Katy Perry

Mademoiselle Perry stormed the charts recently with her single I Kissed A Girl.


I know opinion has been polarised and households within earshot of a radiowave have been divided about the merits of such a single and whether it is a litmus test about the mental condition of the nation as a whole.


Never has such a pop single generated such furore - more questions have been fired out at Miss Perry than Gordon Brown.


Is she a one-hit wonder a la Chesney Hawkes?


Is this single an act of desperation from the record label to reel the single-buying public with clever gimmickry - and do they really believe we're that unsophisticated in what we purchase that we'd simply swallow it and smile?


Is this song plain old drivel? And if I like it, does that make me an idiot with limited musical tastes?


So many questions, from a public facing so much uncertainty already.


So let me put this clearly across, just as I mentioned to the listeners of BBC Radio Lancashire recently, so that there can be no misgivings and hopefully, it will end all confusion hence-forth:


She kisses girls. And she likes it.

Now just buy the record and shut up.

Now Comes the Science Part...

Doctors at 25 UK and US hospitals will study 1,500 survivors to see if people with no heartbeat or brain activity can have "out of body" experiences.

The study, which will take place over the next 3 years, will be headed by Southampton University.

It's going to be the first real objective attempt at scientifically analysing this phenomenon and scientists will be hoping to discover a little more about the workings of the brain, mind and consciousness as a result.

The way they're going to do this is by placing pictures in surgeries, which can only be viewed from above - and so the next time a patient mentions they've had an out of body experience, the doc will ask him/her to describe what he/she saw in the room.

It will be interesting to see if this experiment works.

Personally, I’m a little sceptical as to the conditions of the test being practical….

Man in the process of dying: Oh God! I see the light it’s really happening!…

Heavenly Creator: Come to the light my son, come….

Man in the process of dying: Yes, yes, I see the light….wait…..what’s this? Who put all these pictures here…

Heavenly Creator: The light, follow the light…

Man: Wow, these are some really cool drawings …

Heavenly Creator: The light, you idiot! FOLLOW THE LIGHT! …leave the pictures alone and CONCENTRATE on the situation - this isn't a memory test or an art exhibit, you are about to enter nirvana, you are DEAD, pay attention...(sighing)

In all seriousness, there's so much subjectivity to the study that I doubt results from the research will prove anything either way.

Victorian Bodybuilding Championships

...and if the New York catwalk wasn't mouth-gaping enough, it was relatively tame compared to the sheer peacock-tailed spectacle of the Victorian Bodybuilder championships on September 14th.

Featuring all manner of Herculean males and Amazonian females, their oily, tanned bodies flexing and parading. Years of gym-honed physiques hanging like salami in a sausage shop.

You'd need an Ordnance Survey Map to find your way through all these contours.

The top performers will go on to compete in the Australian Bodybuilding Championships in Perth next week.

New York Fashion Week

I'm going to be featuring two events that may or may not have registered on your radar this past 7 days...

Firstly, it was New York Fashion Week...

That spectacle of high culture and wacky designs (how many watch these things with an emulsion of curiosity and horror).

Dozens of sharp cheeked models unfurling collections from all the top designers:

Mara Hoffman, Tommy Hilfiger, Custo Barcelona and Naeem Khan all presenting their Spring 2009 collections on the catwalk in front of the world's top socialites and fashionistas.

Not to mention dilettante's such as myself.

For someone who normally spends his time as far away from a high street without moving out of town altogether, I'd normally not even attempt to feign an interest.

But feign I must - this is where it begins and I've been given an oracle-like glimpse into what the girls will be wearing come May.

The Enemy Within

Here's a news bulletin for you:

Testosterone, that wonderful steroid hormone that virilizes a man and makes us what we are, is also partly responsible for why we, on average, last less than women on this earth.

Isn't that grand?

Doomed by our very genetic makeup to suffer a life of libidinal over-exertion and declination, as well as advancing nasal hair growth, we're on a ride that cares little for our well-being, only for our ability to produce offspring.

Once production has commenced - testosterone couldn't care less about you and wants only what's best for the propagation of your genes. Unlike the menopause, which is nature's way of protecting the female from life-threatening gestation as she ages, and instead tells her to "take it easy and enjoy things from now on".

No, testosterone forces us forever onwards, to repeat the same errors - just as the Gods forced poor Sisyphus (unfortunate name) to roll that boulder up the hill, only for it to come rolling back down again the other side.

Camus was astute, and definitely had a point about the absurdity of life.

Testosterone improves athletic performance - enlargening our hearts, lungs, liver and producing larger volumed brains (and I must make the distinction that although male brains are larger on average, there is a decreased connection in the hemispheres - so performance isn't necessarily greater than that of females) - but is this a fair trade off for a life of strife, followed by an early grave?

