Critical Everything

Reviews of anything reviewable

[criticaleverything]

This Chicken

I bought this chicken from what I thought was a reputable butchers. I wasn’t planning on buying a chicken. I felt like beef that day. But it caught my eye as I passed the window. 

It was bright yellow and shining, with a cheeky little bowtie to boot. “It must be cornfed to be so yellow” I thought. Its open mouth seemed to be calling at me. “Hello? Hello! Hello sir! Why don’t you take me home and partake of my deliciousness?”

I couldn’t resist. I went in and bought it. It was surprisingly cheap, only 59p. That should have made me suspicious, but I was salivating too much to care. 

I thought to make a stew of it, so I popped it in a pot with some water and vegetables. And some seasoning.

After an hour I went back to take it out and strip the meat off, for adding back into the broth. Upon removal I found it to be very tough. Usually you can pull the meat off with a fork, but that wasn’t happening. Perplexed, I put it back in the pot to cook a bit longer. I cooked it for another hour, then another after that, then another four before giving up. It was tough as an old boot! 

I was very hungry by now, and in a fit of desperation I popped a lemon in its mouth and stuck it in the oven. I was watching telly when I noticed a strange smell coming from the kitchen. It was sharp and foul and distressing. Very quickly the smell got stronger and smoke began billowing into the living room. I got up and made for the kitchen but the smoke was too thick. I could feel myself getting light headed, in a not unpleasant way, and my eyes were stinging terribly. 

With a tea towel over my mouth I got to the oven, which was on fire. Opening the door, a fireball jumped me, setting alight the oven glove on my hand. “Argh!” I screamed. The last thing I remember was the sight, forever etched in my mind, of the burning chicken. Flame was shooting from its mouth and eyes, and it was slowly melting, the mouth sliding down into a hellish grimace.

I woke up in the hospital, a breathing apparatus in my mouth and some tubes in my arms. Apparently a neighbour had heard the fire alarm, seen the smoke and called the fire services, who, god bless them, rescued me. 

My entire house burnt down, and all because of a fucking chicken. I called the insurance company and a mean lady laughed at me and called me an idiot before hanging up. Angry and broke, I sued the butcher for selling combustible chickens without proper labelling. I won, though it turns out the gentleman wasn’t even a butcher, and the butchers was actually an Oxfam. The judge agreed they still should have labelled the chicken correctly anyway. I’ll never eat chicken again.

Subjective Rating: 0/10. It burnt my house to the ground.

Objective Rating: 0/10. Surely nobody has a use for rubbery, flammable chickens.

[criticaleverything]

Jamie Oliver - A Cheese For All Seasons

This new cookbook from Jamie Oliver, the chef, takes cheese as its main focus, scattering a whole variety of cheese-based recipes amongst long winded ramblings around the nature and philosophy of the world’s many cheeses. Jamie’s central postulation here is that cheese can be divided into three main colour groups - white, yellow and blue. Furthermore, these colour groups can be aligned to the seasons to create a year-round cheese calendar.

Within this calendar, the summer months are represented by the white cheeses. Think mozzarella, feta, halloumi, soft goats cheese and such. Consider also ricotta and cottage cheese as well as the lighter hard cheeses such as pecorino romano or a particularly pale manchego. Winter is the realm of the blues. Dense and crumbly stilton; roquefort and gorgonzola to name but a few. The viciously pock-marked surface a slice of cabrales presents you, like the battered fists and features of a bare knuckled brawler. Spring and autumn share the yellows, and indeed, there are enough to go around. Soft brie and camembert. Box melted vacherin, flavoured with garlic and wine. Nutty Gruyere and Comte. Sweaty brebis and crumbly cheddar, dusted with salt deposits like those on fresh baked bricks in a wet and drying wall. Parmesan. 

Using this structure, Jamie suggests recipes and ideas to fill the seasons with cheese-based delectations, such as a warming beef and stilton pie for the winter and a light feta, red pepper and bulgur wheat salad for the summer. Cheese on toast can comfort you on those rainy autumn days while a camembert-bacon-potato salad will gently ease you from winter to spring. 

This is all fine. As with most of his recipe books, Jamie has opted for ingredients and cheeses that are simple enough to obtain for the average UK shopper, though a few may require a trip to a respectable deli or cheesemongers. Only on rare occasions does he seriously reference some of the more outlandish members of the dairy world such as caciocavallo podolico, a rare Italian cow cheese. All the meals I’ve made so far from the book have been tasty, and I’ve become acquainted with more than one new cheese. But the real question is whether this rigid division of cheese into seasonal groups is successful or indeed practical. 

