SmithsParty - My First Infatuation with Party Politics

Smithsparty first recruited me two years ago. The contrast between groups like The Freemasons and us is SmithsParty was an elitist and restricted society. They only ever allowed two members. Afternoons when The Masons arranged deals in a corrupt haze of Café Crème, we unstitched the ambiguous cloak of Steven Patrick Morrissey. From admiring his physicality like he was Alexander of Macedon to absorbing his provocative ideas as if he was our very own political orator. On Sunday mornings, we would butter our toast to The Headmaster Ritual and switch off the lights to Meat is Murder. The band entrapped us within our own colony and became a badge of niche individuality.
Within SmithsParty’s reign, we met around twice a week. Arranged trips were occasional. Escaping to Blackpool Pier on a rainy July afternoon like Steven’s female heroine. Glancing at Southern Cemetery from a Stagecoach window. Connecting the preachers to the pauper by a mutual safety in the gothic architecture. When French flicks were paused, we invited Bona Drag to join us with the usual homoerotic press image peeping down like an unexpected intrusion. On Wednesday evenings, we would sip a Mocha on Tibb Street. Questioning whether he prefers men or women, custard creams or bourbons? Was Steven’s quiff influenced by a Manchester murderer? Questioning, how had the band created this alternate galaxy where only we held the key?

Matching Morrissey attire was soon purchased, when he came Hulme for a visitation. One of the most memorable nights for the party. Paying witness to Irish undertakers, Welsh bankers, and British accountants happy to become a Canal Street boy for a rendition of Reel around the Fountain. Seeing his cattle become the sacrificial lamb during his protest against Thatcher’s infection. A moment of dismemberment and transformation. The epiphanic realization of why the party existed.

Smithsparty soon closed their doors after two short years. Distance and double agents became a worry, by one’s fright of infatuation with other parties. People ask whether I would conscript to another exclusive service.  Especially when I hear an old party member has become a firework in her occasional, darkened eclipse. Where the glimpse of sunlight is Steven's painting by Blackfriars Banksy.
After long thought, it’s almost like the structure of Dubliners. Am I comparing a weekly meeting to James Joyce? Well ask yourself, what would Morrissey do? Every memory entwined within Dubliners is motivated around a central age of life, from Father Flynn’s young boy to the middle aged Gabriel. Smithsparty is my personal memory in a collection of short stories. A tidal wave in my canal, not a drop in the ocean. A videotape which has become blurred, due to repeat viewings. Those old haunts by the Arndale, which have become as unsettling as Edgar Poe's short stories. Although when that chilling lump is swallowed, the party becomes recollected as a tender catalyst of two like-minded individuals. Chapter three, my first infatuation with party politics. 

Huxley's Mill

Is this the dystopia which Huxley once feared?
This brave new club with the most dazzling discolights since 2001.
Yes, they are Stanley’s spacelights which sparkle upon the crammed dancefloor
As Captain Morgan’s shipmates tipple the decks dancing to The Cure.
Smirnoff’s for one pound fifty
Two Jagerbombs for two pounds sixty
You can negotiate a pint of Bulmers but it’ll cost you three pounds eighty shouts the Delboy from the bar.

This Shakespearean screamer masks the change from Robert Smith to My Dark Fantasy
As you etch a sketch the foreign fresher fondling the schoolgirl’s vest
When Stanley’s shadows catch his jaws closing in on the Sambuca tasting bait.
Next to the bloke who’s consumed something stronger than Maxwell’s house.
As you spot the football social pulling every Geordie, Mancunian and Scouse.

To the left, a volcanic brawl waiting to erupt, a brawl that’s so typical for Saturday night but so different in blood.
One’s red, one’s blue, one’s United, one’s not.
A shirt is torn, a punch is thrown, a kick in the head.
Whilst sitting on this speaker, you begin to question,
Question whether that schoolgirl bitten by the teeth of Jaws is Leadmill’s Lolita?
The blonde who prefers her Southern comfort and arranging parties is West Street’s Mrs Dalloway
Or if that flirtatious, brunette with the bob wearing the seductive, sparkling, bodycon is Kelham Island’s Jordan Baker?
Who fancied a drink elsewhere from Gatsby’s Division Street
Or if those….. fucking freshers, the Carnage children coloured in UV paint. Whether those are Freud’s discontentment?

