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DO THEY KNOW ...IT'S ONLY A CHARITY SINGLE?

24/11/2014

Jeez Louise. First it was Adele, now it's Lily Allen. Who'll be next to climb aboard the “we refused to sing on Band Aid 30” bandwagon I wonder?

Not that it's harmed the charity record's sales. It's stormed to Number One in its first week of release, clocking up 312,000 units. Actually, make that 312,001 – I've just downloaded it myself.

Is it a great record? No. Should there be more artists of African heritage on the release? Possibly. Should the lyrics be rewritten? Almost certainly.

And of course, as Bryony Gordon perceptively observed, the rich and famous who are featured on “Do They Know It's Christmas” only gave their time; the rest of us are expected to donate our money.

So why have I spent 99p buying the darned thing. One simple reason. I want to help the cause of fighting ebola in West Africa. You know, that grim and ghastly disease that has already cost more than 5,000 lives in Guinea, Liberia, Sierra Leone and five other countries. I don't expect any applause for giving to charity – but it seems bizarre to think that I might be sneered at for doing so.

Of course I could have just donated direct to one of the charities, and cut out the middle man.

But this way, as well as making a financial contribution, my kids get the pleasure of listening to a song they enjoy, and as a family we can have a discussion about the issues underlying the record's release.

Maybe there are better ways to support a continent in crisis. Perhaps it is all a bit patronising. Few things in life are perfect. But as the nitpicking continues, I'm reminded of an old saying: “Don't let the best be the enemy of the good.”

At least Band Aid 30 offers all of us the chance to have a positive influence on a situation which would otherwise leave us helplessly shrugging our shoulders. It's giving with a feelgood factor.

You might disagree of course. And let me the first to say that if you've got a better idea than sweary St Bob's money making singalong, don't waste any more time reading this rubbish.

Go out there and make it happen. But until you do, please don't diss those of us – celebrity popstar and member of the general public alike – who are just trying to do our bit.

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SPY KIDS

22/11/2014

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Should I spy on my kids? Not in the sense of snooping on their conversations you understand, or following them around - but when they're on the internet.

To those of us raised on George Orwell's classic 1984, the reflex might be a loud and immediate “No”.

Isn't that what Big Brother did to Orwell's anti hero Winston Smith, keeping tabs on his most intimate moments, prying into what should have been his private life?

Here's why this has become such an acute dilemma for me. My 10-year old daughter wants a new tablet for Christmas, and there's also something that she doesn't want - a “stalker” app (as she describes it) that would allow her Mom and me to track her online movements.

When she had her first computer last year, part of the deal was that it would come equipped with software allowing us – as concerned parents – to monitor her emails, apps and youtube viewing.

Now she's rebelling – and I'm truly in a quandry.

I certainly can't use my own childhood as a reference point. If I'd asked my parents for a machine that allowed me to talk to people on the other side of the world for free, send letters that arrived within seconds, and which contained more information than all the books in local library, they'd have had me sectioned.

Or at least banned me from watching Tomorrow's World before bedtime.

Spying on the kids in those days meant having a network of nosy neighbours who'd spot you on the way home from school, having a crafty fag upstairs on the bus.

I'm not nostalgic for that era. It wasn't better than now, just different. And infinitely less complicated.

These days kids grow up in surveillance society - there's CCTV on our high streets, cameras in sports stadia and any place of entertainment. Yet we still tell ourselves that there are some things which are beyond the reach of prying eyes, that there IS such a thing as privacy. Isn't that why so many people regard Edward Snowden as a hero?

What I'd like to do is allow my kids to use the web to its fullest potential. That means having the chance to play games with people they've never met, or posting pictures to their mates. Simple stuff that we now all take for granted.

But even if they can be trusted, who else is out there trying to take advantage of their innocence.

If hackers can get hold of hundreds of celebrities' private photos, who's to say they won't also be posting snaps of my daughter and her mates on some dodgy message board?

And is that person she's talking to on Minecraft really another 10-year old girl? Or some pervy middle aged bloke getting his weird kicks?

As parents we don't want to be Big Brother – or Big Mamma or Big Dadda come to that – we just want to make sure our kids aren't getting tangled in the Web.

Does it make a difference if our motive isn't to control, but protect? Or does it ultimately all amount to he same thing?

