Ed Sheeran and Sam Smith - Stage Might

In a recent interview with Radio 1’s Fearne Cotton, Ed Sheeran expressed a burning ambition to, one day, headline a stadium tour and, such has been the trajectory of his career to date, few would be surprised if he had achieved this goal within the next two to three years.

At present Sheeran is in the chaotic midst of a tour which he kicked-off in Osaka in August and will see him play massive venues in Lithuania, Switzerland and the Philippines before the house lights go on for the final time in Auckland in April of next year.

One diminutive redhead, his loop pedal and a beat up old acoustic guitar in front of tens of thousands of fans is a tall order; even for someone like Sheeran who is currently riding the crest of a tidal wave.

This week Ed Sheeran stomped relentlessly on his trusty loop pedal and strummed violently on that fabled under-sized guitar during two sold out nights at Manchester’s Phones 4 U Arena and, in the process, any doubts that that particular demographic may have had over his ability to rise to the occasion in bigger venues, were banished in emphatic fashion.

Aged 23 Sheeran’s rise to fame is somewhat cliché; humble beginnings comprising small gigs in smaller pubs, followed by the inevitable meteoric rise to stardom, which sees him now not only rubbing shoulders with the likes of Taylor Swift and Pharrell Williams but jostling for position with them in the charts.

In 2009 he claims he played 312 gigs and it is this work ethic, coupled with his humility, which has endeared him to millions of people across the globe.  Indeed, it is rare for such a niche sound and unconventional look to succeed in an industry which at times appears to have a very stringent set of prerequisites.

Ed has been forced to adapt to the big stage as the demand for his live shows outgrew smaller, more intimate venues.  The soullessness of some of these larger settings is something that both he and his fans will have to contend with if his success continues.

In Manchester Ed Sheeran showed that it is possible to make that transition a seamless one.

Combining songs from his new album ‘X’ (multiply) with a scattering of the songs (A Team, Lego House) that first allowed him to forge his scorching path through the music industry, one man, his loop pedal and that beat up old guitar delighted the ears of those in attendance.

His most recent single ‘Thinking Out Loud’ is expected to top the official chart this week and the performance of the track coincided with something seldom seen at an Ed Sheeran gig as he swapped his acoustic guitar for one of those new-fangled electric ones.

In this moment the yawning arena seemed to shrink in a moment of intimacy belying the vastness of the arena.

The blissful melody of Sheeran’s slower songs was shattered sporadically as he showcased his, often underrated, rapping ability and his astonishing proficiency with a loop pedal during ‘Bloodstream’ and ‘You Need Me Man, I Don’t Need You’.

By the end of the gig there will have been few in the arena left unsatisfied as to whether this young man can achieve his dream of headlining a stadium tour.  Talent, it would appear, transcends everything, so why not?

Just 24 and a half hours later another leading male in world music took to a very different stage in the same city.

There are many comparisons which can be drawn between Ed Sheeran and Sam Smith; they are separated in age by just 15 months and this year each has released an album of astonishing critical acclaim, yet, whilst Ed Sheeran rides serenely on his tidal wave, Sam Smith is on the next wave; one of tsunamic proportions.

By his own admission, as he paced the exposed floorboards of Manchester’s modest yet ruggedly majestic Albert Hall, it took Sam Smith a while to find his voice.  He left his ambitions of emulating Lady Gaga behind and started writing music that was ‘true’ and his debut album ‘In the Lonely Hour’ was the masterpiece which resulted.

Smith performs his songs - aided by a colourful and dynamic backing ensemble - as if he is singing each for the very last time, he loves this album, and in the cosy confines of the Albert Hall, that is clear for all to see.

But, like Sheeran, it is reasonable to expect that the success of this album will result in a similar requirement to meet the demands of his adoring public by reverting to larger, less characterful venues.  A challenge which he will have no choice but to rise to if he is to keep pace with his compatriot’s success.