In typical Sheffield fashion, the bolts of the mill come together when Jarvis questions, questions
What else is there to do but to dance and screw?
It really does leave the question of whether your faithful speaker, this wayfarer wearing, Hicks quoting, self-deprecating literature student, whether he’s…. Dostoevsky’s idiot?

Dead from the Neck Up

The Gala dauber has become oh so frequent on Friday nights
When she meets Marjorie in her M and S blouse and Black and Decker tights
With a Cosmopolitan and twenty Dunhill Lights.
Don’t forget the splash of Agent Provocateur!
A habit of yesteryear that lingers like the scent of stale Lucky Strike.

Opposite the precinct is the Labour Club,
Where the retired men drink their bitter and share their Golden Wonder on policies, politics, hatricks and horses.
On Tuesday, I heard it was Ruby Valentine down at Southwell
As the one in the corner whose face has dropped a thousand of our Mary’s graces listens on.

Number 59 – The Brighton Line
Announces the compere whilst the Cosmopolitan consumer screams ‘you effin swine.’
She prescribes her sorrow a Gordon’s tonic and lime.
Observes the Television where Michelle Fowler’s revelation has been replaced by  the Test Card F’s creepy clown,
Whilst she hopes and prays for a grasp of Viv Nicholson’s crown.

Edged in the corner, sipping and supping at The Famous Goose
Tonight, The Labour Club’s booked an Elvis impersonator!
Those old dears clamber from the bar for this Prestwich Presley.
Although, he still sits undisturbed with his Goose, tired eyes and that sharp sort of stubble.
When his gaze turns affectionate towards a booklet from St Paddy’s Chapel
Two verses of Amazing Grace and a smiling face by the name of Doreen.
‘Maybe I didn’t treat you as well as I should have’
Echoes from the stage
The fella in the corner decides to call it a day
Gazes upon the reflection of the full moon in the chippy’s window
Whilst his boots become wet from the prescient’s winter snow.
And he makes his way…. 

Thirty Three – Come in for you tea
Fifteen numbers marked by her rifle’s red dot
£5,000 jackpot in her purse
Another woman shouts, ‘fifty three, wasn’t it?’
White shirt, short skirt, red lipstick
Harpurhey’s Betty Page in C&A lingerie
Words become exchanged
Marjorie leaves to the fruit machines.

And well this Doctor that prescribes Gordon’s Tonic
She lights up one, last Dunhill and she makes her way….

From Masturbation to Nietzsche - Russell Brand's Messiah Complex

On the 10^th of October, Manchester Apollo’s outfit included an array of posters from Malcolm X to Che Guevara with The Smiths and Radiohead dominating the playlist. Something to how I imagine a melancholic student’s accommodation to be, with the isolated angst of Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ and the Left-Wing ambition of Guevara. Although on this Thursday night, the student’s bedroom is playing host to Russell Brand and his ‘Messiah Complex’ tour.

Brand arrives on stage with the immediate impression that he's aware of his own image, existing upon the invisible line between Rock God and great thinker. As he dives into a sea of those praying to touch the comedian  almost acting as if he’s something of a Steven Patrick in leather trousers. After fifteen minutes of camaraderie with tonight’s audience, Brand steps into the narrative of his stand-up which is a documentation of the similarities that he shares with the aforementioned heroes. From the outset, Brand seems aware of the possibility that this could be his five minutes as a political orator as he declares to the masses the show will hold fragments of ‘clever stuff.’ One of his theories being that the definition of a hero has diminished in recent decades. He pulls this together in an overtly narcissistic but satirical manner as he declares the similarities he shares with these iconic figures, one being that a protest in London he was part of is somehow similar to Malcolm X stopping a riot in Harlem with the raise of a hand. Similarly to his appearance on ‘Question Time’ in June, he does also raise a political eyebrow as he points out the only reason for nobody attempting Communism is because it ‘didn’t work for Russia.’ Which he explains to his audience with the analogy of it being like blaming Steve Jobs for a ‘LiveJasmin pop-up on [your] iPad.’ Although, he does delight in his hypocrisy as the illusion of him being something of a Left-Wing Libertine being diminished by his ‘expensive boots’ and career in Hollywood.

