The Search for Meming

I need to start a meme.

Everyone else has done one, and I feel left out. All of the people in my office have started one. Most of them are about unlikely cat activities or inaccurate grammar. A couple of people have spawned zeitgeisty acronyms, like JKLL (Just Kidding, Lyle Lovett).

They know I haven't got a meme. Sometimes I'll walk into a room, and everyone will go silent. I know that they've been gossipping about my meme-lack. I'm losing respect by the day.

One colleague, who I consider to be a friend, has started rolling her eyes when I speak. She knows that I haven't produced a catchy Youtube video. She has five of them. One is just eight minutes of ham. 12 million hits.

I don't want to be totally meme-focused. In my heart of hearts, I know that true happiness is not measured in internet fads, but in the original memes of kindness, good humour and catchphrases from adverts.

I don't want to just go along with the crowd. But it's difficult.

The other day, we had a meeting. Everyone was asked to bring their memes along. Most people had trouble narrowing their selection down. Jess brought in six. Ashton Kutcher had tweeted one of them. Another had appeared on the Guardian's live text feed of the Leveson Inquiry.

I went in empty-handed. I tried to improvise something about my pen lid. It fell on deaf ears.

I'm not going to lose my job. That would violate employment law. Employers are not able to discriminate based on memes, fads, meerkats or fashionable handshakes.

My job is safe. But as for my self-respect? I can't say that that's safe. It seems to be on very shaky ground.

So I've set myself the task of coming up with a meme. It doesn't need to earn me a book deal; I just want a few thousand Facebook likes and a talking birthday card.

I've had a few ideas, so thought I'd throw them out there to see if anything catches on. If you'd like to spread these around on your chosen social network or hip new linguistics magazine, I'd really appreciate it.

Idea 1: ANNE BOWLEYN

People could photoshop pictures of Anne Boleyn bowling. It would be incongruous. Maybe we could do something with the whole six fingers thing (extra holes in the ball?).

Idea 2: CRICKROLLING

Following from the success of the trick-people-into-watching-a-Rick-Astley-video phenomenon, Rickrolling, I've come up with an intellectual alternative. Give people an innocuous-looking link, and when they click on it, it will lead them to a video of Nobel Prize-winning scientist Francis Crick.

People will find it funny, because it will happen all the time. 40% of all links will lead to Crick. And like the Rick Astley thing, it will remind people of how ridiculous things looked in the old days.

Idea 3: BRACKEN

I'm not sure what this will be, but it will be something to do with bracken. Nobody really thinks about bracken very much, so it will be all weird. "That's so random!" people will say. There can be a hashtag and everything. #bracken

Idea 4: ROMAN NUMERALS

But ironically.

Idea 5: CATS THAT LOOK LIKE OTHER CATS

A Tumblr page full of hilarious cat lookalikes. Imagine how funny it would be to see a cat that looks like a different cat.

LOOK! This cat looks just like the cat Salem in the Sabrina the Teenage Witch TV show! JUST LIKE HIM!

It even looks like the animatronic version that they used when they needed the cat to talk or whatever!

LOOOOOLL!

***

Do any of these take your fancy? I'm not sure which one I prefer. I think number IV has the least potential, but you never know. You can't tell what will catch fire. That's why the only symbols on extinguishers are a variety of shrugs.

I hope once my colleagues see this, I'll go up in their estimation. I'm still not going to put all my stock in memes. The man maketh the meme; the meme does not maketh the man. But at least I've maketh something.

I'm looking forward to our next meeting. I will be holding bracken and wearing a broad smile.

It might just catch on. It might just catch on fire.


***

Oh, by the way, in a couple of weeks I'm running a bake sale for charity. If you'd like to donate here, it would be most appreciated.

Hot Right Now

It's hot. This kind of weather always reminds me of my childhood summers on Mercury.

There's a lot of pressure to make the most of the sunshine. I should be barbecuing a jet-ski or swimming through a pub garden. The trouble is that the heat makes anything beyond sitting in peas unendurable. It's a Scorch-22 (that's like a Catch-22, but related to heat).

