Category Archives: Ceri Phillips

The 10 WORST lyrics in the Popesphere {Ceri's Column}

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In no particular order:

  • The Verve – Bittersweet Symphony – “But I’m here in my mode, no, no, no.” – Love the song with all my heart but my god! They did have a serious tendency to write utterly bizarre lyrics. Seriously…what do you mean by your “mode”?
  • Sam Sparro – Black and Gold – “And the apes climbed down from the trees
    and grew tall and they started talking” – Why the fuck would getting taller help them to start talking? Shut up Sparro, you penis.
  • Nizlopi – JCB – The whole bloody song – Also a contender for worst band name too, Nizlopi’s seriously crap lyrics could actually have been written by a six year old. If ANYONE retorts: “that’s the point”, I won’t be amused. Utter dross. I mean, “And we’re holding up the bypass, oh-oh, me and my dad having top-laughs”? Really? Lordy.
  • Keisha – P Diddy – “Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy” – What?
  • Louis Armstrong – Wonderful World – “I see friends shaking hands, saying “how do you do”, what their really saying, is I love you.” – Who doesn’t love this song? I mean, I do! However, the thought of two “friends” greeting each other while repressing feelings of adoration makes me think: “what a bastard fate can be”. All a bit Remains of the Day for my liking.
  • Elvis – All shook up – “Her lips are like a volcano that’s hot” – Huge? Spewing lava? Stopping all Europe’s flights for weeks? Elvis, why are you with this woman?
  • Snap – Rhythm is a Dancer – “I’m as serious as cancer when I say rhythm is a dancer” – WHAT? You are as serious as cancer (“serious” as in the gravity of having the illness, I think?) when you state that rhythm, “movement marked by fluctuating conditions” (thanks Wikipedia) is actually a dancer, and not the widely accepted definition? Well…you’re just a twat then really.
  • The Socialist Republic of Vietnam– Their national anthem, Doan Quan Viet – “Soldiers of Vietnam, we go forward, With the one will to save our Fatherland. Our hurried steps are sounding on the long and arduous road. Our flag, red with the blood of victory, bears the spirit of our country. The distant rumbling of the guns mingles with our marching song. The path to glory passes over the bodies of our foes. Overcoming all hardships, together we build our resistance bases. Ceaselessly for the people’s cause we struggle, Hastening to the battle field! Forward! All together advancing!” – Sheesh, chill out!
  • Elton John – Your song – “If I was a sculptor, but then again, no” – after you write a shit line, you can re-draft. “If I was a fisherman, no hang on, a scientist. No! Wait…if I was the Emperor of the World! Yeah, that would be cool” was the original opening line to Candle in the Wind.
  • Anything by Oasis. Trust me; those lyrics are all just tosh. What the fuck is a “Wonderwall”?

If Ceri had a band… {Ceri's Column}

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Well I’ll tell you one thing. My band would have a shitty name.

I’m just not the kind of person who can reel off a catchy group moniker. I just don’t seem to have the…knack. I mean, titles for stories, my lil’ TV scripts, character names, even bloody baby names for Christ’s sake (spell-check MADE me capitalize Christ…see, they did it again….). Band names? Nope.

So on the night of our 1st gig at some trendy bar in <insert name of wanky suburb of some in-vogue town/city>, we’d probably have the set list memorized, each of our costumes would be matching, I’d even have little inter-song audience banter bits sussed. But our name? Still missing, I’d imagine.

I’m rather partial to a bit of “extreme” music, (or metal to you norms), and I firmly believe that metal band names reign supreme. Some of the coolest are…

  • Agoraphobic Nosebleed – Cool
  • Pig Destroyer – COOL
  • Prong – simple yet COOL
  • Gay for Johnny Depp – Um… (*Author’s note* aren’t we all…a little…no? I’ll shut up then…)
  • Old Man Gloom – quirky and carries a sense of foreboding
  • Killing Joke – Just yes. Yes. Thank you. What a name. Icicle cool.

I wouldn’t stand a bloody chance! My band would limp on with a name like “The Jolly Rodgers” or “Wittgenstein’s Shame” or “We are on Stage!”…something ball-crunchingly crap or pretentious or nonsensical.

Probably why I don’t have a band, really…that and not being able to play an instrument. Or carry a tune. Or know anyone else who can do either who isn’t already in a band…

I’m a bit deflated now. I’ll just drink some beers and watch Edward Scissorhands. Oh, I mean…

Nah. Edward Scissorhands.

I'm a Sega Mega Drive, and being AWESOME was my idea! {Ceri's Column}

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They really don’t make video game systems like this anymore! Sure, games these days are flashier, more expensive, have better graphics, cooler music and snappy writing and have more storyline-based sexiness blah blah blah…but I can’t help but feel…I LOVED THE SEGA MEGA DRIVE MORE.

Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 is all very well and good but I don’t feel like I’m “playing” anymore. The Sega was like…a toy…you remember…fun? Escapism?

Most of my school mates circa 1995 were still playing the pantsy little SNES. Seriously, this console makes Hello Kitty look positively mantacular. I was too busy fighting Doctor Robotnik as my speedy blue hedgehog alter ego to care about the mushroom killing exploits of a beer-bellied Italian plumber.

The one all-conquering ultra game that proves beyond all possible argument that the Mega Drive roolz (yes I spelled it like that, fucking deal with it you square):

Toejam and Earl!

