Listening to: Prince - Sometimes it Snows in April

This time last week I swore I wouldn't do it but tonight I did.
Yessir, sucker that I am, I've just finished watching another instalment of The Seven ages of Rock on BBC2. Not that I ever expect truly insightful or revelatory television where popular culture is concerned - though there have been some worthy moments over the years - but this deserves a special mention.
Here is a series which, in one episode, charts the rise and rise of what became known as Heavy Metal without once mentioning Led Zeppelin. Not ever. Not even in passing. Tonight, as if to continue this theme, the life-cycle of American Alt-Rock was documented without once uttering the words Sonic and Youth. Not once. Not even in a 'What links Mudhoney and Nirvana?' kind of a way. Very special indeed.
BBC2: Ring me - I can do it better and cheaper, I guarantee this.

Anyhoo, bad rock-docs are probably not currently at the forefront of Salman Rushdie's list of gripes. No sir, he's had an undeniably bad week.
I mean, it's not like he put in a personal request for a knighthood or anything, the poor sod. As if he didn't have a bad enough time of it back in his Satanic Verses days, when even sensitive troubadour Cat 'Peace Train' Stevens (allegedly) supported having him whacked.
Sal subsequently descended into that murky underworld aka The Witness Protection Programme, and in all probability only recently started to relax a little.
Next thing he knows, they publish the 2007 Honours List, he dares to say yes, and he's right back to 4 hours sleep a night, wearing a wire and being shadowed by 2 stern fat chaps in aviator shades every time he wants to nip to the Co-op for a paper and a pint of milk.

Crazy Cat coincidentally picked up an Ivor Novello award last month for Outstanding Contribution to something or other. For me, I'm afraid he peaked with his paean to Working Class 9-to-5 drudgery, Mathew & Son way back in his Swingin' London days.
Forget I Love My Dog, this was poetry on a stick, Pop-Kids.