And if we don't allow kids to make their own mistakes, how will they ever learn how to behave responsibly on their own?

Questions, questions. Oh Mr Orwell, where are you when I need you?

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MOVIE ROUND-UP: THE DROP, NATIVITY 3, ALEXANDER AND...

20/11/2014

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If you're into your gritty urban thrillers (and I am) The Drop is a must-see movie - and arguably one of the films of the years. Based around a shady Brooklyn bar, it unfolds at a deceptively leisurely pace, as deadpan bartender Bob (played by Brit Tom Hardy) moodily banters with his grouchy boss Marv (James Gandolfini in belting form in what proved to be his final role).

We're left in no doubt that something dodgy is going on here - but precisely what it is we can't tell. All we know is that Marv is a miserable old bastard, while soft-hearted Bob is the kind of guy who rescues a puppy from a rubbish bin outside the house where his eventual love-interest Nadia (Noomi Rapace) lives.

It's this act of kindness which leads the gentle barman into an unwanted conflict with Nadia's ex, a no-good drug addict called Eric Deeds (Mattias Schoenaerts) who is rumoured to have at least one local murder to his credit. Eric claims ownership of both the dog and the girl, and hangs around like a bad fart.

To add to their woes, Tom and Marv's bar is held up by gun-toting gangsters. We haven't seen the streets of New York looking this mean since the heyday of De Niro, Keitel and Pacino.

Laced with a healthy dose of Catholic guilt - Scorsese would be proud - this is a layered and absorbing movie, smartly written and directed by Dennis Lehane, whose stories have previously inspired modern classics such as Shutter Island and Gone, Baby, Gone.

As a director he suffuses the screen with moody greys and dark orange, especially as the film weaves towards its inevitably bloody climax.

Not a movie to be watched if you're feeling knackered after a long day at work, it demands concentration - but it repays your attention with a stunning final Act.

Ironically it has rather more kick than Nativity 3: Dude Where's My Donkey - the latest instalment of what is fast becoming a seasonal franchise for Debbie Isitt. If you saw Catherine Tate squirming as she tried to sell it on Graham Norton recently, you'll have a good idea of just how bad it might be - although nothing can quite prepare you for this hour and half of shockingly unfunny cinema. It's a waste of talent masquerading as entertainment.

The first Natvity outing had a certain charm; Nativity 2 was just about OK. This is dreadful - more dud than Dude.

It tells the story of a bunch of Coventry schoolkids desperate to get New York so that their teacher Mr Shepherd (Martin Clunes, what were you thinking of?) can marry his fiancee. Clunes bumps his head and loses his memory - which is where the one constant in the series, Marc Wooton's dim witted classroom assistant Mr Poppy comes in, by trying to help the school win a flash dancing competition. The prize - yep, you've guessed it - is a trip to Big Apple.

Dude, where's your donkey? At this rate, heading for the knacker's yard.

If you're looking for a proper, warm-hearted pre-Xmas movie to enjoy with the kids, Alexander And The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day is a far better bet. Ed Oxenbould plays the eponymous hero, who wishes a miserable day upon his over-achieving family, and then lives to regret it.

Thoughtful, with a few belly laughs thrown in, this is a rarity - a domestic drama that all the family can appreciate and enjoy.

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LIVE: PETE WILLIAMS (Halesowen Cycling Club) 14/11/14

20/11/2014

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It's becoming all the rage - blokes of 50-something who've spent years in the shadows of more illustrious musical partners finally deciding the time has come to up step and take centre stage.

There's the eternal sidekick Johnny Marr, of course, finally showing what he can do as the main man with a couple of beezer albums, and certainly besting Morrissey on current form.

And now, Pete Williams, the time-served apprentice of Dexy's Midnight Runners threatening to eclipse the sorcerer Kevin Rowland, with whom he shared the band's triumphant comeback.

Williams' 2012 solo album See was a mini classic, but now comes the acid test with his follow up - due in March next year - Roughnecks and Roustabouts.

Early versions sent to fans who've paid upfront via Pledge Music suggest a more thoughtful, introspective release than his debut - one which might take a couple of listens at least to win its place in your heart. But live, in front of a "home" audience of friends, family and confirmed fans at a Black Country social club, there's a reassuringly instant connection, as Pete alternates between old favourites and fresh discoveries.

