The disappointment of Dinosaurs.

Cardiff Arts Institute is a brand new bar slash gig venue that replaced Inncognitos on Park Place. Owned by the fellas that own super trendy Milgis and Camden Lock Tavern, CAI (please don't confuse with CIA, would Donny Osmond play a trendy place? Well yes, in a post-ironic fashion), looks set to be the new super-hip place to go. The barman sported a Blackalicious tee, had an iPhone and sideburns. Bethan Elfyn was drinking tea in a dashing cape and the Swn head-honcho that isn't Huw Stephens stood to the side laughing. Later on, many a hipsters who hang out in Buffalo, Clwb and Ten Feet tall were to be seen about.

Anyhow, my reason for heading there was to see a gig. Swn are now running regular gigs as well as their festival and they'd attracted Montonix and Totally Enormous Extinct Dinosaurs. More on the former later, for now we shall focus entirely on TEED as I will call them. Hailing from Bournemouth (perhaps this is just a guess) the duo linked to Hot Chip have been cropping up on the Blogosphere and HypeM charts for around a year now. They released their first EP "All in one sixty dancehalls" and have been causing quite a storm. Lead single "Bournemouth" (just callk me Monk) is a fresh, funky number that has been a favourite of mine for a good year now. The chirpy, light synths with peculiar samples underneath eventually give way to a thudding, driving bassline that causes anyone to hear it simply to say "Phewf!." Remixes have followed, most notably of "Xtatic Truth" by Crystal Fighters (an airy rework) plus more original tracks on the MySpace. A masked duo, who both dress as dinosaurs when they perform, they'd played Swn during the festival. The Thursday night show with Drums of Death plus the opening show in London, where the festival was officially launched. I missed both these and was super-psyched to see them at the CAI. As was my friend Greg, who would be looking forward to a "bangface" night. All for three quid as well.

We dragged as many people as we could along promising them amazing music and what not. Now, CAI is a peculiar gig venue. There is no stage! Rather, a lowered bit where the band, Monotonix had set up. I can imagine, if you gave a shit about the band, it would be fantastic to get so up close and be at their level. In fact, I was pretty psyched to see TEED in such a venue. Monotonix have no bassist and their sound is pretty raucous. Hailing from Israel, the very hairy trio play their gigs in their pants. Which is either rock and roll or complete shite. I'd go with the latter. The crowd swelled for them; people were excited. One pan-faced dick was stood inches away from the guitarist swaying before they'd even started. They opened with a several-minute long, sprawling guitar riff. Fine. That is fine. All until the lead-singer decided to clim about. I'm all for stage diving, crowd surfing and anything in between but fuck me, was this contrived. He started on one of the raised bits and stood off it, looming over the crowd. Then he proceeded to climb over people, stepping on shoulders and pulling hair before reaching the other side. Where he pulled a full can of trendy-beer Red Stripe and sprayed it over the crowd. Before further climbing and general "here is my hairy gooch, have it in your face." He then finally got down and the the show began proper.

Their crowd interaction is pretty cool. At times. They clearly relished playing in a venue like this, where they were at crowd level. The singer poured water on the drummer and his set, the cnares sending water spraying with every lash. He ran through the crowds, serenading people, stroking people. He ran upstairs to the bar, where we were stood and got in people's faces.

I feel I should talk about their music now. This clearly was all to disguise a pretty poor musical style. I love DFA 1979, their thrashing, snarling guitars are fantastic. Monotonix clearly owed a lot to this style but was such a poor imitation of it. At times they were trying too hard to be like it. I heard about two good songs in the 40 minute set. The drummer was tight and drove the band but they lacked something (a bassist probably) as their guitar wasn't strong enough to hold the rest. And I couldn't hear a fucking word the singer was singing.

Back to their showman ship. Dale, a friend we were with, said he'd never been at a gig where the band made him that angry. He left the venue. I don't blame him. The singer stamped all over the bar, drinking straight from a tap (biting a head off a bat? Ozzy, you aren't a patch on this lot) and pouring ice on his head. He then wrapped the cord of his Mic around Greg's neck and pulled. Their's crowd interaction, then their's violation. Ridiculous.

I couldn't wait for them to finish, truthfully. The crowd, of course, lapped it up. People snapped away on their iPhones, laughed joyously that the spirit of rock and roll was still alive. Still, the band were shite. They took the crowd outside and then finished up. It was fantastic when they finished! It meant TEED were on next.

