School's Out Forever: Goodbye Ilfracombe College

Nostalgia: your memories, but drunk. A lethal cocktail of wistful yearning and time-adjusted pretence that the past was the best. Intoxicating, yes, but not entirely healthy, and something I find deeply suffocating.

I prefer to look forward. Living for now and tomorrow is what matters. The past happened. Parts were good, others less so, let’s move on.

So, probably not the best frame of mind to visit a school I’d left twenty two years previously.

Old school guy

But that’s exactly where I found myself just last week, scoffing greedily through my own past like a man starved of personal history.

Facebook is to blame. Because of course it is.

Scrolling idly through that ultimate nostalgia platform, I stumbled across a post, informing me that the building at which I spent the formative years of my life was about to be demolished. And would I like to have some nibbles and a look around before they wheel out the wrecking ball?

How could I not?

For starters, my wife and I were in the same year group (where she was no doubt bowled over by my cunning wit, rock hard abs, and outright lying). By wandering around our collective memories, we could reminisce together, laugh together, and hopefully not bump into exes all awkwardly together. Also, we could take our kids and bore them senselessly about how Mummy and Daddy were the coolest dudes that ever rocked a school tie (they're still at an age where we can get away with this kind of deceitful boasting).

Lastly, and perhaps mostly oddly, I think about that building a lot. Not, I stress, in a romantic or emotional way. My brain stores away screensavers of places I’ve been to in my life. These are recalled quite arbitrarily like a little slideshow for when I’m concentrating. (Don’t ask me, it’s just how my mind works.)

How could I resist the chance to see if my memory’s renderings hold up to reality?

The college as I remember it. Photo credit Paul Weatherbed from Ilfracombe History Facebook group.

Spoilers: I couldn’t. 

So, to Ilfracombe College (now Academy, natch). It’s a vast concrete behemoth of a building, a brutalist block of ungainly brick. Jutting from Ilfracombe’s highest peak like a Dr Seuss illustration come to life, it exudes a menacing incongruity among the town’s infinitely more pleasant rolling green and sea views. More factory than educational institution (it even has a chimney for gawd’s sakes), its colour-drained Lego aesthetic couldn’t look any more 70’s unless it was built from a packet of Rothmans and casual racism.

Stepping back into my childhood was immeasurably surreal; like stepping physically into a dream. Everything was eerily similar, yet marginally different.

All of which I found initially overwhelming. 
Hey, it’s first year tutor room! 
Hey, it’s the bit where I got sent out! 
Hey, it’s the bit where I stormed out - and had to wait until it no longer looked like I’d just been crying before going back in! 
Well, punch my dead Dad – it’s the Kit-Kat machines! (Actually, no, they were long gone even during my time.)

My first tutor room! (Had fewer drums in my day.)

Spent most of my final year lunchtimes sat here

My kids and I taking over the library. Former teacher Mr Cooper to the right.

Eventually though, contrary to my queasiness over lunging back into my past, it turned out to be a very pleasant, even cathartic experience. Not that I had anything to "work out" by being there. School was school: neither amazing nor terrifying for me. Just, you know, school.

But being back in those rooms, smelling those smells again, and seeing some of the exact same signs and sights was a weirdly tangible way of reliving the past for one last time. Melancholy? Maybe a little, but it was largely a celebratory exploration of our teenage years. Free from the shackles of rampant hormones and chronic self-interest, I could reflect more sagely on frankly, what an awful dickhead I must have been back then. Sorry, everybody.

We even caught up briefly with a few old school pals, all exchanging pleasantries along the same lines of, “well, isn’t this bloody weird?” Which made me realise, of course, that it was less the bricks, the gas taps, and the graffiti-scrawled desks we were remembering, but the friends we'd made and the teachers we encountered. They had been responsible for all of these extraordinary times, not the corridors or toilets or whatever. As my Video Production teacher (and damned lovely man) Peter Cooper later commented, “A building is nothing without people.”  And given he steered me towards top GCSE marks for that subject, I’m inclined to agree.

So after an hour or so of gawping, gasping and treading gingerly around the physical space of our own past, my wife and I lead our children out into the night for chips and a collective sigh at a closed chapter.

Brilliantly, I sat at my exact place in science classic before noticing this classic bit of schoolboy art.