Among the newbies, Let Me Like You stands out for it's tender love-not-love scenario, while the title track of the forthcoming release is a typically passionate outpouring, detailing the singer's relationship with booze.

This is what we used to call pop music. Intelligent lyrics, full-on delivery, sharp playing, notably from Richard Hawley's guitarist Shez Sheridan.

Like Hawley, Williams deals with romantic disappointment and the scuffed edges of life. First Real Job, Trust Me and Suddenly Shattered are testament to a journey that has seen it's fair share - and possibly unfair share - of turmoil. But there's a widescreen optimism about his writing too - summed up by the anthemic Nothing's Gonna Stand In Our Way.

Chuck in a winning theatricality and some jokey onstage banter and you have a performer ready to take on far bigger stages than this.

It's been a long while coming, but you sense that Pete Williams' time is here at last - and finally, on nobody's terms but his own.

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THE BELFAST WALL

17/11/2014

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It was night as I approached the narrow metal gate that offered the only way through the giant mesh and concrete security wall. I was forced to slow down and wait for the red light to change while a soldier - high on a gantry, machine gun in hand - surveyed my motor.

What if, by some quirk of computer, my registration plate coincided with that of an on the run paramilitary? How vulnerable was I here, waiting to cross from one side of the city's divide to the other? Were there locals who might try to attack me as I sat at the wheel?

I was a Brit on his first visit to Belfast, and my paranoia was running high. These streets I was driving - first the Shankhill, next the Falls - were only too familiar from TV news. They were the home of the Troubles, synonymous with riots and petrol bombs. An area where having the wrong name, in the wrong place, at the wrong time could lead you a bloody and brutal death.

And this was a significant day. Thursday 13 October 1994. A Loyalist ceasefire had been declared from midnight. Two months earlier, the IRA had agreed to temporarily lay down their weapons.

It was a time of celebration. The fighting was over - at least for now. On this chilly autumn evening, people were gathering in the streets to wave flags (both Union Jacks and tricolours) and cheer the good news.

But there was tension, too. It might only take a stray bullet, an attack by a dissident faction on one side or the other for the whole thing to literally blow apart. And in the meantime, here was an armed soldier, viewing me suspiciously from his elevated vantage point.

Thankfully, the peace held. And yes, I was eventually given the green light and allowed to pass safely through the wall. Phew.

When I returned to Belfast last week, I revisited one of the checkpoints. Was this the same one I'd passed through so nervously years earlier? I couldn't be sure. The big ugly gates, topped with spikes, looked familiar. But the rest looked so different from how I'd remembered it. The traffic was passing through freely. No soldiers, no gantry, no big deal - or at least not in any virtually any other city. But this represents fantastic progress for Belfast.

The rest of the wall remains, though, separating Loyalist from Nationalist, Catholic from Protestant, and its possible demolition remains a source of lively controversy. Twenty years of relative peace clearly haven't dissolved the decades of mistrust.

For me though, that spike-topped gate is a symbol of hope.

Belfast has a great international tourist attraction based around the Titanic, a smart new city centre shopping mall - as well as some of the greatest fried breakfasts the world can offer. But it doesn't amount to much if visitors are constantly being reminded of pre-1989 Berlin or Gaza.

Being able to drive from one end of the road to the other without being stopped by the Army? Now that's what I call an achievement.

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MOVIE REVIEW: THE NIGHTCRAWLER

13/11/2014

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You know how it is - you go and see a movie that's been universally acclaimed and you're sitting there thinking "what was all the fuss about?"

Maybe it's because you've seen all those four and five star write-ups and you unconsciously bristle at the reviewers having seen it first and telling you what to think. Or perhaps it's because the critics occupy their own narrow universe in which no one wants to be seen to be stepping out of line with their colleagues.

Either way, it's hard to equate the rave reviews - including a 94% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes - with the entertaining but ultimately underwhelming thriller I saw the other night.

In case you don't know, Nightcrawler tells the story of Lou Bloom a scrapyard thief turned TV cameraman hoping to cash in on the "if it bleeds it leads" philosophy of US cable TV.

To say that Lou (Jake Gyllenhall) is "on the spectrum" is to put it mildly; he has no friends, zero social skills, and spends most of his time in front of a computer screen.

