The Kooks. Jaunty sparkling indie pop or Satan's little helpers? Everyone is entitled to their opinion that is true, but why oh why do they make me so incredibly riled?

The following symtoms occur in the event of a Kooks Video being played...

Sweating, anxiety, loss of breath.
Intense negative emotions that measure 9.0 or over on the hatred Richter scale.
Delusional thoughts. For example, seeing The Kooks being stabbed all over with their own logo pin badges, then given the Superman II treatment and sent out into the black void naked via a triangle thing with only one leather jacket and ill-fitting suit.
Feelings of helplessness - akin to the feelings an Orangutan being trapped in the Big Brother House.
The jitters.

Be gone! BE GONE! Why must this nation embrace the inevitable jingly jangly mess? Or that retarded cockney, "I've overdosed on old codger bands" driven vocals? The "Ooh Ohhh" bit in their last musical testament to pure evil goes through me like a bullet. They won't be the last bunch of pratty wats to jingle their guitars to close to their ribcage and croon in a white room, but damn it, they have raped my consciousness for three and a half minutes too many. Some believers may ask, "Well, YOU don't play any instruments so could you do better?" I say yes, indeed I could with a few tin cans and a washboard to hand, but I would live in constant fear that I accidently came up with the same sort of rotteness and overly coiffed teens wanted my picture taken with them for the NME.

I'd much rather sit here and mump and moan.

Too many Kooks spoil my day.

Perhaps I should run away with the circus. Do circus performers have to gloomily take part in the never-ending cycle of household maintenance? I guess they have to find the time to find monstrous Alsatians to guard their caravans, take their glitzy costumes to the drycleaner to get rid of tiger piss stains, and putting up the tent must be a time consuming task?

Most everyday mugs have to take part in the holy terror of supermarket shopping. Stepping out on to the chewing gum patterned streets while dodging several Big Issue sellers (I'm not charitable nor rich enough to buy 5 copies every day mind) to buy some 'necessary item' like margarine ruffles my feathers. I have been sucked into the evil vortex of adulthood. It's not all drinking spirits till the birds start chirping, and being able to rent Rambo whenever the mood takes me. (Admittedly, my childhood perception of adulthood was quite pathetic and flawed). I'm walking down a long dark corridor with only few doors that lead unto cat food aisles and buildings insurance.

Sod this. I'm off with a bottle of Martini and a copy of 'First Blood'.

Oh, what i'd give to spend a day with Rodney Dangerfield and Morrissey. I don't think the coupling would be harmonious but I'd have a great time. A battle of negativity. We would rendevous at a Brewsters Fare type pub, and the two would introduce themselves. "I am human and I want to be loved!" Morrissey would whine. Rodney would chuckle "What a childhood I had, why, when I took my first step, my old man tripped me!". I'd watch with glee while Rodney orders a bloody steak, eyeballing the waitress while Moz would faint with disgust into the playzone, only to be smothered by multi-coloured balls. Rising up shouting "heifer whines could be human cries!" the word "heifer" inciting Rodney to make a joke about his ex-wife. Morrissey would then take off on his circa 1956 Raleigh muttering "the world won't listen". Rodney would then ask where the nearest 'Hooters' bar is with a wink, after insulting a nearby patron who hears him cry "That girl is so ugly. The last time I saw a mouth like hers it had a hook on the end of it." Reality has broke me from my strange reverie. I'm having morning coffee with Natasha Kaplinsky and Patrick Kielty. Grunt.

