Helen Austin har skrivit ny text till en av mina favorit-Pogues-sånger: "Fairytale of New York".

Childbirth Song

You've bags under your eyes
You've got boobs to your knees
Your hand's full of poo and your bra's full of cheese
Your stomach is bloated your clothes do not fit
He still wants sex while you feel like shit
He begs for this favour not long after labour
It's like eating a meal after you've just been sick

And the boys at the office tell him I should give him what he wants
To this I say that they're a bunch of lalalalalalala

You bastard you cocked up it's you got me knocked up
Just cos you want me to have bigger tits
You're pleading, you're pining
Oh please stop your whining
You're not getting sex 'til the kid's 26

You say you want another child, another pregnancy
When you can poo a watermelon I'll agree

I could have been someone if you just hadn't come (along)
If I hadn't been so drunk and I'd said maybe
We'd be going out and stuff, now there's foreceps up my chuff
Pulling the head of a screaming 10lb baby

And the mums on Hornby Island* say keep breast feeding 'til they're four
If I do I won't have nipples anymore

And all the doctors told me that I'd need a stitch or ten
I say sew me up so I can't do this again.

*an island nearby with a reputation for being very wholesome!

-

Här är originalet - där Shane MacGowan och Kirsty MacColl sjunger en duett.

Kirsty MacColl föddes 10 oktober 1959.

I december år 2000 var hon med sin käreste och sina båda söner på semester i Mexico. De dök i ett område där all trafik i vattnet var förbjuden. Kirsty MacColl såg en båt som styrde mot en av hennes söner. Hon lyckades få honom bort från båten - men blev själv dödad.

Båten ägdes av en mexicansk miljonär; Guillermo González Nova. Vittnen såg honom köra båten - men en av hans anställda - José Cen Yam - tog på sig skulden. Han fick 2 år och tio månader - men betalade sig fri från straffet. Dessutom skulle José Cen Yam betala skadestånd till MacColls familj - ett skadestånd som baserats på hans förmögenhet - vilken inte var så hög.

Familjen kämpar fortfarande för att få rättvisa.

Justice for Kirsty

Aftonbladet: Sångerskan Kirsty MacColl död

PS: Tack Nina för Helen Austin-filmen.

Pga min mogna ålder och sköra hälsa (eller eventuellt pga ett bristfälligt vattenintag) blev jag traditionsenligt ytterst seg frammåt kvällen. Vi skulle ha följt med A, J & co på någon slags fest eller A, E & co på någon slags grillning men så blev det inte. Emma mådde ännu mer skunk, och vi insåg att det var mycket tuffare att ha ont i huvudet och kolla på Family Guy, vilket vi gjorde.

Idag cyklade jag hem, genom stadsskogen. Den skogen gillar jag. Jag träffade inte Ekorren (den tjocka, onda), men jag träffade en vän från en tidigare blogg: stålchihuahuan. Idag såg den oroväckande glad ut, lurig och dann. Dessutom var den, som påpekades i en klok kommentar till förra inlägget, ytterst lik master Yoda (bildbevis):

Vi umgicks lite och sedan åkte jag hem.

Nah.

This is the Pogues' Fairytale of New York (lyrics on the Pogues' site here) - sung with Kirsty MacColl and off their album If I Fall from Grace with God -  and if it isn't a bar song and the Pogues' signature, then it should be. I got to thinking about them while listening to NPR today. They're of course in violent mourning over the end of The Wire (which I have never seen) and they mentioned an "iconic scene" - which I've never heard of - about some Baltimore cops singing a Pogues song during a fellow cop's wake.

This is how my mind works.

Fairytale of New York is very special to me. It was one of my friend Marie's favorite songs, and she often sung it to me before she left for Portland. (It was also the inspiration for A Fairy Tale of New York, set in my Witchgun universe and which I still consider one of my best stories)

And it's only gotten more dear to me as the years go on. Things like that - old men and women surveying the wreckage of their lives - tend to as I look out at the wreckage of my life, or at least the unfulfilled promises, the betrayed great expectations, the cowardice and everything wonderful that shriveled and died, screaming, on the vine.

This is a damn good song.

By the way, if you want to know how you should celebrate Christmas - or at least what should be playing on the stereo - here's Corvus Corax with their appropriately named Bacchus (MP3).