In my opinion, it is not. There is a place for blue cheese in the summer just as there is for white cheese in the winter. A salad composed of stilton, pancetta and romaine lettuce is as light and summery as any mozzarella and tomato concoction. And what to do with a parmigiana, where yellow and white deliciously clash? Are we to banish the quattro fromaggi, where all colours of cheese play an equal part, to the pages of history? Perhaps not. Perhaps the presence of all cheeses upon it makes it a year spanning delight. A unified, weather defying whole. One thing is for certain, a cheese board would be a damned shambles if hemmed in by these bitter, repressive walls. 

In all respects apart from its central conceit, this is a handy cookbook, and a great treasure for the cheese lover. Oliver is loving and meticulous in his descriptions of the many cheeses mentioned, often describing their origin and history alongside their physical and gustatory characteristics; even adding a rare anecdote or two. But to get the most from this tome, one must play it fast and loose. If you wish for a halloumi wrap in the tight grip of winter then by all means have it. Of course, because of Oliver’s adherence to the seasonal premise, there is a lot missing, a warming paneer and potato curry or somesuch, but no cookbook can cover everything, and there is still a lot to be gained here, not least with the detailed cheese breakdowns which give you a handy foundation upon which you can build your own creations.

Subjective Rating: 9/10. I like cheese. There aren’t many cheese focused books on the market. It’s a boon.

Objective Rating: 6/10. There is a wealth of good information inside these pages, but its adherence to the principals and philosophy of seasonal cheesing leads it to fall short of the glorious work it could have been.

[centuriespast]

GIOTTO di Bondone Legend of St Francis: 8. Vision of the Flaming Chariot 1297-99 Fresco, 270 x 230 cm Upper Church, San Francesco, Assisi

[criticaleverything]

Flying Chariots. 

Flying chariots were invented about three thousand years ago. By whom is uncertain. Some notable users are Elijah, the old testament prophet, Helios, god of the sun, Indra, lord of Svarga and, of course, Santa Claus. In actual fact, almost all flying chariot drivers tend be deities, demi-gods or at the very least a step above the average mortal. Take St Francis above for example, most certainly a divinely touched character, setting off on a trip from his monastery. You’ll notice he isn't driving the carriage by conventional means, instead navigating it solely with prayer, something you or I will most likely never be able to do.

This is the main problem with flying chariots as a mode of transport, and the reason they aren't a major competitor to cars and aircraft in the modern day. There simply aren't enough godlike beings or holy people to pilot them, which is a pity, because they are a fast, cheap and environmentally friendly means of travel, capable of outperforming any other vehicle currently in production. Firstly, they don’t require conventional fuel, only spiritual power, which studies have shown is a near inexhaustible resource. Second, they can travel at extremely high speeds, fast enough to distort time itself, which is why Santa can deliver so many presents in a single night. Third, you can pilot them in space without event the need for a spacesuit. Incredible.

Phaeton diving the sun chariot. Unfortunately he lost control of it on his first excursion and was killed mid-flight bu Zeus, lest he blow up Earth with his reckless maneuvering. 

Anybody can purchase one, all you need do is buy a conventional chariot, but unless you have the requisite spiritual prowess, you won’t be going anywhere. With this in mind, it’s always better stand in the chariot and have a quick test pray before purchase. If you can fly it, lucky you, you’re now the master of the worlds greatest and most exclusive mode of transport. Be wary however, as these chariots are notoriously difficult to control and it is unlikely you’ll be able to find an instructor. If you aren't careful, you could very well end up like Phaeton above, and risk killing not only yourself, but at least part of the planet. Luckily there is an almost accidental inbuilt safety feature that stops people flying under the influence. Because they run on spiritual power, and spiritual power is weakened by sinful behaviour, boozing etc. will drain a persons spirit levels enough that they won’t be able to start the chariot until they’re sober and repentant.

Subjective Rating: 9/10. I happen to be lucky enough to be able to drive one, and it’s an absolute pleasure. I would give it top marks but refrain from doing so because it is so unbelievably dangerous. 

Objective Rating: 1/10. Less than 0.01% of people can drive them, so they aren't objectively useful at all. 

[criticaleverything]

Diamond Tan

As it's summer, I thought it a good time to review a new tanning lotion on the market. Diamond Tan is exactly as it sounds, a tanning lotion made with bits of real diamond. Promising a quicker, more even tan than other lotions, it utilises what is calls: micro beta-particle refracto technology. What this basically means is that the diamond dust in the oil refracts and amplifies the suns light, shooting millions of tiny laser beams directly into your skin. 

Now you're probably thinking 'is that safe?', and the answer is most certainly no. Already banned from most countries in the EU, it's still available to buy in Britain, though the packaging comes with a warning, similar to those on cigarettes, explaining that using this product can lead to cancer and serious burns. The slogan is backed up by a humorous but effective picture of pork crackling, taken super close up so you can see the little hairs. Of course the government has levied a tax on this product to discourage use, but knowing as they do that the people of Britain will try to roast themselves crispy at any given opportunity, a cynical man would say they are cashing in on a dangerous product, with no real regard for human safety whatsoever. 