And an interesting fact is that whilst studies show that testosterone doesn't lead to prostate cancer - it will help it spread if it's already there. The traitor.

So, chaps, if you hear a lady complain that life has dealt her an unfair hand because of her sex, simply explain that she will - on average - live longer, healthier, and with less chance of dying from pretty much everything life has to throw up at us mortals - car accidents, suicide, heart disease, stress-related illness, violent attacks etc.

To paraphrase Tammy Wynette (for there are no valid male alternatives, they all passed away) "Sometimes it's hard...to be a...man."

Khan v Prescott - The Post Reaction

It was a result largely unexpected here in the UK - due, in part, to the twin deceptions of partisan hopes and a blinkered understanding of Khan's opponent.

But already, as quickly as the nation was saluting a British champion in the making, the critics were out to pillory their ex-Golden Boy after the loss against Breidis Prescott on 6th September 2008.

It was the speed and manner of the defeat that left the viewing public and ringside spectators shell-shocked.

There is no doubt that Khan failed to impress in this stern test of his credentials - but the speed within which we built up Khan as a hero and then derided him as a bum, is disconcerting (but alas, not unusual).

Barely had the last blow from Breidis Prescott registered, than witnesses - reporters, pundits, TV analysts and other "experts" - were drawing their swords, ready to dissect a young man who's career so far had featured a Silver medal at the Olympics and a fight record, going into the fight, of 18 wins (15 by KO) and no defeats.

One tactical misoperation against Breidis later and the the sparkle of Amir Khan's light dimmed in the nation's eyes.

The fight plan was all wrong. Prescott is an expert hitter and a hard puncher. Khan's enthusiasm to take the fight to him, opened him up and allowed the Colombian to gain leverage. Once the blows started registering, the momentum swung in favour of the aggressor. Khan had no answer.

It is no secret that Khan has found it difficult against heavy handed opponents in the past- he has already been dropped to the canvas in prior fights (although, in those instances, he managed to rise up and win).

It is also a truth that there are many boxers with great amateur records who have failed to reach the summit when they turned pro. Many are now asking whether Khan has reached the limit of his capabilities.

Is Khan a genuine force in World Boxing? Who knows. How good he is is a question he may be asking himself right now, although there were positive comments emerging from Khan post-fight. He knows he has a long road to recovery ahead and I'm sure he's already thinking about walking it.

There's no doubt that boy will be doubting himself. He's going to need to address his weaknesses (namely his chin) and learn to be patient (a lack of which caused him to come unstuck against Prescott).

The jab was absent and the movement behind it jittery and ineffective.

These are things Khan will work with his trainer to iron out come his next fight.

Khan is only 21. He's still young enough to recover from this setback. Unfortunately, in a culture that demands success instantly, time is something some of us are reluctant to hand over...but we must if we want to see him go far.

One fight does not make a champion - and by that same token, nor does losing one prevent you from becoming a champion.

I am convinced it is all hyperbole fuelled by the media - both in building Khan up to mythological proportions and in dismantling him when he failed to live up to the Goliath reputation.

The boy is a good fighter, no doubt, but is he the best?

Let's give him another opportunity to prove himself. Then we'll be closer to knowing the truth.

Khan's next move will be crucial, question marks will hang over him until he meets a smililarly dangerous opponent as Prescott - and wins.

Nothing short of a convincing victory against a tough opponent will be enough to change the public's splintered opinion of him.

Khan lost his head that night (both metaphorically and literally) and struggled to keep up with his opponent and adapt to the game plan.

He lost his head under pressure, and suffered for it and it's important we, as supporters, don't lose ours either.

He has had a taster of defeat, seen how difficult it was for him to maintain his thoughts under the heat, but he knows he's got to keep his cool from now on.

It's a cliche precisely because it's a truism.

The onus is on Khan to ignore both his detractors and those that praise him. He's going to need careful management and rebuild his confidence. He'll need to discipline himself and pore over those tapes and get back to working quietly and surely, one thought in mind: to convince us he's a champion in the making.

We have to let him.

Nando's And Me - A Love Affair

Nando’s and me. A love affair that blossomed despite our differences and the worst start imaginable.A place that allowed me to shed my prejudices like a snake sheds its skin and become a better, humbler person.
The first time I came here, I actually walked out in disgust. I caused such a scene – “What JUST chicken???!!” that my company trailed behind me in silence, upset that I was upset, and I became the party-pooper that night.

Prima donna that I was.

All that changed though. Like St Paul on the road to Damascus one evening, I saw the light.
I don’t know what possessed me – perhaps some cosmic force, perhaps Quetzelcoatl the original feathered chicken-snake-man-whatever.

But that night, I let my obsession with red meat slip off me and decided I’d try out some chicken. And it changed my life.

