The Death of the Super-Group

I’m on a comedown after the euphoria of a live gig. And this wasn’t just seeing our average pub-rock band play upstairs on a cramped stage with varying degrees of scum creeping up the walls (call them the patrons, or whatever you will). This was REM, arguably one of the last super-groups alive, and undoubtedly something special.
As you might expect, the band were keen to plug their new album (I’m not even too sure of the name of it; a quick internet search reveals it to be called Around The Sun), so quite a number of new songs were played. At least, I think they were new: I’m not exactly au fait with their entire, and very extensive, back catalogue, so I wouldn’t really be able to tell the difference. Four songs in, and I haven’t recognised one bar of music yet to tap my foot along too. But then they pull out one of their big guns: ‘Everybody Hurts’, the musical equivalent of the weepiest movie you’ve ever seen, wrapped up with an extra does of melancholy, and just a dash of hope to spice it up. I could have happily walked out after that song was played, saying to myself, “I’ve seen REM play ‘Everybody Hurts’ live”, and I would have been perfectly satisfied. But thankfully, things just got better and better.
Now, I don’t want to talk too much about the band itself, because there’s nothing much worse that having to listen to something rant emphatically about a select item of culture, and I’m not particularly a big fan of them anyway. My CD collection is notably free from any REM additives or preservatives. The reason I mention the concert at all is down to a conversation I had with my brother, Chris, over lunch on Friday.
Chris reckoned that out of all the super-groups that have ever existed, only two remain worldwide: REM, and U2. This thesis obviously needed some consideration. His rules, with a few additions of my own, for being a super-group were simple:

1. The band must be able to easily sell out stadium-sized gigs, and/or headline major festivals. Crowd sizes of a least over 10,000 would be the very minimum acceptance;
2. Any band available for consideration must be playing for over five years, to prove their longevity;
3. Most importantly, they must have broad appeal.

Now, this third option might be the swaying factor. I argued that great British group Iron Maiden can easily play to festivals of 80,000+. However, heavy metal is a select taste, and therefore doesn’t fit all the criteria. This would rule out American monsters Metallica as well, despite their legions of royal fans. Could Oasis still be labelled as a super-group? After a few seconds thought, both Chris and I dismiss them and most of Britpop together. Coldplay might be able to cut the mustard, but they haven’t passed rule two yet.
The Rolling Stones enter our minds as someone we’ve too easily overlooked, and I’m sure there are a few others that we remain oblivious to. The Eagles were one we debated over, if you remember the Hell Freezes Over tour. Our rough calculations figure that that tour grossed four billion dollars. They should have been called it the Get Rich (Again) Quick Tour. Basically, the essence of our conversation revealed that the super-group is dying. We can only hope that with young upstarts of today stick around and create something worthwhile in years to come.

Ice cream dreams

This memory keeps coming back to me, which gives me a daunting sense of guilt every time. I’m nine, maybe ten, and back at my childhood home in Omagh. My mother use to watch these two kids after school, until their parents could come and pick them up. One of them was a guy called Michael, one of my closest friends through primary and secondary school (until I moved away to Cookstown). He was a car fanatic, and even at a young age, had more knowledge about motors and machinery than I will ever accumulate in my lifetime. The other child was Jonathan, Michael’s younger brother. I remember him as rather quiet; in fact both of them were in their own way. Yet they were always keen to play and mess about.
At times, and in quite a selfish way, I resented their presence. Occasionally, after school was over, I just wanted a bit of time alone: a moment to relax, contemplate the many musings of life children carry, or generally just sloth about the house (I didn’t realise back then that I had my whole teen years to do exactly that). Mostly, due to my mother’s inclination, we got on with whatever our homework assignments were. The majority of the time, things ran smoothly, and I was actually sorry to see them leave when their mum or dad came to collect them.
We use to play Ghostbusters, with these little backpacks I made out of old files, with discarded ties for straps and odd hoses for the ray-guns. This went absolutely brilliant for about two weeks. However, I kept getting annoyed that the packs would be left outside after Michael and Jonathan went, and I would have to be the one to clean everything up. So I dismantled the backs and refused to continue the game.
But this is not the memory that riles me so much. Instead, one time, the ice cream van came up around our park. Everyone, included my twin sister Lauren, wanted to get ice creams or lollies. But my mum didn’t have enough money in her purse to get them. I however, still had some of my pocket money left. I can’t remember the maths exactly, but mum reckoned I had enough to buy ice creams for everyone, but I had other calls. I wanted a big 99 cone, with a chocolate flake, and the runny red syrup. So I went ahead and got one for myself. Just myself and no one else, and man, does this greed sting me now.
I don’t know why this one particular memory should recur in my mind over and over again. Yet it still feels me with a sense of unease, despite the time lapsed and the distance travelled. I’m no longer in touch Michael and Jonathan, just a few half-hearted phone calls and e-mails over the years. But for what it’s worth, I’m sorry. Oh yeah, hi, by the way.