Of course, that may be unfair. After all, until one has tried the product, who's to say it's really that dangerous. Maybe the countries that banned it are sissies, and besides, who wants to live in a nanny state, right?

With that in mind, I gave it a go, though with some precautions. First, I only applied it to my right arm, and second, I applied it on an overcast day in March, with the temperature somewhere around twelve degrees. This might strike you as a little over the top, but having read an article linking the manufacture of this product to research centres in North Korea, I didn't want to take any chances. 

The lotion is very smooth to apply, without the grittiness I was expecting from an oil packed full of diamond, and had a gel like quality. Colour wise, it was clear as day, with no brownish tinge, and as I rubbed it I could see my arm start to glint. Indeed, when I went outside and my arm caught the sun, it began to glow and shimmer, like a desert mirage or a cartoon rod of plutonium. Such was the intensity of the light, I had to throw up my left hand and turn my head, to shade and avert my eyes. 

Before I even had time to take in this strange development, my arm started to emit a sizzling noise and a dull burning pain began to set in. Within about thirty seconds of being outside, the pain had become unendurable and I ran back into the house to seek shade, but it was too late. I had hardly made it into the kitchen before my forearm spontaneously caught fire, like a vampire exposed to daylight. Acrid smoke was filling the room, blinding me and setting off the fire alarm whilst I screamed like a maniac and stumbled for the sink to douse my arm in water. With a hiss and a billow of steam, the fire went out, but though I kept the arm fully submerged, it took another twenty minutes for the glowing to stop. That done, I wiped the agonising limb down with a dishcloth to remove as much of the lotion as I could, taking a few layers of burnt skin off in the process. Then just about managing to swallow a handful of painkillers, I fainted upon the kitchen floor.

When I awoke, the pain was gone, and to my surprise, the arm I had supposed to be a burnt lump by now was actually a perfect golden brown, moist and supple to the touch, velvety in fact. I can say as a pale skinned sort, not prone to browning, that this was undoubtedly the nearest my arm had ever come to what could be described as a perfect tan, and three months later my right arm is still looking great. Unfortunately the rest of me doesn't match, and though I'm sure the results would be great, I'm simply unwilling to expose the rest of my skin to the traumatic and miraculous powers of Diamond Tan.

As a side note, you may think a product like this would be wildly expensive, but though taxed to the nines, the use of artificial diamonds in the lotion keeps the price to a fairly reasonable £22.99 a vial. 

Subjective Rating: 1/10. I still have nightmares where I wake in panic, thinking my arm on fire. 

Objective Rating: 3/10. This product definitely works, and deserves points for that, but the pain it causes and the risk it poses forces upon it a rather low score. 

[criticaleverything]

Fishface O'Henry and the Jazz Musketeers.

Fishface O'Henry and the Jazz Musketeers is a live album by Fishface O'Henry and the Jazz Musketeers. For those who don't know who these pioneering jazz cats are, they're pioneering jazz cats who've been breaking musical boundaries for almost half a century. 

Fishface first cut his chops in New York, becoming a regular jazzman around town. A trumpeter, he got the nickname for the way his face would inflate when he played, sometimes to an enormous size. He soon became one of the biggest names in the NY club scene, and after being on a few good records as a session musician, formed his legendary group The Jazz Musketeers in '69 whose records and live performances quickly made them a national, then international act of great renown.

The band is still made up of its original members, apart from pianist Duck Withers, who passed in the early 70's from a bad batch of heroin. He was replaced by the legendary Eggs Boscome. The other members are Curly Van Peterson on drums, Earl Klutz on alto sax, Max Django on bass and Moggsy Anderson on trombone. 

Fishface hasn't used an instrument since '72, instead becoming possibly the worlds greatest mouth trumpeter. The story goes he did a bunch of acid before giving his what he thought was his best trumpet performance to date. People at the show agreed, and the crowd went wild. It was only later when he sobered up that he realised he hadn't even being playing an instrument. In the words of Moggsy:

"Man, that shit was crazy. He we all are up on stage, warming the crowd up for Fish you know, 'cos he liked to come on a little after the band for suspense or whatever. Anyway he comes on stage with his trumpet case, same as usual, only when he opens it, there's nothing there, it's empty! I'm thinking 'oh shit, he's done lost his mind' with him reaching into the case to pull out, well nothing! There he is acting like there's an trumpet in his hands, us still playing, waiting to see what he's gonna do. I'm looking at the crowd, who clearly think this is some kind of a joke or something, when he raises that imaginary goddamn trumpet to his lips and starts blowing. Man, nobody thought it was a joke then. He's laying out the baddest trumpet playing anyone had ever heard, and he didn't even have a trumpet! Shit, those crazy fish cheeks of his were bulging and he was making the sweetest sounds. When he finished that first number the crowd all stood and cheered the damn roof off. Whew! I'll never forget. When I told him what happened later he looked at me like I was mad 'till the rest of the guys confirmed it. After that he never looked back, never played an actual trumpet again as far as I know. Never does on stage."

