Not such a shocking revelation, I suppose, given my state of continued existence. But beyond the statement of simple biological fact is something else:  the grim acknowledgement that as time goes marching on, I am turning into one of those people that I used to mock.

As child and teenager, anyone over the age of twenty-five belonged to a special category of human being: that of the uniformly ancient and dull. Whether bent double by a spine contorted into a question mark by old age, or leaning into the mirror with a poking of fingers at skin and bemoaning the appearance of another line or two, the world of grown-ups was one in which people – despite their varying shapes and sizes – were quite simply old. These horrendous people would do excruciatingly boring things that made me grit my teeth in frustration, while I sat there inwardly glowing at my enlightened outlook on the world. They would talk at length about their younger lives while swilling gin in an iced glass; they would criticise almost all forms of popular culture as being something uncouth and vulgar; they would complain almost without end about the simpler pleasures of life back then, before technology came rushing into the void at the centre of our lives to fill it with the auditory and visual equivalent of being constantly poked in the eye.

It is with perverse delight that I’m able to admit that I have become one of them. Ah yes: at the wise old age of twenty seven I’m a veteran of nostalgia who loudly complains that most commercial TV is the death rattle of civilised Britain while revelling in the delights of Strictly Come Dancing and a good gin and tonic. The adverts in the cinema are definitely too loud, thank you very much, chart pop music is an abomination not worth my time, and who on earth would want a Kindle when you can read a book? If there is a clause in the ageing contract which states that becoming a luddite is an inevitable part of the process, I certainly wasn’t aware of it until now.

Which brings me to the corded telephone.

What a marvellous contraption, and simple too: small, just portable enough, and it plugs into the wall. When it rings, I always know where it is (a blessing when you have a handbag as disorganised as mine), and it doesn’t bombard me with banal ‘I’m five minutes late’ messages, either. Yes, my iPhone connects me to the world in an amazingly intrusive way, and I know I’ll be grateful when I need to make a call from a glen somewhere after my leg is trapped under a falling tree in a freak accident, but when it comes to the simple pleasure of making a phone call, I’ll take the landline every time. Instead of hearing messages and other calls pinging in as I talk while all the time my ear gets hotter and hotter, I can stretch out on the sofa with the corded telephone handset pleasingly clutched in my hand and relax in a way that my mobile phone won’t let me. A phone call used to be something to be savoured and enjoyed while time ebbed away without the worry about free minutes running out, or the fear of waking up at fifty with a cauliflower-like tumour sprouting from my ear.

Settling down in my armchair with my night cap, there are certain things that I know for sure: that leggings are a fashion abomination, that I have no idea who Jessie J is, and that my money’s on Harry Judd to win Strictly this year. Another thing I’m sure of is that the next time I have to make a phone call to that someone important in my life, I’ll be reaching for the corded telephone because sometimes the old way is the best way, and because sometimes in this rush of modernity there’s nothing better than taking time to give a friend or relative the attention that they deserve. I’ll remember the thrill of wondering if the other person would be in to pick up the phone, the nerves of hearing a parents voice at the other end of the line, and the languid joy of talking for hours because there was time for the conversation to drift.

I’m a stickler for nostalgia, after all.

Driven indoors, certain habits always surface at this time of the year. I read more, as a result of getting into bed because it’s one of the few places in the flat that’s warm; I eat more (damn you hibernation urge, and damn you corner shop for being on a corner that’s not directly beside my front door. In these cold times, the fifteen metre walk can just be too defeating a prospect); and finally, I spend more time on that most teenage of occupations: pondering my favourite things and making Top 5 lists.

The making of a Top 5 list is, to those daft enough to attempt them, a completely self-defeating activity. There’s always one thing on the list that doesn’t feel quite right, and that nagging feeling in the back of one’s head that a glaring omission has been made. How funny it is that if someone asks me for my Top 5 anything, I refuse to answer, but that I’m perfectly happy — and especially at this time of year — to sit alone indulging in this particularly vexing past-time.

