It could have started better. For me, I mean, rather than Frankie. While waiting for my tickets at the box office I became quite excited recounting a story to my friend, with much laughing and fist-waving to animate my point. What I didn’t realise was that mid fist-wave Frankie was standing next to me waiting to go upstairs. What followed, after what must have looked to Frankie like an overenthusiastic show of support or a wanking gesture, was him waving his fist at me in return and a bemused look from both of us.

   Not the most conventional start to a gig.

   Apparently going for the front row was a severe misjudgement. In a theatre of 54 seats I had predicted a stampede for the front row that resembled the onslaught of the Orcs of Mordor. As it was, me and my friend were two of the grand total of four brave souls in the front row. Even when there were sure to be no more seats in the back rows, people created more seats. By the time I had realised the consequences of my mistake it was too late and I had become a waiting victim of peoples’ fear.

   ‘Oh, it’s my stalkers,’ Frankie said upon coming out, by which point I was sat so far off the edge of my seat I was performing a semi-sexual assault on my friend. It was no more than my naïve enthusiasm deserved.

   Recounting gags serves no purpose when this gig was only a warm-up for what is reported to be his last ever stand-up tour, though I suspect he might have made a snap judgement of the audience and toned it down by 20%. His remark of, “You must be the (insert suitably condescending word here) audience I’ve ever seen, but don’t worry, I’ll work past your mental and social barriers” confirmed my theory.

   Whereas I could have had an entire hour of Baby P and Holocaust material, there were also a fair amount of laughs that had no edge of shock. Frankie himself was typically unceremonious in his delivery, dressed in a zipped hoodie and carrying a clipboard with fascinating bullet points on them such as:

• ET’s balls
• Kramer vs. Kramer, a touching account of a father fighting for custody of his son

And so on…

   There was also much recounting of gags that hadn’t made it past the producers of Mock The Week, which made it easier to see why he views TV as so restrictive. One of the examples of Bad Things To Say At A Dinner Party that unsurprisingly didn’t make it on air was, “Well, as we’re all here…who’s looking after Madeleine?”

   I laughed. I laughed until I almost cried. Compared to the overly-discussed (and uncannily accurate) Rebecca Adlington comment that the UK media was calling for him to apologise for, these were not only more offensive, but genuinely funnier.

   The atmosphere is undeniably tense though, and I got the impression that was exactly how he wanted it. He has a disturbing knack for choosing someone in the front rows (which was me on more than a few occasions) to maintain eye-contact with during the build-up to a grim punch-line. It was yet another reason why running for front row is something I won’t be doing again in a hurry.

   It did however, convince me that this tour, whether it is his last or not, is going to be well worth the money. He remains the master of innovative, intelligent and fearless comedy. Roll on June and the feature-length gig, where I’ll probably confirm his first impression of me as a stalker.

John and Edward Grimes.

   No, really.

   You may think that I’ve finally lost my mind and turned to hallucinogenic drugs to get myself through life but, really, I haven’t. I’m being 100% serious. Or as serious as you can be when talking about these identical quiffed Irish invaders of the UK Charts.

   I’ll put it concisely: I adore Jedward, and this is my case as to why.

   After much moaning, raised eyebrows, sighs, and restrained cynicism, I agreed to take my little sister and cousin to see X Factor Live. It was, in my eyes, nothing more than a poor reason to miss Manchester United winning the Carling Cup Final and a blemish to my rock ’n’ roll credentials. I was prepared to listen to nothing but The Skids for a week as penance to reclaim my kudos.

   If anyone had told me that the endearingly tuneless twins John and Edward would steal the show I’d have dismissed them as someone who needed to quickly see the inside of a padded cell. But, putting aside my hatred of X Factor and its stranglehold on the music industry as we know it, they did.

