Very excited by my Cress Head, I continued to be until it grew and proceeded to smell like pee. It doesn’t make putting the cress in sandwiches too appealing. Now Mr Cress Head is fully dead. He may have fallen out of the window too. Before it was dead, I got it ready to take some photos of the green hair and inadvertently stuck my thumb through its face.

Careful eggshell realignment took place and I had lots of fun (to the extent cress can be) with my E-P1 on full zoom, focusing on the tiny bits of cress hair. They look wonerfully intricate. So, pretend I’m talking in the voice of Jeremy Clarkson: Here’s cress. Up close and personal.

Woo, cress!

I loved the first election debate last night. I also didn’t realise it was the first ever. Thinking there was one every year, I congratulated myself on becoming politically savvy at age 22. Alastair Stewart, who upon knowing no other political news-type, I then declared must be Paxman with a funny haircut and rounder face.

With a sentiment tracker, feedback from Facebook and Twitter wheeling away, and occasional votes popping up to ITV online viewers it was ace because people on the Internet are far better are being witty bastards than me.

“This is the worst Kraftwerk gig ever.” -@vivmondo

“I keep on expecting Clegg to say, “…and we can offer you an extended warranty on that.” -@richard_baker

“David Cameron looks like a face drawn on a thumb” said @thingsbydan, drawing the picture.

We decided that GB looked like a trustworthy Dali painting and Nick Clegg amused me with his purposefully amusing comment: “Get rid of the black hole of waste by saving money on paperclips and pot plants in Whitehall.” I spluttered and giggled but it sounds shit on paper.

Despite Darwin Deez (aka Darwin Smith)’s New York twang appearing throughout his songs, I’m still surprised when it comes out of his mouth.

“Are you nervous?” I ask as he sidles about the crowd in typical vest, jeans, and bearably silly string-headband attachment.

“I was before, but not now” he admits, sloping off for a cupcake.

Soon to be playing as part of the NME Radar Tour, he’s playing at the sold out Black Heart in Camden organised by The Allotment, a small group of people I have more time for than the NME who work by the simple ethic of ‘we promote what we like’. It’s a gorgeous little venue; a box room where my hand’s greeted with a red pen smiley face drawn onto it. Naked orange filaments shine down and the squat stage is adorned with Orange amps, foam flowers and bendy rubber tube lights snaking about. The white-brick wall has 40s style up-turned lamps and balloons bundled about, and “Darwin Deez” in hand-made tissue paper letters plastered over it to the left of the stage. The whole thing reeks beautifully of home-craft and love.

We loiter and eat cupcakes.

The support, Extradition Order, starts and finishes; the singer belting into the mic with a habit of anxiously tearing his hair out as he sings, and the drummer pouting in the background.

Darwin Deez dive into ‘Hot Nights’ and ‘Up in the Clouds’, tunes pulled from outside their debut album. Three tracks later and the crowd is thick and stocky until the back wall. Jumpy, noisy notes blare out, crammed into the small space. They are long, pleasing five minute deals which keep and demand attention.

“I want to get drunk. On beer! Hah!” he says into the mic, laughing at the seemingly impossible task.

My research on Darwin Deez has extended to repeated watching of Radar Detector and a short listen to a couple of other tracks. Until I am saving face in a conversation, it does not strike me that they are in fact, a band. He’s joined by sister Michelle, without a string headband but with a penchant for diving into guitar beats with almost grungy grooving, and second guitarist Cole with a red and white striped top, rocking a faded denim jacket, backwards baseball hat and jeans rolled up around his ankles, teal socks pooling. The drummer beats zebra-striped drums. It’s a little bit indie alright.

The gig is infectious, fantastic fun and gets the first three rows dancing, unashamedly breaking the indie past-time of toe-tapping.

“I can’t see,” complains the fourth row, and when Darwin launches into the middle of the crowd with his madcap dancing they look shocked, and happily terrified. There’s a shriek and a pileup as they throw themselves at the floor before launching back into happy, greedy notes of Radar Detector.

The lights point down at the Allotment sign hanging over the drummer, leaving Darwin mostly in the dark. The crowd keep him lit with hectic, repetitive white camera flashes. The guitarists bop in and out of the light. They pull out great renditions of Deep Sea Divers, though throughout the gig no song sags.

They hit hidden pop hearts as Beyonce’s Single Ladies streams out for choreographed dancing which all four launch into with smiles. Hands waves and arms wield in silly choreographed routines similar to what, with a bit of effort, I could have hoped to make part of a Spice Girls routine aged 9.

“Thank you for the cake!” he shouts before heading off to return for an encore.

It’s playful, confidently happy lo-fi pop, it’s got people dancing and it’s entirely lovable.  We filter out pleased, keen to play Darwin Deez at loud volumes with smiles on our faces.

MySpace – Spotify – Last.fm
Flickr photos

A cat lives in our house. She is brown and called Sub-bass which is is a silly name for a girl cat, or any cat. She is quite nice for a cat but has no manners. She looks cunning when she covers her poo in sand. I am bitter at the cat for making me think crap like this.

This cat likes standing on things and being tall. He is quite elegant and I like his collar. If I had a posh cat that stood up I would call him Lucius and he would like books. He would also live in a dark green study.

This cat is called Rocky though, which is less brilliant and he is watching birds. It seems a good past time for a cat. He is not as good as Keyboard Cat though. I am apathetic about cats but if they make music or watch birds they can be my friend. Maybe I will demand Sub-bass makes a viral for me. I don’t think she has any good skills though.

More info on the cat at boingboing.net who have the latest low-down.

Steve Jobs has said something very good, which is surprising because I never really pegged him as a public speaker. It’s a brilliant speech – for graduating students which is appropriate to me but it’s a good thought generally. It’s like the diagram – if you don’t aren’t happy, change something – but it’s a little bit better and lengthier than that. Notably uplifting but good, with lots of warm smushing-feeling around the ears.

It made me think about dropping out of Hull University. This made me happy. When I went to University I had a lovely view that things happened as-such in life – with some sort of mighty life plan drilled in to me at some point. And then I left in December, after many long phone calls with me blowing my nose down the telephone, and the world has been a nicer place since.

It also made me think about where I’ll be in six weeks (working). Reading an ad creative’s blog like ‘If this is a blog then what’s Christmas’, it’s strange to see the job you want to do panned so bitterly. It makes me feel like a bit of an ass actually. At least it’s done well:

“[Of commentors,] 8% want to be a planner. I can see where you’re coming from. You are on the up. You are in the ascendancy. You have taken on the mantle of the asymmetric haircut and the Japanese denim. You are cuckooing the creatives into oblivion and it stirs warm your nerdy loins.

There are surely better, more enjoyable ways to make more cash for less work than the creation of ads. Even the skill-sets involved in being client friendly (account management) or doing research (planning) must be usable in a host of more lucrative industries.

Advertising seems like an office job with more glamour than most, so it sometimes attracts the kind of people who want money, but also the kind of people who want to bask in the perceived trimmings. But there’s a strong chance those perceived trimmings do not include ‘the making of great ads’ so much as looking like your life is more fun that that of your chums who earn more than you in The City.

You may have entered this industry with more ‘noble’ intentions, but you’re almost certainly spending your days with people who didn’t.”

As a Planner I’m going to organise and research stuff, rather than come up with swanky ideas. I will Powerpoint at you until your nose bleeds. Perhaps I will dive into gigabite-sized Keynotes. I will send large files by email. I will laugh manically from behind my chilled drink. But if its not great I shall take my researching, powerpoint, and cuckooing skills elsewhere – somewhere less glamorous and more happy.