4am

As alluded to in recent posts, I rent a room in a house share. Actually, it's more a flat share. The landlord also lives here - he has the rest of the flat, I have my little room. We share the kitchen, but I generally don't have any presence in the rest of the place, and rightly so. I'm renting a room. When I go, there will be no evidence that I was ever here. I'm basically a shadow, an echo of every other poor bastard who couldn't afford his or her own place. And apart from the shit smears that get left on the bogroll and/or toilet seat every time he goes into the bathroom, I have no problem with the bloke. One thing I've only recently noticed though, is that he locks the door every time he goes in there. Even at, say, 4 in in the morning. Not that I lie there listening for the guy to go for a piss or (messy) shit at 4am...I just noticed it this week when I was lying awake at 4am. And now I've noticed it, I've noticed that it's every single time. Every. Single. Time. Why is that? Why? I go to drain the main vein and leave the fucking door open. It's not something that bothers me...yet my house mate feels he must lock the door at 4am. Does he think I'm going to spring out of my bed, naked and fully erect, and seduce him like some rampant Nosferatu while he's in the throes of spreading shit all over the Armitage Shanks like a tractor spreading muck down a deserted lane? The answer is, rather boringly, no. If I was to attack him, it'd be with something rather more offensive than my cock...just makes me wonder is all. Should I be offended by this tiny action - the clicking of a lock at 4am...or has the solitude of living in this swamp town finally made me go mad?

Just a thought(s). Interestingly:



Other thoughts: do I buy an upgrade to Windows 8? I just don't know. Nobody can tell me if I should. So-called computer 'experts' who work in computer 'shops' can't tell me. Experts who don't know, when asked, what Direct X is. I weep.

Lastly, I'm writing this on the night of the US election. I'm literally watching BBC News psychophants foam at the fucking mouth, live from just outside (or at least, up't road) from t'white thouse. Listen, I really couldn't care less who wins it but I'm going to guess Obama. Of the two, he's (probably) the least likely to press the red flashing button that reduces the whole planet to something that resembles a pebble, and I can only hope the yank public have the sense to re-elect the guy. Which makes me slightly hypocritical, after saying I couldn't care less...but no fucker reads this crap anyway, so I reckon I'm pretty safe. Heil Hitler. See? Case rested.

House Share of Leaves

Started reading House of Leaves last night. Well, started from were I got to in the Amazon preview before it inexplicably jumped forward about 9 chapters, rendering the whole point...well, pointless. God damn Amazon not giving free books away. Who do they think they are? I must say that it's a good read though, if a little unorthodox in the layout department. There are about three different narratives going on at once, two of which take place solely in the footnotes of this report about a guy who's house seems to be bigger on the inside than it is on the outside. It's pretty fucked up, and the page layouts are all over the place – sometimes the footnotes start mid-paragraph in one narative and then you have to read that (and the following pages) before going back to the original passage you were reading. Sounds pretty confusing, and it is to be fair, but if you're used to reading several books concurrently (which is also what I'm doing now, the other two being Shadow's Edge by Brent Weeks and The A303: Highway to the Sun by Tom Fort), then it's fairly easy to get your head around. I started reading at around 8pm last night and was still going well past midnight, so that kinda gives an indication of how easy it is to get carried away by this story (stories?).

The multiple narrative thing isn't the only slightly unusual aspect of  House of Leaves' design. The way the text is actually presented on some (most) of the pages is really weird - sometimes it's in red and struck through, other times there are just a few words on the page. Some of the pages have the text arranged in bizarre ways, like all lop-sided or just in one corner - I've honestly never read anything like it, and I'm guessing that as the layouts get more muddled the further you read, it must be some kind of mechanic used to illustrate madness or something? I don't know, but it looks freaking cool. Any fucker tries to read this badboy over my shoulder on the train and they'll probably vomit. Which is nice.

Apparently, there are two versions of the book - one in full colour, and one in greyscale. I've got the full colour version (complete with white crease down the black front cover - see the last post), and this is important (apparently) because the word 'house' always appears in blue type, as I've illustrated for your delight, dear reader; while other words appear in red, or red with a strikethrough. But the strikethrough is black. Which I can't illustrate because Blogger just don't do that fancy highfalutin shit. I don't know why yet (in the book, I mean), but I'm sure it'll be revealed. Or not. It's certainly trippy literature. Litripture. And just like that, I add another word to the English language. Maybe Lonely Planet would like to offer me a wad of cash for that one? Email me, guys.

