How can there be a Museum of Everything?

My answer after my first visit 12 months ago would have been: there can't and there isn't, there's just a bleeding-edge hotchpotch of aggregated detritus that no-one has bothered to curate into a coherent whole.  I went back this weekend, and it's improved out of sight. 

On hearing about the Museum of Everything, my first impression was: "aha! At last. The perfect storm of hipster bullshit".  Its opening hours and days seemed to have been chosen by throwing blindfolded at calendars and clocks, it's situated in yummy Primrose Hill, and its name is patently absurd.  I went to see their second exhibition and wasn't given a reason to change my mind.  The exhibits had very little in common and the rickety space was poorly used.  As names go, 'Museum of Anything' would have better described their selection policy.  A few of the items on show were fascinating, but seeing each felt like finding a hidden gem at an overcrowded garage sale, without even the satisfaction of being able to take it home with you.  There was no context, no narrative, no thread to follow: just clutter.  As themes go, 'Museum of Nothing' would have… well, you get the idea.

My return was only motivated by convenience and coincidence: my girlfriend had something else to do in Camden and we needed to kill an hour.  I had no idea that Peter Blake had played a role in compiling their new show, but his name at the front door provided a much-needed counterpoint to my overwhelming pessimism.

Exhibition #3 is filled with taxidermy dioramas and circus paraphernalia.  Fairground attractions and their flyers line many of the walls: big and small, human and mechanical.  There's a lot to take in, but just enough space to let you achieve that.  Posed squirrels, performing midgets, ghoulish marionettes, shell grottos, miniature ferris wheels: all competing for your attention, but neatly separated so as not to overwhelm.  This time, the care and energy that's been applied to choosing items and placing them translates into a much more enjoyable experience.  The promotional floor-to-ceiling circus canvasses (presenting each showcased freak with a starburst footnote proclaiming them 'ALIVE!') and traditional American fairground attractions are stunning, and anyone who's ever peeked through the bars at Essex Road's legendary Get Stuffed will enjoy the bloodied boxing rodents and presentation of Who Killed Cock Robin?  Turning to the most important feature of any gallery, they've even done a half-decent job of setting up a functional gift shop.

All in all, free entry seemed a lot less expensive second time around.  Exhibition #3 has been extended to finish on Friday 11 February: even stuffed squirrels need a holiday.  Catch them while you can.  It's pretty easy; they can't run away.

Another two Sunday morning puzzles

Numbers and letters.

First up, a gentle mental stretch: what comes next in this sequence?

All warmed up and ready for a proper workout?  Excellent.

Just like last week, our second puzzle comes from the first season of PerplexCity.  This is definitely harder than last week's card - you might notice that we've graduated from the blue set to the purples.  Warning: cracking the premise is much more satisfying than arriving at the actual answer...

Top 10: Songs about pirates

If you spend even a little time seeking out songs about pirates, the first thing you'll notice is this: there are very few.  Almost none, in fact.  This guide should help.

Logan Whitehurst And The Junior Science Club - Bonebeard, The Dinosaur Pirate From Space
This does exactly what it says on the tin - 72 seconds of silliness.  Probably the Google-friendliest children's song ever written.

Tom Waits - Singapore
If there's one thing The Waits Voice perfectly suits, it's deranged, drug-addled rantings about stevedores.

The Arrogant Worms - The Last Saskatchewan Pirate
An extremely obscure Canadian novelty band, this underappreciated song asks the big questions of the age: why don't more unemployed people become pirates, and what good would they be in the landlocked heart of agricultural Canada?

Loudon Wainwright - Good Ship Venus
This song doesn't specifically identify its rogue's gallery of characters as pirates, but take a listen anyway.  Piracy would have been pretty low down the list of sins on the Good Ship Venus...

Edith Piaf - Le Chant Du Pirate
If you ever want to hear some Rs get royally rolled, good old Edith's pronunciation of 'brrrrigand' and 'corsairrrre' should tide you over.  Yes, I said tide.  This is about pirates.  Keep up.

Bryan Ferry and Antony Hegarty - Lowlands Low
I'm no Antony fan, but his voice is put to good use here.  Perhaps he should play second fiddle more often.  But singing, not fiddling.  Obviously.  Yes.

Adam And The Ants - Jolly Roger
Vagabonds and vexillologists of the world unite!  I like short songs and whistling, so this ticks both boxes.  Very few other boxes, but definitely those two.

Alela Diane - The Pirate's Gospel
Surprisingly gentle.  Definitely not recommended for fans of raping and pillaging (such as, for example, pirates).

Stephen Malkmus - The Hook
If you've ever been kidnapped by Turkish pirates, got confused about whether they could accurately be described as Cypriots and ended up graduating from lucky mascot to captain, this song will trigger all sorts of happy memories.  Hardly his finest hour, but the lyrics are at least ludicrous enough to liven it up a bit.

The Curse Of Monkey Island - A Pirate I Was Meant To Be
Probably the only song ever in which the protagonist (Guybrush Threepwood) wins the day by judicious use of the word 'orange'.

