District Nueve

Came across this rags to riches story recently, pretty decent short film from South America - but Hollywood blockbuster? Not too sure. Still, be good to refer to Uruguay as a something other than the first country to win the world cup.

http://mashable.com/2009/12/19/youtube-movie-robots/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+Mashable+%28Mashable%29

Two Ronnies

I love lists. There it is. Now, if you find innane compilations of Best _ _ _ _ _ Of The Decade lists boring, there's no point reading on...

Looking past the music, film and TV debates of the best stuff this decade, I come to the undeniable winner of World Soccer's list of the Best Players Of The Noughties - Ronaldinho. With Cristiano Ronaldo coming in at second place, cue the arguments.

Whilst I come from the school of Maradona, Cantona and Djalminha, I'm still very susceptible to the work of Carlton Palmer, Mauro Silva and Fatty Brolin - so this list may be edging more toward skill than endeavour. But to say Cristiano Ronaldo is better than Il Dentone is ill-informed spew that smacks of Lovejoy bollocks. (I do love that call in the hyperlink though).

Let's look at the state of the game before they came on the scene - we had a fat Ronaldo, a now-forgotten Luis Figo and Oliver Khan dominating player of the year lists. Not even Zizou could carry the game on his Algerian shoulders for that long. Then came the glory of a Gremio youngster who changed the way that UK viewers approach foreign football - he changed the fortunes of his club, won every trophy he competed for, and was uglier than most footballers we'd ever seen. At one point in a league game, Dinho proceeded to control a ball that was 20 feet in the air, with one touch making it a no-look back-heeled volleyed through ball. As the commentator rightly said, "I'm not having that."

Then came the pretty boy, who's first statement of intent was making Gary Neville look ordinary in a friendly. Not the best barometer of skill really. With his wormy hair, acne and (up to this point) unmerited arrogance, he took a few years to settle in - his skills were great, but his crossing? Fair enough, he repaid that by scoring goals like Andy Cole from a wingers position and won trophies galore - but that wink and annoying screw face had us all mumbling into our pints. And his freekicks were amazing, true that, but look at El Diego - if you can do all that magic with just a left foot, there's really no point using your head.

And after all, isn't that what the player of the decade list should be about - magic? The player that will be remembered for the state of football in eons to come shouldn't be one that's name evokes the words 'cheat' and 'diving'. Instead, we'll think of that lob over Seaman, the Bernabeu applauding, and Petr Cech getting done by a nutmeg from the edge of the box. Oh, and John Terry on his arse - all from a buck-toothed fat guy with a pony tail.

Wolves In The Garden

Came across a fine song recently, one which I've tried to decipher a few times. A friend suggesting a good context: the wolves represent everything that comes after finding the love of your life, your wife. From the bills, bickering and bullshit, you feebly trying to get to your garden. Nice one Frase.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsfiCi_qWfY

Playing Dumb

Recently, I've found a part of my brain dumbing itself down.

The first indications came when my other half overheard a conversation I was having with her dad, where he was explaining Tamil culture to me, as I listened on like a little school boy. Now, take into account one of my brothers from another mother is Tamil, I'm well versed on the subject - yet I proceeded to act like a buffoon with intentions of not to offend or exert any intelligence of any type. My girlfriend watched me nod and raise my eyebrows, then took me to task afterwards, wherein I tried to shift the power by using the great excuse "Hello?! I know! I just wanted your dad to look good!". In fact, he's now probably thinking my brain is a waxy pea rolling around in the dustbowl that is my cranium.

Then there's my new found love for Rihanna. Now, I was right there at the front of the cue, measuring tape in hand, waiting to see exactly how big that forehead was....

...and I was also there bemoaning the demise of the traditional English name for Annabella, as little girls screamed "Ella, Ella!" after that number one. But now, I find myself listening to her music, stroking my chin at her interviews on domestic abuse, and championing her eyes to anybody who will listen - all within a slipping veiled guise that she's simply a 'guilty pleasure'. Yeah, when it was Cam'ron I got away with it, but this? I'm not too sure.

