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Well, this sucks.

BBC Brandishes its Daily Mail morals
McCain waits on Murphy's Law
Glock pulls Hamilton out of the fire

Sigh. The Daily Mail wins again.

I'm sure you all know what’s happened regarding Russell Brand, Jonathan Ross and the 'satanic slut' granddaughter of a certain Fawlty Towers star, but for those deaf, blind hole-dwelling Martians amongst you, here's the gist. Russell Brand invites Jonathan Ross to his Saturday night show on Radio 2, and before long the two start discussing Brand's relationship with Georgina Baillie, the granddaughter of Andrew Sachs, who played Manuel in the classic sitcom Fawlty Towers. Brand mentions that she belongs to "a baroque dance group called the satanicsluts.com", and that he and she had done the dirty. The pair leave four messages on Andrew Sachs' answerphone, in which they such things as "he fucked your granddaughter" and "She was bent over the couch." A condensed transcript is here.

Since then, all hell has broken loose (this is the good thing about doing this blog only once a week: even if some things aren't up to date, you can look at a whole story as it develops – here's a useful BBC timeline of the affair). Jonathan Ross has been suspended from the BBC for three months without pay, Radio 2 controller Lesley Douglas has resigned and Russell Brand has voluntarily left the BBC. Gordon Brown and David Cameron have waded into the affair. Even Noel Gallagher has an opinion, though why he thinks we should care is beyond me. This is the mountain of all molehills.

People's opinions on the broadcast vary. Some say it's sickening and Brand and Ross should lose their jobs. Some say it shouldn't have happened, but the level of outcry is ridiculous. And some say the broadcast is brilliant. Personally, I just don't think it's very funny. Brand's a hit-and-miss comedian, and this is not one of his finer moments.

I do, however, have renewed respect for him that he fell on his sword, leaving the BBC, not because he should have done – and I don't think he should have done – but because he took responsibility for something only partially his fault (the show being pre-recorded, the producers have to take some of the blame). As for Ross, he'll suffer more from the incident, and perhaps correctly: the transcript will show you that he basically started the whole thing and has very little comedy to add to the proceedings anyway.

But the long and short of it is that their punishments were triggered by The Mail On Sunday, which started a campaign against them (and also ran ridiculous non-stories with badly captioned pictures such as this). There were only two actual complaints about the show – both against Ross' language. Then The Mail got involved with its sense of moral outrage, raised the pitchfork-wielding masses into action and two talented men have their careers in jeopardy for something admittedly stupid but so inoffensive that Andrew Sachs himself didn’t feel it was necessary to do anything about it.

And now The Mail gloats. I don't think I could hate that paper more.

So, it looks like Wednesday's headlines – or, given the epic counting process, more like Thursday's or even next week's – will be 'Obama wins election in historic landslide'. Or, if you're a tabloid reader, 'MCCAINED'. Or, if you're a Daily Mail reader, 'Terror sweeps nation as black man holds world at his feet'.

Everyone needs to calm down a bit. It's not won yet. I know it would take something approaching a statistical miracle for Obama to lose now; that he has a six-point lead and the Republicans are already planning post-election strategies. McCain even looks like he's going to lose Arizona, his home state. Regardless of who is your incumbent, if you're losing Arizona to the Democrats you're really not having a good election.

I'm just saying: don't rule out a freak McCain victory. The main principle of Murphy's Law stipulates that "if anything bad can happen, it will happen" – and I can't think of anything worse than this.

McCain does seem to be trying his best to lose though. He's even talked about his plans to retire and spend more time with his family after the election. Don't say that! Never talk about what you're going to do if you lose. What makes it even worse for him is that the main concern for Republican voters is over his age – telling them you're all set up for a white picket fence and a rocking chair is the worst thing you can do. I'm all for honesty in politicians – sometimes, unrealistically so – but even if he was asked a direct question to this effect he wouldn't have to lie. Just say, "We can still win this" – which they can, even if it has to involve meteorites, a strangely specific outbreak of plague among Democrat voters and, in the words of Oliver Burkeman in G2, Obama having "an extramarital affair with a gay terrorist".

I'm less optimistic. McCain can still win this election, and stranger things have happened. If Obama wins, you've got plenty of time to celebrate – four years, if he doesn't cock everything up somehow. I know it sounds stupid to worry about tempting fate, and that is literally all I have this argument based on. But, at least for me, if not America and the world, just keep that champagne in the fridge for now, OK?

You lucky, lucky bastard.

Shootenanny! - Eels [2003]

This list is fast becoming an explanation of the learning process in music; how so many albums grew on me after I'd initially dismissed them. After narrowly choosing Gorillaz over Demon Days and learning to love I Am A Bird Now, we once again have an album that only found its way onto my list in recent weeks.