I can see now, just flicking through the various chapters why this book could probably never be reproduced for Kindle (other e-readers are available) - I doubt it'd be able to handle the retarded (inspired) page layouts. Well, the normal black and white e-paper version couldn't, anyway. I mean, look at this shit:

is this a copyright infringement?!

That's not to say I'm not enjoying it - I wouldn't have been up till stupid o'clock this morning if I wasn't. I think it's a totally refreshing and completely unique book and I'm just stunned I'd never heard of it before last weekend. A true literary oddity, is House of Leaves. Or House of Leaves, as it should be typed.

Been torturing myself by looking at flats to rent in Manchester. It seems like such a stupid/petty dream to have, but I've never actually had my own place - I mean totally to myself. Since I left University, I've lived exclusively in either house shares or military accommodation. And these have meant that I have lived exclusively in a single room for the majority of my adult life (with the odd 2/4/16/32 man mess or dilapidated barrack thrown in). One room or locker with all my shit stuffed into it. 

So you can see why the very thought of having a kitchen or a separate living room fills me with the kind of excitement usually reserved for that point where you reach the zenith of a roller coaster's climb, teeter precariously for a microsecond and then plunge back earthward. Just the thought of having my stuff in separate rooms. A bookshelf. A fridge with stuff in it that I know won't go missing. Somewhere to put a desktop computer (it'll probably be a used Powermac G5 - oh yes). A desk. A couch! Fuck me, a couch. Personal space to do what I want, without someone else also being there. Without someone else leaving shit all over the toilet bowl, slamming doors at midnight, ploughing their boyfriend/girlfriend in the next room, just being there all the fucking time. My own place to have some relaxing time in, but also the freedom to invite people round whenever I want without the fear of a housemate or live-in landlord coming back and ruining it. Sigh. I'm babbling again. Some time soon(ish) though. And guess what? I'll be sharing it all here! Lucky reader(s?)!

Nooks & Trannies

My book finally arrived at Waterstones and they promptly called me when it was ready for collection. Sadly, it appears that it's been used as a rugby ball. These probably sound like the ramblings of a paranoid schizophrenic, but I'm guessing the fact that I complained about the delay has played some part in this. The cover is all bent (with a massive crease down the front of the book) and the spine and back cover are scuffed to hell. Yes, I'm a little annoyed that a company as large and reputable as Waterstones can allow this sort of thing, but then again maybe it just got like this in transit. Either way, Waterstones have lost a customer in me - when you spend £20 on a book (a fucking book!), you expect to get it on time and in an acceptable condition. By God, what has happened to customer service? I've seen books on car boot sales in better condition that this supposedly new copy of House of Leaves. Bah! At least it's here though - which is the main thing.

I shall be delving into it later on this evening and imparting my thoughts on this very blog in due course. On the subject of books and bookstores though, I noticed an advert on TV t'other day for the Barnes & Noble Nook. Does this mean B&N are finally launching in the UK? If they do, they won't have to try very hard to kick Waterstones' arse judging by my recent experience - all they'll have to do is not send orders to wrong parts of the country, and then deliver said orders in a condition vaguely approaching 'new.' Oh, and maybe employ staff that don't have massive tattoos of the Batman symbol on their forearms (with matching batarang earrings) or look like Hagrid stunt doubles. Seriously, I'm all for people being individuals and shit - but at least try to make yourself look presentable whilst being 'individual.' There are certain shops where it seems to be a prerequisite that you've got bright blue hair and a luminous nose ring in order to get a job there. Gamestation is one such place. Why? I'm a gamer. I'm probably the biggest games geek I know, but it doesn't make me want to walk around wearing a ripped tablecloth and have a gravestone tattooed on my neck.

HMV is another one. Actually - wait an fucking minute, there's a trend developing here (I think). Gamestation. HMV. Waterstones. All shops I've been in recently where at least one member of staff has had black lipstick on (and their sex didn't seem to matter). Curious. There's definitely some kind of link or correlation going on here...but I really can't deduce what it is. I suppose all of these stores sell electronics of some form...maybe that's it? I don't know, but it seems to be the de rigueur for somebody whose job it is to stand around offering (usually incorrect) music or games or book advice to middle aged people in beige trousers and brown NHS spectacles.

