Snob

Hace dos meses escasos salió a la venta la nueva biografía de John Lydon, “Anger is an Energy: My Life Uncensored”. La primera biografía “No Irish, no Blacks, no Dogs”, publicada en 1993, aunque traducida para el público castellanoparlante en 2008, ya nos dejó gratamente impresionados, pues es conocido por toda persona de bien, el aprecio que le tenemos al bueno de Lydon, y su controvertido personaje, odiado por la mayoría, debido a sus extravagantes apariciones y su rol de antihéroe nacional. En su horrenda web podéis leer su escueto, pero clarividente, análisis de aquel libro. Resumiéndolo un poco, todo viene a ser contradicción, individualismo, super-ego y algo de música, para amenizar. En su día disfrutamos de la verborrea cínica y malsana de Lydon, y de su nada autocomplaciente versión de la historia, pero se nos hizo corto. Excesivamente corto. La historia no estaba completa, y había algo que se nos escapaba. ¿Lo encontraremos en este nuevo libro o sólo será otra sucia treta de Johnny para seguir acumulando tesoro e invirtiéndolo en mantequilla? Por lo que tenemos entendido se habla, con unas cuantas licencias ortografico-lingüisticas que ha adoptado Lydon, de las Pussy Riot, del finado McLaren y de sus pintorescas apariciones televisivas, entre otras cosas. En cualquier caso, nosotros no tenemos aún a Lydon a nuestro alcance, y no podemos preguntarle por sus motivos para publicar este nuevo tocho, de unas 500 páginas, así que os dejamos una simpática entrevista que le hicieron en Finlandia, en 1987, con motivo de una visita de P.I.L. Como ser Punk nos deja mucho tiempo libre, nos hemos molestado en transcribirla (a grosso modo, ejem..), para que extraigáis la esencia del personaje a través de sus respuestas elocuentes y sus miradas perturbadoras. No sabemos muy bien que significa esto último, pero dadle una vuelta. Y para que practiquéis vuestro inglés.

 

 

- ¡Bienvenido a Finlandia, John! ¿Comó te sientes al estar aqui, por fín?
– ¿Por fïn?
– Si, supuestamente, la última vez que ibas a tocar aqui, no te lo permitieron..
– ¡Oh, Dios mío, eso fue años atrás! Bueno, no sé.. Este es un sitio como cualquier otro. Es horrible y llueve continuamente. Podría ser Inglaterra..
– Y ahora doce años después de los Sex Pistols…
– ¿¡Doce años!? Dios, que viejo soy..
– Si, bueno… ¿Cual dirias que son las diferencias principales entre las dos bandas, Pistols y P.I.L?
– P.I.L. somos mejores..
– ¿Algo más?
– Si, como el buen vino, he mejorado con la edad..
– ¿Ha habido algo tan revolucionario como el movimiento Punk..?
– ¡No fue un movimiento!! Solo fueron los Sex Pistols, todos los demás no cuentan.
– Da igual, no ha habido algo tan revolucionario como el Punk en los años ochenta.. ¿Crees que algo tan inesperado…?
– Si, ha habido algo tan revolucionario como los Sex Pistols… ¡Mi contínua presencia! Y nunca debes olvidar esto. Yo soy tan relevante ahora como lo era entonces. Incluso más ahora. Tu me necesitas. Yo a ti no…
– ¿Cómo te ha afectado o cambiado esos años locos del Punk?
– Como puedes ver, me he suavizado..
– ¿A qué te dedicarías si no fueses una estrella del Rock? Por ejemplo, si…
– Uhh!! Manten la distancia, nena..
– Por ejemplo, tienes interés en..(ininteligible)
– No, no tengo ningún interés en ese campo. No podría importarme menos.. Solo me interesa lo que hago, y lo hago bastante bien. Gracias. Lo sé..
– ¿Cómo estan las cosas entre tu y Malcolm McLaren?
– No hay nada entre nosotros. Ni lo ha habido, ni lo habrá.
– Tu has visto las desventajas del negocio musical de una manera clara ¿Aún confías en la gente?
– No entiendo la pregunta.. ¿Puedes repetírmela?
– Tu has visto las desventajas del negocio de la música, ¿Crees que puedes contar con alguien?
– Ah, entiendo.. ¡las desventajas! Olvidaste las ventajas, querida.. Cambia el contexto… Si, este negocio apesta. Esta lleno de mentirosos, timadores y fraudes, esta claro..
– ¿Eres tu uno de ellos?
– No, no lo soy, por eso no me toleran. No me molesto en decir mentiras. La verdad es mucho más dura, pero mucho más valiosa…
– Da la impresión que no respetas nada, ¿Es cierto?
– No es mi imagen… ¿Quién dice eso?
– Yo.
– Tu eres una mentirosa..
– ¿Cómo te describirías a ti mismo a alguien que no te conozca?
– Guapo, joven, viril…
– ¿Cual ha sido el mejor momento de tu vida?
– Llegar a Finlandia.. Si, eso precisamente. Era algo que he estado esperando toda esta década..
– Seguro que no lo olvidarás.. ¿Y cual ha sido el peor momento de tu vida?
– Llegar a Finlandia..
– Si, eso esperaba.
– Oh, Dios, me he vuelto predecible.. ¿Me permiten fumar mientras terminamos el video?
– Si, por supuesto.
– ¿Alguien me da un cigarro? Se me esta corriendo el maquillaje..
– ¿En que dirección crees que evolucionará el Rock?
– No me importa en absoluto lo que otras bandas hacen. Lo único importante para mi es lo que nuestra banda hace. Los demás se pueden ir al infierno..
– ¿Te unirías a The Pretenders si te lo pidieran?
– ¡Por supuesto que no! No seas ridícula..
– ¿Que pregunta te gustaría hacerme a mi?
– ¿Por qué molestarse?
– Una pregunta más.. ¿Qué opinas de Deep Purple?
– Nada. Mi mente se queda en blanco.. ¿Por qué?¿Ellos son grandes aqui?
– ¡Si!
– ¡Oh, que patético! Pensé que los habiamos enterrado años atrás.. Bueno, los malos habitos son duros de eliminar.
– De acuerdo, gracias.
– De nada..

.

 

 

 

 

fire down below originally appeared on MyConfinedSpace NSFW on December 5, 2014.

O 14 de dezembro às 11 h a Comissom de Cultura da Gentalha organiza umha visita à exposiçom “Barriga Verde, de Feira en Feira”, no Muséu do Povo Galego, guiada por umha ativista da AC Morreu o Demo. A iniciativa quere achegar-nos o mundo das feiras populares e dar a conhecer o mítico títere Barriga Verde. Na mostra, poderám ver-se, pola vez primeira, os bonecos originais deste espetáculo que percorreu Galiza durante meio século e que deixou umha pegada enorme na memória de crianças e maiores. Reserva a tua vaga em cultura@gentalha.org. Esperamos-te!

