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Back in January I launched the quiz which abjectly failed to set the internet ablaze.

And now it’s back! I, Tiny Dan, with my limited height and ropey command of English will present to you some lyrics from popular music rewritten, as I imagine, by the mind of Super-Posh Rufus.

Rufus quite rightly pointed out to me that the last attempt was rather more like Viz legend Mr Logic with words simply substituted for other words – so, this time, I’ve tried to genuinely ‘Posh It Up’. Once-listeners to the Steve Show, imagine S-P Rufus reading these lyrical conundrums to you.

Also, last time, the quiz was frankly far too easy – especially since I’d suggested the winner might win a million quid. So, this time I think it’s tougher.

The prize is either a mention in the comments section at the bottom of this page, or a Tropical Ireland. Yes, that’s right, a Tropical Ireland. Because I’m a bit drunk, I’ve typed it wrong. But I’ll stick with it – a Tropical Ireland. So, get this right and you might win the country of Ireland which I will then tow towards the equator for the favourable climate contained therein*.

Same rules as before. Here follows four song lyrics rendered in Super-Posh language. If you can return them to their original state, tell me about it, using the form at the bottom of the page.

UPDATE 12-03-10 – this exciting internet-inferno-ising competition is now closed. Answers below.

Super-Posh Lyric #1 – Get Outta My Dreams, Get Into My Car by William “Billy” Ocean
I say! (I say!) You! (You!) You there! Young lady! Young lady! I say! Young lady! I say!
(Hey! (Hey!) You! (You!))
Are you referring to my own person?
(Who me?)
I am! Indubitably! Enter my motorised vehicle immediately – and without delay.
(Yes you! Get into my car)
Woo! Wah! Affirmative!
(Woo! Wah! Yeah!)

Super-Posh Lyric #2 – Pull Up To The Bumper by Graceford “Grace” Jones
Perambulating around this urban environment
(Driving down those city streets)
Currently in abeyance ahead of future cavorting
(Waiting to get down)
Would you be awfully kind and produce your hulking apparatus?
(Won’t you get your big machine?)
Which is, I believe, located with this conurbation?
(Somewhere in this town)

Super Posh Lyric #3 – Because I Got High by Alfred “Afroman” Moorthwaite
It was my intention to engage in conjugal relations with you – but I became intoxicated
(I was gonna make love to you but then I got high)
I fully intended to devour your kitten as well – but, regretfully, I entered a state of inebriation
(I was gonna eat yo pussy too – but then I got high)
At this moment, I am currently involved in an act of onanism, and I am fully aware of how this situation came to pass
(Now I’m jacking off and I know why)
It came to pass because I became delirious on a form of either Colombian, Jamaican, Maui or Panamanian wowie and I fear it caused some kind of freak out
(Because I got high, because I got high, because I got high)

Super-Posh Lyric #4 – Peaches by The Stranglers
I have obtained from somewhere (precisely whencetofore, I am regretfully unsure) young lady, the idea that you are in possession of a chemical unguent which will enable me to filter harmful UV rays – and that said embrocation is currently situated within the carafe which is currently about you
(Well I got the notion girl that you got some suntan lotion in that bottle of yours)
Would you be so kind as to extend and proliferate some of the aforementioned liniment upon my desquamating epidermis?
(Spread it all over my peeling skin baby)
Ah, that is a most satisfactory sensation
(That feels real good)
Goodness. A preponderance of doxies appear to be revelling in the brilliance of the day
(All this skirt – lapping up the sun)
Make whoopee with me, I implore!
(Lap me up)
What good reason can there be for not engaging with this?
Go on a spree with my own self!
(Why don’t you come on and lap me up?)

(* Please note, the prize will be either a Tropical Ireland, as described above, or a mention in the space below this article on the page. I’ll decide on the day, but given the logistics of moving an entire country half-way around the globe, it’s likely to be the mention, to be fair)
~(Addition 12-03-10 – yup, it was the mention)~

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No one would have believed in the early years of the 21st century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences far weaker than those of most people.

But they were – on Sunday afternoons, by a little-loved posse on obscure digital radio station 6Music hoping for something in the news they could take a sideways glance at in order to please celebrity show overlord Stephen Merchant.

I, dear reader, I, Tiny Dan, was the most unpopular of that posse. Yet despite the vitriol, the protests and the car bombs sent my way it was my dream job – because I got to occasionally play one record during the show (which I couldn’t always attend owing to other work commitments).

Steve was famously stern about what was and what wasn’t acceptable, but I always thought his need for things like ‘melody’ and ‘meaning’ were foolish.

After all, what use is pop music if it can’t occasionally be overblown, pretentious, nonsensical and brilliant.

Jeff Wayne’s Musical Version of War of the Worlds is all of these.

It’s a stupid concept. A prog-rock influenced take on a Victorian novel imagining an attack by Martians. Him off of The Moody Blues is involved. David Essex too. Phil Lynott. Richard Burton. Richard fricking Burton! Seriously, if the album wasn’t so well-known, you’d assume I’d used a random name generator to help me make this up.

The final work is utterly, insanely, gloriously, wonderfully over the top. I’d not heard it since the days my dad’s vinyl copy was on heavy rotation on the family Tiny Dan turntable (yes, I used to sit on it, like it was all some kind of dang playground roundabout).

