Progressive Thoughts - Day 6

Today’s song is called Ascension by a British progressive rock band called Arena.

The song has a theatrical feel to it, something I love when listening to music. The song is the final track on what is a brilliant album and rounds it off beautifully.

I imagine that you probably won’t have heard of Arena, nor in fact many of the bands in this blogathon and that saddens me a little. I’ve mentioned this before in previous blog posts and urged people to actually go out into the world wide web and actually seek music that is not on the playlists dictated to by record companies and people like Simon Cowell, who are in my view killing music.

The internet has opened up the entire world to everybody and we should all make use of it, rather than being told what to do. This doesn’t just apply to music; it applies to everything. Whatever you are interested in there is something out there for you.

I like to cite music as an example because this is one of the most important subjects I like to pontificate about – and I do realise, dear reader, that sometimes I do preach a bit. It’s my problem really because I tend to wear my heart on my sleeve over some subjects.

Anyway, as I have vowed to remain positive in 2017, I shall try to dwell on the music itself rather than attacking Simon Cowell and his partners in crime, as well as greedy record producers.

Let me use Adele as an example.

Don’t get me wrong, I think Adele has an amazing voice and has written some good music, albeit not to my musical taste. But in Britain, a new Adele album is met with absolute delight by the music industry simply because they know that they can rake in millions. Her latest album was apparently a triumph – I don’t doubt that – but it was basically rammed down our throats here in Britain particularly. I’ll give you an example.

The BBC pride themselves in not advertising but in many ways, they are hypocritical. When I am abroad, I watch BBC World News and, in between reports they show adverts – but I guess that doesn’t count because we are in a foreign land.

Nevertheless, in the UK we can watch television programmes uninterrupted by terrible and cringeworthy advertisements.

That is, unless an Adele album is realised.

The BBC gave Adele a one hour show where, in between songs, she chatted to one of the most famous UK chat show hosts, Graham Norton, and plugged her new album mercilessly.

It was a one hour advert for her album!!!!

I don’t blame her. If I were in her position I would also have accepted this lucrative offer.

In my opinion, television and radio in the UK is flawed in this regard.

If I had any clout whatsoever, I would not allow this – or alternatively – have programmes and shows that showcased alternative music out there. With all respect to Adele, there are lots of women who have written great songs and have amazing voices yet are never heard of because nobody plugs their music on prime time television and radio shows.

I would love to be a DJ at a commercial radio station. I would play all sorts of music from various genres.

Back to Adele, I have to admit that I like her Bond theme for Skyfall. She wrote an amazing song and sung it brilliantly. She deserves all the plaudits.

However, there are other women out there who have written better songs and have equally, if not better voices. I have an example.

A year or two ago, a Dutch symphonic metal band were challenged to interpret other people’s songs and perform their own version. They were given one week per song. The band is called Within Temptation and I have mentioned them before. Their song writing is amazing but on this occasion for fun they covered other songs. One of those songs was Skyfall.

Now I know that they didn’t write it, but the singer, Sharon den Adel, sang magnificently. Yes it is a little more rocky but concentrate on the vocals. I think you will be surprised.

Judge for yourself:

Do you agree?

If so, check them out.

This is the power of the internet, ladies and gentlemen.

The War Against Crap Music

Last night I went to see my current favourite musical hero in concert and this was a euphoric experience in more ways than one.

The artist in question was Steven Wilson, a musical genius in every sense of the phrase.

First, the concert was a triumph. It was everything I thought it would be. The music was perfect and on more than one occasion, I was so lost in the melodies and songs that a tear of joy escaped from my eye and rolled gently down my cheek.

Second, I had persuaded a friend of mine to take a chance and see the concert. His musical taste does not walk hand in hand with mine, but there is an overlap. When I bought the tickets, a few months ago, I suggested that he listen to Steven’s solo music on the internet and also that of his former band (currently on hiatus), Porcupine Tree. 

There was no way he would ever hear the work on the radio so he would have to use the internet. It didn't take him long to find it and since then he has devoured the music. He loves Steven Wilson and, like me, thinks it’s a crime against humanity that this guy is not massively famous. He has already started to delve into his back catalogue.

Finally, the venue for the concert was Manchester Bridgewater Hall, a place usually reserved for classical music concerts. And the place was packed with a wildly varied audience, ranging from the odd rock lover to entire families of music lovers including kids. 

Steven’s music is basically progressive rock but, my God, does the man have an ear for melody. He has experimented with jazz, orchestral arrangements, progressive rock, pop music and heavy metal – sometimes all in the same song. 

What I liked best was the fact that there is a huge audience for his music, people who have turned their backs on shit like the X Factor and radio friendly nonsense that I ranted about earlier this year in A Rant About Music.

I am not the only one.

I have allies in this battle.

It’s not easy though. 

On Friday night, I was in a pub in Manchester, celebrating a friend from work’s fortieth birthday, when I opted to leave early. The reason for leaving was that I wanted a totally clear head to see Steven Wilson and it was the most important event of the weekend for me. 