For you unenlightened few who are yet to bask in the glory –

In 1991 Johnson Voorsanger Productions made a game about two space alien rappers who crash land on earth. In this 3D roving, birthday present collecting, elevator finding, wise cracking super-game, 1 or 2 players control either red three-legged Toejam or Hawaiian short-wearing slightly obese Big Earl. You walk about the randomly generated worlds trying to recover bits of your broken spaceship. On the way you encounter troublesome Earthlings like the lil’ devils, hula girls, phantom ice cream trucks and marauding bands of tomato-cannon firing chickens.

YES! It is this insane. YES! It is that good! Get on eBay and buy it. Seriously now. Buy a Sega Mega Drive to play it on as well…I probably should have mentioned that first… You can get the console for £30 or thereabouts and Toejam and Earl (the 1st one, the sequal was wank) for a few quid, but they probably cost much less on eBay!

This game is the bollocks! I guarantee that within 5 minutes of playing it you’ll be quoting it for years. I have…

God I need a life…JAMMIN’!

httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=33iYLYRMLSk

The thing you do when you're an "actor"… {Ceri's Column}

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I’m sure that “waiting” is the biggest pain in our collective arse! I mean, war and famine and such are more than a pain in the arse…unless you’re that soldier who got shot in the arse…balls, I’ll start again.

Uh…feck! See what I mean?

All that nonsensical rambling was written as I am waiting for my frigging train to arrive. My mind is not at its razor-sharpness when I have to wait for junk! It grabs on to thoughts like “I wonder if this train has power sockets” or “that hair growing from my mole…is it ok if my girlfriend plucks it out? It won’t get worse, will it?”

When you’re a mediocre actor, like myself, your time spent waiting is roughly four times more than, say, an oil-rig worker. Oil-rig workers don’t sit in their house thinking “maybe if I’d tried an Irish accent”. Oil-rig workers don’t sip at luke-warm cappuccinos in the Starbucks next door to Johnny Jenkins’ Casting for two hours because they miscalculated how long it takes to drive to Manchester and are 3 hours early. Oil-rig workers wear overalls, not their god damned pyjamas for days and days and days hoping against hope for your agent to ring.

Last week, I waited for 2 and half hours to be asked: “Oh…can you come back tomorrow?” 2 and a half hours of sitting and looking at the floor and wondering why I hadn’t brought my IPod and what do I get?!  24 more hours of waiting. AAAARGH!

Oh well, I suppose I could be doing a job that involves “working” or “thinking” or “Business acumen”. We have made our own beds, so let’s…uh…lie…in them? Does that butchered idiom make sense?

Oh shit my train’s here……

by Ceri Phillips

Not so Hidden Gems {Ceri's Column}

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By Ceri Phillips

Every once in a while I stumble upon something wonderful. Well, to be more accurate, I walk along quite briskly, late for a meeting and then, on stopping for a moment, usually to tie a shoelace or spit out some gum, realize where I am or where I seem to be or around or about to experience and it turns out to be something wonderful. But my opener has more zing…the fuck was I writing? Ah yes, the last time I happened upon something wonderful was a week or so ago in good old London, (oh, for those of you who don’t know, London is a quiet, unassuming city near Slough). I was busy shopping for a few essential items in Covent Garden; essential items like root beer, American chocolate bars and impractical yet highly fashionable boots when KABLOOM! Thunder. I hate the frigging rain so I took cover in the first shop I could see. A place selling frozen yogurt.

Now, I am not the biggest fan of most frozen desserts apart from ice cream and I must concede that I am a total ice cream Nazi. Anything less than orgasmic ice cream is spat across the restaurant/parlour/funeral home into the coffin (sorry Aunty Em). Most other frozen desserts are gimmicky bollocks or pretentious “palate cleansers” used to add on £7.50 or more to your bill. Frozen yogurt is just not my thing. Plus, this place is called “Snog”. The name made me remember awkwardly tongue-poking braced acne sufferers in the corner of some dingy disco…when I was a teen, I hasten to add.

However, this particular vendor of iced cow juice is so fucking extraordinary that I will not only go again and again, I’m buying some god damned shares in the business!


Seriously now, this place rocked my tiny mind. First off, the fact that green tea frozen yogurt is available here wooed me past my initial pessimism. My girlfriend suggested I try a smaller size, pointing to a gluttonous child sitting with a “Medium” that should be called an “Oh fuck I need some stomach staples, Mum.”  After you pick a size and which flavour yogurt (plain, green tea, or a rather stunning dark chocolate) you get to pick toppings and sauces. I got an original flavour with white chocolate stars and a shot of espresso on top.

Sweet shit! My taste buds have barely recovered! I swear I heard a tiny muffled “Oi! This tastes like shite” emanating from the end of my tongue last time I ate some Ben and Jerry’s. Must have been the LSD.
The best thing about this chance discovery was exactly that; it was a total fluke. If I’d been told about this place by a trillion trendy Hoxtonites and urged to “pop in when I have a mo” (or however the fuck they’d phrase it), I would have enjoyed my experience. I would have thought “yeah, this is nice”. But finding it myself, as if I were customer numero Uno and therefore “special”, amplified the pleasure.
So next time you’re walking from one tube station to another or (if you don’t live in London) from one…uh…taxi rank to another…please stop and look at the shops and cafes around you. You may just discover a not so hidden gem.

Ceri Phillips is a young writer and actor currently playing Ollie in BBC’s Coming of Age. He’s also creating comedy forhis sketch group ‘Le 122’.