So I've been making the least of the sunshine. I'm making the least of it right now, by writing this. I'm also making the least of my youth. And making a smaller molehill out of a molehill. I'll probably regret this when I'm older. But that's true of everything.

I can't afford to think too much (most of my brain energy will be diverted to the coolant systems), so here are some quick reviews of films I've seen recently.

Avengers Assemble

Excellent. Not the perfect film, maybe not even the perfect superhero film, but certainly the perfect Avengers film.

The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo (the original Swedish one)

Surprisingly dull. A sub-Lewis mystery. Nice scenery though.

A Man For All Seasons

Highly enjoyable. Paul Schofield kills it, and it's always good to see a young, weaselly John Hurt. Also, this speech:

Brief Encounter

A proper British film. Partly subversive, partly quaint, beautifully shot.

The Dirty Dozen

Too violent to be pleasant viewing. Not violent enough to be perversely entertaining.

***

The air is too thick to do this. Even spelling the word 'thick' proved to be a struggle (I initially went for "thich").

I'm going to go and lie down in a Scandinavian shadow.

But before I do, to make this worthwhile for both of us, I'll write three hilarious jokes about the weather. You'll laugh, I'll laugh, and I might get a job writing material for a pithy weatherman.

Joke 1:

Talk about hot! I just went outside to buy a bottle of water, and by the time I got home, my wife was dead!

Joke 2:

It's so hot out there, I've had to put suntan lotion on my suntan lotion!

Joke 3:

The government has banned jokes about the hosepipe ban. They feel the saliva needed to lubricate comedians' mouths is fluid that would be better used elsewhere. Like rinsing off David Cameron's disgusting butler.

A bit of satire at the end there.

Ugh. Sundays.

Can't live with 'em, can't die within 'em.

Plot Holes

Let me tell you a story.

Please.

Just one. It doesn't have to be today. It can be any time. When's good for you? Check your calendar.

No, I can't do the 28th.

No. No, actually July is a busy month for me.

No good then either.

Oh. OK, yeah. That sounds... no hang on. No, sorry. That's the day of my clone's christening. Can you do the following Monday? What about the pursuing Thursday?

I'll tell you what, how about Christmas? I can tell you a story before your children are awake.

No?

No. I suppose you're right. I understand. Christmas is a family time.

Well, never mind. We'll forget about it.

Maybe I can fax you something. I'd better check to see if my fax machine is working. Now, let me see...

Please.

Just let me see.

Go on.

Please.

Fine.

Fine.

***

Once upon a time there was an ogre called Judith.

Judith had big hands, even by common ogre standards. She was ostracised because of this. The other ogres used to call her "tight gloves", "The Perennial Fist", and other hurtful names. This caused Judith to feel insecure and alone. She developed an eating disorder in her dark room and felt very sad.

One day, whilst walking to Debenhams, Judith noticed a commotion. A cat was trapped in a tree, which had subsequently fallen down a manhole. A whole crowd of onlookers gathered round, discussing what should be done.

A policeman had taken off his hat and was rubbing his bald head in consternation. "We can't reach that cat," he said."None of our officers can reach the cat, and any tools or implements we might use are likely to frighten the poor thing. It might fall off the tree and land in the sewer."

Another police officer, who had been reaching into the manhole, pulled out her tiny hands and shook her head. "I'm stumped," she said.

Though Judith was lonely, she was always eager to help those in need. 

"Excuse me," said Judith. "I think I can help."

This was a tremendous act of bravery for Judith. She was very nervous of talking to strangers. She had learned that any conversation was likely to lead to hand-based teasing. Also, she was an ogre, which tended to make people suspicious. But she put aside her fears, realising that the threat to the cat outweighed her own insecurities.

"I'd like to know how!" said the policeman, sceptically. "It would take someone with massive hands to remove the cat from this predicament".

"Well that's the thing," said Judith. "I happen to have a cat magnet. I designed it myself."

She pulled the cat magnet out of her pockets.

"My word!" exclaimed the policeman. "I'm terribly sorry for my rudeness! This looks like just the thing."