“Who?” came the incredulous replies as I tried to leave the pub at around 9pm. “Never heard of him!”

I could have stayed and discussed this further with another pint of ale but I chose to leave rather than risking hangover. This was the big event of the weekend for me and nothing was going to ruin it.

As I lay in bed this morning, remembering the concert and trying to describe it to Mrs PM, I discovered that she too had no interest.

“But the music is beautiful,” I said. “I’m not asking you to like it; I’m asking you to listen to the concepts.”

I tried to explain a song called Routine from the latest (and truly brilliant) album called Hand. Cannot. Erase., which describes a woman who uses the routine of the mundane chores every day of her life to keep her going. I didn’t really grasp the full meaning of the song until I saw it performed live, with a very moving animated video being shown in the background. The woman, preparing meals for four, washing, cleaning, ironing to help her sane until towards the end of the song she shrieks finally:

Routine keeps me in line

Helps me pass the time

Concentrate my mind 

Helps me to sleep

And keep making beds and keep the cat fed

Open the Windows let the air in

And keep the house clean and keep the routine

Paintings they make still stuck to the fridge

At this point in the video we learn that her entire family, husband and two children, died in a car crash and the "routine" is how she copes with the loss.

Heart-wrenching stuff that allowed one of my tears to escape.

The song is beautiful, melodic with disturbing undertones and has a truly magnificent guest female vocal and a choir boy and is technically brilliant as well as very intelligent.

The whole album is the same, full of deep emotional songs transcending various genres with a progressive feel but also a couple of, what I would describe as pop songs. Of course, it is progressive rock at the end of the day, but there are no songs that I don’t like.

It is a triumph and to be absolutely frank, should be made available to a wider audience.

I’m not asking you to like Steven Wilson or his music, dear reader; I’m offering it to you as an alternative to the tired old fodder that is spoon-fed to you by corporate executive billionaires who want to peddle crap music that makes them richer. I want to fire a broadside across the bows of radio stations who claim to speak for the population by playing “the music that they love” when in reality they are TELLING the people what music they SHOULD love by limiting the amount they can listen too.

Even Madonna may become an ally in this war as BBC Radio One, the so-called “kids” radio station here in the UK, has removed her current single from their playlist. 

What goes around, comes around, eh Madge? Now you know how the rest of the struggling music makers feel.

I equate this struggle to thinking that McDonald’s is the only place to get food when there is a gourmet restaurant  hidden in the back streets of the city that is not advertised and you have to search around for. Not all these restaurants are good - but most of them are far better than the bland burgers offered by Ronald McDonald.

To complete my role in this analogy, I want to be the man who meets you off the train and says:

"Before you go to McDonalds, take a look at this book, which is full of decent restaurants to try.”

In fact, that's an even better analogy:

Simon Cowell is the Ronald McDonald of the music industry.

Later in the month I will dedicate a meme to Steven Wilson’s solo work and maybe next month, I will do the same for his band Porcupine Tree.

In the meantime, here is a song called Perfect Life from Hand.Cannot.Erase. featuring the spoken words of Katherine Jenkins, the opera singer.

Remember, I’m not asking you to like it; I’m just trying to broaden your horizons and erode the influence of Simon Cowell and his cohorts.

Equally, I am willing to listen to anything you have to offer me, dear reader, and it doesn't matter what genre the music is.

I will champion anything I feel should be out there - even if it's jazz!!

Please join me.

We can do this!

Who’s with me?

A Rant About Music

It’s still January, it’s still bloody freezing outside, it is still dark when I go to work and dark when I come home. January and February are the worst months of the year and I spend almost every day feeling pissed off and grumpy.

Yes - it's another rant, I'm afraid.

Little things make my situation worse, tiny little things that ordinarily wouldn’t bother me, things that I would just push to one side and ignore. In January these little things become a major force and infuriate me.

One such thing infuriated me this morning.

I was on my way to work and I decided to change the CD in my car. I had been listening to the new album by AC/DC and I fancied a change. Sadly, when I ejected the CD, I dropped it on the floor and I had stupidly not prepared a new CD to replace it. The car stereo defaulted to the radio, which normally wouldn’t be too bad because my radio station of choice is a local rock station.

And then I found myself listening to a diabolical R’n’B hip hop crossover dirge that almost certainly featured the now obligatory pointless egotistical rap by an artist with a stupid name like $ycho, Snoop Hen or Eminemineminemiem.

I howled in frustration; I couldn’t stop the car and I needed to concentrate because it was dark and cold and the road was full of arses, trying to cut me up. My temper rose to almost boiling point.

Mrs PM had used the car and changed the radio station so I was listening to an inane, moronic DJ with the intelligence of a slug, playing the songs that corporate arses had ordered him to play. In my rage, I couldn’t figure out how to get back to my beloved rock station so I searched the airwaves and found my ears and brain polluted by utter drivel from loads of genres – songs that are played over and over and over and over again. There were new songs, old boring repetitive songs, one hit wonders, and all manner of novelty crap.

