Jungle Love (oh-weh-oh-weh-oh)

I've always avoided watching I'm A Celebrity... Get Me Out Of Here! - largely because of its dreadful title. It is a curse of multi-channel TV that all shows now have purely functional names so that, if you're flicking through the electronic programme guide, you don't accidentally watch a Dutch film about animal rape because it's been euphemistically titled Old McDonald 'Had' A Farm.

But this year I've been sucked in. And, as is the tradition round here, I haven't bothered to mention it until the series reaches its bitter end, because I like to pretend I'm totally above reality television. Of course, I am no such thing.

For those of you who don't know the concept, it is this: A dozen people who were relatively well-known (once, when you weren't looking) are dumped into the Australian jungle for three weeks and made to carry out humiliating tasks for food.

The ones that have attended English public schools tend to do better.

I started watching this year because I'd actually heard of some of the celebs taking part - in particular Liza Minelli's former husband David Gest. He's generally accepted to be "a bit odd", but it turns out he's a witty, personable lunatic. Although he is incredibly spoilt. And puts moisturiser on his cutlery.

There are also three pop stars on the show this year, and they're ones I've heard of. I've even (whisper it) bought some of their records. Chief among them is Jason Donovan: better known as Kylie's ex-squeeze and Skye Mangel's step-brother. He is as fantastically cheery and boy scout-ish as you would expect.

His poppy cohorts are Myleene Klass - the sole talented member of reality TV show band Hear'Say - and Matt Outofbusted who, endearingly, believes his real surname is Willis.

The show ends tomorrow, so I thought I'd give you a quick run-through the bits I enjoyed most, just in case you want to catch up and watch the final. You'll only catch a chill if you go out, anyway.

:: David Gest claiming his maid is called Vaginaca Semen.
:: Gest telling a fully-trusting Myleene that one of his parents was a nun and the other a fisherman.
:: Oh, and that each of them only had one leg.
:: Jason Donovan's freaky, staring eyeballs of insanity.
:: The bit in the first episode where the contestants had to bungee-jump into the camp - from a helicopter hovering a million feet above a valley full of spiky poles, or something.
:: The 'trial' where ex-soap actor Dean Gaffney screamed like a girl because of a rat or two [youtube]
:: David Gest claiming his friend runs a hotel for Albinos.
:: Called Albino Heights.
:: Watching the producers' frequent, tortured, attempts to find reasons to show Myleene Klass in a bikini, culminating in Tuesday's show where she was forced to choose between stripping off and having a shower or never eating again. Actually, I'm going to put a video of that one right here:


(I will definitely be going to hell for posting this. Or so says mrsdiscopop)

Like I say, the show ends tomorrow and - holy foccacia! - the three musicians have made it through to the final. Maybe this is a good thing, because it proves the British people love their pop stars again. Or is it in fact sad, because being humiliated in the jungle is the only way for pop stars to get on the telly these days? Yes, I think it is sad. No, definitely.

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Konichiwa, bitches!

Hey! The tagline at the top of the blog has changed at last. For the past year, it's been a line from Girls Aloud's Biology (I've got one Alabama return that'll take me far away from you, fact fans). The replacement is a line from the Rakamonie EP by Sewdish pop starlet Robyn.

You might remember Robyn from her insanely catchy top 10 hit, Show Me Love, in 1998. The song was a big success in America, too, and Robyn looked to be on the brink of becoming an international pop star.

But just as she was about to embark on a tour with the Backstreet Boys she fucked off back to Sweden - having been diagnosed with "exhaustion". And there she stayed, releasing records that couldn't raise so much as an eyebrow outside the Scandanavian borders. Which is a shame, because they were really quite good indeed.

Consequently, Robyn went into a big huff and quit her record label - with plans to set up her own company. This is the point where such stories usually end... If you're George Michael or Prince, you spend so much energy wrestling control of your career from the big suits at Sony and Warner that you forget how to write good music and take the first bus out of town to the dumper. But Robyn has cuaght a completely different bus (or maybe she used a bike - I hear they have great cycle lanes in Sweden) and she's on track to reinvigorate her career.

