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Comment by: The Freelancer

Alexandra, Palace?:

A while ago, I wrote an article berating the horrific London Astoria and, it would seem from my inbox, that you guys quite liked it. ‘Interesting’, I thought, ‘maybe there’s something in this venue reviewing thing’. Then, Time Out stole the idea by having a feature dedicated to the venues of London - and, to paraphrase a colleague, it was crap. Thus, I have decided to go head-to-head with them by writing a regular venue review column on these very pages. This time, we hit the Alexandra Palace where it hurts.

 Perched on the top of a hill near Wood Green tube station, the Alexandra Palace is as bizarre a venue as it is a creation. Never actually a palace as such, it was developed as a rival to Crystal Palace and has been used for a variety of duties, perhaps, most importantly, that of housing the BBC. Now the powers that be have decided that it would make the ideal venue for big gigs, money talks it would seem.

 Transport - Getting to the Alexandra Palace is a pain in the arse, if not a royal one. Its closest tube station is Wood Green, but this is adequately far away to encourage the use of bus travel to get to the actual venue. Sure, you could walk, but on a cold winter evening this is as attractive a proposition as a marriage proposal from that hefty cleaner in ‘Not Going Out’ (Miranda Hart). This is irritating at the beginning of the evening, but at the end of the evening, it is infuriating. Obviously, being a gig, everyone leaves at the same time - and most of them want to get home quick sharp. Thus you’re the unhappy participant in a game of good old fashioned ‘bundle’ as you attempt to get onto a local bus or shuttle bus pronto. There are no rules now, my dear; you’re simply a victim of the forces of nature. Oh yeah, there’s a local train station too - I may have to look into that.

 Getting drinks - If you’re a human being, the first time you lay your eyes on the system for getting drinks at the Alexandra Palace you will be stunned - perhaps falling over and dribbling. What they operate is a cross between Glastonbury and an American theme park; tonnes of bars are scattered about the arena manned by an extremely healthy number of staff and occupied by readily poured pints of beer - which you pay for in tokens. Yes, that’s right, no money changes hands at the bar; just small pieces of worthless paper with ‘token’ printed on it which you buy from one of the token vendors. Positively, this cuts down the amount of time you spend queuing (I didn’t have to queue once) but it does mean that you have to predict how drunk you’re going to get at the beginning of the night. And, at £1.75 a token, it’s worth being right. Sure, if you want to get more tokens you can, but if you have some left over you are screwed. They won’t accept them at Wetherspoon’s, I tried.

 The venue - It looks nice, they do food, the sounds alright, it’s pretty big - hell, the Alexandra Palace does tick a lot of boxes here; but it is also unfathomably cold. Think about how difficult it is to heat a place like that, and then make sure you wear plenty of clothes. We made the mistake of putting a coat in the cloakroom; moments later we were stood in a crowd of people wearing scarves and promptly changed our mind. £2 to hang up our coat for all of two minutes, bollocks.

In conclusion, the Alexandra Palace is a festival in a big, cold warehouse in the middle of nowhere. Do you like the middle of nowhere? Do you like warehouses? Or do you just want to watch bands whilst curled up in front of a log fire? I don't know, you tell me. 

Comment by: The Freelancer

The London Ass-toria:

I’m glad Trash Hits deemed it necessary to create this ‘.comment’ section, it means I can whack down a few hastily formed opinions without the need to follow the rules of good journalism - especially those relating to fairness in one’s approach. I love that about Trash Hits, they openly allow a disgruntled freelancer the chance to mouth off without the editor pulling them into their office for a good old-fashioned ear-bashing about covering both sides of the story. There is only one side to this story, the London Astoria is shit.

 Granted, I know a lot of people now will be moaning and whining saying, “Oh, but I have such good memories of seeing [insert band name] there”. No you don’t, you were probably about 16 when you went and you were over-excited about being allowed out without your big brother for the first time. I, however, feel I have the right to berate this venue as I’ve been there many a time and find my enjoyment levels dropping on each subsequent occasion - despite the quality of the band. It speaks volumes that I recently went to see the fabulous Alabama 3 there, and left before the encore. Something must be done.

