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M.I.A - Boyz


We would've put this up several weeks ago, but the only video we could find was of a frankly ropey live performance. Sorry.

Friday is Fred Day

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The Wrong Trousers - Video Killed the Radio Star

(Or 'What Roland Browning Did Next').

Buskers, eh? Balboa Park, California gets these chaps. We get a damp student honking his way through 'Wonderwall'.

More fun for Trouser enthusiasts here.

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Tiny Dancers - Hannah We Know



Anyone else think he sounds like Neil Diamond? No bad thing.

Hello! Here Are My Ikea Family Rewards!

I managed to make it to 10:12am this morning without being spooked by society. Then this popped through my letterbox; Hurrah! It's the latest in a long campaign of junkmail that I only agreed to because it meant I got a free cup of tea once. Ikea's Customer Loyalty scheme send us punters the occasional letter containing vouchers, pictures of food and, probably, news of their latest range of stuff. To be honest I only notice the vouchers and the food. But as I read the letter this morning, something caught my eye which 'chilled' me to the 'bone'...

THEY'RE COUNTING MY VISITS.

Now, I'm fully aware that every time I hand over my Clubcard, I'm feeding Tesco's vast database which traces my every move. I know that somewhere out there, Tesco bosses are watching a computer simulation of me bumbling around virtual aisles, tutting in disgust at the sort of tat they pass off as 'toys', spending half the visit trying to work out the best beer offer and fantasising about the bloody death of the idiots who park their trolleys across the aisle while they wander off to be stupid somewhere else. I'm OK with this loyalty-surveillance caper. But for some reason, opening a letter and being told how many times I've visted Ikea is scarier. I can't even remember one of those visits, but it must be true because the letter says so.

Now I know why it's called 'Ikea Family'; It's just the sort of letter that old people would send to their children, if they could work these new fangled computers out.

"Number of visits this year: 2.

Number of veiled references to being put in a care-home: 4.

Number of glances at valuable antique carriage-clock: 5"

Of course, that's where the similarities end. After all, a family visit consists of a reluctant Sunday afternoon car journey to a place you're only going to because you think you should, where you'll spend the whole time not saying much, eyeing up furniture and probably having at least one spousal arguement, with the only high point of the trip being the possibility of a nice meal. Whereas a trip to Ikea, etc.