iThink therefore...

I’m angry – last Monday my iPod deleted itself. I don’t know how. I don’t know why, but it did. Every single song, video, audio-book and podcast removed as if it was never there; my iPod had amnesia. I suppose in i-terms it might as well be senile dementia - I’ve had this iPod for nearly 2 years which in human years must be mid to late 60s. Given my indefinite unemployment and the current Economic climate I’ve become pretty close with my iPod; we go for walks into Ealing and ride the train together, occasionally we’ll go jogging together and now, thanks to the creativity of a Polish builder, we can shower together. On that fateful day I was getting ready to walk into Ealing and reserve a copy of a game that I had little intention of actually buying (seriously I need a job/help).

I take a left out of my drive and click play and wait for the music to hit – soon I’ll be walking down the road listening to {insert appropriate guilty-pleasure band here} pretending I’m in an OC-esque montage as I give a casual, brooding nod to Mischa Barton (elderly woman waiting for the 226 bus). But nothing, just silence – I take my iPod out and press the play button again, and again, and again, each time slightly harder than the previous. I removed it from its jumper (yes I said it, jumper) and take a closer look. Nothing on “Now Playing”. I scroll through...why does it say I have no playlists? What, no songs too?? I’m dumbstruck. I scroll through one more time with the futile hope that I didn’t look properly (hoping that I’m actually a f**k-tard). Nothing. 30 Giga-bytes of music and videos, gone. Whilst I had some of the songs on my computer, I had taken a lot of music from other people’s iTunes and this accounted for about 60% of my iPod.

But the playlists as well, the carefully calculated playlists! “Random Mood” and “Chilled”, whilst almost identical were both brilliant in their own right. And what of “On the Go 4”? The breakthrough playlist which opened the door for the likes of “On the Go 5” and the critically acclaimed “On the Go 6” (basically the “On the Go” family differed by one or two songs that I suddenly thought I’d like to hear again and couldn’t be bothered going through the hassle of plugging my iPod up to my computer, dragging and dropping and then waiting 10 minutes for my computer to disarm my iPod thus making it safe to be removed, just to make sure I remember who’s really in charge...). Seeing as I was on my way into town, I figured I would drop into the Apple Store to seek help.

On the journey there I started reminiscing about my last iPod and how I had similar problems (and then quickly remembered it might have had something to do with the endless times I dropped it and one time when I was thrown into a swimming pool whilst it was in my pocket). Then I went further back, the Land before iPods - Mini-Discs, CD Players, the original cassette walkman. Before I bought my first iPod I used to have a CD player and an array of poorly constructed compilation CDs to go with it (all courtesy of yours truly). None of these CDs made any musical sense; they were all just random songs, thrown together regardless of tone, mood or genre. I believed at that time that the CDs should contain examples of every type of music I liked and as a result there was no flow to it whatsoever; from M.O.P to the Goo Goo Dolls. Just going from lyrics such as “Hunt you down n*gga, run your ass down”, to “I’ll give up forever to touch you,” whilst compatible on paper , just don’t sit well with you when they’re howled by Busta Rhymes or whined by some Bon Jovi wannabe.

I arrived at the Apple Store to find two people next to the Help desk; one was a Chinese guy, probably about mid 20s and the other was a tall brunette guy with glasses and a tattoo on his forearm. I’m not one for stereotypes, but I headed straight for the Chinese guy. Turns out he didn’t work there; I apologise and tell him that I didn’t assume he did. He doesn’t seem convinced and leaves as I start to ask him if he could fix my iPod. Fine. I went over to the other guy and explained my predicament to him. As I was talking to him, I noticed that his glasses were in fact the fake, thick black-framed kind and then lost my train of thought. I have nothing against people who wear fake glasses, it confuses me but it seems quite a common accessory nowadays. The odd thing is that glasses are essentially a corrective measure; certain people HAVE to wear glasses because they struggle to go about their lives without them. Is that an avenue that fashion looks set to go down, disabilities? Give it a couple of years and people may well be walking around with fake hearing-aids.

“Dave, what’s with the new bop?”

“Orthopaedic shoes b*tches!”

