A list of very short musical lists

No, not my top 20, 50, 200. I'm going for the hard categories, with only 1 entry (or so).

Metamusic (songs about songs)

1. Good songs with "Rock'n'Roll" in the title
.... and the winner is Bowie "Rock'n'roll suicide"

2. Good songs with "Radio" in the title
...and the winner is Elvis Costello "Radio radio"

3. Good songs with "Music" in the title
...and the winner is Heart "Love me like music (I'll be your song)"

Good songs about Sarah
None (see below)

Good songs about Sara
Tie: Fleetwood Mac, Dylan

Meisterworks (Concept albums where the concept is worth having)
...and the winner is Pink Floyd "Wish you were here" [and NOT "Dark Side..." or "The Wall"]
runner-up Neil Young "Greendale"

Live albums better than studio versions
...and the winner is Dylan "Live 1996 Manchester Apollo (The "Royal Albert Hall Concert")" (extra points for snappy title)
runners-up Nils Lofgren "Night after night" , Wishbone Ash "Live dates"

Double albums without padding
... and the winner is Dylan "Blonde on blonde" [duh]
runners-up: can't think of any

Blog lists without padding
None - oops

Better than Google

Yes, you read right. I was reading an article last autumn about browsers and search engines, and it said that the Web user was a very fickle audience- it switches browser in a matter of months as the next big thing comes along, and therefore Google's rule in searching might also end soon and quickly. At the time I thought this was rubbish- who could improve on it? I had used it faithfully for years as the only good way to get at content.

But I must now admit that although I still hate the Yahoo! directory search, the word search yields a lot more content, particularly for very obscure subjects [ie when Google yields no hits at all]. This is because Yahoo's mechansim is different: instead of counting how many sites link to a page, it counts how many times the search term appears. Google's ranking is basically telling you how many web designers thought the content was cool. Now, I trust web designers to do many things, but not to assess the validity and usefulness of content. There is therefore a theoretical basis for the observed advantages of Yahoo, particularly now that Google is swamped by the advertising directory sites, so that time after time a supposedly relevant site has simply listed every village in the country as content on their site, without anything in the category you want.

But,veven better, you don't have to choose between Google and Yahoo: metasearch engines like www.dogpile.com run your search in several engines, including those two, and then show the results. So while I'm glad that Google at least has found a way to make money from the Web, I won't be investing in their shares.

Martin Amis loses the plot

They'd like it, wouldn't they? All the hacks, with their jealous rants gabbling from the anaemic newsprint, queuing to take me down a peg, they can't wait to pronounce me finished, ficted out, my fictile member no longer potent. Hubricity is the media's ultimate crime- they try to push me from enfant terrible to evil uncle.

Things have changed, of course. Since the 70s, I have felt we were snatching the last few drags from the fag-end of history, puffing frantically before it is finally stubbed out. But, politicians, environmental disasters, wars, and greed notwithstanding, the End of the World has been postponed. My apocalyptic apothegms, my Millenium Buggery, seem quaint and dated. Life will, it seems, go on.

My interest in the wider world has shrunk, and I find myself drawn to that simulacrum of desire fulfilled, the pornography industry, and I study its ins and outs, ups and downs, its trades, its unions, its congresses. I am the mathematician of skin, a reckoner of the deviant algebra of addition, mutliplication, subtraction and division.

Maybe that's not very interesting to you: but would you really rather hear about my dental treatments?

The need for speed?

The government is thinking about including controls on speed-camera-detectors in the next Road Safety Bill. Apparently, thousands of drivers are worried enough about being caught speeding that they'll pay several hundred pounds for a device that fits to the dashboard which will warn them of the speed-checking radar signals used by the cameras.

My car came with a device already fitted which stops me getting caught speeding. It's called a speedometer.

Bar-room story

You may wonder what led me to write a story set in the Mid West USA; I certainly do.

Well, I was sitting in the bar, moping 'bout Sally, who'd turned me over, an' 'bout the fact that it's raining, an' that I couldn't afford another drink. I was the only one there, 'part from Bill, the barman, who was scowling thru the dusty window at the rain. Sam, the alleycat, walked past, lookin' even thinner and raggeder than usual, an' all wet; he's so desperate he comes in the bar, which he did rarely, on account of the uncouth elements of the cli-ent-ell who would kick him out, or set fire to his fur, an' such like. We was all feeling low, when in comes a man, not 'xactly mournful, but angry to get drunk. He looks at my face, and my glass, and he deduces something, and calls out "How 'bout some drinks in this place?". Bill pours 'em out, and the stranger sets by me: I recalled now that he was Tom, a farmer from ten mile away, lived on his own since his wife died, so I said hello.

After a while, he says "You've seen troubles, I bet". I nodded. "Well, I bin courting a lady for some time now, not necessarily for marrying, you understand". I nodded again, havin' been occupied in a similar way recently. "Well, we was just going along swell, til today, when she says there's another man she knows, who's keen for her to marry, and 'less I's about to do the same, we're finished". And I nods again, having heard the same speech myself, and said out loud "Yep, that's Sally, alright". This makes him jump, all right. "Not Sally from River Farm?". I nodded.