So, here goes. Seeing as it’s dark outside, that I’m contemplating putting on a third pair of socks and wearing a scarf indoors, here’s a Top 5 of songs for winter.

1) The Smiths – Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now

In the time of year when wingeing becomes a perpetual activity, it’s inevitable that I turn to The Smiths. Not because I want to sit in a darkened room and feel sorry for myself, but because I love singing along with Morrissey’s self-indulgent howlings of woe and doing a little dance (mainly in an attempt to keep warm). And f*ck it — at least I’m not as miserable as him.

2) Air – Alone in Kyoto

For me, ‘Talkie Walkie’ is an album that just sounds cold. Perhaps this is all down to the power of association — I bought it during a particularly baltic winter in Aberdeen, and spent an almost hypothermic day white water rafting after buying it — but as soon as it gets cold, this album goes straight onto my iPhone (other musical playing devices are available, although you’d think otherwise after walking down the street). This song makes me think of the drowsy way that the world looks and sounds in winter, and the quiet that comes down with the snow. It makes me remember leaning out of my window in Aberdeen watching a heavy snowfall and waking up in Takayama, Japan, to a blanket of snow at the start of April.

3) Bloc Party – Blue Light

Good to see you dressing appropriately for the season, boys!

Again, this is a song of associations. I bought ‘Silent Alarm’ on the day it was released — back in my days of fervent musical fascism — and it was a particularly cold February in grey old Aberdeen. At the time I lived in the most hideous flat in existence and spent most of my time wearing my dressing gown indoors, cowering over an old oil heater in the hope of waking up in the morning with all my fingers and toes still attached. I’d met a boy at a party the weekend before, and in the weeks that followed he would come over to my flat and we’d listen to this album (his loathing of which he never attempted to hide) and talk about music. That winter, I didn’t freeze. I also never told him that he had s*it taste.

4) Big Star — The Ballad of El Goodo

If I’m completely honest, Big Star are perfect at any time of year and I’ve put this on the list only because I never stop listening to them. I suppose the quiet, melancholy bittersweetness of this song makes me think about pottering about indoors when it’s cold outside… and the guitar part does somehow make me think of frosty pavements.

5) Aztec Camera — Walk Out To Winter

I suppose the list comes full circle with this one. If ever a song was made for throwing your five millions layers on and walking around the streets feeling cold but happy, this is it. I can’t really say anything more about perfection. Bobble hat and earphones at the ready… I’ll even do a little dance while I’m waiting at the traffic lights.

Kings of Leon: yet another formerly great band.

Back in the summer of 2003, I was at University and spending the summer travelling around Europe in the way that most students do: with a backpack of completely inappropriate clothes on my back, train pass in hand and cheap plastic flip flops on my feet.  For the duration of the trip, all I could think about was getting back to my student flat in Aberdeen, getting royally shit-faced and buying Kings of Leon’s debut album ‘Youth and Young Manhood’.

For months afterwards, I did everything with ‘Youth and Young Manhood’ in the background; washing up with the marigolds on, singing out of tune in the shower, burning my macaroni cheese, and dancing appallingly badly in my local hall of shame Exodus.  The follow-up ‘Aha Shake Heartbreak’ was a slow burner at first, but quickly became much loved and much listened to. For me, the downhill slide began with ‘Because of the Times’… and the less said about ‘Only By The Night’, the better.

I read somewhere that ‘Only By The Night’ came about after the Kings were booked for the headline slot at Glastonbury. After the good news sank in, they apparently decided that they’d need some new material to play at the gig and so, six weeks later, they’d come up with ‘Only By The Night’. Perhaps this is just a made-up rumour. Whatever the story behind the creation of the album, by the time I saw the cover, my heart was sinking. By the time I bought the album and listened to it, my heart was in my shoes. The fact that the single ‘Sex on Fire’ has become the shout along anthem of choice for annoying drunk people in clubs has done nothing for my sanity. The album was quickly passed on to someone who offered to give it a better home than I was willing to.