The iPad analogy does seem to ring an alarm for the second half of the show which does falter into him almost blowing his own trumpet for being ‘shagger of the year.’ For the final half an hour or so, he does push the boundaries with everything from comparing female masturbation to the Galaxy advert and pink tic-tacs being a similar taste to a taboo cave that isn’t Plato’s. Admittedly, his taboo narratives does seem to suit the demographic more than jokes about Hitler and Wittgenstein and did raise a few laughs from myself. But it does leave a sense that there was so much more left to be said in the political and philosophical body of his show. As ‘Messiah Complex’ comes to a close with him pointing out that he is the ‘second coming’, the audience leave holding the impression of a class act at the top of his game but with the niggling question whether he is this generation’s Nietzsche or if the themes of lust merely creates a 'Ponderland' with a Highbrow agenda.

Conclusion - 4/5
  

 

 

 

A few endings that Breaking Bad could pinch....

Which other film ending could Vince Gilligan implicitly pinch for the final chapter of Walter White?















1)      The Godfather

One of the most discussed companion pieces for ‘Breaking Bad’ has been ‘The Godfather.’ It can only be questioned whether Walt reaching his imperial phase by dealing with the Czech Republic is a modern adoption of Michael rejecting education and finding glory in Cuba. Or the reluctant acceptance of Skyler resembles Kay silently accepting Michael’s wish to not ask him ‘about [his] affairs.’ With so many implicit references; it only seems valid that Vince Gilligan could pay one last tribute to the trilogy with an adoption of the ending. This really does leave audiences to question whether Walt’s end will be similar to that of Vito Corleone’s by winning his war but ultimate being defeated by nature through his terminal cancer.

2)      Psycho

Hitchcock concluded his masterpiece with the shock and trauma that a timid, well-mannered boy had somehow evolved into a serial killer. Remind you of anybody?  As the spectator watches the ‘hello Carol’ scene from the opening episode of S5P2, it's become clear that the village have been woken to the Heisenberg side of Walter White. As the camera fades out on Norman Bates attempting to justify his actions through his mother’s voice, could ‘Breaking Bad’ see a similar zoom out with White in a prison cell preaching how his cookbook was only ever made for his family? Although with recent revelations and events, it seems that Walt has evaded receiving justice by authority there are many signs of foreshadowment that he'll be served with  his own bizarre kind of justice.

3)      The Tempest

Despite ‘The Tempest’ being a play and not a film, the narrative at it's core is a bubbling catalyst of a protagonist seeking to avenge those who saw him as weak through his faith in education. Some could suggest that this holds much similarity to Walt, being another middle aged male feeling resentment at his contribution to ‘Grey Matter’ being ignored. Although whilst Prospero literally uses magic to expose how he is capable of being ‘the danger.’ White’s magic is more metaphorical by his ability to create nearly 100 percent Crystal Blue Meth. During Shakespeare’s play, the audience also witnesses the theme of relationships, one being the bond between a protective father and child. This sense of a loving but controlling father figure could correlate with Walt through his over-protective actions which infact harm Jesse. Anybody remember Jane from season 2? As mentioned in many articles, Gilligan did obviously lend some Shakespearean elements for his construction of a Meth chemist. But the only peaceful Shakespearean ending which seems to be able to come from 'Breaking Bad' could be Walt finding peace through proving himself as Heisenberg and choosing his own death.

4)      Scarface

Vince Gilligan has stated from the pilot of ‘Breaking Bad’ that the narrative will run through as the transformation of a ‘Mr Chips’ to ‘Scarface.’ It’s clear that this progression has been happening for 5 seasons by Walter White transforming from a chemistry teacher to a meth cook holding enough cash to fill a storage garage (as shown in the final episode of season 5 – part one). One of the most discussed theories for the ending of the series is White taking on a task similar to the ending of Scarface by claiming his money back through killing everyone of Uncle Jack’s Nazi Gang. It does seem to be a task that he can do with no remorse through the prison murders earlier in the season. Although whether this will result in White saving Jesse does seem blurred, White has become beyond redemption with the saving of Jesse not looking like it'll redeem him. But in a strange way, the pair do almost gave each other life. Jesse gave Walt the route to his empire. Whilst, Walt provided Jesse with a role model and guidance to clean up an addiction. Surely if these new lives were started together, they should only carry on or end together?