Okay, okay. So as soon as I've written the damn thing I find out Swayze IS in a new movie. Last night I was bombarded with 'Keeping Mum' trailers, and it was almost as if the Swayze was sticking two fingers up at me. "I am in a new movie, but not just any movie. I star with screen veteran Dame Maggie Smith. So bite me." Humph. The American site I checked for new Swayze news must have considered 'Keeping Mum' unmentionable. Strange - it does seem like the kind of British movie made for the US market. A bumbling fool (played by yank fave Rowan Atkinson) and his impeccably English wife (Kristin Scott Thomas) live in a small, genteel, idyllic British town - the kind where in reality, bored spotty teens are drinking Frosty Jack cider behind the local church in defiance of the local 'Daily Mail' reading inhabitants. The kind of town that makes you ask 'Where do the cleaners and dustbin men live? Are they hidden away in some old bomb shelter and let out when they are needed?' Anyhow, the Swayze plays a sleazy golf instructor, and in one scene we get to see his weather beaten body complemented by a red thong. My sides are splitting Swayze. Look Swayze, if you are trying to be clever with this self parody, and making an attempt to be accepted by modern day movie goers it won't wash. Shall movie goers cry "Oh look! The Swayze is actually a dynamic and comedic actor who is willing to mock himself for his art, how wonderful!" or say "Patrick Swayze! Forgot about him! - let's watch Roadhouse and laugh at his mullet." I'll put money on the latter. In my mind and many others you will always be a macho, overblown relic of the eighties no matter how much you try to deviate away from this. Shit sticks. Bring back the Swayze of yore.

Patrick Swayze recently made a guest appearance on 'Friday Night With Jonathan Ross' and I missed it. Is this worth fretting over you ask? Well, yes it is. A TV interview with THE Mr Swayze is as scarce as hen's teeth, and boy, this acting enigma must have had something pretty darn important to talk about before he was willing to appear on our screens after all this time. I was so intrigued as to why he was slotted in for a bit of informal chat with renowned lisper Johnathan, that I simply had to find out if a new Swayze movie was on its way. There are so many reasons for being so utterly and unashamedly obsessed with the Swayze (calling him 'the Swayze' is a bit like 'the Pope'. It's not just a name, he is Swayze, he exudes 'Swayzeness', there is a book of Swayze and guess who wrote it?...Halliwell). Here is a couple Swayze features that makes him a man like no other....

Swayze walks like one of his legs is shorter than the other. Now, I know Marilyn Monroe chopped a portion of her heel to accentuate her womanly wiggle, but I'm pretty darn sure this isn't the look the Swayze is going for. He does wear man heels (cowboy boots), so why doesn't he pay a cobbler to balance those legs out? Another Swayze limp theory is that his main priority is to not wiggle the ass, but to draw attention to it by wearing overly tight jeans. In theory, by wearing tourqinuet denims he could be hindering the ability to walk. Perhaps it's the price to pay for advertising that movie star ass. Film legend knows he was offered a cool, six bottles of Coors to flash that ass in 'Roadhouse' (Swayze's tour de force). But, as much as I enjoy speculating about the Swayze's gammy leg, I suspect it is all down to a boringly predictable dancing injury.

The Swayze is revered for his acting ability as we all know, how does he manage to emote raw human emotion across the spectrum? From grief to joy, bewildement to plain ol' hate, the Swayze has cracked this with one look. The Swayze look. Why bother with method acting when one look says it all? Perfecting the demeanour of 15 year old boy caught masturbating by his mother is clearly something Olivier foolishly failed to master. Watching the Swayze attempting to play ghost in the movie of the same title is almost as startling as seeing the real thing. You simply cannot believe your eyes! Astonishing stuff.

Well, the complete fascination I have for an actor so rotten, he's not even fit for a compost heap brings me back to the question why was he on the telly? Well, a bit of rushed Swayze research on the web led me to this: he is is planning a new conservation reality TV series that tracks the globe's endangered animals. Who'd a thunk it. Swayze, I'm sorry. I spend my evenings making trite observations about your gammy leg and the tightness of your jeans when you are speaking out for our non verbal friends. However, don't you go forgetting what you are famous for Swayze. Don't get all Sting like on me! Those endangered animals you are so worried about can't get themselves down to Cash Converters. Can they Swayze? If it wasn't for chumps like me, copies of 'Blackdog' would be slowly rotting away next to old packets of McCain oven chips. Evidence of your entire acting history would be consigned to a landfill sight. Forget about those Pandas for a minute and sign yourself up for another role where you play a man called 'Jack' or 'John' or 'Jake' with an equally catchy and macho surname. If I don't see you make a fool out of yourself very soon I shall feel very cheated. It could be amusing seeing you hobble across the globe in search of the logger head sea turtle but that's no match for the visceral pleasure of seeing you rip out a man's throat. For those who haven't seen 'Roadhouse', seek and you shall know.