I was a little worried about getting out the driveway this morning.  Not being sure how much it had snowed, I still neglected to give myself time to salt and/or shovel and still be on time for work.  It was pleasantly calm out when I left, having only dealt with one gust while brushing a light, dry, and fluffy snow off my car.  The wind was rough when it blew, though.  (The wind blows right through ya.  It's no place for the old!)  Due to the lack of direct interaction with the fierce wind, it felt kind of warm and appeared to be around 32 degrees Fahrenheit.

The sight that stopped my slide into sticky self-pity, though, I had caught hints of from the upstairs windows before leaving.  The sky was uniformly overcast with rich gray clouds, highlighted occasionally by billows of gray clouds floating somewhere between the gray canvas of sky and white undisturbed ground and outlined by dark shadows.  At the very edge of this gray canvas of sky, which failed to cover from horizon to horizon, were the fiery and brilliant colors of sunrise.  The pinks, oranges, and reds reflected on the gray clouds while the crisp, rich blues filled the space between gray canvas and dark silhouetted horizon.  It on is mornings like this that I wonder why I sleep in as much as I do and how many of these sights I have missed.  I also wonder how I manage to not drive off the road.  The sober answer to the first question probably has something to do with being up late imbibing.  I do need to stop answering my own rhetorical questions.  Am I talking to myself?  Who are you calling a drunk?!  What do you mean don't fight on Christmas?  It's a tradition for cryin' out loud!

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good fight.

Тя наистина е най-добрата.

Fairytale Of New York Lyrics

Pogues
It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in AT eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So Happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

The boys of the NYPD choir
Still singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

The boys of the NYPD choir
Still singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells are ringing out
For Christmas Day

*** 

Други идеи за Номер 1?

Не съм краен фен на коледните песни, но тази мога да я слушам по всяко време. Просто е добра.

Джингъл белс да го духа. И без това ми навява спомени от детската градина. А тя не беше толкова отдавна...

**

Още за класацията на VH1 -> http://lifestyle.ibox.bg/news/id_1855252175

The Pogues and Kirsty MacColl - Fairytale of New York

It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
I've got a feeling
This year's for me and you
So happy Christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

They've got cars big as bars
They've got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
It's no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold Christmas Eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of New York City
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the NYPD choir
Were singing "Galway Bay"
And the bells were ringing out
For Christmas day

You're a bum
You're a punk
You're an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy Christmas your arse
I pray God it's our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Can't make it all alone
I've built my dreams around you

Francis Ford Coppola talks to The AV Club about Youth Without Youth.

RAAAWWKKK!!! PopMatters' best metal records of the year!

Slate reviews Charlie Wilson's War and reports that Huckabee and Guiliani are level in the polls.

Speaking of Charlie Wilson's War, Yahoo has eight minutes of the flick for you.

Follow this for The Guardian's podcasted viewpoint on cinema for 2007.

The 4400 has been cancelled. Sign the petition to keep it here.

Gigwise reports that REM have a new record coming out in April.

Mad Men has inspired further new series on AMC.

PopCandy lists her top ten movies of the year.

Uber-cool music folk alert!! David Byrne talking with Thom Yorke.

Okay, I still can't get over Ashley Tisdale's new nose. She just isn't Sharpay anymore...

Note: Popjustice presented this rant much better than I will.

So, Radio One caused itself a little controversy by censoring The Pogues' Fairytale Of New York to remove the infamous line "You scumbag, you maggot, you cheap lousy faggot" and get this, I agreed with them. Of course, as they've since caved to public demand and reinstated the unabridged version of the song that means I can get back to my regular scheduled Radio One hating.

I'm all for freedom of speech, but this isn't about freedom of speech, not at all. This is about the double standards of Radio One, it started off fair enough as they censored Fairytale Of New York just as they'd censor any new song that contained defamatory language which had the potential to offend any group of people, which is what you'd expect from a national broadcaster. Then, well then it all went wrong. The sentimentalists got up in arms about and Radio One caved in, as they couldn't be doing with the bad press and name-calling or whatever the outcome of not breaking their own rules would be.

What Radio One have basically said by retracting their own censorship is that, it's okay to call people "faggot" as long as you do it in the name of Baby Jesus' birthday and not in a run of the mill gangsta rap style tune.

I don't want to take the easy route and slag the song off just because it's a Christmas song, or because it's the Christmas song that the self-proclaimed cool folks (that would be that bloody Jo Whiley and her ilk again) have decided that it's the one Christmas song that it's okay to like. Confession time: I don't actually like the song, the only thing I can think that would be worse is if someone like the insipid Katie Melua had a crack at it. Oh.

