The International CheeseFries Review review of a fries review

Howdy folks,

Here at the International CheeseFries Review, we take two things seriously:
reviews (well, not really) and fries (though our one and only post about fries is several years old...)

Anyway! Imagine my outrage, then, as, having just tucked into a large portion of (sadly too pale) mashed potatoes, ICFR affiliate Jewelly alerted me to the fact that Independent Liverpool just reposted their list of "SOME OF THE BEST FRIES IN LIVERPOOL". My outrage here not stemming from the fact that a list of fries was published, nor from the involvement of Independent Liverpool (an organisation I am rather fond of), but rather from the content of said list. A review much in need of review.

Item 1: How not to choose a title picture

Really, I do not see the point in posting a piece all about fries when the banner at the top of the page barely shows any fries at all. The fries in this picture (all five visible ones) are hidden beneath shredded meat of some sort, a fried egg, and served as a side dish with what is clearly a burger.

"WHAT WAS ONCE A SIDE DISH HAS RECENTLY BECOME THE MAIN EVENT",

claims Independent Liverpool, having clearly not recognised that in their main picture for this article, the fries are actually still the side dish.

But inaccuracy is not the biggest crime here. Leading us swiftly onto

Item 2: How to hide almost all of the other fries beneath other foodstuffs and their associated tastes

With one notable exception (which we will address later), all of the listed fries are slathered in toppings which would surely detract from the pure taste of the innocent fry. As I'm sure we all agree, the only garnish a crisp fry should have to endure is the sweet embrace of melty cheese - call me a purist, but these principles are what the ICFR is founded on.
In most cases on this list, it's not just a topping to spice up proceedings or a condiment of sorts, it is, as in the case of the banner photo, some manner of shredded, pulled, sliced or otherwise maltreated meat. Which brings us to

Item 3: Keep your meat out of my face

Seriously. What is it with meat on fries? Getting onto my soapbox for just a minute here, I have to mention that while, as a non-meat eating person, eating out is usually not an issue, even in the most vegetarian-unwelcoming dining establishments, there was usually always one safe, reliable, and fairly cheap option to fall back on - you guessed it - fries.
So why the obsession with the meat spilling over and out of its designated place on the mains plate and onto the precious sides, the last refuge of the dining vegetarian? Again, involving meat surely makes this dish more of a main than a side, and what have we done to deserve that? Sure, we might have more mains options now, but that's no reason to take away one of our guilty-pleasure staples... Meaning that, keeping true to form, there is only one real contender in the entirety of Independent Liverpool's list, namely

Item 4: Lobster Pot

So this is it. The only real item on the list are chips from the Lobster Pot. I will mention that I have personally sampled these before, and while I have no especially negative memory (I was not actively reviewing fries at the time; the incident occurred during my public toilet reviewing phase), I also do not seem to recall either a revolutionary texture or a legendary dirtiness that would warrant the inclusion of the chips on a list of the best fries in Liverpool, where all other items appear moot. I am willing to make allowances for faulty memory and will promise to try these particular chips again in the near future, but all in all I have to say that the list I was faced with, having expected pure delights and new ideas for where to dine on a classic dish, was

a complete and utter shambles (= 3/5 stars).

All Tomorrow's Party

I recently had the intriguing experience of attending the All Tomorrow's Parties festival at Pontins in Prestatyn, Wales, curated by one of the only people I am sort-of-okay-with calling myself a fan of (and even that, I do carefully and on the sole basis that he hasn't let me down yet) - the comedian (and man) Stewart Lee.

I entered into this experience with highly mixed feelings, having on the one hand booked so far in advance that a frenzied anticipation was surely the only appropriate emotion to bring to the table, and on the other hand having been too busy being involved in both the staging of a play and a break up the previous week to even be able to think about the basics of planning for the weekend away in pretty North Wales.

Let me preface this by saying that I was very unfamiliar with the holiday experience that is a Pontins (or a Butlins, or any other holiday internment camp for that matter), but I did arrive with expectations of a somewhat dystopian fun-disabling compound - expectations which were far exceeded to say the least. However, exactly this proved to be a large part of both the charm and exhilarating surrealism of the experience.

One of approximately 4 programmes

I now present my notes on the festival (while almost completely refusing to comment on any of the actual acts because have you ever read any of my reviews?), or, more precisely, the first day of the festival.