For the sake of completeness and aural improvement, here are five more superb songs which are almost about pirates.

Sparkle Moore - Skull And Crossbones
No pirates, just poison.  This appears on a compilation of favourite songs chosen by The Cramps, and therefore has unimpeachable credentials.  Don't even try impeaching them; you'll only embarrass yourself.

Beirut - Prenzlauerberg
In so far as it's ever possible to work out what Zach Condon is warbling on about, this song is very clearly not about pirates.  But it really, REALLY sounds like it should be.

Les Savy Fav - Our Coastal Hymn
No pirates, just a rousing set of instructions to be used if Tim Harrington dies at the seaside.  Take note.

Beasts Of Bourbon - Chase The Dragon
Pirates are no more than wet smugglers, right?  Let's just say that Beasts Of Bourbon have clearly misread The Dead Kennedys' travel guide for holidaymakers visiting Cambodia.

The Decemberists - The Mariner's Revenge Song
Does a fraudulent cad who happens to captain ships for a living qualify as a pirate?  I'm saying no.  Nevertheless, this song is indescribably fun and deserves not to be spoiled for the uninitiated.  Just remember to bring your best impression of being eaten by a grumpy cetacean when I force you to listen to my nine-minute Colin Meloy impression.

Why I hate festivals

I'm fed up of everyone assuming that I ought to like festivals because I like guitar music, so I'm taking it out on you.  Even if my 10 favourite bands were booked to appear on the same day in a park within walking distance of my flat for a reasonable price, I still wouldn't go.  This is why.

Sound - this is important, so pay attention.  Music sounds rubbish outdoors.  It does.  If you disagree, you either hadn't heard that particular music before or it was always rubbish or you were too drunk to care.  Music, like claustrophobia, works best in confined spaces.  Lift music must just be the exception which proves that ill-considered rule.  It doesn't deserve to be mistreated this way.

Proximity - live music works best when you're within 100 yards of it.  Good luck getting closer than that for the main acts at a large festival.  I remember getting to the front for the White Stripes at Reading one year - I literally couldn't put my feet back on the ground for about half an hour; I think they had to stop the band at one point.  If you're tempted to try, remember this - towards the end of the day, everyone at the front is either racked with dehydration-induced hallucinations or they're surrounded by their own urine.  Do you want to be stuck touching them?

Cost - festivals cost far too much, especially when you factor in travel and the disgusting food and drink you're forced to buy on site.  As I understand it, they usually turn a pretty big profit.  I'd rather book for specific bands that I definitely want to see, in places where I want to see them - even if that means spending £300 on gigs each year. 

Blocked chemical toilets, food poisoning, no showers - not for me, thanks all the same.  I'm sure things are slightly different at ATP, but if I wanted to spend all day surrounded by middle-class hipsters I'd just walk to Shoreditch.  Hygiene shouldn't be reserved for VIPs. 

You people - stoners, students and hippies, the lot of you.  Most of you have terrible taste.  Some of you know absolutely nothing about any of the bands and have just come to buy drugs, like an expensive and protracted trip to a very busy cash and carry.  You're pushy, rude, dirty and badly dressed.  I don't want to talk to you, I don't want to stand downwind of you and I certainly don't want to hear you strum your guitar all night.  You can't play, you're awful, give up and go read a book.  Just fuck the fuck off.

Album review: Dye It Blonde by Smith Westerns

Never judge an album by its big dumb title 

Smith Westerns are a three-piece band from Chicago whose aggregate age makes them younger than my dad.  They're so young, in fact, that my friend went to one of their gigs with their babysitter.  I would say 'former babysitter', but I doubt she ever tendered a formal resignation.  All this probably means they should be apeing Animal Collective or some other zeitgeisty bullshit - fortunately, they've been stuffing their little faces full of delicious glam-rock instead. 

They released their first album last year, having snuck one of its songs (My Heart) onto the annual Rough Trade Counter Culture compilation.  For me, that single suffered from the same basic drawback as the rest of the album: poor mixing and too much feedback.  That sound would suit a lot of bands, but not one for whom it was so obviously obscuring their main selling point - neatly constructed three-minute guitar pop songs.

This album corrects that glaring flaw.  Either someone pointed it out, or touring has given them the confidence to let their songwriting speak for itself.  That's not to say they've lost their edge - they've simply refined it for sharing.  Just like its predecessor, Dye It Blonde is littered with infectious melodies: now you can actually hear them.  If you've come across new single Weekend, chances are you've already whistled the riff in the shower.  Yes, we're back in the 70s - but this is 70s rock as lovingly reinterpreted by Britpop's Bowie acolytes while these guys were busy being born, with most of the anachronistic cock-rock missteps safely tucked away.  Suede should be proud.  Free Energy should be taking notes.