Due to be on at twelve, I was a little concerned when very little in the way of scene-changing was taking place. In fact, Monotonix were sat on their gear on stage at around midnight. I asked the barmaid and she confirmed it; TEED weren't playing. Instead, they were doing a DJ set. A fact they didn't decide to announce to anyone. Granted it was only three quid to get in but fuck me, I felt like I'd wasted an hour of my life watching a shite band make a nuisance of themselves and cause three hundred quids worth of damage.

Greg and I were gutted. Outside, having a smoke, I told Greg what the barmaid had said. Someone overheard this and approached us. Only one half of TEED. He apologised for not playing and blamed Monotonix for it. The swines had taken up all the room Dinosaurs had needed and he couldn't set up. Fuck you Monotonix, not only did you hurt my ears, but you ruined my night. We got chatting to him for a bit, discussed various artists and how Brodinski is a fraud. Kind of like a dance Milli Vanilli. Remember them? And it was cool. He apologised and we said "We like your music mr" and he said thanks for coming down to not see him play.

Banksy do, Banksy don't.

The country has gone mental over art! Banksy, the graffiti artist who everyone knows, has put on a massively succesful exhibition over in Brizzle. Everybody knows who Banksy is but nobody knows who Banksy is. Every year it seems, HMV have stacks of his books on sale post-Christmas and every year and every year, they go unsold.

But his popularity should have never been in doubt. In October of last year, Banksy announced his largest exhibition to date. In June of this year, amid much secrecy, his exhibition was opened. Watching a segment the show on the news really made clear the showmanship utilised by the hoodlum that is Banksy. I'm not art aficianado and to be honest, I didn't even know he had plans for a show until I saw someone's photos of the exhibition on Facebook. Photos of every-fucking-thing, but this I shall come to later. The exhibition was so secretive that the staff and workers of the museum were told the museum was to be closed for filming; and they were given three days off work. Banksy and his man-dem then went into the museum and set about fucking their shit up. He installed his own creations downstairs, his exhibition even taking over the reception desk becoming a burnt out ice-cream van. Amazingly, for an exhibition of this size and importance, it was all free. I once paid to see the film Boat Trip, which was worse than having my nipples wrenched by a mong, and this exhibition was free? I could only speculate how disappointed they were not too charge by the size of the queue.

So as it was, Hannah and I set out on a day of standing around whilst shuffling forward a few yards every minute or so nice and early. Luckily Bristol is only a short train journey away so we hopped on the first train after nine (as it's off peak then and cheaper for us students) and made our merry way over into England. I like Bristol as a city. The accent can be mighty comical (try saying sexual predator in a west country jilt...hilarious ain't it?) but the city is lovely and the day we travelled, the sun came as well. The train there was delayed, for signal failures and as the strange man opposite me tutted incessently whislt we were stopped, we added more and more time to our queue.

When we did get off at Temple Meads, we were lost as to where the Museum was. Luckily for all concerned, I had my new phone with me. It has a maps function! How terribly modern I am. So I tapped in the postcode of the Museum and it laid out a lovely route for us to follow and, this amazes me, it follows you on the map. So you can't possibly go wrong. If this was a comedic tale, I would make a jape that we did go wrong but even going via Boots couldn't confuse my navigational device. Predicting mass queuing, the Boots pit stop was to gather our lunch as chances are we wouldn't be able to head off buy anywhere once locked into the system.

After a long walk through hilly Bristol, we spotted Ronald McDonald perched on top of a an old brick building. Banksy was near. We hastened our walk and saw the queue. I made the fatal error. "Oh it doesn't look too bad". That was the 3rd portion of the queue we could see. Getting round the corner revealed a bull-pen of hundreds of people slowly moving nowhere. Then a sign read; "Queue starts on University road". So walking past the bleating masses and round the corner reavealed a squirming line of a few hundred more. "It's about four hours if you join now". Expect the worse, be suprised when it's not too bad is how I live my life. So we tagged on.

Us British really know how to queue. Though it was obviously well publicised how long the queue would last for, it was never bad-natured and never did anyone try to push in. People were happy to let others disappear and come back from the shops or the toilets or perhaps HMV where they'd just gone to break the monotony. People came prepared with chairs, with papers, with friends. Everyone just got on with what they had to do. People shared drinks and looked out for each other. At one point, a lady near us went weak at the knees (she'd just clocked me, I'm sure) and people around her showed genuine concern, offering water and a hand. I believe it's what makes us British, really bloody British. So we latched on to the end at about half eleven in the morning for a day of solid fun.