1) On checking in for the festival.

"A polite queue with a view. Enhanced by moments of drizzle. Estimated number of programmes printed and handed out by ATP administration team: 4.

Rating of the check-in queue: 6.5/9.2"

"A vaguely muffled announcement: no chalet keys until 4pm. Mixed emotions. No word of 'welcome'? However, team proves friendly on actual contact. Success."


2) On first impressions of the compound.

"A feeling as if I haven't missed Banksy's recent Dismaland installation after all. Definite possibility also that the weekend will turn out to be another instance of Derren Brown trying to convince innocent members of the public that the zombie apocalypse is happening."

"The tea in the 'pub' is fragrant in the most mediocre sense of the word. But warm.
Rating of the tea:5.3/9.98"

"The toilet in the 'pub' proves exciting as it has a special exhibitionist toilet option for the kind of visitor that is more inclined to share (or inclined to share more) than your average holiday maker. It is also cleverly accented by the use of scalding hot water in the warm taps. Bold but interesting choice."

"The 'pub's' depressing atmosphere rapidly decreases by approx. 67% when filled with what must be most of ATP's audience (although little freedom of choice is involved here, as no one is able to check into their luxurious chalets yet)."

The only photo I took at ATP

3) Top 3 Top 3s (courtesy of Tom "Top3" Carroll)

Top 3 films!
Tom - Mystic River (2003), Once Upon a Time in the West (1968), The Wind That Shakes the Barley (2006)
Sandra - The Fall (2006), Her (2013), Adam's Apples (2005)
Davey - Once Upon a Time in America (1984), Unforgiven (1992), Downfall (2004)
Michael - Star Wars (1977), Evil Dead II (1987), Brazil (1985)
Honourable mention - Alien (1979), because John Hurt

***Bonus quote from Tom Carroll, Prestatyn native:***

"Am I in Hitler's bunker, or Prestatyn?"

Top 3 "Songs not written by someone from Britain/North America"
(Subrule A: 1 per country)
Tom - Mexican Wave by Kerbdog, Vision Valley by the Vines, Distant Son by Crowded House
Sandra - Le Plat Pays by Jacques Brel, Das Modell by Kraftwerk, No Condition Is Permanent by Marijata
Michael - Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen, Into My Arms by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, Manhattan Skyline by A-ha

Top 3 books

Tom - Mystic River (Dennis Lehane), From Hell (Alan Moore), American Psycho (Bret Easton Ellis)
Sandra - House of Leaves (Mark Z. Danielewski), Keep the Aspidistra Flying (George Orwell), The Catcher in the Rye (J.D. Salinger)
Davey - And the Ass Saw the Angel (Nick Cave), The Death of Bunny Munro (Nick Cave), Harry Potter & the Deathly Hallows (J.K. Rowling)
Michael - A Confederacy of Dunces (John Kennedy Toole), Watchmen (Alan Moore), Don Quixote (Miguel de Cervantes)


4) Band name ideas!
"Kylie for three quid"
"Curating Concept"
"The Part Where You Said Cunt"
"Crows in the Chalet"
"Pale As the Dawn"
"Counterfeit Man"
"You Would Have a Lovely Time in Prison"
"The Taste Procreates in My Mouth"

By the way, it would have been a lovely festival, had it not been entirely cancelled.

x

Letters from the Habsburg dynasty, part 3: Who is Rory?

One morning I came home to find a postcard in an envelope in my letterbox.

"Hi chucky!
I is in (Spain) Catalonia!
Milk's got the details.
I will send you more of
'Rory's life with me' later.
Meanwhile, I've contacted a
bone grinding fever from some
                             local jazz
ARTURO BIZZARRO"

In the envelope, there was also a poem.
Arthur, you sent me a poem! From Spain!
I liked it so much that I read it out to Loaf.
Loaf said it wasn't a poem, it was a Samuel Beckett play.
Then we named one of the pillars in the room we use for the workshop after Rory.
Here is your poem, Arthur.
Here we go.

Rory! Where are my shoes?
They're faking it
in the rain.
Blouse?
Getting deep fried,
in baby oil.
Rory, it is spring,
isn't it?
Still is.
I am tired of potatoes.
Rory, where is my car?
You sold it to the cab driver.
Alright, RORY.
I'll go get my
Suitcase.
... YOu sold it wiTH THE CAR
RORY! Where is the DOOR?