All Die Young is the pivotal track - Smith Westerns could follow its mantra and still have time to make ten years of brilliant music first.  They probably won't, but Dye It Blonde is still a giant leap towards a consistent and reliable pitch.  If you haven't already found Smith Westerns lurking in a hazy beer-soaked bar, you might just catch them lighting up a small festival stage this summer.

Two Sunday morning puzzles

What comes next?

Puzzle number one is borrowed from The Oxford Murders, a mediocre crime thriller that earned itself far too much attention by being (a) translated from a foreign language, and (b) set in an English city that Americans would recognise.  Like most middle-class people with a tenuous connection to Oxford in 2005 (I happened to be studying there), I was bought a copy for Christmas and waded my way to the end.  The drawing skills are all my own.

Puzzle number two is card #135 from season one of Mind Candy's PerplexCity.  PerplexCity was an immersive online treasure hunt to find a real-world prize of £100,000, which lasted two years and ended in 2007.  There were 256 cards in the first season, and to find the treasure you needed to solve the cards and identify complex patterns overlaid on maps or running across sets.  The cards came in foil packs of six and you could buy them at Borders and Firebox.  Two of the cards are so hard that they've never been solved.  This one isn't quite in that league, but should still make you think.

Solved them?  Need hints?  Tell me, but don't post the answers!

If you'd like a packet of cards from PerplexCity season two, feel free to email me.

Album review: The King Is Dead by The Decemberists

Talented people forget why they were special; make boring music very competently 

I like the Decemberists a hell of a lot.  Probably their music more than their personalities, but I couldn't care less about the latter.  And that's despite Colin Meloy's excellent '33 1/3' book, which is a little bit about The Replacements' wonderful Let It Be (as billed) and an awful lot more about his childhood in Montana.  Anyway, it's been about 18 months since their last album, so I guess they decided it was time to churn out another.  So they went to an isolated farm with no ideas and hordes of celebrity collaborators (including ubiquitous professional celebrity collaborator Peter Buck), and strummed themselves off for the summer.

I can't imagine many people liking this album - I certainly don't.  Decemberists fans like me will buy it in their droves - and quite right too, because funding the next one can only help to rehabilitate them.  But I'd imagine they'll be split into two intensely disappointed camps.  The first camp will wonder where the grand ambition and narrative drive of The Hazards Of Love has disappeared to.  The second camp wasn't that bothered about The Hazards Of Love, but will still wonder why there are no wry, twee, aching songs about pirates, legionnaires, Chinese trapeze artists or even whales - no drama, no strings; where are the indulgences and reveries which defined their music?  Anyone hearing them for the first time will probably think 'gosh, it's pleasant enough, but I hope there are more exciting incarnations of Americana… that bearded, bespectacled indie guy who bought it for me is so very dumped'.  Either that or they'll regret not waiting for the songs to come round on the Decemberists-themed episode of Glee.  I wish they'd at least answer my letters.

It's hard to tell whether the country inflections (HARMONICA?!) are a designed and lasting change of direction.  Maybe Meloy was so hurt by some of the criticism aimed at The Hazards Of Love that he took it to heart and has skulked back to basics.  Or maybe, just maybe, this is his incredibly cunning one-off revenge: hey naysayers, this is what we sound like when all the things you claim to hate are gone.  Yes, much worse.  Now where did I put my encyclopaedic dictionary and big book of Victorian heartbreak stories for boys?  I'd love to overestimate him and assume the latter.

Some of these songs would have been dismissed out-of-hand as Tarkio album tracks.  I assume 'January Hymn' is going to be a (the?) single - releasing it in the next 10 days would probably help.  In any case, it's the only song I can remember after listening to the album three times back-to-back.  Best case scenario, The King Is Dead will prove to have been a parenthetical afterthought to fill a scheduling gap while they plot another masterpiece.  More likely these songs are intended as light, fleet-footed classics - but there's a awfully big ocean between timeless and sparkless; between pastoral and pastiche.

It pains me to say it, but this album has all the hallmarks of a band with no stories left to tell - for now, at least.  The lyrics are still book-fresh, but the intricately carved characters and playful wit of previous albums are gone.  I want to have to listen, not just hear it in the background while doing other things and forget it all instantly.  It's inoffensive and turgid, and I expect far better because they've consistently produced better.  Come back, Chimbley Sweep - all is forgiven.

UK Government asks: "Whose sheep are you anyway?"

Has it really been ten years since the last census?  Well, no.  Not quite.  But in two short months, you can expect to find your letterbox stuffed full of questions that you are legally obliged to answer.  PARTY TIME.

The most interesting feature of the last census was the introduction of a voluntary question asking people to state their religion for the first time since 1851.  The nation responded with unexpected enthusiasm: only 8% said nothing at all.  72% said Christian, 15% no religion, 3% Muslim and 1% Hindu.  Which major world religion came next?  Judaism?  Sikhism?  Buddhism?  No.  Inspired by the success of a similar campaign in New Zealand, more than 390,000 people declared themselves to be Jedi Knights.

