Meg White: Hot or Not?

I get paid in three days. With that in mind, I hied me to Rockaboom to get a couple of the latest top pop waxings, as John Peel used to say. I have been without satellite TV for nearly two months now, but can still remember enough of MTV2 to find a couple of things worth a listen. For example, the Good Shoes album. Some arty sort of punky types from Morden in Surrey, they are deeply suburban and can play some very cool guitar. They sound a bit like something between The Cure and the Futureheads. Good, I think.

I like to keep up with the Kids, see. My back aches too much for four days in a tent at Glastonbury, but I still enjoy a tune or two. And it's nice to see the young people enjoy themselves. The Who last night, for example. I cannot be alone in finding it funny to watch Pete Townshend (aged 62) and Roger Daltrey (age 63) singing that they hope they die before they get old. Still, Pete is a great guitar player, and if I can be that spry at the same time as having my bus pass, I will be happy.

My own personal festival is happening in August, at Summer Sundae. I like it a lot. It's about 500 yards from my house, and I can go home at night, shower, sleep in a bed and generally avoid the whole tent full o'mud thing. Once upon a time I'd have said something like "A festival witout mud is like a pencil without a sharpener... pointless". but then a lot of the things I said when I was a teenager should be stricken from the record. I have made peace with the ridiculous little squirt I was when I was young, and don't need reminding of it by the likes of me, thank me very much.

What else? Well, I broke a heart at work, but that's more ludicrous that newsworthy, especially considering I didn't know I did it. Alaina has spent the last God knows how long telling me that I am something of a catch, and I have spent the corresponding time saying something along the lines of "Yeah, right" and then weeping copiously alone in my cold, peeling rooms. But maybe? Yeah, right. God, I sound like a stuck record sometimes.

Sigh.

Oh, yes, records. I also bought the new White Stripes album. Jack White is an odd fish. On the cover he and Meg (more about her later) are dressed as pearly kings, not the kind of garb you'd expect from a pair of garage musicians from Detroit, MI. Aparently he's obsessed with the number three, and thinks that black is the most powerful colour in the universe. It's slimming, sure, but after ten washes, anything black will not be so much black as charcoal.

But then again, he's worth $20,000,000 and is married to a supermodel, so he can afford to have his little whims. Like the huge picture of Queen Victoria on page 3 of the inlay. Not normal. And he gets to mob about with Meg. Lucky bastard. She's not obvious about it, and her taxidermy fixation is a bit off-putting, but you can't argue with an arse like that. Felicity Kendal in 1978, Audrey Tatou and Meg White. That's some menage a quatre.

Anyway. I think I've got as much out of buying two records as any blogger can. I certainly am not going to go on about how much I might fancy Meg White. Once you start doing that, it's only a short step to a website dedicated to her, copyright infringement to fill said site with pictures, writing a pangeryic for her entry on Wikipedia and then some kind of court action. The internet is full of creepy people, and I aim to not be one of them. But have a look at the inlay of Icky Thump. Like I said. You can't argue with an arse like that. Or the boobs, neither. Hur, hur.

Anyway, busy, busy, busy. I need to finish my script for my comedy pilot, work out some guitar for The Invisible Head and see if I can get any further on Grand Theft Auto San Andreas. I was doing quite well, but kept falling off a motorbike over a cliff on one chase level. I need to work out how to stay on the bike, and then how to kill the man I am chasing. I am pretty confident I'll have to. GTA is like that. And that's aside from the heartbreaking and drawing pictures of Meg White all over the walls.

Good Night, and Good Luck
Dougal