Like going to the BBQ of the Madagascan uncle I never had, who grilled the chicken (skin included) in a lemon & herb flavouring –a gentle coating that made me hungry for succulent chicken skin and succeeded in absolving me of my childhood squeamishness, something that a qualified therapist never could.

And the sauces! Peri Peri in all guises – garlic, mixed herbs, scold-your-colon-hate-yourself-in-the-morning hot to gentle-caresses-by-moonlight mild it caters for all.

Peri Peri sauce is an aphrodisiac.

It makes you feel better about yourself after digestion – something about how the chemical works its way from your stomach to your brain and down to your crotch – and makes you a better person.
Like a normal version of you, but a thousand times sexier and with heightened awareness of the holy good Jesus light that comes from you and the other kindred souls who choose to come here for gastric nirvana.

Do you know I now put Peri Peri in everything? Including pastas, toasts and hog. It makes everything taste better.
That’s why supermarkets now stock the stuff – we’re in the middle of a cultural revolution and you guys don’t even know it. Soon, demand will exceed supply and there’ll be a Peri Peri narcotics trade and we’ll all be Peri Peri addicts, like crack addicts, but healthier and full of sexual energy. And to think, it all started from this place.

“I don’t get it, all they do is chicken!” - I still hear that from some people.
“Yes, but technically, all Eusebio - that other great Madagascan export - did was kick a football and yet look at what legacy he left us”.

Go in, get your menu, find your table, place your order at the till, and await the food.

Simply thought out and simply executed.

Colonel Sanders, for years you told us that chicken served fast HAD to come sizzled to death in a dune of breadcrumbs and oil. That stuff is surely full of toxins and carcinogens (comments are my own, and not based on sound science) but Nando’s came along, and rewrote the rule books.

Exposed you for a liar. Showed you how it’s to be done.

How those happy Madagascan people eat their chicken and wanted to share it with the world. I see the vision now….

A piece of Madagascar, complete with palms and smiley folk, and great food and great sauces.
If you don’t like this place you are a loser and should never get laid.

PS Bring friends along, enjoy the conversion.

BAM - Manchester's response to Banksy

Writing is about scratching and imprint. Making dents on medium in the hope that they'll be preserved for an age.
What comes out of our mouths evaporates, dissipates and moves away from us. Writing is our way of pinning down our thoughts and giving them shape.

Art, that other medium of immortality in a world very much mortal, is all about manipulation, chipping, hacking, swishing and stroking - see the way a sculptor chips away at a block of stone to reveal the form within or a painter slides his brush across the acrylic.

All mightily impressive. I remember a child at our school who was good at drawing and like a shaman in our midst, we'd cower round him, staring at the blank sheet of paper before him as he ran his pencil across it and an image would appear.

We loved watching him...CREATE: Something came out of nothing.

And similarly, something is exactly what BAM, Manchester's street artist, creates out of the familiarity of our environment. Taking what is there and changing it's meaning, altering it's makeup and making us double-take.

I wouldn't call him shocking, or necessarily provoking, nor politically motivated. Perhaps the best way to describe him is as a bloke who's good at taking things apart and showing us the components of the structure and we take from it whatever we want, if anything at all.


The thing about BAM's art is that, unlike a politician, it can say whatever it wants and in as many ways it wants, without sounding ridiculous. He's poking a finger in the eye, rearranging furniture, prank calling us in the middle of a busy meeting.

BAM is worth checking out, he's certainly interesting enough, whether you have time for art or not .
If you like the tongue-in-cheek, cool Britannia rhetoric of Banksy then you'll feel at home with BAM.

Some would call it graffiti, others vandalism, others art, and others won't care. And that's that the point I think.

Edgy, raw and unpolished - if the bloke on the street learned how to Picasso he'd do it like this.

The Stag Do

Forgive my cynicism but at what point in the proceedings of a stag do is it deemed appropriate to stand up and, with a solemn face, ask the question “Just what the hell are we celebrating here?”

For the groom-to-be/hen-to-be, it’s the relinquishing of his/her freedom for a life in captivity and for the rest of us - a bunch of grown men having the excuse to act 11 years old again (our wives/partners will say we rarely act any different).

Expensive, cheesy, farty and usually ending up in a fight or vacuum packed into a pair of speedos, naked and shrink-wrapped to a lamppost.

It’s the ultimate con perpetrated on mankind.

It’s the antithesis of manliness - it’s a package holiday of a night out. Indiana Jones travelled to places off the beaten track, on his own, daring to do what others before him and since wouldn’t. That is manliness.Not the cattle-graze of a stag/hen-do.

Dildos, L plates, novelty T shirts….consumerism at it’s worst.
And we do it because we are told we must.
Without questioning, following tradition (and what is tradition except a cultural Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?).

Most of us hate the damn things but pretend we don’t for fear of coming across as the party pooper.