The new census form has already been published and can be seen here, with apologies for the dodgy link.  'Jedi Knight' is still not listed as an answer (hate crime?), but the 'other' box remains gloriously, dangerously blank.  After a decade of being shouted down by census-citers, the British Humanist Association has recognised the risk that this presents to their cause.  Their campaign - "If you're not religious, for God's sake say so!" - does pretty much what it says on the inevitable bumper sticker.  In other words, stop dicking around with ponderous film franchises or saying what you think your mum would like to hear, and honestly answer 'no religion'.  But in true British style, every conceivable sect, cause and peccadillo is piling in to grab a piece of the action.  The BHA has any number of fights on its hands.

Government policy apparently states that any religion recorded in the census as having at least 10,000 followers will be recognised as a minority for which provision must be made in public institutions.  Let's take a quick canter through some of the groups trying to make sure they snare these benefits.  Jains?  Of course.  Holistic Spiritualists?  You bet (or not, they probably wouldn't like it).  Pagans, wiccans, druids and animists?  Naturally.  Even heavy metal fans and Pokemon players have their own organised Facebook campaigns.  With climate change and Thelema recently recognised as potentially capable of formal designation as beliefs deserving legal protection, census counters are going to have all sorts of fun sorting this mess out.

My view?  Cherish your one opportunity not to answer.  You're going to have to tell the Government about every other aspect of your life (including sexual habits).  Save the memes for the internet, and leave the blank space blank.

The Urethra Postcard Art of Gilbert & George

On Saturday I went to a gallery named after a shape to look at rectangular things laid out in rectangles. 

Gilbert & George have collected baker's dozens of identical postcards from London phoneboxes and gift shops for decades.  The postcards feature adverts for niche sex workers, phallic London monuments or flags incorporating the Union Flag.  I'm surprised no-one noticed their hoarding - I can't really imagine them dressing down, or doing anything incognito.  Perhaps they despatched work experience minions, or hired ringers whose assumed names also begin with G.  Anyway, they've decided that laying out 12 postcards to form a frame around a central one - with all 13 featuring the same design - creates a sexual image representing a sort of masculine urethra.  Leaving questions of anatomical inconvenience to one side (sharp corners? Just think of the paper cuts), this begs an important question.

Can you enjoy an exhibition when its fundamental premise is such absolute horsepiffle, hogwash and quite possibly weaselcleanser?  Well, yes.  Yes, you can, here.  Because there's an awful lot to like about it.

As a casual (OK, perhaps smart casual) vexillologist, I can't pretend that the flags didn't help.  Feigning indifference here would be a swizzle of epic proportions, since I spent most of my only visit to New York staring up at the UN building and buying replica flags in their gift shop.  And these weren't just any flags, they were obscure flags of tiny British dependencies.  South Georgia!  Niue!  Tristan da Cunha!  I'd better move on before I lose another post to flag porn, but these names were far more exciting to me than anything written on the prostitutes' calling cards.

Speaking of which, the array of outlandish sexual practices promised around the room would make this exhibition absolutely perfect for a first date. I've always maintained that you can tell a lot about a person from their reaction to phrases such as "still 1/2 girl!", "brown showers" and "I'LL DRAG YOU ROUND MY POSH FLAT BY YOUR NUTS YOU FILTHY VETCH". Also, the exhibition is free, so you can save some money to spend later on dinner. And by dinner I mean alcohol. And if they're teetotal, it wasn't meant to be.

Each arrangement of postcards is very carefully catalogued. I spent quite a bit of time trying to decode the symbols displayed under each title. I've missed my calling as a librarian. There are two rooms in the exhibition - one contains vertical layouts, the other horizontal. The number of arrangements needed for each exhibition is apparently calculated meticulously by Gilbert and George based on a scale model of the gallery, and the arrangements are neatly rolled out to fit. Their approach reminds me of Lászlo Moholy-Nagy and his Bauhaus constructivists, and those fantastic 2006 modernism exhibitions at Tate Modern and the V&A.

Listen - it's free, it's fun, it's filthy, there are flags, and I've somehow managed to finish writing this without once complaining about the lack of a proper gift shop. If that's not a recommendation, I need to go away and look up 'recommendation' again. It's open from 10-6 at White Cube Mason's Yard from Tuesday to Saturday until 19 February. Pop in for half an hour and come out smiling.

A guide to solving cryptic crosswords: part one

I'd only consider spending money on a newspaper for its puzzle page.  There, I said it: celebrity gossip, share prices and mawkish crime reports be damned.  Leaving aside numerical manifestations of Japanese masochism, the Telegraph and Guardian have decent quick crosswords, but the Times cryptic crossword (and Saturday's jumbo in particular) is my absolute favourite.  I can't think of a better way to spend a lazy Sunday morning, train journey or law lecture.  What can I say - I guess I've always craved Inspector Morse's approval.

I know cryptic crosswords can seem impenetrable at first, so I thought I'd explain how I go about solving them.  This isn't intended to be an exhaustive or technical guide because I couldn't possibly write one.  All the examples are taken from yesterday's Times cryptic jumbo.