Some other endings which Vince Gilligan could pinch;

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

·        

 

 

 

 

 

·         Pulp Fiction – Jesse and Walt walking out of Los Pollos Hermanos in a costume similar to that of Travolta and Jackson after claiming their own black briefcase. After multiple references to Pulp Fiction previously, why not?

·         Trainspotting –  As most of the British public know, ‘Trainspotting’ ends with Renton stealing the drug money and walking across London with ambition for a new path in life. The capture of drug money and the aspiration to start a new life could be a similar ending to that of Walter’s own. But does Walter see any glimpse of life without his family?

·         Mulholland Drive - Could Walter White becoming Heisenberg by cooking meth just be all a dream to achieve fame just like Betty of Mulholland Drive? If this is true then all the characters also have Freudian interpretations. Does that mean that Skylar is a representation of Walt’s guilt? Or is Jesse a projection of Walt’s self-consciousness? Whilst Gus symbolises Walt’s desire for power and control?

However Breaking Bad ends tomorrow, there’s no denying that this morality play for the Netflix generation has been a complete masterpiece and the only television show to match Sopranos since it’s closure. Whilst those who think it’s over-rated, evidence that it’s not can be seen with it leaving many people remorseful and looking for the next step of recovery from Walter White’s methylamine, with a desire to hear him preaching the importance of 'family' one last time.

 

The Cuckoo's Calling - Picking up where Cracker left off or something more?

‘The Cuckoo’s calling’ published under the pseudonym of Robert Galbraith earlier this year has been recently revealed as an attempt by JK Rowling to invade Conan Doyle’s and Blyton’s minefield. It doesn’t need to be said that Rowling’s novels of a Wizard battling with puberty and magical demons didn’t impress the critics but captured the nation. Although, with many describing ‘The Casual Vacancy’ as inhibiting a Dickens style. Could ‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ and the afromentioned fulfil Rowling’s ambition for critical success?

‘The Cuckoo’s Calling’ opens with the literal descent of Lula Landry from a London balcony with a hint of it being entwined with her fall from grace. Many immediately see this death as a cocaine fuelled suicide but the questioning of her adopted brother (John Bristow) paves the way for Coroman Strike to act as Modern Sherlock Holmes upon the streets of Soho. The protagonist of Strike comes across as the most intriguing character through his not so hidden vices of his alcoholism, his obesity and his failed marriage surrounding as much of the novel as Landry’s death.
The construction of a middle aged detective with many vices resembled for myself another detective nicknamed ‘Fitz’ who was often seen suffering from his own gambling addiction hundred and fifty miles North of London. Despite holding a similar protagonist to Jimmy McGovern, the degree of suspense does never really reach the heights of programmes like ‘Cracker’ or Conan Doyle’s ‘A Study in Scarlet.’
The equivalent of Fitz’s Panhandle and Holmes’s Watson for Strike is in the character of Robin Ellacot who’s temptation to sleep with the maverick sustains the reader’s intrigue but is fairly conventional of detective fiction. Whilst her dialogue only centering around her engagement with a character called Matthew sparks an impulse to turn the pages for more detail into Strike, the overweight Holmes.

It may seem that I’ve literally placed all copies of ‘Cuckoo’ on every casual reader’s barbeque with the negativity fuelling the flames. Although where’ Cuckoo’ lacks in suspense, it makes up for in reminding us of the media’s determination to sell their souls for a scandalous press story. It wouldn’t be too far to suggest that Landry resembles one of Eve’s women who have given into temptation and in modern times consequently paid the price by acting as a scapegoat for the ‘Daily Mirror’ and the ‘Star.’

This isn’t surprising through Rowling appearing in the recent Leverson enquiry as a witness herself.
Aswell as the subject matter, Rowling moulds this together with frequent references to female tragedies from the description of Winehouse’s soulful melodies playing in Strikes’s Camden bar or her comparing Strike’s dash from the press as similar to that of Princess Diana’s final limousine journey. Just like Landry, there have been many women have given into temptation from Janis Joplin to Nico and Rowling does present the interesting argument that they weren’t only suffering from their own addictions but the most destructive weaponry of the media.

Rowling’s latest addition is a refreshing addition to the Bestsellers at the Service Station with raising eyebrows to how powerful the barracks of the media are. Upon it’s release, I will be purchasing the sequel for a slice of escapism in a summer read. But the detective side of the novel will never keep you on the edge of your deckchair, to the extent of fairly recent detective writers such as Stieg Larsson.

