The Big Three Killed My Baby by The White Stripes

The artist:

Having burst into public consciousness at the turn of the century, confusion initially reigned supreme as to the nature of Jack and Meg White’s relationship. Claims of being brother and sister were later disproved and evidence of a 1996 marriage between the pair emerged. It really ought not to have been a huge shock that they weren’t genetically related, considering the disparity in natural musical talent between the multi-genre-inducing guitar-keyboard-vocals-mandolin-glockenspiel virtuoso and master of intense heartfelt lyricism that is Jack, and Meg, who hits drums quite hard.  

Meg’s drumming ability was often the subject of above such ridicule during the White Stripes’ time, which in fairness was and is harsh as she provided the perfect platform for Jack’s incredible array of talent to shine. The only relevant outcome is the music and as a contributor to six stunning albums of outstanding quality and variety, not to mention one of the most iconic anthems of the 21st century, it’s fair to say Meg probably wouldn’t trade places with most of those who sneer at her – myself absolutely included.

The album: The White Stripes (1999) 
The White Stripes’ self-titled debut provides something of a definitive definition for lo-fi garage rock – in that it genuinely gives the impression that they’re in a garage. 

While perhaps the most straightforward of all the White Stripes albums in terms of consistency of tone, it is not without variety. Tracks like Wasting My Time (blues rock so intoxicating you phone in sick the next day) and Jimmy the Explorer (pogo stick headbang) are tempered by delicate country serenades like Suzy Lee and Sugar Never Tasted So Good. The likes of Cannon and Broken Bricks are good old-fashioned walls of distorted noise, while covers of Robert Johnson’s Stop Breaking Down, Bob Dylan’s magnificent One More Cup of Coffee and the uncredited St James Infirmary Blues merely add cheeses of intrigue to a smörgåsbord of musical delight. 

The vibe:

This has all the vibes of a key character in EastEnders having a breakdown upon discovering their spouse’s affair and trashing the Queen Vic. Images of Phil Mitchell throwing a pint glass at the gents or Ian Beale labouring to tip over a table are invoked as Jack raises the anger and pitch with each verse. 

In fact, if you play it in the background, it really captures the emotion of Barry’s commendable effort to trash Pat Butcher’s place from 1:55. (Turn Barry down but not off so you can still hear his distant roars) 

Lyrics:
The big three killed my baby
No money in my hand again
The big three killed my baby
Nobody's coming home again

Their ideas made me want to spit
A hundred dollars goes down the pit
30,000 wheels are rollin'
And my stick shift hands are swollen
Everything involved is shady
The big three killed my baby

The big three killed my baby
No money in my hand again
The big three killed my baby
Nobody's coming home again

Why don't you take the day off and try to repair
A billion others don't seem to care
Better ideas are stuck in the mud
The motors runnin' on trucker’s blood
Don't let them tell you the future's electric
Cause gasolines not measured in metric
30,000 wheels are spinnin'
And oil company faces are grinnin'
Now my hands are turnin' red
And I found out my baby is dead

The big three killed my baby
No money in my hand again
The big three killed my baby
Nobody's coming home again

Well I've said it now, nothing’s changed
People are burnin’ for pocket change
And creative minds are lazy
And the big three killed my baby

And my baby's my common sense
So don't feed me planned obsolescence
Yeah my baby's my common sense
So don't feed my planned obsolescence
I'm about to have another blowout
I'm about to have another blowout

Investigation:
Everyone loves a murder mystery, even when it concerns the particularly morbid crime of infanticide, so allow me to don my detective’s hat and get to the bottom of this one. Jack White pins culpability for this callous crime on a non-further elaborated ‘big three’, so let’s examine the suspects on the basis of the clues he gives us.

‘The Big Three’ colleges
- Harvard University
- Yale University
- Princeton University

Case for the prosecution
Affiliated to various hospitals in the area and home to scientific departments conducting experimental research, it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that a baby could die under the ‘care’ of one of these institutions. If they do indeed have medicinal equipment ‘running on trucker’s blood’, as Jack claims, then it’s quite easy to see how this could pose a danger to patients. 

Case for the defence
These are highly respectable institutions and infant death by medical negligence is a very serious accusation indeed. As institutions that sit on a combined endowment of $80.8bn, I find it tough to believe that not only would they collude to murder a child, they’d rob the parent as well (‘no money in my hand again’).

‘The Big Three’ at the Yalta and Potsdam Conferences of 1945

- Winston Churchill, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom (Later replaced by Clement Atlee)
- Franklin D Roosevelt / Harry S Truman, Presidents of the United States
- Joseph Stalin, Communist Party General Secretary of the Soviet Union

Case for the prosecution
Well, when it comes to murder, it’s fair to say Stalin has a track record. Supposedly capable of crushing a bird in his hand upon his deathbed, it probably wasn’t beyond his capabilities to strangle a child. Lyrically Jack asserts that ‘everything involved is shady’, and Yalta and Potsdam certainly meet the definition, what with giving Eastern Europe to Stalin while giving him a nudge and a wink about having the deadliest weapon in human history. The 30,000 spinning wheels could be a reference to tank movements across the continent at the time. 

