And the winner is...

According to the Institute for Pointless Scientific Research (or, more specifically, a bloke called Trevor from Salford University) a person vomiting is the worst sound in the world. Aside from the fact that many might think Trev might better spend his time, say, researching a cure for cancer, I would take issue with the result. Apparently this is the choice of 1.1 million voters (Them, The Public again) worldwide, but exactly how fair is it? Exactly how many sounds have they heard? Having had cats in the house for many years, I would argue the tortured sounds of a cat vomiting are worse than those of its human counterparts (cat-lovers, leap to my defence. It's true, isn't it?) Second most-hated sound is the infamous "fingernails on a blackboard", but now I come to think of it, I can't recall a single occasion when I've actually heard fingernails being dragged along a blackbard. It certainly isn't something I've ever thought of doing as a little piece of scientific research myself, so that I can conclude, yes, it is pretty awful, isn't it?

In an attempt to legitimate his "research", Trev explained ""From a scientific perspective, we really don't understand why some sounds are so horrible, but our reactions are part of what makes us human. If, as engineers, we can learn what offends people then, in some cases, we may be able to engineer them out of existence or at least reduce their impact." Now, how exactly would engineers act to reduce the impact of the sound of vomiting? Surely that's an issue for the legislators? On-the-spot fines for anyone who throws up outside the confines of a sound-proofed box?

More amusingly, having told us how awful these sounds are, the Guardian has kindly allowed us to download an MP3 file of a person vomiting just so we can double-check it's not a nice sound. Cheers, that really is journalism at its most cutting-edge.

Talking of vomiting, I found this wonderfully gross Rik Mayall (still obsessed from Saturday) quote on that spooky fan site:

"I'll tell you what maked me really sick, though. Drinking a pint of salt water and jamming my fingers down my throat. That makes me really sick, that does, so, like, whenever possible, I try to avoid doing that."

Fair point.

The New Statesman

Poor old Rik Mayall, bless his cotton socks, had a bad week last week. Fortunately for us, he was back on 20th for his brilliant reincarnation of "The New Statesman", that is fictional ex-Tory-turned-New-Labour MP Alan B'Stard (I'm a very simple human being and that never fails to make me smile). I'm quite a fan of Rik Mayall, having watched him read George's Marvellous Medicine on Jackanory (about the only thing ever read on Jackanory that didn't make you feel like you were sitting cross-legged on the rug in the corner of P2 watching the clock while Mrs Whitham read from "Eric the Viking") and later on Blackadder, and recently in re-runs of The Young Ones. His script for his latest stageshow is brilliant, backed up by some superb stereotyping of Northern Old Labour Socialist, Arabic Terrorist Who Nevertheless Speaks Perfect English, New Labour ex-Russell Group Upstart and, more bizarrely, John Culshaw as the voice of Tony Blair In A Box. But Rik Mayall was clearly not well, and, although he gave a fantastic performance, he was mopping his brow and drinking more than hte script really allowed. At one particularly crucial moment, when said Arabic Terrorist Who Nevertheless Speaks Perfect English was suggesting his B'Stard's death might be imminent, he had a coughing fit, which he explained away to the perplexed terrorist with the line "Excuse me. I have a frog in my throat. And it's nothing to do with that unfortunate incident in those Paris toilets." He downed a glass of what purported to be brandy, though it looked suspiciously like apple juice. "It's gone now," he said, to which the terrorist replied "I'm glad to hear it", after which he resumed the threats of fatwahs and jihad etc. I almost wanted to go to the stage door and give him a hug afterwards, but then I remembered I'm not a weird stalker. These people seem to have had their picture taken with him at some point or other, but, as I have explained abover (this is an edit, as I caused a minor scuffle before), I would probably have done or said something very silly, so best to stay away.

The run's almost over, but it is worth seeing. As the plot unfolds the character plausibly shows himself to have been behind just about every disaster from Black Wednesday to the assassination of Alexander Litvinenko, and also manages to persuade Condoleeza Rice to invade Norway. My favourite line in the whole thing, though, was B'Stard's pronouncement "I didn't join the Labour Party. It joined me." Depressingly, he's hit the proverbial nail right on the head.

Speaking of America (which I wasn't really) I've had a long day, so am going to take this opportunity to show off about my forthcoming holiday. Having flown into Chicago and spent a couple of days there, we will spend 22 hours on a train (and not because of the "wrong kind of snow", but because we are actually travelling a Long Way), in our own little roomette (OK, it's abuot the size of my wardrobe, but don't spoil it), meals and complimentary coffee and newspaper included, for the same price as a peak return to Bradford. My, how things have improved since the railways were privatised.

I Fought the Law

Actually, I didn't fight as such, but politely did what I was told to by the nice policeman. Technically, though, I did break the law, by holding a counter-demonstration within the square mile around parliament without a permit. This "counter-demonstration" entailed about 7 of us with a single, home-made placard declaring "Cashmere with those trousers? I don't think so! Read Leviticus!" and was in response to the fuss-about-nothing protest that was going on next to us which I found profoundly irritating. The Guardian explains it better than me, but in a nutshell the government has tidied up the laws to make it actually illegal to actively discriminate against gay people, e.g. it's now official a Bad Thing to put up a sign in a guesthous saying "No Gays". The Lords passed it, though probably because when they vote against the government the government reminds them there are moves afoot to abolish what is largely a bunch of unelected, undemocratic old people.