The first three tracks on the Rakamonie EP, out last week in the UK, sound just like Missy Elliot doing Work It after drinking four litres of fizzy pop and inhaling a lungful of helium. Robyn, like Missy, has a knack for writing playful, inventive lyrics and a kooky approach to production. And, after the EP's initial triumverate of Euro-rap tracks, there's a touching torch ballad and a ragtime cover of Prince's perv classic Jack U Off.

You would not, it is fair to say, catch Kylie Minogue doing this sort of thing. Even in private.

Sadly, you will not be able to find this pop gem in the shops, because the shops are now shit. Instead, you can stream the whole thing on Robyn's website or buy it on iTunes. I recommend that you do.

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RIP Alan 'Fluff' Freeman

You made the Top 40 countdown the single most exciting piece of radio in the UK - every week for thirty years.

You said Not 'Arf and Pop Pickers rather a lot.

You genuinely loved the music you played. Unlike, say, JK and Joel.

Speaking of whom, you would never have spent a cringeworthy five minutes trying to chat up Nelly Furtado - every single bloody time she was on the show.

But then, she probably isn't that into wooly jumpers.

You were the only Radio 1 DJ who was simultaneously friends with John Peel and Noel Edmonds.

You pulled off the feat of making a piece of swing band music the calling card for the world's most exciting rock and roll music chart.
Proof:

You will be missed.

PS: Read a proper obituary at No Rock and Roll Fun.

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Coca-Cola ruin Christmas

Excuse me, but where has this advert gone?

Dear Coca-Cola,
Christmas doesn't officially begin until you wheel this advert out. Your current campaign is a schmaltzy pile of crap with monorails. I mean, seriously, monorails?! Please sort this out asap.
Yours,
mrdiscopop

PS: I swear this will be my last Christmas-related post for the next two weeks.

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Let the bells ring out...

It's around this time of year that record companies and bored newspaper editors start to talk up the "race for the Christmas number one". Sometimes the race is a truly exciting marathon, as proper pop acts with real fanbases run as fast as they can towards the finish line. Other years - like this year - it's more like a round of It's A Knockout. Only without the laughs.

The front-runner for 2007 (yes, I am going to keep the tedious racing metaphor up for the entire post) is the as-yet-unidentified winner of X Factor. This isn't necessarily as evil as knee-jerk spectators may imagine - Girls Aloud's Sound Of The Underground was Christmas number one way back in 2002 and it is a bona fide pop classic, after all.

Unfortunately, however, the eventual winner is recording a Westlife-tastic cover version of Kelly Clarkson's American Idol single A Moment Like This, thus proving that when pop reality eat themselves, their shit sounds the same. (NB: Leona to win!)

Because of the crushing inevitablity of the X-Factor "phenomenon" topping the charts, no-one else is really even entering the race. Slade and Cliff Richard are turning up at the starting line out of habit but, at their age, no-one really expects them to go the distance.

Running as a relay team are Peter Andre and tits-out model Jordan his thoroughly respectable wife, Katie, who release their cover of A Whole New World, from Disney's Aladdin. Its a hell of a lot better than the version that was circulated on the internet a few weeks back, but it still sounds like two squirrels fighting in a tin bucket.

Who else is under starter's orders? Ricky Tomlinson has a song called Christmas My Arse, which is every bit as bad as it sounds. And that Crazy Frog is murdering Wham's Last Christmas. Apparently, he missed the memo telling him to fuck off and die.

Bookmakers William Hill have also taken bets from punters who desperately believe George Michael, Justin Timberlake or Eminem could make a spirited last-minute dash for the finish line. But it will never, ever happen. And not just because the three of them are permanently enveloped in a haze of smoke from 'special' cigarettes.

In fact, the only decent song I can find in the starting list is Lily Allen's Littlest Things, and I don't even like it that much. Good video though:



So, for now, I'm off to listen to my Phil Spector Christmas Album. Bah and, indeed, humbug.

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Have you seen this man?

One of my friends just sent me the following picture, which he took on his camera-phone in Tooting, South London. I swear it is for real.

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