Case for the defence
These guys were busy people, and no matter how critical Jack is of the post-war agreement, it seems a bit of a stretch to imagine they’d kill his child in response. Furthermore, with this meeting of the big 3 often seen as the start of the Cold War, they didn’t agree on much, least of all targets for assassination. 

The Big Three – Merseybeat group best known for 1963 recording of Some Other Guy
- Casser (Rhythm guitar, lead vocals)
- Adrian Barber (lead guitar, vocals)
- Johnny ‘Hutch’ Hutchinson (drums)

Case for the prosecution
Supposedly The Big Three were once seen as rivals to the Beatles – Johnny ‘Hutch’ Hutchinson once claimed towards the end of the 1950s that the Beatles “weren’t worth a carrot”. Considering their contrasting fortunes from thereon in, it is easy to see how this group could end up being embittered out-of-pocket arsons for hire (‘people are burnin’ for pocket change’), and you can’t rule out Jack’s child being an accidental victim. Jack’s mention of ‘creative minds [being] lazy’ could be a pop at The Big Three’s complacent inability to capitalise on the original popularity of the Merseybeat scene.

Case for the defence
A lazy, unoriginal and offensive man might suggest that these Scousers are responsible because there’s ‘no money in [Jack’s] hands again’. They might link ’30,000 wheels are spinnin’’ with some kind of hubcap theft.

This is patently ridiculous. 10,000 hubcaps per man is far too much. 

The Big Three infectious diseases
- Malaria
- HIV/AIDS
- Tuberculosis 

Case for the prosecution
Well it’s not difficult to see how a combination of these three would be tough even for the most resilient newly born to resist. Jack is likely to have been in close contact with his child during the infection process, which might explain why ‘[his] hands are turnin’ red’ and/or why his ‘stick shift hands are swollen’. 

Case for the defence
It seems unlikely to me that an infant would catch all three diseases at the same time – it would require not only a horrendous run of luck, but exposure to all sorts of ill-advised conditions. Which would suggest that, even if true, Jack as a parent should accept ultimate responsibility.  

VERDICT:
For me the Second World War leaders have probably the least regard for human life out of all those on the suspect list, including the non-sentient diseases whose existence is tied up in killing humans. However their bastardism was almost always tied up in some sort of self-interest, and I can’t for the life of me pin down a motive for having the KGB and CIA collude to kill a non-politically aligned kid at the same that Greece is ravaged by left v right civil war. Not to mention the chronological difficulties involved here. INNOCENT

I can’t accept that the US colleges would engage in such behaviour – not just on the basis of institutional reputation, but also because Jack White actually spoke at Yale last year. Would seem a bit odd if he held them partly accountable for the death of his first born. INNOCENT

Malaria, HIV and TB are shits yes, but in the western world they rarely hunt in packs. INNOCENT

Quite honestly I just can’t shake the feeling that The Big Three of Merseyside have something undoubtedly ominous about them. Perhaps reaching conclusions regarding murder on the basis of one photo isn’t the most forensic approach to detective work, but tell me that these guys aren’t capable of burning down a house for a few quid because they heard that Paul McCartney lived there.

GUILTY

Ultimately I wouldn’t imagine that they intentionally set out to kill anybody, rather this was a vandal attack gone horribly awry. I imagine they wept in horror when they realised the house actually belonged to Jack White and was occupied at the time. As such I would recommend a lesser charge of involuntary manslaughter*.


*- If The Big Three of Merseyside are litigious types, I am officially not advocating a charge of involuntary manslaughter. 

This Town Ain't Big Enough For The Both Of Us by Sparks

The artist:

It’s very difficult to put your finger on Sparks. It could genuinely take you many, many listens before you gave up trying to establish what gender the singer is. Hell, with singer Russell Mael here being the one on the right, even the picture doesn't make it especially clear. It should be noted that his brother Ron was the only man on the planet still willing to sport the Hitler 'tache, 29 years after the collapse of the Third Reich.

The album:
Kimono My House (1974)

Falling In Love With Myself Again is the either the ironic waltzy manifestation of rock bottom alcoholism, or the unbelievably assured waltzy declaration of self-adulation from a man at the peak of his powers. It’s difficult to tell which. Thank God It’s Not Christmas is the result of putting Fleetwood Mac into a festive blender, combining with chamomile and star anise.  

Overall, the album is probably what it would be like to take a speed-ketamine cocktail in a Japanese kindergarten run by a cult.

The vibe:

This hyper glam rock tune, a number 2 hit in the UK, places you into a real life adaptation of a Crash Bandicoot/Mario Kart style game. One could be racing against a gorilla of some kind, perhaps through a strange stormy city, being subjected to random assaults from bizarre little Far Eastern creatures who populate the roads and fire cartoonish weaponry at your vehicle, like crab mines or octopus bazookas. 