I seem to have gone off on quite an unexpected tangent there...but speaking of the Nook, it looks like quite a nice e-reader/tablet thingy. But seeing as I've already got both a Kindle and a BlackBerry Playbook (a device which also allows you to...er...e-read), I don't think I've got much need for one. Maybe I'll go and ask the steampunk goth working in Rumbelows for his/her advice.

I recently bought The Click Five's second album Modern Minds and Pastimes. If anyone in the UK knew who The Click Five were, I'd probably get kicked to death and then set alight, but thanks to their total lack of presence here, I'm good (for now). Basically, TCV (as they shall henceforth be referred to) are what would be produced if Rivers Cuomo ass-raped any one of McFly. They're a band who sing ever-so-catchy pseudo indie/pop and sing it fucking well. I've had their first album for ages (can't remember where I even got it from) and most of the tracks are pretty hummable, but then a few weeks ago I bought their third album off iTunes. My god - what a record. So on Monday night I paid another £7.99 for their second album...and it's easily as good. Want three albums of toe-tapping power pop? TCV should be your first port of call.

Other recent media-related good shit I've encountered: Seasick Steve (music), Moneyball (film), Warehouse 13 (TV series). Seek them all and thou shalt be rewarded.

Bondage

Had my second Bond-at-the-cinema experience last night. Yep, went to see Skyfall. The only other time I've been to see a Bond movie at the pictures was when I went to see Die Another Day, which was a pile of shit and incidentally Pierce Brosnan's last outing as everyone's favourite nymphomaniac espionagologist-amajig. Take from that what you will. There's probably nothing more to take from it than it was the end of his movie deal, but hey. So Skyfall, then. I have to admit that I've never been the biggest fan of these 'new' Bond films with Daniel Craig. Casino Royale (even with it's fucking awesome theme tune – cheers Chris Cornell) was a bit of a mess in my opinion and Quantum of Solace...well I didn't even bother watching it after a) I found Casino Royale such a laborious slog; and b) most people who saw it (including friends who are massive film geeks) told me it was really confusing. Skyfall then, is a welcome step back in the right direction for the franchise as far as I can tell.

The pre-credits sequence features one of the best chase scenes I've seen (even if does traipse across the very same Istanbul rooftop as Liam Neeson does in Taken 2), and is easily as memorable as GoldenEye's opening segment (y'know, where Bond rides a motorbike off a cliff after a falling, pilotless plane, defies terminal velocity to reach and climb inside it and then wrestles it back into the sky...as Tina Turner's epic theme tune kicks in. Fucking ejaculatory stuff right there). I also feel special mention must go to Adele's theme song here too. The one for Quantum of Solace (Jack White and Alicia Keys, if memory serves) was a hideous, out-of-touch mess, so kudos to the director/producers/whoever for getting someone who can actually sing and write music to pen the score for the second most important section of any Bond film.

The movie calms down somewhat after the intro but the storyline is unmistakably 'old school' Bond, with an unknown enemy wreaking havoc across London and Bond returning from oblivion (along with a cracking new cast playing familiar character roles) to kick ass. There are also some genuinely funny bits too (the chase through a rush-hour Underground station and train, for example, is brilliantly done and the humour is very subtle but was met with a crescendo of laughter from the audience), but this is matched with some 'how the fuck is Bond gonna get out of this' juxtaposition. It's a really good entry in the Bond series and a true return to the action/thriller genre that the franchise so desperatley needed in order to coax back punters who, like me, have probably seen most of the films, but aren't die hards. Oh, and my opinion of Craig's Bond has been altered by his performance here – the character is at times frail and references to his age are chucked in here and there, as well as his (obvious) reliance on drink and women.

It's hard to see how the next Bond film will top Skyfall, but it needs to in order to compete with all the other spy-based shit that's trying to usurp him as the master of the genre. We've already had the Bourne films and Mission Impossible series, and no doubt there'll be more of them to come, so hopefully we cinema-goers have a lot to look forward to. One thing's for sure though – whenever Daniel Craig passes on the mantle, his replacement will have some damn big shoes to fill.