I just about shake myself out of that day-dream in time to hear his advice. He points to the scratches on the back and asks if I have repeatedly dropped my iPod on hard surfaces or thrown it against walls (essentially domestic abuse). I assure him that I take good care of my iPod, but admit that occasionally it does “fall” down the stairs. He then tells me to switch it on and off again. After doing so he takes the iPod off me and stares at it for about 2 minutes. He then brings it to his ear and starts shaking it for another 20 seconds, hands it back to me and then tells me I can send it off to people who actually know what they are doing but it will cost me around £100. What a clueless gimp; he knows as much about iPods as Beyonce knows about being a boy.

Since then I’ve let my iPod rest for a bit, charge up and added a few songs back onto it, just to ease it into some sort of normality. But whilst I will be taking extra care of it, it will never be the same again. I’m not sure if it remembers who I am, but every now and again I’ll talk to it about how things used to be and even though it says nothing and strangers avoid me in the street, I think it helps. Since yesterday it’s started stuttering during songs and even skipping some altogether. The end is nigh for my Mass Storage soul-mate, but when it does eventually pop its i-Clogs, it won’t be a surprise and chances are, like Mick Jagger, I’d already have my sights set on a slender, younger model to replace it.

Chak De Imbeciles...

Last Sunday saw the 66th Annual Golden Globes Awards ceremony take place at Beverley Hills, California. This formal ceremony marks the start of the film industry’s award season which culminates with the Academy Awards (to be held in February) and thus is generally considered a good indicator to those who may want to dust a space in their cabinet for a gold, asexual, sword-yielding statue. This year it looks like those behind “Slumdog Millionaire” may need to clear a space, and then some as they walked away with 4 Golden Globes for Best Motion Picture - Drama, Best Director - Motion Picture (Danny Boyle), Best Screenplay (Simon Beaufoy) and Best Original Score (A. R. Rahman).


Having seen countless reviews and features on TV I started to get used to the fact that this film is something that will be dominating the media space. Newspapers were full of talk about the new dawn of British cinema and how finally it will emerge out of the shadow of its eccentric, trans-Atlantic step-brother. I’m not a film buff by any stretch of the imagination (only in the last 4 years have I seen films like Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction and The Usual Suspects) so I can’t really comment on what kind of resonance this film would have but my main gripe was one specific theme brought up by a couple of these articles. Buried beneath the Asian related puns (Indian Summers et al) was a shared opinion that the film will sweep the Asian population of Britain and bring about a sense of incentive and pride. It seemed that it was not just the dynamic of the film world that would shaken up thanks to Slum Dog Millionaire, but that of society around us.

At first I laughed at the naivety of the thought; surely they can’t imply that it takes a multi-award winning film and the spotlight of fame for those of a similar ethnic persuasion to feel proud or just be proud enough to acknowledge their heritage? I chuckled in that self-righteous way one does when one has internally mocked a more educated, more respected and wealthier adversary. I then thought this would be a decent topic for a blog, until I made a quick pit-stop on Facebook. After the standard browsing and light-prowling I was drawn to the “Status Updates” tab... Humble pie is like the worst pie, and it doesn’t taste any better when it’s forced down your throat by the e-world. Looking down the list, amidst those donating their hard-earned statuses to show their support for Gaza from the comfort of their Ctrl + V buttons (simultaneously) and the futile complaints that burst ear-drums might be a thing of the past, were messages of “wanting to return to the Homeland” and wishing to “dance around the streets of Mumbai”.


Forgive my Grinch-esque stance on such statuses, but it is those responsible for them that really grinds my gears. In fact, on one occasion I remember discussing family backgrounds with the person who longed for the “Homeland”. After a bit of a heated debate I asked them whether they had actually visited their place of origin (India, specifically Hyderbad). They replied with a firm yes; Goa! Cue an expression of bewilderment where your lips say nothing, but your eyebrows pronounce “I couldn’t have less respect for you”. That’s the equivalent of saying, “I really want to get back to my Spanish roots and find out who I truly am; one return ticket to Ibiza please!”. Of all places...GOA! That place is the exact opposite of Southall – sunny, pasty and not a single jalebi stall in sight. Whilst I thought this may just be restricted to the cyberspace, a quick trip in and around Ealing confirmed to me that this was a much more universal occurrence. On a particular train ride into Central London I was lucky enough to have my iPod run out of battery for the 2nd time in the 3 years, therefore had to rely on the conversation of others to pass the time. According to one group of Asian girls, Slumdog Millionaire was “bare deep”, and as a result their chances of getting laid that night had increased ten-fold as in their eyes their Indian-ness was cool again...