Lyrics:
Zoo time is she and you time
The mammals are your favourite type, and you want her tonight
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat
You hear the thunder of stampeding rhinos, elephants and tacky tigers

This town ain't big enough for both of us
And it ain't me who's gonna leave

Flying, domestic flying
And when the stewardess is near do not show any fear
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat
You are a khaki-coloured bombardier, it's Hiroshima that you're nearing

This town ain't big enough for both of us
And it ain't me who's gonna leave

Daily, except for Sunday
You dawdle in to the cafe where you meet her each day
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat
As twenty cannibals have hold of you, they need their protein just like you do

This town ain't big enough for both of us
And it ain't me who's gonna leave

Shower, another shower
You've got to look your best for her and be clean everywhere
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat
The rain is pouring on the foreign town, the bullets cannot cut you down

This town ain't big enough for both of us
And it ain't me who's gonna leave

Census, the latest census
There'll be more girls who live in town though not enough to go round
Heartbeat, increasing heartbeat

You know that: This town isn't big enough, not big enough for both of us
This town isn't big enough, not big enough for both of us
And I ain't gonna leave 

Annotation:
In this number, songwriter Ron Mael relates to an unidentified person his belief that the town in which they reside does not possess adequate capacity to accommodate both individuals. A strange notion one must concede - a town not big enough to size just two people suggests either a very small town indeed, probably more worthy of being defined as a village or hamlet, or very large humans, or perhaps a combination of the two. Regardless Ron uses his musical platform (as performed by brother Russell) to highlight the numerous instances in which this discrepancy of size has caused problems for everybody involved, including the infliction of some kind of heart condition upon the song’s subject.

Oh shit

Starting with perhaps the most dramatic example, Ron details how a number of dangerous wild animals were able to escape from captivity, perhaps on account of this person’s giant lumbering hands destroying the zoo's protective fences as he attempts to get a closer look at his beloved ‘favourite’ mammals and impress his date for the day. (The mere presence of elephants, the world’s largest land animal, and indeed a zoo full stop, would appear to immediately eliminate the very small town hypothesis.) Why Ron considers the tigers in this zoo to be particularly garish and distasteful is not clear, perhaps they have had their fur painted or dyed in some kind of unnatural colour. Either way, it’s not especially relevant.  

Next up, Ron details a curious experience whereby our gigantic friend finds himself operating a civilian aircraft in a military capacity, the ‘bombardier’ having somehow found himself in a position of flying a domestic Japanese flight to the southern city of Hiroshima. Ron once more points out how this particular voyage isn’t good news for the pilot’s heart, presumably because of the stress caused by operating a small domestic aircraft as some kind of unwieldy goliath dressed as an air force bomber, flying towards a city of great historical significance and a population of over one million. While not taking place in the setting of their hometown, Ron has probably invoked this anecdote just in order to further emphasise that this person is really quite big. 

Hiroshima: no more bombardiers please

Again, in verse 3, our lyrical directee’s size proves awkward even in the setting of his daily coffee with the missus. Remarkably he is of such an enormous stature that as many as 20 flesh eating passers-by are not only able to descend upon him and attach themselves to him in whatever way they can, but they also consider him a plentiful source of nutritional goodness. I would wager that if it were me sitting in the same café, at most three cannibals would find me of a suitable enough frame to keep them adequately fed for the afternoon. That would make this individual around 6 and ⅔ times larger than me, rendering him around 40ft tall. This is clearly a café with a tall ceiling.  

Verse 4 cruelly points out the difficulties of showering when at this height, tempering it with the good news that, should he be on the receiving end of a gang shooting, regular sized bullets are unlikely to fell him. Finally Ron consults the town census to confirm that there are simply not enough adequately sized females in the area to please a man of his magnitude – I am guessing the aforementioned girlfriend walked away from the whole affair following cannibal-café-gate.

Throughout these verses Ron outlines his forthright view that this individual’s size is of such an absurd scale, causing danger to himself and unto the wider community, that it is only right that he take his leave.

Conclusion:
My immediate hunch is that Ron and Russell are probably right on this one. No one likes to evict a man from his own home, but when you are enabling some of the world’s most fearsome creatures to roam free from their previously domesticated setting and when you are attracting disproportionate numbers of cannibals to previously quiet cafés, it is probably not going to be long until you are made to feel fairly unwelcome as local businesses have to pick up the pieces. That is not to mention the health implications upon the giant himself, approaching ever closer to a heart attack. 

Whether our songwriter and songsinger friends have this kind of eviction power is not known, but it is probably only right that the giant be given some form of right of reply, whether through the courts or through another song. My primary concern is that even if he were to move to a larger town, perhaps even a super-conurbation or urban agglomeration like New Delhi or Tokyo, it is still difficult to imagine that a 40ft man would be easily accommodated, where overpopulation is already an issue. Indeed, more densely populated areas could prove even more dangerous, presenting further scope for accidental destruction or the attraction of flesh eating species.  

A new life? 

It could be that the two brothers have reached the right conclusion for the wrong reasons. It is probably best this enormous man leave the area, but not because of the inadequate size of the unnamed town, but rather because it is actually too large and poses too many inherent dangers within it. Instead, the giant should perhaps look to find a place in a remote rural destination, such as the Hebrides or the west coast of Ireland. The local tourist boards may even be able to utilise his freakish and most likely record-breaking nature to attract much needed visitors to the region.  