I know that it is utterly grand and self-indulgent to proclaim so, but 39 feels the right age to be stepping back for one last peek into my childhood. I’ve no upper tier of parents or grandparents above me, so kissing off the past has eased me comfortably into the next phase of adulthood.

I mean, let's be honest - it’s about bloody time, eh?

Bulldozers – do your work and demolish it now please. Make way for the next generation.

Goodbye then.

The Fan Can Archives: The Fandom Menace

I used to write occasionally for Steve O'Brien's jolly cult site TheFanCan. I'd provide slightly irreverent and often inelegant pieces on pop culture nonsense as fast as my little underdeveloped talent would let me. Me in the past - bless him, eh?

The Doctor Who Drinking Game: A bit like SFX's Couch Potato, but with more booze and fewer people

Anyway, whilst on the hunt for new ideas, I thought I'd hit upon a great and definitely not incredibly obnoxious format to entertain the readers. I was going to play the part of a slightly over-zealous fan and see how poor put-upon real people reacted. Ha ha ha Miles! Wow, you really should be on Channel 4's Balls of Steel.

Not even stopping to ask Steve if this was something he would champion on his site (fairly sure he wouldn't be keen), I made my first call to a local registry office, recording the conversation (without their knowledge, which I'm pretty certain is illegal). Look, I'm not proud, OK?

Anyway, I'd forgotten all about this until I went rooting around my docs and found this transcription in a long abandoned folder. 

Anyway, that's more then enough set-up for something that'll take far less time time to read than that intro. Enjoy.

The Fan Can: I’m looking at having a Doctor Who themed wedding. Like a TARDIS in the corner, that sort of thing. Is that ok?

Wedding Office: If it’s the registry office, it wouldn’t fit. But we’re due to move to a Court, where there’d be room. That’d be fine.

TFC: Would the person conducting it be averse to dressing up at all? Say, as a Dalek? Or maybe Davros?

WO: Erm, I could find out. Let me check.

LONG PAUSE

WO: I’ve just spoken with a couple of registrars here at the moment – they’ve both said no, they wouldn’t.

TFC: Oh.

WO: Well, we do have quite a few so it might be something we could go into more detail with one who has a sense of humour and come to a compromise. I’m not sure any of them would dress as a Dalek though, but we certainly wouldn’t mind the couple or their guests doing so.

TFC: Can we write our own vows? Would the registrars be up for conducting the ceremony in a different voice, as if they were a villain? Would that be ok?

WO: I’ll, erm, just find out.

VERY LONG PAUSE

WO: Spoken to the registrars again and yes, there is flexibility on the words that can be used, but no, they won’t be putting on voices as it is a serious ceremony and should be treated as such.

TFC: Sure. But could the bride and groom do it? Like put on voices, as if it really was an episode of Doctor Who? We wouldn’t get thrown out or asked to stop?

WO: It’s up to you if you want to come dressed in character and say your own lines, but so long as you sign the registry and take it seriously, then, fine.

TFC: Thanks!

The App-rentice: Donald Trump on iOS

Like a less stable version of The Lego Movie’s President Business crossed with a lemonade burp, it appears that Donald J. Trump is everyone’s favourite GOP candidate. Remember: everyone includes white supremacists, gun nuts, and the aggressively stupid.

Only last week he told his Twitter followers to boycott Apple. Using, yes, his iPhone. Really. Anyway, assuming he’s not bothered too much about practising what he bellows digitally, perhaps he might like to see what the App Store has on offer for apps based around him.

10. Smack a Trump (Codeuim Interactive)

Touch screen Whack-a-Mole, only this version features an unpleasant, short-sighted rodent adept at digging himself into massive holes (see what I did there?). Jab at the screen to squish randomly appearing mini-Trumps. Fun for precisely zero seconds. Hell, even my young children grew bored of it swiftly, and they’re basically cretins.

9. Donald Trump Soundboard (Thomas Quinn)

Over twenty five soundbites of purest aural idiocy! Because…erm. Just because. Contains racism and misogyny, but sadly, not his Joey Deacon-style “spastic” impression. Seriously, no amount of appalling behaviour seems to be able to ground the ascension of this one-man calamity carnival. What does he need to do – shit down a baby’s mouth live on television before booting it down a hill in a barrel full of pubes?

