I'm sorry. I forgot. It's an honest mistake.

Before visiting my old friend Grant, I took in the excellent televisual experience that was The Hits' (channel 18 on Freeview) attempt to give a comprehensive list of the 20 best Scottish acts ever. I may have missed one or two but I'm fairly certain that Rod Stewart wasn't on the list, presumably on the grounds that thinking you're Scottish and being Scottish are actually two completely different things. The list had predictability all over it. I give you Annie Lennox, Travis, Eddie Reader, the band Antoine De Caunes used to describe as Le Wet, Wet and Le Wet again, the Proclaimers, Simple Minds and KT Tungsten (yes, I know). There were the odd smatterings of the ok/naff border with the likes of Altered Images and Aztec Camera. And a hearty dose of twee nonsense: Sheena Easton, please stand up. Oh, you are. Sorry.
Grant, for lo, he is Glaswegian wanted to know whether Belle and Sebastian got a mention (not to my knowledge). I was surprised not to hear from Big Country, Orange Juice (or Edwyn Collins on his own for that matter) or Isobel Campbell. But I knew someone how I was forgetting someone. It's taken me over a week to remember the band I wanted to remember and I'm so annoyed. So, out of the way, The Hits, because not only are Teenage Fanclub the best Scottish band ever, but Sparky's Dream is, for at least the next thirty minutes, the best song ever.

Frustrated of Woolwich

Well, no actually, it's not that bad. But my music quota has dropped drastically recently. And the reason? Well, I'm not sure that reason comes into it when music is concerned. There has been very little variation in my music habits recently and due to an on-going feud with Secure Mail Services, I didn't even make Decoration's gig on Friday night (it's a lame excuse really and isn't actually much of a feud. Can one feud on one's own or must it be reciprocated? Unrequited feuding is so last year).
It's all the fault of "podcasting" although again, podcasting probably doesn't worry too much about me. Between The Now Show, Danny Baker, Martin Kelner, Smodcast, Test Match Special and the rest, I really haven't been interested in listening to much music.
When I started going to the gym I packed the ipod with lots of very long songs. I figured that if I was rowing, I would complete the programme by listening to two Talk Talk songs (say New Grass and After The Flood, both nine minutes each). Better to think "I'll row to the end of this song" than "I'll row to four more songs". Better to think neither in truth but you get the point. So, despite the self-indugent drivel that constitutes podcasting (and this coming from a "man who blogs", I refuse to call myself a blogger however Kevin Smith really should take a long hard look at himself and say, over and over again, "I'm not that interesting, I will shut up about my life especially about my sex life and bowel movements.")I'm now cycling away for forty-five minutes on the exercise bike safe in the knowledge that I'll still have ten minutes of Danny Baker to listen to whilst doing some weight.
However, if pushed (and stop pushing me you bully) to select the best song ever if only for the next fifteen minutes then I'll return to Hell's Ditch, by far the best Pogues album probably because Shane's influence is more diluted. But Ghost Of A Smile is by a long way, the best song ever.
It is my mission for the week to try to find something different, something beyond my comfort zone.

To compare is human, to forgive divine

Once again I've left it a little too long between updates and so I shall briefly mention a couple of songs that are worthy of the title of Best Song Ever (well, if only for the previously allotted fifteen minutes).
Decoration - Job in London "You've got that job in London/So when does it start?/You'll have a job in London/To mend your broken heart (cue loud guitars and much excitement/stroking of chin at the simplistic cleverness of the lyric). And suddenly there be resonance in them there words, or at least there be nodding of heads with a wry smile because you be knowing someone who got that job in London and did mend their broken heart (cue much loudness in guitars and desperate attempts to start getting back into the correct tense once more).
REM - Fall On Me. Oh to have finally got Life's (sic) Rich Pagent back. This is such a simple, beautiful song. But then the best ones normally are...
Neil Young - Fuckin' Up. Oh to have finally got Ragged Glory back. This is such a simple, angry song. But then the best ones normally are...

BUT BUT BUT BUT
for the song de jour I eschew the above although I return to Decoration. But this record, Flippant (look I'm crap at this so you'll have to copy and paste the link into your browser), http://www.decorationmusic.co.uk/shop/ is worth a look and I'll give you three reasons.

Firstly: Only A Plague Can Stop Us Now is such a fine combination of the power (indie) pop and wry lyrics that constantly surprise. Candidate is one of the best songs you'll hear anywhere (and this isn't even the best version of it) with one of my all time fave lyrics "Don't let me down/I can do it for myself thank you" and above all else at the moment and for the convceivable future (fourteen minutes, fifty nine seconds and counting) I Just Froze is the perfect combination of dry English wit and melodic invention. Imagine Fairytale of New York written by a sober man and set in small town England without attempting to go for (what, lets face it, is as we know in our heart of hearts) blandness. And whatever you say about the Pogues, Fairytale is more fondly remembered because it's not a cheesy Christmas song and because of the sadness at Kirsty's untimely death (is there ever a timely death?).
But buy this album. Listen to I Just Froze and try to tell me this doesn't paint a more vivid Christmas picture of love, regret and seasonal sadness. It's just so god damn English and that is why it is the best song ever. For now.

He's a liar and I'm not sure about you

One of the wonderful things about meeting new people is being reminded of thing you'd forgotten. Make sense? probably not. Ok, how about seeing things through new eyes. Oh, come on, you find a cliche that fits properly.
Anyway, I was reminded of the genius of Kirsty Macoll before Christmas and not because of the link to the Pogues (lets face it, when even your retired mother starts to profess a fondness for A Fairytale of New York then perhaps, like David Beckham at Madrid it's time to move on.
And meeting a self-professed Kirsty Macoll fan I did what I usually do in these circumstances and plough through the back catelogue on itunes. Now I don't think I own a Kirsty Macoll record although I my brother had the 7 inch version of A New England. But I must have a dozen records with her on backing vocals and I guess that's true of more people than is strictly healthy. So having got through the itunes samples I was reminded why. Firstly I'm not sure anyone ever refined her songwriting. Whilst in the complete understanding that I can do no better and a whole lot worse, I can appreciate that not enough was done to iron out the kinks that appear in her songs (tempo is often my main stumbling point along with sudden shifts in melody that seem to leap around without reason) but there is one song that has been repeated so much on my ipod that it's starting to develop a life of its own. And sadly it's a song that I first heard through that wonderous example of variety, Ms Tracey Ulman. I seem to think that she played is as a slightly comic song but in truth it's the most feisty pop song I can recall. It's a real, "fuck you, I'm happy" song that contains one of the great moments in pop history.
The song is "They Don't Know"
The moment comes later than you think it should. After two trips round the verse-chorus structure we arrive at the middle eight. And you expect the moment because middle eights lead into this sort of thing. But no, it leads to the guitar break and finally, buried in the mix but still clear, Kirsty wails, lungs aplenty and out comes the most plaintive "Baby" you've ever heard. Seriously, listen. She's worth it. And so's Kirsty.