Verdict – 7/10

'Sixteen, clumsy and shy' when I met 'The Smiths' for the second time.

My first meeting with ‘The Smiths’ was somewhere around the winter of 2002 when seeing the Charles Hawtrey ‘Greatest Hits’ cover in the Bargain Bin of Woolworths. After much thought and thinking Hawtrey was the frontman of the band, I never did purchase the album unbeknown to the effect that this band would have on me just less than a decade later.
This may come as a surprise to many that know me but I never listened to ‘The Smiths’ growing up due to the parents advice of them being ‘suicidal’ and ‘depressing.’At around the age of 15, I’d tackled ‘Joy Division’ and ‘Oasis’ and was most often seen in a green parka after being bought up on 'The Jam' and repeat viewings of 'Quadrophenia.'
But I still believed the view that I’d heard from many around me that ‘The Smiths ‘were mundane and depressing.’

It was more co-incidence that I fell into them after listening to John Cooper Clarke and reading ‘A Taste of Honey’ and ‘Saturday Night and Sunday Morning.’ It was almost as if Morrissey was the George Best of gritty Northern realism but he was frequently waiting on the subs-bench. I think the first ‘Smiths’ song that I listened to was ‘Suffer Little Children’ after reading online about the backlash from the families of the Moors Murders victims and seeing the ‘Oh Manchester’ line as a Facebook status. In an ideal world, I would say that I fell instantly in love with them but this would be massively untrue. Nobody falls instantly in love with ‘The Smiths.’

In the early stages, Morrissey is almost like a temptress who you keep returning to but unsure until the fourth meeting why you actually are. For me, it’s his budding melancholy, his sense of anti-establishment, his Wildean prose and an ability to bring back the glamour of the British New Wave. I’d go as far as saying that the process of discovering your first band is as much a coming-of-age process as having your first pint, smoking your first cigarette or losing your virginity. In an article dedicating his love for Morrissey, Russell Brand adopted a similar approach in stating that turning ’15.. Puberty basically’ is when ‘The Smiths become incredibly relevant' (Brand 2010). Every Smiths song takes this new found world of experience to a greater degree than any other band from 'Oasis' to 'The Libertines' with the motif of their catalogue being focused around being 'sixteen, clumsy and shy’ is something which reaches into the weakest and most 'vulnerable of places... and glorifies it' (Brand 2010)..

For me as brilliant as the music side is, I return to ‘The Smiths’ weekly if not daily for Morrissey's lyrics. When asked why I love his lyrics to this degree, I’m often lost for words with a lump in the back of my throat, such as the case now. I’d go as far as saying why I adore his lyrics is like the British New Wave, them almost being Jacobean (a blend of comedy and tragedy). ‘Cemetery Gates’ in anybody else’s hands would be a morbid narrative of death and depression. But with Morrissey is somehow a battle between two teenagers of who can quote more Wilde and Yates. As controversial as this will be, I’d place Morrissey on the same steeple as the likes of Joyce, Wilde and Sillitoe. ‘Still Ill’ is as much for Manchester as ‘Dubliners’ is for Ireland, the underlying temptation in anything from ‘Reel Around the Fountain’ to ‘I Have Forgiven Jesus’ in his solo career could be suited to Wilde himself. Whilst every setting of every of Morrissey's anecdotes and every album cover belongs in a Barstow or Sillitoe novel.

It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to state that discovering ‘The Smiths’ has changed me. It’s almost like the line in Cameron Crowe’s ‘Almost Famous' in which the sister instructs her younger brother to listen to The Who’s ‘Tommy’ and he will ‘discover his entire future.’ I don’t think ‘The Queen is Dead’ showed me my entire future in a ‘Back to the Future’ sort of way but I do think discovering them changed me. Physically through  as embarrassing as this is to write, earlier this year taking a picture of Arthur Seaton (Saturday Night and Sunday Morning) into the barbers and replacing the curly mop for a short quiff. Whilst also mentally through Steven Patrick introducing me to Wilde, Yates and then through mutual friends being led to Orwell, Bronte, Burgess and the list goes on.  The fact that ‘The Smiths’ encouraged me to pick up a book again and that I’ve now applied to do ‘English Literature’ at university kind of documents their capacity to influence, which I like many will be eternally grateful.  