Between songs Smith cuts an awkward, meek, figure, uneasy under the spotlight with an eternally grateful look etched across his face, as if he can’t quite fathom where his talent has brought him.  But when he sings he transforms into an elegant behemoth, comfortable in the knowledge that his voice is as miraculous as that of those he idolised growing up; Houston, Carey, Winehouse.

It was perhaps fitting that during ‘Stay with me’, two nights of music and the careers of two ludicrously talented young men melded into one as Sheeran, who had described the song as ‘his favourite’ of 2014, joined Smith on stage to perform a duet which elicited cheers that would have blown the roof off of any venue in the world.

Wimbledon (Federer vs Murray)

Fred Perry

76 years ago Fred Perry won Wimbledon wearing a highly impractical linen outfit, complete with belt and button up shirt, he was the last British man to do so - all those years ago Andy Murray’s father was just a twinkle in his Grandfather’s nut sack and yet today he has the opportunity to end Britain’s Wimbledon jinx.  Down on Centre Court Tim Henman and Boris Becker both conceal erections as Sue Barker quizzes them on their opinions of the forthcoming match. In the famous Wimbledon dressing room Murray regurgitates his pre match haggis, pulls on his lucky tartan underwear and heads for the court where his adoring public await.  Meanwhile Roger Federer, attempting to win his seventh Wimbledon title, listens serenely to classical music, the final second in his mind to the ever lingering question: ‘why, when I am so rich, is my wife so average?’  Switching off Vivaldi’s four seasons he too heads for the hallowed turf of Centre Court, now worn and dusty from two weeks of abuse.  The pair emerge to rapturous applause, Murray chokes back more vomit and Roger shudders as his wife blows him a kiss from her seat in the grandstand.

The first game of the first set is fraught with tension and the Scot comes out on top breaking the Swiss’ serve and installing hope in the partisan crowd that the scrawny ginger man, whose appearance defies all notions of a sportsman, could repeat the heroics of the late, great Fred Perry, now immortalised in bronze at SW19.  Federer’s touch resembles that of Jack the Ripper in the early stages of the match as he skews shots into the stand, giving the cameramen an excuse to focus in on future monarch Kate Middleton and her sister Pippa, who sit like two porcelain dolls being undressed by the eyes of the entire male population. 

The players take a well-earned rest after a limb shuddering eleven minutes of tennis. The score stands at 2-1 to the Brit who munches provocatively on a banana as my mind wanders momentarily to the issue of health and safety; why when serves often exceed 130 miles per hour are the line judges not issued with hard hats as standard? The players take their places back on the court and immediately Roger Federer breaks back as Andy fails to hit the furry green thing over the net which turns out to be quite a vital part of the game of tennis.

A Sight to Behold

Centre caught resembles more of a theatre than a Sports Stadium, packed to the rafters with celebrities, politicians and Sue Barker’s sexual conquests whilst Boris Becker talks of unforced errors and unpaid child support payments from the commentary box.  The fans of inadequate social standing, unable to get a ticket for the feature event, settle for a place on Henman Hill, possibly the only geographical landmark in the country to be named after such an undeserving figure.  As a football fan I find the silence that tennis is played out in unusual and rather eerie, there are no chants about the sexual persuasion of the umpire and the smell of stale beer, fags and despair is replaced by the pungent aroma of the on-looking Victoria Beckham’s new perfume. The first set ends with the inhabitants of centre court on their feet applauding Andy Murray as he holds his serve to win the set, fist clenched he heads to his bag and rewards himself with another erotically consumed banana, as his coach Ivan Lendl sits motionless in his seat, amid the ensuing chaos, paralysed with either nerves or boredom.

Beating Roger Federer in a set has the same effect as poking a sleeping lion with sharp stick; it makes him angry.  In a blur of floppy hair and thumping aces, Federer holds serve before half of the capacity crowd have even returned their backsides to their padded seats.  The set goes with serve, each player searching hard for a break in the monotony, but it evades both of them.  Games pass by in the blink of an eye in a flurry of thunderous serves and limp wristed returns; a tie break looms until Federer musters a set point out through a combination power and intricate craftsmanship.  One set all.