Perhaps his Mexican-deterrent wall will turn out to be just as impressively unshakeable as his personality? Anyway, if you press all the buttons at once you herald an almighty choir of purest cunt.

8. Trump Yourself (Nito, Inc)

Using 1992’s latest Hollywood face mapping technology, have a cartoon billionaire avatar following your every facial gesture, from opening your mouth all the way to closing your mouth. You can even turn your head! A bit, before the mapping loses you and you’re left staring at a dot eyed angry little blond man with his mouth open and a feeling that your life should be going anywhere but here.

7. Trump! (Falcon Associates, Inc)

Confusingly structured soundboard that yields an additional competitive element, pitting the player against Hilary. Play consists of jabbing arbitrarily at the screen, prompting real-life witless snippets of atrocious self-aggrandising. All the agony and embarrassment of having an STD without the associated fun of having contracted it.

6. Donald Trump’s Epic Trip (Robert Palatnick)

Guide Donny around a multicoloured maze whilst avoiding established Trump enemies such as “evil” Hilary Clinton, menstruating news whore Megyn Kelly*, and Rosie “fat pig” O’Donnell. Accompanied, inexplicably, by a horrendously warped Hi-NRG version of 4 Non-Blondes’ mysteriously popular song, “What’s Up?” The gayest thing ever since your Dad.

5. Dump on Trump (Pride Star Apps INC)

Slide a chirpy Donald across a street to avoid a constant rainfall of pigeon shit, racking up points like you fancy them or something. Given both the misleading title and my strong antipathy for the billionaire tyrant, it took me a full minute before I realised the object wasn’t to coat his smug fizzog in guano. Mystifying.

4. Are You Better Than – Trump Edition (Peter Vu)

 

Complicated stock investment satire that invites the player to compete with Trump’s very real business deals throughout his career. Given that I’m a financial dunce with all the entrepreneurial skills of a baked potato, it’s safe to say that I don’t get this.

3. Trump Dump (daydream.)

Tiresome Flappy Bird clone with added incentive to shit on Trump, until he resembles a giant Jabba the Hutt-style bum nugget. As the Flappy Bird concept is less appealing than a bowl of sprouts marinating in semen, I’m out.

2. Trivia for Donald Trump – Super Fan (Alin Stanescu)

Multi-choice questions covering all aspects of Donald J’s life so far. Well, mostly to do with The Apprentice, a show in which our hero fires people from a job that doesn’t yet exist. A game every bit as fun and rewarding as Trump is patient and humble.

1. Flappy Hair (Luz Gonzalez)

Another Flappy Bird-a-like that utilises the building magnate’s barnet to propel himself across the screen avoiding objects; a conceit as likely as it is enjoyable. The problem intrinsic to all of the FB games is that they requires such nimble and crucial dexterity on the player’s part that it detracts entirely from any potential enjoyment (think Edward Scissorhands gingerly navigating his way round a wank and you’re half-way there).

That’s that. For now. I’ve at least another ten of these fuckers loaded on my phone, so don’t think that’s the end of this…

*just to be clear – he didn’t say that. He just implied it, heavily.

The Fan Can Archives: Doctor Who’s Double Acts

“It takes two baby!” sang someone or other once, and they were almost certainly singing about Mitchell & Webb’s comedic turn as a couple of rust-bucket robots in Dinosaurs on a Spaceship. Probably. But the Peep Show pair aren’t the only double acts to appear on the good ship Who, as we run down the show's finest duos over its 50 plus years of history. 

10. Len & Harvey, Survival (1989) 

The corner shop-running twosome and their dry, humourless co-existence only really reminds us of the actors playing them, Hale & Pace (as if we could forget). Len & Harvey really came across as masters of the pub darts team, rather than the convenience store, their tiresome “banter” reflective of a dim-witted pair who said everything to each other that they ever wanted to about a decade previous. And let’s be honest – we’re really nominating them for their “professional” status; they’re the only couple here that are an actual double act. Conversely, they’re about as funny as a trip to the clap clinic. And let’s not mention h&p@bbc, ok? 