Now for one of the greatest songs ever made in my eyes;

'Do Me a Favour' and play this one.

1) Do I Wanna Know?

2) She's Thunderstorms

3) From the Ritz to the Rubble

4) Brianstorm

5) Teddy Picker

6) Crying Lightning

7) Dancing Shoes

8) Dangerous Animals

9) Pretty Visitors

10) Only Ones who Know

11) Do Me a Favour

12) 505

13) I Bet that you look Good on the Dancefloor

14) Cigarette Smoker Fiona

15) Fake Tales of San Francisco

16) Space Invaders

17) R U Mine?

18) Fluorescent Adolescent

19) Black Treacle

20) Mad Sounds

21) A Certain Romance

Encore

22) Too Much to Ask

23) Mardy Bum

24) When the Sun Goes Down

25) Secret Door

'Girls' - a symbol of post-feminism or Carrie and Samantha's hipster sibling?

Lena Dunham seems to have taken the Orson Welles approach with her HBO success ‘Girls’ (2012) by her writing, directing and producing it. Whether it’s as revolutionary as ‘Citizen Kane’ (1941) depends on your viewpoint. But it can’t be dismissed that it’s created a wide discussion upon subjects such as it’s all white cast and questioning whether it really is a symbol of post-feminism.

Many have suggested that ‘Girls’ acts as a spiritual successor to previous HBO series ‘Sex and the City’ (1998) with an additional degree of realism. Although as groundbreaking as the aforementioned was, it did conform to many typical roles. Whether it’s the women looking like they’ve just stepped off Sunset Boulevard or their only desires being to partake in lavish displays of conspicuous consumption. In ‘Girls’, Dunham makes no secret of repeating the construction of a group of women discovering America with the ‘Sex and the City’ poster looming over Shoshanna’s apartment like some form of deistic presence. Although Dunham has taken this construction and added fairly modern twists. From the witty post-feminist dialogue of Hannah questioning whether Marnie’s ‘sick of eating her boyfriend out’ due to him being the weaker of the two or the physical appearance of Hannah being strikingly different to other frontwomen of American comedy such as Deschanel of ‘New Girl.’ Whilst discussing this feminist viewpoint, it also wouldn’t be outrageous to claim that Dunham resembles directors such as Almodovar in her representation of men. The men of ‘Girls’ are a far cry from Mr Big of ‘SATC’ through often being either perverse, laughable or villainous by an obsession with their own sexual gratifications. Whether it’s the character of Adam who uses Hannah as a scapegoat for his own kinky and sadomasochistic desires or Chris O’Dowd’s character later in the series who attempts to orchestrate a threesome with Marnie and Jessa but fails miserably.

Although these symbols of independence are also the place which ‘Girls’ falters such as through Jessa being described as having the face of ‘Bridget Bardot’ but rather than hold the glamour of Bardot is more inclined towards a fictional Cara Develigne. Her frequency to state how ‘coke made [her] shit her pants’ and allow Jagger or Schubert to easily roll off her tongue with a playlist of Francoise Hardy and Jacques DuTronc often comes across as being irritating rather than independent.

It is also far from implicit that ‘Girls’ is very much filmed through a Woody Allen and Wes Anderson filtered lens. The most obvious comparison being with ‘Annie Hall’ (1977) through the New York landscape and Hannah’s rants in the show almost being similar to that of Alvy Singer’s cinema scene. Both seeing themselves as witty, charismatic and an individual from society. Whilst the explicit and uncomfortable depiction of sex could be suggested as being very much influenced by Allen’s style. ‘Girls’ also shares the other obvious comparisons through Hannah’s instience that she’s the ‘voice of a generation’ ticking the boxes of everything from Anderson’s ‘Rushmore’ (1998) to Chbosky’s ‘Perks of Being a Wallflower’ (1999). This seems to sound like a complaint but its more complimenting Dunham on bringing a quirky Juno-esque style to the usual manufactured humour of American sitcoms.

Ultimately, it’s evident that ‘Girls’ is something, which is entertaining, intriguing and interesting. Although on the matter of it being post-feminist, it falls similar to that of a ‘Destiny’s Child’ track. The material communicates ideas of female empowerment but the physical appearance often falters this with a line in the opening episode stating that it’s ‘like watching Clueless’ ringing very much true.