El furor por este producto lácteo llega a Galicia con locales especializados. Te lo cuenta YES, revista gallega de gente, creatividad y tendencias

Se publicó a finales de octubre y se ha convertido en el libro de no ficción más vendido de la temporada navideña. Hablamos de Disputar la democracia (Akal, 2014), ensayo donde Pablo Iglesias, secretario general de Podemos, explica su ideario político. Pese a que en los últimos meses todo lo que rodea a Podemos ha cobrado forma de gigantesco hype político y cultural, Iglesias publicó su libro en su editorial de toda la vida, la independiente e izquierdista Akal, que en 2013 había editado su ensayo Maquiavelo frente a la gran pantalla. 

Y eso que novias no le han faltado: según ha podido saber El Confidencial, Iglesias asegura haber rechazado una oferta del un sello del Grupo Planeta por Disputar la democracia. Puede que Podemos haya virado ideológicamente en las últimas semanas para ocupar el centro del tablero político, pero en cuestiones editoriales Iglesias permanece fiel a sus principios. Para colmo, su portazo a Planeta se produce en el siguiente contexto editorial: hay tortas por publicar libros sobre el fenómeno Podemos. 

Avalancha de títulos

Akal ha golpeado por partida doble en las últimas semanas con la edición de Disputar la democracia y Ganar o morir. Lecciones políticas en Juego de tronos, libro coordinado por Iglesias en el que Monedero, Errejón y otros nombres vinculados al partido analizan la popular serie de HBO.

Los Libros del Lince, por su parte, publicó hace unas semanas Claro que podemos, una historia del partido escrita por Ana Domínguez y Luis Giménez que agotó su primera edición en poco más de una semana.

El boom editorial empezó incluso antes de la formación del partido. Seix Barral, del grupo Planeta, editó hace un año Curso urgente de política para gente decente, ensayo de Juan Carlos Monedero que ya ha despachado once ediciones.

Pocas semanas después de las elecciones europeas de mayo, llegaron a las librerías #Podemos. Deconstruyendo a Pablo Iglesias, coordinado por John Müller (Deusto, Grupo Planeta, 2014), y Conversaciones con Pablo Iglesias (Turpial), de Jacobo Rivero. Rivero será precisamente la gran apuesta del grupo editorial de José Manuel Lara para subirse a lo más alto de la ola editorial Podemos. El periodista, experto en movimientos sociales, publicará en primavera un ensayo sobre el partido de Iglesias bajo el sello de Planeta. En efecto, parece que también ha llegado la hora del cambio generacional para el periodismo político en España. 

Los fracasos políticos de Planeta

Si este artículo sobre el boom editorial de Podemos fuera una película, podría llamarse Cuando los dinosaurios dominaban la tierra. Y es que, el actual declive político del bipartidismo y el régimen del 78 no empezó en las elecciones europeas, sino meses antes y en las librerías españolas.

La editorial Planeta apostó muy fuerte por las memorias de José Bono, José María Aznar, Alfonso Guerra y ZP, pero todas ellas se pegaron el tortazo comercial en 2012 y 2013. En efecto, la confusión entre lo que eran nuestros dinosaurios políticos en los buenos tiempos y lo que son ahora ha generado un negocio editorial ruinoso.

Un buen dato para evaluar la expectativa y el impacto cultural que genera un libro son sus ventas la primera semana: José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero: 2.000 ejemplares (El dilema, Planeta), José María Aznar: 1.480 (El compromiso del poder, Planeta), Felipe González: 700 (En busca de respuestas, Debate, del grupo RHM) y Pedro Solbes: 500 (Recuerdos, Planeta), según datos de Nielsen publicados por El Mundo.

En su primer año en las librerías, las ventas totales de las memorias tampoco fueron precisamente para lanzar cohetes. Según Nielsen, Aznar se habría quedado en 28.166 ejemplares, José Bono (Les voy a contar, Planeta) en 28.543 y Alfonso Guerra (Una página difícil de arrancar, Planeta) en 17.603. 

Pero el problema no es tanto de ventas como de presupuestos. A nivel económico, las memorias de los prohombres de nuestra democracia sólo han servido para llenarles a ellos los bolsillos... y hacer un agujero colosal en las cuentas de la editorial Planeta. Se dice que Aznar habría cobrado más de un millón de euros por sus tres primeros libros de memorias, aunque no hay confirmación oficial de estas cifras.

Lo del socialista José Bono merece ser tratado aparte: quizás estemos ante el negocio editorial más disparatado de los últimos tiempos. Las editoriales no son amigas de difundir sus acuerdos económicos con sus autores, pero la vanidad es a veces más fuerte que la prudencia: en una entrevista en Vanity Fair, Bono contó a toda España que Planeta le iba a pagar 800.000 euros por sus diarios, que se publicarían en partes. "El contrato habla de algo más de 800.000 euros. Yo no pedí a Planeta ninguna cantidad. José Manuel Lara leyó tres o cuatro días al azar y puso el precio. Y yo, encantado". Nos ha jodido.

Menos encantador resulta ver como Planeta ha tirado ese dinero a la basura (al margen de los intereses político-empresariales que haya detrás de estos contratos): la editorial tendría que haber vendido cientos de miles de ejemplares del ensayo de Bono para empezar a recuperar lo invertido, pero vendió decenas de miles. Cálculos que no podríamos estar haciendo ahora si Bono no se hubiera ido de la lengua... Pensar que Bono puede revertir la situación con los siguientes volúmenes de sus diarios suena poco realista, dado que la popularidad de estos veteranos hombres de Estado no atraviesa su mejor momento. 

Lo que el público parece reclamar ahora son relatos sobre cómo se extinguieron los dinosaurios que gestionaron la Transición y quién los va a sustituir. Que al establishment español le guste o no la música de Podemos es indiferente para según qué cosas: el hecho es que Iglesias y compañía tienen tirón político y comercial, y lo que quizás sea más importante en lo que respecta al mundo del ensayo político: sus cachés son mucho más bajos que los de nuestros dinosaurios políticos.

El fenómeno de la comercialización en masa de camisetas con portadas de discos de artistas como The Clash o los logotipos y emblemas de Ramones, Blondie o Motorhead, tuvo su origen en 1972.

One of the creepiest things someone can do on social media, after supporting #gamergate and/or leaving gross, thirsty comments on innocuous photos, is liking pictures too long after they’ve been posted. Nothing will make someone think some dude is a weird stalker than a notification that he just liked their #wiwt from March 2012.

A new web app, Likecreeper, makes being this sort of creep hilarious and fun. The app allows users to “randomly hit like on a friend’s horrifyingly old Instagram,” according to its Product Hunt description. Go to Likecreeper.com and allow it to access your Instagram, and the app will like a random picture from a random person you follow. After that, you sit back and “wait for your friend to be all like WTF?!?!?!”

Likecreeper is the product of collaboration between Chris Baker, Mike Lacher, Brian Moore, and Tiger Wang, advertising professionals who are also individually and collectively responsible for projects like Cloak, the anti-social network; Tom Haverfoods, the hilarious Parks & Rec food-name generator; and the most popular McSweeney’s post of all time. These guys prove that it takes a lot of creative firepower to come up with something so silly.