This reminded me of the Goodness Gracious Me era of the nineties. Its sudden popularity brought about an impulsive sense of pride in of those who had previously washed their hands of their Indian background; because it’s better to be associated with those on Television rather than those who inform you that their shop is not a library (or a strip club as one of my friends was told, but that’s a different blog altogether). To be fair it grabbed the nation by the ‘chuddies’ and administered a cultural wedgie that would take a couple of years to readjust. After 6 or 7 years of walking freely are we witnessing the reincarnation of this cultural fad? Far be it for me to judge, I as much as anyone get caught up in fads and social phases.


My first memory of being unnecessarily obsessed with an inane entity came in the form of POGS. They were small circular disks with each having a different design; they flooded playgrounds worldwide in the 90s and eventually had to be banned by schools due to the manic popularity they enjoyed. The game of POGs was simple, as wikipedia confirms;


Before the game, players decide whether to play 'for keeps', or not. 'For keeps' implies that the players keep the POGs that they win, and forfeit those that have been won by other players. Finally, the game can begin as followed:

(1) The players each contribute an equal number of POGs to build a stack with the pieces facing down, which will be used during the game
(2) The players take turns throwing their slammer (also called a 'kini') down onto the top of the stack, causing it to spring up and the POGs to scatter.
(3) Often, a special juke (also called a 'slam frizz') is used by the defender to prevent the slammer from overturning more POGs. Jukes include screaming, taunting the opponent, waving hands, slapping, or other distracting moves.
(4)Each player keeps any POGs that land 'face up' after their throw.
(5) After each throw, the POGs which have landed 'face down' are then re-stacked for the next player.
(6) When no POGs remain in the stack, the player with the most POGs is the 'winner'.
(7) All players keep the POGs which they have collected (if playing for keeps), or redistribute them to their original owners.

I didn’t have many POGS, but the ones I did have I cherished each and every day. It wasn’t the participating in the game that appealed to me, but the chance to be part of the POG community. I even had a t-shirt, one which I will not dare look for and will not be taking questions on. But just to be part of the community was enough for me, just to know of the big players in the game, just to get front row seats to the major bouts. All the big players had special POGS and more importantly special Slammers. In fact I still remember where I was for Metallic-gate... It was nearing the end of our double French lesson; we’d just learnt how to ask directions to the library whilst being very aware that we would NOT be able to buy books there. As we left the classroom, there was a buzz of excitement in the hallway- no one knew exactly what was going on but people were slowly piecing together the puzzle from overheard conversations. There was a METALLIC SLAMMER! No one was sure who had it or where it was; some say it was made in the depths of a Chiswick basement- others say it was found in a crater left by a recent meteor shower. Whether it be Frankenstein or Kryptonian, we all knew we had to get to the playground as soon as possible. I hurried to the playground just to catch a glimpse – my it was glorious. Shiny grey with streaks of black, it shone like a sun devoid of life. But there was uproar as to whether it could be used in combat. The playground elders voted against it, and POG players were told not to play its owner, Takahiro (come on; you know when it comes to Pimp My Fad, Xzibit’s got to step aside for the Japanese). But in an act of defiance he launched his slammer into the already assembled pile, flipping every single one over, leaving a dent in each and every one of us...

From then on POGS went downhill, culminating in people bringing in POGs that they had made themselves with the use of a tacky printing machine that was now readily available from Woolworths. Call me a purist but there was little satisfaction in winning a set of POGs harboring the face of your opponent’s pets.

Go-Gos soon took over the mantle from POGs – these were little collectible figures which people swapped and of course played games with.