 Firstly, if the sodding venue has to be laid out like a maze, then put up some signs so that people know where they’re going. I accept, I do enjoy the odd maze on occasion (I particularly recommend the annual mazes of maize that they have in Dorset) but not when I’m attempting to rush between entrance, toilet, bar and crowd. People wander about in a state of daze through the Astoria’s corridors, looking like extras from an alternative zombie flick. “Are the Foo Fighters on yet?”, they’ll ask. “I don’t know, I’m still trying to find my way out from the Metallica gig”. Random stairs lead off in all directions like a Salvatore Dali painting…

 Secondly, when you get to one of the two crowds (for there is a balcony area) that’s all you’ll see - a crowd. There is no spare space in the main rooms of the Astoria; oh no, that’s all been set aside for the corridors and the bar that exists in ‘toilet foyer’. Therefore, you have two options. One, get their ridiculously early and stand near the front - not daring to drink or go to the toilet. Or two, stand at the back and put up with an endless stream of people asking you to move or - generally - just pushing past you. Great. People hold their camera phones in the air in the Astoria not for precious mementos, but to actually glimpse some of the action on the stage through their tiny LCD screens.

 Finally, it’s expensive. Sure, most venues are, but it would be nice to feel you were getting an enjoyable experience for your money. I’m not a massive fan of the Brixton Academy, but at least you have plenty of room to see the band and the added benefit of a slanted floor. There are no benefits to the Astoria. Destroy it. Please.

Comment by: The Freelancer

A load of balls:  

There was a time when having a pool table in a pub was just as vital as having a barmaid with big breasts and a low-cut top, but now - sadly - times appear to be a-changin’. Just as the growth in London’s population is threatening the local wildlife, the humble pool table is facing extinction too.

 There is a lot to be said for having a game of pool in a pub (rather than a ‘pool bar’, for instance). Here we list some of the more captivating reasons for keeping this legendary activity alive: 

• Proper pints - Pool and drinks are an irresistible mix, so why forfeit either? Sure, you can drink in a pool bar, but what if you don’t want a pint of Carling/Fosters/Carlsberg/Stella (delete as applicable) then you’re just going to have to settle for a bottle of Becks or Budweiser, aren’t you? With a good old-fashioned pub you can have a nice pint of London Pride (or your regional equivalent), plus a game of pool. The stuff of dreams.
• Reasonable prices - There is a part of Great Britain that me and my friends call, ‘The Who country’ - otherwise known as Swanage. In this - far from mythical - place you can enjoy a heady mix of sea, fish ‘n’ chips and small pubs, most of which are kitted out with nostalgia-inducing jukeboxes and pool tables. These varied in price from 20p a game, right up to - an extortionate - 50p. On a good day we would get through 50+ plus games, winner stays on. In a pool bar, it’s either a bank-busting £1-2 a game or you pay by the hour. By the hour? It’s a bloody pool table, not a prostitute. What next? Beer by the hour?
• British tables - Alright, I admit, they probably are all made in Taiwan by bloodied fingered youths, but that’s not what I mean and should be the subject of another - more serious - column entirely. British tables are small with reasonably-sized pockets, an archaic coin mechanism on the side, house yellow & red balls and are covered in green baize. American tables are large, with even larger pockets, a coin slot like a parking meter (or none, if pay-by-the-hour), use stripes & colours and have blue baize. American pool is rubbish for all these reasons. And British pool is great, especially as everyone always argues about the rules…
• Inconvenience - One of the best features of pool in a pub is that of inconvenience. Essentially, it always seems that someone bought the pub, filled it with an eye-pleasing array of furniture and then realised that there was no longer any room for the pool table, which then got wedged into a dark corner somewhere. Therefore, shots in a pub are commonly handicapped by shelves, nearby tables, your own pint glass and fireplaces. A clever player would use these to their advantage, making a safety especially safe by playing the ball down the end of the table positioned right next to the area of the bar that is always occupied by the scariest looking locals. If you were brave, you’d ask them to move. But if you weren’t (or you were drunk), you’d find yourself playing the shot at a 70 degree angle whilst still managing to hit them on the chin with the end of your cue. Invigorating.
• The cues - We’ve all been there, you and a friend go down the local for a game of pool and you stupidly head straight for the bar to get the drinks in. Meanwhile, your friend makes a mad dash for the pool cue rack, stealing the only cue that (at best) doesn’t rattle or (at worst) actually has a nib. The amount of games lost that have been blamed on ‘the wrong cue’ is astronomical. Cues can be too light, too heavy, too short, too long, too smooth, too rough or - in one classic example - ‘chalk resistant’. The upside to this is that moment (usually towards the end of the first game) where you ‘find the right cue’, amassing a massive break in the process. Incidentally, sharing a cue is never an option.
• Atmosphere - It’s not just that pubs have a better atmosphere than pool bars, but that a pool table improves a pub’s atmosphere. Sitting in the corner with a friend discussing their recent divorce is all the better for the sound of a bit of stick and ball in the background - it can break up an otherwise dull conversation. E.g. “So, she reckons she’d be… sorry [pauses to pick up the white ball from beside his shoe]… a better parent than you, does she?”. Makes all this awkward moments that bit more bearable.
• Money on the table - No, we’re not talking about massive wads of cash being deposited on the table for gambling purposes (a la The Hustler), but the smaller sums of money (usually) placed on the side of the table to reserve upcoming games. Ok, we’ll be first to admit, this does have it’s bad points, such as when you enter a pub and find that the only pool table in question is occupied by two teenagers and a frightening pile of 50ps. Or when you get drunk and accidentally start spending someone else’s money. But the tradition outweighs the logistics. Especially when you knock a £1 pound coin into the pocket.
• The décor - Big neon signs advertising Coke are all well and good, but they don’t make for good pool-playing. I mean, seriously, you can only stand being in the film, Cocktail, for so long. What you want is a cricket bat on the wall, a few old mugs, some tatty beer mats and an old man that will forever be sat on the small table by the toilet.

