It's such a shame that it has a spray can squiggle on it. Not least because such artlessness seems totally at odds with Beardley's own work.

There used to be a rule about bands. If you liked them you’d say ‘I’ll buy the album’. I used to say that last century. Now it’s ratcheted down to ‘I’ll check them out on ‘MySpace’’. Even worse, now it’s: ‘meh, maybe spotify’.

Ocean Rooms! First venue. The Hoodlums from Southend gave lively fun. It’s always great to see a proper double bass on stage. Cursive were also amusing enough as we waited for thecocknbullkid and that’s who we were there for. The singer knows what’s she’s doing. Great frock and charisma. Channelling Aretha, she gives it lalldy***. But her band need to realise that loud isn’t best. Those three boys drowned out their diva in a tiny venue that needed a bit more subtlety. Thecocknbullkid isn’t just a bad name for this potential popular sensation, it’s a misconceived idea. The girl wins it. The chaps on guitar and drums shouldn’t look so bored. She’s way better than them. Ditch ‘em sistah and I’ll more than Spotify.

And so next to Komedia, and the Rumble Strips. These guys are an engaging six-piece. There’s a bit too much middle-of-the-road Kaiser Chiefs/Franz Ferdinand-ness for my taste. Not least because they do chirpy rock with a bit of Madness better. They’re clearly technically very good: when they harmonise vocally and chuck in a few crazy chords and stuff. Wow. The singer really gives it all live. On some songs you get a pair of keyboards and on others there’s trumpet and sax goodness. But what is totally remarkable about the sound? Alas, not much. Fellas: we agreed at the Waggon & Horses afterwards that you’re cleverer and better than what you do now. Break free. Competent but unrevolutionary.

I didn’t actually see Blue Roses at The Basement. I was there. I heard them from a corridor: prissy, pedantic staff didn’t much add to the ambiance. I reckon they’re probably quite good. But when a bottle of beer costs £3 and you’ve already had two before not being allowed in to the room where the music happens enthusiasm wanes. If I’m generous, I’ll blame that as the curse of The Great Escape.

Back to the Ocean Rooms. I’m listening to the Filthy Dukes**** on Spotify as I write this piece. It’s good stuff (if you need a Spotify invite I have some left). But what they do isn’t much enhanced by live performance. Apart from seeing two long haired chaps drinky drinky twiddling knobs, they may have just played their CD. They’re pretty good. They’re possibly very good maybe. I’m just not sure what the two great lumps of wood were for (they clunked them every now and again presumably to get a sample) but how much entertainment can you get from knob-twiddling?

I haven’t bought any records. Yet.

*So far I’m only professing personally to 2/3.
** The ‘un’ thing is an homage to the idea of an ‘un-conference’.
*** A Glaswegian term from way back, I believe. Lalldy: sang with real spirit and strength.
**** Update, Friday morning. On reflection, the chaps we saw may not have been the Filthy Dukes. Not sure who they were frankly and I spose it doesn't much matter. But it further reinforces my reputation as Britain's worst music reviewer.

I'm a little ashamed to admit that I've never read anything by the brilliant Terry Pratchett. I confessed to Sue Bailey some months ago that I just didn't know where to start.

She suggested these four volumes as a sound introduction:

Guards, Guards
Men at Arms
Feet of Clay
Jingo

On another tack someone else has suggested I might like the writing of Philip Kerr. Specifically, the Berlin Noir Trilogy starting with March Violets. Also, The One from the Other.

Other suggestions:

P.D. James, The Murder Room.

Anything else?

Gladys Knight: Midnight train to Georgia (will now make an additional stop at Wivelsfield.)

The Beatles: Ticket to ride (not valid on the Gatwick Express.)

The Monkees: Last train to Clarksville (has been cancelled.)

Sam Cooke: A change is gonna come (on the failed signals at Haywards heath in the next 7 -8 minutes.)

The Kinks: Victoria (where this train will terminate.)

George Harrison: Something (in the way she moves suggests she's an undercover Revenue Protection Officer.)

Elton John: I'm still standing (and have been standing all the way since Clapham Junction.)

Queen: Another one bites the dust (under a train at Purley, all services are subject to severe delays.)

Vampire Weekend: Oxford Comma
I fell in love with Vampire Weekend, the Kings of PrepPop, back in January when I saw them live in Hoxton. Barely weeks later, their first album was released and it's a corker. For my money, their best song is Oxford Comma. I find it hard to resist a song about punctuation and this video is pure dead brilliant. VW are my band of 2008. But I'm looking for a new mistress in 2009.

Billy Bragg: I Keep Faith
Earlier in the year, when the girl who dumped me in 2007 was fresher in my memory than now, this song spoke to my dwindling heartbreak. Comrade Bragg is a towering genius and this is a bittersweet, almost cruel, lovesong. The video is a good live version (and the best I can find) but the album version (and the album in general) is more soulful. And a little less political than his previous stuff.