I’ve since digitally downloaded it and was struck by how J.Wayne absolutely goes for it. Twelve-minute D. Essex track with military electronic percussion? Check (Brave New World). Tear-jerking bona fide hit for ex Moody Blue? Check (Forever Autumn). Staggeringly brilliant opener with orchestral riff to die for? Check (The Eve of the War).

Sure, he must have got a bit lucky. I’ve no idea how he got R.Burton on board, but the many-wived Welshman could invest a Chicken Cottage takeaway menu with gravitas, if he recited it. He also gets some magnificent yelping from P.Lynott and he must have rustled up an extraordinary synthesizer budget from somewhere.

That last one brings me to this particular track (at last – word count Ed). As well as being bonkers, JWMVOWOTW is undeniably influential.

And The Red Weed is as beautiful and unsettling a piece of electronica as you’ll have heard before or since.

There’s a genuine strangeness to it – an unearthliness if you will (Nice – Martian-themed puns Ed) – perfect given the context of the tune (at the point in the story where Martian ‘red weed’ begins to take over the English countryside).

I’m not aware of any subtext, any hidden meanings here. Just a spooky refrain aurally illustrating an imagined spooky view. And weirdly lovely with it.

* Tiny Dan postscript – fans of live performances of crazy prog-rockish concept albums based on Victorian novels might like to know that they’re still doing this thing live. Sadly, they’ve brought in an Atomic Kitten and a Neighbours. Him off the Moody Blues is still there mind, while Richard Burton has been replaced by, er, an 11-foot hologram of Richard Burton.

Have you ever been replaced by an 11-foot hologram of Richard Burton? Maybe you were obliterated by a martian heat-ray in the late 19th Century? Or perhaps you led a hostile invasion of another world and set about exterminating the dominant race before falling foul of the new world’s tiny bacteria. D’oh! Tell me about it. Go on. Dare you.

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It was a wise, prescient man who once wrote: “January is a bleak, depressing month, brightened only by the occasional snowball fight and the fact there are no wasps.”

Well, as an antidote to this rubbish one-twelfth of the year, here’s a fun activity which will help you pass up to and including five minutes of the month.

Last year, before I lost my dream job of occasionally appearing as an unpopular fourth member of a little-loved posse which made comments in the background on a Sunday afternoon radio show on a DAB station hosted by Stephen Merchant off of the telly, I forged an unlikely friendship with the far-more likeable Super-Posh Rufus.

It was an unusual bond, certainly. There I was, an open-mouthed bumpkin with straw in my ears, alongside the urbane, witty actor. I’m pretty sure I was little more than a Pygmalion-type experiment for him, or maybe a bet, like Eddie Murphy was to Ralph Bellamy in Trading Places. In any event, we had a few laughs.

And I took to wondering: What would today’s slang-filled, superficial pop lyrics sound like to his super-refined ears?

To that end, I built a massive supercomputer, which could translate said lyrics into the language of ‘Super-Posh’.

Here, I present four well-known lyrics after they have been fed through the translator. Your task is to translate them back into the original English. I’ll smash up the actual answers here on Monday.

Post your answers below, and I’ll give the winner either a million pounds or a short sentence explaining why they won (it’s a 50/50 chance, I’ll choose on the day).

UPDATE 18/01/10 – This competition has now closed, the answers are below.

Super-Posh Lyric #1 – Billie Jean by Michael Jackson
I’m rather afraid it’s my solemn duty to report that Ms William Jeannette is not, as has been stated elsewhere, my paramour
(Billie Jean is not my lover)

Rather, she is merely a damsel, and furthermore, one who has made a false claim to my exclusivity
(She’s just a girl who claims that I am the one)

Unfortunately, for the purposes of clarity and veracity, I must stress that the infant to which Ms Jeannette refers is most indubitably not my male offspring
(But the kid is not my son)

Once again – Ms Jeannette has made a claim uponst my exclusivity, but sirs, I reinforce the sentiment that the juvenile has little or nothing in the way of blood ties to my own good self
(She says I am the one, but the kid is not my son)

Super-Posh Lyric #2 – Three is the Magic Number by De La Soul
Thrice
(3)
That amount, sir, is – to my mind – an amount equivalent to an act of conjuring
(That’s the magic number)
Indeed!
(Yes it is)
It is an amount pertaining to wonderousness and extraordinarytude
(It’s the magic number)
It is understood by myself that there is a location within this youthful body politic (which accommodates the music of rap, the dancing of break, and also the art of graffito)
(Somewhere in this hip-hop soul community)
Wherein the natal day of thrice and my most excellent companions Mase and Dove took place – alongside my own
(Was born 3, Mase, Dove and me)
And that is the numerical which mystifies
(And that’s the magic number)

(I say, I’m awfully confused by this)
(What does it all mean?)

Super-Posh Lyric #3 – Girls and Boys by Blur
Lassies, who are chaps, who are well-disposed to striplings resembling doxies, who perform whippersnappers as though they were sweet things, who take on the form of tootsies to all ends and purposes resembling fellows
(Girls who want boys who like boys to be girls who do boys like they’re girls who do girls like they’re boys)

Perenially, one must ensure that one’s heart is a-flutter
(Always should be someone you really love)

(I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say, I say)
(oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh)

Super-Posh Lyric #4 – Forgot about Dre by Eminem
The current fashion is for people to indulge in vehement oratory, creating the impression of pertinence
(Nowadays everybody wanna talk like they got somethin’ to say)
However, the motion of their lips is moot; they produce little in the way of improvement
(But nothin’ comes out when they move their lips)
Rather, they emit pure, unadulterated balderdash
(Just a bunch of gibberish)
Also, these mater fornicaters foolishly appear to have forgotten about Dre
(And these rotten eggs act like they forgot about Dre)

Tune in for more preposterous translations of popular music next time!