Andy Murray’s mother looks like an elongated version of Anne Robinson, she sits stone faced, eating a deep fried mars bar shouting sporadic words of encouragement at her toiling son, covering the back of Ivan Lendl’s head with a spray of deep fried confection. The heavens open.  Cue a scene of frenzied chaos as flocks of people wearing turf coloured jackets storm onto the court, disassemble the net and pull the covers across in record time.  The players are ushered hurriedly off court as if they might melt in the rain and the coverage cuts to the studio as the British summer rears its ugly head outside.

Mental Breakdown

The players eventually return to the court and exchange gentle shots with each other, like friends sharing a rally in the height of summer, before battle recommences under the engineering marvel that is the 80million pound roof on Centre Court.  Henman Hill is now a rainbow canvas of umbrellas, their owners gazing unerringly at the big screen, entranced by Murray and Federer, hard at work.  The third set’s sixth game is a turning point, lasting just shy of 20 minutes and consisting of six break points and ten deuces, it is a test of the players’ mental capability as well as physical stature.  The mammoth game ends in heart break for the Scot who looks weary as he fires a backhand listlessly into the net.  The players walk to their seats, one rather more spritely than the other.  Murray fails to recover his composure and Federer takes a smug bite from a Toblerone content in the knowledge that he leads two sets to one.

The fourth set is a drab affair lightened only by the insistence of drunken fools – who no doubt climbed into Centre Court, ticketless – punctuating the thick silence with slurred ‘Come on Andys’.  If the Scot doesn’t win this match at least the Murray genes look set to take a drastic up-turn in fortunes; his girlfriend sits angelically providing the antidote to his mothers’ stern, chiselled features.  Federer serves and with a puff of chalk and a flailing of Andy Murray’s racket, moves one point away from being crowned the winner of Wimbledon once more…  The inevitable is delayed momentarily as Federer strikes the net before Murray fires the ball long signalling the end of the tournament.

Champion....again

Federer collapses to the ground, hands clasped to his face as he attempts to comprehend his achievement amid a mixture of disappointed gasps, polite applause and utter reverence for this genius of Centre Court.  The presentation party assembles in familiarly efficient fashion and the players are awarded their trophies before Sue Barker thrusts a microphone in the face of the defeated Scot, who attempts valiantly to form coherent sentences in the midst of a mental breakdown.  He thanks his fans, coaches and family in a speech that coincides with the release of two and a half weeks of pent up emotion.  His words are forced through supressed tears, making it sound like he is delivering his speech from a massage chair.  Murray takes his final bow and traipses off Centre Court sparking a mass exodus from the grandstands as flocks of tweed clad spectators head for home.

With Fred Perry’s record stretching yet another year and Andy Murray visibly damaged by the defeat, there is only one question that remains, why on earth does the Wimbledon trophy have a pineapple on it?

Charity - Niemann Pick

A few months ago I made a grave error of judgement.  I found myself in Newcastle City Centre, labouring with a particularly vile hangover when I was approached by a woman in a coat so bright that it weakened my already shaky constitution.  She engaged my in a fairly one sided conversation and after a whirlwind couple of minutes I found myself leaving the scene having sent a ‘one off’ text donation in a bid to put a halt to the demise of the tiger in jungles the world over.

The orange lady’s bluster was convincing as she set about making me feel personally responsible for the dwindling numbers of these majestic beasts and for the rest of the day I wore my, ‘I’m helping to save the tigers’ sticker as a badge of valour and told anyone who would listen of my recent transition from being part of the problem, to being part of the solution. 

Bob Geldof - Charity big shot

My elation and pride were short lived, not 25 minutes had passed when the bombardment began and I received the first of around 50 calls from the, ‘save the tiger hotline’.  The man’s gracious tone, in light of my text donation did – albeit briefly – make me feel a bit like Bob Geldof after Live Aid, yet soon enough the conversation turned to commitment, (a terrifying topic for any man) as he effortlessly arrived at the words, ‘direct debit’ and ‘monthly donation’.  Needless to say I panicked and hurled my phone into the river Tyne.