I've always sworn against the critics, friends and Eels fans who said Shootenanny! is a sly masterpiece, and sided with its highly underrated predecessor, Souljacker. There was no grand reason behind it; I just thought Souljacker, with its ace slogan 'YOU LITTLE PUNKS THINK YOU OWN THIS TOWN' on the cover, was a better collection of songs, thanks to such superb efforts as Bus Stop Boxer, Dog-Faced Boy and Jungle Telegraph.

But in giving both albums another listen when compiling this list (see, I do research and stuff!), I realised - once again - that I was wrong. Again. I'm always wrong, it seems, but at least in this case I have company. Fans and critics alike may love Shootenanny! but they don't appear to have listened to it properly.

Shootenanny! is described, from Amazon to the mouths of groupies, as E's 'happy' album, 'celebrating the joys of life' (no, really). I recall one review even said Eels had completely 'dropped the misery' that so defines them for one album.

This is bollocks. If these phrases were describing 2005's more optimisic follow-up Blinking Lights And Other Revelations they could almost work, but Shootenanny! is far from joyful - and that, by the way, is why it's so good.

With song titles including Agony, Rock Hard Times and Restraining Order Blues it's never going to be an easy ride emotionally, but that's what you get with Eels. Agony, in particular, is a heartbreaking piece of, well, agony that perfectly befits its jagged guitars and stabbing drums.

Most tracks are more obviously pleasant musically, but it's still tough stuff: Love Of The Loveless, an aching alternative anthem so subtly cynical E can only wearily murmur the chorus, is probably the most famous song thanks to The O.C. and it gives a good idea of the record's hurt.

What these happy-clappy easygoing critics probably mean to say is that, musically, E took a more middle-of-the-road approach to Shootenanny!. I'm still not sure I agree - every Eels album, even misery-fest Electro-Shock Blues, has had its mainstream singles - but there are, admittedly, more radio-friendly songs on this album.

Again, though, this is providing you don't delve deeper into the lyrics when twiddling those dials. Fashion Awards comes across as a light and lovely ballad until you hit, "We'll blow off our heads in despair" in the chorus (yes, it's ironic, but still). Rock Hard Times is pure bubblegum pop, except it features the words, "It's hard to laugh as you choke / Hope you like the rotten stench of doom." The music may be more upbeat at times but the words sure as hell aren't. You could list examples of the album's depressing lyrics until the cows come home and Anthrax themselves (one for the Izzard fans), but it still wouldn't convey the overwhelming misery of the record.

And it's fantastic. From the opening trio of quality tunes (All In A Day's Work, Saturday Morning, The Good Old Days - all excellent) to the semi-optimistic pay-off Somebody Loves You, via should-be indie classics such as Lone Wolf (wonderful song), Shootenanny! is a winner. I was wrong - again.

But, y'know, Souljacker's good too...

No Spotify link today, I’m afraid, nor tomorrow. Circumstances are beyond my control. Spotify links to #21 and #20 will come with #20 on Saturday.

I must apologise for some naughty words appearing in this post. Such are the dangers of talking about professional football. Rest assured, though, that it's not me providing the swearing – it's the managers. Irresponsible bastards.

The blog's also a bit truncated – i.e. short – this week. After a hefty analysis of the first Obama vs. McCain debate last week, I thought it might be best for me to give American politics a rest this time round, even with the Palin/Biden showdown having taken place this week. So this is more lightweight, in focus and pounds of virtual paper.

Finally, you may have noticed a new section to the blog, available on the wall to the top-right of the page, as promised in my last post. There's nothing on it yet, but it'll happen, and it'll be about online journalism (well, I find it interesting). You may choose to ignore it or you may choose to read it. Obviously I'd prefer it if you did read it but just so you know: it won't be my opinions on the week that passed, as this is. It's not really affiliated with Huw Davies' Week Spot. Well, it is, because it's me writing it. But it's not the same blog. It's not the same sphere. It's not the same Huw Davies.

It's blogging, Jim, but not as we know it.

And now: normal service resumes.

Chancer of the Exchequer
Churchill vs. The Daleks
FuKinnear

The BBC reports that Alistair Darling, Chancellor of the Exchequer, has said he is willing to take "some pretty big steps" to stabilise British banking and the economy.

GOOD.

I'm not saying he should, necessarily, because I don't understand economics enough to suggest whether interference would be appropriate or not, and whether taking steps would be better than waiting it out. But I'm certainly glad to hear he is willing to take pretty big steps. You'd hope so. Otherwise, what is the point in government?

He also said he was looking at "a range of proposals". That is not convincing. Apart from the fact that every politician in the history of the world ever has said that exact sentence – or at least, none that I know of has said, "We are not looking at a range of proposals" – it's disconcerting to hear it from the Chancellor of the Exchequer because it doesn't tell us anything.