   John and Edward, I realised, represent more of a two-fingered salute to X Factor than Rage Against The Machine’s Christmas Number One did. They are the contraband box of ecstasy pills in The Priory, the sly injection of chaos that turns a peaceful protest into a full-on riot. They sing passably, by no means well, but became bigger than the show that made them with nothing more than reckless optimism and a euphoric hyperactivity both onstage and off. Through a combination of national pride and public frustration with the generic manure that reality TV propels into our consciousness year after year, they have become stars. Not just pop stars doomed to live forever with the smoking brand of X Factor across their foreheads, but actual stars.

   To see them onstage is to have a seven-inch psychotic smile on your face and aching ribs for hours afterwards, because what you’re seeing isn’t a shopwork mannequin, it is two eighteen-year-old boys doing whatever the hell they want. From Under Pressure to Rock DJ to Ghostbusters, cavorting with water pistols and inflatable ghosts, one twin dancing slightly out of time with the other, talking in faux American accents, and dressed like the love-children of James Bond and Nicky Wire, they are undeniably joyous to witness.

   ”Have fun - that’s our plan at all times,” John recently said to Q Magazine. “When you look at some artists you can see there’s something missing when you look into their eye. They’re trudging through a performance. We’re thinking, Who’s let us on this stage? It’s just amaaaaazing. We’ll never lose the feeling that we’re the luckiest guys ever for being allowed near a stage.”

   Also, in a true rock ‘n’ roll initiation, they have Noel Gallagher’s mobile number and implied endorsement. “He’s been really supportive so we got his number and we’ve been texting him,” said Edward in the same interview. Now that is an exchange I would have paid money to see.

   They are rock ‘n’ roll. Those who complain that they can’t sing are missing the point. A non-believer friend remarked on their cover of Queen and David Bowie’s Under Pressure (that has shot to Number One in Ireland and Number Two in the UK) with a cold, “I bet Freddie Mercury is turning in his grave.”

   I’m not so sure. They may not have enough power between them to match even one of Freddie’s magnificent vocal chords, however they must represent everything positive that he once sang about. They are, in every sense, the champions. Hell, they are the Bohemian fucking Rhapsody.

   Freddie Mercury would not be turning in his grave to see these fellas doing what they so obviously love to do. He’d be dancing. 

Still quite aghast at how John Terry coerced one woman into having sex with him, let alone several. Slow-acting rohypnol aftershave? He is a footballer, he could probably afford to have some made. Terry is one of those unfortunate people who is so thoroughly rough that he looks as though he was born straight into a young offender’s institute. What’s the betting his first birthday present was an ASBO? I really have nothing more to say on the matter other than it is totally lovely when your violent hatred of someone is confirmed. Seeing him crying like a pre-pubescent girl when Chelsea lost the Champions League remains a perverse highlight of my life.

No, I am not. Firstly, because considering the average age of their writers and target audience the sex wouldn’t even be legal. Secondly, because what was once the authority on the then-aspiring music genres of rap, reggae, punk rock, rock ‘n’ roll, metal, and pop, has shrivelled to a barely recognisable parody of its former self.
Flip to the reviews section and you’ll feel as though a gig, that could arguably have been as good as Woodstock, is being regaled to you by the gang of ASBO-touting monosyllabic teenagers at the end of the road who frighten old ladies and torture hamsters. It’s a desperate, fickle shouting contest garnished with many witty attempts at trying to drop a ‘Fuck’ into every paragraph. If it weren’t in print with the heading of NME, how many of you would let this rabble advise you on which albums to buy? Which gigs to go to?
“Alex Turner’s jeans are well tight ‘n’ they’ll blow your fucking head off!” “Cool, what was the music like?” “…Music?”
Music! Because that, at the end of the day, is what music magazines should be about, whether it is rock, pop or Irish New Wave reggae. That’s what this blog is for. There are many bands out there worth seeing and many albums worth buying, and I’d like to tell people about them.
I may not be the authority, but I’m fairly certain I could vomit something onto a blank page more literate, more comprehensive and more witty than the NME with my hands tied behind my back while being flogged by a naked Peter Mandelson…and it would probably result in someone buying a marginally better album than Lil Wayne. Know who he is? The NME do. I bet his jeans are well tight.