And finally, I'm a racist and a bigot. Or almost. For the sake of comfort and not drawing any more attention to myself than my brown skin already was, in the pub recently I happily contributed to a conversation that firmly flipped the bird to any liberal stances I'd gained throughout the last ten years. Within a group of gangly, but burly, Northern blokes, I admitted that social and racial profiling was not just a necessary evil in our post 9-11 village, but that it should be actively practiced whenever possible. Hmmm. Being a victim of such profiling, and priding myself on my snobbish trends such as the Wire and 'socially conscience music', this had the left side of my brain gawping. True, my stance came from my experiences behind the counter of my parents shop, but still - OMFG, wow.

How very strange, that my need to make comfortable conversation kicks in so emphatically (if only they could see me bellowing in the shower to 'Narrow Minded Social Club'). The excuses of irony don't seem to wash somehow, after re-reading this blog. Maybe it's come along with my move from London to my Yorkshire village, but my permit to the proletariat masses is all but stamped - just have to beat up a tramp and nick his two litre bottle of Frosty Jacks (£2 on our Xmas offers list - fuck Select And Save).

"If you want to tell people the truth, make them laugh - otherwise they'll kill you." - Oscar Wilde (credit to Akala's tweets)

Laying Rap To Rest

Inspired by an email from a friend, and a recent blog post on the Guardian website, I thought I may as well throw in my tuppence worth on the death of hip hop...or should it be rap?

It may seem pedantic and oozing of fan-boy slime, but some mishaps stand out from the blog - like constantly referring to death of rap and hip hop. So hold on, which one is dead? I see rap floating away on some glimmering pop flying saucer, joining the fleet of dance pulse-heavy beats in the pop charts, but hip hop? You all know where I'm going with this, as KRS stated, hip hop is a culture, a way of life: rap is what we hear on the radio. Now, I don't see such a sharp decline in hip hop fashion, hip hop art and hip hop culture as there was at the end of the punk or disco era (all be it only we're only five years into it's reported death). Hip hop culture gobbles up life around it and utilizes it for itself, just like the foundations of its music. With shows like The Wire, punchy noughties comedy from Chris Rock and Dave Chappelle, Obey fashion and even skinny jeans going hand in hand with a mic (thanks to the previous blog from a friend) the message and ideology of hip hop culture is still being translated just as much as other music genres.

Also, pointing out that rap (not hip hop) isn't coming out with compelling personalities anymore, I have to ask - which music genre is exactly? The likes of Lady Gaga, Fever Ray and Empire Of The Sun may dress funny, but that indicates their exact lack of personality. And if we're talking about dressing funny, DOOM anyone? I may not be the most schooled on guitar based music, but the likes of Radiohead, Animal Collective, The xx and Fleet Foxes don't come across as the most entertaining people in the room, but their music speaks volumes. And none have put themselves in the cross hairs of public opinion, look like a slight arse when they do so, but then have the balls to come out with one of the albums of the year.

The blog post in question relies heavily on references to Kanye West, Lil' Wayne and Jay Z - which, if you were to single them out, are breathing flesh bags that indicate that rap has indeed moved into a more European sensibility. But if we were to focus on the best selling artists in the 1990's of hip hop, we'd only ever talk about Deathrow and Bad Boy - hardly the boundary pushing record labels of the genre. They sold records, but did they truly state the vigour and invention of the whole genre? Hip hop heads would point to labels like Rawkus, Violator and even Columbia for pushing the invention of new sounds and lyrics.

On another side note, the references to indie rap (or undie rap) not rising to the top and becoming something you have to seek out has been that way for decades. Hip hop started in mixtape format, then rap came along and showed the masses what hip hop is all about - so in that sense, rap is still dominating radio channels and MTV. All you hear now on the radio are the artists mentioned in this blog, and it'll stay that way for some time - but with solid hip hop albums coming out this year, hip hop heads are still catered for.

(As a side note, the blog I'm discussing doesn't reek of in-depth research, as none of these albums have even been mentioned).

I almost split my own wig when I read that in the 90's, the rap on TV and mainstream radio was the most innovate...what bollocks! As hip hop heads we had to search for the Wu and Pharaoe albums, especially when you live in a small Yorkshire village where on all sides you're getting hit by Nirvana grunge or Britpop wankers! On a smaller scale, it's the same now - we still have to search out the best albums, as blogs and radio stations only mention the players who shift units.