“We were just laughing one day about how bizarre it is when you get a like on a picture from way back in the day, and thought it would make a hilariously stupid single-serving site,” Baker told Death & Taxes. “So we made it.”

Likecreeper crawls as far back as it can in six-month increments. Ideally, it will like a photo from three or four years ago, but it goes as far back as it can, to be as creepy as it can possibly be. It’s remarkably well-designed for something so stupid, with a tasteful interface and jaunty animation from Wang, which makes it even funnier.

It’s also addicting. I’ve been sitting here creeping all day and giggling when I see what I’ve liked and imagining my friends’ faces when they get the notification. Being a creep has never been so gratifying.

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NELSON GAMIN

Hermosos recuerdos Nelson!!!

Soon after releasing Nelson in 2010, Paolo Conte hinted at retirement, as he feared he had run out of things to say in the course of his illustrious 40- year career. Four years later, however, the 77-year- old is back once again with his 15th studio album and a tour on the making. There is plenty about Snob that indicates that perhaps Conte was right about calling it quits. Reception in Italy has been evenly divided between those still in awe of his mythical status and those who accuse him of having become a parody of himself, a point driven home by the popular, wickedly funny, and spot-on Conte impersonation by jazz pianist and TV host Stefano Bollani. In truth, there is nothing essentially wrong with Snob, but Conte has done…

320 kbps | 125 MB  UL | MC ** FLAC

…everything on it before, and done it better, so it is understandable that many critics and fans have dared to voice their discontent louder than ever before. For the past 20 years, Conte’s albums, while always enjoyable, have been suffering from the law of diminishing returns in terms of originality; by the time of Snob, it is not so much that every song on it can be automatically connected to a previous Conte song, but that it can be linked to at least a dozen other Conte songs. If he has been able to tread for so long on style over substance, it’s due to two very simple factors. The first is that from the very beginning of his career, Conte has performed under the guise of an old man, always lost in reveries of a long-gone world, playing long-gone music, and singing in an old man’s voice. This turned out to be quite a nifty trick in the long run, as you really can’t age if you are already old to begin with. The second is that, as far as style is concerned, Conte borders on perfection; indeed, it just doesn’t come any more stylish than this. In this regard, Snob never disappoints, for it has all the markings of Conte’s grand style: the gruff voice, the staccato piano, the scat singing, the impeccable musicianship and arrangements, the bohemian life, the bourgeois ennui, and the imagining of exotic locales as an escape for said ennui, or as a venue for said bohemians to perform. What it’s sorely missing is more outstanding songs to make it memorable; instead, it is the sonic equivalent of another day at the office (or more likely, bar stool). Perversely, his talent and charisma remain so distinctive that even if Snob sounds stale to longtime fans, it could also be argued that it’s just about as good as anything he has done since the ’90s, and could thus be recommended as a suitable introduction to anyone unfamiliar with his legendary status.

" When the stories we tell about cooking say that it is only ever fun and rewarding—instead of copping to the fact that it can also be annoying, time consuming, and risky—we alienate the people who don't have the luxury of choice, and we unwittingly reinforce the impression that cooking is a specialty hobby instead of a basic life skill."

This article was included in Best Food Writing 2013 anthology (which is where I originally ran across it). (slSlate)

by Jesse David Fox

"You know my favorite. It's your favorite too," my Bubbe said to me with the same rascally grin she had when she first told me our favorite joke. Though, it was now missing a few teeth, from when she said "fuck it" with her dentures, around when she moved in with parents for hospice care. Still, teeth-be-damned, she couldn't withhold that smirk. See: it's a dirty joke; it's a dark joke; it's a joke that over time has drifted onto the wrong side of political correctness; it's the greatest joke ever.

She first heard "the one about the dead nun" on one of the regional, elderly bus tours she took before the cancer. Recalling the joke's origin this past summer, she explained that she always sat in the back – the "X-Rated section" – so she and her friends could tell stories and jokes and generally act like sailors on leave (if sailors were old Jewish ladies). "It was too good," she told me. Adding, "It had me rolling." Still she couldn't remember what play they were going to see. "I couldn't pay attention. I was only thinking about the joke." This made sense to me. It would to you too, if you’d heard it.

Over ten years have passed since I first heard the joke, but I can still remember her voice. It started in a whisper, a thing Bubbe always had trouble with. There were kids around, so her normal Flatbush Avenue-boom wouldn't do. Kids weren’t allowed to hear this joke, but I was. I was old enough. I was old enough to hear the greatest joke ever.

We were waiting for our food at a local Italian restaurant and it was unnaturally sunny. The restaurant was engulfed in a clean white light — appropriate considering the joke is set in heaven. To this day, when I say the punchline, I squint, conditioned from my first time hearing it.

When she finished the joke, she laughed. I laughed too, but her's – always undeniable and a bit performative – swallowed it up like a science fictional blob rolling down a metropolitan hill, consuming all in its path. The restaurant and the world went silent to give the vibrations of our laugh the room it needed.

* * *

My last weekend with her, she sat silently on a cushioned chair two feet to the right of me while I watched TV. She dozed in and out – not tired, but exhausted. Still, when the phone rang for her, she'd answer with her signature shout, "HellOOOOOOOOOO." I listened in, not for facts or information, but just the sound – the timber, rhythm, tonal fluxuations – of a person who loved to talk. Chipper, but saddled with a mind fighting a losing battle, facts got blurry. Time condensed. One story she told me involved my uncle, who is 20 years my senior, and me together as kids. It made sense. In her way, Bubbe was an existentialist. She lived in moments. She lived in conversations. She lived in jokes.

She was 79, but that's only in years. In jokes told or ceramic giraffes collected or completely insane rings worn or peak hair height or the instant, effusive, unconditional loving of a shy grandchild: Bubbe destroyed Methuselah's record for oldest Jew.

Traveling by myself a couple months ago, I was in a very foreign airport, awaiting boarding, when I received a text from my mom: "Bubbe passed away at 5:17 PM. No pain, very comfortable, fast, just the way she wanted. She adored you!" Tears came so instantly, so forcefully, they felt like a sneeze. Surrounded by people, but incapable of communicating, I needed to be alone, so I fled to the nearby "Prayer Room." Waiting for a Muslim man to finish bowing towards Mecca, I took out the gaudy, two-knuckle-wide ring she gave me, which all trip I'd been keeping in my shirt pocket (over my heart) to keep me company. Bubbe wasn’t a spiritual person, so I looked for another way to honor the room's name. Staring at the ring's white and silver beads, I thought for a second, squinted at the joke's punchline and laughed like I always did. The jokes, the rings, the memories were the same as they were a day, a month, a year ago; they didn't disappear when the light was turned off.

My dad once said he never knew a boy who dreamed of growing up to be his grandmother. I'm trying. I can't imagine ever being the life of the party, let alone throwing one, as she did, with belly dancers, sex toys, and porn (she broke fundraising records). But I can tell a joke.