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The trouble with these internet lists is that they’re so hysterical and needy. It’s always ‘The 10 best this’, or ‘The 15 worst that’ – or the ’10 weirdest sexual the other’.

‘What about the middle ground?’, you reasonably suggest, at an audible - but not excessive – volume. ‘Where’s the list for the non-extreme?’ you add, always being aware of other viewpoints as you aim to come to a rational, fair conclusion.

Well, moderation fans. It’s time for you to rejoice (or at least feel suitably pleased, whatever it is you do to celebrate).

I, Tiny Dan off of Stephen Merchant’s now-defunct BBC 6 Music Radio Show (I was often referred to as the John Lennon Pete Best of the show’s posse, you know) have spent a certain amount of time, not too much, recalling a few things about the period 2000-2009 which are a bit of a letdown. 

And, in a first for the internet, my thoughts are being presented in list form.

It’s what the 3,653-day period which made up ‘The Noughties’ would have wanted if he/she was still alive and/or a person.

TEN YEARS – FIVE HURTS 

5 – Me stopping being young
One of the many great evils about life is that it must be lived chronologically. Thus, having forever been young and inexperienced, you don’t have the experience to deal with finding yourself no longer young and inexperienced.

It’s difficult to put an exact date on when I realised I was no spring chicken. But the first tiny sign was in August 2001 when So Solid Crew’s ’21 Seconds’ got to number one. It was the first chart song I genuinely didn’t get.

‘But it’s crap’, ‘It’s so boring’, ‘It’s just annoying’ is what my 27-year-old self would say before realising with horror that was exactly what the older generation always said about my music. (Although I did quite fancy Lisa Maffia.)

That tiny, but so solid drip of doubt soon became a gushing torrent of bewilderment at the whole of youth culture – before long I was wandering the streets, tears streaming down my face, brandishing a printout of the latest Top 40 while bellowing ‘Do you understand?!? DO YOU?!?!? No? NO? NEITHER DO I?!?!! HAHAHAHAHA!!!! NEITHER DO I?!?!?!!!!11111!!!1!111!11111!!!!!11!!!11’ at innocent passers-by.

4 – The England Football Team
Ten years of football, of course, could fill this list a million times over – or one uber-long list with five million entries. I’ll keep this one brief. Please, England Football Team, can you stop being so well-paid, pampered and rubbish at major tournaments? Cheers ta.

3 – The continuing appropriation by corporations of great soul music in their adverts
I famously played Ernie K Doe’s brilliant funk up ‘Here Come The Girls’ on Stephen Merchant’s 6 Music Radio Show on September 2007 – I can prove it.

Two months later, popular pharmaceutical combo Boots used it to soundtrack their Christmas TV ad campaign.

Coincidence?

Yes. Of course it was. Don’t be ridiculous*. But how annoying was that, then?

Don’t get me wrong. I’m all for the wider dispersal of music within our culture. I’m not one of these awful people who thinks obscure=good and popular=bad while ironically wearing a flat cap in Hoxton eating ciabatta and making ‘lifestyle choices’ with my latest app and laughing too loudly with my hairstyled friends. That sort can bum off. But look:

• In 2003, fast foodsters KFC used Marlena Shaw’s California Soul to sell their fried chicken product
• In 2005, stubby pen-utilising retailer Argos used Jean Knight’s Mr Big Stuff to sell their bafflingly broad range of consumer durables
• In 2004, creamy alcohol pushers Baileys used 4Hero’s sublime cover of Les Fleur to sell their brown booze
• In 2001, Panthenol Pro-Vitaimin B5 lovers Pantene used Jackie Wilson’s Higher and Higher to promote their plastic tubes of hair goo
• And in 2003, perennial ‘We’re healthy, us!’ tryhards McDonald’s used Booker T and the MGs’ Green Onions to promote their plastic tubes of hair goo, sorry, food.

This list could go on (yeah, and you could’ve put some bloody jokes in it too – Ed), but I’ve got a home to go to. The point is, there is nothing less cool than aligning music with a specific consumer product. And I shudder at the thought of the foaming mouths of the Marketing Brand Promotion Audience Impact Re-Imaginers as they cackle over their next Tune/Product Alliance Initiative. 

Naturally, it’s not so simple as what I’ve done gone put there. Those Capital Analyst Product Synergy Advertiser Pro-Actives do indeed foam at the mouth (and they’ve got funny, small, beady eyes), but their relation with the art isn’t all one-way.

Yes, many bands are happy to have their music used, yes, the financial rewards have helped many subsequently produce good work, yes, some of these ads are genuinely good/interesting/funny and, yes, the exposure will introduce some new fans to music and, hey, doesn’t the end justify the means?

And yes, if Boots want to pay me to use this blog to advertise their EK Doe-themed wares, I will of course listen to their offer and almost certainly accept (Tenner a word Mr Boots? Just in case you say yes – here – are – some – utterly – unnecessary – words – which – have – just  – earned – me – an – extra – one – hundred – and – eighty – quid. Ace (£190)).