Within forty-five seconds, the cat had been pulled out of the tree out of the manhole, and was safely back with its owners (a girl called Nicki and her father who was mute).

"How can we thank you?" asked Nicki.

"There's no need for that. It's what anyone would have done. I was just happy to help."

The story of Judith's heroics spread throughout the town (in both human and ogre communities).

The people who had teased her about her large hands were all very contrite.

"We're so sorry!" they all said. "If massive hands can forge a cat magnet, perhaps we should all have massive hands!"

From then on, large hands were perceived as an indicator of strength and beauty, and Judith was friends with everyone. She found a lot of them quite annoying, but some of them were really nice, and enjoyed spending time with her. Her hand size wasn't even an issue.

Judith started using her dark room for photographs, and her work was published in the local newspaper and various glossy magazines. Her subjects included her friends, her hands, and thousands of magnetised cats. 

With her new-found wealth, she underwent hand reduction surgery, but this was for health rather than cosmetic reasons. She felt a lot better afterwards.

The End

***

My children are going to be very lucky to have this quality of story barked at them on a daily basis. They'll beg me to stop. "No, Daddy! It's TOO INTERESTING." And I will stop. Because I'm not a monster.

The human head is a fascinating thing.

Free Market

There's a new Sainsbury's in Summertown.

This brings the total number of supermarkets up to four in a very small area. There are now more supermarkets in Summertown than there are human hairs. You can't swing a dead cat without hitting a reduced pasta salad snack or interrupting a mumbled tobacco request.

The choice is a difficult one. Do you go for price? For product diversity? For product quality? For basket design? For colour scheme? For bag policy? For Jamie Oliver dearth?

You can tell that the new orange kid on the block has caused the existing supermarkets to raise their game. They don't want to be defeated by this trolley-come-lately. In such a competitive market place, you can't get complacent. To quote Nigel Adkins misquoting Sun Tzu: "Never underestimate your opponent".

So, what did the competitors do?

The Tesco Metro put some banners outside. Or flags. Those tall, thin banner flags. What are they called? Flanners. Flanners are inspirational and celebratory. Mr Tesco is saying: "Shop with us or the Nazis have won."

They're trying to draw the eye away from the shiny new store with its fancy colours and lack of blood stains. The Tesco Metro is the proud veteran, sitting with legs dangling over the cliffs of Dover, shooting David Walliams with a sniper rifle and offering cut-price garlic bread.

M&S have tried to not show their fear. They have flags too, but I think these are for the jubilee celebrations. I didn't notice any explicit attempts to curry favour with the easily-swayed consumer. I suspect that M&S has such an elite clientèle that they don't care who they lose. In fact, anyone crass enough to shop at Sainsbury's is not welcome anyway. Anyone who's ever considered shopping at Sainsbury's is identified by the in-store telepathy drones and is taken into the back to be drowned in taramasalata.

But the biggest response has come from the Co-Op. Previously the worst supermarket in Summertown, they've pulled out all the stops.

The most obvious step they've taken is in rearranging their shelves. Previously, the shelves were organised in such a way that you could only navigate them by leaving a trail of breadcrumbs and Nicolas Cage. It was a maze designed by a madman. If you wanted to buy a smoothie you'd have to loop around, away from the checkout, past the salad, through the forbidden mists of Arakam-Shah, then take a turn through the condiment aisle and then feebly fish around for your money with shaking hands. By this time, you'd have drunk the smoothie and filled the bottle with any fluids that might facilitate a future cloning.

But now, things have changed. They've straightened everything out. Nice clear, straight aisles. More room (I think they've knocked through, demolishing the faun orphanage round back), more order, fewer Minotaurs.

But this isn't all. They've trumped the new Sainsbury's. They've killed it in the cot with two simple words:

salad

bar.

That's right. We have a salad bar, and nothing will ever be the same. Everything we thought we knew has turned out to be an apocalyptic underestimate of coleslaw.

The salad bar is a wonderful thing: healthy, colourful, varied, fun. It's like a playground. A creamy, crisp playground. I don't need an Xbox. I've got a salad bar box. The cherry tomatoes are beautifully rendered.