Rory, I feel better
Today.
Are you with me?
xxx
Rory. Why do you
sleep so
much?
You KNOW IT'S
Suspicious.
xxx
Rory, where is my hat?
Behing the mirror.
Gloves?
The Grocer is holding
them for you.
Rory, where is my brush?
You've not used it
for a while...
ThankYou Rory.
Where is it?
It's become part of
a pigeon's nest.

.¦. Your drink
is in your hand.
Rory, do I make you worried?
Yes. CONSTANTLY.
Is the street wet?
We can't see the street
from this balcony.
Do you like my pension,
RORY?
We like everything
WE ARE GIVEN.
We will set off in the
NIGHT
After a long
SLEEP
just as YOU like it.
YOU dON'T KNOW
WHAT I like.
HOW FAR
are you willing
to go,
Rory?
As far as the next room.

x

Letters from the Habsburg dynasty, part 2: King of the Fractal Corn Forest

Here we are, then! The long awaited second letter makes its public appearance.
Dutifully I had replied to Arthur's first missive, describing my recent dalliances, but the fact that my letter is not mentioned in this second instalment of the Habsburg saga, put towards the news that Count Arthur has moved residence, makes me doubt whether he ever got to read it. That being as it is, I cannot call this a reply, but only what it is: letters part 2.