"Well", he says, "I guess we've both been took, 'less she has 'nother swain in mind!". An' then we had another drink, and after a while things didn't look so bad, and we's feelin' generous, an' even get Bill to give Sam some food.

So the night warn't as bad as I'd feared, an' turned out okay after all. Except for Sam: next day he comes in the bar again, only Bill and me ain't there, an' he was kicked proper, an' still walks with a limp. But he's tough, an' used to bruises, I guess.

Esteddfod poems

Writers are not, in general, very competitive: I think most of their energy is expended in envy, jealousy and hatred of all successful writers, rather than in thinking about relative merit. Underlying this is an immense egoism that puts the writer first (in their estimation) and everyone else nowhere.

I've never been very keen on entering competitions especially if I'm unlikely to win. But at least the annual e-steddfod (virtual eisteddfod) doesn't, unlike most open poetry competitions, charge you money to be branded a failure, so I have entered it, with (modest laugh) some success. Or in the words of that Oscar-winning actress "Oh wow!, This means you really love me". Well, I wouldn't say that, but I must be doing something right, at least.


Haiku: Youth (1st prize)

Spring lambs jump for joy
Heedless that their destiny
Is to become sheep


Apology (1st prize)

Sorry I can't help you now
Sorry I can't help you
Sorry I can't help
Sorry I can't
Sorry I
Sorry


Welsh industry (3rd prize)

Once the ports kept freighters full
Of iron and coal, slate and wool

Marinas occupy the docks
With bistros and apartment blocks

Where a factory used to stamp and rage
Now there's an annual car-rally stage

Railway tracks grow dull with rust
The rotting trucks are filled with dust

Hands fall idle for want of tasks
"What of Welsh industry?" someone asks

The answer is becoming clear:
It would be a good idea



Not placed

Peace or war?

Please tell me, for I am not sure,
As propaganda fills the screen:
Do these things happen in peace or war?

Does hatred of other countries' poor
Become part of the social scene?
Please tell me, for I am not sure

When half are against, half are for
And nobody can fall between-
Do these things happen in peace or war?

Would the leaders by whom we set most store
Mislead the media machine?
Please tell me, for I am not sure

The death-count's like a cricket score
And the images become obscene-
Do these things happen in peace or war?

As propaganda fills the screen
I understand what it must mean;
I thought so once, but now I'm sure:
These things happen in peace or war


Limerick

A Methodist preacher called Glyn
Thought it time for a sermon on sin
"When so many stray,
There's plenty to say-
The problem is where to begin."

Letter from Jane Austen to Cassandra Austen

From: Foxhill,
Combe Down,
Bath,
Somersetshire

1st March 1806

My dear Cassandra

I have, at length, received yr letter only this morning, tho' you sent it a se'ennight ago. The address was nigh obscured by your flurry of post-scripts! We return into Hampshire shortly, and I must beg you to prepare the house well, for you know our dear mama is susceptible to chills whene'er she travels and must needs spend the next days convalescing.

Last night we dined at Monkton Court, a short drive from our house here. We were welcomed by Mrs Dolphin (to whom we had been introduced at the Ball at the Assembly Rooms last week, as I did mention in my last); she was excessively pleased to see us, and thanked us for providing her with company. We shortly divined her meaning, as it became clear that Mr Dolphin, although courteous, maintained a silence as he sate, a book open upon his lap; he evidently considered that the exertion of having writ to invite us exhausted his duties as host, and had resolved to pass the evening without intercourse. This being so, we were thrown upon the resources of their son, Mr James Dolphin, a lively and boisterous young man, inordinately proud of his golden curls. With little preamble, he chose to entertain us at the pianoforte, through a demonstration of his skills upon the instrument. He introduced his performance with a short speech in praise of 'a simple air native to the locale , called "The Maid is gone a-Milking"'. Unfortunately, its frugality of melody was balanced by an excess of narrative; at the 16th reappearance of the refrain, I would have liked to appeal "Enough! The tune is simple to the point of imbecility!".

I kept my countenance, with some difficulty, and shortly after we went in to dine. Mr James showed me great attentions, but in such an extravagant manner that I found myself unable to consume even the small portions provided. He once spoke loftily of the virtues of good provender in forestalling melancholy, but made little conversation and less sense. I think he aspires to the state of Wit, but is as yet only half-way there.

After dinner, the cards were brought out, and we played at Cinque-et-un. Mr Dolphin condescended as far as to join the game, tho' he restricted his discourse to "One more"; "None"; and "All up". Shortly thereafter, Papa began fidgeting and muttering about the horses, and the carriage was called. In taking leave, Mrs Dolphin expressed herself desolate at our departure; the likely nature of their evenings when en famille is perhaps sufficient justification for her sorrow.

I must close, for the boy is ready to carry the post to Town. I will see you again shortly, and remain until then,
Your most affectionate sister
Jane