If I was Sainsbury's, I'd be quaking in my boots. All of their hard work may come to nought. The Co-Op have put up quite the defence.

It's a bit like that famous battle in a historic war that I should have specific knowledge of but don't. In fact, it's exactly like that.

What do Sainsbury's have to offer?

I don't know. I've only been in there once. They had balloons.

I should have done some more research.

They do have Pieminster pies there, which is something new. I haven't ever had one, but I bought one. It's a fish pie. It's called 'Pietanic'.

You know, like that famous ship that crashed and killed over a thousand people.

Mmm! Delicious!

I'm looking forward to trying some more of their 'Our Deepest SymPIEthy' range, including the spicy Dresden FirePie and the Princess PieAnna something something something

Huh. I assumed I'd be able to come up with some hilarious tragedy pies, but it didn't really go very well. The fact that one of the tabs on my web browser is currently showing the Wikipedia entry for the Dunblane school massacre shows that I might have been grasping at offensive straws.

Still, you can imagine what someone funny might have made of that!

Anyway, what are my conclusions about this four-way supermarket brawl?

I think it's too early to tell. I'll probably continue to spread my custom around. There's no need to make snap decisions (unless you have osteoporosis).

I'll see what each has to offer. Though the salad bar is a big factor in support of the Co-Op. And there's the whole 'ethical economics' thing too. Not quite as important as diced cucumber, but important nonetheless.

If any one shop really wants my exclusive attention, they should work on improving their loyalty cards. All of the shops have them already, but the benefits are obscure and intangible. I want a real loyalty card that rewards each visit with a melon that can predict the future. Or a free lighter.

That would keep me coming back.

I'll let you know if there are any further developments. For all I know, a fifth chain will throw their corporate hat into the grocery ring.

They might bring their own flanners. Or a larger salad bar.

That's the good thing about capitalism: everyone is crippled by choice, independent stores have no chance of survival, and our tenuous, fluctuating patronage is won only by flags.

God bless whatever country this. Competition makes the whole world angry, but we can have as many hard-boiled eggs as we can squeeze into a non-biodegradable tub.

***

I like that. I'm going to finish all of my blog posts on the word 'tub'.

Tub.

Train of Thought

I'm having second thoughts.

The first thoughts just weren't filling enough. I've cleaned my contemplate, but still have a hankering for more.

And now I'm having third thoughts. I'm having second thoughts about the original second thoughts. Or is that fourth thoughts? I just wrote a few sentences continuing the 'thoughts = food' metaphor. I used the expression "delectably intellectual". I mooted a "cheesecake in the shape of a question mark". But then I deleted it all. I decided it wasn't working. I was annoyed by the direction I was going in, so I stopped.

But then I started again, in the same direction, telling you about all the things I was going to write. I took you down the same pretentious rode with me, but this time from an ironic perspective. I watched my blogcar crash into the same ravine, but this time it was from a helicopter. Which makes it OK.

I had my question mark cheesecake and ate it too. I don't even know how thought works anymore. I'm lost. I've only done a few paragraphs and I'm already lost. That's why I'd be a rubbish navigator. I'd be sitting in the passenger seat pondering the nature of maps and directions, speculating about where the map was printed and what ink was made of. Then you'd ask me which exit to take and I'd panic and suggest you drive through the centre of the roundabout and tunnel into the Earth's crust. Then you'd switch your SatNav on, and I'd feel redundant. Especially because I'd have destroyed all of the sandwiches you'd asked me to buy because I saw the face of the devil in a Ploughman's.

I even got lost there. In the explanation of my lostness. It's no surprise. It happens all the time. Just go through my blog archive. All of it. It will prepare you for what's to come. More of the same. More of the same.

***

Sorry about that. I'll be more sensible now.

I'm going to write something coherent about a topic.

I can't think of a topic.

What about wind farms?

Wind farms

I like wind farms. They look nice. I don't even care if they don't produce any power. There should be one in every town. Two in every town that's only half as windy. We should demolish everything that doesn't have some kind of wind farm-related purpose.

What about education?