They were shit then and they are shit now.

I find it incredible that we as free-thinking humans allow ourselves to be spoon fed by the so-called gods of music who tell us what to listen to, what to like and the styles of music we have to endure. Like mindless zombies we listen to it.

“But the music is great,” I hear you cry. “You are just an ageing dinosaur. These songs are good.”

Some of the songs that receive too much airplay have been good, dear reader – the odd one. However, we are force fed utter dross most of the time because the hidden powers behind what you hear on the radio have a playlist which is absolutely full of the latest “in-bands” who have somehow managed to gain a foothold because they are pretty boys or lovely young ladies.

I am talking about manufactured boy bands, yet another bloody rap artist, a warbling woman who happens to have a great body and can dance along to her terrible song but has little talent.

Even when I stumble across a radio station playing “oldies”, it’s still the same old songs that we have heard all the time and were bored to death by, way back in the 60’s, 70’s or 80’s.

And this subjugation has permeated into everything from adverts to weddings and parties.

Every single party or wedding I ever go to that has a dance floor, either plays modern radio-friendly garbage or old songs that are totally crap but I know all the words to because I have heard them about three million times in my life.

“OH MY GOD! NOT “I’VE HAD THE TIME OF MY LIFE” AGAIN!! SOMEBODY KILL ME NOW!”

Sometimes when I have had to endure dancing to a stupid song like “Tonight’s Gonna Be A Good Night!” for the 2000th time, I sit there with frustration building up inside, fuelled by alcohol, and say to myself:

“Right – let’s get some bloody rock music!” I say and march over to the DJ defiantly. The DJ has usually said something earlier, like “If you have any requests, please come up.”

The conversation goes one of three ways:

PM: Please – I beg you – can you play something decent? Have you got any rock music?

DJ: HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! Sit down, you devil-worshipping dinosaur.

PM: No, seriously – you must have something.

DJ: No – nobody likes it.

PM: I like it.

PM: Don’t care – now piss off!

or

PM: Please – I beg you – can you play something decent? Have you got any rock music?

DJ: No rock music but I’ve got some oldies. How about “Saturday Night” by Whigfield?

PM: AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!

or

PM: Please – I beg you – can you play something decent? Have you got any rock music?

DJ: Sure – I’ll see what I can do.

The last conversation sounds promising, doesn’t it? Well it’s not! What the DJ means is:

“I’ll play one of three token rock songs: “Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey, “Livin’ On a Prayer” by Bon Jovi or “Sex On Fire” by The Kings of Leon.

AAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!!

I hate “Livin’ On A Prayer” because it has become the only acceptable rock song in a DJ’s collection and I have heard it about 100 million times. I quite liked it the first time but now it sends me into spasms of indignation.

I blame people like Simon Cowell and Louie Walsh – and probably many other old rich so-called music moguls – who manufacture pretty boys and girls and flood the radio stations with boring inane crap.

I want to start a revolution – as others are. Let’s boycott the radio and start hunting around the internet for fantastic music that will not get airplay.

I am not just focussing on rock music here – there is music out there that is new fresh and brilliant but never gets played because the image doesn’t fit with the gods of music who decide what we should all be listening to.

I’d like to highlight a song that describes the plight of modern music controlled by the music moguls which predicts the demise of future music.



Several lines stand out:

The music of rebellion makes you wanna rage 
But it's made my millionaires who are nearly twice your age

and

One of the wonders of the world is going down 
It’s going down I know
It’s one of the blunders of the world
That no one care enough

Personally, I think there is hope.

Dear reader, you and I have the power to seek out new tunes, new music – to boldly go where no music mogul has gone before (sorry for the Star Trek cliché but I believe it fits).

I have started already in the music galaxy that is called Progressive Rock and have already discovered two bands – one of them from Poland, a country that Simon Cowell and his ilk will totally ignore.

Whatever music style you love, the internet is your friend.

If I were a DJ I would rebel and spend my entire day scouring the internet for something new, refreshing and amazing – and I would play the songs but not over and over again so that people simply got sick of it. I would prefer people to go out and buy this music from independent record companies or buy the music directly from the band/artist in question.

I would make my radio show the greatest programme on the entire planet. I would welcome all and any music sent to me by like-minded people.

Are you sick of the same old bollox on the radio?

Are you fed up of the same old inane DJ’s who play oldies over and over again and sacrifice new exciting music in order to play “I Just Called To Say I Loved You” for the billionth time?

Are you absolutely pissed off with Simon Cowell and his bloody X Factor?

Or am I really a musical dinosaur?

Come on dear reader - let’s do this! Let’s rebel.

I’ll start the ball rolling – here is a great song by band you will never have heard of:



And it’s an utter crime that I intend to put right in my own small way.

Rant over - for now!!

Telly Hell

What is going on in Britain? We’re all cracking up and going mad – MAD I tell you.

