between two mothers on the Helensburgh-Glasgow local stopper: > “EASTER EGG?! Ah sez, ‘Doan’t yoo give me Easter Egg! Ah’ll Easter Egg YOO!!’” That’s an expression that you can often also hear in the north of England. There is a certain type of mother who is convinced that life is miserable as fucking sin and the sooner her kids learn to appreciate this fact, the better prepared they will be.

I kind of imagine her unwrapping a slightly warm Easter Egg and mushing it into her kid’s face…

According to a board in the People’s Palace, at the last census, “74% of Glasgow’s population thought they could be funnier than Billy Connolly, 17% thought they were funnier than Billy Connolly and 9% thought they were Billy Connolly”.

I thought the record companies were scared of Napster because they feared that people would download songs by Britney Spears and N’Sync for free. But perhaps they’re actually petrified that people might not download those songs even though they’re free! And what would that say about the quality of artists whom they’ve spent millions of dollars promoting? Indeed, when all the music is free and suddenly no one has to take a £15 risk on something they may not like, what do the charts look like then? (Answer: full of songs called things like “hot-pumpy-sex-sex-sex-lesbian-teenage-fantasy-xxx” … uh wait, that’s no different from Britney Spears.)

made titanic efforts for the Easter weekend but despite that, my wife & I reached Glasgow before midnight for our foot and mouth-free city break. Even though they selfishly never came through on their continual promises of cheap returns after two months of phonecalls to the booking line, and they tried hard to discourage us by cancelling the booked train on the day, we called their bluff and turned up at Preston in time to catch an earlier (but naturally late running) train. And we got a seat, despite our reservations being on the non-existent 19:20. Nice try, you useless bastards.

Darlene Edmunds, ex-wife of a US navy cryptographic expert held by the Chinese, told the Sacramento Bee newspaper, who in turn told the world media, parts of which are even rumoured to be read by the same Chinese who may wish to painfully torture her former husband.

“I don’t know what measures they are going to take to find out what they want to know … but it could involve red hot, electrified needles under his fingernails and in his eyes, body cavity probes with a nailed baseball bat or genital mutilation - all recognised techniques that cause extreme pain and duress,” she went on. “Josef - five foot eight with sandy hair, spectacles and lying eyes - is trained not to give out information, so they’d probably have to subject him to several days of extreme torture without sleep before he would blab like a baby. And who could blame them, when the knowledge he has could topple our entire country?”

Tearfully, Mrs Edmunds went on to say, “Even though he carried on a six month affair with a young navy intern, which was the main factor in our divorce after ten years of marriage, I don’t want him to come to any real harm or suffer nameless agonies at the hands of cruel, heartless aggressors who may be his equal. That’s why I’m pleading with the Chinese authorities not to interrogate him - that’s Josef ‘Joe’ Edmunds, got that? - in their usual highly effective and notorious manner. Just because he can tell a pack of stinking lies to my attorney under oath, he may not be able to withstand extreme torture that maims for life. Nobody deserves to suffer a living hell like that, even if he is a homewrecker and a lousy shit.”

Mrs Edmunds went on to dish out photographs of her ex-husband to waiting journalists, together with a list of his “ten greatest phobias”.

you joined one of the six tribes of pop yet? Personally, I firmly believe that we need to dispossess the tribes, move them to reservations and slowly begin disinheriting them of their “culture”.

Top gangsta rap star GayLord Poppa has changed his name to “Sweetie, bend me over and batter my behind with the rough end of a baseball bat- Bitchboy”. “But you can call me Malcolm,” added the rapper.

ever there was a case for calling a man’s bluff, it was Slobodan’s “You’ll never take me alive, ya hear me, cop?!” at the weekend. Sadly, he bluffed.

My Psion suffered another symptom of advancing age last week. This time the left hinge broke. I didn’t really fancy repeating the grief I had last time, so I went straight to the FAQ looking for a DIY repair. And yes, once again it’s a Known Problem (apparently, the right hinge is made of sterner stuff).

After a lot of fiddling about with my baby, my entire life, in pieces on the table, together with the odd loud sigh and brisk walk around the table to quell a sudden urge to smash the thing into more pieces, I managed to effect a repair using only the screw from the hinge of an old pair of specs and the aid of my beautiful assistant (Debbie McGee to my Paul Daniels). Tip: don’t bother with “1-2mm spring wire” as suggested, it’s way too thick and you’ll have to carve away too much of the case to fit it in.

However, it was clear that it could only be a matter of time - a much shorter time than my likely lifespan, unless the worry kills me first - before the game was up and my Psion put its little rubber feet in the air. And suddenly Palm Pilots, with their lack of keyboard or, crucially, any moving parts seemed a lot more attractive.

However, I have come to realise that there is one factor when choosing an electronic PDA that has much more bearing than memory size, screen display, applications or availability of Tetris - technological obsolescence. True, they score over diaries and address books by being (in theory) infinitely updateable, easy to backup and capable of bleeping loudly on your mother’s birthday (they also send a clear signal to friends that if they don’t get a card, it’s because you deliberately didn’t send one rather than you forgot, so f*** you). But the odds of being able to use the same PDA for ten years or more are slim without succumbing to: * hardware failure (inevitable with any Psion); * bit-rot (you have the device but nothing talks to it anymore); * manufacturer going bust or more likely, “leaving the PDA business to concentrate on selling mobile e-services via our web portal” (unless you are Psion and can rely on a constant revenue stream from repairing bust organisers); * the lure of something slimmer, curvier and far sexier (Six Times Married syndrome). (Incidentally, does anyone know how to convert Psion data files to Visor formats?)