[transcript start]
"Guten Tag Liebe Chucky,

I have a strong feeling that you are doing
fine, because I'd had a dream that
you have acquired a stern, pear-shaped
dog, with a good straight nose, and cubism-eye,
and that he is sublime at looking after
himself! His name is eleven and he
does not allow you to wash the dishes
and can generate smells spontaneously
for himself to follow, dragging you behind
smoothly along the raspberry jam rails
you wear a dotted dress and (your)
lipstick is on (your) cheeks! You cry,
'eleven! eleven!', and he responds by
making his tail into a rainbow!
You have lots and lots of fun, even though
you both know, that only one of yous will
live as long as the seaturtle!
~~~~xxxxxxxxxxxxx~~~~~
I want to start by declaring that I
am the King of the Corn Forest!
And I say forest, NOT field, for
a field is someplace where one plays
ball, whereas a forest is a fractal being!
Now, you might say that for a citizen-
grasshopper, or a fellow citizen-ladybug,
a grassfield, or a patch of green I
periodically trodd upon on my way to another
space-time, instead of following the gravelpath
which a consciencious citizen-human ought to do, is
as much a forest as anything. And you might

I cannot even attempt to analyse this dream-adventure Art describes to me. But I do now feel the pressure of having to acquire, by any means necessary, a pear-shaped dog, and to send pictures by mail to Warendorf, Germany as proof.

What I do wish to draw your attention to, however, is Arthur's sudden and consistent use of a Royal vocabulary to refer to himself. Note that he is no longer just the Prince, - the nickname I have myself used several times when referring to him - no, he has now ascended, in his mind at least, to the rank of King. King of the realm he now tries to explain to us in elaborate and cumbersome words so as to cloud our understanding of the world in general.

[page 2]
be right, as it does seem to follow the
fractal conception. However, what (?!)
in this case, is a field for your regular
citizen grasshopper, or his fellow citizen
ladybug?! Anyway, you must forgive
my ignorance in considering my kingdom
as being located in the quintessentially
full-bodied-spectrum level of fractal
existence as it is merely, and
innocently rooted in my general's limited
power of conquest and the unwillingness
of diplomatic reach!
All I can say is that my current staff
are hereditary pillars, while I have been elected
by the wind and the stars and the
cracks in the pavement.
As any substantial monarch I do not
reside where I rule. I have been put up
in a permanently temporal residence on
Marktplatz, second floor, a building to the
right of goldmerchant Ferdinand Wessleman's
shop, that is always closed, overlooking the
market square. It is a cake to behold!
I cannot see the cornforest from there, but
I can see buildings, like giant high-fives,
with a few extra fingers with mosaic veins.
When I moved in, the flat consisted of
floorboards, evenly laminated with historic
dust, wall capsules and ceilings that I
still lose sight of. There was a single
dim lightbulb in the vertically disproportionate
bathroom, hanging like a man who hung himself

An elected monarch?

What would a fractal cornforest look like, the editor ponders...

[page 3]
with a rubber rope. Now I have a washing-
fridge with a square-spin action and a
freezing-dryer that runs on KRAUT.
Piece by piece I'll acquire a spot-lightbulp and
my many fans. Meanwhile, I am building another
floor, so as not to disturb the historic dust.
But soon, maybe even by the time you open
this letter, I will have finished the act of
the carpenter and with swollen hands begun
a new play altogether"

     SEnd me pictures of your DOG!
                                         Cough,
                                           Arthur
                                        08.10.15
                                     [address redacted]

One wonders whether the ancient dust at the gold merchant's neighbouring flat might have contained some residual flakes of hallucinatory agents...

[page 4]
V.P.S.

I do hope my mustard poem
had survived the reappearance
in another space-time continuum,
But since I have no certainty in
that, here is a dip-free poem:

Ship me your purple toenails,
And a matchbox full of rain.
I have found treasure with a toothpick,
It lays me off from being sane.

A street of hay inside my kitchen,
A bat-like hob that lays an egg,
I eat the silhouettes of friction,
And drink the moisture off my leg.

My cat is privatizing sunshine,
While I invest in Northern lights,
My retrospective is abundant,
My hats are not of heights!

I Am a gentleman from now on,
Unless I meet some nervous limbs,
which use their mouths for spitting yellow,
And wear min crowbars on their chins

Warendorf"

And until next time.
x

Letters from the Habsburg dynasty, part 1B - The Glooey Poem Fragment

Having received a second letter from M. Arthur de Habsbourg only a couple of days ago, I feel it is high time that the poem which accompanied the first letter - now half-lost due to excessive glueing on his part and careful (but not careful enough) tearing on mine - should see the light of day.

So please, find here the words I could decipher out of the typewritten, mustard-yellow stained rag of paper, channelled onto said medium by Herr Habsburg's brain, likely inspired by a state of both emi- and immi-gration, travelling in the company of Cat the cat, quite possibly disturbed, confused, and/or intoxicated, which I have attempted to represent, as always, as faithfully as possible, for you, in your life:


     One day I got home toolate,
    And then had to leave tooearly,