I know why we are going mad – and I have a cure. The people of Britain will not like it one iota but in my view, you sometimes have to be cruel to be kind.

My plan is to purge our television of all programmes that turn people into dribbling imbeciles whose common sense seems to take a holiday for the duration of the garbage they are watching.

What has caused this outburst, I hear you cry?

I was reading about what people like to complain about on the TV and I came across an article that said a number of people had complained about the use of the phrase “soggy bottom” on a programme that seems to have turned the UK into a bunch of maniacs. The programme is called “The Great British Bake Off” and is basically a cookery programme where amateur bakers compete against each other to win some form of pathetic prize – what the prize is, I don’t know – I would never watch such rubbish.

The programme should be removed from prime time telly because, quite frankly, it turns people into brainless goons who find excitement in truly awful entertainment; some people become obsessed with such trash telly and feel the need to write about how the phrase "soggy bottom" upsets them enough to write a bloody letter to the BBC.

What is wrong with these people?

What turns normal every day pleasant and intelligent people into these sad obsessed complainers?

I'll tell you the answer: programmes made in telly hell.

Here are some programmes or types of programmes that I would relegate to the early hours on an obscure television channel or, better still, wipe off the face of the earth, in order to save humanity.

Cookery Programmes

Cookery programmes should be relegated to a specialist channel and not be shown all day every day (or so it seems). Such programmes are becoming more prevalent every single second of every single day, making celebrities out of bizarre people like Jamie Oliver, Anthony Worrall Thompson and Delia Smith. Such shows have turned these so-called celebrities into megalomaniacs – like this:



Yes – Delia claims she wasn’t drunk but wanted to use her “status” to get the crowd behind her favourite football team simply because of who she was.

She just made a fool of herself and of those who thought such a rant was a good idea.

Soap Operas

Soap operas do not reflect real life – if they did then society would break down into total anarchy, particularly if real life reflected soaps like Eastenders.

I have a confession; I used to watch Eastenders, Coronation Street and Brookside religiously (as they are on all the time or so it seems). Thankfully, I had a Eureka moment on 5th July 1991 and said to myself “Hang on! What the flump am I doing watching a programme where every character is a flawed arse who wants to con, shag or kill everyone else?”

Soaps are responsible for inflicting Jason Donavon and Kylie Minogue on us. Thanks Australia for Neighbours and Home and Away. And what about Dallas and Dynasty? America is just as culpable.

And of course, I am absolutely certain that we are totally blameworthy for inflicting Eastenders on our American and Australian friends, making them all believe that every cockney is a depressed gangster who screams at every other one and then kill themselves.

Talent Shows

The X Factor is still on for what seems like the gazillionth year. It is a show that dominates Saturday and Sunday night television, exposes us repeatedly to Simon effing Cowell and his equally talentless judges, and presents to us a bunch of lame karaoke singers who are “on a journey”, “have a deep trauma in their lives” and who all sing shit songs in the style of a bad boy band singer or in a bad impersonation a croaking warbling oversinger. Equally deplorable are The Voice, the BBC equivalent, and Britain’s Got Talent, a show that unequivocally proves that Britain has NO talent whatsover.

Such shows are gold dust for tabloids because they fill their pages with bilge about the contestants - which is apt really because I would probably ban tabloids too.

Reality TV Shows

I do not want to watch Z list celebrities trying to dance on a Saturday night in Strictly Come Dancing. Nor am I remotely interested in any other Z list celebrities who want to be dumped into a jungle in Australia. The only time I would be interested would be if they exiled Piers Morgan on a desert island – but only enough to see his smug face crumble when he realised that there would be no cameras to film him, he wouldn't actually get paid and he had to stay there for six months.

I am equally uninterested in the bunch of oversexed Geordies trying to get their end away in Geordie Shore and a bunch of posh pratts in Made in Chelsea.

I can got to the city centre late on a Saturday night to watch that kind of garbage.

Freak Shows

If I woke up and discovered that I had piled on 500 lbs or developed and embarrassing and totally horrendous bodily ailment that made me look like The Elephant Man, I would immediately call the hospital and beg them to fix me behind closed doors. I would not ring Channel 4 and say “Can I be a contestant on Embarrassing Bodies” and subject the entire horror of my condition to the whole of the UK, including showing the full gory details of all operation I need to rectify the situation.

Mrs PM is a sucker for these kind of programmes and usually watches them when it is my turn to cook (having recorded them the previous week). When I walk into the lounge, I then find myself confronted with my tellybox showing me an explicit operation, complete with blood and gore, of a man just at the point where the surgeon is going to puncture his swollen scrotum. I look at my plate and see a lovely meal but the sight of a bloated ballsack about to be sliced somehow turns me off my dinner and makes me want to throw up.

That is not entertainment.

And Finally...

There are lots more programmes I want to consign to TV Hell. I will tell you more in a future post.

Over to you, dear reader.

What TV programmes make your blood boil?