What I do agree with, is that the last half of the noughties has indeed laid to rest rap as we knew it - it's not fresh, the new acts come with less impact and topics are stale. But no music genre can say any different, especially 20-30 years in deep. What we have is a thriving and growing hip hop culture - if one out of a hundred of Lil' Wayne fans are digging in their crates in search of the best hip hop albums ever, then that's worth it.

My god, after a

recent GZA show where he performed all of Liquid Swords, I was put to shame by a crowd of 16 year old white English blokes who knew every lyric to every song!

Genres of music are a dime a dozen, and rap has had to adapt (look at Timbaland and his house music) to sell records. But doesn't all music?

Action

Effective action is always unjust.

Little Children

Currently, I'm in the middle of watching Little Children, and an hour in it's an absolutely superb film.

I don't usually hold much hope for Kate Winslet drama hours, but have to say I love Patrick Wilson - so far, the sense of human interaction in American suburbia is played out excellently through at least three great set pieces - including a modern day Jaws scene, but with a sex offender wearing the fins.

Now back to the film...

No.

No.

Letters laden with burden, like their cousin 'if'.

A word that starts to finish a completely powerful sentence.

A word for journeys for answers.

A word to make villains and heroes.

A word that's held aloft or whispered inside.

A word to end all faith in god, and present us a new one.

No - a song to those to who are gone, with never a reason why.

No - a holler of rebellion and mistrust, contagious and feared.

No - a call to arms and swords that square the circle of knowledge.

No - a fair and equal lady, to be used by man.

No - a chipped and shiny coin, faces of hell or heaven.

No to you, them and it.

No to please, thank you.

No to none of it, and all of it at once.

No to gunpowder and bullets, and flowers in rifles.

No to hip, no ties.

No to justice and evil, the Batman and the Joker, to Commie Reds and the 51st State.

No to sitting in flames, salt marches and car bombs.

No to your stories, her stories and histories.

No.

Channels 781 & 833

Tune into channels 781 and 833 on your Sky box, and you'll be greeted by the friendly smiling brown faces of the Bollywood fraternity.

But the times they are a-changing, and don't us second-generation British Asians know it? Not only do we have to skip through dozens of music channels at thumb-cracking speeds, but the only opportunity we get to spend quality time with the parents is in front of the television. Thanks social networking.

In this bastion of comfort zones, the television used to keep our paternal ties steady and consistent. But beware, this traditional family time is coming to an end people.

Thanks to channels 781 and 833 (I can't move myself to recite their actual names, such is my disgust) we now may have to actually chat to our elders. For no longer is there the traditional absurd fight sequence, the typical Indian dance, or (at a stretch) the warm neck snuggling - now we have women and men who think it's fine to actually bring sex into our living rooms. All before 10pm.

This 'new' form of entertainment is a true student of the 'sex sells' school of marketing. I'm not a lone voice. I've heard plenty of young British Asians voicing their disgust at such a mess, with brown ladies daring to show their legs, waist and cleavage. And the men! Don't get us started!!

There's me thinking, long gone are the days of fumbling for the remote when Jason kissed Kylie on Neighbours - all whilst my parents watched on. But no, now we have to witness our own kind doing the same thing - leaving us with the ultimate low in Asian family entertainment. The Indian news channel.

Something must be done about it, and now. MTV Base and Kiss know how to sell 'sexy', so sell it to us whilst mum cooks the roti. It's simply not right to be using the same model to disturb our precious family time.

Super, god!

"I'm normally not a praying man, but if you're up there, please save me Superman."

That's Homer Simpson's religious tenacity at large, but look deeper and you'll find more than your fair share of reality in his plea.

Imagine you, mum and dad shuffling off on Super Sunday to pray for a just man of steel, one who is for equality and can never really die. Imagine that, with your toy figure in your hand and your eyes clenched shut in some hope He can hear your mumblings amongst a room full of craving mumblers.

Well, my thinly veiled attempt at bringing some light to the world of religion may not be a work of enlightening genius - but it says a whole lot more about the world we live in now, than any 800 year old book.

Spurred on by personal events, a red-flagged book list, an inspiring city, and Larry Davis' latest work - Religulous - my own ideas are being put to paper in a series of writings I'm hoping to expand. Look out for the name 'Swison Nofton'.

Well, Come All

“Boring damned people. All over the earth. Propagating more boring damned people. What a horror show. The earth swarmed with them."

There. That's my first post. On my first blog.