The popular game at our school included both players lining up 4 or 5 Go-Gos in a row opposite each other and then using one spare Go-Go to try and knock over those in your opponents line. Those knocked over were kept by the active player and the game continued till all Go-Gos on one side had been slain. This fad took an odd route in our playground; gangs were formed where players would play each other internally with their best players battling their superior counter-parts in rival gangs. This manifested itself for a while, till one ambitious 12 year old came into school with a bum-bag of 200 limited edition Go-Gos. He then set about recruiting the best players from all the different gangs to form an elite group with an aim to monopolize the playground and seize power which he had tried to obtain earlier in the year by becoming Milk-monitor. Each recruited member invested their Go-Gos into the bum-bag and in return was allowed to use the limited edition figures to demolish and destroy, in style. One member however was having particularly bad luck and ended up losing 20 limited edition Go-Gos – the big cheese wasn’t happy and informed him that he had to make up the 20 with an interest of 5 before Easter. It never happened and as penance he was ordered to hand over one item of his lunch-box every lunch time till the end of term. School is tough, I’m just glad I got out alive.

In fairness this ethnic makeover instigated by Slumdog Millionaire is really more of a bandwagon; one towed by a rickshaw with 3 times the recommended allowance of people and, of course, an ornamental tissue box. Fame breeds imitation; we just need to turn on our TVs and flick between the likes of MTV and E4 to see the world littered with spitting images of the rich and famous. Take for example the skinny jeans generation...When did some men feel that the regular jean offered a little too much freedom for their junk? When did getting your phone out of your jeans when sat down become too easy for these people? It seems that Mark Ronson has shouldered the responsibility to lead these people from where Pete Doherty had left off.
Ironically Mark Ronson’s recent peak in his musical career was brought about due to his last album (Version) which contained a vast number of covers of hit songs performed by other hit artists. Whilst being a big success, it was hardly surprising; taking a song by a certain Coldplay and adhering to the musical backbone is hardly a route riddled with pot-holes. Don’t get me wrong I think Mark Ronson is very talented and that was a decision I came to BEFORE his last album, a thought that was lost on one avid fan I met a year ago in Edinburgh. This floppy haired gimp insisted to me in a drunken stupor that every cover present on the album blew the original out of the water... If anyone is keeping score, that’s the 3rd reason it is ok to Tomahawk someone in the temple. You want to be considered a true musical re-mastering deity? Have a trawl through Dane Bower’s back-catalogue and make what you will of that (heck, why not throw in a trumpet or 6?)!

Sticking to the musical bandwagon; last year Boots brought out a series of adverts containing the song “Girls” by Ernie K Doe (an old rhythm and blues singer, 1936 – 2001). Up-beat and on the mark, the adverts seemed to grip the nation and as a result the song experienced countless hits on YouTube and numerous downloads on iTunes. All was well- Boots had a good advert and Ernie K Doe’s music had found new publicity and thus new admirers who may have otherwise remained oblivious to his work. But hold on... what’s this? Oh look it’s The Interchangeables Sugababes! What are you ladies up to? Surely not planning on whoring yourselves out in the name of fame and a quick buck? Oh you do, please right this way, don’t forget to leave your shame and originality at the door! Nothing about that song needed to be covered, least of all by a manufactured band that have had so many changes in personnel that surely they can’t STILL be called the Sugababes? It’s the equivalent of a family moving into my house and thus calling themselves the Ehantharajahs...

Slumdog Millionaire’s eruption, as I admit now with my tail between my legs, really has given these plastic Indians a great excuse to “come out”. The fact of the matter is that they shouldn’t suddenly decide that embracing their culture is a good idea because of the current short term benefits they perceive it to have. Thankfully they are very few and far between; Indians are such a proud race. You only need to look at the history of the Great nation with its struggles against invaders and its struggles with itself, and its identity. A country that has grown and still continues to do so despite others trying to hammer it back from whence it came; a country that rose up and won its Independence from British rule. A country that didn’t let a savage act of terrorism affect its vibrancy and glory. A country that has given so much culture to the rest of the world not to mention the great icons; Gandhi, Tendulkar, Shahrukh Kahn...

But if all you really care for is the popularity and social credence that your background can give to you when others give it credit then honestly, I pity you. Check please...