And I'll tell you this one because you've made it this far and I hope you continue to pass it on. But I do have conditions if you're going to tell it: 1. You have to be prepared to love this joke as much as she did. 2. Tell it with your voice loud and eyes squinting (think: Gilbert Gottfried). 3. Last but not least, you better fucking sell it.

The joke: SO, a nun passes away and finds herself up in the clouds. There, she is greeted by an angel – halo, wings, the whole nine. "Welcome to heaven. We are so happy to have you here. Follow me." So she does. A few minutes pass and the nun hears in the distance the worst screams she's ever heard. Just terrible, awful screams of pain. "What is that?" the nun asks. "Oh, they are just drilling the holes for the wings," the angel smiles. That seemed reasonable enough, so they keep on walking. Another few minutes pass and then the nun hears even louder screams than before. Just horrible, blood-curdling screams. "What is that?" the nun asks. "Oh, they are just drilling the holes for the halo," the angel responds calmly. The nun nods and continues to follow the angel.

After a few more minutes, the two arrive at the Pearly Gates. Saint Peter greets the nun, "You lived such a good and wonderful life. Let me welcome you to heaven." The nun thinks and responds, "I think I'm going to pass." "What?" Saint Peter says shocked. "You know the alternative: Hell. You'll be raped. You'll be sodomized."

The nun pauses for a second. "At least I have the holes for that."

Photo by Ben Eekhof.

Jesse David Fox is a Senior Editor at Vulture.com.

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The world’s oldest two-faced cat, named “Frank and Louie,” has died at age 15.

Known as Janus cats, two-faced cats are a totally real phenomenon that YouTube has proved to be a real phenomenon despite every impulse in your body screaming out to call bullshit. While they have one body Janus cats have two relatively autonomous faces with two mouths and usually three eyes between them. Most of the time, as was the case for “Frank and Louie,” the shared third eye is sightless.

Frank and Louie lived his days in the exotic location of Worcester, Massachusetts. After entering the Guinness Book of Word Records as the longest-living two-faced cat in 2012, Frank and Louie stubbornly refused to die for another two years until this Thanksgiving weekend when his (their) owner was forced to put him (them) down.

Frank and Louie lived lived a normal happy life, the Independent notes, though “his central eye did not function, he had no bottom jaw on ‘Louie’s’ side and only ‘Frank’s’ side was capable of taking food.” But other than that he was totally normal.

The cat’s owner says his condition didn’t contribute to his death in the end, and that the cat was simply suffering from “really bad cancer.” In fact, he lived longer than most cats.

Apparently having two faces didn’t grant Frank and Louie 18 lives. Still,  talk about beating the odds. RIP, little buddies.

h/t: Independent

Diferencias sobre o control de varios mercadiños no centro da problemática. A Fiscalía intervén no conflito tras coñecer que máis de cen nenos non están indo á escola.

Cherry Wainer

Cherry Wainer nació el 2 de marzo de  1935 en East London, Eastern Cape, Sudáfrica y falleció el 15 de noviembre de 2014 en las Vegas, Nevada. Formó parte de la banda Lord Rockingham's XI y tuvo una carrera en solitario siendo una de las pocas mujeres solistas de Hammond. Cherry formó en los sesenta un dúo con el baterista Don Storer con el que se casó.  Los británicos la llamaban en la época “the Female Liberace”, por el apellido del conocido pianista y showman  americano. Tras morir su marido en los setenta, dejó la música profesionalmente  y cuando la BBC la recordó en 2013, trabajaba, completamente olvidada por todos, en una pequeña tienda de regalos.

Cherry Wainer

Su padre promovía giras de músicos mientras que su madre la llevó de Sudáfrica a Londres para potenciar su carrera como pianista de clásico. A los ocho años,  la prodigiosa Cherry ya había dado un concierto de piano con orquesta.  Hasta que un día oyó a Jimmy Smith y se enamoró del Hammond.  Nadie le enseñó, sino que tuvo que aplicar lo que sabía del piano al órgano.  Con cuatro escasas melodías, se fue abriendo camino y empezó a colaborar con el acordeonista Nico Carstens dando vida al primer disco sudafricano de rock and roll,  “Flying High”.  Wainor se hizo popular en los cincuenta en el programa de la televisión británica, Lunchbox de  Noele Gordon.  En 1958 sacó su primer single con el tema “Valencia” de José Padilla. Fue entonces cuando conoció al que sería su futuro marido y acompañante rítmico, el baterista Don Storer con el que grabó "Cherry Rock" en 1959.

Cherry, el Hammond y su caniche

En 1959 apareció en el programa musical “Oh, Boy!” (1958-1959), producido por Jack Good, una de las primeras series en las que sonó rock and roll de forma habitual. Tocaba en la banda residente del programa llamada Lord Rockingham's XI en la que estuvieron otros músicos de estudio como  el director y compositor, Harry Robinson ( n. 1937- d. 1996), el saxofonista Benny Green ( n. 1927 – d. 1998), más otros miembros itinerantes como el mencionado Don Storer (batería), Reg Weller (percusión), Red Price (saxo tenor), Rex Morris (saxo tenor), Cyril Reubens ( saxo baritono), Ronnie Black (contrabajo), Bernie Taylor (guitarra), Eric Ford (guitarra), Kenny Packwood (guitarra) y Ian Frazer (piano). También tuvieron cantantes como Marty Wilde y Cuddly Dudley.  Cherry tenía su órgano acolchado en blanco y solía tocar con su caniche estirado en la banqueta.

Cherry Wainer y Don Storer

Lord Rockingham's XI grabaron instrumentales de rock and roll para Decca Records, siendo el primero "Fried Onions" al que siguió "Hoots Mon", una version rockera del tema tradicional escocés  "A Hundred Pipers".  Tuvieron problemas legales con los descendientes del auténtico Lord Rockingham y tras algún que otro tema más como  "Wee Tom" en  1959, ese año acabaron por disolverse aunque en los sesenta se editó algún disco al nombre del grupo. Harry Roberston aka Robinson siguió en el mundo de la televisión y son conocidos sus arreglos de cuerda para canciones de Sandy Denny o para el “River Man" de Nick Drake incluida en su disco “Five Leaves Left”.

Wainer siguió actuando en los sesenta con  el baterista Don Storer y en 1967 apareció en el programa alemán “Beat,beat,beat”. Sacó varios Lp’s a su nombre como “Hammond Organ Light And Lively”,  y “Rhythmus Im Blut” (1964); o “It’s Hammond Time” (1965).  Al morir Storer en 1977, dejó el mundo del espectáculo y cuando la BBC la recordó en 2013, Cherry trabajaba en una pequeña tienda de regalos. Wainer fue una de las pocas solistas de Hammond entre otras grandes como las organistas  Shirley Scott (n. 1934 – d. 2002), Marjorie Meinhert (n. 1921 - d. 2009), Ethel Smith (n. 1902 - d. 1996) o más recientemente, Barbara Dennerlein (n. 1964).