I have to admit that the prospect of another Kings of Leon album being in the offing hadn’t even entered my consciousness, but it turns out that there is one on the way, slated for an October 18th release here in the UK. ‘Come Around Sundown’ continues the band’s habit of using five syllables in their album titles (‘…’ is, I think, the only response to that) and is apparently a return to a sound similar to that of ‘Youth and Young Manhood’. This is potentially a very good thing.  However, the band are retaining Angelo Petraglia and Jacquire King as producers. The continued lack of Ethan Johns is potentially a very bad thing.

Now to the video for the first single from the album. Dear God, it is quite simply awful. What the hell is going on? The glowing hues, the playing children, Caleb standing about in a barn… make it stop. As for the four white boys feeding the minorities good ol’ American food and standing about looking smug in photo lineups, I just have to ask: is this video an acknowledgement of their ‘humble’ background, or just sheer nonsense? It all looks, and is starting to sound, just a little bit like Coldplay.

Radioactivity has the potential to create mutations. In light of this new video, I have to wonder if Kings of Leon are on the cusp of a change themselves. With ‘Radioactive’, do the boys hint at a return to their old sound and former glory, or have they been so changed by fame that they can’t see that the sun does not in fact shine out of their arses?

It’s over to lead singer Caleb (whose sporting of an extreme side parting and moustache in no way puts me at ease) to round things off with his immortal words uttered at the Reading Festival last year. Standing on stage at the end of summer, at at time when Kings of Leon where enjoying the most lucrative of success, he faced the crowd and greeted them thus:

“We know you’re sick of Kings of Leon, so for all those who don’t give a fuck about us, I understand. But we’ve worked fucking hard to get here. So anyone that has anything to say to us, fuck you. We’re the goddamn Kings of Leon.”

Thanks, Caleb. Goodnight.

You're the "goddamn Kings of Leon"? You look like dicks.

So it is with the news that The xx have won the Mercury for their debut album. The bookies favourite from early on, for many there was never any doubt that they would take the prize when it came to the big night.

I’d been quietly hoping that Wild Beasts would take the prize, although I’m well aware that they might not be to everyone’s taste. But then, I didn’t think that the Mercury Prize was a popularity contest, either. It annoyed me to hear a judge talking about the fact that The xx had to win, because the album had ‘soundtracked the last twelve months’. Had many even heard of Speech Debelle before her win last year?

For all my moaning though, I have to admit that I’ve become a fan of the Mercury Music Prize. If nothing else, it’s a great way to get people talking about music, and perhaps opening their ears to things that they wouldn’t necessarily listen to otherwise. I’m ready for 2011, and another list of nominees; some of which I already love, some of which I will go on to love, some that I’ve never heard of, and some that I’ll just never be able to listen to.

My winner, for what it's worth.

Reminiscent of another great writer, the late W.G. Sebald, Hoare’s “Leviathan” is wonderful for its fusion of fact, history and literature with the personal, resulting in a quite extraordinary book. Leaving the bookshop after buying it, I promptly buried my head in it — slowly wandering home reading it, and almost in tears before I was thirty pages in. Upon realising that I had reached the half-way ‘tipping’ point brought genuine distress that it would soon be over, but even then I couldn’t stop myself from reading on, devouring the second half of the book in a single day.

Having looked forward to “The State of the Whale” for weeks, I am happy to report that Hoare’s talk was excellent. As someone who has read “Leviathan”, I was delighted to finally hear from the man who wrote it; to see pictures of his studies and to hear more about his personal experiences with whales. We were told about different types of whale and their behaviour, shown shown real teeth and baleen and treated to images from Hoare’s own whale-watching. The highly personal way that Hoare spoke about his own obsession with whales and about his travels around the world to watch and learn about them was utterly engaging, and I sat enraptured.

Hoare’s talk was wonderful in conveying the scale of these wonderful, elusive mammals and revelling in their mysterious nature — for such large creatures, they are seen only in glimpses at the ocean’s surface and as yet have not been monitored or filmed at depth. The talk was tragic too, in revealing the devastation inflicted on these huge, intelligent beasts by mankind’s long history of whaling. With many species hunted to the point of extinction by the twentieth century, the anti-whaling movement and anti-whaling legislation have done much to aid the recovery of certain species. For others, like the North Atlantic Right Whale, it may already too late. As whalers targeted large males as prized catches, they removed the strongest individuals from the gene pool. The species may never recover.