9. Vaughan & Packer, The Invasion (1968) 

Throughout this serial’s eight episode sprawl, the weary boom of “Packer!” becomes something of a catchphrase, thanks to the easily put-upon boss of International Electromatics’ impatience with his halfwit head of security. Watching the nefarious but useless pair pratfall their way through primary school villainy is somewhat endearing, even when they’re conspiring to take over the world with those tin sods from Mondas. In the same manner that you wouldn’t want Packer in your employ, neither would you want Vaughan as your boss, their hopelessness complementing each other perfectly. 

8. Hawk and Weismuller, Delta & The Bannermen (1987) 

Satellite-monitoring CIA klutzes, whose addition to the plot has always kind of eluded us. Still, it’s fun to watch an ignorant berk in a bomber jacket and his bowtied buddy bumble about the Welsh countryside (“in England”), at the mercy of a bloodthirsty band of bastards such as the Bannermen. Only sartorially-speaking is there much to separate them, but their mannerisms draw inspiration from Hollywood’s Golden Age of screwball comedies (making illogical assumptive leaps, completely oblivious to their own self-importance etc). It’s also nice to have Who take the Felix Leiter route of having the Yanks a few narrative steps behind its “British” hero. 

7. Bostock & Orcinci, Revelation of the Daleks (1985) 

No, not Kara & Vogel – the script unsubtly identifying them as a double act makes them so bloody arch you could probably knock a croquet ball between the pair of them. Rather, it’s the adventure’s noble lion-hearted warrior and his grubby squire who get our vote. The affection between them at death’s door is genuinely touching, if somewhat protracted, and as the scene demonstrates, one can’t really exist without the other. Never mind all the traditional class-based manservant stuff – some serious bromance brewed between these two. Despite Orcini’s protestations of his boyfriend’s noxious niff, we bet he took a long hard sniff of his oily, scab-ridden head just before he detonated the big one. Or maybe he gave him a little reach-a-round, who knows? 

6. Gilbert M & The Kandyman, The Happiness Patrol (1988) 

If the wider plot is a Thatcher allegory (and we’re a bit undecided on that to be honest), then the relationship between Gilbert M and his confectionery creation surely has to hint at the concept of loveless marriage, given their constant squabbling and barely-concealed contempt for one another. Old sweetie chops is clearly the nagging wife to his hen-pecked hubby, given his skulking about the kitchen with a bottle in the hand and ignoring his spouse’s bitching about the day job. Their relationship must have soured so long ago that no amount of sugar sprinkling can save it; Gilbert obviously doesn’t give a toffee penny when it’s finally by bye Bassett time. In fact, if anything, he seems to cosy up to Joseph C pretty damn sharpish… 

5. Glitz & Dibber, The Time of a Trial Lord Parts 1-4 (1986) 

It may not be vintage Who, but hell, everyone loves Holmesian crims, and these two ne’er-do-wells bring a much-needed bit of charismatic cunning to an otherwise somewhat flat piece of cheapy drama. Glitz’s self-regard and verbosity contrast well with Dibber’s dippy but dependable persona, to the extent that you start rooting for them some, say, five minutes into the first episode. Of course, it wasn’t quite the same the next year, when Glitz was matched with Mel. Bit like pairing a really good actor with, well, Bonnie Langford. 

4. Madam Vastra & Jenny, A Good Man Goes to War (2011) 

Proving that it’s not just RTD who can adhere to the spuriously-titled “Gay Agenda”, Mr Moffinator gives us the 19th Century kick-ass combo of a Lady lizard and her lesbian maid lover. Whilst Jenny’s presumably not one for handling a pork sword, she’s more than adept at wielding a real one, and the frisky pair make for a fearsome combo against would-be assailants. And let’s not even get into the innuendo concerning Vestra’s extraordinarily long tongue. Unsurprisingly, the internet already groans under the weight of fantasy shagfic, some of it remarkably thorough in its detail of woman-on-prehistoric-lizard action. As if creeping up on an armed Silurian, approach with extreme caution. 

3. Garron & Unstoffe, The Ribos Operation (1978) 

Typically Holmesian galactic swindlers, the garrulous Garron and his whey, rubber-faced accomplice make for an unlikely, but enduring coupling. Theirs appears to be a strictly professional relationship, rather than a friendship, Garron delegating all the dirty work with which he’d rather not mess his hands (or his rather marvellous hat). Though the more sensitive Unstoffe spends most of the adventure hanging around a vagrant, he still rejoins his buddy/master by the end of the episodes, presumably to divvy up his share in Graff’s treasures. Though for all we know, he could be planning to do him in with a shovel and take everything himself. 