Which TV programmes would you consign to TV Hell?

Am I being weird in my choice or am I the crazy one?

Actually – perhaps you shouldn’t answer that last question.

The Music Fascist

I hate X Factor and all it stands for. I think it is destroying music.

And people have called me a music fascist because of this opinion.

I don’t think that I am a music fascist at all. I know what I like and I listen to it and buy it. The problem is that the music I like is rarely played on the radio or television so I find myself exploring the internet in order to get satisfaction.

Radio and television programmes claim to champion music but they don’t. They only play the music that they want you to hear, which means that you either get to listen to the same old songs or are spoon fed the latest trends that the music moguls want you to hear.

Chief amongst the diseases that afflict the music industry are shows like the X Factor, which wind me up for many reasons: here are a few of them:

(1) The winner of the X Factor is “guaranteed” to be the Christmas Number One. I wouldn’t mind because I know that songs that get to number one these days are put there by mass marketing that has nothing to do with the “talent” of the artist. I was delighted a year or two ago when there was an enormous backlash and Killing In The Name Of  by Rage Against The Machine derailed the X Factor juggernaut and slapped Simon Cowell in the face. What’s more, “the coveted number one spot” these days is a joke. Years ago, songs didn’t automatically go “straight in at number one” like they do now thanks to the power of the marketing machine.

(2) Many people watch the X Factor in the early stages to laugh at and ridicule the deluded idiots who think they can sing but can’t. I have caught the odd audition and I know for a fact that I can sing better than they can – and I can’t bloody sing.

(3) Once the final gets underway we get sixteen weeks of it with just one act being voted off each week. And the voting lasts for 24 hours making the producers even richer at the expense of the people who vote.

(4) Phrases like “You OWNED that song” make me want to vomit, as do phrases like “The stage was YOURS” and “You’re going to be a STAR”. The eventual winners usually get forgotten about after two years.

(5) Contestants who say “I want this more than ANYTHING – it’s my DREAM” are ritually raised up and then shot down. It is a truly humiliating experience for some of them and we witness them falling to pieces in the name of entertainment.

I could go on about X Factor but the point is that we as a music loving nation are spoon fed utter dross. Radio One is a major culprit, refusing to play anything that they deem unfit for their audience. Other radio stations are the same.

If the only music I had to listen to was the crap that was served up by Radio One I would only ever listen to Rihanna, Lady Gaga, Jay Z, Beyoncé, Take That and bloody Westlife. We live in times when manufactured pretty boys and girls who can’t sing are suddenly breaking records by having “the most number ones”.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s also bland, repetitive, tedious and awful.

I favour rock music but when you ask for a rock song at any party, pub or wedding you end with Sweet Child O' Mine - Guns n Roses, Living On a Prayer - Bon Jovi , Sex On Fire - Kings of Leon or, the crowning turd in the DJ’s collection, Don’t Stop Believing - Journey. I’ve grown to hate those songs because they are overplayed and people always look to me with a face that says “Stop moaning – this is rock music!”. They claim to like these songs. But when I cite other examples by the same bands - BETTER songs that people have no clue about. 

These songs are far superior and you will never hear them played anywhere. If you like the token rock songs I mentioned above, follow the links below - much better songs.


(1) You Could Be Mine - Guns 'n' Roses

(2) Keep The Faith - Bon Jovi

(3) Four Kicks - Kings of Leon

(4) Separate Ways - Journey


It may be rock music – but these songs are just the tip of a planet sized iceberg.

And when people hear me ranting about why I hate Jesse J and Eminem they accuse me of being a music fascist, a one genre imbecile who is living in the past.

They may be partially right – I am living in the past a little because back then a wider range of music used to be available on the radio and television.

We had The Old Grey Whistle Test and Radio One had DJs like John Peel, a man who bought the music he played, and was responsible for launching the careers of some sparkling diamonds in the music world.

Those days are gone. I mourned the loss of John Peel, a man who would play what he liked in a bid to expose new genres.

It really annoys me that there are great bands out there busting a gut to be heard and to gain exposure and being ignored in favour of a bunch of dreadful karaoke singers who are forced to sing songs written by old millionaires or dirges have been dug up from the pit of songs that should have been consigned to Hell within seconds of their conception.

Thank goodness for the internet.

Thankfully, I am beginning to see changes. There is a lot of music out there – it’s just a question of finding it.

And thanks to the internet it is possible to find out when my favourite bands are releasing new albums, something I have struggled with in the past because they have not been favoured by Radio One and that ilk.

Anyway – enough ranting.

I am going to do a bit of a John Peel thing now and provide links to some tunes from my collection, some old, some new, some from artists you may have heard of, others not. The thing they have in common is that they have never been played on Radio One or sung on X Factor.

Have a listen and let me know what you think.

(1) North – Paul Mounsey

(2) Air – Kelly Watch The Stars

(3) Porcupine Tree – Trains

(4) Ink Dot Boy – Circle 

(5) Ten – Endless Symphony 

If you like them – fine. If not then that’s also fine. But at least you had a chance to listen because you would never have heard them if Simon Cowell had his way.