It is not news. Or rather, it shouldn't be. I'd hope that we are confident enough in our government to know they would take the steps necessary to bring this country out of a hole. We should be. We shouldn't, however, have to be reassured they would.

The fact is that people want something more concrete than that. Back in the day it was good enough to hear "Hey everybody, it's gonna be OK" when the economy was hitting the fan, but now, when people are completely, horribly terrified of losing their money, they want to know the Government has a plan – not that it will find one, but that it has one. Until then, words are not enough. And, as Obama and McCain's failure to immediately convince the majority about their plans for the economy proved (sorry, that's the last I say about America), people are happy – well, not happy, but prepared – to learn a bit more about financial politics than they previously were. That's the level of trust we have in our politicians now. And given that Darling thinks we can still be placated by vague promises, it's justified and probably necessary.

Sad, innit?

It was Magazine Week all last week (or this week, if anyone reads this as soon as I post it), and to celebrate, Borders booksellers offered a buy-one-get-one-half-price deal on magazines and magazine subscriptions. Huzzah! Reason at last for me to buy The Oldie without feeling I should spend the money on pretending to be young.

There was also a poll, sponsored by the Periodical Publishers Association (PPA), to find Britain's favourite magazine cover. I know what you're thinking: what kind of sad bastard remembers their favourite front cover to a magazine? So to help us all out, a team of industry experts nominated some and whittled them down to a 'best of the best' shortlist of 16. Here they all are.

As those of you who have just looked at that link know, the Radio Times Dalek cover won. I'm not disappointed as such; more indifferent. I mean, it's an all right cover, I suppose. I'm not overwhelmed, but I'm not underwhelmed either. I'm 'whelmed'. It's a striking image to put on a front cover, but the 'Vote Dalek' slogan doesn't actually make any sense – it's just a very tenuous tie-in to the General Election that was happening at the time (if anything, it probably gained some votes from people taking the slogan as an order). So it's not all that clever, or clever at all in fact. Still, it doesn't need to be, and that's why it won. It's simple and it grabs your attention – and that's the point. Still, it'd be a downright lie to deny that a lot of those votes were members of the public thinking, "Ooh, Daleks!"

I honestly thought the NME's Beth Ditto cover would win, but I just as honestly hoped that Time Out would. It takes some balls to stick it to Winston Churchill – look how badly Hitler fared – but to do it on the anniversary of his death in the midst of some serious Churchillmania is about the bravest thing you can do as the editor of a magazine. Not only that but it's an amazing, attention-grabbing front cover; not to mention beautifully ironic in using Churchill's own 'V' sign as a 'fuck you' to the man himself.

It's a shame that Time Out is purely just a 'What's On' read now because we need some more political ferocity in our magazines, but maybe a guide to London isn't the best vessel for that. Still, we need something – before we all start voting Dalek.

I'm sure you've all heard by now about Joe Kinnear's verbal tirade against certain members of the media in his first official press conference as Newcastle manager. If not, here it is in its full glory. I love The Guardian for printing this, but in all honesty it's hard not to when, as a journalist, you hear, "Write what you like. Makes no difference to me."

Choosing the best bit of this fantastic rant – please read all of it – is hard, but my personal favourites are the start –

"Which one is Simon Bird?"

"Me."

"You're a cunt."

- and the end:

"Enjoyed getting back in the swing of things?"

"Absolutely. I've loved every moment of it."

I actually don't have much to say about Kinnear's outburst except that I would love it to happen in football more often – love it. It's great to see a football manager wearing his heart on his sleeve and holding his career with invisible tongs. And it's not as if it was a one-off: brilliantly, Kinnear had to watch his first game in charge of Newcastle from the stands because he never finished serving a touchline ban at Nottingham Forest four years ago.

He was, of course, wrong to have such a go at the press. They reported the truth: that he had taken a day off from training on his first day of work, and they merely cast aspersions to tensions at the club – which, when you're in the relegation zone with allegedly one of the strongest squads in the country (uh... ), is likely to be the case. And as manager, however temporarily, of a team in difficulties, Kinnear should be trying to calm the waters, not rock the boat.

But I can't judge someone who provides me with that much entertainment. And thanks to Everton's wavering concentration before and after the half-time break, Newcastle grabbed a 2-2 draw today. Maybe there's life in the old Toon yet.

Perhaps not for Spurs though.

Rabbit Fur Coat - Jenny Lewis & The Watson Twins [2006]

We - OK, I - kick off the list with an inclusion that probably surprises me more than you.