 So, there you have it. As you can see, it’s the small things that make the game of pool so great; the dog that barks every time you rack up, the danger of being hit by a dart and the time that you cracked the window. Join us in our battle to keep pool tables alive. Or fuck off to JD Wetherspoons.

Comment by: The Freelancer

Steve Macwally:  

I know what you're thinking, a football article? On a music website? Well, sometimes things need to be done. And this is one of those times.

As a career as a sports writer for the Guardian grows increasingly unlikely, I have decided to take it upon myself to belittle the world of football from these hallowed pages. Yes, it is not merely because the editorial staff here are growing lazier by the week. Or that you can see them sat alongside the beggars in Camden with a sign saying, 'IDEALESS AND DESPERATE. PLEASE WRITE WHAT YOU CAN', such is their desperation for articles. No, truth is there's bigger fish to fry. And try to fry I shall.

England played Brazil last Friday (1st June), and drew 1-1. Nothing particularly spectacular happened on the field (let's be honest, it never does when England play), but there has been a great deal of talk off of it - mainly related to that man Beckham. 

Should he be playing? Should he be going to the America? What about the standard of football over there? Is he - in effect - retiring himself from the 'professional game'? Well, as far as I can see, the solution is simple. At the moment he's playing well, very well in fact. If that changes, you drop him. If his form continues, you play him. It's simple. We don't know how he'll cope with the life in the US. We haven't played there. And - to paraphrase an old international adage - for all their deficiencies, they can still run, kick and tackle.

A bigger question mark remains over the head of Steve Maclaren (shocking revelation, I know). What on earth is he doing? Before the game he said that he views - the thinking man's footballer - David Bentley as the long-term replacement for David Beckham on the right of midfield. Those that watched the game will know that David Beckham did indeed come off. But did Bentley come on for him? No. Jermaine Jenas did.

In fact, I would have bet money that Jermaine Jenas would have come on. Not because he's good. Not because he's ever performed in an England shirt. But because he always does. And so does Stewart Downing. And Kieron Dyer (when fit). None of them ever perform at the highest level. Never have and never will. So why do it?

Essentially, those substitutions may have cost us the win. Our team looked watered down and clueless with the three of them on, though - admittedly - it was another substitute, the over-rated Wes Brown, that really made us look like a poor Premiership side. We all accept that it's a friendly, and it's a good time to try different things, so why always try the same ones? Why not bring David Bentley on? Why not have Crouch starting instead of Smith? He has scored a lot of important goals for us, after all. No defensive midfielder available because of Hargreaves' absence? Why not try Scott Parker? Him and Stevey in midfield could be a deadly combination. 

Look Steve, you have a lovely smile. You really do. I would say it was worth the money having your teeth done. But grow some balls or fuck off.