Fishface's mouth trumpeting is what gives the group its unique sound and approach, and this comes across very clearly on this live album, recorded in Holland in 2003 at Jazz Fest. The group might have been going 40 odd years by this recording, but the music sounds fresh as ever, full of off kilter rhythms and intertwining melodies. I included one of the shorter tracks, Tumbling Potatoes, above to give a taste of what you can expect.

It's certainly not easy listening. These guys play loose. Real l o o s e. The music they make tends to follow abstract themes and feelings, rather than melodies, set rhythms or anything restrictive to the vibe. This is what makes them such a great live act because they never play a song the same way twice, basing their sound on the players moods and approach to the subject at the precise moment they're playing. In this track, they set out to catch the essence of potatoes tumbling and rolling down stuff. One day it might be the jolly tumbling of the taters down a soft, grassy hillside on a sunny day, the next it might me their bloated stumbling down the cold steps of a cellar. Listen to the track and don't tell me you can't picture those potatoes doing their thing. It's like a perfect Haiku in music form.

As a whole album, this live performance catches the essence of the band and their music as well as anything they've released in their career. The years they've spent playing together has made them a seriously competent unit, but not at the expense of the spontaneity and spirit of discovery that has always been the backbone of their sound. Take Cats Scramblin' in the Kitchen, or Old Mans Swagger from this album and tell me aren't just as fresh and exciting as the versions they recorded in the 80's and 90's. If you're new to the group, give this a listen not once, not even twice but a few times. What at first sounds like mindless chaos will slowly start to make sense, then click. Before you know it, you'll be revelling in its complex simplicity and, dare I say it, genius. 

Subjective Rating: 9/10. Would've got ten if they'd included Chubby Lobster in the set. But hey, that's just a personal thing.

Objective Rating: 10/10. Both a flawless jazz and live album, down to the banter and crowd participation. It really catches them at their stunning, dynamic best.

[criticaleverything]

This piece of beef jerky (a review in the form of a Haiku)

Biting a piece off is a Herculean trial. It is quite good though.

Subjective Rating: 7/10. Good. Moreish. Objective Rating: 6/10. No pain no gain. 

[criticaleverything]

My Job Application to Wired Canvas

There are two kinds of job applications in this world - the ones where you thoughtlessly wing off a CV and prefab cover letter, and the ones where you bring the big guns out.

This, as you may have surmised, is one of the latter. The job description was personable, and itself probably required a good deal of thought and effort, so it only seemed right to reply in kind. The requirements were specific, and there was a sense that a bit of out-the-box thinking would go a long way. Anyway, they asked that applicants included 'something else', whatever they felt was necessary, so I thought it would be a good opportunity to kill two birds with one stone - get a new review up on the blog, and add a little bit of je ne sais quoi to my application. 

Before I go further, I should probably explain the Hello LP cover above with my head crudely inserted in place of Lionel Richie's. The subject line for the application is "Hello, is it me you're looking for?" so it seemed natural that I should include the picture above, for humour and to show off my obvious flair for design. So far I think things are going pretty good.

The application itself is almost an essay. I have crammed in as much to support my suitability and enthusiasm for this role as possible, with an individual answer to every skill or task required of me. I've also highlighted a little of my background, and tried to give an honest account of my character, as well as researched the company and its employees. If I was reviewing the application based solely on effort, I would certainly give it an A. It's as comprehensive as I feel I could make it without going mad and writing an entire biography, or coming across as deranged, Rupert Pupkin style in King of Comedy.

So I've definitely covered my skills and technical suitability for the role, the harder thing to judge is whether I got my character across. The application called for personality as much as it did for 'skillz'. After all, you have to actually work with people, and getting along with them is fundamental to job satisfaction.

I think I gave an accurate impression of myself, and I hope it's an impression that rubs the people over at Wired Canvas the right way. There's no objective right personality after all, so I can only hope mine is to their taste. This blog will certainly help colour me in further, which is good, I think.

I should also mention I'm very happy with my CV, which I've designed with lots of colours, nice examples of my work, pretty text and a clean layout. Go me. 

Subjective Rating: 9/10. However much you think you've nailed something, there is always a niggling doubt. 

Objective Rating: 8/10. It helped get me in the top 3.2% of applicants and secure an interview which is pretty dandy. I didn't get the job, but thanks to my review, at least I got the opportunity. 