I'm not impatient, in fact I have so much patience, I should be a Doctor, but my stomach is. My crisps went first, by twelve. Then by one I'd had my sandwiches. Alas, by two, I was hungry again. My appetite is an annoyance.

Anyway, the queue didn't hold much fun. I bought a Banksy quiz sheet and got bored of it promptly. I then found a newspaper in a black bag and we worked out our BMI's thanks to NHS Bristols roving PR handing out free shit. It was a productive queue. By the time we got near the front, it was gone half two and my excitment was erupting like Susan Boyle.

I have the bladder of a diabetic infant so I was desperate for a piddle by the time we got in. But, funnily, I had forgotten all about it. Considering we'd been queing for over three hours and in that time I had consumed around one and a half litres of liquid, I should have been spilling fluid but the excitement took over. The excitement in the museum was palpable. You walk through the museum and the first thing you are greeted with is the now iconic Ice Cream van. And you realise. This exhibition is truly special. Banksy is an icon; for radicals, for artists, for the thirteen year old kid tagging a phone box, for the bloke who's been made redundant and is disgruntled with the government. Banksy pokes fun at everyone; from religion to politicians to the clubbers and shoppers via the Police and tourists right on through to road signs and celebrities and even himself. The crowds that slowly make their way through the galleries of the Museum do so with smiles on their face, you can hear gasps of horror and shock and bursts of laughter. It's something.

You get pointed into the main exhibit first and the first image you see is a striking and an hilarious one. It's titled Neverneverland and it's of the late Michael Jackon luring kids into his cottage with sweets. The image has now been put with a ledge with candles and flowers on it, a tribute to his recent departure. This picture quite easily divides opinion. One girl exclaimed "It's not right". One woman told her boyfriend not to take photos as it was "defamation" and she was clearly shocked by it. I found it amusing. It's a great piece of art.

Leading on from ther into the darkened room which makes up the crux of the exhibit, you're met with an organised mess of paintings, installations and photos. On your left is a huge, fenced off area which is a mess of newspapers, trolleys and cuttings with a recording of famed twat and shit-talker John "I bloody love the sound of my own voice" Gaunt criticising Banksy and calling him a vandal. The little images surrounding this bit gave a lot of joy. Peaches Geldof's face plastered on a wall in Africa; a hypocritical Davina McCall hugging a small boy in Africa. In pencil, Davina is saying "I feel your pain" whilst the small boy says "You're on my foot". Further along, there's a picture of a door, underneath it says "Portrait of the Prophet Mohammed (reclining nude). I laughed for a long time about it.

My favourite quote of the afternoon stemmed from one of these images. A group of folks from Bournemouth (I know this because I eavesdropped) had travelled up and one of these dicks decided why he loved Banksy so much. One of the images was of a burnt out Transit and on the side, it was scrawled "Bomb Disposal Unit". Now mr Bournemouth and his flagon of cider explained why this image was so good. "Right, this is why I love this guy so much. See this one here, all he's done is, right, all he's done is drawn on an exisiting van. He just wrote that on there and that's why he's so good." He sounded like such a goon.

Across from Goon's opinion on the obvious, there's a starting stencilled image of a young African boy in a sparse land. He's holding a bucket and he's wearing a shit screaming "I HATE MONDAYS". Next to it, two overbloated western folks are being pulled along on a cart by a small boy. The Lacoste symbol clearly visisble on the fat-man's polo shirt, his phone being pointed to take a photo of the struggling boy.

Opposite that, a large wall lying down with vomit on it, being sweeped "under the rug" as it were. It's hard to describe it all. I mean, I walked around looking at every piece, stroking my chin and saying "yes, but is this art?". The bold decision to allow photography in the exhibit meant people were not looking at things, rather living it through the viewfinder on their screens. Something that I found rather ironic.

My Super Sweet 16 Infuriates me

I'm 19 years old going on 20.

I should invite the Super Sweet 16 crew to film my party and what not. Here's how it would go:

-I wouldn't have a party planner
-My outfit would cost a grand total of 100 pounds (Jumper from Hobos, Primark tee (3 pack for 2 quid), Topman jeans and Base shoes)
-I would set up a facebook event (you can film me clicking people to invite)
-You can see me not giving a shit if people have said no.
-You can see me deliberate over the venue (The Union or Oceana)
-Me ringing them to ask if they are open and happy for me to come (I AM A VIP)
-Me doing my big performace (ranging from the Turk dance to showing my pants)
-Possible disaster of vomitous or argument.
-Everyone leaving to my big present of a car (a black Hackey Cab)
-Buffet of cheese, chips and gravy

Sounds fucking beautiful.