Googlewhacking

I’ve been reading the multi-talented Dave Gorman’s Googlewhack Adventure book, where he travels around the world looking for Googlewhacks and their creators. What’s a googlewhack, you ask? Good question, glad you posed it. Shows initiative and let’s me know you’re paying attention. Have a biscuit.
A googlewhack is when you type two words in the search engine Google, and it brings back only one result. Out of billions of pages, only ONE page is unique in containing those two words. Wow!
However, there are a few rules here. You just can’t go googlewhacking all over the internet willy-nilly. Oh no. First of all, both words have to be listed at www.dictionary.com. You can tell if it counts or not, as Google will underline the word after telling you how many pages it has found, giving a link to the word’s definition.
Secondly, the webpage found is not allowed to be a glossary list, or anything like it, as this could hold hundreds of potential whacks. Plus, it isn’t really sporting, I suppose.
Finally, and I almost forgot this one, you can’t put the words in inverted commas to give you results with the exact phrase. Just don’t do it, whatever the temptation, okay?

So, now to find a whack. My first attempt is testicular multitudes. Wow, what does that say about my subconscious, I wonder? This results in 361 hits, so I’m nowhere here a whack. Next attempt: dorsum pentangle- 3 hits. So close!

Dorsum potassium? 4,500 hits. What?
Dorsum permanganate? Obviously going to tie into potassium… 60 hits.
Mmm, a rethink is needed here.
Uranium tricycles- 492 hits who prefer their cycling mode of transport to be radioactive.
Uranium discombobulated?- 359 hits. Ah, annoying! Uranium mustn’t be as stable an element as I thought.
Discombobulated tricyclic?- 276 hits.
Discombobulated dorsum! Surely!... 14 hits. Ooh, getting closer.

And so the next three hours passes, with so many near misses, and far more hits off target. Discombobulating oligarchy gives seven hits. Ovulatory oligarchy results in eleven returns, though it would be great to get an alliterative whack. Oligraphical phalanges gives a tantalisingly close four hits! Obviously, oligarchy just doesn’t work. Fans of the Magna Carta, I apologise.

Clairvoyant giblets equals thirty nine pages, not all of them about fortune-telling turkeys. Wombling clairvoyant gives only one hit! But wombling isn’t a word that’s recognised by dictionary.com. Bugger. Bonafide counterpoises gives two hits, both of them bonafide in themselves! The closest yet! Consanguinity fastidiousness gives a hundred and one hits, and I hardly know what either of those words mean. Sigh. If I find one, I’ll let you know. If anyone out here finds any, let me know, as I obviously suck as this game.

Not to moan, but...

Not to moan, but I’ve been off work sick and it’s getting boring. My throat is infected and I’ve got some kind of fever. After spending three days in bed, I am now trying to gather up enough potential energy to change the sheets. There’s laundry that’s been lying for half a week, dishes that have to be unloaded from the washer, and clothes which have given up all hope of being ironed and are now resigning themselves to wrinkles long before old age kicks in.
I wouldn’t mind any of this at all if I could actually do something active. But I’m a man, and by nature, men are hopeless at being sick. If I was a woman, the house would be spotless regardless, and I might have started to knit a scarf or be halfway through a Maeve Binchy novel by now. Instead, I’m hopelessly trying to read Angela’s Ashes (my housemate read it in two days, which doesn’t help my efforts) and wondering how feasible it would be not to mop the bathroom floor and risk visitors being: a) shocked by the levels of dust; b)scared by the number of spiders; or c) shocked and scared by dusty spiders.
It’s the incapacitating effect illness has on you which allows these things to go undone. All you feel capable of is feeling sorry for yourself and wondering who might be kind enough to call round and make you a cup of tea. It doesn’t help that I’m also a complete hypochondriac. On the second day of my illness, I start worrying about the fact that I’m hot, then cold, boiling then freezing, all within five minutes. My body temperature must be affected by my lack of sleep. Isn’t this how pneumonia starts? Can’t you die within three hours of this? I hope I warm up soon…
On the third day though, I’m thankfully feeling on the mend, and all thoughts of premature death have been left behind. I feel quite guilty that I haven’t done any housework, so with Herculean effort, I begin. The ironing board is raised. The t-shirts (I never iron t-shirts!) are pressed and folded. The dishes are sorted and rinsed for the washer. Even the dusty spiders are scared away with the power of pine fresh bleach. I’m feeling quite pleased about all of this, until a coughing fit begins, a hot flush comes on and I need to lie down. This is getting quite frustrating. Damn you Frank McCourt, I’ll finish your novel, and start ‘Tis if it kills me, for I refuse to do nothing. I need to bloody well achieve something with my day.
Hey look, there’s a romantic comedy starring Jason Priestly starting on Sky in fifteen minutes. I’ll just boil the kettle for a cup of tea and get some Jaffa Cakes. Then I could watch that video Richie lent me last week. Now, where’s my blanket…?