Cold-hearted manipulation of the weak is his stock-in-trade. He persuades the hapless, poverty-stricken Rick (a decent turn by Brit Riz Ahmed) to become his navigator cum stooge as they seek to beat their rivals to the goriest crash scenes or worst shootings in L.A.

And then he tries to use his new found camera skills to make whoopee as well as money with vulnerable, ageing TV exec Nina - superbly captured by Rene Russo.

The crisis comes when Lou captures on camera two killers fleeing a murder scene and looks to exploit the full potential of the moment, oblivious to the human consequences.

At the most obvious narrative level - as a suspense story - Nightcrawler works well enough, and there's a lovely grainy quality to the colour reflecting the handheld night vision world of the story.

But as a satire on television, it's a blunt instrument. We have experienced TV execs, for example, who make snap decisions, apparently unaware of the regulatory framework under which they operate and willing to risk huge fines by breaking the rules. Really? If it's all about the money, isn't a bit stupid to run some footage that might cost you thousands of dollars?

These little things matter because Director Dan Gilroy would have us believe that US telly is run by clever, heartless bastards who live only for the bottom line.

Even if its true, there's something so grim about Gyllenhall's stony-faced, dead-eyed depiction of the loner at the heart of the movie that it's hard to care much either way.

Network is sharper and Anchorman is funnier. In their various ways, these movies have set the bar for Hollywood mockery of its local TV industry. They both do it better than this efficient but over-rated film.

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THE "BENEFITS STREET" PUB CRAWL

13/11/2014

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James Turner Street is probably the best known location in Birmingham. Forget Villa Park or the Bull Ring, this hitherto unrecognised stretch of rundown inner city tarmac played host to Channel 4's scandalously watchable Benefits Street. Millions tuned into what was effectively a real life soap opera masquerading as a documentary, and it made a star of White Dee - aka Deirdre Kelly - while leaving many residents feeling exploited and misrepresented.

Whatever your opinion of the programme it's probably fair to say that it didn't help property prices in and around the B18 postcode. The warmth and diversity of inner city life which the programme touched upon were overshadowed by the sense that this was a place with a transient population, where drugs and thieving are a way of life.

As if that wasn't enough, the area is dominated by the giant Winson Green Prison (officially known as HMP Birmingham) a forbidding Victorian nick. Let's face it, there aren't many jails situated in leafy suburbs and few people with a choice in life would choose to live next door to one.

All in all, then, a pretty unpromising place for a pub crawl? Well, that's what you might think, but a five bar tour of the area is curiously life affirming experience. This is a community where people still know how to have fun, and where strangers (like me and my mates on our regularly month booze cruise) were instantly made to feel welcome. Sometimes, it's just the small details - a favourite song, a free pool table - but whatever it was, these boozers, all within a mile or thereabouts of James Turner Street had something to commend them. And no, in case you're wondering, we didn't see Dee or any of her mates en route.

1) The Belle Vue (Icknield Port Road, B16 0AG)

In an age when pubs are being picked off like grouse on the Glorious 12th, it's great to see an old one being brought back to life. Like many inner city pubs in the West Midlands, this has Indian food on offer, but there's a nod at tradition too, with the old pub sign attached to the wall and postcards reflecting the area's history. There was a great trad reggae thing going on too - Janet Kay's "Silly Games" and Junior Murvin's "Police and Thieves". Nothing special in the beer department, and maybe a bit too brightly lit, but a decent start - both for this reborn boozer and our crawl.

2) The Bricklayers Arms (Icknield Port Road, B16 0DA)

Louder reggae this time with a blaring sound system. There were signs on the wall signposting you to another venue for "afters". The front bar was busy with locals watching or playing pool, but it started filling up in the lounge, too, while were there. Patties for £1.40 Again, the beer's nowt special but a friendly boozer.

3) Devonshire Arms (Lodge Road, B18 5DH)

Bit of a hike as you head across the Dudley Road and take a right after the prison. Again, another very diverse and friendly pub. Busy front bar, free pool in the back room and and an ageing West Indian woman out back cooking Jerk Chicken on what looks like a home barbecue. What's not to like?