Documento sonoro: 

"Hoots Mon", éxito de los Lord Rockingham's XI, versión en clave de rock and roll del tema tradicional escocés  "A Hundred Pipers".


Cherry Wainer en 1963 interpretando "Last Night".

Las diócesis gallegas creen que las tasas son necesarias para el mantenimiento de la Iglesia y recuerdan que nadie puede quedar sin sacramento por dinero

• El acierto de Francisco

El futuro académico (tanto primaria como secundaria) también podría estar relacionado con un rasgo en apariencia muy ajeno a él: el peso que se tiene a la hora de haber nacido. Al menos es lo que sugiere un estudio de la Universidad Northwestern publicado en la revista American Economic Review. De lo que se deduce, también, que una gestación larga (permanecer el mayor tiempo posible en el vientre de la madre) es mejor.

Para realizar el estudio se analizaron los datos de más de 1,3 millones de niños y casi 15.000 pares de gemelos desde su nacimiento hasta la secundaria.

Por ejemplo, los niños que pesaron 3 kg al nacer se situaban, de media, en el percentil 46 de la distribución de notas (de lectura y matemáticas) en primaria, comparado con el percentil 57 para los niños de 4.5 kg.

Estos resultados han sido detectados incluso entre gemelos: el que más pesa de los dos obtiene mejores calificaciones académicas, independientemente de la calidad del colegio, de su raza, nivel socioeconómico, la educación materna o las experiencias familiares.

Tal y como apunta David Figlio, coautor del estudio: “un niño que ha nacido sano no necesariamente tiene un cerebro completamente formado”. Sin embargo, también matiza: “el peso al nacer no sella el destino de un niño”.

Vía | The Upshot
Imagen | ninacoco

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La noticia ¿Mayor peso al nacer? Mejores notas en el colegio fue publicada originalmente en Xataka Ciencia por Sergio Parra .

Cuatro presentó el programa Adán y Eva como un formato revolucionario. Por primera vez en España un espacio televisivo contaba con concursantes completamente desnudos. Y sin píxeles.

Lo que podía desgastarse con el paso de las semanas por la pérdida del efecto novedad, ha mantenido sus competitivos datos de audiencia para Cuatro, superando incluso el 14 por ciento de cuota de pantalla. Adán y Eva es un éxito.

¿Por qué? Ha logrado un público fiel dispuesto a descubrir cada semana quién son los protagonistas que se despojaran de su ropa. No sólo eso, también esa audiencia se queda expectante para conocer el desparpajo ante la cámara de las cobayas y si encontrarán pareja o no en el islote ‘del amor’.

Los jóvenes, sobre todo aquellos con las hormonas a flor de piel, no se pierden cada martes el programa. Es una experiencia compartida a través de las redes sociales y grupos de Whatsapps. En el target adolescente y joven el programa es un filón con un perfil de espectadores expertos en estos personajes que no destacan por su cultura general, al contrario. Y, claro, también la audiencia puede quedar en evidencia por sus conocimientos.

Así ha pasado con una encuesta callejera que ha realizado @SrFortfast que, a través de la plataforma Youtube, ha consumado preguntas a los peatones en pleno centro de Madrid. El motivo: averiguar de qué saben más las nuevas generaciones ¿Encefalogramas o Adanes? El reto se solventó así:

Y ADEMÁS…

La televisión que busca la mofa… y el tuit

La televisión Ni-Ni, a análisis

Así está revolucionando Twitter los contenidos televisivos

Youtube: una poderosa vía de promoción e ingresos que la TV en España aún no aprovecha

¿Son así de verdad los concursantes del programa ‘Un príncipe para Corina’?

¿La audiencia de TV se puede medir con Twitter?

Saving money costs money. Period.

For a comic book nerd, Wednesday is the best day of the week. New issues are released on Wednesdays, allowing a reader to pick up where they left off, start new adventures, or gain the closure of a story that's come to its end.

In 2014, there have been some sterling stories that I adored.

Marvel killed Wolverine, gave Storm the spotlight she deserves, brought Peter Parker back from the dead, and introduced us to Ms. Marvel, a Pakistani-American, Muslim teenage girl named Kamala Khan. DC gave us the loopy, goopy comic that is Multiversity, gave a new beginning to Wonder Woman, and welcomed back the Secret Six . And the melodramatic space opera Saga, along with Red Sonja, Letter 44, Pretty Deadly, and Sex Criminals proved there's verdant life beyond the big two.

But for me, this year and its Wednesdays have belonged to The Wicked + The Divine, a jewel of a comic from writer Kieron Gillen, a deeply talented creator of charming, gritty characters and familiar yet intriguing comic book worlds. Artist Jamie McKelvie, Gillen's partner in crime for past comics like Phonogram and Young Avengers, gives Gillen's cutting prose beautiful life.

Along with the team at Image, they've produced my favorite comic of 2014.

Gods among us

(The Wicked + The Divine/Image Comics)

The Wicked + The Divine has a great idea at the core of its mythology: gods have an expiration date. In the world Gillen's built, gods like Minerva, Baal, and Lucifer live for two years, die, and come back 90 years later. The rules are simple, and they set the psychology of the book.

With two years to live, the gods do what anyone would — live like celebrities and rock stars. There's no point in bettering themselves, or putting the time into a goal (fuck college, right?) they'll never finish. So gods become celebrities with expiration dates.

The idea is a rough spin on one we're all too familiar with from the real world. It isn't all that far out to think that insidiously talented artists like Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain — all part of the so-called "27 Club" — were gods on some kind of macabre timer.

(The Wicked + The Divine/Image Comics)

The debate over the gods' worthiness is a canny commentary on celebrity culture and stardom. Gillen has explored this territory before before in his comic Phonogram, where magic masquerades as Britpop. He's just as sharp here.

It's hard not read the interaction between Lucifer (the androgynous woman in the white suit) and Amaterasu (above) and think of the wrath and adoration people like Kim Kardashian or Justin Bieber inspire — to say nothing of the endless arguments about their artistic worth.  It's also easy to see ourselves in the book's protagonist Laura, a young black woman with hints of William in Almost Famous, who would do anything for a taste of godlike power:

(The Wicked and The Divine)

You almost forget how progressive it is

"Wicked" and "divine" aren't necessarily polar opposites. Divine could mean saintly. But the word also means godly, marvelous, superhuman. And the gods we meet in Wicked tend to be more wicked with superpowers than they are a pantheon divided into good gods and bad gods.

And this collection of deities — the ones we've seen so far — are mostly women and people of color. Sekhmet, an Egyptian God, has the same skin color and cat eyes as Rihanna. Lucifer, the devil, is androgynous, looking like David Bowie during his White Duke phase. Baal is a black man with a boyfriend. The Morrigan, an Irish mythological figure, is three different women.

(The Wicked + The Divine/Image)

Seeing  people of color and women in positions of power is, unfortunately, still rare in fiction. It's even rarer to see non-white and female characters who are allowed to bring humanity to violence, anger, and selfishness, to get to play the wide range of emotions available to straight, white men.

That's what makes Gillen's saucy, salty world feel so special.