   You know the feeling. 
   But I don't.          One slow motion blink
                                               in Rue de la Blunt.
  Vacuum between me and the taxi driver,
Vacuum              behind me and the crude shimmering
                    yellow lamposts
               Away,                away,
Into the flight.
Wh at man can do cat can do
                           too.
       BUY ME BUY ME BUY ME
           BUY ME BUY ME
                      And then have SEX with me
                            Like you own me.
Where is your flight?
What is your cat?
Is that your final destination?
Now show cat to my dog-
                       -child

               BUY ME BUY ME BUY ME BUY   BUY BYE BYE BYE BYE

Hello EveryOne,
I too have wondered
Why everything smelled of must(h)ard.
And why Flintstone Fred still markss the lines on the road.
Smooth had been the (end) name of the game
Since 1919 ADBC AMPM.

Smooth is the Father of the mother
    And they live in a hut

                       ON THE CONTINENT
       i
Every Mng is polished,
Especially the cemeteries.
Every th i ng is here,
Whaiting for the other to ########

####[ILLEGIBLE]####
####[GLUED]########

Letters from the Habsburg dynasty, part 1: The organ-soul-communication-apparatus

Dear Readers, 

You may not know this, but quite recently, my friend, percussionist extraordinaire, lapsed aristocrat (we suspect) and, last but not least, fellow Mekanic, Arthur T. Habsburg, emigrated to Germany.

A triptych of Lord Habsburg from the rear

"Hello Chucky, ..."

Somewhat saddened by this fact which I learned just a few short weeks before his departure, I requested that he write me letters of his adventures in the country that I myself abandoned some years ago. 

Cut to 11th Septermber 2015. It had been a very long while since I last came home to discover a letter wedged in my postbox that I could not immediately guess the sender of. Maybe I should have inspected the stamp more carefully, but the temptation to rip it open straight away was stronger. 

And there it was, accompanied by a strange-smelling, jauntily laid-out typewritten poem that I have not yet managed to unstick from itself: The first installment of the soon-to-be-infamous Habsburg Letters, sent from Arthur's new, temporary home in Münster, and written by hand in his very own unmistakable vernacular, which I now present to you, transcribed in full and unedited:

[transcript start]

"Hello Chucky,
I write to you on day seven, and when I

say that I am breaking into Heaven it will

not be merely for rhyme's sake! All is good!

Münsterland is awesome in the original, not

overused sense of the word! It's a happy

Pretzel land. Rows of Hanseatic houses, 

ancient trademan's HQ, pocket size towns,

all surrounded by massifs of agriland, well off

farmers, wide cotton trousers, 'I am the emperor

of the cornfields' type, bouncing on street corners

in their super-mario tracktors! And all wear hats

and get burried in them. And the air SMELLS, but

is not polluted! 

I live with my relatives (1+1(8/12+7/100) in a house

that I dreamed I build for       kleine kinder   myself

but I may not ever be prepared to make the 

neccessary sacrifices (Lounge area, bathtub in

the bedroom, music in the bathroom/kitchen/every room,

subwoofers under the couch, automated blinds,

and sauna and cinema is (still unfortunately for me) under

construction). Cat still gets lost in the house 

and contemplates our situation in dark corners. 

We speak in a mixture of three languages, and

I am still afraid of the children.

On second day I bought a bycicle (Conrad) that

comes from the golden era of the bycicle family

(still unspoilt genes, no inbreeding or mental disorders)

and is very well maintained, making it hard not to

indulge in the stereotype regarding ze Jermans

and zeir mashinz. I pimped it out with a 

Japanese speedometer, that has now, unfortunately, 

stop working. During his short life he recorded overall

tracking distance of 127km. He has no name"

[page 2]

"I am yet to say anything about beer, {NOR will I} because

it is so commonplace in my system. I'd rather

talk about gloom as there is no grain sand

of it here. But nor shall I do that. BECAUSE

No condition is permanent!

For the first time in some years I feel

positevely happy (without pharmaceutecal stimulation),

without the feeling being grounded in any

form of achievement. It will not last.

I am still an alien, but the air smells

Good.

And I only miss weed when baby-Tv is on.

(Mad shit! Imagine if all TV was baby-TV,

as opposed to degenerateTV).

On Sunday I went to Lamberti Kirche

for Orgel Nacht. FULL HOUSE (was God

there?...) I came early and sat on the 

praying bench discreetly sipping southern comfort

(inappropriate choice of drink, I know) and

reading Isaak Asimov's essay on heretics

(complete coincidence). The concert was

in three parts plus bonus:

1.   Man-on-birch-mini-organ and 

      Woman-on-shiny-tamed-mini-saxophone.

Review:

Okay, but I suffer from gigantomania.

2.   Sameman-on-building-size-organ-soul-

      communication-apparatus

   Samewoman-on-regular-Santa-Barbara-

   saxophone-tamely-unchained.

Review: Jetpack for the mind, goosebumps

behind the ears and in places I did not know 

I had skin. Only the Santa Barbara made

me think of a staged sunset in Malibu

sometimes..."

[page 3]

"3.   A (German) Choir (singing English religious songs)

  Review: -----------"-------------------

Bonus:

A 1926 silent film Faust with

improvised accompaniment from Sameman-

on-building-size-organ-soul-communicat

ion-apparatus-only-even-louder-and-without

