The Medialyser

Now, I am a little disappointed that no one has even attempted to throw the suffix ‘-gate’ to the MP’s expense claim scandal, so I, Lone Ranger, am going to singlehandedly start using the term MPsExpensesGate here.

The dust is beginning to settle and we can identify the winners and losers of the last few weeks revelations on MP’s overindulgence. Let’s start with those who came out on top: Heather Brooke, the journalist/activist who started the whole shenanigans by investigating the MP’s expense claims following changes in the Freedom of Information Act in 2004. The Telegraph boosted sales, and is feeling pretty good about itself. And so should the politicians who didn’t know about milk the expense system

The real losers here are, of course, the politicians, who now have to defend spending money, they were allowed to spend. Most noticably, Speaker Michael Martin, have resigned as a result of this scandal. But there are other losers here: us. Yes, the outrage felt by the public is justified, but also an overreaction – it has effectively stopped the media from reporting on anything really worthwhile.

This is the perfect story with perfect timing, as the impact is felt when MP’s moat cleaning expense claims are juxtaposed to stories of the near Doom of the Economy. It is also a funny story, and it satisfies our natural instinct to be outraged at whoever rules over us. After the story broke, it became safe to report it, and there are so many angles to go with.

The mood was good during Obama’s White House Correspondents’ Dinner. But I could not happen to frown a little, when the audience laughed at Obama’s serious statement that journalistic truths are approximations. I forgot that people still believe in absolute truth.

The all-singing, all-dancing line-up of raw talent that made The Wire such as great show, has, of course, ridden the wave of media attention to its maximum. Notably, Snoop has released her memoirs (Grace After Midnight: A Memoir) and Michael Lee (Tristian Wilde) now stars in the new Beverly Hills 90210 (WTF?). But many of them are also involved in music. Medialyser gives you a list of some of the best and worst music escapades from B-more’s finest.

Dominic West – Ah, McNulty. You pulp of drunken, Irish, egomaniac, natural, pohlice. You were in Spice World, were you not?

Felicia ‘Snoop’ Pearson – Snoop, the tiny girl, who murders about anybody she wants. You might think less of her from her high-pitched voice, but Snoop is probably about one thousand times badder than you are.

Idris Elba – Stringer Bell, Hackney born & bred, is a DJ & singer. I’m saying not bad, not bad at all. Well, he’s doing the best that he can.

Lance Reddick – Noooooooo, Daniels don’t do this to me. Sleazy guitar crooning with top-open beige shirt. The MySpace image pretty much sums it up: Lance looking at you, semi-invisible Lance looking up in the clouds, where Lance’s show reel loops.

Michael K. Williams – Omar Little started out be miming to R. ‘urine trouble’ Kelly’s soap-ballad Trapped In The Closet (which I urge you to watch, some of the best comedy out there). He also made an album in character, which can be pre-listened to here. Bizarre.

Steve Earle – Bubbles’ sponsor, Walon, has a long country background (surprise). Pretty decent music to be found here…

Tray Chaney – cornerboy Malik ‘Poot’ Carr gives it a shot at rap, but it’s a mediocre one. The fat dude singing is Jazz from Dru Hill.

Finally, let’s not forget Method Man as Cheese & Bird played by Fredro Starr from Onyx.

The Evening Standard has been struggling against the aggressively distributed freesheets, London Lite & London Paper, but is now rebranding, re-launching, re-trying backed by a healthy stack of rubbles (aka Alexander Lebedev). Like any sound recovery, the patient has to accept it has a problem, before apologising, crawling in the dirt while begging for forgiveness; the paper has taken that quite literally, and launched a costly we-are-sorry campaign. (See photo)

Today they handed out free papers all over London to give readers a taste of a whole new Evening Standard. First, the design has been rejuvenated to appeal to the modern cosmopolitan, albeit a modern cosmopolitan stuck in the 90s. Orange is one of those “daring” colours (implemented to match the London Paper’s “bold” party-purple), which also has a habit of making things look cheap. Especially next to cyan. Second, they have upped themselves and bought some words from none other than Tom Wolfe. Good old Tom, chronically in his white two-piece flannel suit, delivers a tale of extravagant aviation and the hell of public airports experienced by bankers, fallen from top. An odd choice to put this story in the News section, though. Oh well… The content looks promising, except for the fact that Wolfe is gone tomorrow and the front page headline is CITY TYCOON: MY SECRET LOVE LIFE. So we are back to the standard Evening Standard.

Soon it’s time for the fully booked circle-jerk that is Cannes. If you (next year) want to go to Southern France and waltz with the paparazzi down the red carpets, here is a guide to how to penetrate the festival:

1. Register a company. Do it yourself or find a company to do the paperwork for you. Name your company something filmish. Toothpick Productions or something. (approx. £30-£45)
2. Go to Festival de Cannes and sign up for accreditation. (approx. £120)
3. Wait for the confirmation e-mail to land in your inbox. Bring this to the festival
4. Gentlemen, rent a tuxedo and buy black shoes. Ladies, I hear that wrapping yourself in a swan is a felony in the eyes of the fashion po-po, so do avoid any overwhelmingly feathery costumes. (approx. £40-£60)
5. Go to Cannes, do cocaine, drink champage, stand like a giggling idiot pointing at Brad Pitt, pitch your shitty idea to a lot of “industry insiders” (the ones who actually listens are the ones who used this method to get access), sleep on a bench and go home. (approx. £300-£900)

This year is full, but try again next year.