I took my Suzuki Goose for a service on Friday. As I suspected, it actually needed a bit of work as it looks as though the previous owners (both here and in Japan(!)) had never actually had it looked at – just ridden and ridden it to oblivion. As such, the oil that the mechanic drained out of the engine looked like treacle and it needs a new back brake disk and possibly a new chain. It's still legal to ride, but that shit costs money. In my defence, I instructed the mechanic to order a new brake disk and ring me when it arrives so he can fit it. Has he called? Nope. So fuck him. I'll go to a more reputable place to see if they can beat his quote, which was a tad high, considering his workshop is primarily a place that deals with gardening equipment and lawnmowers. Still, the service he did carry out has resulted in a marked improvement in performance for the Goose. She seems to run that little bit smoother, with less backfiring at high revs in a low gear, and he also sorted the headlight out. So it's not all bad – he just needs to sort his customer service and pricing skills. And maybe buy a pack of breath mints.

In a totally unrelated matter, I stumbled across a rather intriguing book this weekend. Or rather, I stumbled across a reference to a rather intriguing book whilst reading something online. I took this reference to Wikipedia and from there a bit of an obsession has developed. Basically, I was reading something on Cracked.com and the author made a reference to a book called House of Leaves. I read up about this House of Leaves and found myself absorbing the whole Amazon 'look inside' preview. I knew that as soon as I'd read the synopsis (I won't even bother here – it's way too complicated...but look here for yourself and tell me it doesn't sound awesome) I had to have it. So I've been and ordered a copy from Waterstones. The girl behind the counter who took my order said it should be ready for collection at the local store by today at the latest, but because I'm in Gloucester (incidentally, the only branch in the West Midlands not to hold a copy of House of Leaves), I know for a fact that it won't be there when I go in at lunchtime. That's because Gloucester, in every way imaginable, is a shitty place to live and this is just one way of illustrating it. But I've already covered that at great length. Unfortunately, the arrival of House of Leaves in Waterstones (whenever that may be) means that my current book (the second in the Night Angel trilogy) will have to go on hiatus.

Oh, and happy Halloween. If there can be such a thing.

UPDATE 1

As predicted, I went to Waterstones at lunchtime to collect my book and they didn't have it. To add insult to injury, the 'customer service' guy didn't even know when it'd be delivered for collection! I was told on Monday that it'd be there today! There is no way it takes 3 days for a book to be sent from one Waterstones branch to another, especially when the one in the next town has a fucking copy! Just another reason I hate Gloucester with all my heart. I looked on the Waterstones website to see which local stores have copies of House of Leaves, and yep - you guessed it, every single branch in the entire county (and the surrounding counties) have 1 or more copies of the fucking thing sitting on shelves. Just not the one here, where I live, in this miserable shit hole. God I can't wait to leave this:

Gloucester 'city' centre, October 2012

UPDATE 2

Waterstones just called me. My copy of House of Leaves was sent to the Yeovil store instead of the Gloucester store. I guess its an easy mistake to make, seeing as the words Yeovil and Gloucester look so fucking similar.

This Is Just A Tribute

Chances are that if you'd gone into the armed forces careers office in Portsmouth between 2009 and 2010 (vagueness is my middle name), with an interest in either joining the navy or telling somebody that you are, in fact, related to the royal family and demand to be given a pilot's licence (this happened on one occasion. The bloke in question was told that regrettably, we didn't offer pilot's licenses to people who wandered in off the street smelling of urine and dressed like an explosion had gone off on a charity shop. Or anyone for that matter); that you would have been asked to take a seat across a desk from myself. Still with me? Ok. That's because I worked as a careers advisor for a brief period and it was my job to have first contact with potential recruits and to give them information about the different types of jobs that were available in the navy.

I also had to answer a whole host of ridiculous questions about ships and numbers of press-ups needed to be done in training, and whether you could get wifi in the middle of the Atlantic...and these were usually coming from worried parents who didn't want little Johnny running away to sea without first getting a good idea of what to expect. Anyway. Whilst I was in that job (it was about a year and a half), I worked with a Royal Marine who did the same job as me, but whom offered advice to young lads who wanted to join the marine corps. We had a really good laugh most of the time and used to chat about some really (well, pseudo) in-depth subjects, ranging from politics and films, to whether or not there are secret bases on the moon mining unobtanium. 

Sometimes the job was horrendously monotonous, and as the two lowest ranked people in the office we usually got tasked off with the shittiest jobs you can imagine by our superiors (including making the tea on almost constant rotation). Happily, me and this marine got on like a house on fire and would spend about 70% of the time in the office bitching and moaning and messing around and trying to make the job more enjoyable. One time we found a box of old plastic and paper flags (they had outdated navy/marines badges on them and would've been used at recruitment events and road shows of yore) and built a replica of the Eiffel Tower out of them in the middle of the office, much to the annoyance of the army Major who ran the place. He would constantly berate me for still buying Dreamcast games on eBay, even though he would read my Dreamcast Junkyard posts laughing his head off. Basically, the guy was a really good bloke to work with and he made it bearable spending every day in such a boring office, and hopefully I had the same effect on his working day too. 

