Season 2008-9

January 2, 2009

It’s a bit of a trial, being on Twitter and following various people who are either high achievers, or who give the impression of being high achievers. While I post mundane updates about the state of my intenstines, my Twittering chums will be recounting the meeting they just had with the Pope or how they’ve just been given £30,000 to draw likenesses of themselves with a crayon or something. But for all my whining, you know, I’m doing alright. Everything I do tends to be refracted through a hideous prism of anxiety which makes me think that I’m just treading water and just-about coping. And then I think well, there’s nothing wrong with treading water in any case, is there, I mean, what would be the point of being a crusading semi-humorous writer? Indeed, what’s the point of anything? (It’s at this stage, where I get all philosophical, that I stop thinking about anything and start playing World Of Warcraft.)

So yeah, 2008. I wrote about World Of Warcraft for The Independent in November. They asked me to sign up and play and get a feel for it. I reluctantly agreed. rawrphotography and pageantmalarkey showed me the ropes. It’s quite addictive, isn’t it. I’m on level 30 now; I’ve just had a haircut that cost me about 70 pieces of silver, and if you find me some spider silk, I can make you a mean pair of slippers. And so on.

I spent February, March and April writing a book. More because of the trouble-free nature of the book’s production than any astounding sales figures, I’ve been asked to write another one starting next week, so if any of you have the slightest knowledge about social history – any period from Ancient Greece to the present day – I may come beseeching you for a bit of help, ransack your brains and pass off your own painstakingly acquired knowledge as my own whimsical observations. I must have written about 30 features for The Independent this year, and somewhere between 40 and 50 columns. It’s a terrible move to put the majority of ones eggs in one freelancing basket – especially with the media in the state it’s in at the moment – but I am very fond of that newspaper, and I hope it weathers the storm… I was also delighted to get a regular gig with Olive, the tiptop BBC food mag, especially as it doesn’t require me to actually eat any food over and above the food I already eat. Burp.

Best gigs of 2008 were Desalvo, School Of Language and Dirty Projectors.

I went to the races and to the circus for the first time in my life during 2008. 2009 will not see me bungee jumping, however.

I played gigs with Frank Sidebottom, Keith John Adams, Dream Themes and martylog. No Scritti action, unfortunately. I nearly joined Mr Solo’s band, but got cold feet. I’m hoping to get a band called “Gentleman’s Agreement” off the ground, in which my ambition to make music sounding like Hall & Oates or Bob James won’t be hamstrung by some half-baked indie pissing about. Smooth is the watchword for 2009. Smooth and peaty.

Farting isn’t clever, but it’s lucrative

January 2, 2009

Most of us devote at least some subconscious time to dreaming up money-making schemes that might see us through the recession and allow us to be freed from the tyranny of mortgage payments and the questionable man-management skills of our bosses. Trouble is, few of us have any kind of entrepreneurial flair. Around the corner from my flat, a Sri Lankan chap recently opened a shop selling party accessories – hats, streamers, baubles and so on – and, according to the blackboard outside, he specialises in “puberty ceremonies”. Now, I wish him well, but I have a horrible feeling that the demand for, uh, puberty-related bunting in this part of London is on the low side. I certainly don’t recall any fanfare or fireworks when I passed into something resembling manhood. I just recall spending a lot of time listening to The Cure and crying for no reason, although that might have been because I was listening to The Cure.

Anyway, while we make half-hearted stabs at getting rich quick, or more likely don’t bother at all, other people effortlessly tap into the zeitgeist and emerge some $40,000 richer. That’s what happened to one Mr Joel Comm over Christmas; by utilising the oldest joke known to mankind – flatulence, bottom burps, call them what you will – he produced an app for the iPhone called iFart. Unsurprisingly, it produces fart noises. It only costs 99 cents, but it quickly rose to #1 in the App Store, and the 58,000 people that downloaded it on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day netted both Comm, and Apple, a small fortune.

There’s been a general surge in the numbers of apps sold by Apple over Christmas as people unpack their iPhone or iPod Touch and start spending the cash on their iTunes Store gift cards – but it takes a special kind of business brain to figure out that what they really want is not productivity software, but a hi-tech whoopee cushion that lets them stab the screen with their finger and hear the digitally enhanced sound of someone blowing off. I was all ready to applaud Mr Comm’s efforts, but then I saw his website and realised that this was no lucky break, that this wasn’t some bored bloke accidentally striking it rich. Comm devotes himself to the study of getting rich online, and presents a depressing internet entrepreneur reality show in which the contestants will probably fail to come up with something that resonates as deeply with the online community as a fart gag.

Oh – and if you are seeking to emulate Mr Conn’s success, don’t push the boundaries of taste too far. Apple are watching you, and if you stray into the same realms of indecency as iBoobs, you’ll be banned from the store forthwith.