mostly david ephgrave

Sometimes, you have to consider where elastic will land. You can't just leave it to chance. You have to look at your design and think where it's likely to fall nine times out of ten. If that place will inadvertently trigger a childish joke, you must think again; how much does anyone need their books held closed anyway?  I spotted the offending article in the window of a second-hand bookshop, which was only to be expected; I wouldn't want such filth to remain in my house either; no sooner would I have spotted it than it would be out , on the street if necessary. I don't want it to be misconstrued; an impromptu visitor might see it as a come-on.  Also, why does the sign next to the book need to set the caveat of selling complete jigsaws anyway? Isn't that obvious? And the promise of a ceiling price of £1 is an empty boast, particularly when the current coin will soon no longer be legal tender. This window display is a bloody joke. 

Is this the dullest album cover of all time? I may be consumed with anti-Eighties bias. The sleeve for the Beatles’ White Album has a lot less going on. I’d argue, however, that a minimalistic cover with just the artist’s name embossed on it and a limited-edition serial number is preferential to a photo of a man in a cagoule, particularly if they’re also sporting a mullet. I should clarify that I’m a fan of George Harrison. I’m also fond of all-weather wear. I just don’t think the two should have mixed in this context. George may have been an avid gardener, but when he came indoors to pose for the photographer he could have at least changed his outfit. The record itself is a feat for false advertising. Every song, bar one, was released between 1979-1989, which is a very narrow margin. A compilation that claims to contain Harrison’s finest work yet misses off My Sweet Lord and All Things Must Pass is very suspicious. I’ve never see...

God only knows how the BBC managed to make one of the most beautiful songs ever written sound so bland. It starts promisingly, with a Sgt-Pepper-style orchestral tune-up making way for a pretty, understated celeste. Then standards start to slip. Singers line up one after the other to see who can mess with the phrasing of their allocated line the most; stretching them beyond recognition, in a desperate attempt to take up more than eight beats. Only Brian Wilson, Chris Martin and Kylie Minogue sing it straight. Just as things are looking up, Brian May strolls in with his scratchy pubic hairstyle and overly compressed guitar sound and you want to run for the hills. One of the world’s most searingly honest and sincere love songs has its heart and soul ripped out; a ballad that's reduced me to tears many times, does it again, but for all the wrong reasons. These line-at-a-time celebrity sing-alongs seldom work. Everyone tries too hard. Each performer spends too l...