What worries me is that such a law is even necessary. It strikes me as somewhat counter-productive if you are, say, the owner of a guesthouse to turn down a paying couple purely because of their sexuality. Having a law saying "you're not allowed to say "No Gays" - it's not nice" seems in a similar vein to the warning on the back of Anusol that states it is "not to be taken orally". Campaigners from such charming organisations as The Christian Voice trotted out the old argument that they have nothing against homosexuals, they just don't like anal sex, but this implies that said guesthouse owner or, more ridiculously, someone letting out a hall or other venue for a gay event is readily expecting sodomy galore on their premises. Aside from this being a bit daft, to say the least, I think that someone who provides a service isn't generally in a position to pick and choose who receives that service, provided they pay for it. One particularly nice chap (I'm being ironic)who told me in all seriousness he would support a law to bring back the stoning of those engaging in extra-marital sex or homosexual acts (and when I said I hadn't noticed the asterix and subsequent footnote attached to the old "Thou shalt not kill commandment" simply called me ignorant) told me that forbidding someone to have sex on your premises was no different to forbidding them from smoking. When I said there was no such thing as passive gay sex and he could not get lung cancer from it he said "Yes there is! I could get AIDS and it would corrupt my children!" I assume from this that he intends for his children to watch and for himself to join in, in which case I can't think of many of my friends who would want to darken the doors of his proverbial guesthouse anyway.

The most exciting part of the evening was meeting - and being warned by - the infamous PC MacNally (infamous if you've seen any of Mark Thomas's recent shows.) Poor old PC Mac is the guy you need to contact if you want to stage a protest within a mile of parliament, and thanks to Mark he's been a busy chap recently. He looked fairly non-plussed by the Christians waving their "Cry Freedom" (yeah, I know, I thought that too) banners and banging their tambourines, and apologied about the fact that our measley little collective was technically in breach of the law, but if we were a bunch of gays, lesbians and their friends who just happened to be walking by and saw the demo and decided to stay and engage in friendly conversation with some of its supporters then that was fine.

In completely unrelated news, Moz is going to win Eurovision for us! Or, as The Guardian so beautifully put it, "Miserable Git to the Rescue". Actually, we probably won't win on the basis that nobody likes us, because we keep bombing people - People of Europe: Please, please, please, let me get what I want. Lord knows it would be the first time (since 1997).

Dirty Old Town

New Year’s resolutions out of the way first:

- I’m going to learn to drive
- I’m going to get fitter and do more races

As everyone well knows, I hate Christmas for a whole myriad of both pious and Scrooge-like reasons I won’t go into, so I’m going to say as little about the whole thing as possible. Before this tedious event, however, I went to see the Pogues at Brixton Academy – oh, my, they were good!! Admittedly, Shane MacGowan should by rights be dead, and at various points throughout I suspected he might be. He now has no teeth, so makes even less sense than he used to, and during the gig he smoked his way through nine cigarettes and half a bottle of whiskey. At the start he was physically led onstage by some sort of minder, who helpfully pointed out the microphone to me. He then greeted us with something I can roughly transcribe as “gyfjhfbfyithsdfuysynouthmdudakjhdfhboigtcevtFUCK”, which apparently made sense to everyone else, who cheered.

Apparently when Shane MacGowan was playing an Oxford Street ghost he was so drunk he couldn’t remember the words to “Fairytale of New York”. I’m not sure if this was the case tonight, as everything was mutually incomprehensible. Regardless, though, he sounded great. They performed an epic two-hour set – far more than any live act I’ve ever seen (sorry, Moz.) They sang every well-known song, from “Dirty Old Town” to “If I Should Fall From Grace With God”, to “Thousands Are Sailing”, which they dedicated to Kirsty MacColl, and the obligatory “Fairytale Of New York”, since the crowd would have lynched them otherwise. The latter was nothing to write home about, complete as it was with balloons and fake snow and a by this time completely hammered Shane MacGowan trying to remember how to waltz with a MacColl stand-in whose dress made her look like Grayson Perry as alter-ego Clare. I have to admit that my impressions of this gig were not helped by the fact that of the two guys I went with, one had inserted earplugs before they’d even come onstage, and the other remained firmly seated throughout while people called Seamus danced around him, undeterred, because there was a sign that said for our safety we should remain in our seats, and he “didn’t want to get into trouble”.

I kept the ticket in case it turned out to be MacGowan’s last gig, so I could flog it on ebay to some Irish sucker who wanted it for posterity, but, against all odds, he’s still not dead. Maybe he’s some sort of time lord who regenerates every now and again to stay something close to alive… Anyway, if you’ve never seen the Pogues live, it’s about time you did.