The first step?  Start simple.  Draw in dividing lines to show where answers with more than one word are going to be split.  It's always good to get your pen warmed up.  And yes, I said pen - stay optimistic.

Let's turn to the clues.  Each clue will include a definition of the answer, as well as everything you need to deduce that answer, within the framework of a plausible sentence.  Every word in the clue is there for a reason.  The most important thing to remember is that the definition will either come at the start or the end of the clue.  So, for example, the answer to "Grand Chinese dynasty that leads a nation (5)" will probably either be a synonym of 'grand' or the name of a country.  In this case, the answer is TONGA. 

There are several different types of crossword clue - some are easier to solve than others.  I always start by looking for anagrams to get the ball rolling - preferably ones where the answer to the clue will be entirely composed of rearranged letters written in that clue.  Partial anagrams are a little harder to solve, but we'll get to that later.  Identifying anagrams isn't difficult - just look for a signpost in the clue. In our crossword, words like 'reorganisation', 'brought about' and even 'crackers' were all included in clues to indicate that the answers would be anagrams.  Once you know you're looking for an anagram, you should be able to work out both which words to rearrange (they're usually sitting next to the signpost), and what the answer should mean, from the rest of the clue.  Remember, every word is there for a reason.  Here's an example: "Properly treated, lilac root's something giving a regular output (10)". 'Properly treated' is the signpost.  The answer will be an anagram of the letters from 'lilac root's', and will mean 'something giving a regular output'.  The answer is OSCILLATOR. 

One of the simplest (and therefore rarest) types is a 'hidden word' clue.  The answer is written out sequentially somewhere in the clue.  It could be backwards or forwards; it could be within one word or run across several.  Signpost words could be 'some', 'in', 'within', and perhaps also 'goes back', 'flipped' or 'overturned' if the answer's letters are reversed in the clue.  In our crossword, "Only some fortnightly returns? It's a start (5)" gives the answer INTRO.  A variation of this type of clue would see the answer's letters written alternately throughout the clue - keep an eye out for the signifying words 'odd' or 'even'. 

Still with me?  Perhaps this is a good time for a nice cup of tea and a sit down.  In part two, we'll fill in all the blanks by deconstructing some more complicated clues.  See you then.

Elephant Parade London

This is the story of how I spent my summer scrabbling around London's busiest tourist hot-spots trying to photograph hundreds of elephant sculptures.  Extensive photographic evidence can be found here. 

Elephant Family is a charity which campaigns to save the endangered Asian elephant - you can and should sign their petition.  In 2010 they teamed up with Elephant Parade and commissioned dozens of designers to decorate 258 sculptures.  The designers included Paul Smith, Terence Conran, Tommy Hilfiger, Lulu Guinness, Diane von Furstenburg and, for some reason, Graeme le Saux.  The sculptures were placed prominently all around London for two months this summer - some indoors, most out.  Businesses and rich do-gooders sponsored them, and they were auctioned off at the end by celebrity elephant wrangler Goldie Hawn (who, it transpires, has also acted in moving pictures).

For me, it all started on an extremely hot day in May.  I took my camera down to Holland Park to have a look at their pigs.  Real pigs, in this case, not painted sculptures.  To my surprise, I came across two brightly-coloured elephants lurking near the Tube station.  I'd read a little bit about the parade in Time Out, so I decided to see whether I could find any more elephants that evening.  Several Tube journeys and London landmarks later, I'd spotted 40.

I was hooked and I had a plan and I *certainly* had too much free time on my hands.  I wanted to find and photograph all the elephants.

When I got home, I must confess I was slightly disappointed to discover that (a) the organisers had produced a map showing the location of every elephant and (b) there had already been three other Elephant Parades.  Suddenly my quest seemed less challenging and the event less unique.  So I carried on anyway.

After a few weeks of searching, I'd seen about 200 elephants dotted around central London.  Ticking off the others proved far more difficult.  I found myself calling private members' clubs to book elephant viewing appointments, inveigling my way past auction house security guards by pleading for a peek at their pachyderms and scouring the internet for sightings of 'Cloudia', the restless Elephant Parade mascot who moved every day.  A few elephants had been moved (or perhaps migrated of their own accord) from their mapped locations.  Some were several miles outside central London.  Whole weekends disappeared.

Having finally tracked down 257 elephants, I discovered that 'Gerald' (Elephant #135) had been withdrawn to the safety of Elephant Parade HQ to prevent him from causing blindness or being burned at the stake by a prudish pitchfork-wielding mob.  Gerald had originally been positioned in a discreet side window at Selfridges.  He was painted pale blue and adorned with rather tasteful autumnal leaves falling down his flanks.  On much closer inspection, the leaves were actually leaf-shaped snippets of pornographic images.  Several idiots complained, and Selfridges gave Gerald his marching orders.