The Twelve Days of Christmas

The artist:
Unknown, although said to be French in origin. For the purposes of this blog, we will be listening to this novelty mash-up a cappella version from Indiana University’s Straight No Chaser, recorded in 1998. 

Mainly because it invokes Toto’s Africa in such a way that gives Geldof a pretty comprehensive slap down, their recollection of having “Christmas down in Africa” putting the mockers on the myth that the continent isn’t even aware of the festive period. You’d bloody remember it if these jokers racked up in town. 

The vibe:
That loving combination of repetitive and festive: Repeti-festive. See also: Feliz Navidad 

Lyrics & annotation:
Today I will be analysing lyrics in diary form, starting on the day before it all kicks off.

[24 December]
Dear Diary

One sleep to go til Christmas. Gonna be a quiet one this year with just the kids, what with my one true love, Margaret, working in Dubai or something. I hope she sends me something good this year – last year’s shaving kit was a bit of a disappointment and I told her as such in our latest Skype chat. I’ve sent her some shampoo and a new potato peeling set (2 x potato peelers, 1 x bag of potatoes), I’ll be a little embarrassed if she upstages me in some way. 

[25 December]
On the First day of Christmas my true love sent to me
A Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Well she’s certainly blown the shaving kit out the water, although I’d call it a score draw with the potato peeling set. At around 9am I opened the door to the surprising sight of a Yodel delivery man unstrapping a tree from the roof of his van. We had a bit of banter about the impractical nature of Marge’s gift, and I helped him carry it to the back garden where I’ve just rested it on the ground for now, I wouldn’t know how to replant a tree anyway. I noticed there was this colourful bird among the branches, I think a pheasant or something. Anyway it’s probably not a bad call as the garden definitely needed livening up, but I can’t help but think it would have been more satisfying to be given the seeds so I could plant the tree myself – I don’t mind waiting a little longer for it to grow, particularly as I don’t really like pears anyway.

The delivery man, Carl, stayed for Christmas lunch, turns out we were his only job for the day. We joked about eating the pheasant but in the end just got stuck into the turkey I got from Lidl. Was tempted to use the pears from the tree in a crumble but I don’t know how to bake, and neither does Carl.   

[26 December]
On the Second day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Bloody love Boxing Day. Footy on the box, Lidl turkey sandwiches, kids are amusing themselves or whatever. Carl stayed the night in the end, I think he’s a bit lonely. He’s a nice guy but says some right odd things at times. 

Anyway strangely there was a second part of Margaret’s present which apparently didn’t make it yesterday, and even more strangely it’s another bloody pheasant & pear tree combo. There must have been an offer on I guess. This time however, the delivery man – who Carl definitely recognised but avoided speaking to – also brought out a coop with two doves in it. They don’t look as meaty as the pheasant, and I don’t know if you can eat dove, but I can’t see why Marge would send them to us if I wasn’t supposed to eat them? I don’t really like birds either. 

[27 December]
On the Third day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Diary, this is getting ridiculous. I sent Carl out to get beers as we’re running low, and by the time he’d returned we’d acquired a third tree and six more wild bloody birds. It’s bad enough having a lonely delivery driver with bad breath and questionable views on the Asians, but now we’ve got three hens, four doves and three pheasants knocking about… I’m definitely going to eat some of them, but I’m a bit queasy about cutting them up and stuff so I think I’m going to tell Carl that if he wants to stay any longer, he has to kill and cook at least one of the birds roaming about in our garden. 

I would ask the kids but they’re only 4 and 2 years old, so I instead I sent them out to gather pears. We must be able to make a soup or a curry or an omelette or something with them? 

[28 December]
On the Fourth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Neighbour knocked on the door today. “Your doves are eating the seeds we’ve been planting in our garden mate,” he said. “And the branches of that second pear tree are clearly encroaching over our fence. Mind keeping handle on your back yard please boss?” 

Yeah well it’s going to get worse, pal, because that dozy wife of mine has sent four really noisy twats this time, on top of a repeat of yesterday’s six birds + pear tree. Three weeks ago she flies to Dubai, and in the time since she’s apparently a) gone mental and b) forgotten the size of our garden. Carl spent a bit of time chasing one of the French hens but he couldn’t catch it for shit, kept tripping over the Christmas decorations.   

[29 December]
On the Fifth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree

Dear Diary, good news today! I’m no mug, I can detect the mathematical pattern that’s going on with Margaret’s ‘presents’, and so when I woke up I was quietly hoping that it was all over and that she’d stopped the game on number 4. So I was naturally disappointed to hear the familiar murmur of the Yodel van, peeling back the curtains to take in the equally familiar sight of a pear tree strapped to its fucking roof. 

This time, however, get in! There wasn’t five of any kind of bird to go with the 10 other bastards in the van – no ducks, no ostrich, no pelican orgy for me today. Instead the driver handed me a small jewellery box, which contained inside five rings of real gold. Suddenly everything began to click – it’s a little joke of hers whereby she sends me loads of impractical things I don’t really like (pears, birds), and then follows it up with a whole host of shit that I can fit in a drawer and sell for cash. “Can I have one?” asks Carl, invading my personal space as he leans over my shoulder to check out the rings. I laughed and tried not to suppress my increasing contempt for this guy. “Make me French hen pie, then maybe we’ll talk,” I lied. 