But I’ve always had a deeply personal relationship with my music – it connects uniquely with me, it will evoke a particular time and place which is special to me. To have that same music co-opted by homogenous multi-national corporations in the interest of generic product promotion simply strikes a bum note.

(* If you know otherwise, drop me a line. I don’t think there are any conspiracy theories out there on the internet at the moment, so we’ll be breaking more new ground)

2 Breaking News; the devaluement thereof
When I was a nipper, a newsflash was a rare event, requiring something truly epochal to be occurring. I remember the feeling of dread as a terrifyingly stark title card was accompanied by the emotionless words ‘We interrupt our regular broadcast…’ along with a sudden lurch in my bowels.

Now, our multitude of 24-hour news broadcast operations will flash their ‘breaking news’ graphics – the modern-day equivalent of sombre grey-suited Leonard Parkin busting in to the 1980s telly schedules – quite literally at the drop of a hat. ‘Queen drops hat while fishing’ is one I saw the other day.  I didn’t see that the other day.

Seriously, if the quarterly pre-tax sales overhead analysis budget of every single two-bit retailer is gonna be flashed across the screen as though King Edward had just abdicated the throne to make love with Marilyn Monroe before being shot by Hitler – the benchmark of ‘Newsflash’ status in the 20^th Century – then how am I going to know when something really important has happened?

I’m not, dear reader (Surely ‘readers’? – Ed). That’s the simple truth. I’m not. 

Answer? They’ll have to flash ‘NO, SERIOUSLY, PROPER BREAKING NEWS’ to make us take note in the future. Or wobble the camera a bit in the studio and play a low rumbling noise underneath, to emphasise the utter newsy-ness of what’s occurring. They could flash ‘NEWSQUAKE’ in double-height letters. The presenters would have to shout details of the world-changing events while huddling under their desks from bits of rubble being thrown around by stagehands. And post-bulletin, I’d like the newsreaders to be helped, exhausted and beaten, from the studio, before theatrically returning James Brown style to deliver an ‘And finally…’ item.

1 The disappearance of The Neptunes from the charts
It’s easily forgotten now, but earlier in the decade, The Neptunes more or less produced every brilliant record in the UK charts. They made some of the naughtiest Noughties music – and it was properly subversive in that the mass population is rarely exposed to stuff that be so damn all up in yo ass phonky.

Rather than bore you with chat about who they are, who I am, why they’re great, why I’m not and why you need to get more of their stuff, here’s a link to wikipedia and, in no particular order, 10 brilliant Neptunes bits of the Noughties:

• Britney Spears – I’m A Slave 4U
• Justin Timberlake – Like I Love You
• Jay Z – Excuse Me Miss
• Common (featuring Mary J Blige) – Come Close
• Pharrell (featuring Jay Z) – Frontin’
• Jay Z (featuring Pharrell) – Change Clothes
• Kelis – Milkshake
• N*E*R*D – She Wants To Move
• Snoop Dogg (featuring Pharrell) – Drop It Like It’s Hot
• Snoop Dogg (featuring Charlie Wilson & Justin Timberlake) – Signs

Get them all, Teds, and maybe the next bit of this Millennium will be marginally less horrific.

Infuriated by my choices? Can’t wait to vent your anger about them? That’s odd – I said at the start this list was going to be mild. That was kind of the point. How did you mis-read that? How did you get it so badly wrong? Are you just someone with anger issues? Maybe you need to calm down. It’s not doing anything for your blood pressure you know. Perhaps just log off, eh, and go for a walk round the park. Then come back, log in and tell me how much you enjoyed my list! Hooray for everyone!

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I was online the other day and thought – you know what this web thing needs? A list of stuff that happened during the past 12 months! Yeah!

Well, in order to provide one and thus complete the internet, here’s Tiny Dan’s sideways take on the lousy good-for-nothing complete and utter annus that is 2009…

A LIST OF TEN 2009 THINGS

10 Most unexpected bout of tears
Oh yeah, Tiny Dan is tough. I got locked out of my house once – didn’t even think about crying. At an Indian Restaurant, I’ll always go for the lime pickle. Drinks? ‘A half?’ ‘No sir! Tiny Dan will have a PINT!’ – that’s the sort of level we’re talking. A Tiny, Tiny condensed ball that will not yield – I am possibly the densest matter in the universe (apart from this).

All the more wonder then, that during that opening bit of the Pixar film ‘Up’, a watery substance – later diagnosed as ‘cry’ – began to leak from my eye ducts. If you’ve seen it, you’ll know why. Near the start of the movie is that incredible animated montage of two lives passing by – it’s so simple, yet utterly beautiful and totally heartbreaking.

9) Most complete demise of the final vestiges of any interest I retained in a particular genre of TV: Reality
Perhaps it was the horribly overblown coverage of the tragic death of Jade Goody that did it. Perhaps it is the ongoing media portrayal of Susan Boyle as some sort of ‘wacky celeb’, rather than a troubled woman struggling with an intense media spotlight which is utterly out of proportion with her talent. Perhaps I’m just jealous of Ant ‘n’ Dec. Whatever, I extracted no joy whatsoever from reality TV this year and couldn’t even tell you who won what.

Except the Apprentice. I bloody love the Apprentice.

