Instagram is great. For those who don’t already know (and Blackberry owners), Instagram is a photo sharing application that lets users take pictures, add filters and share with their friends. Instagram is to pictures what The Edge’s effects pedals are to his guitar playing.
Now it’s finally launched on Android, it’s only a matter of time before Instagram becomes horrendously passé. In the future our kids will ask, ‘but you were the generation that pioneered digital photography! How come granddad’s pictures are better than this grainy toss?’ So make the most of it while you can.
The good news is that it doesn’t take much to become a pro Instagramer – or iPhoneographer as some have dared christen themselves. Here’s how it’s done:
The thrill of seeing my favourite band was once enough to eclipse the terror that accompanies spending time penned by a mass of sweaty, idiotic and tactile public. For the well-seasoned gig-goer, nothing rouses disdain like the realisation that in order to fulfil a rapidly fleeting interest in music, we’re to endure wretched people for extended periods of time. I’m talking about gigs.
Problems with attending gigs stem from the fact that you’re observing something highly personal in a public space. Regrettably, people that may or may not give a toot about the artist you’ve paid hefty pound to watch are invading the 20 centimetres of personal space you hold oh so dear, and most of the time they’re intolerable morons. There are several abhorrent behavioural traits that your common gig-going goon will observe, but for the sake of brevity I’ll limit myself to my five biggest gig grievances:
It pains me to side with an artist as innocuous as Ed Sheeran. I’ve never listened to an entire song, but the 15 seconds I’ve heard are enough to indicate that he’s far from being my cup of tea.
However, a sold out tour, triple platinum album and a handful of Brit nominations would indicate that he does have a few fans. And that’s fine for most of us, but not for the NME’s online editor, Luke Lewis, who last week decided that his disdain for Mr Sheeran had reached a tipping point.
I can understand it must be frustrating being Luke Lewis. When us mortals hear an artist we dislike, we avert our gaze. Whereas Luke has to not only endure the stream of tepid piss that comes shooting through the NME letterbox, but he’s often asked to write favourably about it.
Unsatisfied with fulfilling his role of informing 14 year olds who they should listen to, Luke felt that his contempt toward Ed Sheeran needed galvanising via a Twitter and Facebook campaign. The campaign of hate was imaginatively titled ‘How Shit Is Ed Sheeran?’, and came with a corresponding hashtag that would allow Luke to compile his results into an in-depth report, due today. The campaign garnered some truly gut-busting responses, the best of which were retweeted on the NME’s twitter page. Sadly, they’ve since been deleted. Indicative of a guilty conscience, or backtracking for fear of alienating quite a hefty number of their readership? Perhaps both?
No matter how you feel about Ed Sheeran, you have to admit that what Luke Lewis did was somewhat churlish. Not content with rating Ed Sheeran’s debut album and moving on, Luke and the NME retweeted bile without getting their own hands dirty. Their actions were tantamount to cyberbullying, despite Lewis’s protestations that his #HowShitIsEdSheeran campaign was, ‘Just a bit of Twitterfun’ (spoken like a true bully).
I viewed the activities of Luke and the NME as a desperate attempt to jump on a bandwagon of hatred; an effort to claw back some credibility in a climate of music journalism encumbered by irreverent blogs and message boards. But it doesn’t work like that when the musicians you chastise one week, you venerate the next. Furthermore, when that chastising is done on a national scale, the ginger-bashing’s quite pathetic, and wholly irresponsible.
Besides, having a publication as tired and irrelevant as the NME branding something as ‘shit’ is like the ocean calling rain ‘wet’.
Update: Luke Lewis has since issued an apology on his Facebook page.
Scientists at CERN have announced that they’re to begin using oblivious phone walkers as projectiles for their latest Large Hadron Collider tests.
With interest dwindling, and faced with boring and confusing test results, physicists at the CERN laboratories near Geneva, Switzerland, have been examining ways to rekindle a public curiosity driven senseless with X Factor, Strictly and Piers Morgan.
The state of the art lab, which cost £6.19bn and spans the Franco-Swiss border, was constructed to address the most fundamental mysteries of science. However, when it became apparent that the tests would not yield pioneering results such as hoverboards, functioning Lightsabers or children that can sit still and shut the fuck up in restaurants, public interest in the activities at CERN diminished.
‘Ever since people stopped thinking the world would end when we switched this thing on, we’ve had huge problems trying to drum up interest in what we do here,’ said a CERN spokesman. ‘Introducing figures of utter derision into our tests will hopefully change this.’
‘Text-walkers’, ‘moron trekkers’ or ‘ambling twats’ as they’re known, are seen as ideal projectiles, owing to their low intelligence and disregard for the safety of themselves and others. The latest tests will find those who place finishing a text messages above safety flown to the LHC, whereupon they’ll be accelerated round the 27-kilometre tunnel, and collided at a velocity just shy of the speed of light.
While the tests will work to reignite public interest in the esoteric goings on at CERN, the physicists were cynical about uncovering any ground-breaking discoveries. ‘To be honest, we’re pretty bored of what’s happening here. We’re just tired of these vapid morons clogging up the pavement. Even blind people have the etiquette to use a dog and stick.’
‘They’ve only gone and done it again!’ went hoards of clunking dolts as John Lewis’ Christmas ad went viral. What many viewers have failed to address is the highly sinister undertones manifest throughout this Crimbo cry-fest.
Watch again and note how it conveys an air of ChildLine, with the parents of the protagonist seemingly unable to grace their little bundles of joy with even the slightest bit of affection.
The scene is set amid sleepy suburbia. There could have been a murder. Here’s where we meet our Kevin. His frequent sighing indicates he’s depressed. He sits like a prisoner on the cold landing, throwing a ball against the wall like McQueen in the cooler. He’s then seen tapping manically on the table like a bear gone mental at a Russian zoo.