Because I was pretty new to Portsmouth and he was actually from there (well, Havant – a town just up the road), he would invite me round to his parents' house at weekends for BBQs, play Modern Warfare etc, or we would just meet up for a few beers with his other non-military mates. So yeah – if I hadn't met this guy, my life in Portsmouth would probably have been pretty dull. I would count the guy as a friend. 

His name was Corporal David O'Connor, and the Ministry of Defence yesterday released the details that he had been killed, along with Corporal Channing Day, whilst on patrol in Helmand Province, Afghanistan. 

I hadn't spoken to Dave for ages, just exchanged a few random texts with him every now and then, and we eventually (and inevitably) drifted apart what with my departure from the services. What is very poignant though, is that the other day I was randomly looking at old photographs I've got on my computer and came across a few folders of pictures of us messing about on nights out in Portsmouth, and of him trying to get a mutual friend's pet snake to wrap itself around my head whilst I was passed out drunk on a couch. It's true that whenever somebody dies or is killed, that the press-releases from friends and family are unanimous in their praise for the victim, and I'm usually indifferent simply because I didn't know them. In this case, however, I can totally agree with the heartbreaking testimonies of how much of 'hoofing' bloke Dave was. 

Even though I only worked with him for a year and a half, and it was hardly in a warzone, I can see what kind of leader he must have been in theatre just by reading the tributes to him from his comrades at 40 Commando, and from my brief period as his oppo. 

Rest in peace mate.

Frying Pan

Just looking at my calendar and I've seen that I only have five months left to endure in this dump. That's a relief. I was beginning to think this misery would never end. I don't know why I do it to myself, I really don't. I wanted to leave the military because I was sick of being surrounded with people with whom I couldn't have an intelligent conversation, and now I'm surrounded with...well no-one. I believe the phrase is 'out of the frying pan, into the fire.' 

I should have just gone home when I shed that uniform, but I thought I knew better, thought I could just transplant myself into a new town and instantly have friends and a social life and all that other shit you think you'll get when you move to a place with other sentient lifeforms. I found out several things the hard way – the most obvious one being that there aren't many sentient lifeforms in Gloucester, and the ones that do exist don't speak to you if your accent isn't the same as their weird medieval drawl. 

Honestly, it's driving me fucking mental – all I can think about is going home. It's got to the point where I can't even focus at work because all I can think about is how much I despise being in this town, how much I hate them all. Just walking down the street forms a ball of pure hatred in the pit of my stomach...it's taking over my life. I guess it's because there literally is nothing else in my life apart from going to work and going to the gym/running. That's it. That is my existence. And it's horrible. True, I get to see my girlfriend a few times a month...when I brave the horrors of the motorway/wind/rain and mud-strewn pot-hole riddled 'roads' for 3 hours every weekend (well, 6 hours if you factor in the return journey as well) on the motorbike. I'm so fucking fed up...probably why I'm struggling to actually find anything to write about other than how shit everything is, because at the moment...it is. It's like nothing else exists except my desire not to live in this place any more. Fuck the job, fuck everything – just get me out of here. 

When I do get a rare moment of clear level-headedness and actually think about my situation, the answers seem so clear and easy to grasp: jack the job and fuck this place off. Surely mental well-being and a social circle of friends and family is far more important than having something to put on a fucking CV?! I don't know. I'm just pouring my slightly mentally-deficient thoughts out onto the internet. Hopefully, I can look back on this in the future (much how I sometimes look at the archived posts and recall what I was feeling at the time I wrote them) and then laugh heartily (or maybe maniacally) about my ill-fated decision to try to make a life in a new (crap) town. Anyone who is thinking of trying this themselves should think long and hard. In some cases, it may be a risk worth taking, especially if the new location is a town or city that actually has a pulse. If it isn't though, think about how you'll cope with the long evenings of your own company and lack of anything to fill your time with. You'll probably end up hating your very existence and start writing overly negative, world-hating blog posts about your experience. 