In the end, my camera saved me.  I'd posted a link to my photos on the wall of the Elephant Parade Facebook group, and the organisers emailed me asking to use one of my photos in their auction catalogue.  I was pretty taken aback, as the one they'd asked to use was absolutely dire.  Nevertheless, one thing led to another and I was invited to visit Gerald at their offices.  But there was still time for one final twist in Gerald's tail.  Trendy Z-list hangout Chinawhite, of all places, suddenly decided that they wanted to jump aboard the elephant-hosting bandwagon and Gerald was moved there.  I popped along one rainy Monday morning, and finally conquered my white whale - or pale blue leaf-vagina'd elephant, if you prefer - in that insalubrious hellhole.

The event raised over £4,000,000 and more than 15,000 people have signed the petition.  This elephant alone sold for an incredible £160,000.  Two more Elephant Parades have already been held in Essen and Bergen, and four more are planned this year - in Copenhagen, Heerlen, Milan and Singapore.

Elephants: coming soon to a town near you!  Catch them while you can, and donate whatever you can afford.  They're awesome.

Q: When is a typhoon not a typhoon? A: When it's a typhoon

It's time for the feature you've dreamed about.  Etymology Corner!  No, not the one about insects: the other one.  Are you excited?  The merchandise isn't printed yet, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.  Anyway, this as much for my benefit as yours, so pipe down.

Question: where does the word 'typhoon' come from?

If you said Chinese (hopefully not aloud, you crazy old sausage) - you're right!  Sort of. Then again, if you said Urdu, Persian, Arabic or Greek, you're also right.  And wrong.  All at once.

According to the OED, typhoon is effectively two separate words with two separate roots to describe similar weather phenomena in two different places.  A typhoon is "a violent storm or tempest occurring in India" (from Urdu).  A typhoon, on the other hand, is "a violent cyclonic storm or hurricane occurring in the China seas and adjacent regions" (from Cantonese).  The pronunciation of the word has probably been steered by Greek.

In other words, one man's typhoon is another man's typhoon.  You say typhoon, I say typhoon.  Let's call the whole thing off.

Double fault: the invention of Sphairistike

If there's one thing the Victorians were good at, it's stealing land from people armed with fruit and pointy sticks.

If there's a second thing, it has to be inventing and naming games.  Step forward Major Walter Wingfield, three-time winner of most Victorianly-named Victorian of the year.  For the purposes of this painstakingly accurate reconstruction, the part of interlocutor will be played by The Right Honourable Jolyon Tufton-Bufton Esq, pipe smoker-in-residence for the county of Salop.

J:  Awesome game of real tennis, dude!  Shame we had to play indoors though. It's such a nice day.

W:  Whoa there! Incoming brainwave.  Why don't we play outside on my lawn?

J:  Lawn? Isn't that a bit passé?  Why don't we try playing on this composite acrylic blend over here?

W:  Yeah, I thought of that.  But it hasn't been invented yet.

J:  Bummer.

W:  This game might really take off, you know that?  Could be a smash hit, net us both a bob or two.  We'd better come up with a catchy name.

J:  Tough one, Wingman.  It's played on a LAWN… it's a bit like real TENNIS…

W:  I've got it!  Sphairistike!

J:  What the fuck?

W:  It's from the Greek, sphairistike techne.  Means "the art of playing with balls".  I thought we'd better drop the techne bit to make sure it's really easy to pronounce.  Keep it simple for the idiots.

J:  Seriously?  I assumed you were joking, or having a stroke.  Don't you think it sounds a bit gay?

W:  What d'you expect?  I'm in the army!  Anyway, we won't have any problems registering a patent for it.

J:  Oh, good point.  It still sounds a bit hard to pronounce though.

W:  Maybe people could call it "sticky" for short?

J:  Problem solved!

W:  I guess we'd better make the court wider at the baseline than it is at the net.  You know how Queen Victoria hates rectangles.

J:  That must be why the earth is round. 


So there you have it. Walter's patent for Sphairistike (pronounced sfee-RIS-ti-ki) was successfully registered, and the name "sticky" stuck for a good few years before lawn tennis suddenly seemed like a better idea. Spare a thought for him next time you head down to your local sticky court, sticky balls in hand.

Will the Home Internationals never die?

26 years ago, the football associations of England, Wales, Northern Ireland and Scotland got together and did something unique throughout their respective histories. They made a sensible, laudable decision - albeit, sadly, a revocable one. They scrapped the annual four-team travelling riot that saw second-string international players jog around drunkenly once the football season had finished. They killed the Home Internationals. No-one mourned. Now "the fans" (translation: the tabloid press and Vauxhall, England's new team sponsor) seem to want them resurrected. Just like Buffy.

The stadia might be full - particularly important in Wembley's case, since the FA will be paying for its construction until the next ice age (give or take). England losing a match would briefly make the news. The Six Nations is a fantastic tournament. That's all the upside I can think of.