No offence to anyone who thinks they’re cool - but James Bond never turned up at a Casino in a Big Bird outfit and placed 500 big ones on black.

I have had the good fortune (tongue-wedged in cheek) of having organised two stag do’s in my short but spectacular life so far - one local, and one not so local and both involved a lot of headache (and not only of the whiskey-induced kind).

Itineraries to follow (but we are men, we are supposed to follow nothing except our football team), making sure everyone is where they’re supposed to be; drink, drink, drinking until that washboard stomach is a dune of man-blubber; you end up feeling like a holiday rep in an 18-30 camp.(incidentally is it just me or is the age-bracket “18-30” slightly disparaging. I’d like to think a man has evolved somewhat from the 18 year old adolescent he was by the time he’s 30).

The stag do originated in ancient Sparta, as a series of festivities for betrothed Spartan warriors - and ever since then, man has felt compelled to humiliate and demean his fellow man by exposing his weaknesses (re: his willy) where he is most vulnerable (re: in the presence of females).

Boys will be boys they say. And men will be idiots.

Personally, I am stating here-on in that I am officially retiring from stag do’s. I’m not going to spend £300 plus (minimum) whilst being HERDED around like lobotomised cattle from one event to the next, with no sense of joy, just impending dread; as the minutes tick by, the wallets empty, the mind spins, the tongue loosens, the dignity abandons and we forfeit our right to be taken seriously forevermore.

Which brings me back to the point of “What are we celebrating?”

Possibly the realisation that it’s our last chance to act the buffoon in the company of other buffoons, knowing full well that the next morning, hungover, with toilet paper stuck to our cheeks, we must arise and become men - with all that comes with it: mortgages, relationship problems (just how long did you think that honeymoon would last for?), children, bills, jobs, and a life filled with occasional hints of brilliance, but more often than not, plain old mediocrity.

I saw a young couple the other day, they have that university freshness, you know the look - that together, with a little luck, they can take on the world and change it for the better (I recommend a walk through uni campuses just to top up on this vibe from time to time).But that’s a million miles before the crossing line of the stag/hen-do and a world far removed from worry, anxiety and fighting over dishes.

I smile to myself; they’ll learn, we all do…

"I see the truth inside her lies"....

We live in an age where we aspire to be as everyone else around us. It's true.

We crave celebrity and adulation because, basically, we want to be admired. It is this, that makes us the same.

We want what everyone else wants and that's why we create unions, guidelines, policies, legislation. We come together and we thrash out rules, otherwise we'd never get along.

This guiding principle of competition and envy is what, in this day and age, helps drive progress.

And progress is exactly what I want to drive.

When I sat behind the stearing wheel of a Ferrari 360 for the first time, it was a triumph of spirit over mediocrity.

I was in control of a car that was the idol of my childhood. The prancing horse, always at the ready to gallop off.

I took it round for a few laps and hit 160mph on the straight. I'd never felt such torque in my life. The car, hugging the asphalt, with a low centre of gravity and 6 speed transmission, growled and roared at my every touch.

It was incredible. Breathtaking.

Like being in one of those volatile relationships that leaves you thirsting for more.

Kicking it's hind up in the air, 400bhp @ 8500rpm this mid-engined, rear-wheel beast, let me have all 275lb/ft of it's power and told me that any stupid move and I'd be struggling to control it round the chicane.

Wow. I was breathless. 0-60 in 4.5 seconds. I felt like a cowboy trying to stay in the saddle at a rodeo.

Man and machine as one....

It's after an intense ride like this, which warps space and time and makes you finally understand Einstein's Theory of Relativity, that you understand just how slow our lives really travel.

Everything afterwards is played out at 1/8th of a pace.

It's made me thirst for more and I'll be behind the wheel of another soon. A car that refused to be saddled and broken into, that riding required energy of my own and in doing so, exposed to me the truth of our species: that no matter how we travel, we can always go that bit further, that bit faster.

I love my Lucy; She's a Toyota Avensis. Red and pretty and she's big. She's capable of around 130mph (if any officers are reading this rest assured I have not tested this on a UK road), and I know she's been designed with safety and comfort in mind.

But I wonder, with safety a prerogative and the Euro NCAP breathing down manufacturers necks, with Health and Safety a priority when designing anything (and to a great degree, rightly so) have we sacrificed a little too much daring-do? Has this compromise of safety and excitement dulled our roads, our passageways in between destinations and, as a consequence, dulled our wits and senses and our very ability to move?

I don't know.

In any case, I will say that a man should drive a very fast car, very fast (in a controlled environment like a race track), at least once in his lifetime.

It's a right of passage greater than the first time you ever had sex, acquired a mortgage or stepped up a peg higher on the career ladder.

A man only develops an appetite after he's eaten and I'm hungry for more -

Plymouth-Dakar race next. Watch this space....