[criticaleverything]

Bagpipe Cats

Bagpipe Cats are a rare, twisted instrument found upon the Scottish island of Lerwick, far from the constraints of civilisation and scornful of rationality.

Invented by somebody totally mad, they are the Frankensteinian combination of an actual cat and a set of bagpipes. The result is a living, breathing instrument that can be picked up and played. Just like normal bagpipes, you simply place the cat under your arm and rhythmically squeeze it whilst fingering the pipes. There's a blowpipe located in its rear incase it needs extra inflating, but most of the time its lungs and natural breathing rhythms do the job.

Why would somebody invent this? Well. The reason is the peculiar and quite beautiful sound it makes, like a distorted electric bagpipes. When playing the cat, it opens its mouth wide in a snarl of ecstasy, amplifying the sound and imbuing it with randomised textures, as well as rhythmic meow's and purr's.

I had the chance to play one last week when I ran into a travelling piper by Walthamstow marshes. At first glance I thought there was simply a tartan cat by his side, then I looked closer and noticed it had pipes growing out of its back. Having read an article about animal instruments on The Mail Online (apparently trumpet snakes and alligator keyboards are surprisingly common), I knew what it was and asked if I could have a tinker. Kindly, the gentleman permitted it, and luckily I managed to record a short sample on my phone. Here it is: 

The sound it made was amazing. This low quality recording doesn't do it justice at all. The melody, rich and powerful, wafted over the marshes like a million treacle butterflies, stirring in my heart primitive memories of a time before myself, even before us. 

I have to say, the cat didn't seem perturbed by my playing it, and offered not a scratch nor a hiss when I picked it up. I talked to the piper, asking whether he thought it a cruel practice. He told me they were born this way, genetically modified to grow into instruments, and found nothing perturbing about their situation, natural as it was to them. Whether this is truly the case I cannot say, though I myself find it hard to countenance. I am yet to find a full scientific report on these cats, but when I do I will post it up here.  

Subjective Rating: 5/10. The sound of a Bagpipe Cat is astonishing. It is one of the most wonderful things I have ever experienced. I have mixed feelings about playing a piped cat though.

Objective Rating: 1/10. It’s pretty ethically unsound. The practice of making genetically modified bagpipe cats can only be to the detriment of humanity. I have rated it 1 rather than 0 because part of me thinks I might be wrong in this assumption. Humanity is always fucking with other parts of nature, so maybe Bagpipe Cats are in actuality a perfectly acceptable offspring of our technical and societal evolution.

[centuriespast]

Two wooden anatomical figures, 17th century

Anatomical figures of a male and a female with removable chest and abdomen covers. Some religious restrictions on dissection were lifted in the 15th century, which led to the wider study of anatomy, using models like these as extra teaching aids. Both figures show the heart and lungs, one shows a pregnant female with a baby in the uterus, and the other shows the kidney and intestines in a male.

The Science Museum

[criticaleverything]

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One of the best things I've seen in a while. I like the fact this wooden couple still strive to maintain their dignity by covering their bits, even while their inner workings are exposed. Kind of like Adam & Eve after the first bite of the apple. God sees all!

Subjective Rating: 10/10. Yes.

Objective Rating: 10/10. They don't make 'em like they used to. 

[centuriespast]

Beaded Picture

Date:1650-1670

Place:England/United Kingdom

Cincinnati Art Museum

[criticaleverything]

  This is the best thing I've seen in months, no, years. Look at all the wondrous detail, the birds and butterflies, caterpillars and cats. And in the center of it all some sweet guy handing his lovely a flower. This is everything I wish the world was, my best dream captured and made real. 

Subjective Rating: 10/10. Amazing. Undeniably so.

Objective Rating: 10/10. Humanity rarely, if ever before, or since, has achieved perfection such as this. It shines with the highest values an artist can hope to capture, a humble beacon to guide and comfort all our souls. 

[criticaleverything]

Tom Ford's Posing

I was reading an article about Tom Ford in The Times Style Magazine the other day, and was struck by Mr Ford's repetitive posing in the photos. I'm not sure whether it's a conscious affectation, 'blue steel' style, or just an accident, but in every one, he's pulling the same look, at least as far as his head goes. It's a kind of frowny, sly grin thing, presented from a 3/4 profile facing right, a sort of 'I see you there buddy, and yes, I'm the bees knees' look. Please see below, and recognise:

Magnum

Ferrari

Le Tigre

Blue Steel

As you can see, he might as well be a fucking mannequin for all his variety of expression.. Maybe this is the point, like he's a secret insider, a pervy voyeur providing a contextual frame for the model whilst casting a knowing glance to the onlooker. More likely he's just a shit poser and a thief to boot. Look at the gif below and tell me he didn't steal his entire vibe from actor Todd Rivers of Garth Marenghi fame. You need to sort it out Ford.