Suddenly, I no longer dread the Yodel van. Who knows what tomorrow will bring?! Six Fabergé eggs? Six iPads-a-charging? Six days in the Bahamas? 

[30 December]
On the Sixth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Six Geese-a-Laying, 
Five Gold Rings, 
Four Calling Birds, 
Three French Hens, 
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Not fucking funny. 

[31 December]
On the Seventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

New Year’s Eve, 7pm, most of the world is already pissed and getting ready for cracking night out, and I’m digging the old paddling pool out the shed so these twatty swans can float around instead of breaking my arm or my neck or whatever it is they can break. And there’s massive fucking goose eggs and bird shit everywhere. I want to go out on the lash but I’ve got to look after the kids - I would get Carl to look after them, but I don’t think I can trust him not to steal the gold rings or get one of my kids eaten by a swan. So instead it’s the four of us having a night in with Jools Holland, plus the RSPB jamboree outside. To make matters worse, the neighbour’s having people round his. I reckon he would have invited us, but our relationship is a bit weird now, his cat tried to attack one of our calling birds but one of the swans came to his rescue and twisted the cat’s ankle. I tried trimming the branches off the pear trees but the pheasants started going mental and the branches just fell down into his garden anyway, which just pissed him off more. 

[1 January]
On the Eighth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Last night was alright, all things considered. Kids popped off to bed early, although the older one threw a shit fit when she found 15 turtle doves in her room. Get used to it kid, I thought, we’ve nearly 100 birds in the house now and no doubt more on the way. Me and Carl got smashed on Lidl vodka and played FIFA, which is difficult when you’ve got all manner of wild birds pecking at your face and flying in front of the screen and what not.

Anyway today I was making a nice goose egg and bacon sarnie, to help with the hangover, when the bell goes. It’s later than the normal Yodel delivery, and up until then I thought I’d got away with it, with it being a bank holiday. Well, this one’s a little tough to explain. The van with the usual delivery was there, but alongside them was an unusual sight. Up until this point I don’t think  I’d ever seen an actual milk maid, I wasn’t really sure if they really existed, but here in front of me were eight of them, and more than that, all at work milking things – cows, goats, almost anything you can imagine a maid milking. 

Tried Skypeing the wife to find out wtf was going on but the screen had been pecked to the point of destruction.

[2 January]
On the Ninth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Nine Ladies Dancing,
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Back at work today which would normally be shit but quite frankly it’s good to get out the house. All a bit mad here now, Carl’s trying to get one of the maids help him catch a goose for us to have for tea, but the dozy cow caught one and tried to milk it. Came home to what has to be classed as a result, certainly in relative terms. There were these nine girls all dancing with Carl around the Christmas tree in the lounge, one of them doing some nice samba stuff, another doing the robot, I think one of them was doing some solo line dancing. There was twerking, even a morris dancer, it was mad. Carl, who by now has been in my room and helped himself to a gold ring for each finger, was loving it. 

Been thinking of getting an extension to the house. The goose eggs have started hatching all over the shop, and I’m not really comfortable with Carl staying in my bed, even if we are also sharing with two ladies, five maids, one lost pheasant and six or seven turtle doves. 

[3 January]
On the Tenth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Ten Lords-a-Leaping,
Nine Ladies Dancing,
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Well Carl did it. He caught a bird, wrung its neck and fixed us up a cracking roast with apple and sage stuffing, cider gravy and assortment of carrots, parsnip and roast tatties. It was genuinely delicious, even if we struggled to get some to everyone, what with there being 50 people in the gaff. But size of portions aside, the only real issue was that Carl had mistakenly cooked a swan, thinking it a goose, and had done all of this right in front of an apoplectic member of the aristocracy – he was hoppin’ mad, I tell you. Tell the truth, his nine mates were all a bit mental, jumping around all over the shop, exacerbating what was already a charged atmosphere. 

The Queen’s Guard came round and took Carl away for Crimes against Swans. I miss him, in a way. One of the Lords smashed a wine glass and a maid broke my Playstation.   

[4 January]
On the Eleventh day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Eleven Pipers Piping,
Ten Lords-a-Leaping,
Nine Ladies Dancing,
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

Alright well Dave from nextdoor’s been round again, and to be fair to him I can hardly blame him. Not only are these Lords proper Bullingdon bellends, smashing up the gaff and throwing pears and goose eggs at his house while calling him an ‘oik’, I’ve just let in eleven even noisier bastards. In the end we had a bit of a row, shouted it out, calmed down a bit, and after some negotiation he’s agreed to take eight ladies and one piper to stay at his. 

[5 January]
On the Twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent to me
Twelve Drummers Drumming,
Eleven Pipers Piping, 
Ten Lords-a-Leaping,
Nine Ladies Dancing,
Eight Maids-a-Milking,
Seven Swans-a-Swimming,
Six Geese-a-Laying,
Five Gold Rings,
Four Calling Birds,
Three French Hens,
Two Turtle Doves
and a Partridge in a Pear Tree.