I would ideally like to set myself up as the anti-Simon Cowell and force radio stations to play as wide a variety of music as possible. I would like the X Factor to become a show where new bands are allowed to shine on the television. It wouldn’t matter what the genre was and I wouldn’t stop a young rapper having five minutes to appeal to those who like that style of music (even though I personally hate rap).

I would employ a wide range of judges – not the shower that we see on X Factor – judges who are fair and open and recognise true talent when they see it. There would be judges with amazing eclectic taste not Louis Walsh, the man who infected us with Westlife.

Can you imagine that? Can you imagine an open music talent show with real musicians, real singers, real songwriters and people?

A music fascist is surely somebody who wants to spoon feed everybody with music that they either like or will make them rich rather than allowing free expression for all genres.

I am therefore not a music fascist; those behind the X Factor and Radio One etc. are guilty as charged.

I rest my case.

Dear Piers Morgan ...

Dear Piers Morgan,

I have a problem and I think you can help.

My name is Dave – and I abuse my TV.

On Friday I was a happy man, smiling at work, laughing with my friends and, most importantly, treating my TV with kindness.

On Saturday, I was positively rapturous, smiling as I watched the Manchester derby and enjoyed a relaxing day off work. The sun was shining and I even patted my TV on the way to spending a rare moment of sun-drenched bliss in Manchester.

Life couldn’t have been lovelier.

I had an enjoyable evening meal and thought that I would settle down on my sofa, with my fat black cat and Mrs PM and watch a little TV.

I switched it on.

First I saw Ant and Dec, those two supposedly lovable cheeky Geordie misfits who make old ladies smile by being silly and cracking puerile jokes. I felt deep rumblings of unease; a memory, lost in a fog within my addled brain, began to surface, gently at first, tapping a warning onto the inside of my head: “Turn over”

“Ant and Dec”, I thought as I reached for the remote control. It wasn’t there. Mrs PM tensed beside me.

As my eyes looked for the remote control, which incidentally should have been within my grasp, as it usually is, Ant and Dec were replaced by Amanda Holden, a pointless woman who (and let’s be fair to her) is about as useful and talented as a chocolate teapot.

Frustration began to mount, Piers, frustration really began to mount.

My remote control is like an extension to my hand and, like every full blooded male, must be within easy reach, six inches at most from my fingertips.

My brain went to amber alert. Mrs PM looked at me and the cat sensed something was wrong, waking up from his post nap snooze as his feline alert system moved to DEFCON 4.

As I searched for the remote control, thinking it may have dropped on the floor, my eyes stumbled onto the TV set again and the image of Amanda Holden vanished to be replaced by a weird dancer who, I presume, was trying to impress somebody – clearly not me. Behind this performing pillock I spotted some words at the back of the stage: “Got Talent”.

“Got Talent? That rings a bell,” I thought.

The remote control remained elusive. I looked accusingly at Mrs PM; as my eyes met hers a secret message passed between us.

“Got Talent? Where have I seen that before?”

A memory finally surfaced and shouted at me.

“Find the remote control! TURN IT OFF!”

“Where’s the remote control?” I asked out loud.

“I don’t know,” said Mrs PM taking a deep breath.

The cat’s feline alert system went to DEFCON 3.

I glimpsed the TV again and the image I saw there chilled me to the very marrow of my bones. It was as if a demon had reached into my chest and wrapped his clawed, cold hand around my heart.

Staring back at me was Simon Cowell.

“Quick,” I yelled. “Where is it? Where’s the remote control?”

I was seized by an insane panic. My mind screamed at me but I blocked it out; I had to find the remote control and I had to find it NOW. I stood up and whirled around my eyes hunting for the little device that would stop my transformation from mild mannered Dr Jekyll into the ranting Mr Hyde.

Simon Cowell was on my TV. I had had such a wonderful day. I thought everything was going well. My soapbox was packed away and it had been an unusually pleasant, sunny, warm April day in Manchester. Birds had flocked around my trees whistling happy tunes; children had laughed as they played in the streets; flowers had welcomed bees; clouds and rain had taken a break to allow me to see the lovely blue sky that we see so rarely at this time of year. I had been content, Piers. I was a happy man, skipping down a country lane watching the butterflies dance in the cool breeze. And now this!!!

I was determined not to let this maniac ruin my day.

I had tried, Piers, to let him know what he should do to make me happy. I even wrote a letter to him – you can read it here.

A part of me hoped that he had read my words and changed his ways. I doubted it and this was the reason why I had to get rid of the man before he destroyed the peace and bliss in our house.

The cat’s feline alert system moved to DEFCON 2.

As I frantically searched for my electronic saviour, I found my eyes drawn inexorably to the pap that was on my TV, which was preparing itself for a colossal tirade of abuse. I could sense it sending me signals:

“Please don’t shout at me again. I can’t control the crap that these people make me show you.”