In a world awoken to the importance of conservation and caring for our fragile environment and ecosystems, we need the voices of passionate individuals to ring out and remind us of the intrinsic power and beauty of the natural world. In an age when our lives are dominated by the artificial and constructed realities of electronic media and life in modern cities, we must not forget our sense of wonder at the natural world — the world that gives life and sustains us all.

An eye-opening, informative, fascinating and entertaining talk, “The State of the Whale” reminded me of the wonderful abundance of life on our planet; life that is beautiful, brutal, mysterious, and perpetually struggling for survival. Evolved to the point that we have, it is our duty to protect and support these other forms of life. With the possibility of a return to whaling coming as early as next year, is it not time to think about the intrinsic value of the natural world around us, instead of its value as a commodity to be captured, traded, and capitalised on?

After the talk I kicked myself for not bringing my copy of “Leviathan” with me to be signed, and my mum obligingly stepped in a bought me a new copy. I spoke to Philip briefly, and told him that I find his writing magnificent. Now that my new copy of “Leviathan” has taken its place on the mantlepiece, it’s time for my unsigned copy to go on a journey of it’s own: being passed first to my mum and then from friend to friend, most highly recommended. I urge you to read it.

On picking up and flicking through this year’s programme for the EISF, I involuntarily let out a squeal of delight. This also caused me to confess my latest, and most wrong-indeed man crush to two complete strangers, who were interviewing me for a job. (And yes, I do imagine that my chances of getting said job were much diminished, if not destroyed outright, by my outburst.)

The object of my latest mental dalliance is Brian Cox, presenter of BBC 2′s ‘Wonders of the Solar System’. Man of science, physicist extraordinaire, and all round wonderful creature, he somehow makes talking about things that I will never be able to understand the most engrossing thing ever. Planets and physics, I’m talking about you. Sigh.

Yes, you have my full and undivided attention...

Anyway. What was I talking about?

Oh yes. The wonderful news is that this fine man of science is going to be in Edinburgh for some events during the Science Festival that include a screening of ‘Wonders of the Solar System’ at the Filmhouse on the 12th April at 8:30pm followed by a Q&A (gasp!), and a talk at Edinburgh University’s Informatics Forum, ‘Why does E=mc2?’ on the 11th April at 8:00pm. I will be most certainly be going to both. Yippedy yip yip, and indeed, hooray!

Now, imagine my delight then when, already quivering and almost frantic with joy, I turned the page to discover that Philip Hoare will be giving a talk called ‘The State of the Whale’ on the 9th April at 8:00pm (Informatics Forum, again). He’s the writer of two of my favourite books — ‘Serious Pleasures: The Life of Stephen Tennant’ and ‘Leviathan’ — and an absolutely astonishingly gifted writer at that: stylistically sublime and bursting with erudition, with a surprisingly emotional quality that I find irresistable. I cried in the street reading ‘Leviathan’ — and it was only the first chapter proper, how shaming! He is, quite simply, one of the greatest writers around.

In Awe of the Awesome

Lawd! Walking through Leith Links at this point, festival programme clutched in hand, I was ready to lie down among the crocuses and joyfully expire… what looked like three rabid dogs running wild off the leash only just prevented me from doing so.

It’s a shame that Mark Thompson of the BBC only uses his to spout utter bollocks while attempting to justify his decision to axe 6 Music. So, Mr Thompson, after you shut down 6 Music because it “competes head-on for a commercially valuable audience”, I’m supposed to head on over to Radio 1 or Radio 2? Help! There’s so much to think about while choosing between them! Namely: “Which one will kill me first?”

I fear my image of hell — spending eternity crammed into a small lift with Chris Moyles with the Radio 1 playlist looped through tinny speakers while TV screens show endless repeats of ‘Total Wipeout’ — might be about to become my waking reality. Is there some programme of mass – plebification going on that I’m unaware of? What about diversity, BBC? What about inspiring knowledge, music and culture? Oh Auntie.

