed of three men that looked like Barney Rubble had he found Noel Fielding’s dressing up box, the Blackout swaggered on. Not in the fashion of ‘a lovable-rogue’ but more of an ‘I just knocked on your Nanas door and ran away’ sort of swagger. The clichés followed by the barrel load. First there was the obligatory, cringe-worthy ‘I honestly mean this, but you lot are so much better than London’, then we had a bit of an attempt at a Mexican wave, only to be informed it was not of sufficient consistency and there was even time for them to tell us how much MCR means to the band.
It certainly was a relief to hear Dr Death Defying’s voice ring out. As the opening chimes of ‘Na Na Na’ played, the curtain came down and there he was. Way was dressed like he had had a quick rifle through the bucket for those who have forgotten to bring their PE kit to school with them. His eyes were a haunting shade of red and he was dripping with hair dye, as he bound round the stage with a menacing sort of intent. While many lead singers are volatile and unpredictable, Way paces round the stage in a restrained manner, like a predator waiting to leap on his prey. His speaking voice is just bizarre as well; a cross between Michael Jackson and ET. It makes his requests to hang out with them at the upcoming summer’s festivals seem more like a creepy threat. Way plays the misfit card to an absolute tee.
Not that it matters to the band. They positively beam with enthusiasm and sheer joy, which is reassuring as they race through the bombast of songs like ‘Our Lady Sorrow’ and’ ‘Vampire Money’, which sounds like Arcade Fire’s ‘Month of May’ had they been born on the Nevada Strip, rather than some dull Canadian suburbs.
By the time ‘Famous Last Words’ comes on, I’m starting to feel guilty about the fact I know so few of their lyrics, when every mouth in sight was yelling back every word to Way in unison. I start the sheepish journey back to the side and make it there just in time to see Way warning his fans against the effects of Cocaine, before the surly opening to ‘Teenagers’ buzzes out. By the chorus, the LG Arena was shaking, as one collective mass of black-clad fans bounced.
For the borderline obsessive fans that had been looking forward to this gig for months, I can imagine it was well worth the wait. But even for your regular schmuck, like myself, it was clear that MCR nailed it. Despite playing in such a large venue, the band was anything but daunted. They managed to retain dignity whilst also pulling off a loud, raucous performance; something that doesn’t often go hand in hand.
So while I’m not actually hoping for my friend to have to regularly endure emotional trauma and self esteem issues for me be to pleasantly surprised by a gig I would never pay to see, I wouldn’t mind it happening more frequently. Sorry Brad.

Yes, it sounds like a dilemma faced by a man choosing a temporary tattoo, but transfer deadline day was as gripping as ever. In Liverpool, hairdressers were distraught to see their best customer flock to London, citing ‘it was definitely not about money...uh...I just like the accent better’. To add insult to injury for these poor scouse barbers, he was replaced by a man that can only be described as Grant Mitchell, if he’d be on a gap year to Thailand to ‘find himself’.
Elsewhere in London, Arsene Wenger pretended not to notice the whole kerfuffle going on around him; instead choosing to concentrate on his Championship Manager 2010 career. Unfortunately, his Scunthorpe team were relegated to the Blue Square Conference, after he sold his first team and re-invested in Senegalese children.
The big news was of course Andy Carroll’s £35m move to Liverpool; a man with the same amount of England caps as myself, Francis Jeffers and the entire Conservative cabinet combined, and has scored fewer career goals than millions Liverpool have paid for him. Short of offering a chance for Alan Shearer to swap his indecently tight trousers and a regular place on the Match of The Day sofa for a chance to run after the hoofs of Kyrgiakos, this would have been one of the ridiculous transfers ever made, had it not been made by the untouchable King Kenny. Liverpool fans would still worship the Scottish saint had he brought Gary Neville for £30m to just stand in front of the Kop and perform a striptease, ending with Neville’s decency being preserved by a sign saying: ‘ This dance was sponsored by Bill Hicks and George Gillett’.
Heading back down south in a cloud of hair spray was ex fan favourite, El Nino. This was yet another example of the average player’s list of priorities. Surprisingly, loyalty and a desire to please the fans that have your name printed on the back of their replica shirt and contemplate naming their children after you, do not feature that high on that list. Personally, I have a strong suspicion that he’ll have a whale of a time down there. I’m sure Torres, Ashley Cole and John Terry have hit it off straight away and spent Torres’s first night in London in some seedy karaoke bar, followed by a kebab and a spit-roast with Petr Cech’s wife. Classy.
In an event overshadowed by Liverpool and Chelsea’s reckless spending spree, Freddy Adu was loaned from Benfica to a Turkish second division side, whose name does not herald a quick Google search. If, as every cosmopolitan tween football fan, you read Match magazine, the mere mention of Freddy Adu’s name should at least provoke a half hearted ‘oh yeah’. This was the American boy who was predicted to set the football world alight. Man Utd were rumoured to be interested in him, when he was just 14 and he had the world at his feet. It’s particularly poignant that as the third highest transfer fee was being paid, Adu was continuing his rapid slide into obscurity. However, he has saved himself from the inevitable ‘Much Ado About Nothing’-esque tabloid headlines, so who’s the real winner?