‘Can make a good man turn bad’
Not content subscribing to the old adage that a watched pot never boils, our boy attempts to speed up time by revolving in his father’s chair at a terrifying, unnatural pace. His sister looks on, petrified. These scenes are interspersed with frequent sighing. I hate people that sigh.
Kevin’s latent insomnia is briefly alluded to, followed by a Groundhog Day-esque montage in which his family can be seen enjoying is solitude in the background. Themes of time and the occult are touched upon. The boy is then seen locked outside, sighing, ominously toing-and-froing in the freezing conditions (note the breath condensation, a blatant homage to M. Night Shyamalan’s The Sixth Sense).
The father, oblivious to his child’s boredom, nullifies his son’s incessant fidgeting with a threatening hand. At dinner, little Tommy doesn’t so much as eat, but rather shovel his food like some soulless spectre. Fleeting glances from his parents convey not the eternal love of a parent, nor concern, but rather a sort of stifled panic not seen since The Exorcist. Kevin throws himself under the covers, wishing it would all go away.
It’s Christmas, and Kevin wakes and makes his way toward his parents’ bedroom. Upon arriving he’s met with a look that says, ‘how the hell did you survive the abortion?’ rather than the glee of a young family experiencing their first Christmas together.
Kevin smiles, and moves toward the bed holding a parcel that has suspiciously similar dimension to that of a head. His sister is nowhere to be seen.
‘Guess what’s in here, you bastards?’
‘For gifts you can’t wait to give.’
There’s a sinister, yet alluringly dressed menace stalking the streets and playgrounds of British suburbia. A menace who’s surreptitiously been at the forefront of a halfhearted new look known as ‘Paedo Chic’. It’s a dour, pedestrian style that draws influence from charity shop and chav street fashions. Paedo chic is the dowdy, jumbled and musty old trend that’s taking UK cul-de-sacs by storm.
It’s a style that’s been gathering momentum away from traditional fashion for some time. Only recently has it been galvanised via a number of high-profile paedo pioneers making their way into the mainstream. Today, paedophile chic devotees are popping up everywhere; appearing in the Daily Mail; shopping at Asda and Millets; and making up a large proportion of the audience on the Jeremy Kyle Show.
Despite its unfriendly overtones, paedo chic is a look that anyone can work. Here, we’ve compiled a handy rub-down of many paedo staples so you can try out the look behind the safety of you net curtains.
This is Iain, 29. Iain’s working a dark, techie and functional look. The jacket says, ‘let’s tussle!’, but the glasses and backpack say, ‘only after I’ve downloaded and encrypted these files!’ Iain has that sci-fi, Matrix nonce style perfected. The joyless matching of black leather to a characterless turquoise TK Maxx shirt accentuates his washed out and worn facial features. He certainly knows how to work the mob gauntlet. His furrowed brow gives him that evasive demeanour. We’re sure he just wants to get home, stick a Fray Bentos in the oven, and get down to some quality Chatroulette time.
Well hello! Who’s this cheeky chappy? Remember guys, if you’re gonna accessorise, more is more. Just ask Greg, 46. This foxy old cad’s got all the delicious ingredients for a huge nonce pie, but has zhuzhed up the recipe by adding a set of rad wheels for dessert. Nothing screams limp, ominous sex offender like an unnecessary wheelchair. There’s room for you +1 with this handy and fun little add-on. We’re giving extra credit for those gorgeous leather gloves, reverse midriff display, and velcro shoes. Go get ‘em, Greg!
Here’s Neil, 22. Muted, unassuming pastel colours are a great look for the urban paedophile, and here they’ve been matched perfectly. The blue really draws attention to Neil’s pallid complexion, with his acne and harrowing eyes creating striking, haunting contrasts. Neil’s natural features are a huge benefit here, marking him out as a simply stunning nonce. Simple, dangerous and ready for a trip to Legoland. His crooked smile, unremarkable hairdo and cold white ears give his face an asymmetry that’s crucial for pulling off this number. To achieve a complexion like Neil’s, a strict diet of microwave dinners and fizzy Ribena should be adhered to. Neil’s got the look that’ll have nervous school office workers dialling the local police station for. Brillo!
Step back gentlemen, and make way for the Karl Lagerfeld of kiddie-fiddling fashion: Ray Hewlett, 63. Unnecessary raincoat, layering up, jogging bottoms, long hair and the use of a wheelchair despite having the ability to walk mark Ray out as a paed truly at the top of his game. Hewlett’s credited with kick-starting the paedophile fashion movement during the 70s, and, having cultivated his look for a number of years, he’s a well respected face on the ring. His rumpus of wearisome Scope threads embolden the ephemeral and effortless look of a paedophile, all topped off with Ray’s signature wiry locks. We also love the handy multi tool lanyard. His look says unassuming sexual predator on the prowl. Grrr.
For paedophiles, an infinitely more harrowing variation on the wheelchair is the electric scooter. Add a basket full of torches to the mix and you have yourself a genuinely terrifying ensemble. Just imagine being stalked by David, 61, with the whir of his electric motor doing little to drown out his frenzied panting as he draws nearer down the darkened alley. David’s sporting that casual day-at-court look that says, ‘How can I be a paedo? I can’t even take a dump without running out of breath, let along chase children!’. Whatever you say, Dave. We love the tracksuit bottom/suit trouser combo, and that sallow shirt really compliments David’s bleak features. His mouth agape is a lovely touch, lest we mention the white socks. Absolutely perfect.
On the set of the next X-Men movie, Stan Lee comes face to face with the realities of studio cutbacks.