The point that I am trying to make is that, for a lot of people, the only time that we will entertain the thought of giving to charity is after a skin full the night before.  This of course should not be the case and whilst saving the tigers is undoubtedly a worthwhile cause, the topic of charity as a whole is often greeted with an uneasy grimace from the general public.  A lack of information about certain charities is perhaps to blame for a lack of donations, as not all of the countless registered charities worldwide have the money to advertise on television or pay people to stand in the high street dressed in ridiculous jackets.

Two particular Charities that are lacking in any kind of exposure are the Niemann Pick Disease Group (NPDG) and the Niemann Pick Research Foundation (NPRF).  Niemann Pick is the name given to an extremely rare set of degenerative conditions for which there are currently no cure.  The NPDG and the NPRF are dwarfed in a competitive charity market by such giants as Cancer Research and Help for Heroes and aim to generate awareness of the disease and raise money in order to continue research into an effective treatment, as well as providing valuable support for those who live with the trials of the disease daily.

To put the rarity of this disease into some kind of context, imagine the start line for the London Marathon; a sea of colour, animal costumes and worried faces as the camera works its way through the crowd to capture the first regretful steps of those pushing their bodies to the limit to raise money for a number of charities.  Within those thousands of people there may be one or two running for a Niemann Pick charity, most likely those who have been directly affected by the condition.

Given my somewhat chequered history in terms of donating to charity it would be hypocritical of me to ask you to donate to this cause – that is not the point of this – the point is to raise much needed awareness of this disease.  The more people that know about it, the more that can be done to fight it.

You managed to sit through a thirty minute video about an elusive child capturer so I’d imagine that it is not beneath any of you to spare a couple of minutes to visit the website and make yourselves aware. http://www.nprf.org.uk/index.html Thank you.

Beauty

To quote Clint Howard’s character in The Waterboy, ‘I am not what you would call a handsome man’, if I were to appear on ‘The Love Machine’ I would most likely become one of Stacey Soloman’s unfunny footnotes as I am ditched and both the light in my booth and my self-esteem fade. It is no secret that my jaw has been the target of much ridicule over the years given its unnatural dimensions, leading numerous people to ask whether I have suffered a stroke or if I was dropped as an infant.  To the best of my knowledge, this is its natural shape.

I do have some redeeming features; I happen to think that my calves are exceptional – toned to perfection after years of running around football pitches – and I have seen far more horrific belly buttons in my time than my own.

Beauty is a touchy subject in our society but I am a firm believer of that old cliché that beauty is in the eye of the beholder; it’s the reason I have a girlfriend – either that or she has a fetish for facial disfigurements.  There are many superficial things that contribute to ones perception of beauty in another, for example, if a girls ‘beauty’ looks like it can be removed with the aid of a wet wipe then she immediately becomes a less attractive prospect.  This does not mean to say that all make-up is bad, rather that it should be applied sparingly – often the term ‘foundation’ is confused, which results in girls looking like they actually plan to build a house on their face.

The face of inner beauty

Jesmond, the plush suburb of Newcastle, is home to more than its fair share of ‘beautiful people’.  The girls float into the bars on drifts of cloud whilst the male population struggles to contend with dropping jaws and bulging crotches, yet contrary to the Hollister Co. employment policy, beauty goes much deeper than what can be seen on the surface.

I’d like to think that I possess a certain set of solid values that would ensure people perceive me as someone of adequate inner beauty; I always hold the door, I say please and thank you and I refrain from public displays of masturbation – all highly desirable traits in any human being.  Of course some people go that extra mile to cover up any physical imperfections by being exceptionally attractive on the inside.  Mother Theresa had a face that closely resembled a scrotum and therefore chose to spend her life helping the poor in her native India in a bid to appear more beautiful – it worked.