Gillen's characters stretch, fumble, push the limits, and carve out their own successes and failures in these roles. We see a (gay?) black man become a champion of the rules and the Prince of Darkness take shape as a blonde, genderqueer figure:

(The Wicked + The Divine/Image Comics)

But make no mistake — these characters don't have carte blanche. They're limited by public perception and rules they didn't write. They're punished for being too divine, too godly — perhaps a quiet reflection of concepts like glass ceilings and model minorities in the real world.

With all these gods, their superhero powers, and their rock concerts, it's easy to forget that there's a shrewd commentary on religion here too. Gillen isn't just adding elements like race and sexuality to these beings. He is also making a case that celebrities are just as influential as religion. How influential that is and what good it comes out of it are perhaps the book's greatest ambiguities.

It's a challenge, but there's no better time to start

(The Wicked + The Divine/Image Comics)

Though Wicked employs its own mythology, there are points where it all but asks you to read up on mythology (or at least Wikipedia entries). Morrigan's character can feel confusing if you aren't familiar with Irish mythology. And you may not realize how subversive McKelvie is being until you realize how a character like Baal has traditionally been portrayed.

But instead of feeling like homework, the outside reading makes Wicked richer, opening up a world of small Easter eggs and character asides that you might not have seen before.

But don't let the extracurricular reading scare you off. Wicked is actually a very young comic book, making it easy to pick up and start reading. If it were a television show, we'd be in the first season, right at the winter finale. There have only been five issues — all of which can be found in a collected edition called "The Faust Act."

The sixth issue comes out on December 17.

Come back every day of December for Vox's picks of some of our favorite pop culture of 2014.

What's the one joke you always tell when someone says "Tell me a joke." (SLReddit)

Having parents who go the extra mile to show their support can make a big difference. German Ad Doesn't Need Words To Speak Volumes About Supporting Your Kids (Huffington Post) and original ad on Youtube, Sag es mit deinem Projekt (Hornbach).

Each time one of my parent friends voices their weird kid/bad parent concerns to me, I trot out my own childhood, which was a complete circus. Literally.

At age 4, my brother (now an accomplished architect) once played "dog" for nearly six months. Rather than prohibit this behavior, my parents bought him a leash, which he wore everywhere.

—Weird Kids: is raising children unconventionally really bad parenting? (Aeriel Brown on Babble)

On a previous visit my kid was the one running around after a group of older boys and hissing at them. When I asked if he was trying to play with them he just replied, "I like to hiss."

—I am the parent of a weird kid, and I know I'm not alone (Sacha Davis on Offbeat Families)

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Illustrations by Dan Evans

Ending a long-term relationship is just like being born. It's painful, loud, and once it's over you're invariably left covered in weird mucus and screaming at a world you don't understand.

There's a lot of stuff on the internet about how to get over your ex—95 percent of it is patronizing bullshit, and the other 5 percent seems to be covert porn advertising. (I know, I've looked.) Both have their uses, but I've found zilch that speaks to the true horror of having half of your personality cleaved away from you.

As such, helpful breakup advice would be the kind of product that could make a person seriously rich. Unfortunately, I don't have any. I don't think anyone really has any, to be honest. And that is because it basically all boils down to sulking for a bit before getting bored of jerking off and going out to find your next future ex.

That said, guillotining a long-term relationship at a time in your life when you can glimpse full-blown adulthood while still standing in the gathering ashes of your youth does teach you a few things. So here are some arbitrary lessons I've learned since becoming newly single in my 20s. Please come on in and share my pain.

NO ONE GIVES A FUCK WHAT AN UTTER MESS YOU'VE BECOME ​
Are you both still alive? Not making any plans for that to change any time soon? Then, honestly, nobody cares. Sure, your friends will drown you in platitudinal emojis and your parents will start calling you more, but fundamentally, hearing about your romantic shithousery is as compelling to the average happy person as opening a gas bill. Someone else's gas bill.

And this is because by the time you're in your mid 20s, literally everyone—supermodels, dogs, eunuchs—has experienced heartbreak before. Nobody is going to want to spend a whole weekday night listening as you warble drunkenly about how your relationship was different from all the other relationships ever recorded in poetry and song.  And if someone does, it's probably because they're toying with the idea of fucking your ex.

THERE HASN'T BEEN A GOOD PHOTO OF YOU TAKEN IN HALF A DECADE ​
This is something you'll realize pretty quickly while setting up a Tinder account one hungover Sunday morning: A camera hasn't been pointed at your face and made you look in any way decent in so, so long. I personally am beginning to fear that it isn't even the camera's fault. I probably look nothing like what I think I do. Actually, I don't even know what I look like. What the fuck do I look like?

There is a reason for this photographic neglect. During my relationship I basically morphed from a fun-loving, urbane Mercutio type into a middle-aged white dude who talks about gardening and shit. My wardrobe is composed solely of slippers and turtlenecks. Sometimes I judge people on trains by the papers they're reading. I use the word "problematic" in casual conversation. I am so dull and so very, very alone.

THE MAJORITY OF PEOPLE DON'T REALLY WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU
​ A myth spread by those notorious CIA-funded lizard people in Hollywood is that, if it weren't for their pesky bloody better halves, men would be sleeping with a different dream woman every night. Bachelors in movies are always, always cooler and hipper and more sexed-up than the ball-and-chained.

But guess what: That's a suicide bomber's idea of paradise. If you still think women are basically just walking glory-holes after half a decade of being with one, you're probably a complete shithead who never deserved happiness in the first place.

YOU DON'T WANNA HAVE ANY FUCKING SEX ANYWAY ​
It's not that no one wants to have sex with you when you're just out of a long-term relationship. I mean, you do tend to look and act like you've just returned from the front lines of a really horrible war—but it's also that you might not want to have sex with anyone anyway. In your idle moments (and there are a fair number of those), you may wind up comparing yourself to a really naughty dog that's been kicked in the groin a few too many times and now just wants to forget it owns reproductive organs.

This will go on until that fateful day when you realize that the only people who text you now are your drug dealer and the robot at GrubHub, and neither of them care about you. That's the day it's time to fix yourself up and get back at it, champ. You can't sit around hand-fucking your regrets all your life. 

I am so dull and so very, very alone.

THE COURTSHIP RITUALS HAVE ALL CHANGED
When I first met my ex, I vomited onto the top of her head from the floor above during a dorm party (just like a teen movie!). So, if you're thinking that she wasn't the best girl in the world, please reconsider. When you're young, these things are normal behavior. Puking on each other was to the 2000s what "taking a turn around the green" was in the 17th century. Classic, entry-level courtship. Those heady days are over. You're out of the loop. If I vomited on someone now I doubt I'd end up going for brunch with them the next morning. I'd probably be arrested.

WHAT IN GOD'S NAME IS "FLIRTING"? ​
Seriously. What the hell is it? As far as I can tell it's like talking, but... sexier, somehow? Jesus Christ, I'm fucked, aren't I?