The dancer had finished. The camera drew back to show three people staring at the man.

Amanda Holden – Simon Cowell – and worst of all YOU!!!!!

As soon as I saw your face on the screen something flipped within me. The demon squeezing my heart flipped a switch and transformed me into the ranting monster that my TV despises.

The cat’s feline alert system hit DEFCON 1 and the cat was out of the room in a flash of black fur, which was pretty impressive since the door was closed.

“Oh no,” said Mrs PM, now resigned to the inevitable as she got up and left the room, making a mental note to buy a new door.

“Don’t leave me alone with him,” pleaded the TV set as Mrs PM left the room.

“Busy busy busy,” said my soapbox.

“Britain’s Got Talent?” I screamed as I strode onto my invisible soap box. “NOOO!!!!! Is this bloody shit STILL on my TV? OH MY GOD! It’s a new bloody series? How can they call this monumental pile of shit “Britain’s Got Talent” when in reality it proves once and for all that anybody in Britain who actually DID have any talent wouldn’t come within a mile of this bloody show? The whole show is dreadful and it is yet another way that Simon bloody Cowell is trying to take over my life. You must have read my letter, Cowell and totally ignored it because not only have you returned to my TV with this utter bollocks, you have dug up that arrogant, smug git – Piers bloody Morgan. I hate Piers Morgan. I hate him more than you Simon Cowell. He is like your evil twin. This man has no business on my screen or in my life...”

And on it went, Piers, on and on and on and on.

Mrs PM got herself a glass of wine and sat in the garden with the cat as I marched around my lounge pontificating to my TV about what an utter tosser you are and how much you make me sick to the lowest pits of my stomach.

Well, Piers, it’s been a few days since that unfortunate episode and I think I might have calmed down. And since I fell a little more serene, I have decided to write you an open letter in the hope that you will see my problem and help me.

And yes, Piers Morgan, you are the only person in the world who can help me.

I am a nice guy who loves humanity – honestly, I am. But there are a minority of individuals who bring out the worst in me. When I see them I become Mr Hyde.

So how can you help me, Piers?

It’s easy. I will say this as clearly as I can (I promise my soapbox is away).

GET OFF MY TV AND GET OFF IT NOW!!!!!!!

I do not want to see your face or hear your voice. I do not want to see your picture in my newspaper. I do not want to hear your name bandied around in celebrity circles and have to read about you exploits in newspapers and magazines. I do not want to read anything you have written. I do not want to hear your opinions.

I’m sorry Piers, but I want you completely out of my life.

I’m not being funny but I regard you as an arrogant man whose opinions make me want to throw my dinner at the TV.

Yet somehowI know that beneath that smarmy, egotistical, opinionated exterior there must be a kind thoughtful person trying to escape.

Let that person escape, Piers. You can do it.

Set him free and give him all of your money so that you can start a new life on a remote island somewhere in the middle of the Pacific Ocean with no cameras, no photographers and no journalists so that nobody in the world (and most importantly ME) can cast their eyes on your smug face again.

I know there is a nice man beneath that harsh exterior, Piers – there must be. Nobody on this planet can keep up the awful charade you are trying to fool everybody with.

Think of the person who championed Susan Boyle, Piers – that’s when the real you emerged for a second at least. That proves that the cold concrete heart inside your chest does have a shred of humanity left.

Retire to that tropical island, Piers.

Do it for me, Piers.

Do it for Mrs PM.

Do it for my cats.

But most of all – do it for my TV. The poor thing is in therapy as we speak after the mauling it received on Saturday.

And while you are at it, take Simon Cowell, Vanessa Feltz and Jeremy Kyle with you.

Yours hopefully,

Plastic Mancunian

Dear Simon Cowell ...

Dear Simon,

I was stumbling and bumbling through the world wide interweb when I came across an interesting couple of facts about you.

Before I go into those facts, let me assure you that I am not a crank and my intentions are honourable. I didn’t put “Simon Cowell” into Google hoping to find all sorts of sordid facts about you. Let me make that clear right from the start.

In fact, the truth is a bit sad really. I was devoid of ideas when it came to writing my next blog post and I decided to look for famous Librans – and your name popped up. That’s how desperate I was.

At first, I wondered who you were – so I asked my dear lady, Mrs PM.

“Who is Simon Cowell?” I asked.

“You know when you run screaming from the room on a Saturday night,” she replied. “He’s the reason.”

“Not X Factor,” I cried.

“X Factor, Pop Idol, Britain’s Got Talent, America’s Got Talent – they’re his shows.”

At first, I wanted to hunt you down and subject you to, arguably, my biggest ever rant about the music you promote and those dreadful Saturday night light entertainment programmes that YOU are responsible for, while pummelling you around the face with a rancid salmon to emphasise my points (and believe me there are a LOT of points). I wanted to lock you in a room with Jeremy Kyle and tell him that you were a drunken chain smoker who stole sweets from babies.