2. Davros & Nyder, Genesis of the Daleks (1975) 

Oh Nyder. What is that thing you’ve got going for Davros? His wizened face, maybe? Is it his totalitarian vision? Or perhaps you’re the only one he trusts to change his bucket? Morally-wayward and single-minded, the Kaled Security Commander shares commonality with Skaro’s premier bonkers scientist, so little wonder that they’re bestest of bum chums. Bet he even used to cover for him if he blew off in class, the bloody creep. Loyal to the last, Nyder took Davros’ side against his squiggly villainous creations at his own lethal cost. And what did he get back from all this obsequiousness, eh? Nothing. Didn’t even live long enough to get a round of applause from his beloved. Well, not that he could’ve ever got one anyway, ‘cos of, you know, the one-armed thing, but still. 

1. Jago & Litefoot, The Talons of Weng-Chiang (1977) 

The Ant & Dec of Who (although not Geordie, crap, and neither of them has the forehead the size of a carpark. So, nothing like Ant & Dec then). Regardless, the perennially popular Victorian gentlemen’s dynamic is a joy to saviour, hence their continued capers courtesy of Big Finish’s audio adventures (NINE series so far and counting). The detail’s in the distinction: theatre owner Henry Gordon Jago the brash blusterer with Professor George Litefoot his erudite and polite counterpart, and their jovial sparring endlessly entertaining. Hell, we could watch these two bicker over who forms the front end of a human centipede if we absolutely had to.

You Know My Name

11 Songs Named After People (Part 1)

If only Living in a Box’s "Living in a Box" (from their album Living in a Box), had called their debut single Keith...

 

Song: Angie

Artist: Rolling Stones

What? Delicate but mournful ballad off’ve 1973 LP Goat’s Head Soup. Jagger’s finest performance, reckons me.

Who? Depends who you believe. According to some, it’s Mick’s cracked paean to pal Bowie’s first missus (it’s rumoured he done some extra-marital kissing on her lady bits with those big ol’ bouncy castle lips of his). However, given Richards’ writing credit, that’s unlikely. Taking a rare moment from shitting his drug clinic bed to pen the tune, he pulled the name quite arbitrarily from his intoxicant-addled brain in this alleged ode to kicking the brown stuff. So, it’s no one. (And yes, he does have a daughter called Angela, but it's not her, SO THERE.)

Song: Jamie Thomas

Artist: Graham Coxon

What? Distortion-drowned thrash punk album opener of the Blur guitarist’s second solo effort, The Golden D.

Who? As Coxon explains in a Melody Maker interview from 2000, “He's this fearless, inspiring skateboard kid - he jumps his skateboard over massive gaps, God knows how fast he's going. He's kind of crazy. He's got a seventies haircut - perhaps it's a wig.” Writing about your skateboard hero Graham? What are you, like twelve or something?

Song: Richard III

Artist: Supergrass

What? Werewolf-esque Britpoppers turn up their amps for a rollicking hard rock groove.

Who? According to legend, hump-backed Plantagenet English King for a bit with a penchant for locking little boys in towers (hey, it was the 1480’s - they all did that back then, I expect). Also, like most people born in Northampton, he was buried in a car park. Sort of. Actually, the song itself has diddle all to do with Dick – it was just a working title that kind of stuck, the mutton-chopped Rick-teasers.

Song: Geno

Artist: Dexy’s Midnight Runners

What? Soulful if dour trumpet-lead stomp by dungaree-clad pop outfit*. Basically, their number one hit that isn’t 'Come On Eileen'.

Who? Soul singer Geno Washington, to whom the song serves as both tribute and pastiche. Black, American, and funkier than your mother, his most notable work is with The Ram Jam Band in the 1960’s. The sort of artist white middle class guys like me feel guilty about not listening to more, which is probably why they regularly mop up Glastonbury festival afternoon schedules.

Song: Goldfinger

Artist: Shirley Bassey

What? Brassy blast of Bondian bombast.