Need I say more.

  Subjective Rating: 2/10. He gets 2 because it's an alright face freeze. It's the repetition that kills it. 

Objective Rating: 7/10. 'Ooooooh, he's so handsome'.

[criticaleverything]

Crafty Dans Retro Vintage Junk Emporium

Crafty Dan sells shit for a living. His Retro Junk Emporium is essentially a standard junkyard with the word 'retro' and 'vintage' snuck in to make it attractive to the 20-35 year old world-'o'-Poloroid-image-obsessed-with-a-bit-of-money-and-artistic-pretentions market. Based in the parking lot of a burnt out dummy factory in Peckham, the emporium is mostly outdoors, with Dan conducting business out of a wigwam, which also serves as his home.

On a side note, it was used as the location for that Miley Cyrus video where she licks a hammer. I don't want to tell you what Crafty Dan was up to when that was going on. OK, I do. He was wanking in his wigwam.

Alongside the standard array of junk you can find some gems here. Last time I was down I managed to bag a gas powered Victorian toaster and Richard III's flat cap, pictured on the man himself below:

Nice.

Both items came to a tenner, which was a bit steep compared to the old days, but the emporium has become increasingly popular, and to be fair, Crafty Dan could probably do with the cash. A few years ago I picked up Napoleon's pimp cane for two quid, which is an incredible bargain. You can see the pimp cane in the picture below. It's the one with the little gangsta hand doing the brap sign on top.

Brap Brap.

These were great finds, especially the flatcap and pimp cane which go together real good, but many times you can walk around for hours and not find a thing. This has been made worse by enterprising salesmen who come down with vans to buy up all the good stuff, presumably to sell at a huge markup somewhere that isn't a parking lot.

I asked crafty Dan what he thought of this. He said he 'couldn't give two shits'. As long as his wigwam is in good nick, and he can afford his small pleasures (vintage erotica, cans of Guinness Original, Wicked Zinger Box Meals), it seems he's mostly content. 

To get the best finds, go on a rainy day. The absence of roofly protection will drive away all but the most dedicated retro vintage junk shoppers.

Subjective Rating: 7/10. Prices have gone up, and real gems are thinner on the ground than they used to be, but this place is still one of London's best destinations for good trash.

Objective Rating: 5/10. Not everybody's into retro vintage junk.

[criticaleverything]

Pandora's Box

Pandora's box is an artwork by Bob Moody, an artist famed for throwing a packet of Danish bacon at Damien Hirst. It is, I guess, a found object in the form of an old erotic painting, that has been painted over with acrylic, for reasons of re-contextualisation and aesthetics. It is called Pandora's Box. The meaning of the name is pretty obvious upon even a casual glance. The lady in the painting, assumably Pandora, has a bright pink box around her, well, box. 

Let us peer into the depths of this oniony work, to see what we may discover. First off, we have a gag, a pun, a play on words. According to the myth, Pandora was the first lady on earth, ever. She was given a box and told never to open it. She opened it. All kinds of hell broke loose. Basically she set free a whole bunch of evil that spread across the earth. Wikipedia will tell you the rest. Box is a slang term for muff, and you can figure out the gag from that. But is this all the work presents us with? A cheap jape? Surely not. Let's peel further.  

One cannot help but draw comparisons between Pandora and Eve. Both are the world's first women, both are presented with something they are forbidden to mess with, and what do they both do? They go and mess with it. For Eve, it's an apple, which upon her nibble invites sin into the world. For Pandora it's a box, which upon opening does basically the same thing. What Bob is doing here, it seems to me, is drawing our attention to the vilification of women in our myths and ideology. 

By making Pandora's box a part of Pandora herself, and indeed the part that is perhaps most representative of femininity as whole, Bob is essentially saying that this myth blames women for releasing evil into the world. Pandora, stay with me here, opened her box. One could take this to mean she spread her legs, inviting, or offering, wickedness, temptation and sin to the world, or, to put it bluntly, evil. 

It's an interesting notion, especially within the context of Eve and original sin, where Eve plays the temptress, persuading Adam to join her in disobeying the instructions of God. This first sin leads to the end of humanities tenancy in paradise, and they are cast out into a world unprotected from misfortune, sin and evil. 

Maybe I am reading into Bob's work too much, but this seems to me what the work is drawing attention to: the idea of women as vehicles of temptation, and consequently sin and suffering. Think Herodias and John the Baptist, Samson and Delilah, or the Sirens and some such. The New Testament has a few positive female leads, say Mary, but Jesus' mum gave birth without ever actually offering up her box so to speak, so read of that what you will. These are my thoughts on the picture, and they may not be correct, but certainly it's the train of thought I was led on by the work, so I found myself recieving a good deal from it. 