In my rather audacious attempt to take over the whole front page of randomtales.co.uk, and wanting to post this while it was still reasonabley relevant, here is my review of 'Come Around Sundown' by Kings of Leon.

This was always going to be a difficult album for Kings of Leon. Since jumping onto the shiny bandwagon to the tempting land of stadium rawk in 2008, with the, let’s face it, terrible ‘Only by the Night’, where do the Tennessee boys go next? Do they return to their roots, as lead single ‘Radioactive’ suggests (Just drink the water/ where you came from), re-growing their beards and hair, and forcing Caleb to live solely on a diet of razor blades and whisky to get back that growl? Or do they continue producing the meaningless, pristine, Matalan-thems, like ‘Use Somebody’ and ‘Revelry’?
Well, if the previously mentioned lead single was anything to go by, it would be a bit of both. It would be perfect if you were blind, as you wouldn’t have to watch the bizarre, ego-fest of a video that accompanies the song. For those of us with the misfortune of sight, you will have probably already seen the video, in which the four members frolic and cavort around with a large group of school age, black children. They play football, chase each other through sprinklers and do a lot of hugging. You half expect Caleb to stop singing, look directly into the camera and with a straight face, say: ‘For just two pounds a month, these kids can have their lives back. Don’t you think they could, (chuckle) ‘Use Somebody’? Ok everyone. Back to the chorus!’
However, the song itself, sans video, is everything I wanted from their return. A chorus so large and preachy that Bono himself probably finds himself singing it in the shower; the sharp, spiky guitar lines from Matthew that wouldn’t sound out of place on ‘Youth and Young Manhood’; and one of the best uses of a gospel choir since Blur’s ‘Tender’.
You can tell a lot about a Kings of Leon album by its opening tracks. ‘Red Morning Light’ shows the boys full of energy and provides a suitable introduction for the dirty, raw mess that ‘YAYM’ was. ‘Slow Night, so Long’ was brimming with subtle hooks and had them sounding like The Rolling Stones at a rodeo. ‘Knocked Up’ was a scowling slow-burner that introduced the darker sound of ‘Because of the Times’. So what can we tell about ‘The End’? Based purely upon it, it would suggest that the whole album will plod along at the agonizingly slow pace of Deborah Meadon in a sack race, be dominated by soulless guitar effects, and never really hit a peak until it’s too late. Not surprisingly, that is an incredibly accurate indication of how the album plays.
As previously mentioned, one of the albums biggest problems is that it’s just too sluggish. As ‘The Face’ and ‘The Immortals’ waddle along at a tortoise-like pace, you find yourself trying to work out if this is the same Kings of Leon that recorded the raucous ‘Four Kicks’. Jesus, even ‘Use Somebody’ sounds like they must have been on a mix of speed, Red Bull and whatever the NCIS cameraman has for breakfast everyday, compared to this painful tempo. The album just sounds half arsed and reluctantly made, as a result.
While it should be well documented that I disliked ‘Only by the Night’, at least I can recall some of the songs and even hum along to it. After listening to the new album, all memory of it disappeared into thin air, like a fart at a dinner party. Every song on ‘Come around Sundown’, sounds like it’s lacking a kick.
I can imagine it now. The band are sitting around, congratulating each other on a successful recording session. Then the producer comes in and chirps: ‘Right, all that’s missing now are the choruses. When’s everyone free to record them?’ The band all pull out their limited edition OBTN Blackberrys and mutter excuses. ‘Sorry I can’t, I’m having skinny lattes with Snow Patrol’, ‘I’d love to, but I’m putting the finishing touches to my new clothing range.’ ‘This is a disaster. I’ve already scheduled my stadium arena posing class for then.’ The producer simply couldn’t find a slot when all are free, and just decides it to give it a miss. ‘No-one will notice.’ He reassures himself. And as a result, ‘Come around Sundown’ really is a ‘meh’ record; absent of any sort of hook or memorable song.
There are a few exceptions. There are some nice dub guitar effects on ‘The Immortals’. ‘Pick-up Truck’ is the rare occasion where you’re glad the album slows down, sounding broody and powerful. However, the majority of the songs sound like the type of songs you would have skipped on the previous albums. ‘Beach Side’ is essentially glorified elevator Muzak, while ‘Birthday’ is the attempt at an anthem, but it falls flat on its face with its 50 Cent like chorus.
‘Come Around…’ has Kings of Leon having some sort of identity crisis. They’re trying to imply that it’s a ‘returning to your roots album’ (Music Cliché #447), but they’re forgetting they’re from Tennessee, not Hull. After listening to it several times, I can safely say I have no intention to revisit the majority of it again. As a result, they sound like a parody of themselves. I don’t particularly enjoy heavily criticising them, but with an album this mediocre, they’re leaving themselves open to it. Let’s hope that when they find their true identity, people are still willing to give them a chance.