I liked Rabbit Fur Coat a lot on first listen, but couldn't see myself becoming completely enamoured with it. Good tunes, nice production, decent voice - I'll take it, I thought, but I won't take it with me to a desert island (in the unlikely event of being able to choose what I could take with me to a place I am forced to spent the rest of my life (take that, Radio 4)).

Yet I found myself going back to this album again and again. It is, quite simply, a very good album.

At its purest, Rabbit Fur Coat is a portrait of a youngish woman losing her faith in God but generally being pretty OK with it. It's an odd approach, but as miserably touching/touchingly miserable sulk Born Secular shows, it can work if pitched just the right side of cynicism. Lewis' heart isn't in the gospel refrain Run Devil Run; she's much more content sharing beers with her friends and praying once a week just because "it's a surefire bet [she's] gonna die" (lyrics from standout track The Charging Sky).

Clearly, a blues album this ain't, even if leading ballad Happy is the most misleading song title since Ironic. No, Lewis seems quite accepting of God's apparent absence, albeit in less of a live-fast-die-young way; more, "Well, since I'm going to die anyway I might as well listen to more Bob Dylan."

Indeed, the Minnesotan minstrel is a heavy influence on this album. Folk-tinged melodies, lyrics that steadfastly refuse to do something so boring as fit into metre or, y'know, make sense - Rabbit Fur Coat as a whole is more of a Dylan tribute than The Charging Sky's reference to his '80s beard or the cover of the Traveling Wilburys' Handle With Care (dutifully handled with care).

But that's perhaps doing Lewis a disservice. Her songs are intelligent and tender in equal measure, and there's an honest poetry in her lyrics:

Are you really that pure, sir?
Thought I saw you in Vegas
It was not pretty - but she was

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Spotify link.

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So there's the first, slightly overlong review - of #30, Jenny Lewis & The Watson Twins' Rabbit Fur Coat, released in 2006. And I managed all that without once mentioning Rilo Kiley, Lewis' acting or Ben Gibbard of Death Cab For Cutie and The Postal Service turning up in Handle With Care.

Ah shit.

Origin Of Symmetry - Muse [2001]

Oh, Muse. What happened? Why are you trying to become Queen? Why did you disappear completely up your own (or is it Brian May's?) arse?

Why don't you make albums like this any more?

It's strange what hindsight can do to one's appreciation of a record. Usually, when a band loses the plot some time later their earlier efforts are hailed as masterpieces. With Muse, though, their new... 'direction' taints it. It shouldn't, but it does. And so an album that once would have made my all-time favourites list drops right down the pecking order.

As it happens, this was chosen only marginally ahead of Absolution and Black Holes And Revelations, which stepped increasingly close to the pretension precipice before The Resistance gave up all, well, resistance and plunged off the edge. If that was the musical equivalent of jumping the shark, its two closest predecessors were the true happy days, when the horizon still glowed bright and the future didn't hold The United States of fucking Eurasia.

But looking back, Origin Of Symmetry is the album that Muse, if they never get back on track, should be remembered for (yes, I am writing their obituary here). It was the album that made them, both in terms of success - Plug In Baby and the radio-unfriendly six-minute Newborn became their biggest chart hits - and self-belief.

And in Origin Of Symmetry, it's justified. The opening opuses (opii?), a trio of classically-influenced pieces, fall just the right side of pomposity and manage to make prog-rock worth listening to again (ELO, we hardly knew ye). The unsubtle piano to guitar transition in Newborn, something of a shortlived trademark given later single In Your World's near-like-for-like copy, may be as amusing as it is rawk but it's still a great tune, while Bliss is a damn good pop song.

Space Dementia, meanwhile, is probably the album's best moment: the one time their original attempt to be 'Rachmaninov meets Rage Against The Machine' - their words, I seem to recall - worked perfectly. From the opening piano solo to the melodramatic rock 'n' roll ending, it's amazingly ludicrous and in turn, ludicrously amazing. Listen to Hullabaloo's live version for the full effect.

To Muse's credit, the album doesn't slow down after such a strong start. Hyper Music is bouncy, Plug In Baby is riff-y and impressively falsetto-y and Citizen Erased is Citizen Erased. This song has won itself into the hearts of Muse fans - it's probably the most beloved song they're ever made - and you can see why: an epic deserving of the name.

The lesser lights of Screenager and Darkshines (originally meant as a single), plus a now ubiquitous cover of Feeling Good that hasn't aged well, do let the side down but Origin Of Symmetry does end on a massive high with the bombastic, and in hindsight all-too-aptly titled, Megalomania. It almosts acts as a simultaneous epilogue to their first sound and the prologue to their next. It's brooding and dark ("The good news is she can't have babies") but utterly ridiculous (again, more so live), although in this case, the better for it. It's a fitting end to a top album.

Oh, Muse. What happened?

Spotify link.