So Margaret hasn’t been in touch for a few days, I can only conclude that she totally lost her shit while in Dubai and is curled up in a ball in an institute somewhere, naming species of bird. In any case, I tried to explain to the kids, but they don’t really know what’s going on at all anymore, what with all the noise and the mess and the squalor – and, today, the media coverage that’s cropped up since Lord Carrington of Buckingham put a call into Sky News and got them to come down and do a piece on poor people. “In this house live two children yet in the bathroom alone I counted 15 French hens and 27 swans,” the reporter shouts earnestly to camera over the sound of two heavy metal drummers engaged in a duel. “The garden is practically a forest of pear trees, one piper told me that he hasn’t eaten since he arrived yesterday, and the maids have milked every species in the house dry. And yet when I open this cupboard, here stored away, 30 gold rings, each and every one 24-carat gold.”

The authorities put the kids into social services for the next 12 days of Christmas, while I had to do a course on ethical cleanliness and general hygiene in the household. I received my BA (Hons) but it didn’t make up for the hate campaign the Daily Mail led against me for the next six months and Nigel Farage’s promise to deport me if he won. He didn’t win, but it’s still annoying. 

Conclusion:
Christmas gifts needn’t always be serious or mainstream. They can be light-hearted or amusing, left-field or alternative. But if you are thinking of playing a joke or doing something ‘random’ or ‘wacky’, then consider the consequences for the recipient of the gift. 

Even if we were to presume that the actual protagonist in this tale is a possessor of large plots of land, with ponds aplenty and plentiful living quarters, it remains impolite to burden upon someone such a large number of animal and human guests without prior warning. 

That is without even considering the implications from an animal welfare perspective. Keeping 224 wild birds in a domestic environment is nothing if not irresponsible, and probably illegal.

Overall one can presume that the 'one true love' in this instance meant well, but in the end has inadvertently caused stress and disorder for their other half at presumably considerable expense.


The Stats
12 x Partridges in a Pear Tree
22 x Turtle Doves
30 x French Hens
36 x Calling Birds
40 x Gold Rings 
42 x Geese-a-Laying [unspecific number of chicks born]
42 x Swans-a-Swimming
40 x Maids-a-Milking
36 x Ladies Dancing
30 x Lords-a-Leaping
22 x Pipers Pipping
12 x Drummers Drumming 

Feel It by The Tamperer featuring Maya

The artist:
The Tamperer featuring Maya

These Italian purveyors of hackneyed Europop briefly stumbled into our lives in the late 90s, like a merry tramp accidentally wandering into a private party at the Hilton. After treating us to a hearty rendition of Feel It, they were swiftly shown the door and were never heard of again, presumed lying in a ditch somewhere outside of Florence. 

The album: 
Fabulous (1998) 

The opening track confidently declares that If You Buy This Record (Your Life Will Be Better). Information on how many people heeded this advice is difficult to come by, and such is the lack of online presence, one might surmise that many in the late 90s missed this great opportunity to improve their fortunes. 

It’s shit, by the way. And not in a ‘so shit it’s good’ way either. Track 5, I Love Being A Girl (I like every flavour / Boys in every style / I like it when they feed me / I like it when they smile) could be a collaboration between the Crazy Frog and the corpse of Jade Goody, such is the level of talent, subtlety and wit on display.

In fact, it is such a standard bearer for pathetically inane lyricism that I felt the need to do what no man on the internet has done thus far, and transcribe the lyrics:
http://theworstsongseverwrittenbyman.blogspot.co.uk/2014/11/i-love-being-girl-by-tamperer-featuring.html 

The vibe:

The bells are a direct edict from the Lord: thou shalt drop all distractions and make thy way to the church dance floor for renditions of The Worm, The Robot, The Macarena and any other clichéd school disco routine. 

Lyrics:
You got it on the side
A little one night thing
I thought it over and this time I will forgive you
Well I'm not letting go
But don't forget I know
You made your bed and she was in it, no no no

What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?

Well I'm not blaming you
But she's still hanging around
And she's so crazy, tell ya now I just don't trust her
She thinks she's right on time
But I think she crossed the line
And I'm ready for the ride, I'm ready if it's fighting time

What she's gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?
What's she gonna look like with a chimney on her?

Annotation:
The song is clearly a message from Maya to her other half concerning a third party of the female gender, so first thing’s first, who is ‘she’? A ‘little one night thing’ that one might put ‘on the side’?

Sounds like Maya and her other half have run out of booze and so have called in a Knighthawk delivery, an expensive course of action but when you’re desperate, you’re desperate. Maya is quick to forgive the other half for having drunk the house dry, and in Verse 2 is rightfully irritated by the fact the delivery is late and yet the driver, unusually a woman in this instance and presumably contacted by phone, is insistent that she is not. However the suggestion that ‘it’s fighting time’ seems a bit excessive – there may have been traffic or something. 

Why the delivery lady spent time previously in their bed is unclear. What I do know is that making a bed while there’s someone still in it is just downright stupid. You’re liable to wake them up and ultimately they’re just going to get out and mess up your work all over again – a little patience wouldn’t go amiss.

The chorus is devoted to asking how the delivery woman might appear in the unlikely event of a chimney being balanced upon her person.  