Ken Barlow - Pussy magnet

Alcohol is incredibly effective in blurring the lines of physical beauty which can result in a nasty surprise once the sun rises and the hangover kicks in.  At this point, less attention is being paid to a persons’ potential inner beauty and more to devising a quick and quiet escape route.  The truth is we all have our body hang-ups, mine is my jaw, whereas others may worry about their weight, but we can all take comfort and hope from recent revelations about William Roach (Ken Barlow), living proof that you don’t need to be beautiful, or interesting to be found attractive.

Quiz Shows

Television schedules these days are punctuated by a great many quiz shows on which contestants compete to win money, holidays, and above all, pride.  The viewing public play along at home, insistent that if they were to go on that particular show that they would perform significantly better than the idiot using two of his three lifelines before the £1000 landmark, or the bloke who thought it was Marilyn Manson who famously sang happy birthday to the President John F. Kennedy.

CJ - The evil face of teatime quiz shows

One of my personal favourites is ‘Eggheads’, where teams challenge a formidable quiz machine, made up of five from a pool of around eight expert quizzers.  Kevin is imperious, I have never yet seen him out-witted; looking at him, it is hard to imagine him doing anything other than digesting encyclopaedias in his one bedroom flat with the faint sound of Babestation in the background as his only company.  Daphne and Judith make up the female contingent on Eggheads and are often targeted as the weak links by their challengers, but despite preferring to spend their time scantily clad on street corners - rather than revising - they are seldom defeated.  The rest are an unimpressive blend of middle aged men whose flair for general knowledge is their only redeeming feature.  A paragraph about the Eggheads would not be complete without mention of possibly the most horrific human being on the planet.  CJ epitomises everything that is wrong with the world and whilst there are no amount of words that could describe how much the British population despises him, anyone who has seen the programme will know what I am talking about.

‘Pointless’ is a pioneer in the evolution of television quiz shows and is made all the more enjoyable by its dynamic duo of presenters, Alexander Armstrong and Richard Osman, who - when the roaring trail of fire that their quiz is currently blazing, dies out - could easily carve out a career in the comedy industry as a double act.  The concept of the game is a clever one; pairs of contestants must battle stupidity and nerves to answer questions with the least common answer (kind of like the opposite of the format on Family Fortunes).  For example, when presented with the task of identifying the world’s most evil men, CJ from the Eggheads would earn you a high score whereas Joseph Kony would produce a more desirable lower yield.  The four pairs that begin the game are whittled down over three rounds, before the final round in which the remaining duo competes for what is admittedly a pathetic prize fund when compared to other shows.

Not all of the newer quiz shows are good though; the less said about ‘Cleverdicks’ – Sky Atlantic’s recent stab at a quiz show - the better.  The show consists of a decrepit Ann Widdecombe - labouring with haemorrhoids - firing questions at an array of poorly dressed, yet unquestionably intelligent, virgins.

Ladies man - Roy Walker

‘Catchphrase’ is often cited as one of the best Gameshows ever to grace our television screens, in its prime Roy Walker hosted the show in which two contestants would compete against each other to correctly identify a plethora of animated catchphrases; ‘Say what you see’.  A great deal of fun to play from the comfort of your own home, ‘Catchphrase’ offered a lucrative reward for the victor, in the shape of a holiday to some far flung resort on top of any money accumulated throughout the show.  ‘Catchphrase’ and its famous mascot Mr Chips, saw a brief revival in the early noughties, post Roy Walker but the show was never the same without the Irish lothario undressing the female contestants with his eyes.