8 ) Best hip-hop album you didn’t hear in 2009: Doom – Born Like This
Brother, I would like to know why all of you haters be sleeping on this one (kindly inform me with a comment at the end of the article). I’ve already bored most of my chums telling them how brilliant Doom (AKA MF Doom AKA Metal Fingers AKA Danger Doom AKA Madvillain) is. This album is by turns leftfield (Thank Yah), inventive (Lightworks), dubious (Batty Boyz) and intense (Cellz) – you basically need this.

7) Tiny Dan’s Glastonbury break-out moment: The XX
I’ll front up. I wasn’t there. I watched it on the telly.

Now, I was aware that there was some kind of ‘buzz’ around new music combo The XX and lo and behold, they were about to do one of those little backstage performances that you get on BBC Three. I dunno why but I expected it to be some overblown pompous load of old crud. Turns out it was all like early ‘80s Cure B-sides and New Order done gone be playing up in my head. Cue big Tiny Dan grin and XX on heavy rotation from thence onwards.

6) Best Me Nearly Getting Harry off of Stephen Merchant’s 6Music Radio Show into Big Trouble Moment of ‘09
It’s a toss-up. Either
a) Bumping into him at the Oval during the World Twenty20 cricket and discussing the event using some pretty robust and earthy language – only to subsequently discover that the older types nearby were in fact his girlfriend’s parents, or
b) Having a delightful summer pint at the Thames-side pub the White Cross in Richmond and using the exceptionally high tide which cut us off as an excuse to stay out for several more (even though, really, we could have escaped with little danger to life and limb despite claims to the contrary) when he was already overdue a return home to get the dinner on

5) Best hip-hop album you may have heard in 2009: Mos Def – The Ecstatic
Basically, when hip-hopsters start getting into acting, that’s pretty much the end of their useful musical output. Mr M.Def, who you might remember from such films as The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy and Be Kind Rewind, bucked that trend in style with this little beauty which featured thunderingly good grooves alongside some hefty messages. If you haven’t got this yet, go and get it now and come back and read the last four when you’ve done it.

I can wait….

Still waiting… Here’s a bit of the album to pass the time…

Got it… No? Then go back and get it….

Got it now? Good. Well done. Here’s number 4.

4) Show I slept on until 2009 then couldn’t get enough of – The Inbetweeners
I smashed down both series of this on DVD over a handful of very enjoyable days in autumn. It’s tremendo. You either already know this ‘cos you watched it or you don’t because you haven’t – in which case go out and get it immediately and watch it. Done it? Good.

Am worried for the future though (no spoilers, don’t panic). The main characters are at that difficult age – surely the show will quickly need them to leave school (but we don’t want them to mature or grow up) or it will look increasingly unrealistic and go a bit Luke Perry Beverly Hills 90210. Hey! Why not Twitter how you think the show should continue?

3) Best song from the second series of Flight of the Conchords: Sugalumps
Also the best song Prince never recorded.

2) Most unexpected emotion/event combination of the year (apart from crying at a kids’ film (see number 10)): Medium pleasure/England regain the Ashes
Back in 2005 I went what is commonly referred to as ‘nutbag’ for the Ashes. This time around it was ‘meh-bag’ at best. Don’t get me wrong, I still enjoyed it, it just wasn’t quite as, you know, vital. Why? I’m not even motivated enough to tell you. Just google it (surely ‘googly’ it – cricket pun ed).

1) Most premature cancellation of a radio show just when I thought the hilarious ‘posse’ behind the main star were really hitting their stride: Stephen Merchant’s 6Music show on Sundays 3-5pm (latterly 3.30-5.30pm)

It was a sad day indeed when the mics were hung up on this broadcasting instiution in May. If I was capable of writing emoticons I’d probably do something like this :O( here.

Mind you, I was never really all that into the deservedly-unpopular Dan. His attendance was appalling and his contributions perfunctory. Still at least there’s this website, where you can log on and abuse him.

Did anything happen to you in 2009? Why not let a very, very small percentage of the world know about what happened to you in 2009, by writing about it underneath here! It’s the perfect way to pay tribute to 2009! It’s what 2009 would have wanted. 2009! 2009!

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One of the many things that I don’t like about airports is that they don’t understand early morning.

You know what I mean. You get up at half past yesterday for your pre-dawn flight. You feel like crying. But you’re too tired. Your eyes are so bleary you can’t quite work out if you’re actually up or just experiencing a soft-focus flashback of that time you had to get up at half past yesterday for a pre-dawn flight.

Then, you get to the airport and just when you most need to dowse your mind in cotton wool you’re thrust into a fluorescent nightmare where people rush about at 5.30am in a headache-inducing strip-lit version of Tuesday afternoon (famously voted ‘most mediocre time of the week’ four years running).

Thing is, if you’re up before six am, you’re weird. Not necessarily a full-on all-the-time weirdo, but it’s certainly weird that you’re up before six. Something weird has happened to necessitate you being up at such a weird time.

Maybe your tap exploded. Perhaps a sozzled hoodie threw urine on to your face. Perchance you need to travel several thousand miles quickly and therefore need to clear umpteen security checks to ensure that you don’t want to blow up the steel tube into which you’ve paid to be strapped.

Don’t try to sugar-coat it. It’s weird. It’s weird, you’re weird, everyone you see who isn’t asleep is weird, even the sky is weird.