Conclusion:
Being a deliverer of alcohol late at night seems dangerous territory for a lone woman, so kudos to the unnamed driver for her unperturbed bravery, even if her timekeeping leaves something to be desired. 

Maya meanwhile is belligerent and curious, willing to contemplate violence as a response to poor customer service, inquisitive as to the visual consequences of human beings wearing household structures.

The boyfriend sounds like a bit of a domestic moron who doesn’t wait for individuals to get out of bed before making them. 

The main thrust of this song is just an inquiry, and if someone had just bothered to crack out MS Paint all those years ago, then we could have saved ourselves the bother of this whole palaver. 

She would look like this:

*Drawn on Windows 7 version of Paint which would not have been available in 1998. One might expect the results to be similar.  

Clint Eastwood by Gorillaz

The artist:

 
In theory the wankiest concept known to man: famed musician known for being cheeky poster boy of Britpop devotes following decade to pretending to be a cartoon. In practice, Gorillaz are one of the most innovative listenable genre-spanning artists of the 21st century, with 2010’s Plastic Beach collaboration-fest bordering on the verge of masterpiece. Real life members are confirmed as being Cockney genius Damon Albarn and his comic book mate Jamie Hewlett; cartoon members vary between abducted Japanese child who will one day give evidence at an inquiry and disgusting pervert thing that will one day be subject to an inquiry.

Also featuring on this record are the hip-hop stylings of Del the Funky Homosapien, of rap supergroup Deltron 3030. Later on this album, Del’s funky credentials are confirmed in Rock the House, while his Homo sapiens credentials are confirmed by various photographs taken of him in which he appears distinctly humanoid.  

Clint Eastwood, after whom the song is named, is a popular actor who once conversed with an empty chair because he thought the President was sat on it. 

The album: 
Gorillaz (2000)

At the turn of the century, aged 12, I reached the conclusion that music was good, and Gorillaz’s self-titled debut was the first album I invested in. On reflection, a bizarre concept album from a ‘virtual band’ was a fairly hipster choice for first ever piece of music bought, but at the time being a hipster wasn’t a thing so I didn’t receive much stick for it.
 
The album is at least 80% bipolar, lurching from the party-on-a-pirate-ship positivity of Rock the House, all the way down to New Genious (Brother), which is a musical manifestation of a swamp crocodile slowly feasting on the gammy carcass of a fallen wildebeest. Somewhere in between you’ve got Slow Country, a Caribbean lonely hearts page, and the Spanish interpretation of purgatory as expressed in Latin Simone. 

The vibe:

To listen to Clint Eastwood is to ride an apocalyptic merry-go-round based in Chernobyl, upon which all of the horses are mutated in some disgusting way – fun, if disconcerting.  

Lyrics and annotation:
[Chorus: 2D]

I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad
I got sunshine in a bag
I'm useless but not for long
The future is coming on
I ain't happy, I'm feeling glad
I got sunshine in a bag
I'm useless but not for long
The future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on

Lead singer 2D uses the chorus to note the subtle intricacies of language: while being ‘happy’ and feeling ‘glad’ may be synonymous, they are not automatically interchangeable, with the concept of happiness tending to symbolise a contented overall frame of being, and gladness referring to a more temporary sensation of satisfied pleasure.
 
The source of this short term pleasure is a recent purchase of some kind – he has popped into HMV or perhaps iTunes and acquired one of the numerous DVDs, books or albums entitled Sunshine. A short bit of Wiki-investigation shows us that it sadly couldn’t be S Club 7’s third album, as that came a year later, but could be a copy of the American monthly digest of the same name, which allegedly was filled with “uplifting articles and anecdotes”. This explains a lot – an uplifting anecdote would instil a burst of gladness without having the requisite importance to one’s being to fulfil a deeper happiness void.
 
2D’s already had a browse as he is clearly feeling very uplifted - he spends the rest of the chorus informing us that he’s generally feeling positive about things to come.
 
[Verse 1: Del the Funky Homosapien]
Finally, someone let me out of my cage
Now, time for me is nothing cause I'm countin' no age
Nah, I couldn't be there, now you shouldn't be scared
I'm good at repairs, and I'm under each snare
Intangible, bet you didn't think so I command you to
Panoramic view, look, I'll make it all manageable
Pick and choose, sit and lose, all you different crews
Chicks and dudes, who you think is really kickin' tunes
Picture you getting down in a picture tube
Like you lit the fuse, you think it's fictional
Mystical? Maybe, spiritual
Hero who appears in you to clear your view when you're too crazy
Lifeless to know the definition for what life is
Priceless to you because I put you on the hype shit
You like it? Gun smokin', righteous with one toke
Psychic among those, possess you with one go

Enter Del, and he immediately expresses relief at being freed from some form of inhumane imprisonment, not befitting of a self-declared Homo sapien such as he. Nonetheless, judging from the liveliness of his delivery upon exit, it hardly seems like he has served a Mandela-esque stint – indeed, he boasts that he didn’t even count how long he was cooped up for, implying that he doesn’t own nor want a watch as time for him is ‘nothing’.
 