Comment by: Weary Traveller

Journeys (with my iPod), 1 & 2:  

People do stupid things every day, buying a compilation album because you like one track.  Spending 50 quid on a dress, supposedly designed by a supermodel, even though a million other girls have too and no doubt at least one of them will look better in it than you or eating four croissants while typing these few lines even though there’s a lasagne in the oven with your name on it.  Mostly people learn from these mistakes, at least for a short time, but not me.  I do the same stupid thing at least eight times a week and instead of stopping it I’m going to share it with you.

 This may surprise you but Trash Hits does not pay enough to keep me in croissants.  Like most people these days, I have a dead end day job while I wait for my dreams to come true.  Mine happens to be in a library.  It’s stupid enough that I spend each and every day counting down the hours until I finish but that’s nothing compared to what I’m about to tell you.  In order to get to this job, that I don’t particularly like, I travel for at least an hour and forty minutes.  Each way. Over 3 hours each day with just an iPod Nano for company. If ever my boyfriend wants to get me sectioned, there’s reason enough.

 Now I know that long journeys to work go hand in hand with living in London but normally they’re worth it or at least essential.  For me it’s neither, I don’t enjoy my job, I definitely don’t get paid well and my route to work actually goes past four other libraries.  I’ve given up trying to work out why I do this but it’s quite probably linked to with self-loathing.

 As my 26^th birthday looms, however, I’m beginning to feel I no longer have time to waste.  Obviously that doesn’t mean I’m going to do the sensible thing and find myself a job closer to home.  It means I’m going to waste more of my time writing about my mammoth journey.  Twice a week I’m going to share with you the highs and lows of this quality time spent with my iPod.

 Happy Travelling

I normally catch two buses, the 83 from West Ealing to Wembley and the 204 from Wembley to a little known place called Grahame Park.  On a good day it’s a bit of a pain but this morning it was a whole ruptured spleen.  Not only was it raining and cold I’d also been out the night before.  Try standing at a freezing cold bus stop knowing, if you were normal, you could still be tucked up in bed.

 In this situation the only thing that can save me is my iPod.  It is often suggested that people who suffer from depression should dance around to their favourite music and it certainly works for me.  This morning, however, my iPod was working against me.  OK, I admit putting it on shuffle when I was in such a delicate mood was probably not my greatest moment, but that’s no reason for such extreme punishment.  And punish me it did.  Antony and the Johnsons, the Auteurs, Cat Power, My latest Novel, the Postal Service.  Quiet, slow song after quiet, slow song until I’d drifted off, very nearly missing my stop.  And I certainly don’t need to be on the bus for any longer. 

 Now I don’t know much about technology but surely my iPod should know what music to play to wake me.  Why can’t I just select a mood and out comes music to make me happy or music that’s good for a sunny day.  There’d be no need to be in a bad mood ever again, unless you chose to, that is.  As I’m a girl it’d be even better if the iPod could sense what mood I was in, without any of that ‘nothing’s the matter, I’m fine’ rubbish.  It’s the future.  But until then I’ll have to settle with creating my own playlists for those delicate occasions.

 Happy Travelling

Kelly

Comment by: Generic Rocker

Harrods Rocks?!:  

I almost spat out my tab of LSD when I first saw it. It was 6.00am in the morning; and we - me and the drummer from Mott The Hoople - were on our way back from an all night metal rave at The Pits. The tube was fairly busy (it was a Monday morning) but I still managed to see it, I think I would have seen it even if the entire entourage of Hootie And The Blowfish were on the tube. Courtney Love... on a poster... advertising 'Harrods Rocks'.

"What, the bollocks, is that?!", I asked aloud. No-one answered, MTH's drummer was passed out on the floor with Irn Bru pouring from his mouth and the commuters looked at me as if I'd just bailed the opening riff of Live And Let Die. I knew what I had to do. I had to go home, put on a clean(er) pair of jeans, and hop back on the tube - Knightsbridge bound.

"I'll open my own door, thanks!" I spat out at the green-suited door attendant. It was 11.00am now, and I was already at Harrods - equipped only with a bottle of Captain Morgan's (half empty, definitely a fucking pessimist when it comes to empty alcohol containers) and Alice Cooper's original copy of the Poison lyrics, which I always have on me. The attendant looked annoyed, but I flashed him a close-up of my fist and he was suddenly all to eager to step aside. I won't have doors opened for me by a man servant, you open your own doors in life. Unless you're Debbie Harry of course. Ha ha!