Returning to using our given voices, it seems that, likewise, we were given fingers for a reason too. Namely, to fill in petitions and write irate – though deliciously eloquent – emails to the BBC Trust.

So if, like me, you love 6 Music, let your inner rage out  and let it be heard!

Petition at https://consultations.external.bbc.co.uk/departments/bbc/bbc-strategy-review/consultation/consult_view

BBC Trust survey and email address for feedback at https://consultations.external.bbc.co.uk/departments/bbc/bbc-strategy-review/consultation/consult_view

I don’t ask for much, but I will today.

If you’re in possession of a pair of working ears and a brain that loves good music: get on-line, switch on your TV or tune your DAB radio and look for 6 Music. Once you’ve found it, please stay there for one day.

And if you like it – never, ever, stop listening.

So, if I haven’t undermined my right to have an opinion on ‘Glee’ by openly admitting to watching a programme about werewolves, vampires and ghosts, here’s the question that’s been bothering me for the last month or so:

“Isn’t ‘Glee’ just a slightly less shaming version of High School Musical, that, by fact of it not being High School Musical, is socially acceptable to admit to watching?”

If I’m going to put my high-and-mighty opinionated hat on, the answer is ‘Yes’.

What pushed me over the edge wasn’t Mr Schuester’s awful rapping, the ridiculously bad miming to the musical numbers or the fact that Puck’s haircut resembles the landing strip of a bikini wax, but the fact that after watching the damn programme every week I go hyperglycemic. (I’m not even going to start on the fact that ‘Thong Song’ featured prominently the other week. Dear God, it was bad enough the first time around, and now kids watching ‘Glee’ are downloading it off iTunes and listening to it on their iPods? Yes, everyone has the right to choose whether or not they wear dental floss instead of underwear, but I don’t want it cropping up in my music).

‘Glee’ is just too much for this particular Rip Van Winkle. For one, there are just too many characters for the narrative to sustain any kind of pace — every week my flatmate and I play ‘spot the members of Glee club who have suddenly appeared, and yet somehow remain completely anonymous’, a riveting and satisfying past-time. Added to that, some of the songs have me running screaming for the nearest open window (yes, ‘Thong Song’…I’m talking about you) and there’s more sugar oozing from every episode than you’d find in a vat of Slushy.

I’m British, for goodness sake. I don’t want dewy-skinned American teens singing with their mouths disturbingly wide open, looking at each other doe-eyed and then spontaneously bursting into song; I want rain, sexual frustration, excruciating social awkwardness and a side helping of Joy Division.

But that would never sell, would it?

So I’ll stick to watching ‘Glee’.

…After all, isn’t the soul tormenting feeling of ‘loving to hate and hating to love’ something pretty much the definition of a guilty pleasure?

This afternoon, The Guardian is reporting that 6 Music might soon be quivering under the axe while, it appears, Radio 1 will continue as normal. Focussing on quality, BBC? Really? And judging by other online traffic on the matter, I’m not the only one to have fallen in love with the uniformly excellent 6 Music, and I’m also not the only one whose blood is starting to boil.

For fear that I’ll spontaneously combust if I start trying to articulate exactly why the mere suggestion of 6 Music disappearing from the airwaves makes me quite so angry, I’m going instead to turn to the good old rhetorical rule of three (which has seen me though many an angry letter in the past) and a few pictures.

So.

Talk of the BBC axing 6 Music makes me feel:

Angry

Upset

Frustrated

Because I love listening to:

Jarvis Cocker

Lauren Laverne

Shaun Keaveny - legend!

Who all play decent music, like:

Bombay Bicycle Club

Joy Division

Wild Beasts

So, dear BBC, stop spending money on:

Snog, Marry, Avoid?

Material Girl

Chris Moyles

… and THEN we can have a talk about “quality”.

Don’t like what I’m saying? Then refer to the picture of Jarvis Cocker, above.