The main theme of verse one is Del’s helpfulness with someone struggling with the art of amateur photography. He alludes to an ability to fix hardware problems early on, although swiftly betraying that he is something of an impatient and bossy teacher – ‘bet you didn’t think so I command you to.’ However the real subject of his technical proficiency becomes most apparent from line #6, in which he assures us that he can make the wide angled panoramic function on one’s mobile phone or digital camera a ‘manageable’ affair.

Taking shots like this needn't be
intimidating with the right tuition

When one reads backwards from this point, suddenly his previously confusing lines make sense: ‘Nah, I couldn’t be there’, a reference to an attempted panoramic by a clumsy amateur photographer, resulting in Del appearing in a comically inaccurate position; ‘Now you shouldn’t be scared’, assuring the same individual that, although no doubt challenging, we mustn’t ever be afraid of expanding our horizons (no pun intended) beyond standard-angle shots.
 
The reference to his ability to repair the situation is self-explanatory, while the ‘snare’ he discusses is not the noun but the verb: to capture or catch (i.e. in a photo). He also assures us that he is familiar with the photo editing software – the ‘picture tube’ of course being a PaintShop Pro term for graphic images with no background.  
 
The rest of the verse is slightly self-aggrandising regarding his teaching ability, at one stage claiming this advice is ‘priceless to you’ and declaring himself a ‘spiritual hero who appears in you to clear your view when you’re too crazy’. Although rhythmically pleasing, this is probably a little arrogant to put on a business card.
 
[Chorus]
 
2D remains glad and perky about his future. Perhaps he is one of those receiving photography tuition.
 
[Verse 2: Del the Funky Homosapien]
The essence, the basics, without it you make it
Allow me to make this, childlike in nature
Rhythm, you have it or you don't, that's a fallacy
I'm in them, every sprouting tree, every child o' peace
Every cloud and sea, you see with your eyes
I see destruction and demise, corruption in disguise (that's right)
From this fucking enterprise, now I'm sucked into your lies
Through Russel, not his muscles, but the percussion he provides
With me as a guide, y'all can see me now cause you don't see with your eye
You perceive with your mind
That's the inner, so I'mma stick around with Russ and be a mentor
Bust a few rhymes so motherfuckers remember
Where the thought is, I brought all this
So you can survive when law is lawless
Feelings, sensations that you thought was dead
No squealing, and remember: that it's all in your head
 

One of Del's self-placement Photoshops

A continuation of the lesson, Del assures us that the art of good photography is to walk before you can run – ‘the essence, the basics.’ And, he is going to explain everything in non-jargonistic ‘childlike’ language, which hopefully won’t be too patronising. One can only assume that around lines 4 and 5 Del is showing us some Powerpoint slides in which he has used his Photoshop skills to place himself among various trees, children, clouds and oceans – a somewhat egotistical way to highlight his abilities, but as we learned from Verse 1 this is hardly out of character.

At this stage the whole thing gets a bit dark and he rounds upon the college that employs him – ‘this fucking enterprise’ – for apparently representing concealed corruption and dishonesty. One might imagine he considers them responsible for his recent forced captivity. While this outburst in front of his students is a little unprofessional, he nonetheless assures them that he isn’t planning on throwing in the towel: ‘I’mma stick around with Russ and be a mentor.’ Russel Hobbs is the drummer of Gorillaz, seemingly drafted in as some kind of teaching assistant.
 
He closes off by informing the class that his motivation for teaching comes from a belief that photography will be valuable within a society that lacks rule of law, perhaps for monitoring police brutality or catching a politician cheating on his wife. He closes with a reminder - ‘it’s all in your head’ – that good photography lies more in mental, rather than technical, ability.
 
[Chorus]
 
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future is coming on
It's coming on
It's coming on
My future

2D really wishes to emphasise that he is positive about his future. The implication is that he not only attended Del the Funky Homosapien’s amateur photography course, but he also found it a worthwhile experience that taught him valuable technical skills, boosted his self-esteem and looks good on his CV.
 
Conclusion: 
Del is something of a maverick in the classroom, railing against his employers and boasting of his abilities in often coarse and colourful terms. If his cohort was that of a primary or secondary school class, then this would simply be unacceptable. As it is, you would only expect photography courses to be offered at higher or adult education institutions, and so while his methods may remain unconventional, we needn’t entertain moral panic over his use of obscenities. 
 

Sometimes when you teach you have to work
outside conventional boundaries

More to the point he is clearly an effective and likeable tutor. While some of his technical references highlight his impressive in-depth expertise, he nonetheless maintains an accessible and easy to understand approach to teaching: beginning at the basics, reassuring his class when they get overwhelmed and providing many useful pointers along the way.

Perhaps most tellingly of all, if 2D’s delighted feedback is anything to go by, he can expect a glowing report when the Student Satisfaction Surveys come in. Considering his unconventional style of tuition, his undoubted popularity among his students, his questioning of authority and his considerable issues with his employers, one detects more than a whiff of Dead Poets Society about Del the Funky Homosapien’s teaching career. Should that be the case, come the day of reckoning, the reinvigorated 2D can be expected to be the first to stand on his desk and salute ‘O Captain, My Captain’.