As soon as I stepped inside Big H, I felt nauseous. Now, at this point, it would be easy to say that this was because I'm a socialist (which I am) and that the reams of over-priced products and over groomed men had upset me more than my hardy constitution could stand; but that wouldn't be true. Fact is, I'm allergic to Cashmere. And, since the time the lead guitarist of Spear Of Destiny crumbled up a Cashmere jumper in my bed, I'm fucking scared of the shitty stuff now too. There was a fuck load of Cashmere here.

I took a swig of rum, bellowed to a nearby 'assistant', "Which way to the Rock exhibiton?", and - soon enough - I was there; confronted with a huge room of guitars housed in glass cases and with a scratch on my arm that I had suffered from an imitation Privet hedge. Was I impressed? Aye, it was alright.

Guitars, guitars, guitars - would be the punchline if Harrods Rocks was a joke. There were tonnes of the things, each with a helpful little plaque; just in case you didn't know your Sultans Of Swing from your 'Where's Me Jumper?'. Many of them, though, held no relevance in rock's history. In fact, many of them were just tarts wheeled out by designers, who think they're cool because they went to a Neil Young gig once and thought it was pretty trippy. There were a few with significance, but do I really need to see a guitar designed by that yoghurt wielding ponce, Peter Buck? No.

Yeah, so there were guitars. A few items of gaudy fashion. Some irritating computerised drum-kits manned by yuppie spawn. Ultimately, it was a gig for the middle-aged, tourists and families - and thankfully, I don't tick any of those boxes. Though I did see the guitarist of Dubstar drinking a glass of Dom Perignon. Fucking Brit Pop ponce.

Here's some pictures I took with my Rokia 6230i:

Comment by: City Boy

Advertising Brief Case:  

 A couple of weeks ago I heard – via the wonderful people at BBC Breakfast News – that a select amount of city workers were being paid £30 for the opportunity to place advertising on their briefcases. Sounds crazy, right?

 Initially, I thought I may have half-dreamt it - it was before 7.00 and I was still in bed. In fact, the only thing really keeping me awake was the hustle and bustle of my fiancée getting ready to go to work. But it was her that eventually persuaded me that all my marbles were still within my immediate vision; the advertising world has – indeed – gone mad.

 What does this say about the current state of advertising? It has been clear for some time that TV advertising is facing a momentous slump. The watering down effect of having so many channels, the invention of Sky+ and the vast opportunities that now exist beyond the simplified world of TV have all had a big effect on the money men’s wage packet. It is clearly the right time for advertising to be reinventing itself, but most have gone down the more obvious routes of digital mediums and the internet – are we really ready to start relying on the general public?

 It’s not that this is an entirely new concept, we’ve been carrying around branded bags for years – paradoxically, paying for the privilege of doing so in most cases – and every day you see logos jostling through crowds on the underground. So, what’s the big deal? Have things really changed? The key, I think, is that whereas in the past it was the consumer ‘picking’ the brand, now we have a situation of ‘the brand picking the consumer’.

 How did they pick these select few? You’d hope it wasn’t done on a simple, name out of the hat basis – or maybe you wouldn’t. Just imagine for a second the furore that would be caused by the public’s realisation that one of these individuals – for the sake of argument – worked for an animal testing laboratory. That wouldn’t sell many Body Shop products, would it? So, clearly, you would expect these people to have been screened first; you know, to avoid any fraudsters advertising banks and arsonists advertising strong liquor. But would this be safe enough?

 Imagine an extension of this idea, and one that I have considered hypothetically before, imagine being paid to name your child after an organisation at birth.

 Initially, little Michelin would be a blessing, for parents and company; happily going about his business, perhaps appearing on a clip in ‘You’ve Been Framed’. They could pay for his education, make sure he was well looked after… perhaps guarantee him a lucrative position at the front of the organisation. It would be merry bliss - unless the strings snapped.

 Michelin could become a teenage rebel, worse even. He could burgle an old lady’s house, streak at an England game or – most appropriately, perhaps – go joyriding and cause a mass accident. The press would have a field day. This is their spokesperson, the face behind the corporate shmultz… much like every person carrying these adverts on their briefcases. People make mistakes - both big and small - daily. The hard-working banker and family man can turn into an arrogant sex pest in the blinking of a tabloid’s eye.

 So, Mr Advertising Man, branding someone’s briefcase may seem like a brilliant idea initially, but so does withdrawing just £1 from each of your clients’ accounts… initially.