But really, its like fucking yes, there are rich people out there who hire out posh nightclubs, decorate them to their standards and get given a car and a trip to New York at the end of it. But 90% of 16-20 year olds who would like a party like this, wouldn't be able to afford it.

I watch it and feel sick at some of the conceited people on there. Andre Spence I am looking at you. He epitomised the type of people who shouldn't be allowed to spend money. I think it was his 18th birthday and he hired out a nightclub. Bitched that it wasn't ready and then patronised the guy trying to kit it out for him. Then badgered his mum saying "what's my birthday present?" and generally being a spoilt little cunt.

It's so annoying to watch. That's my hopes for my party up there. I'll get drunk and go to a club, go get chips and go home with Hannah. And that's fucking perfect for me. These people get pissy because they don't get a huge performer or if they don't get a fucking fantastic present like an elephant or a diamond encrusted shitter, thet say there birthday is ruined.

Fuck off.

This country has gone to the fake dogs.

Two nights ago, I witnessed two hours of car crash telly. One hour based on 64 stone, super-morbidly obease (sounds like a super hero) Renee going to have gastric surgery to save her life. The second hour about reborns which are fake babies.

The first hour was hard to call. Renee was clearly struggling with weight problems from her genes but then there was a story of her hiding food and just eating everything. You felt sorry for her kids seeing there mum like this and you felt sorry for her as she clearly was depressed. But it was hard to feel massively sorry for her if she was just over eating.

The second hour had me flabergasted and unsure whether to laugh or cry. It started with the maker of reborns going into Tescos and, fucking hilariously, asking people if they wanted to buy a baby. Oh what a wit. She was selling dolls. Dolls so realistic, it was like something out of twilight zone. Reborns are based at people who are sad when there kids grow up. Is that morbid? Or is it just me? These parents, mothers, loons and mental-cases buy these reborns to replace the fact there kids aren't one anymore. That's fucked up. "Sorry John, now that you're two I don't care for you so I shall buy a fake baby to replace you". Thats beyond insane. I thought having a kid was an emotional journey from seeing them born to sending them away to University and then seeing them marry. Not getting bored of them and replacing them with a bonafide doll.

I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. One woman in particular had 5 of these dolls and was off to America to collect "an open-eyed smiler" as a new dolll (Which, in a brilliant twist, cracked on the way to her hotel. She found out just after she began to love her). She was a doting mother, taking her "babies" out for walks and putting them in car-chairs for car journeys. She was sad. Her and husband didn't want real kids as "she was too fussy. If she could pick one off the shelves, then great". Thank God she doesn't have kids then, silly bint. Her husband looked bemused as at times, she corrected him for referring to them as dolls not babies. She then went to Harrods and bought a 300 quid outfit for her new doll. ON A FUCKING DOLL! What is wrong with her? Her look in her eyes when dressing them was one of love and you think, jeez, something is truly missing in her life when she dotes on these dolls like a real child. But then, that being the case, would you trust her with a real child? She treats a doll like a real baby, and taking into account previous statements, would she treat a baby like a doll?

Then there was the sad case of Christine (I think that was her name). She had a grandson named Harry who had moved to New Zealand with his parents. Christine had looked after Harry for long periods due to his mothers illness. But now he was gone and she was lonely. She heard of the reborns and decided to get one moulded in the style of new born Harry.

Being a noob to the doll scene, she visited a woman who, quite possibly, had 43453 of these dolls, one in the style of the smallest-size a new born could survive at. Truly hideous. I felt sick and violated. Her husband summed it up in one phrase. Sad. And it really was. Christine stated that having a pram and a baby in it made her someone. It's truly saddening to think, this Parent, Wife and grandmother felt so low and even unaccomplished that she had to buy a baby to justify her existence.

It was hideous telly too watch. Her husband didn't like Harry mark 2. And it was clear to see why. It was just vile. Seeing these women parading these dolls as if they were real. Giving them back-stories, spending ridiculous money on them and then acting offended that people are freaked by them. It could have been America, it should've been America. But this freak show is British. The woman who creates them (they are oven cooked funnily) said she has cried when giving some away. Thats beyond insane. It's just wrong.