A mere 15 questions stood between contestants and one million pounds on ‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire?’ but few managed to reach that landmark, even with the aid of three lifelines.  One individual who did manage to conquer the 15 questions was Judith - of Eggheads fame - who nonchalantly answered the Million Pound question correctly.  One contestant on the American version of the show who, when faced with the life changing Million Dollar question, had the gall to use his final lifeline to ring his Dad and tell him he was about to become a millionaire.  Whilst the feeling of winning the jackpot is most likely the pinnacle of that person’s emotional capabilities, the feeling of answering one of the early routine questions wrong and leaving the company of Chris Tarrant empty handed must be hard to take.  This was never going to be an issue for Major Charles Ingram who, with the help of a coughing accomplice, cheated his way to £1,000,000.

Gameshows provide society with an academic outlet, a means of affirming one’s metal capacity and intelligence.  There are many components that make up a successful quiz show: a charismatic host, an interesting concept and a play-along-at-home appeal.  Britain’s love for Gameshows and the apparent enjoyment in watching others squirm under pressure will ensure that the producers at Challenge TV will remain in employment for years to come.

This guy has balls! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dsw3TILXXBk

Joseph Kony

Pure Evil

Evil comes in many forms, the visible thong protruding from a pair of size 20 jeans and allowing Adrian Chiles to present football are just two examples of evil in modern society and whilst the repugnant nature of an oversized thong exposed in public and the brummy’s droning nonsense are at times hard to contend with, we tolerate them with the knowledge that there is far greater evil in the world.

The majority of you reading this will have already seen the video that is doing the rounds on Facebook and I for one have not been as affected by an online video since ‘Two Girls One Cup’ emerged.  The video is an attempt to make the world aware of Joseph Kony.  Kony is the leader of the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA), a group that holds its roots in religion – members insist spirits contacted Kony directly to carry out this mission throughout Uganda.  It recruits vulnerable children to do its inhumane bidding, in a war for power.  Despite my hatred for oversized thongs I would much rather have the misfortune of being stuck behind a plus sized female than meet Mr Kony.

Furious

Kony’s ‘mission’ involves ripping the childhood away from entire communities as young unassuming individuals are snatched from their homes, handed guns and sent out to kill.  One of the celebrities supporting the campaign is Angelina Jolie who is unsurprisingly furious with Joseph Kony for stealing ‘all the good kids’ as she aims to strengthen her own tribe.

I, like many others, was ignorant to the horrific crimes being committed up until I saw the video on Facebook and at 29 minutes long, I had little faith that I was going to stick it out for the duration – my level of patience often leaves me unable to complete a sandwich – yet as the video went on I became more compelled to learn about the actions of this evil man whose global exposure is growing by the day.  The situation in Central Africa is summed up in the video by a young boy who says simply, ‘It’s sad’.  

The aim of the video is to raise awareness of the man who has reaped havoc in Central Africa for decades and ultimately overthrow him.  The term ‘Make Kony Famous’ is a recurring theme and  given Kony’s elusive nature it isn’t really feasible to increase his exposure in the usual way and put him in the Big Brother House.  The video is undoubtedly moving and thought provoking and no sooner had my faith in humanity been restored than it was ripped away by an army of cynics professing to know every detail about the LRA and insisting that a campaign on Facebook is frivolous.  The power of social media is not to be underestimated; in 2009 a campaign by fans of Rage Against the Machine to overhaul to grasp that the X Factor had on the Christmas number 1 was launched through Facebook and proved successful.  As humans we are criticized time and time again for not ‘doing our bit’ for third world countries, yet the Invisible Children Foundation is a prime example of a society working within their means to help others less fortunate.

The cynicism with which people have viewed this attempt to make the world a better place is the reasons why politicians would rather sit on the fence and pick the splinters out of their arses than commit to any kind of meaningful change.  There is no pleasing some people.

The man everyone is talking about, Joseph  Kony

Often we go to bed at night with worries on our mind and at one time or another these worries will force us to lie awake staring at the ceiling whilst imagining the worst possible outcome for whatever may be troubling us, be it a relationship, an exam or the fact that your football team is fourth bottom of the entire football league.  Yet all of these concerns – except maybe the last – pale into insignificance when we realise the panic that these children in Central Africa must feel as they lay down at night.  We have all heard fictional tales of the bogeyman, yet for these kids, it’s a terrifying reality.