The Six Nations is one of my favourite sporting events, partly because of the spirit in which the games are played and watched. Rugby fans can be trusted with tribalism. Football fans can't. Just this week, Northern Irish fans have been busy posting bullets to Northern Irish Catholics playing for Celtic. Neil Lennon gets more death threats than Obama. West Ham, Cardiff and Birmingham have played host to serious crowd trouble lately. You can only blame extreme right-wing infiltrators so many times: at some point, you have to accept that British and Irish men behave very stupidly in big inebriated groups. And not just in karaoke bars.

The current proposal is for a one-off six game tournament to take place in summer 2013 to commemorate the FA's 150th anniversary. Why they can't just buy themselves a big cake, I honestly don't know. That's what I'll be doing on my 150th anniversary (don't fail me now, Aubrey de Grey). 173% marzipan, baby. Anyway. If it only happens once, fine. But this will only exacerbate the pressure to restore it as a permanent fixture (or six). And God help us all if they decide to include the Republic of Ireland in an attempt to replace the nascent Carling Nations Cup - remember England's 1995 "friendly" at Lansdowne Road?

The Home Internationals are famous for one thing. Shitfaced Scottish morons ripping up turf and breaking a piece of wood. No-one remembers any of the matches.

Playing other poor teams won't help anyone improve. Top players won't turn up; those that play will get injured. Summer is for other sports. Note to football: give us a break.

2010's best album: The Suburbs by Arcade Fire

2009 produced (or perhaps executive produced, since it didn't contribute anything) a swathe of brilliant albums. In my opinion, 2010 was a little less fruitful - a half-eaten banana of a year, by comparison. So when I sat down and thought about which album I liked best, The Suburbs stood head and shoulders and knees above the others.

The formula that makes Arcade Fire such a successful band is very difficult to pin down - though this review was definitely one of the original ingredients. I completely understand why many people can't see what the fuss is about. On paper, there are plenty of obvious weaknesses - Win's voice, Régine's voice, the lyrics so accurately castigated as being intermittently "Reznoresque", the pervasive impression that they can't help but take themselves far too seriously. But shove all those things in a Magimix and let Owen Pallett press the buttons and suddenly the vocals are fragile and articulate, the lyrics seem deliberately vague. And all that pretention? If you hit all your targets, you can aim as high as you like. See also: space archery.

I don't like Neon Bible. I listened, I listened again, I saw them live, I tried desperately to justify it and then I gave up. They'd put down the nutcrackers and picked up a sledgehammer. I was worried.

The Suburbs is much easier to get to grips with. Sprawl II sounds like Heart Of Glass - five words which could never be a criticism - without ever threatening to subside into pastiche. We Used To Wait is a heartfelt plea for a return to space and simplicity - they get it now. Rococo offers a fleeting glimpse of an elusive sense of humour. The album is down-to-earth, mature: almost sparse. It trusts you to draw your own conclusions rather than filling every blank with a book of intellectualised conspiracy theories that you really should have read, man, if only for the wheatgerm smoothie shot and tinfoil hat that came free with it in Barnes & Noble. Did I mention that I don't like Neon Bible?

Downloading the songs or looking them up on Spotify would be a betrayal. Stop. Wait. Hold the album in your hands, in a record store. Take good care of it. Then buy another copy for someone else.

I love karaoke, but Glee leaves me cold

Worst choice of name since the BBC overlooked 'Dicks' and stuck with 'Men Behaving Badly'? Quite possibly. You see, glee is one of the few reactions that this programme does not provoke in me. Nausea by saccharine overdose, yes. Occasional rage, certainly. The odd reflex laugh at an incongruously witty one-liner. But not glee. Never glee.

I'll admit it, I'm confused. Why are all those talented, beautiful people bonding over their supposed adversity? Did anyone involved in making the programme go to school? I did. It wasn't like that. Nor, by all accounts, are American schools. It doesn't promote a realistic, positive message. I can only imagine it reinforcing feelings of isolation.

The miming is superb. The song choices make excellent commercial sense. Sue Sylvester is almost a fully-formed character (which is presumably why she stands out to the point where no-one ever mentions the others). I'm sure the choreography is just as good as you'd find in any other pop video. But that's just it. Glee is a marketing tool. It should come with the word 'ADVERTORIAL' stamped in huge letters across the screen. Everything else is peripheral fluff.

Karaoke is one of my favourite things to do. I'd (relatively) happily sing many of Glee's chosen songs at karaoke (once drunk). But I wouldn't sell tapes of it afterwards - no matter how popular they might be - or, for that matter, record myself in advance, autotune my voice and sync it with an online backing track so I could mime and dub myself. Wait, what was my point? Oh yes. Karaoke should be for post-pub entertainment, in small rooms, with friends, beer and tambourines. Karaoke should not be for number one singles and nationwide tours, no matter what Simon Cowell might say.

At least Minipops was less insidious.