Besides making it look good, the neon pink gives a kind of trashy feminine vibe to the work, making something that before whispered seductively into something that shouts raunchily. It is something I could see myself owning, and I think Bob did a really interesting work here. I haven't looked into his work as a whole, but it is something I look forward to doing, partially to see if the themes displayed here are backed up or refuted by anything else in his canon.

Judging art stuff is a quagmire, but this is a judgemental blog, so I'll have to do it. Furthermore, objective appraisal is a tough thing to nail down, and it is most likely a decrepit concept, especially when applied to this particular corner of culture, but what the hell.

Subjective Rating: 10/10. I like it. It looks nice and it led me down a think tangent.

Objective Rating: 10/10. It succeeds in presenting itself in the best way possible for the notions it entertains. Also, puns are something to be praised universally. 

[criticaleverything]

One Of Those New Japanese Synths

I came across this piece of kit in a moody looking electronics store in Hounslow. The first thing I said to myself was, "WOW! This must be one of those new Japanese synths". Upon depressing some of the buttons around the base, excellent sounds burst forth as the top half of the device opened up, flower like, and started rotating. At the same time a bunch of lights came on, and the thing shone bright and glorious like a handheld disco ball. "Ho-ho!" said I to myself, and before I knew it I was funking out some mad electro jazz in the store. By the time I finished, a crowd had gathered, and awed by my remarkable synth manoeuvrings, they applauded and cheered wildly. 

Having taken a bow, I went to the counter to ask how much it was. "Nothing for you my friend", said the manager, "I've never heard such synthy genius in all my days. Take this strange eastern magic box and make sweet music". So I did:

  Anyway, as far as it goes quality wise, I can only say "top notch". I mean listen to the digi-rumblings in the track above. It wasn't really compatible with any other instrument or software, but it didn't need to be, such was its sonic range and versatility. Playing it was simple as a sandwich, I mean it basically played itself. Infact, the only downside was that it wasn't a synth at all, but some kind of an inter-dimensional key.

This became clear to me during a gig last Saturday. There I was, synth jamming like a boss, when the crowd erupted into screaming. At first I thought this was on account of my virtuoso skills, but it soon became clear people were fleeing the venue, and people digging virtuoso skills don't do that. As the crowd parted, I saw a large hooded figure, flanked by a huge hairy beast man, and some odd little chap who looked kind of like a fish. The hooded figure stopped in front of the stage, and raising both fists in the air, let out a high pitched cackle. "Hahaha! The key! And in the hands of a weak, foolish mortal! It's finally mine! That muscle bound meddler will truly learn the perils of crossing the mighty Skeletor now! MWAAAGH HA HA!".

I didn't really know what was going on. These guys had me shit scared and frozen to the spot as they shared another long round of chuckling. My fears only worsened when the one named Skeletor took down his hood to reveal that he was infact A FUCKING TALKING SKELETON.

Maybe some of you deal with this kind of crazy action on a regular basis, and would handle the situation with ease, nonchalantly thinking "pfffff, it's just a talking skeleton, a 10ft beast man and a fish bloke. What's the big deal?", but I certainly don't, so without further ado, I dropped the synth and made a run for it, to the sound of mocking laughter from this terrifying trio. What happened to them, and who this 'muscle bound meddler' was I'll never know. What I do know for sure is I'll never find a synth that badass again. 

Subjective Rating: 7/10. It loses three points for putting me in mortal danger, and causing me to wet myself, then, and nightly since the gig.

Objective Rating: 10/10. Inter dimensional key or no inter dimensional key, you'll be hard pressed to find a better synth. 

[criticaleverything]

The Cave of Tythamus

"And the tyrant rose up, all flesh seared from his body. In his hand was Methuzula, the living head staff, its eyes searching the army before it, its gaze striking terror in all that met it. 'Die', spoke the tyrant, and they did."

So says the writing on the wall beside this rather strange cave painting of Tythamus, the mythical druidic tyrant who held Britain under a rule of terror, some 10,000 years ago.

The cave can be found not far outside the town of Merthyr Tydfil in Wales, set high into a hillside. Though no evidence of a grave or tomb has been found yet, it is believed to be final resting place of Tythamus. This is attested to in the writing which accompanies the painting. Of course, the body may have been moved or pillaged since, though archeologists currently searching the huge caves are confident they are close to unearthing it. Whether they should however, is the real question.

What we know of Tythamus paints a grim picture. Abandoned at birth as an abomination, he was raised by wild dogs, not coming into contact with another human until he was nearly grown. This human was Methuzula, a wandering, powerful druid, who had long been searching for Thythamus, drawn by his wild, uncontrolled power like a moth to the flame.