What really grinds my gears is that airports steadfastly refuse to acknowledge that it’s weird – utterly, utterly mental – to be up and about already. Everyone’s dressed, everyone’s being professional, everything’s open, you can even get a pint. And JLS, Leona, Mariah, Beyonce are playing in the shops.

What should be playing in the shops is Boards of Canada.

I’ve always loved the Boards. I love how they evoke reassuring but distant memories of electronic kids’ TV themes from the early 80s, while simultaneously unsettling the pants off you with their creepy atmospherics.

Remember those Public Information Films from back in the day? They were truly terrifying, but utterly compelling. Boards of Canada (from Scotland, country discrepancy fans) capture the spirit of those films in modern electronica form.

Of course, much Boards stuff is instrumental and – naturally – weird. Weird like 4am is weird. And, having landed my dream job of occasionally playing a record on a minority interest Sunday afternoon DAB digital radio show as the least popular member of a posse many on the internet wanted to see at least dismantled (if not dismembered), I guess I knew that Steve wouldn’t want them on the show.

But the beauty of my new cyber-existence is that you could be reading this at any time. Like 4am – when this song works perfectly. Listen to it now, now, at 4am. Although don’t. I don’t think you should listen to it at all, ‘cos if you’re on the internets at 4am, you’re definitely not right. It could push you over the edge. Go to bed. Weirdo.

Quick Dan update: A lot of you haven’t been asking how the DJ thing went at the weekend. High point – crowd singalong. Low point – miscuing the Bullseye theme tune, which would have torn the place down (in a good, hip-hop way). Was forgiven. In your stupid face, unpopularity!

Do you like the Boards of Canada music? Do you have anything to say about this article? Would you like to broadly rewrite the article, but with your name alongside it? Perhaps you’d just like to copy random words from this article and smash them into a reply? Perhaps you’d just like to randomly hit your keyboard while making screechy animal noises and post what happens? Just do it – like I care! Remember you cannot follow me throughout the football season (or any other time) on twitter, and if you want to join me on facebook, try and pick a time when I’m drunk and just blindly accepting friend requests.

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I’m putting my trust in you, faithful readers. Please don’t let me down.

Turns out I’m needed on the wheels of steel at a friend’s birthday celebration next weekend. It’s a DJ emergency if you will (it must be if they’re calling on me).

So, I’ve dusted off my nimble fingers, re-learnt some of my favourite ninja-quick DJ moves (including the scratch, the helicopter and the bumbo ninepence). But I’m not the finished article yet….

My playlist is taking shape, but I’m looking at it thinking – where’s the killer track? Where’s the classic that’s going to tear the place a new rear? The playlist – it’s good. It’s not great.

This is where you come in. In a massively web 2.0 / interactive / stephenfry@twittery type way, I’m opening up the cyber-request line to you.

I need to know the amazing unknown dancefloor filler that you’d drop which will make the place feel like “they all done gone bombed it up back to mediaeval times shorty”.

The emphasis here is on ‘unknown’, yeah? So no Stone Roses Fool’s Gold’s please. No Underworld Born Slippy Nuxx’s please. And definitely no A-Ha The Sun Always Shines on TV’s please. (You think I didn’t put them on the list already? Then you underestimated Tiny Dan, girlfriend).

And here’s the twist. I need five brilliant suggestions to replace five utterly awful party tracks which I will otherwise play, killing the mood entirely (and possibly killing me, when the party turns ugly).

These are the five all-time worst choices which I am threatening to play:
5 – Vanilla No Way No Way
4 – Celine Dion – My Heart Will Go On
3 – The Tweets – The Birdie Song (Tiny Dan’s not-so-tiny 20-minute remix)
2 – Einsturzende Neubauten – Headcleaner
And number one
1 – Johnny Cash – Hurt (while projecting this famously heartbreaking video on to back wall)

Please stop me unleashing this catalogue of misery on the unsuspecting party-goers. Five great unexpected alternatives now please.

I know I can trust you – you hardy group of avid followers of the thoughts of four people who used to appear alongside a famous bloke on a specialist-interest DAB digital radio station on a Sunday afternoon taking a sideways glance at the week’s news (except me as I couldn’t always make it owing to work commitments).

Can’t think of a song? Mentally weak? Why not email this to a better person than you then? To get in touch, remember that you cannot follow me throughout the year on twitter and I generally limit new facebook friends these days.

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I wouldn’t want anyone to think that the demise of the Steve Show has quelled our almost pathological desire to hunt down new music.

Our New Music Quest (NMQ) was no affectation we adopted for the show. Me, Harry, Rufus and Sammy were NMQ-ing pigs, sniffing out fresh melodies like they were tune-based truffles.

For example, here’s one that, were the Show still on air, I’d be going Billy Mental for, The Phenomenal Handclap Band with 15 to 20…

Hubba. Those boys and girls are hot like fire, no doubt. But maybe one of the reasons I love that tune is because it’s got counting in it.

I love that in a song. Why? No idea (perhaps some cod psychologist steveshowposse.com lurker could reveal themselves and explain).

Vocally enunciating numbers in song form is on that list of things which just suck me in. When I hear a good melodic count, I freeze. I’m motionless and utterly absorbed, like a cat which has caught sight of a squirrel disappearing into a bush or a Jeremy Kyle guest who has just picked up the scent of a distant Greggs bakery.