YOU END UP CALLING CLUBBING "DANCING" ​
Did I mention how many turtlenecks I own?

YOU'LL GO OUT "DANCING" BUT NOT DANCE WITH ANYONE ​
I go out. I get "out." But then when I'm there I don't talk to anyone. Instead, I am the person standing in the corner of the club with a Campari and soda staring into the lights and then looking at my cellphone, hoping that somebody finds that irresistible.

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KIDS HAVING FUN LOOK LIKE ALIENS ​
Once upon a time a 20-year-old who was drinking at a bar thanks to a fake ID or good looks would have been someone cool whom I wanted to meet. Now I look at them and think, My God, you are a CHILD. A tipsy, sort of sexy child who probably thinks YouTube vloggers are celebrities and communicates mostly through Snapchat and emojis. These people are not in my universe, and I'll never get into their pants.  

FRIENDS ARE FOREVER, REALLY
​A couple of my friends are still best buds despite one them spewing hot, acidic bile into the other one's mouth one time while they were dancing. Seriously. Get some buddies. They're fucking great. They'll haul you out of the abyss just by farting into your voicemail.

YOU NEED TO ACCEPT THAT YOU'RE FATTER, SMELLIER, AND LESS EXCITING THAN YOU WERE BEFORE
You're in your mid 20s. You're single. Showers are now optional. Your ideal date is Super Smash Bros alone on your sofa. Your sweaters are too tight. Your jeans are too wide. People say that getting older sucks, but really there's a lot of inherent novelty to it.

Being in a good relationship is the perfect place for these weird, comfortable traits to develop—the perfect place in which to get older, basically—and when that relationship breaks down, you're going to miss that. Instead, you'll find yourself in a world that cares less about you with each passing day. If you're a boring 21-year-old asshole, there's at least still the potential that you'll be an interesting non-asshole one day. If you're a boring 26-year-old asshole people are just going to assume that that's your final adult form.

Relationships are great, but they also destroy the parts of you that are necessary to function in the single world. The most important piece of advice I can give you is this: Rebuild these parts if you want any hope of  reaffirming your status as one of life's non-assholes.

Follow David Whelan on  ​Twitter.

More from VICE: 

​I'm Scared I'll Murder My Boyfrie​nd In My Sleep

​The Digital Love Indus​try

​The Mob Delusion: A Life According to "Goodfellas"

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This post originally appeared on VICE UK

On Sunday nights—every Sunday night, in fact—my mom used to draw the curtains, flick over to ITV, make a cup of Earl Grey, and settle into an episode of Heartbeat. I love my mother, but I'm pretty sure there was one evening, looking over at her on the sofa, when I narrowed my seven-year-old eyes and thought, Ugh—if I'm ever like you SO HELP ME GOD.

There comes a moment like this in most young adolescent lives: When the burning realization hits that you're far more fabulous than everyone else—more talented and better looking than all the nauseating kids in your class, and destined to leave the drudgery of your suburban existence behind. Problem is, your glamour is smothered. By your parents, by your teachers, and by anyone else who thinks they can stick their nose in. These people try to impress upon you their arbitrary rules: "Sit with your legs together, you're a young lady!" "What have I said about stealing?" "Will you at least  try to be heterosexual?"

They condition you while you're young. Socialize you. Deny you your egomania. They want you to grow up to be a nice, well-meaning person, living a quiet life in a four-bed semi, where you die in your sleep, a speck of dust in the ether of existence. 

What John Waters is interested in, I think, is the moment when you break free from these rules and constraints, and burst out glittering and ugly from the realm of right into wrong. Everyone in Waters's world deserves a life of notoriety, and nowhere is this sentiment better expressed than in his film Pink Flamingos, an exercise in what happens when you allow that tiny glimmer of "fuck you" in the corner of your eye to blossom into a maniacal, shit-smeared grin.
​ 

[youtube src='//www.youtube.com/embed/Lt2FzvTkteQ' width='640' height='480']

It's Waters's  1974 film Female Trouble,though, that is—to me—the single most fabulous and anarchic film ever made. It's often cited as Waters's own favorite from his five-decade career, and is basically a faux biopic of a Baltimore high school dropout named Dawn Davenport. Dawn is played by Harris Glenn Milstead, a.k.a. drag legend Divine, and to say she's a female in a spot of trouble is to put it lightly: Dawn is pretty much the craggy pinnacle of rebellion.

It all starts at Christmas, when Dawn's parents fail to buy her the one single thing she requested—a pair of "cha cha heels." The scene plays out exactly how you'd imagine: a grown, overweight man in drag, in her dressing gown, attacking two old people.  Dawn crushes her mother with the Christmas tree and runs away from home. Before long, she's picked up by an anonymous motorist (also played by Divine) and they fuck on a mattress by the side of the road. 

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Skip forward nine months from the mattress incident and Dawn gives birth to a daughter, Taffy, while wearing Jackie O glasses and lying on a couch in a stairwell. Dawn/Divine tears the umbilical chord loose with her teeth in what is probably my favorite moment in cinema history. Then, in a plot that eerily foreshadowed Anna Nicole Smith's life, Dawn becomes a burger flipper, a stripper, and a two-bit celebrity hungry for fame. 

The rest of the plot plays out (albeit loosely) like any conventional melodrama—domestic quarrels, highs and lows, a bid for escape.  As in his later film Polyester, by taking the family drama as a genre Waters affords himself a structure against which his carefully orchestrated ironies can play out. Take, most glaringly, the fact that his female protagonist is played by a man in drag. Like all good DIY/punk/trash cinema, the cast is droll and deadpan, but Dawn/Divine's gestures are completely theatrical and her delivery Joan Crawfordesque—it's the ultimate parody of femininity and stardom: a total coup. 

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Similarly, Waters toys with the notion of normative sexuality as though it were absurd. When Dawn meets Gator—a hippy hairdresser—his mother, Ida, complains she'd much sooner have a gay son: "I'd be so proud if you were a fag and had a nice beautician boyfriend," she says, like no parent ever. But Gator marries Dawn and they settle into a sex life that sees him hammer her with a literal hammer. 

Tired of walking in on her parents' perverse sex acts, Taffy tells Gator she wouldn't suck his lousy dick if she was suffocating and there were oxygen in his balls, then runs away to find her real father. It basically nukes the idea of the nuclear family. 

Waters also debunks "the beauty myth" roughly a thousand times better than Naomi Wolf ever could. When Dawn suffers an acid attack at the hands of Gator's mother, her face bubbles up into a scarred mulch of skin and elaborate drag makeup. Enter Donald and Donna Dasher, owners of the local beauty salon. They find Dawn's new appearance—along with her job as a stripper and butt-tight blue leopard-print dress— inspired. So, obviously, they turn her into a model. The conventional mould of beauty is flipped on its head—completely undermined, even—and suddenly, watching this film, it hits you how ludicrous the idea of "good taste" is to begin with. 

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Probably the clearest example of this is the fact that  Waters's prison visits to Manson Family member Charles "Tex" Watson inspired the film's key mantra: "Crime is beauty." 