-sex-on-the-beach.

Review: Best of the Best.

The whole audience applauded Sameman for

NINE minutes straight! (And I am pleased to

say that that is longer than Kanye was dipped

into after his 'running-for-president' 'speech'!)

Fantastisch!

On the way back I encountered a distant

thunderstorm of Zeus-in-parties magnitude.

The emperyon was being zipped here and

there many times across, with glorious purple

afterglows! And it was total silence! As that was

a silent film project of gallactic HD quality.

Zip and glow, zip and glow. I stood in a 

field for an hour like a scarecrow realizing

the celestial power.

That day I've spent four hours in a 

place of worship, which is by a long distance

my record (my bedroom does not count here..)

And the clarity of mind I got from it was

unique. I now endevour to do my thinkings

and writing in a church, and use the bedroom

for only going-to-the-toilet purposes."

[page 4]

"Yesterday, a man (Frank) came to fit

in a (second) toilet and we got to talking.

He said, Hey, do you wants to come play

fußball, Ich spl sp bin in ein club? Hast du

shoes? I said yes. It's been 8 years

since I played in a club. He put my bike

into his van and we drove off to Ervinswinkel

(20km). I thought I'd die in 20 mins, 

but I lasted the whole two hours and at 

the end they wanted me to join. The all 

speak German and I try to soak it in. 

Frank invited me to a party next weekend

where he said we would smoke some ............

I said maybe, but it certainly is a dillemma. 

I just came back, with no legs, driving

20 km down interstate bikelanes laid 

thru cornfields in the dark with a 

faulty light. Tomorrow i will buy 

sportsgear and not forget to post this.

    How are your undertakings?

And how is everybody?

Ahrthuhr.

PS

   Attached is a poem gone glooey!"

[transcript end]

I will be soon be composing a detailed reply to herald the start of the Liverpool side of correspondence in this matter, and to request further writings from Prince Arthur.
The poem remains yet to be examined in more detail - a transcript/analysis may follow.

Happily,
Chucky x

Fear, Success and Taking Sides: Living in The Future of The 90s

The 90s: Brtain was a nation divided into Mockneys and Mancneys, Sports Casual was the dominant youth culture and everyone you met was either from Manchester or East London, even if they were from Surrey or Stoke. All of them seemed to be on some sort of nose dessert, even the ones that were deeply offended by that sort of thing.

Britain was becoming politicized, or polarized. It was all about taking sides. The English Elite - politicians, pop stars, media icons famous for simply being, were defending the Best of British 60s Mod Culture (conservative, drug-fueled, nationalistic, elitist), against an uncertain future of illegal drugs, Tory Rule and elitism. Erm...

Sports Casualties

In many ways, they succeeded. We're living in a future where even Labour are Tory, where Sports Casual is once again the dominant Youth Culture and the counter cultures - the Post-Punk, the Gothic, the Retro Rockers and Electronic Greyscale are populated by the best of the bourgeoisie.

Even that staple of Brit culture Doctor Who is back boldly gallivanting about the British universe in hip Modish clobber with women several hundred years his junior. Now that's what we call success!

Doctors Matt Lowe and  David Tennant

Once again, working class children won't be going out and getting ideas above their station by experimenting with higher education, unless their parents can afford it. That's one way to ensure that only the brightest, most intelligent people get the best opportunities. Erm...

You are safe because you are living in a future where your enemies are clearly defined: disabled people, poor people, single parents, asylum seekers - the weak, the needy, the humble: people clearly responsible for the state of this country, as opposed to the people that have all the power and resources.

They are people who have failed to succeed. It's not that the system has failed to meet their needs - because it's not the job of the people in charge to actually care about you if you can't take care of yourself. It's only fair. So fit in or fail.

Every decent British person knows: success is everything. And hard work is the key to success. Just look at all of the people born to wealth, they're so successful they don't even have to work at all!

Inevitably, as we look to strengthening our own national identity through arts and culture, immigration becomes the hot topic of the day. Everyone is understandably worried about all those people coming over here from all the places we bravely invaded or helped defend us from invasion, taking up all the jobs that decent honest hard working English people don't want to do.

Because they're not like us: they worship in places that are different to the churches we don't worship in, and they are taking homes from the poor English homeless people (that we suddenly seem to care about but still work damn hard to ignore). There just aren't enough new homes being built.

The million of existing uninhabited properties in Britain don't count because they're old and far less money will be generated by allowing people to inhabit them. Plus, they don't pay their taxes - you can read all about it in the right wing tabloids, edited by good honest successful men who don't pay taxes because they're hard working enough to have foreign passports. It's the English way.

Don't get us wrong, we're passionate about our cultural diversity, providing it's celebrated by well-educated, heterosexual, properly Cis-Gendered, Christian white people, obviously.