Education

All education should be conducted about, and on top of, wind farms. Children can learn all about how to breed and harvest wind, and would build up a resistance to dizziness (a boon for any young person seeking employment in the roundabout/kebab industry).

Wind farms can power all manner of educational technology, from electro-protractors to the air peg.

What about multiculturalism?

Multiculturalism

Any culture whose traditions are anti-wind farm or wind farm neutral will be considered "stagnant influences" and will be spun until they are, at the very least, 70% Dutch.

***

I'm reading that last section from my postmodern helicopter (or "helicopter?"), which ironically looks a bit like a windmill from above.

It's a disaster. I don't deny it. But I can't destroy all of that hard work. I used the word boon, and those kinds of opportunities don't come up every day.

I know I did a similar post last time and that I'm due for something proper. I'm working on it in my head. I need to find something that I'm passionate about. If I'm passionate about it, I can concentrate for the length of a whole entry. It will be like proper writing.

The trouble is, I don't want to come across as pompous, aggressive, or ill-informed. And I'm all of those things. I need to learn how to cloak my inadequacies under a shroud of refinement. That's the only way I'll be offered a Guardian column. I don't think they'd pay for the whole "second thoughts" thing.

Then again, maybe they will.

I'm an optimist. I always have been, and I always will be (until I die in of train cancer next year ironyLOL!).

But this kind of blog post is important. I've said it before and I'll say it again. This kind of blog post is important.

I watched a good video a while ago (linked to by Graham Linehan on Twitter) of John Cleese talking about creativity. It's quite long, but well worth watching:

In it, he talks about entering the 'open mode' and the 'closed mode'. I don't really remember any specifics, but at one point he talks about play as being important. That's what these blog posts are. They are play. They help get me into the open mode. Or something. I can't remember.

The point is that I'm a better, more creative, thinker because of that whole ramble about pegs and helicopters. This is a workout for my brain. I'm training for a thought marathon. I may never run it, but at least my brain legs will look good in lyrca.

I'm going to drink a big water now. It's Friday. We should all be laughing.

I'm laughing now. Are you?

I'm thinking now. Are you?

Yes.

Yes.

Let's all laugh and think and imagine that this has been worthwhile.

Stick of Rock

It's been a while.

Please excuse the large gap between the past and the present. I've been on holiday, so have not been able to type words into this box. Luckily for you, I have loads of hilarious holiday-based material to mine. I've made some pretty stunning observations about air travel that could well be revolutionary, and have also taken a sideways look at the Italians.

With nowhere to record the many one-liners that have popped into my head, I've had to store them up, stuff them in my hand luggage, and hope that some of the more Allah-centric of them don't cause a ruckus at immigration.

And so here it is. My comedy holiday review:

I saw several lizards.

Thus concludes my comedy holiday review. I hope you enjoyed it. I'm the new Bill "The Bison" Bryson/Michael Palin/that guy who wrote A Room With a View. Robert Forster, I think it was.

Interesting. In 1998, Robert Forster was in both the remakes of Psycho (with Vince "There's Something About Him I Just Don't Like" Vaughn) and Rear Window (with Christopher "I Don't Actually Have An 'S' In My Surname" Reeves). He obviously chooses his roles based on the futility of the project.

I hope I haven't missed anything important while I've been away. Everyone in Oxford seems to be speaking Space-Russian and wearing explosive obedience collars, but I assume that's just a new fashion trend. I'm glad to see people mixing things up a bit.

I'm going to brush my teeth now. For me, it will seem like a few minutes before this blog continues, but for you it will be almost instantaneous.

***

I'm back. I got distracted after brushing my teeth, so about fifteen minutes have passed for me. For you, no time has passed. That means you're now fifteen minutes younger than me. Or fifteen minutes less old, depending on your starting age.

I can't believe that a simple distraction has increased my relative age. If I'd taken much longer, I'd almost be ready for relative retirement, which actually sounds quite nice.