But then I thought “No – I am a nice guy and I need to help this man realise the error of his ways. He is a fellow Libran.”

Simon – I want to save you.

We have a kinship, Simon, you and I. Your birthday is 7th October, the day before mine. If astrologers are to be believed, then we have similar personality traits and, although I hate to admit it, we are like brothers.

So I’m going to help you, Simon, in my own inimitable way.

Firstly, congratulations on turning 50 this year. You don’t look a day under 50 and I’m surprised you are so young. Given the dreadful music you promote (and it IS dreadful, Simon, utterly dreadful), I had assumed that you were at least 65 years old. I foolishly imagined that you were a pensioner with false teeth and dyed hair who was seeking a hobby after a long hard life being a gopher for somebody with talent. I guessed that you had a few bits of cash and had used it to inject your face with enough botox to turn you into the Michelin Man.

I admit it – I was wrong - totally and utterly wrong. And I apologise unreservedly for my warped thoughts.

Now, how can I help you?

First of all, being a Libran like me, I can understand your need to rant. I can fully appreciate you desire to vent your spleen when something displeases you. Look at fellow Libran Margaret Thatcher! She vented her spleen for eleven years as Prime Minister of Great Britain.

I’ve seen you in action. I can’t bring myself to watch your appalling TV programmes but, in the interests of research, and in a desire to make you a better person, I have suffered by watching your performances on YouTube; quite frankly I’m appalled.

Here are some of your worst moments:

“You’ve just killed my favourite song of all time”

“It was a bad shrieky version; I’d pack your suitcase.”

“You sing like a train going off the rails.”

“You sounded like Dolly Parton on helium.”

“You’re too old to be a Barbie Doll.”

“I really hate your image – it’s almost creepy.”

“That was like a one year old, singing.”

“Do you have a singing teacher? Get a lawyer and sue her. I’m serious.”

“That audition was like watching a ship sink.”

Simon, there’s no need to be that nasty. I can be that nasty from the comfort of my own living room but the only casualty is my television (which incidentally is thinking of suing me for constant and relentless verbal bullying). The victims of my cruelty are beyond my reach and will never hear me liken them to a screaming tuneless banshee. But you are staring them in the face when you utter those words. It is despicable.

My first piece of advice is, therefore, to be nice to these awful people. They may sing like crows on drugs but they are human beings. They may be the most talentless humans in the world with voices like broken foghorns – but they can’t help it. In their eyes (or should I say ears) they ARE divas; they ARE Elton John; they ARE Stevie Wonder; they DESERVE the fame they are going to get.

Be nice to them. Just say something like:

“I vote no. Next!!”

And when pressed for the reason, let them down gently:

“It was good but there are better people out there.”

The contestants will be happy and the audience will be happy. Nobody will ever take the piss out of your hair again.

Which conveniently brings me to my next point. I have terrible hair and I openly admit it. Mrs PM forces me to put products on it to keep it from invading the house next door. She even does it when I am asleep. You would do well to take her advice. To be honest, your hair looks like a tiny aircraft could land on it. I’m not sure what effect you are trying to create but it does look absurd.

One person said “[his hair] looks like he cut it himself blindfolded in a dark room with his feet”.

I’ve had worse things said about my hair – but you are on telly, Simon. Millions of people watch you every week. People tune in hoping to see a seagull perch on your head and your bonce and crap on your face.

I know it took you a while to get rid of those ludicrous high-waisted trousers and now, apparently, you do actually look a little bit like a human being again. You can do the same with your hair. With a decent haircut you can face your critics with your head held high. And there will be not one seagull in sight.

My final piece of advice is to stop promoting boy band clones, girl band clones, women who think they are Mariah Carey and guys who think they are Robbie Williams and embrace your one true love – ROCK MUSIC!!!

Get out there and start a talent show for young up and coming rock bands; there are thousands of musicians who can actually play instruments, write their own songs and are in bands with mates just waiting for a decent record deal.

I am sick to my back teeth of hearing second rate pop-clones filling the airwaves, warbling badly on a Saturday night and filling our tabloid newspapers with meaningless twaddle about their private lives.

Embrace up and coming rock bands on a Saturday night and I might watch you without:

(a) throwing up
(b) assaulting my telly to a with a cricket bat
(c) getting into trouble with Mrs PM for puking on the carpet and assaulting her poor TV with a cricket bat.

I am trying to turn over a new leaf myself and to spare my TV before it leaves home. You can do the same.

We are Librans. We love Rock music. You can change. You must change.

Yours Sincerely

The Plastic Mancunian

P.S. Sorry for comparing you to Margaret Thatcher. It took years for me to get over the fact that her personality was similar to mine in the eyes of astrologers. I’m still not over it yet actually. The Plastic Mancunian is not for turning – AARRRGGHHH!!! Sorry Simon – ignore that last sentence.

P.P.S. If you want more advice my fees are reasonable. I charge £200,000 for a 10 minute session. Cheap at twice the price – don’t you agree?