Who? Well, he’s the man, see? You know, the man with the Midas touch. And so forth. Anyway, it’s the first Bond film with an eponymous villain as the theme song. As such, lyricists Briscusse and Newley spun some memorable if slightly baffling lines (“A spider’s touch”? Got eight arms, has he?), set to the dazzling strains of John Barry’s big band jazz. The heavy-set Austrian 22 carat-obsessed megalomaniac was played by two people – German actor Gert Fröbe in person with the uncredited pipes of Michael Collins providing the voice. The villain’s plan? Irradiate Fort Knox’s gold supply in order to boost the value of his own, the ginger meanie. Spoiler: he loses.

Song: Ms Jackson

Artist: Outkast

What? Maddeningly catchy electro-pop rap. The one with the bit that goes, “Forever.
Forever. Forever ever. FOREVER EVER!”

Who? Ms Jackson is a pseudonym for Kolleen Wright, mother of Erykah Badu, with whom Outkast singer Andre 3000 had a child before splitting up (got all that?). The song is an explanation/apology to his former lover’s mother, in that dirty laundry-displaying confessional manner that hip-hop seems to do so well. According to Andre, Mrs Wright, “loved it”. She must have missed Big Boi’s line about his “dick in all her mouth”, the charmer.

Song: Kevin Carter

Artist: Manic Street Preachers

What? Uncharacteristically neat and clipped single release from the rock band’s first post-Richey LP, Everything Must Go.

Who? Pulitzer Prize winning South African photo journalist. Papped a starving girl in famine-torn Sudan as a vulture landed behind her. His award sadly wasn’t only the glitter of a trophy – the subsequent guilt caused him to kill himself mere months later. His suicide note included the cheerful bon mots, “...am haunted by the vivid memories of killings and corpses and anger and pain ... of starving or wounded children, of trigger-happy madmen, often police, of killer executioners”. Cheers Manics! You couldn’t have just sung about Kevin Bacon, could you?

Song: Mr Brownstone

Artist: Guns N’ Roses

What? Surprisingly funky hard-edged glam rock track from wildly successful album, Appetite for Destruction.

Who? A euphemism for heroin, often the band’s drug of choice in their flooringly excessive late 1980’s heyday (as well as, you know, all the other drugs they snorted, injected, smoked, drank and pushed down their urethra during that time). The song/man was referenced in anger by Axl Rose in 1989 during a heated performance. The often fractious lead singer threatened, live on stage, to dissolve the band unless his skag-chugging bandmates didn’t stop, “dancing with Mr Brownstone”. Presumably, Slash and co threw away their needles and dancing clogs the very next day. I don’t know – anthropomorphising drug use for song subjects. At least we won’t see the likes of that again in this list...

Song: Ebeneezer Goode

Artist: The Shamen

What? Naughty naughty very naughty off-its-tits early 90’s dancefloor filler.

Who? Fictional character acting as a vapour-thin concealment for the most blatant advocate of narcotics in pop history until Necro’s I Need Drugs almost twenty years later. Marty Feldman-alike magician Jerry Sadowitz played, presumably, the title role in the song’s video, but they were fooling no one. Vocalist Mr C might as well have sung, “Mmm, yummy, brain-curdling drugs right up in my bloodstream. They are the best and you should munch them.”

Song: Arnold Layne

Artist: Pink Floyd

What? The band’s first ever single release – a slightly skittish haunted prowl of Brit psychedelia.

Who? Chancing knicker-thief. According to popcorn-faced bassist Roger Waters, it’s based on a real person they knew. "Both my mother and Syd's mother had students as lodgers because there was a girls' college up the road so there were constantly great lines of bras and knickers on our washing lines and 'Arnold' or whoever he was, had bits off our washing lines." I don’t know – cross-dressers as song subjects! At least we won’t see the likes of that again in this list...

Song: Lola

Artist: The Kinks

What? Lushly-orchestrated and triumphantly confessional English singalong.

Who? Cock-concealing club-goer with a penchant for cherry c-o-l-a cola. According to lyricist and singer Ray Davies, it’s a fictional re-telling of a nightclub encounter with a transvestite, citing an evening out with Kinks manager Robert Wace in gay Paris. Drummer Mick Avory disputes this, claiming it’s based on his frequenting of West London transvestite bars in the capital during the period, actually putting forward one Michael McGrath as the track’s title character (given the song’s Soho setting, fairly likely). Either way, Lola is one foxy dancing chick with a tight grip. And a penis.

*yes, the dungarees came later. Christ, you're picky.