4) New Soho Tavern (Park Road, B18 5SR)

Another one we never thought we'd see again, but this formerly decrepit spit n sawdust joint has been brought gloriously back to life as a curry pub. In case you haven't realised it yet, Sikh-owned food bars are the coming thing in the West Midlands, and this smart, spacious boozer with real ales and big widescreen tellies is a welcome addition. The kitchen in the corner serves terrific fresh food - go on, treat yourself to the fish pakora - and with various guest ales, including Doom Bar and Exmoor Gold, the beer's good too.

5) The Black Eagle (Factory Road, B18 5JU)

I don't pretend to be an expert, but I know good beer when I taste it - and they serve it here. Bathams, Holdens, Timmy Taylor's, all kept in decent fettle, and great traditional pub food in a classic Victorian/Edwardian interior. Simply one of the best pubs around.

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LIVE REVIEW: BILLY IDOL, O2 Academy Birmingham(5/11/14)

9/11/2014

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There aren't many 58 year old blokes who can excite a crowd into teenybopper-style screaming as he enters the stage - but then Billy Idol has always been an exception.

In the punk era, his band Generation X didn't fit with the political posturing of bands like The Clash - and they were never quite pantomime enough to rival The Damned

What they were was a bloody good powerpop band - before the phrase had even been coined. Your Generation, Ready Steady Go, King Rocker - these were classics of their kind.

Then there was Idol's second, mid-80's American phase, when again he was ostracised by the critics but delivered another bunch of hummable hits - including Rebel Yell, Dancing With Myself, and Eyes Without A Face.

I mean, what's not to like about that lot?

And now there's Billy - Version 3. The older, wiser, more mature autobiographer whose new album Kings And Queens Of The Underground reflects his personal battles with drugs and celebrity.

So it's in a positive frame that I head to see the opening night of his UK tour in Brum.

First impression of the crowd? Admirably varied in age - from veterans of the '77 era to pre-teens.

And even the girlie screaming didn't put me off - even approaching 60, our Bill is handsome bloke, and he has a ripped body testifying to long hours in the gym.

So what went wrong? Simple, somewhere along the line Billy and his band mutated into the kind of masturbatory wank that punk set out to demolish. I think they call it Rock.

Axeman Steve Stevens - who with his Robert Smith barnet and double chin would surely pass an audition for the remake of Spinal Tap - was chief offender in the realms of self indulgence. I mean - a solo demonstrating his virtuosity in Spanish guitar???

And then there was Billy himself, playing all those tiresome stadium rock tricks - gurning when he thinks he's snarling, shaking his fist like a second rate prize fighter.

There were decent moments - King Rocker still cut through - but we could have lived without the droning, drawn out cover of The Doors L.A. Woman and wimpy, acoustic version of his one bona fide classic White Wedding.

I could have forgiven the fact that on the night Cathy Macgow-wow-wow-wow-wan didn't get a look in, if only Idol had stayed true to the spirit of his early days. But this was the kind of dumb-ass rock Homer Simpson would have boogied too.

Given the ecstatic reception he received, I'm obviously in a tiny minority in loathing this gig - but for me, Billy is an idol no more.

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THE BAG ON THE SEAT

7/11/2014

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The 20.23 from London Euston to Wolverhampton via Milton Keynes, Coventry, Birmingham International and Birmingham New Street.

It's a busy train. I have to walk through two carriages to get a seat but finally manage to insert myself next to a woman working on a laptop and opposite a bloke listening to some music. Quality headphones. Not too loud. Good.

And then, opposite, I see her - the well dressed woman with her MacBook spread across the table. She pushes it across so that it covers two table spaces rather than one. Just to make sure her territory isn't invaded, she parks her suitcase on the seat next to her. One of those overnight jobbies, with wheels. And on top of that, her coat with its faux fur trimming.

I'm guessing she's a professional who earns well. She looks smart and has clearly taken care with her appearance.

At first, I assume that as the train fills up, she'll rather begrudgingly move her case and put it with the other luggage in the (admittedly limited) space allocated to it at the end of the carriage. But no - although people are walking up and down, obviously looking for somewhere to sit, she looks out of the window and carries on regardless. By now she's got her headphones on. What kind of music do people like this listen to?

Other passengers who have tried to hog a couple of seats by laying bags or coats down next to them remove the blockages and allow others to sit next to them. But not her.