Saturday 31st July - 19.07am
I’m sure I’m not the only one who has seen the brilliant Peep Show episode where Jeremy takes Mark on his stag night on the Shropshire Union Canal. They end up killing a dog and eating it. It’s tremendous. Well, I used to watch that episode and chuckle at the boredom they were enduring and felt safe that I would never have to go through their misery. However, I am now sitting on a barge, trundling along said canal at the eye watering speed of 6kph. The irony of the situation is making me cry.

As I was writing that paragraph, we crashed into the side.
We have only been on the barge for about 4 hours now, but I was driven to such a frenzy by the sheer narrowness of it that I had to do the washing up to calm me down. Normally I would never get cross with anything slim - for example my iPod, the Laptop and myself - however, this is different. Everywhere on the boat is so narrow that if two people are heading in opposite directions, one of the passers has to lean onto a seat, or temporarily go into the bathroom, to allow the other to get through. I can sense it’s going to get to the stage where we are going to raise our hand in thanks as they do on the roads, and continue our journey along the boat. I suppose I’m going to have to get used to it.

Initially I wanted it to be really awful, so I could complain a lot. However, when we got there, I found I could stand up in the barge without hitting my head, and that the other people at the port were just like us, rather than the sex offenders and reluctantly married old couples who I had expected. The only annoying thing was the fact that I had forgotten my capo for my guitar. It was, however, pointed out that this was my fault, so I duly kept my complaints to myself.

It was definitely a mistake to take our disabled dog with us, as she despises moving objects, ducks and the middle class, and lets out a pained yelp as we pass any of them. She has not been allowed off the lead yet, and it doesn’t look likely that she ever will. I’m sure she would have had a better time at the kennels. Oh well, I’m sure she’ll eventually wear herself out. Or damage her other hip.