But our 90s future is creatively strong: everyone you meet is in a fun little Afrobeat band or an arts collective or putting on events and running workshops. Plus, these people are really passionate about transforming those quirky old venues into quirky luxury homes for needy bohemians. They just want to give something back to the most successful elements of the local community.

Oasis

In the 90s, Oasis were particularly successful (popular) because they fulfilled the establishment's fetish for over-confident working class men with big mouths. They love a bit of rough because the confident working class person is exactly the kind of thing the upper-class should be afraid of.  So it's important to tame them by celebrating the dumbest, most easily controlled and recuperated manifestation of that.

Oasis fitted a well-established stereotype and the image and music were easily recognizable (familiar, safe, marketable) to anyone between the ages of 6 and 76. They weren't even the best of their kind. There must have been a dozen or more arrogant Dad Rock bands in bowl haircuts, Christmas jumpers and saggy jeans in every town in the country at that time.

Blur were similarly plucked for success because they fulfilled an equally familiar cliché: the vaguely arty but ultimately harmless middle-class rebel. Equally safe, equally marketable.

Blur : The Bee Gees to Oasis's Savage Garden

When the music journos (celebrating good old fashioned cultural binaries) set them up as warring factions - they were indulging in the same old nostalgia and fetishism of The Beatles versus The Stones, The Sex Pistols versus The Clash, Take That versus West Life, or Elvis versus Baby Jesus. It's great for business. Even people with no interest in music were obliged to have a preference.

West Life: The Clannad to to Take That's Weezer

The industry was doubling its money by suggesting taking sides was somehow akin to national service. As if choosing one thing you have no relationship with over another thing you don't care about will in someway validate your existence, save the planet, or defend Britain from Evil.

The idea that you are making some essential political decision in choosing sides was a total fiction: The Beatles were just as equally clean-cut and laddish as The Stones; The Sex Pistols were perceived as art-school despite being working class and hopelessly under-educated, The Clash were art-school and very well fed (hell - Joe Strummer was an upper-class hippie!). And it was certainly never really about class war was it? Blur were as popular with working class people as Oasis were with middle-class students.

The more middle-class, privileged Stones, Clash and Blur played up to the working class stereotypes the industry was fetishizing over. Rebellion and youth culture were mere spectacles, pornography rather than the real thing.

The Shamen: E's a Drug

For better or worse, there were a myriad of 90s bands embracing a broader spectrum of music from the past (Pulp, The Happy Mondays, Nirvana, Nine Inch Nails, Garbage, The Stone Roses, Elastica), sounded vaguely contemporary (The Prodigy, The Shamen) or even genuinely innovative (Aphex Twin, Autechre, My Bloody Valentine). 

The Happy Mondays

And people embraced these acts equally, if not more passionately. But all that tech-savvy, drug-fueled, Sexual Questioning stuff was a little bit too un-British, a little bit too Marxist for the establishment.

Garbage

Today, Oasis are a distant memory, sitting on shelves and dusty external drives. Like Titanic, War of The Worlds or 'Haunted Shortbread' by Stephen King, you'll find a Best Of in almost every home. They sound like they sounded then: safe, overblown, vaguely irritating, something your grandparents would like.

Blur revealed themselves to be the old-school upper-middle class men they always aspired to be become: schmoozing with Tory MPs, running farms, validating themselves as more than mere pop musicians by jamming with black people and members of The Clash, writing operas.

Take That's Robert and Gareth

Both bands, like their real contemporaries Take That, Robbie Williams from Take That and The Spice Girls - will ultimately be forgotten. They cling to life now only as a form of nostalgia - because they always sounded like the past.

The Spice Girls: Mel Baby and Mel Orange

My Bloody Valentine, Autechre and The Prodigy didn't re-invent the wheel, but there is still something vaguely other-worldly and futuristic about their sound.

If the key to success is to play it safe, to recreate the sounds of the past, then success dooms our culture to a slow death. There are only so many times you can copy a copy before the degradation become irreparable and the meaning and intentions of the original are lost.

In the 90s, the idea that choosing sides, between Rock or Electronic music was equally unhelpful. The reality was that the best of the bands from both camps, and everything in between were just as much influenced, motivated and interested in both.

By creating these false choices, the establishment - whether in the form of a corporation, a magazine or a political party - merely keeps us all that little bit less empowered, by keeping us distracted and divided.

Next time: Negative Romanticism, Radiohead and The Art of Faux-Depression

Gilbert and George

If a performance artist started going on about England and our culture like that-in fact that's happened to Gilbert and George... It seems to me that (American) artists can talk about flags and America and all this… you can play such a close game with them without anyone being offended. - Rob La Frenais