A good weeding has removed a lot of the old drivvel, so apologies in the unlikely event you’ve been longing for the return of a cherished post from internet past.

I’ve not been sleeping that well lately. So as I was perusing my local ’superstore’, a Turkish operation selling all kinds of non-domestic branded goods, I was intrigued to come across this herbal tea. I’m assuming it’s the herbal tea equivalent of night nurse, as it’s got a moon and some stars on it, and it’s called Relax. It’s also 35% St. John’s Wort. It tastes just fine – kind of fresh, and herby, just like you’d expect from looking at the other ingredients (peppermint, lemon balm leaves, fennel seeds, valerian root and lavender flowers). I’m now just waiting to see if it has the desired effect.

However, today it’s been made ebay fodder, as a second hand Samsung D500 finally made it’s way to me. Now all I need to do is work out whether I want to accept the challenge of taking it apart in order to change the ‘definitely used’ aesthetic of it’s current fascia in to something more shiny.

Last Sunday we went on a bit of a day trip to South London’s Horniman Museum. I particularly wanted to go to see the exhibition on the Great White Bear (thirty four photos of all known British examples of taxidermied polar bear). They also have a walrus. And these beauties.

I’ve also learned that there is an alternative pronounciation of capo. Having always assumed this to be a one way street, straight up cap-oh, I was slightly disorientated to hear my guitar tutor offer an alternative pronounciation: cape-oh. I’m not sure it actually matters all that much. Tomorrow, I think we’re progressing to Wonderwall. I’m quite looking forward to it.

In other news, I recieved Richard Swift Collection: Volume One in the post today. It’s the first CD I’ve bought since the Jens CD – which has been almost never off my playlist, pushing Mr Lekman right to the top of my last.fm profile. Incidentally, I’m also pleased to report that a sudden recent gush of playing has pushed Radiohead into third place, overtaking ABBA who only really feature that prominently because I kept playing SOS, and forgetting to flick shuffle on before leaving it running.

I’ve decided that what I play doesn’t actually reflect what I like all that much very well. Which is a bit of a paradox, really. This guy has written a lot about the difference between Last.fm and Pandora, which I played about at the weekend for the first time, having deferred doing so assuming that they were more or less the same.

It makes for a good read – I had a similar idea of writing something down that compared all these music-comparision-suggest-something-you’ll-love services, throwing Amazon’s releational-purchasing “people who bought this, also bought that” into the bag too.

I’m generally coming around to the conclusion that it’s not very relevant for a computer to recommend something you’ll die for to listen to again. With a few exceptions, most people who know me can’t recommend me something I’ll fall head over heals in love with, so the chances of having some automated process that can is reaching the near impossible. I got thinking about how I’d got into Jens – who I now rate right up there with some of my favourite artists – and it really was a chance happening across an MP3 blog over Christmas. Jens’ closest match via Pandora is Belle and Sebastian, who although I like, I’m hardly their biggest fan, and it’s not like they’re unchartered land in my musical world.

As Steve Krause pointed out, there’s obviously a need for a mix of both the social upping of Last.fm, and the genetic musical matching of Pandora. However, for true new music discovery, I’m finding that it’s ultimately a matter of hard graft and exposure to more musical avenues. And by that I mean catching more MP3 blogs, podcasts and the like in addition to my usual diet. Something that filters out the noise would be great though…

I’ve been so impressed, that I thought that I’d get myself a little treat. It’s a cracking little box, and adds the necessary meat n. warmth as required.

It was John’s birthday, and I think the premise was to make it as surreal an event as possible. After the short registration process, we enter the main hall to be met with a wall of silence – bar the solitary voice of the caller. It’s the pre-main game, where you put a quid in the slot, and play with the plastic card that forms part of your table top. Not being particularly well versed with bingo hall etiquitte, the 15(ish) of us stand out like a bunch of noisy retards. The locals, seemingly unimpressed with the new – albeit temporary – players, hiss, sshh and tut accordingly. At the moment, the stakes are Galaxy Easter eggs, distributed by the bored looking teenage floor assistants, but they’re promised to get higher soon.

Still, there’s 15 minutes till the main game starts, and it’s time to hit the bar and buy the books of playing sheets – £10 for two, each containing six sheets. Brett is tonight’s caller. He’s a middle aged, greying American, with a suitably granny endearing manner and a touch of the Dale Winton about him.

And so it begins. After briefly explaining the rules – almost certainly for our benifit – Brett’s off. “55. Two fives. 55″. It’s a sure sign of ott political correctness when the only fat ladies in a bingo hall, are the ones crossing off the numbers as they’re being read out. The lady to our right again takes issue with our (quiet) murmours, and promptly ssshs us, with a kind of venom that would put a cobra to shame. She then sparks up her first Superking of the evening which she fails to smoke, prefering instead to leave it dangling over the edge of the ashtray allowing everyone else to enjoy the aroma. A tactic that would seem to be employed by the majority of players here. We are indeed surrounded by a circle of smoking elderly ladies and gentlemen, each one seemlingly less impressed by our presence than the last. But we’re here now, and we’re playing…

It’s a bit hardcore. As the numbers roll by, I frantically scribble them out on my sheet. After a short time someone in the other corner of the room makes some kind of noise, and the floor assistant rushes over to check the barcode on her sheet. She is indeed a winner. £10 for the first line, and the stake raises to £20 for two lines. Again, the numbers pass by, another squeak, another winner. The jackpot for house rises to £60. Which is promptly one by someone else. It’s starting to become obvious that this is a losing game.

Play continues until the end of the first book, when a few special games are played using cards and sheets that I’d not signed up for. And then… then it is time for the big one. The national link up game – joining up with all the Mecca bingo halls in the country – for a jackpot of ‘up to’ £100,000. It’s big money, and the regulars are all in. Brett is replaced by an introductory jingle that sounds like it was made at the height of eighties disco-pop and the link up has started. 6 numbers in and the first line has gone. This is due to be a quick game. Eventually, someone in Huddersfield picks up the winnings. Well done Huddersfield. We can hear clapping coming accross the speakers, but the regulars here are struck dumb through bitter dissapointment.

Soon enough it’s back to the main game, and the stakes have raised to a jackpot of £300. This is duely won by the lady in pink nearby. Two books down, and the closest I get to a sniff is three short of house. With the main game over play promptly resumes of the table top game – our cue to escape this insanity and head to a bar outside of bingo land. It was a fun experience, but I don’t think it’s one I’ll be repeating anytime soon.