I’ve had some good times with my Psion, or at least I’ve avoided many bad times through forgetting to do something vitally important (hi, mum). However, I can’t help wondering if the £400 it has cost me to date (including £160 repair fees barely a year before the latest fault) is good value for six years use. Probably, based on savings to my time in not copying out a new diary every year and generally organising my life, but it rankles.

Hence, I realised sadly that my furtive lust for a Handspring Visor was nothing more than that; a desire born of the loins rather than the heart, doomed to end in another tragic breakup when my young mistress one day seemed older and flabbier than the competition or was coldly “discontinued” by the manufacturer. Sometimes, progress is your worst enemy.

The other option, of course, is a PocketPC running Linux. But even I’m not that much of a weenie.

“HALF OF ALL FARM ANIMALS MAY DIE”
- Daily Mail, Saturday …Which is a tragedy because otherwise they were going to live to a ripe old age surrounded by doting grandchildren.

“Mark Lawson: It’s no accident that every other programme these days involves a car. Is the BBC’s latest exploration of Britain’s love affair with wheels a worthy addition to the range?”
- The Guardian, today Might as well write a column headed “It’s no accident that every other programme these days involves air-breathing human lifeforms. Is the BBC’s latest exploration of Britain’s love affair with terrestrial life a worthy addition to the range?” The editor wanted 200 words on “something media-related” by Monday’s deadline, so Mark Lawson duly brought forth the last few chippings from the bottom of the barrel.

It began with a whinge, which developed into an annoying whine before climaxing in a major outburst of dissatisfaction before subsiding into a low, continuous grumble in the background: the lack of inspiring culture (particularly music) today, right here, right now. I’ve slagged Coldplay & Travis before for being dull and laughably big-headed about their weenie “art”, but yesterday I just wanted to take a machine gun and mow down every band in the country in the hopes of seeing some fresh, green shoots finally coming through.

Following a protracted email moan session among friends, which included trashing all their current, puny raves (“David Gray?” - “Arse!”; “Mel C?” - “Go shove your face in a blender!”; “Coldplay?” - “Bastard!”), I went home and, in desperation, dug out Q’s “Best of 2000” CD for a fresh listen, in case I had been overly hasty in dismissing it as “a stinking heap of shite”. Here’s what I found:

Muse (“Sunburn”)

Oh, so this is the music from the iMac advert! Nice chorus. Listen, there’s even spome rippling piano on it too. (Four minutes later:) Erm…nice chorus. Once. (And that voice! Ouch, my ears, my poor, bleeding ears.)

Coldplay (“Yellow”)

Yellow? YELLOW?! Fucking PURPLE with rage, more like. Is this the world’s most boring guitar part? Clang-clang-clang-clang, eight to the bar for four minutes with only the occasional uninspired chord change to ram home the monotony. And how the hell can it be “all yellow” anyway? “How’re you doing, pal?” - “Oh, turquoise with a hint of lilac, thanks!” I’ve stepped in dog turds that were more musical. “Fuck off, wankers,” I muttered, hitting the “skip” button.

Dandy Warhols (“Get Off”)

-starts- Hmmm, this is bouncy and fun! -ends- Hmmm, that was dull. Is that it?

Toploader

Toploader “sound like Jamiroquai”, I was informed. That they do, that they do…
When I lived in a college flat during the final year of my degree, my neighbour at the end of the corridor went through an unfortunate and regrettable “Dr. Hook” phase, which involved him playing aforesaid band (particularly that song about getting your face “on the cover of the Rolling Stone”, which still gives me convulsions) loudly all day, until eventually we all clubbed together, bought a nailed club, and clubbed him to death with it before going out clubbing to celebrate. (It was a great club thing…)
Jamiroquai remind me of that experience, except that Stevie Wonder is being played constantly instead, until the paperclip you are using to pick the lock on the flat door snaps at the same time as your tenuous grip on sanity.
I hate Jamiroquai.

Moby (“Porcelain”)

Dull. Dull, dull, dull. Everyone tells me Moby’s “Play” album is “great background music”, which is one of the most damning insults I can imagine. Ignore him and maybe he’ll go away.

David Gray

Ho-hum (without the “hum” or, indeed, a “ho” either).

And so on, and so on. Some of it was interesting, much of it was pleasant but none of it was inspired. Same as every book I’ve read and movie I’ve seen in the last few months. Thrills-thru-culture are dead, news at eleven.

Listen, wankfaces. I want guitars that sound like angels wielding chainsaws, I want drums that kill infants, I want choruses the size of Everest, I want melodies like heroin, I want vocals like sex, I want it yesterday and I want a job on the NME!!

(Al pointed out that what I wanted to hear then was The Sisters of Mercy. Huh, chance’d be a fine thing.)