In no particular order (rather ironically, seeing as I love a bit of counting) here are some things which enchant me when encountered in song:

• Counting (see, told you)
• A long note held by the singer while the music carries on. Bill Withers’ Lovely Day is an obvious one, although Thom Yorke does it in Radiohead’s The Tourist.
• Huge drums with fragile female vocals. Iceland’s Bjork does quite a bit of this, Lamb also.
• A crazy-ass bassline which is so funky it positively dares you not to grind. Try Aaron Neville’s Hercules. Irresistible.

There are obviously a gabillion other examples of all of these things – all suggestions welcome. But for now let’s stick with that numerical obsession. Not counting the Phenomenal HCB, here are Tiny Dan’s top five numbers with numbers:

5 – Isaac Hayes – By The Time I Get To Phoenix

A sure-fire contender for a future ‘Songs Steve never let me play’, this remarkable near 19-minute version of the Jimmy Webb classic doesn’t exactly hurry. The eight-minute 42 second intro consists of Isaac counting up seven failed attempts of our protagonist to leave some bad woman what done twisted his head up all ways – before a successful eighth attempt (albeit with three near U-turns) during which he starts wondering about what she’ll be up to when he gets to Phoenix. Then the real song starts. It’s a numbers dream. Thanks Isaac, you legend.

4 – The Orb – Perpetual Dawn

Yeah, I’m cheating a bit here, ‘cos the numbers element is only really a countdown from 10 to zero at the start of the track followed by nine minutes of awesome heavy ambient dub. But this scores plenty Tiny Dan nostalgia points, reminding me as it does of Saturday morning record fairs at the Bierkeller in Bristol in the early 1990s with Pauly Gay Eyes, going home to listen to records, then going to football, then going out in the evening to try to get served in a pub/meet pretty ladies.

3 – Boards of Canada – Aquarius

An elliptical but beautiful piece of music. The lyrics consist of a few kids saying “yeah, that’s right”, while a chap and foxy-ish sounding American lady alternately say the word “orange”. Three minutes in, the foxy-ish sounding one starts counting. When she gets to 36, she kind of gives up and starts chucking random numbers out there, some of which don’t even exist. Oddly peaceful, certainly groovy and definitely superb. I give it sixtyten out of ten.

2 – The Stranglers – School Mam

The almost-impossibly filthy closer to the No More Heroes album depicts some post-lesson activity which these days would certainly result in police action. The song, like the action described in the lyrics, builds to an insane climax in which Hugh Cornwell demonstrates rudimentary knowledge of the multiplication tables, gets foxed by dividing 128 by three then tries to count to 50 using decimals along the way. It’s as unsavoury yet nuts as it sounds.

1 – The Pointer Sisters – Pinball Number Song

Jeebus funking Christ. Is it any wonder that us kids who were kids in the 70s and 80s are so much better than our modern-day counterparts? Our children’s telly featured proper heavy duty badness, not least this extraordinary groove (regularly featured on Sesame Street) in which the sisters yelped random numbers over a backing track so tight it could injure a horse. I mean seriously, you wonder why today’s society is going to hell in a handcart? This is the answer, right here.

Got any more? Infuriated by my choice? Let me know right here and now! And email your friends with this link asking them for their suggestions for a top five of songs which in some way vaguely relate to counting (they’re desperate to contribute). Remember, you also cannot follow me on twitter and I’ve largely stopped accepting new facebook friends.

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Tiny Dan fans are often disappointed when they see me in the flesh. This is for a number of reasons.

Firstly, I am quite simply physically disappointing. Don’t get me wrong – I’m not grotesque or unpalatable. But neither am I majestic like, say, Jamaican runny man Usain Bolt or unstoppable bike emperor Sir Chris Hoy. I’m more like a human manifestation of October weather. You know, a bit of everything, but not really anything in itself.

But there’s another reason for their disappointment.

I’m just not that tiny.

Listening to the Steve Show, you’d probably end up thinking I was no larger than a sickly hamster. Conversations with me were usually preceded by some tale of how it was lucky I made it to the studio at all, having had a fight to the death with a money spider, using a matchstick as a weapon.

But – and I’m sorry for this rev as it may re-open the whole row about the BBC and truth-telling – I’m a normal(ish) height. Those spider-fight tales were exaggerated.

In real life, I tower over shrinking elderly folk at the bus stop. Next to a housecat, I am a colossus. Even if you’re a big unit who could well have me in a scrap, you wouldn’t particularly want me to fall on top of you from a window.

I guess what my Tiny Dan average-sized brain is trying to say is that everything’s relative.

And that creates a problem, should you land your all-time dream role – namely that of a small section within a two-hours-per-week radio show on a minority interest DAB digital radio station (which you cannot always attend owing to other work commitments) during which you can play a record you like.

Here’s the deal. You’ve all made compilations, right? For mates, for girls you’re going out with and, most importantly, for girls you’d like to go out with.

And what’s the most difficult bit? With apologies to Eric Morecambe – it’s not choosing the right songs, it’s playing them in the right order.

High Fidelity explains the troubled art of compilation-making in full, but for now just accept that some tunes work best in their original context. And so it is with the choice for this column’s Songs Steve Never Let Me Play.

Leftfield 1990s combo Flying Saucer Attack originated, like me, from Bristol. And, like me, when you first clap eyes (and ears) on them, you might be forgiven for thinking there’s nothing remarkable there.