Elbow: One Day Like This
Catharsis is a word overused by people who've never experienced it. The first time I heard this song, I welled up and cried. I was sat in the garden on a warm spring evening drinking beer and I felt much better. It's been overplayed on Radio 2. But it is brilliant and they did win that prize, after all. Anthemic. Orchestral. Majestic. Optimistic.

Devon Sproule: Let's Go Out
Enough man-angst already. This is a beautiful ditty from the delicious songster Devon Sproule. Just one of many superb songs from a brilliantly jaunty album that quite simply makes me happy. Technically, 2007. Apologies. The album is much more jazzy than this solo acoustic version and so worth your time.

MGMT: Time to Pretend
Meaningless electronic pop. I love the lyrics. I love the sound. I don't love the fact that a proper embeddable video can't be found on Youtube. So make do with this link to the official video.
http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=XVnRzEjpUmE

Steel's book, What's Going On? is hilarious but as a humour book it's strangely unsatisfactory. It's about the degeneration of a relationship, the decline of the left as a force in British politics and a general ramble about all the things that are shit in modern Britain. His commentary on the dominance and horror of corporations isn't that funny. But it is totally correct.

Despite obvious personal distress, Steel is more passionate (or maybe just expansive) about the death of the SWP than the end of his relationship. I just don't really believe that sleeping on the sofa or having absurd arguments with the 'Ex' was as whimsical as he makes out.

I laughed a lot, but this book is best when it's making a serious point. Stories of disenchantment and disappoinment with New Labour, general hatred of Conservative hypocrisy and anecdotes about the 'far left' are fascinating in themselves. But the critique and concern about progressive politics seeming to favour PR stunts over proper activism and building a movement is worthy of proper consideration. It's when Mark Steel looks at the future, and how we might approach it, that he is most compelling, comrades.

I want the wise and evidently seasoned Mark Steel to write a manifesto we can all get behind. It would centre on puncturing pomposity, sweeping aside capitalism's most absurd conceits and promote good old-fashioned socialist common sense. And that's something Jeremy Clarkson could never do.

So, I've been enjoying the X-Factor these past weeks. A guilty pleasure, frankly. Like meat fat, I know it isn't good for me, but it's irresistible: dramatic, exciting, trivial and so warming.

But when I heard that the winner's single would be, regardless of the result, a take on Leonard Cohen's classic Hallelujah, my heart sank. I love that song. I like Cohen's original but I love Jeff Buckley's (definitive IMHO) cover.

I think we know that Simon Cowell doesn't 'really care for music' as much as he cares about cash. But despite all that, it seemed a crass choice. A bad choice for mass appeal surely? JLS proved me wrong. They made a good fist of it: brilliant even. Alexandra Burke is a great talent (and the deserved winner) but her Hallelujah wasn't so good. But I'd venture, non-sexistly, that it is really a song for men to sing.

It's just a bit of shame that both of the last two X-Factor hopefuls seem to have missed the point of this sometimes sombre, rather bitter and definitely reflective song. The title Hallelujah is, after all, a little misleading. But the show was good. It was so good. Cowell knows his schmaltz.

And then I thought of Guy Garvey. Yes, him out of Elbow. Just a few weeks back he presented a great show about Hallelujah, talking to artistes and charting its genesis and history. It was a brilliant bit of radio. So, I have an idea for those sages at the BBC: if you know which side your artisan loaf is organically buttered on, there's a BBC Radio 2 programme you need to rerun on the ole' iPlayer. But that might be too schmaltzy an idea.

(An aside: It was rather good to note that the last 5 artistes (Alexandra and JLS) were all British black, mixed race, asian and complex … the BNP is fighting a losing battle. Happy day.)

While I was reentering my card details (why does Amazon always make me do that?) I reflected that it's quite impressive that two guys from my A-level English class have published novels and I'm a bit jealous about it. It was a very effective spur to today's NaNOWRiMo efforts. My daily wordcount was rattled out with unusual haste and vigour.

I grumbly mutter to a friend later in the day that I feel like I've fallen behind a bit. Two people from my A-level English class have published books and I would have hoped to do that by now too. She corrects me: actually three people have. And she is indeed right because my own opus (admittedly non-fiction) about selling on eBay is on bookshop shelves too.

I trundled back to Amazon to check out the Sales Ranks of our three books. I enjoy a tiny glint of satisfaction when I discovered that mine is the best.

Blame my mum for the fact I know this song. She had a Dr Hook tape and I think it got played quite a lot when I was wee. Well, blame my mum and Radio 2. Radio 2 still plays their tape. So, here's my homage to that great song 'When you're in love with a beautiful woman'. Responsibility for the terrible pun is entirely mine. Maybe it's just an ego problem?