And finally, this is the song that should be Christmas number one as it's the best release this week and has, count 'em, no reality tv contestants in it.

I've bought my copy, have you? Pray tell, why not? Go out to your local indie record shop and buy yourself the 7" even if you don't have a record player any more. (I'll chastise those without turntables at a later date.) If you're all modern and iTunes-enabled, buy the download instead. If we're strong enough as a nation we can put a stop to The X Factor – it's not too late. 'Mon The Malky!

So another best of 2007 list to kick off, this time from Spin.

PopJustice enters a dissenting voice of the BBC's censoring of Shane 'n' Kirsty.

Peter Jackson is getting his hands on The Hobbit after all.

The reader's poll on Guardian Unlimited is in.

The Boston Globe has a piece on Evan Dando.

Ben Affleck has joined the cast of State of Play, replacing Ed Norton. JoBlo elucidates.

Veronica Mars creator Rob Thomas may pen a comic.

Fifty Nerdy Things to Do Before You Die. Right Here.

Lily Allen is preggers too.

Entertainment Weekly lists its favourite TV episodes of the year.

A Year in Film by The AV Club. Also compares Jamie Lynn Spears and Juno.

PopMatters selects its favourite reissues of the year.

Slate lists its most popular articles of the year.

Se acercan nochebuena y navidad y todas esas cosas tan detestables. Lo propio seria poner una cancion escocesa, pero es que la que me gusta es irlandesa. Que le vamos a hacer!

The Pogues - Fairytale of New York

It was christmas eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, wont see another one
And then he sang a song
The rare old mountain dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you

Got on a lucky one
Came in eighteen to one
Ive got a feeling
This years for me and you
So happy christmas
I love you baby
I can see a better time
When all our dreams come true

Theyve got cars big as bars
Theyve got rivers of gold
But the wind goes right through you
Its no place for the old
When you first took my hand
On a cold christmas eve
You promised me
Broadway was waiting for me

You were handsome
You were pretty
Queen of new york city
When the band finished playing
They howled out for more
Sinatra was swinging,
All the drunks they were singing
We kissed on a corner
Then danced through the night

The boys of the nypd choir
Were singing galway bay
And the bells were ringing out
For christmas day

Youre a bum
Youre a punk
Youre an old slut on junk
Lying there almost dead on a drip in that bed
You scumbag, you maggot
You cheap lousy faggot
Happy christmas your arse
I pray God its our last

I could have been someone
Well so could anyone
You took my dreams from me
When I first found you
I kept them with me babe
I put them with my own
Cant make it all alone
Ive built my dreams around you

So here's the video:

Honestly, does anyone even understand what they are singing?
You can find it on their album Ultimate Collection

I mean, come on... It's so ridiculous to be censoring a song's hit tune just because it might offend the other party (which IMO, indirectly) because there's no way the lyrics that it's pointing fingers at other people. The song's about 2 person cursing and swearing (kinda funny) and it doesn't even have any relations to the gay community.

You should check it out. I'm still searching for the original tune cause it's so catchy. This is definitely a cool old time Christmas tune and it's kinda cool to know that such an old song gets good hits in the late 80's.

Min första tanke, det måste erkännas, är att fan vad tiden går fort nu för tiden.

Den andra är, än en gång, att livet är förbaskat orättvist. Där badade hon med sitt barn i mexikanska golfen, jag tror det var så, och blev påkörd av en jävla motorbåt.

Allt medan en viss Shane MacGowan, som misshandlat sin kropp på tusen sätt vi inte trodde fanns, fortfarande knallar runt på The Backstreets of Dublin.

Det är alltså tio dagar till julafton och jag föreslår att vi alla skålar redan ikväll för Världens Bästa Julsång (som ni kan titta på här nedan) och på tisdag tänder vi ett ljus för en av den vackraste rösten i himlen.

Jaja, näst Dusty Springfield då.

Suck on this, Irving Berlin.

Festive records shouldn’t be in year-end Top 10s. It feels wrong, no matter how right the record is.

This single is enjoying a re-release this year, on the fifth anniversary of Kirsty MacColl’s death, and proceeds are going to a charity appealing for an investigation into the accident. It’s a sad record in many ways, then, but still a triumph.

The bells are ringing out too, from the little Piglet ball as it’s kicked in time.