Upon finding him, Methuzula aimed to teach him the ways of sorcery, in order that he could control his power, which unrestrained, threatened to destroy all around it. Unfortunately, the creature he met was more beast than man. A savage battle ensued, Tythamus emerging the victor after beheading Methuzula with a glass sword, magically forged from the sand they fought upon. Methuzula, drawing upon his great power, survived by trapping his soul in his detatched head. Speaking to Tythamus in a language beyond sound, he convinced him to keep him, that he might yet teach him. Consenting to the arrangement, Methuzula found himself mounted on a staff, to accompany Thythamus evermore. However, once Tythamus had learnt all he could from Methuzula, of humanity, sorcery, and other things besides, he bent him to his dark will, turning him into a weapon he could wield against the world he now sought to enslave. 

What followed was decades of bloody, horrific war as Tythamus forged the first unified Britain, forcefully unifying its tribes under one banner. Having achieved this, he sought to take over the continent, and all other lands besides. Before this could happen however, there was a revolt, led by 60 rebel druids. The battle was fierce to a degree that is hard to imagine, with magic tearing up the landscape, forming mountains and forging valleys. Finally Tythamus went down, burnt alive by a rain of lightning. He wasn't dead however, and rising up as nothing more than a charred skeleton held together by sorcery, he destroyed the rebel army entirely. The attack that had been unleashed upon him had a curious side effect, in that it released Methuzula from the bonds holding him. Biding his time until after the fight, when Thythamus was at his weakest, he turned upon him, unleashing everything he possessed in a wave of power that turned the skeletal tyrant to lead, driving the magic from his bones and killing Methuzula in the process. When the dust had settled, a lone remaining druid apparently recovered the bones from the battlefield along with the head of Methuzula, burying them both in a magic tomb, which would seal in their power for eternity, lest they somehow return to the mortal world. The words, written on the cave wall, were thus placed there as a warning and lesson to the future, or so the story goes.

Now, if you believe any of that, digging the fuckers up would strike me as a bad idea, not that I do, but I'm just saying. As for the point of this review, visiting the cave itself, do it! It's a cool story, and there are all kinds of ancient cave paintings of weird stuff to look at, such as the image attached, as well as the full translation of the cave writing. Though not the oldest cave paintings, they certainly are the most interesting, and some of them are incredibly realised. I particularly loved an image of armoured fox riding a horse with a bearded goats head, which looks impossibly like a work by Hieronymous Bosch. If you stay in Merthyr Tydfil, you can trek to the cave with a guide in about five hours, where you will be given a really good tour, all for £20, which is pretty reasonable. You need to bring your own lunch though, so be warned.

Subjective Rating: 10/10. It's a pretty unique experience

Objective Rating: 9/10, because there is always one twat who refuses to like stuff.

[criticaleverything]

Procrastination........

..... I'll get back to reviewing it later.

[criticaleverything]

My Left Big Toe

Marmeduke Tewksbury the Left

My left big toe is called Marmeduke Tewksbury and he's a bit of a cad. I would not say he is the best behaved big toe. I would not say that at all. He often sneaks off when I am asleep to go drinking and womanising. Furthermore, he is a heroin addict, which has knock on effects for me. Sometimes I wake up and my entire left foot is numb. Marmeduke himself will be swollen and blue, with a tiny belt tied around his waste. This is both good and bad. It's good because the belt stops the rest of me getting high, otherwise I would surely be a fulltime smack addict by now. It's bad because one day I am going to wake up to find I have a dead left toe, which I will then have to amputate and bury. 

Last week I was ripped from sleep by the sound of loud music and laughter. I awoke on a strange sofa, far from my bed to find Marmeduke canoodling with the two big toes of a crack hooker. Having gone into a rage, been threatened by a pimp and had the contents of my wallet repossessed, I had to make my way back across london, bare footsied in the chilly cold and dressed in nothing but my jim-jams. 

My Right Big Toe, Lawrence Tulip (see below), is a paragon of good behaviour and never gets into trouble. In fact he does very little of anything, like a big toe is supposed to, apart from brewing me thimbles of hot toddy when I have a cold. 

Lawrence Tulip the Right

Lawrence often gets bullied by Marmeduke, who will stamp on him when I am walking, often tripping me up in the process. He also calls him a loser and a goody-goody. It is true that Lawrence is a bit of a wet blanket, he often complains when I am out drinking and cries during action movies, even not very violent ones like 3 Ninjas. He also tries subtly and patiently to convert me to Christianity, which I find most annoying. I think he fears that he will be a lone toe in heaven, detached from the rest of me. This might be so, but he'll have wings anyway, so what's the fucking problem?

Sure, Marmeduke is a wildcard who often gets me in trouble, but at least he knows his own mind, lives life without sorrow or regret, and parties like a boss. I just wish it wasn't at my expense:/

Subjective Rating: 6/10. I love the little guy really.

Objective Rating: None. I don't think it's possible to objectively rate one's toe.