In other news, I did finish the book I've been reading. It's called The Way of Shadows by Brent Weeks and is the first book in the Night Angel trilogy. I usually stick to science fiction when it comes to literature, but this book is a bit of fantasy novel set in a Tolkien-esque world of magic and war. It tells the tale of a young lad who is brought up in the slums but ends up becoming a kind of assassin's apprentice, and ultimately a master of killing (with a few magical powers too) that can (probably) change the fate of the world. It's a great read, and I recommend it to anyone who likes to root for the underdog. I've just started the second book in the series and hopefully it'll be every bit as epic as the first one.

Icewind Dale

Sadly, this post isn't about an ancient PC role playing game, so if you came here after googling that title - I apologise. That's apologise, with an 's' - not a 'z.' Fuck off auto-correct. I went back up to Manchester at the weekend on the motorbike. I set off on Friday afternoon hoping to avoid the traffic on the motorway (it's always, always congested around Birmingham. Without fail. I bet it's congested right now, actually), but on the way to the M5 I discovered that my back tire was flat. It didn't look particularly 'down,' but when I was riding, the back end just felt 'funny.' Not Joe Pesci 'funny,' just a bit unstable. I stopped a few times and looked at it and pressed it with my thumb, and it looked and felt OK to my novice eyes/thumbs...but I called in to a garage before my junction and asked if a mechanic could have a quick look at it. Turns out it was completely void of any air whatsoever. Completely flat. He pumped it up with his little hand held squirty-gas thing (technical terminology, right there) and it went rock solid...and the ride quality improved dramatically. Leads me to wonder whether it's been flat the whole time I've had it, as truth be told, it's felt a little bit unstable the whole time. With the CBF, you could instantly see if you had a puncture because the tires were quite thin, but with this bike's big fat tires, it's hard to tell. Unless you get a bloke with a pressure gauge to check for you. So – note to relatively new motorcyclists: check your tires. If I hadn't just happened to pass that garage, I probably would've continued on to the motorway and then cranked the bike up to 70 – 80mph with a flat tire...and who knows how badly that little scenario could've ended.

The weekend passed with little incident – saw my myriad nephews and nieces and brother and sisters, saw some friends on Saturday night and then came back. The ride back was particularly horrible, though it had nothing to do with traffic jams or a flat tire – it was down to the fucking gale-force winds that threatened to blow me sideways off the road almost continuously. Seriously, the trees at the sides of the motorway were bending over with the force of the fucking wind and at one point just past Stafford, the back wheel actually shifted from under me and I thought I was dead. I managed to keep control and get the bike straight again, but fuck me – what is it with the damned weather this year? It feels like mother nature is throwing everything at me: January – February, when I first started riding, the weather was stupidly cold – to the point where I was wearing 3 pairs of gloves to keep feeling in my hands. March – September it rained almost constantly, with a little bit of wind and sleet thrown in for good measure, and now we've hit October, the wind seems to be wanting to get in on the act. The kind of wind I've only ever seen in news reports. And it's always blowing against me – never behind me, making the ride actually bearable. So, not only is riding a motorbike loud and cold and (to be honest) a little bit uncomfortable, now I've got to hold on for grim death because the wind doesn't want me to stay upright. Makes me wonder why I fucking bother to be honest. Oh, wait – petrol is still £1.40 a litre. That's why.

Went back to that shopping centre in Bristol this week to try to use some more of my vouchers. I'm probably in an enviable position in that there's not really anything I want or need. I've got a fuck load of gadgets, and enough clothes...so I bought a travel towel for my planned Thailand trip in early 2013, and an iTunes voucher. Never used an iTunes voucher before, but it's pretty straight forward really – you just scrape the silver strip off the back and input the code that's revealed. So what did I get from the store? Bit of a mixed bag really. Got the new Muse album, The 2^nd Law. And it's a bit cack. Several of the tunes are complete rip-offs of Queen songs, and the rest are, in the main, floaty high pitched dross with a few guitar riffs thrown in. There are one or two semi-decent tracks, but this is a world away from their last good album, Black Holes and Revelations. Their previous effort was underwhelming too... so might give Muse a miss from now on. The others I got were the new Motion City Soundtrack offering, Simple Plan's latest, an album from a band most people have never heard of but actually write some of the best punk/pop I've ever heard – The Click Five, and the latest album from Nas. I'm not a massive fan of the rap genre, but Nas' stuff is quite good in my opinion. Hence the purchase. So there you are. A few near-death experiences and some iTunes purchases. An action-packed weekend I'm sure you'll agree.