That's surely John Waters's love letter to Jean Genet, whose novels subvert traditional moral values and bring to light the beauty in evil. Only Female Trouble makes it funny—achingly funny. In a scene based on Divine's real-life performances, she bathes in a cot of mackerel in front of a live audience while screaming declarations of all the terrible, ungodly things she's done: "I blew Richard Speck, and I'm so fucking beautiful I can't stand it myself!" 

The message is clear: It's fabulous to be hideous. 

"To me, bad taste is what entertainment is all about," says John Waters in his book Shock Value. "If someone vomits watching one of my films, it's like getting a standing ovation. But one must remember that there is such a thing as good-bad taste and bad-bad taste. It's easy to disgust someone; I could make a ninety-minute film of someone getting their limbs hacked off, but this would only be bad-bad taste and not very stylish or original. To understand bad taste, one must have very good taste. Good-bad taste can be creatively nauseating but must, at the same time, appeal to the especially twisted sense of humor, which is anything but universal."

And that's just the thing about Female Trouble: Its unique brand of trashy camp is, as with all camp, in the eye of the beholder. If you watch a drag-queen-cum-acid-burn-victim strangling her own daughter and smile, you're depraved enough to be welcomed into the John Waters following. If you're offended by his aesthetic or moral sensibilities—well, his job is done; the boundaries of taste have been pushed.

There's no social ideology that Female Trouble doesn't take aim at—the beauty myth, the nuclear family, the cult of celebrity. And that's why, for me, it was cinema at its most violently challenging. Obviously I was never going to rip the curtains off the wall, kick over the TV set, throw Earl Grey in my mother's face, and flee the building, but Female Trouble is a fun glimpse into what life might have been like if I had. It shows you the possibilities of living a life less ordinary, if simply by asking, "What's ordinary, anyway?" 

For me, it made it OK not to be all the things I was supposed to be, namely: ladylike, virtuous, and heterosexual. By obliterating the very idea of "good taste," the foul but inexorable Dawn Davenport left me free to be as depraved as I like, and proved that anyone—literally anyone—can be beautiful. 

Follow Amelia Abraham on ​Twitter.

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This article originally appeared on VICE UK

As per every December since records began, it's impossible to escape the cold hands of James Bond. The latest in the series, Spectre, is on its way, and the daft old racist Bond of earlier films will soon be infiltrating your Christmas TV. Be prepared to spend yet another Boxing Day plonking your gorged carcass in front of that one where he climbs into a submarine disguised as a crocodile, that one where he kicks a car off a cliff, or that one with Sean Bean in it. 

True Bond-heads laud the character's status as a throwback: he's paid his dues, he's worked his way through the ranks, he's unashamedly British. But his antiquated image was at its nadir in the 90s, sent-up by both Robbie Williams in the ​"Millennium" video and Mike Myers before he stuck a laser beam up the ass of his career with The Love Guru. 

There was an entire generation whose favorite Bond memory was shooting that bloke on the bog in the N64 version of GoldenEye. Judi Dench's M dismissed Pierce Brosnan's 007 as a "sexist, misogynist dinosaur," while superior espionage flicks left Bond looking like ​Dave Whelan at a ​Kick It Out meeting. 

Like all these serious movies about grown men in rubber pants, the Daniel Craig-fronted 007 movies have been something of a dark and gritty reinterpretation of the character. Bond may not be a superhero, but there's been a similar attempt in the genre to drop him into the so-called "real world." 

You can imagine the studio execs banging on about "streamlining" as they sever Bond from his Etonian roots and re-brand him as a slightly more modern murderer. He—Christ!—had a woman as his boss for a bit, and—fucking hell!—isn't bothered whether his Martini is shaken or stirred. He emerges from the sea in his underpants, chest glistening in a reversal of Ursula Andress' Dr. No turn; he flirts with Javier Bardem; he may have had some mommy issues. The writers try to sculpt a more complex version of Bond, one that will leave the viewer asking questions (although the only question anyone had after 2008's Quantum of Solace was, "What the fuck's a Quantum of Solace?")

However, it's very proven difficult to shake the idea that Bond is the sort of man who subscribes to both GQ and Tatler, and who spends his free time wearing Barbour jackets and adding to his ludicrous chronograph watch collection. The overriding sense remains that 007 is the smuggest of smug cunts. 

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Skyfall—an enjoyable, if derivative, movie—contained your de facto Bond scene of perfunctory intercourse, albeit with a victim of sex-trafficking rather than someone whose name is a riff on their genitalia. Later in the film, this character has a shot of Scotch placed on her head, and Bardem invites Craig to shoot it off, William Tell/Burroughs-style. Bond misses. Bardem hits. As the woman falls to the ground, 007 remarks, "What a waste of good Scotch." He remains unable to resist a quip or a cheeky nob gag, even in the most unrelenting of circumstances. It stands to reason that his biggest fan is Alan Partridge.

While Bond's adversaries have moved with the times—now seeking the more prosaic pleasures of seizing control of Bolivia's water supply or winning at poker, rather than, say, creating a new master race in space or attacking Washington, DC, with a giant laser made of diamonds—007 is disappointingly static. Connery injected some globe-humping glamor, Brosnan reeled out some Cool Britannia shtick, and Roger Moore wore a safari suit. But try as they might, Bond is still the ultimate establishment figure. The aging white man with the old-school tie. The government-funded assassin of rent-a-goons. The arch capitalist, who inspires impressionable grown men to drop almost $4,700 on  ​Sony spy gear. 

Indeed, Bond's tiresome Queen-and-Country, little Englander spiel is undoubtedly more ​Bullingdon than Bourne, and carries the putrid reek of UKIP leader ​Nigel Farage. His nemeses are scheming, hand-wringing Euro-pastiches, evil primarily because they're a) wealthy and b) Slavic, Mediterranean, or Russian. They're coming over here and running their keys down your Aston Martin.

Bond is the back-slapping buffoon from the old boy's club, dropping some casually-racist nuggets masquerading as banter. Fanboys will exalt the "escapism" of Bond movies, but it's hard to root for such a relic. He's a Daily Express Princess Diana commemorative plate, a "Keep Calm" meme, a grizzled Great British Bake-off contestant. His favorite film is Zulu. If UKIP (The UK Independence Party) is the purest expression of the macho conservative British zeitgeist, Bond is the UKIP of action heroes.

Perhaps Bond will never detach himself from the maniacal grip of Ian Fleming; a man who wrote "All women love semi-rape. They love to be taken," in The Spy Who Loved Me. Perhaps we've simply never had the right Bond. The character's mix of brute machismo and racist commentary could have well suited Mel Gibson, who was rejected in 1987 for "not being British" (oh, the irony), which is not half as dismissive as the pass on Ranulph Fiennes ​for having "hands too big and a face like a farmer."

We'll never truly root for Bond because he is a product of a parasitic England that is sadly very much alive. Not that 007 will be killed. He'll continue working his way through a bevvy of glitzy Euro-booty and sinister plutocratic cartels in much the same fashion as ever.