Nostalgia Junkies

Nostalgia can be defined as holding sentimentality for your own recent past. But there never seems to have been a time when the British population have found a greater attraction in their own recent antiquity, than today. Whether it’s a club night down Deansgate dedicated to the back catalogue of 'Baby D', seeing ‘Steps’ at Sheffield Arena or spending an occasional Sunday watching a boxset of ‘Desmonds’. The British population just seem to hold a yearning for reminiscence and are willing to empty their pockets for the privilege.

The autumn of 1989 was very much the setting of the breakdown of Thatcher’s government but it also co-incided with the release of a soundtrack which defined a generation. For many, it became the marching song of Labour moving into 10 Downing Street and a foreshadowment of a greater degree of liberation for many British teenagers. Of course, I am talking about Barry Manilow’s self-titled debut album. ‘The Stone Roses’ also released their debut in the same week. The Roses' album has gone on to become a cultural artefact for the late eighties ever since and a product of this has been them selling out three nights at Heaton Park twenty four years later. The price for this tingle of nostalgia was exactly £60.00 with probably an extra £5.00 for ticket fees and postage. Some would say this is a cheap deal to witness a 'live resurrection' as Brown profoundly described it and hear his dodgy vocals echo over Prestwich with many of Ardwick’s ‘hooligans on E’ (a quote from another Manchester band but seems a fitting description of The Roses’s homecoming). But this diverts to my original question of how much are we willing to pay for a little tingle of nostalgia? With the release of the ‘Made of Stone’ trailer today and a Finsbury Park date announced for summer, there seems to be no sign of Ian Brown slowing down in exploiting the market of those looking for another peek of yesteryear.

This summer seems to be the turn of ‘The Rolling Stones’ to exploit the UK’s population with this promise of satisfaction through nostalgia. Last year saw an ‘intimate’ two dates at O2 arena and a documentary broadcast on BBC2 entitled ‘Crossfire Hurricane’ to remind the audiences of the Rock n Roll machine which they arguably set into motion. Last Wednesday, it was announced that their turn will present itself through two nights at Hyde Park with tickets ranging from £90-£950. In this Hyde Park announcement, there seems to be a strange irony in that their last appearance nearing forty four years ago at the London woodland cost nothing. But as Jagger and Richards have got richer, their tickets prices have also increased. The argument that the high ticket prices are down to greed can be quantified through Richards’ house during the eighties being none other than the exact same used for the filming of ‘The Great Gatsby.’ With his millions, Richards is arguably a British embodiment of Jay Gatsby but instead of holding a green light holds a riff and a reefer.

This only leaves the question of how much will people pay for this taste of yesteryear and how much difference is there between The Stones and Steps reunion? One arguably revolutionised attitudes to sex, music and youth amongst other things forever, the other merely a pop group who gained prominence during the nineties. Despite one making it explicit and the other not, both arguably reunited for the exact same motivation of economic gain. With Paul McCartney recently being quoted in Q that if certain members of ‘The Beatles’ were still around, then we’d ‘be watching’ them perform, it really does leave the question of where will it stop?

Will a Saturday night at Heaton Park be the setting for Shaggy coming back to sing his classic 'Angel' and Chris De Burgh singing ‘Lady in Red’ for 100 of the Queen’s silver? Go for it, that’s a double whammy for you nostalgia junkies.

Although, an argument has to be made that some recent reunions could be argued as not being focused on the sole motivation of economic gain. Bowie appeared out of the dark earlier this year with ‘The Next Day’ which many have commented on as being a critical success. Suede’s ‘Bloodsports’ has proven itself as a contender of one of the best albums of early 2013. Whilst ‘Pulp’ charged a reasonable £30 for their gig in Sheffield and played three hours. Okay, the same values as ‘The Roses’ and ‘The Stones’ through being motivated by Jarvis’s need to top up his bank balance and to indulge his ego. But for those who want to remember the first time, £30 isn’t a bad deal for a silver foil and crackpipe of nostalgia.

To conclude, as the gigs become much more expensive and the music documentaries become much more frequent, these nostalgia junkies are left with the only option of rotting in their own filth of 'Let it Bleed' vinyls and Spike Island tickets.