I'm wearing a T-shirt which isn't quite dry. It's mostly dry; it's not too wet to take off. But it is noticeably damp. Why don't I put on another, drier, T-shirt? Because I don't have one. I only have four items of clothing, and three of them are cummerbunds. I have to be creative with design and shadow when going outside, so as to arouse no suspicion/people. The skill in minimising visible exposure is a lot like the skill of the magician: lots of misdirection and one jaded rabbit.

Have you missed this? I've missed it.

***

There was a dull photo of a sink at the top of my last post. I'm worried it might have put people off. So I've gone for something more exciting this time. The three blasts above seem to be re-enacting the famous Cleese/Barker/Corbett class sketch from The Frost Report (I can't seem to find a good version of it on Youtube, but you know the one I mean).

The explosion on the left is upper-class, the one in the middle is middle-class, and the one on the right is a furious Ronnie Corbett. I think it says a lot about social hierarchies and flammable stuff.

Have you missed this? I have.

Still, I don't want to over-extend myself on my first time back. You have to walk before you can run. You have to crawl before you can use the expression "you have to walk before you can run". The process is slow, but I should be firing on all cylinders by the middle of next week. By which time I hope to have made up those errant fifteen minutes of youth by being briefly encased in amber.

Twice

"Excuses, excuses..."

Repetition enhances a rebuke. Saying something once could be an aberration or a slip of the tongue.

"Excuses..." is quite good. It suggests you think someone is making excuses. It suggests it, but it doesn't guarantee it. Leave no room for doubt. "Excuses, excuses..."

They will know they are making excuses. Risible excuses. Excuses that need to be exposed for the sick, meagre, cowardly weapons they are. Twice.

And what is true of excuse rebukes, it is also true of comfort.

"There, there..."

We've all been reassured by that. Perhaps a parent has said it after we complained about being taunted on the basketball court.

"There, there..."

It's a double-dose of comfort, understanding, empathy, support and optimism for the future. And you need that double-dose. The singular is inadequate.

What mother would cheer up her bruised daughter by saying simply "There..."?

I'll tell you what mother. The worst mother.

"There..." will not dry those tears. "There..." will not provide the promise of a sunny day.

There WHAT, mother? There WHAT? What does that mean? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!

"There, there..."

Oh, I see. Thank you. Yes, it's all fine now. I'll flush all of those razor-pills down the sink and learn to knit.

Don't leave any room for doubt. Whether mocking someone for their inadequate explanation, or stroking the hair of a devastated five-year-old, always say it twice.

But this tactic doesn't work for everything. In certain contexts, repetition is more of a hindrance than a help.

Numbers, for example, should only be said once. If someone asks you what number flat you live at, saying "sixteen, sixteen..." will be misleading. Similarly, if someone asks you how many bags of seeds you want, saying "five, five..." will leave you with a confused garden centurion and way too many seeds.

***

I don't charge for my advice, but perhaps I should.

If you'd like to make a contribution to the Headscissors Wisdom Fund, please push three British ten-pence pieces into your computer. This can be done through the disk drive, or through a hole you make yourself.

If you live in a country without British ten-pence pieces (Begypt, for example), please send a selection of your local currency to the below address:

Headscissors Blog
16, 16 Mockingbird Court
North Lousy
Cegypt
(Our Waxahachie office is currently closed due to persistent toilet corpses)

All money raised will go towards the dissemination of wisdom, both domestic and elastic.

***

I'm delighted with how the day has gone so far. Splendid. Simply splendid.

Well.

No point in hanging around when the job is done. A builder doesn't stand around after completing a house, patting himself on the back and smiling at the plaster. A chef doesn't watch you eat his delicious meal through a camera mounted in the balsamic vinegar. A surgeon doesn't pat you on the abdomen five years after removing some shrapnel from your lung.

And, similarly, I, having written one Hell of a blog post, and having, some might say, used a few too many commas, will not continue writing, unbidden, and undo all of the good work I've done, by hanging around and glorying in my, not inconsiderable, achievements.

I just salute, climb into the side-car of a motorcycle being ridden by a sword, and then head off to the next job. You enjoy it. You deserve it.

I don't do this for the money. I do it for something more important than money: respect.

And your three British ten-pence pieces.

Each.

