Tonight, on the occasion that David Beckham won his 101st cap for England, we witnessed, a national, a far more significant spectacle. Kelly Rowland, the 'middle' one from Destiny's Child, performed what has to be the wost rendition of the Star Spangled Banner in US history. Luckily, it wasn't on American soil, otherwise she'd be in big trouble, it was as bad as if she'd squatted down and squeezed out a Destiny's Child shaped little turn squarely on the corner of the stars. It was, and I hesitate to make this comparison lightly, even worse than the Red House Painters version, and that's really really bad. The occasion appears to be a friendly between England and the USA. England had some quartet of faceless cod-classical crumpets cooing out God Save the Queen like they were blowing on a hot spoon of peas, but this was just an aperetif for the main source of hilarity. I haven't watched a full game from football, from kick off to fuck off, in a long time. Like, six months or something. I think I've watched more games of rugby in their entirety since then, and I don't even understand the rules of that. I almost watched the entire champions league final, in which Chelsea came a cropper and their manager got sacked because John Terry fell over when taking a penalty. God I'd hate to be part of the Chelsea board, it's uttery ridiculous, It's not really comparable, but Avram Grant getting the heave-ho for not winning the Champions League, is a bit like me being fired because I managed to sell every single book in the entire of Borders, except for a really expensive leather bound bible. Unlucky.
Disappointing, John Motson has just announced that Brian McBride isn't playing. I say disappointing, I couldn't tell you for a second whether I respect Brian McBride as a player, I don't care either way, but I like him because he used to play for Fulham, and shares his name with one of the members of Stars of the Lid, and as a 'tribute', they named one of their songs Dopamine Clouds Over Craven Cottage. I love Stars of the Lid song titles, because you can tell the members of the band are fed up of thinking of titles for lengthy instrumentals with one note, and so just run riot with the English language. So, without Brian McBride, I don't recognise any of the American players, and barely any of them have American names, they all have barmy transcontinental names. Apart from Demarcus Beasely, who use has a stupid name, and Boccanegra has an identical name to a Verdi Opera. The rest of them have surnames that sounds like Aztec temples. Anyway, sixteen minutes in and it's a boring enough game for me to start typing on my laptop. As to the whereabouts of any of my housemates, I've got no fucking idea, I haven't seen any of them all day, although I did spend the 'arrival time' in my bedroom typing out an epic 1500 word review of the new Hold Steady album, which was hilariously self inludgent and about a third of it basically described two incidents in my life when I was listening to The Hold Steady and going mad, and the other I spent trying to cut down the hyperbole because I find it almost impossible to convey convincingly that I really really like something without sounding stupid. In concluson though, I called it fucking brilliant, with brilliant in italics. Lazy, but I got fed up with the whole thing after 1500 words. You can find the review, and a select amount of some of the other shit I type about music, here: http://www.playlouder.com/.
When I say 'arrival time' I do of course mean 'arrival window' which is the period of the day between 5 and 7 in which my housemates usually return from work and then the plan for the evening is revealed or settled on. This usually doesn't involve me, because I keep the most archaic time in the house because I work at stupid times and on weekends, but when it's my day off, like today, and I've wasted it, like today, then I quite like at least some company, given the only voice I've heard all day apart from my own huffing expletives at the fact my' windows virtual memory is too low'. But I guess it wasn't to be, and so I'll watch the football, drink vodka and cranberry juice, and pretend I don't have to be at work in 10 hours time, or that I'm lonely enough to consider striking up a conversation with the staff in Family Fish Bar, or buying phone credit.
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