How do you stop a man so focused on power that he will exploit the children of his nation to keep it? I am not saying that we should all board a plane to Uganda and hunt for Kony ourselves, this would be foolish and costly, I am merely echoing the message of Jason Russell and the Invisible Children Foundation to expose Kony for what he is and make others aware in the process.  So if you haven’t already, take half an hour out of your day to watch this video http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4MnpzG5Sqc  Enjoy!

Mobile Phones

The Evolution of the Cell Phone 

We live in a society when the event of losing your mobile phone is a more traumatic experience than losing your virginity.  We rely more heavily on our phones than anyone could have ever imagined when they first emerged as hulking monstrosities attached to the owner – tangled in wires - by a shoulder strap.  Mobile phones are no longer a device simply used for communication between two individuals and the advancements in the technology we now have access to are remarkable. 

The amount of time we spend with our eyes fixed on the screens of our phones and our thumbs clicking away has served to make us less social creatures over time, yet there is no doubt of the advantages to us brought about by the evolution of the mobile phone; it is far easier to call for help in an emergency rather than use Morse Code, for example.  Older generations are baffled by today’s technology and the effortlessness with which the youth of today use it – the look on the face of a parent when attempting to get to grips with a smartphone is similar to that of a young child when they first realise they have hands: utter wonderment.

I was witness to a conversation a few days ago between two girls, who could not have been older than 12, one of whom was lamenting her ill-fated decision to opt for a Blackberry as opposed to an iphone – when I was that age I was sporting a ridiculous haircut and a Motorola which weighed around half of my body weight, there was no danger of me losing it - if it left my pocket I would have floated away - and I was more likely to dent the pavement than shatter my phone if I were to drop it.  I realise now that if I pulled that phone out of my pocket to answer a call not only would I probably pull a muscle but also be looked upon as some sort of caveman. 

Owning a mobile nowadays gives you access to another world and one of many possibilities to be explored is the art of ‘Sexting’.  A popular hobby amongst professional footballers, ‘Sexting’ has really taken off over the past few years and is the process by which concupiscent men and women relay their sexual desires to one another via text message.  Its appeal is in its covert nature; the unassuming public have no idea of the lewd content of the messages that whizz by their ears through the atmosphere before reaching the handset of a person equally as hard-up as the sender.

Steve Job: A pioneer of Mobile Phone Technology

So what is the best phone? Does the Blackberry ensure higher social regard or is the iphone the more desirable smartphone? Could it be the case that the likes of Samsung and LG are making up lost ground since Steve Jobs kicked the bucket resulting in the ideas at Apple HQ drying up?  Nothing is clear and the competition will no doubt continue for years to come as the capabilities of these gadgets reach new highs but there is one universal nugget of knowledge, however when it comes to the topic of mobile phones, that is not up for discussion…

The Nokia 3310 and other similar models will forever be the undisputed kings of cellular phone technology.  They can perform all the basic functions you would expect from a mobile including - in some cases - the phenomenon of polyphonic ringtones.  On top of this, the Nokia brand is notorious for its durability and is often the only remaining piece of working technology recovered from the scenes of tsunamis and the epicentres of earthquakes, but above all of this there is one feature of the earlier Nokia phones – which in recent years has been inexplicably omitted – that sets it apart from all of its rivals.  This attribute saw the level of enjoyment on the average trip to the toilet increase dramatically during the late 90s, I am of course talking about that most addictive of games, Snake.  Gaming technology has advanced over the years in terms of graphics and the all-round aesthetics but games such as Temple Run and Angry Birds are flashes in the proverbial pan of mobile phone games, Snake will out-live them both.

Evolution of man is no longer determined by the development and advancement of mind and body but on our understanding of the gadgets that make the world we live in so fast paced and the dexterity of our thumbs.  Ever wondered if an iphone would survive being put in a blender? Here’s your answer http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DLxq90xmYUs Enjoy!