Jective

I don't understand people who say they don't like The Beatles.

"I don't like The Beatles."

It may seem like a reasonable opinion for someone to have, but on closer inspection is revealed to be impossible. They might as well say that they aren't the person saying the thing they're saying. That doesn't make sense. Because they are. They are that person.

It's not because The Beatles are so unfathomably amazing that they can't be denied. I like them a lot, but they're not one of my favourite bands. There are quite a few artists who I'd rather listen to. They're not leagues above everyone else. But they have one thing that makes the above statement incoherent: unparalleled variety.

(Their variety might be paralleled. I'm not sure - I haven't really thought about it. I just started writing.)

I love The Fall. I prefer The Fall to The Beatles. I have more Fall albums than I do Beatles albums. The Fall are one of my favourite bands. But if someone said: "I don't like The Fall", I could totally understand it.

I might think they're brilliant, but if you've heard five or six Fall songs, and you didn't like any of them, there's a good chance you're not going to like any of the rest of them. That's fair enough. It's a reasonable decision to make. "I don't like The Fall" is a coherent statement.

I love Ben Folds Five. I prefer Ben Folds Five to The Beatles. I have more Ben Folds Five albums than I do Beatles albums. Ben Folds Five are one of my favourite bands. But, again, if you've heard a few of their songs and don't like them, I'm happy to accept that it's true. And that no amount of me evangelising about a catchy B-side will convince you otherwise.

This is true for most bands. Even the bands that are nearest and dearest to my heart. Some people like different types of music. Sometimes an act just won't 'click' for someone. That's fine. Variety is the spice of life.

And here we are again: variety.

The thing about The Beatles is that I reckon I could put together a ten-song playlist of Beatles tunes that are all totally distinct - in mood, in musicality, in lyrics, in energy. And if you don't like those, I could put together another one. Then another.

There are too many different types of song for you to hate them all. Dislike the Scouse beat pop of 'I Want to Hold Your Hand'? Well, maybe you'll like the proto-metal of 'Helter Skelter'. Don't like the kitchen-sink melancholy of 'She's Leaving Home'? Maybe you'll like the trippy acid-drenched 'Tomorrow Never Knows'. Don't like the apocalyptic blues of 'I Want You (She's So Heavy)'? You're an idiot. But also, you might like the jaunty music hall 'Honey Pie'.

As I said, I'm far from the biggest Beatles aficionado. I'm probably only familiar with 50% of their back catalogue. But it's still pretty impressive.

So when someone says: "I don't like The Beatles", I don't understand what they're saying.

You don't like The Beatles? You don't like any of their songs? This isn't like the Fall, where several songs will give you a rough indication of what they're all about (not to disparage the diversity of The Fall, of course, which is in its own way very impressive).

If you've listened to several Beatles songs and don't like them, there are seventy more that might change your mind.

The only thing that these songs have in common is... they're by The Beatles. That's it. If you don't like any Beatles songs, I can only think it's because they all have the word "Beatles" somewhere on the record sleeve.

And that doesn't seem a good criterion for judging music. I can only conclude that you dislike them because they're so highly praised.

I can understand that. I'm sure I do it too. It's human nature to react against disproportionate praise. With most things (films, books, fabrics), this isn't an indication of a lapse in judgement.

But when it comes to The Beatles, it is.

Subjectivity ends with The Beatles. And even though that goes against every instinct I have, and contradicts my basic assumptions about aesthetics, I'm going to continue to argue that it's true.


The Beatles are overrated. They are. They are deified to a ridiculous extent. People who think of them as Gods need to open their minds and ears. There are and were other fantastic people out there, doing similarly revolutionary things and writing amazing songs.

The Beatles are overrated. But they're still the best band of all time.

***

Inception genuinely was terrible, though. That's not just a reaction against prevailing wisdom. And Star Wars.

(I'm just trying to lose as many people as I can before the end of this post)

John Peel? Idiot.

And Attenborough.

And hope and kindness.

And bananas.

...

I think I went too far with that last one.

I should finish with a Beatles song, shouldn't I?

Well, that would make too much sense.