Their sound is murky. You get big slabs of fuzzy noise, prog-like atmospherics, drums down in the mix, buried alongside vocals which, when they emerge, are delivered slowly, monotonously. In many ways, it’s a dirge.

But listen again. Listen to the whole of their debut LP, which is kind of eponymous, but also kind of called ‘Rural Psychedelia’ ‘cos you can see those words on the cover.

Do you get it now? It’s absolutely beautiful isn’t it? Because that big slab of fuzzy sound starts to unravel. You start to pick out the individual parts that make it up. That initially alienating façade is, upon closer inspection, really rather gorgeous, no? The way the noise actually works with the quiet bits. That atmosphere that’s both strange yet comforting. That seemingly tuneless drone actually turns out to be something considerably lovelier than you gave it credit for.

Now apologise to it. Go on. Pick up the record and apologise to it. Say “I’m sorry, Flying Saucer Attack’s debut album (which is kind of eponymous, but also kind of called ‘Rural Psychedelia’ ‘cos you can see those words on the cover) for doubting your beauty. Here’s 20 quid.” And pay the record. Actually pay it. Actually pay it actual money. Thirty quid. Of your own money. Go to the cashpoint now. Make it 50. Pay that bloody record fifty bloody quid and say you’re bloody sorry.

Well, maybe don’t do that last bit. But do understand why the penultimate track on the album, the obliquely-titled and very beautiful ‘Popol Vuh 1’ only makes sense in the context of that album.

Had I played it on a Sunday afternoon to be listened to on its own during the show, it wouldn’t have worked. I’d have been mocked for another melody-free bit of noodle, and the ensuing derisory cackles and hoots from the Steve Show team would have made me feel very Tiny indeed.

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Tiny Dan critics often said that one of the many reasons for my deep unpopularity on The Steve Show was the despicable music I used to play.

“Melody-free claptrap”, “Fit only for knuckle-dragging dunderheads” “I hate you –  hate, hate, hate you Dan”. That’s just a taste of the bile-filled comments I imagine I would have had to endure about the songs I played had I ever been recognised by anyone who cared.

Yet my crap music taste was a myth (mostly spread by Harry-loving types). And I would like to set the record(s) straight…

Ever since I was an even tinier Dan, I dreamt of having the chance to play a song I liked during a brief appearance on a weekly radio show on DAB Digital Radio which I couldn’t always make owing to work commitments.

But selecting one prized tune to showcase on that show was surprisingly difficult. Don’t believe me? Go on then. What song would you play? Quickly. Come on. You don’t know do you? You don’t have the foggiest. You are in a befuddled state, clutching frantically at your body, checking your wallet’s still there, sweating, looking around edgily. You do not have the smallest idea what’s happening.

Such was the predicament facing me every single week without fail (except when I had work and couldn’t go on the show). My tiny face would display the tiniest strain.

But my choice was limited. Steve was a benevolent master, but most intolerant of anything vaguely self-indulgent. That included anything over about four-and-a-half minutes long.

You can kind of see his point. The show was only two hours and we needed some slack to fill with, say, some sideways glances at the week’s news. But it meant that I was never able to play, for example, the first three tracks of Talk Talk’s Spirit of Eden album.

I know what you’re thinking – Tiny Dan’s got his finger on the pulse again, waxing lyrical about a 21-year-old record that’s not even being re-released nor nuffin’ – but listen, if Harry can quote the late Bryan Mosley about his mythical forthcoming X Factor appearance, then I can bloomin’ well tell you about this brilliant, brilliant record.

Talk Talk are one of the most fascinating British bands of modern times. I can’t think of another with the same career trajectory. Sure, the move from fashionable popfluff (It’s My Life) into sophisticated songsmithery (Life’s What You Make It) is not unique, but their final leap into avant-garde sonic experimentation is all their own,

In its original vinyl form, Spirit of Eden’s first side is a continuous piece of music lasting almost 23 minutes. It comprises just three songs – ‘The Rainbow’, ‘Eden’ and ‘Desire’. It still sounds like nothing else.

Many acts – from ambient noodlers, to post-rock triers to indie soundscapers – cite it as an influence, but no-one has ever truly captured its sound. That’s in part because of its extraordinary genesis. Talk Talk managed to nick off for a year to put this together, with no executives interfering until the final vast piece, with its staggering array of musicians, its uncompromised sound, was delivered. You can almost imagine horrified EMI suits weeping silently as they tried to think of how to market the latest LP from a band which used to regularly tickle the top 10.

Indeed, it’s no surprise that Talk Talk and EMI went their separate ways after this record, nor that Talk Talk never toured again (difficult to imagine an audience going mental for ‘It’s My Life’ then sitting down quietly to chin-stroke during ‘The Rainbow’).

Listen, I won’t argue with you. Yes, Spirit of Eden is properly pretentious, it’s po-faced and its lyrics impenetrable. But it’s also magical and unique and uplifting. Perhaps best of all, and the reason I love it so much, is that a band which made its name on Top of the Pops went on to make something as outrageously uncommercial as this. It’s completely unpredictable. It is, essentially, the opposite of the X Factor (unless they do indeed get B Mosley on there). You might hate it, but you could never, ever call it bland.

And unless Leona Lewis releases a song consisting of her yelping while banging the inside of a industrial vat with a pipe, or Alexandra Burke puts out a 40-minute B side consisting of a low drone peppered with bursts of radio white noise, I will treasure its unique oddness forever.