Margaret Thatcher once said that anyone who still uses public transport at 26 should accept that their life has been a failure. Well, thanks a bleeding cocking lot, Maggie. Being a car-less 26-year old, I unsurprisingly feel the urge to disagree with Margaret on that score. I generally use public transport with no small sense of civic pride, safe in the knowledge that my carbon footprint is about the size of Cleopatra Stratan’s sandals. I’ve never, ever felt like a looser for using public transport – that is, until this Summer.

I was unlucky enough to find myself trapped on the bus between Constanta and Mangalia, on the night of this year’s Liberty Parade. Now, a Liberty Parade should surely be about freedom of expression, about letting go of your prejudices and inhibitions, about hugging strangers and being generally nice. So it’s rather ironic that the people on the liberty parade were, without a doubt, too stupid to be able to have even the concept of ‘free will’ attributed to them. Liberty Parade? I suggest it be renamed ‘Parade for Cartesian Automata So Guided By Animal Instinct That If Left Alone For Any Length Of Time, They’d Probably Start Throwing Their Own Faeces Around And Start Dry Humping Inanimate Objects’. Granted, it’s not such a catchy title for an event, but I think you’d have to agree it’s rather more descriptive.

Anyway. The experience of being trapped in a cage of gold-chain-wearing, glow-stick-waving monkeys for more than an hour was so traumatic that when I received the Liberty Parade 2007 CD to review, I almost lapsed into a Vietnam-war-veteran series of horrific flashbacks. It was a bit like being sent a CD of The Internationale, after being subject to Stalinist torture techniques. The Liberty Parade CD, as a result, has remained unopened on my desk. For all I know, it could be a great compilation. If any reader is brave enough to write a concise review, I’d be more than happy to print it.

Record of the Month was a close fight between MIA and the Super Furry Animals. MIA ended up victorious, mostly because I’d like to make a public declaration of my undying love for the 30-year old Sri Lankan, and have decided that I’m definitely DEFINTELY going to marry her. (Note to photo editor: to illustrate this column, I’d be eternally grateful if you could find a photo of MIA, cut out a photo of my head and put it next to her, surrounded by some kind of heart-shape – you know, like teenage girls do with photos of Justin Timberlake? Thanks.)
You might think this as being a rather sexist basis for awarding Record of the Month. And you’d be right. But doubt ye not my judgement! Because MIA has gone and produced another phenomenal album. Named after her mother (I hope to be meeting her soon), ‘Kala’ is even more eclectic than her debut in 2005. It takes in Bollywood, Brazilian ‘Funk Carioca’, Aboriginal rapping, African chanting – and as if that weren’t enough, it samples The Clash and quotes Jonathan Richmond. Then again, it’s only to be expected, given that it was recorded in about a million different countries (India, Trinidad, Australia, Jamaica, Japan, America…).

If anyone else (say, Bono) made the audacity to make a record that mentioned genocide in Darfur, illegal immigration, and the African gun trade, you’d definitely have to hate them for being a smug, sanctimonious little prick. However, MIA manages to touches on such topics while 1) staying incredibly credible and 2) making you want to dance like you’ve got a bad case of haemorrhoids.

The Super Furry Animals – five hairy, sweaty men from Wales who spend far too much time smoking weed – never stood much of a chance against the lovely MIA. However, their eighth LP, ‘Hey Venus’, is a real delight. Music journalists always want to feel clever by writing things like: “‘Hey Venus’ sounds like the Beach Boys jamming with a Turkish garage-psyche band, listening to old ‘60s Doo-Wop records and smoking a huge bag of industrial-grade skunk. On acid.” Of course, if I actually wrote that, then you’d be right to throw the magazine down in disgust for falling into one of the biggest journalistic clichés ever. Good job I didn’t fall into that trap!