- I’m thinking of installing a swearing box…
- What?
- I’m joking, you fuckin’ twat.

The Thick Of It has given us some of the most colourful language in modern times. It comes incredibly close to perfect profanity, when Malcolm Tucker spits outlandish phrases at anybody unlucky enough to be near him. As useless as a marcipan dildo, being a prime example. To get it right, the team behind the show was assisted by Ian Martin, a professor of profanity – listen to an interview with this fascinating gentleman[via] and discover how swearing can be turned into poetry.

If you couldn’t quite catch some of the fast paced lines or subtle hints in The Thick Of It, you can buy the scripts for the first series.

Is war unforeseeable? During an interview, Secretary of State for International Development Simon Foster accidentally states that a proposed war in the Middle East is “unforeseeable”. The Prime Minister’s Director of Communications, Malcolm Tucker, sends poor Foster through a shitstorm for abandoning the party line, but it is too late – Foster, and his hapless new aide Toby, becomes pawns in an international game of war politics.

Armando Iannucci’s bleak political satire, In The Loop, hardly takes the time to let the audience sit down before it pushes the pedal to the floor and keeps going at full speed for 106 hectic minutes. It basically plays out like an episode of The Thick Of It, while blazing trough some of the most chaotic, fragmented, cursed, hilarious scenes I have ever seen. Peter Capaldi’s sociopathic Malcolm Tucker – loosely based on Tony’s spin-doctor Alastair Campbell – spews perfect profanity at everybody in near proximity. James Gandolfini (the real Tony) is a legend and hearing his furious nasal breathing is like being reminded of an old friend of ours. He shines as a Pentagon general, who estimates war casualties on a toy calculator accompanied by honk horns and springy noises. Throughout the entire film, the war is an abstract political pulp of rhetoric, never the nasty, bloody, gory and deathy thing that it really is.

It is an extremely cynical view of the modern political landscape, which probably does not serve to further public faith in politicians or the democratic system. (A disappointed Telegraph hack bitching about the lack of constructive discourse and the cynicism it encourages here (happy endings are for horny losers, mate); Alastair Campbell finding the film boring here).

Real comedy stings. That’s why you’ve got to laugh. Now stop crying and go see this movie.

When I woke up this morning, I had no clue who Michael Savage was (is). I was doing fine. A quick travel through the latest headlines and I am confronted with this: US ‘hate list’ DJ to sue Britain. Today, the Home Office, under a new law from 2005, named & shamed individuals preaching hatred or violence and effectively banned them from entering the UK. Why did a radio-host from California, called Michael Savage (real name Michael Alan Weiner), appear on an official British list of hatred with all the publicity it entails?

Savage loves the spotlight and is already pimping out his book (to, ahem, protect freedom of speech) on the back of the wave of media attention. But a few Google searches opened my eyes to this strange character: a former extreme left-wing herbalist, who allegedly played around with Allan Ginsberg et al and promoted the legalisation of marijuana, he is now a crazy, patriotic conservative radio-host with views too extreme for Fox News. And he owns a poodle.

Savage has probably been banned because he is a lone, gunslingin’ maverick that does not hesitate to criticise even the Republican and Conservative superstars from Rudolph W. Giuliani and Mitt Romney to Rush Limbaugh and Bill O’Reilley.

The man is obviously an idiot who loves controversy, but the dumbest thing to do is to give him 15 minutes in the spotlight. It is certain that his book-sales will increase and his vile opinions (anti-immigration, anti-Muslim, anti-gay etc.) will spill into the public sphere like sewerage. The problem with hate-mongers, such as Savage, is that if you try to silence them by force they become media martyrs. That is why I do not believe in limiting the freedom of expression when it comes to blasphemy, racism, sexism etc.; the only circumstance when legislative interference can be justified is when a person encourages violence or spreads slander. Michael Savage only stands to gain from this ban: in his twisted mind this will only prove that he is a victim of government oppression. As Bill Bowman, author of the book Savage Lies: The Half-Truths, Distortions and Outright Lies of a Right-Wing Blowhard, writes on his blog.

Jacqui Smith is an idiot.

With a few keystrokes of her computer, she has managed to do what practically no one else has accomplished, much less tried.

She has made a victim of Michael Savage.

Amen.

When I go to bed tonight, the world will seem a little shittier.

I’m no PR guru (breathing turds), but here’s a suggestion: DO NOT SHAKE THE BABY IMMEDIATELY AFTER ESTABLISHING THAT THE BABY HAS SUFFERED BRAIN DAMAGE FROM BEING SHOOK AS AN INFANT.

There is of course some real tragedy here (no, Apple-maniacs, I am not talking about one of your apps being deleted), when a man wastes his, and a poor baby’s, time to protest against a game for a mobile phone. At least protest against something really offensive like, I don’t know, Bakon Vodka.

Getting the perfect savory bacon flavor took us a while to get right too. We wanted it to have the essence of a delicious crisp slice of peppered-bacon.

After numerous recipes and a lot of testing, we got it right. And we think you’ll agree.

Yes, some geniuses have launched a vodka with a hint of BACON FLAVOUR. In itself a bad idea, but given the recent circumstances it now qualifies as a fucking bad idea. Also having a bit of a struggle determining who their target audience is – I would imagine we are talking non-jewish/muslim male who can never get enough dead pig. But why, dear Lord, is it branded like any other vodka, all crystal-clear and cool? Like it is nothing unusual. They have done a good job making bacon into a logo, though.