In praise of tungsten: five reasons why I love darts unashamedly

1. The maths

Mental arithmetic has become progressively less useful since that douchebag invented the calculator. But you still need it for darts. Carol Vorderman (or, for argument's sake, someone with a better-than-third-class Maths degree) couldn't add up after a few spritzers, but we expect carpenters and plumbers to do it on stage, on-air, in a TV lighting sauna. The untapped possibilities of using darts as a teaching aid for primary school boozehounds are endless, and should probably stay that way. But darts is gladiatorial chessboxing for casual alcoholics. Test yourself here.

2. The nicknames

Steve "The Bronzed Adonis" Beaton. John "Darth Maple" Part. Anastasia "From Russia With Love" Dobromyslova. Brian "Pecker" Woods. Les "McDanger" Wallace. And my personal favourite, Mervyn "The King" King. Nicknames are obligatory, in the pub or at the Lakeside. Flights, shafts and shirts must be embossed with said nicknames to create the tackiest possible brand. Anything goes. Peter "Snakebite" Wright, and his dangerously bored hairdresser wife, have tested this hypothesis to its absolute limit.

Nicknames also inspire some positively hallucinatory grand entrances. Take a bow, Scott "Scotty Dog" Mitchell. And then take a second one on behalf of your invisible dog.

3. The drama

Stick with me on this one. The five-leg sets and alternating opportunity to throw first create tension in almost every match. Every throw matters. Watching the best players in the world push each other to score yet another 180 is just as much fun as watching above-average pub players shake while missing double after double (I'm looking at you, BDO World Championship). Cutaway crowd shots of trailer-trash wives called Sharona agonising over every arrow always make for great TV.

4. The pub

Find a pub with a dartboard and play 301 for an hour with a performance-inhibiting beverage or two, then pop home and watch a televised match. Darts is very easy and cheap for anyone to walk up and play, but almost impossible to play well. It's also one of the few professional games (or sports, but let's not get into that) where alcohol consumption is positively encouraged. Oh, and you can keep your glasses on, but that has very little to do with my heading.

5. The Sid Waddell

Praising Sid is, in the words of the great man himself, like taking a sausage from a boy in a wheelchair. Or candy from a baby, back on planet Earth. Sid is a flawed genius. His diction is deteriorating, but his gift for developing a sporting lexicon on the hoof is indefatigable. He has a Cambridge degree, but produced the infamous Indoor League for ITV. It's a toss-up as to whether Sid or Phil Taylor is the PDC's greatest asset. Fat drunk men throwing pointy things at cork just wouldn't be the same without him.

My favourite songs of 2010

I like making lists.  Music is just convenient grist to that particularly time-consuming millstone.  It helps that I spend far too much money buying it.

The below list of my favourite songs of 2010 is perhaps a little more controversial than usual.  It includes several things it shouldn't - a song released three days too early, disproportionate overrepresentation of French electro, a song that only qualifies by reissue, and GRIME, for almost-literal crying out loud.  It isn't in order of preference.  Hell, it doesn't even stop at a nice round number of tracks.  And now this post includes an Oxford comma (which I rather hope you would give a fuck about), and a series of pre-emptive disclaimers.

• Free Energy - Free Energy
• Jamaica - Short And Entertaining
• The Thermals - I Don't Believe You
• The Soft Pack - Answer To Yourself
• The Black Keys - Howlin' For You
• Crocodiles - Hollow Hollow Eyes
• Surfer Blood - Swim
• Marina & The Diamonds - Shampain
• Goldfrapp - Rocket
• Cee Lo Green - Fuck You
• Tinie Tempah - Pass Out
• Wiley & Chew Fu - Take That (edit)
• Hadouken! - Turn The Lights Out
• Good Shoes - Under Control
• The Futureheads - Struck Dumb
• Dinosaur Pile-Up - Traynor
• Sleigh Bells - A/B Machines (demo)
• LCD Soundsystem - Pow Pow
• Silver Columns - Brow Beaten
• Two Door Cinema Club - Something Good Can Work (Twelves remix)
• Caribou - Odessa
• Wild Nothing - Chinatown
• The Drums - Best Friend
• Allo Darlin' - The Polaroid Song
• The School - Let It Slip
• The Kissaway Trail - SDP
• Best Coast - Boyfriend
• Field Music - Measure
• First Aid Kit - Hard Believer
• Laura Veirs - I Can See Your Tracks
• Peggy Sue - February Snow
• Arcade Fire - We Used To Wait
• Vampire Weekend - Giving Up The Gun
• Fool's Gold - Surprise Hotel
• Fang Island - Careful Crossers
• Japandroids - Younger Us

If you have a spare two hours to soundtrack, and can tolerate the Spotify-induced omission of a certain Arcade Fire track, click here and let me know what you think.

To compensate for said omission, here's a reminder of that wonderful We Used To Wait video starring your childhood home.  Win Butler lives there now.  He wants to know why you didn't tell him about the woodworm in the bedroom beams.

Whimsical introduction

Greeting.  Explanation as to why I would suddenly assume that people care what I think about anything.  Inexplicably detailed bio.  Long list of dubious reasons to keep reading.  Link to kitten video.  Tempting trailer for post number two.  Outro