I stare at the woman. I catch her eye. She stares back at me, all passive aggressive. Does she think I'm eyeying her up? That I fancy her? You've got to be joking, love. Now she looks down and gets stuck into her work.

Don't worry, any moment now, one of the people who can't find a seat will get fed up, and just ask her to move the case so they they can sit down. I'm willing each and everyone one of them to do it. As a fellow stands in the aisle looking down the carriage, I nod in what I hope is an expressive way at the seat with the bag. He looks down embarrassed, adjusts his fly, and moves on.

Surely, someone will soon demand the space. The train is rammed. She will apologise, shift her bag, and we'll all be OK.

Except that it never happens. The great British reserve - more properly called cowardice - which prevents me from directly asking her to move her bag, is also holding back the other passengers, even those with nowhere to sit.

Eventually, somewhere south of Watford, the carriage clears. She's got away with it. Damn. I walk down to the loo. I see other single passengers who've hogged a double seat to themselves too. Yet in the vestibules I'm having to scrape past people standing.

A large extended family with maybe seven or eight members - including a girl I'd estimate at being around 9 years of age and a teenage lad - are on their feet all the way home, grouped together in the smelly passage outside the loo.

Why didn't I speak up and encourage one of them to challenge the selfish woman? Why didn't the Train Manager try and match up the loose passengers with the empty places and remind everyone over the tannoy that seats are for people not luggage. I've heard it done on other services.

Most of all, why didn't the woman herself feel a sense of shame and embarrassment at denying fellow travellers a seat they had paid for?

A growing selfishness is afoot in the public realm. I travel on the trains regularly, and hear passengers playing music and films out loud without the shield of headphones; I hear loud swearing apparently oblivious to the presence of children.

Nothing though quite riles me so much as passengers expecting first class levels of space and comfort while playing standard fare.

Next time Madam, I'll be on your case - literally.

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LIVE REVIEW: ROGER MCGUINN (Glee Club, Birmingham)

2/11/2014

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What? The lead singer and guitarist from The Byrds playing a venue where you can you practically touch the stage from the back row?

Yup, and I was feeling pretty smug when I snagged myself four tickets on the first morning they went on sale. In fairness, you wouldn't necessarily have been trampled underfoot in the rush - though perhaps you'd have to watch out for the odd Zimmer frame or two given the ageing nature of McGuinn's core audience - but in the end, the man's reputation ensured a virtual sell out.

And he didn't disappoint. An improbably young looking 72 year old, McGuinn has kept his beautiful tremulous, near falsetto but he can still growl like an angry bluesman when he wants to. Guitar-wise he switched between his trademark seven string acoustic - which can mimic the full 12-string jingle jangle Byrds' sound - and an electric Rickenbacker as he bounced around a five decade recording career.

From Dylan covers (My Back Pages, Knocking On Heaven's Door) to self-penned classics (Chestnut Mare, Eight Miles High) to country, folk and even a smattering of sea shanties he's been on a widescreen musical adventure that he wants to share.

So yes, the songs were great, but what set the show apart was the quality of the story telling. This is a man who doesn't merely drop names - he sprays them around with a garden hose. And why shouldn't he? McGuinn has hung out with Dylan, McCartney, David Crosby and the Bee Gees; he's been an inspiration to Tom Petty; and it was a phone call from Miles Davies that secured The Byrds their first record deal.

Yet for all his cross referencing to the History of Pop, there was a touching modesty in the delivery. McGuinn talks you through the evolution of Mr Tambourine Man, frankly admitting that the band were desperate for a hit record, and tried to achieve it by sounding like The Beatles.

They were successful, and the rest is his story. It's one well worth catching if you ever get the chance.

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DO THEY KNOW ...IT'S ONLY A CHARITY SINGLE?

SPY KIDS

MOVIE ROUND-UP: THE DROP, NATIVITY 3, ALEXANDER AND...

LIVE: PETE WILLIAMS (Halesowen Cycling Club) 14/11/14

THE BELFAST WALL

MOVIE REVIEW: THE NIGHTCRAWLER

THE "BENEFITS STREET" PUB CRAWL

LIVE REVIEW: BILLY IDOL, O2 Academy Birmingham(5/11/14)

THE BAG ON THE SEAT

LIVE REVIEW: ROGER MCGUINN (Glee Club, Birmingham)

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