I shouldn’t be ultra critical though. It was very pleasant sitting on the end, in the brief period of sunlight, playing my guitar, albeit in the wrong key. Also, running along the top never gets boring. I’m sure the pub meal we will have, if we ever reach a pub, will be pleasant. I do seem to be whining a lot, though. ‘You’ve got to be taking the piss!’ is a common one: when the boat jolted and I pissed on my sock; when I realised that the plugs seemed to be from 20th century Czechoslovakia; and when it was revealed that there was to be no internet connection and only four TV channels (five if you count Channel 5).

Overall, it has been a very pleasant birthday though. Mum made a delightful chocolate cake and I received a camera. It certainly hasn’t been my worst birthday. From what I can remember, that was about 5 or 6 years ago, when Mum lied to me and said that I had come to age where I was too old to celebrate my birthday. I should’ve realised she was fibbing, we always commemorate hers. We went on a walk that day and got lost. It rained and I didn’t have a coat. She did apologise though, which means that she’s no longer on my list of people I would shoot should I ever go completely barmy - which I can’t rule out if the following six days are terrible.

Wednesday 4th August - 16.36
The long delay between entries is due to the fact that the electricity supplier of the boat is of poor quality, and not the fact that I’ve just forgotten. Currently, we’ve run out of water and don’t look set to get any until 6pm, which means no drinks or toilets. I can cope with that, though. It hasn’t rained or been cold, and I haven’t felt any sort of sea sickness. I’ve also nearly completed Professor Layton on my DS, which is time well spent. Other things I have undertaken to pass my stretch on HMS Holiday are reading 1984 and listening to the Arcade Fire album which I managed to find. I'm still trying to decide if it's as good as ‘Neon Bible’.

I am starting to get a little jaded, as I suspect everyone is. As I speak, two of my sisters are sat at the table, having a conversation about whose ‘daughter’ is the worst. One of them is currently in court for stabbing someone and I find myself quite gripped, which shows the standard for entertainment on the boat. And surprising as it sounds, there are few amenities on the banks of the Shropshire Union Canal, so we have spent the majority of the duration on the tiny floor of the boat. The television gets very little signal, so we are forced to *gulp* bond.

Anyway, it hasn’t been the nightmare that I dreaded it was going to be. Hopefully the electricity charger will allow me the chance to put in another entry, but if not, I leave you with one of my scenarios which I've been imagining. What if one wanted to commit suicide on the barge, with dignity? You couldn’t stick your head in the oven - it's too small. You couldn’t hang yourself, as the roof is too low. I doubt you could drown yourself. I very much doubt that I’ll find out.

Thursday 5th August - 14.57
This joke isn’t funny any more. This is no longer a holiday, but an endurance test. We moored near a sewage treatment works last night, so the barge is teeming with flies, which can’t be killed with spray due to our extremely cramped and ill ventilated living conditions. HMS Hellhole has an unpleasant smell, which no one can quite put their finger on, but are willing to accept as it’s part of the ‘barge experience’. And surprising as it may sound, the prospect of home seems welcoming; away from stewed tea, narrow beds, cramped showers, zingzillas and those tiny black winged bastards. One of them, hopefully an enthusiastic, young fly, had the audacity to land on my hand as I was typing. Never has killing a defenceless animal felt so therapeutic.

Well, that was all I could manage. Three entries is enough, surely? Anyway, as I’m running my delicate fingers over the keyboard to type you this, I have my land legs back, and with that, my internet connection. I have a feeling that that will be my last experience on a barge as my Mother had a breakdown on the last day, which involved her yelling profanities off the top of the boat. Nevertheless, it was a valuable experience. It was even enjoyable in places, despite the impression my third entry gives you. In hindsight though, a week was probably too long.

This post is like an early Christmas present for everyone, somewhat like when your Great Aunt Pooh forgets that Christmas Day is on the 25th and she gives you a present on the 3rd. So enjoy it, I'd also like to thank Oli for his great work on the site!

Now, let's get working! (or something similarly cheesy)

Sam.