Fat Roland's Christmas message: just like the Queen's but with more poopy baubles

Christmas is a lovely time of year when a reindeer does a plop on your baubles and Santa cheerily throws an elf onto an open fire.

I would like to wish all of my subjects a merry Christmas. And by "subjects", I mean you, my reader, because you subject yourself to all this grammatical hot guff every time you visit my website. Thank you for downloading my words into your brain.

This year has felt quite bumpy, according to the Queen. She should know because she has been feeling up the year when nobody's been looking. April felt squishy, and there was a distinct undulation to August. It's the kind of thing royals get up to. Disgusting, if you ask me.

I'm pretty immune to the annoyances of Christmas. I don't have parents, so there's no-one to argue with about Brexit while passively-aggressively chewing undercooked sprouts. And I don't have a television, so while you're bombarded with a gaudy torrent of Chrimbo ads, I'm just staring at the patch of carpet where my telly used to be. Bliss.

That said, it can be a lonesome time because everything's so family-oriented. Most Christmases, I delve into creative projects and spend as much time with friends as possible. January and February should have their own Christmases so we can continue to distract ourselves from the dank cold with booze and pals and shiny things.

The other day it occurred to me that "ho ho ho" is "oh oh oh" backwards, which is a lyric from Beyoncé's Single Ladies. I'm not quite sure what to do with this information, other than posit that Father Christmas is the opposite to Queen Beyoncé. The Anti-Bey, if you will. Next time you're sitting on a Santa's knee, ask him if he hates Beyoncé.

What's my advice for Christmas? Don't stand in your chimney place because if Santa comes down at the wrong angle, you're going to find yourself right up Father Christmas's butt. No-one wants to spend the festive season wedged up Santa Claus, no matter how Christmassy you're feeling. Not that anyone has chimneys anymore. Or butts. I blame Brexit Britain.

In summary, festive fiddlesticks to you and your loved ones. Maybe have a read of this 2006 Xmas Q&A in which I (a) still annoyingly call Christmas "chrimbo" and (b) seem to promise never to mention Christmas again. Oops.

Further Fats: Christmas chart battles and the chamber of echoes (2014)

Further Fats: Six drummers drumming (2014)

The techno-ness (technosity?) of Beyonce's Single Ladies

Why the heck have I not noticed the techno-ness of Beyonce's Single Ladies?

You know the song. All the single ladies, all the single ladies. Instead of putting a donk on it, everyone put a ring on it.

Single Ladies is so vocal-heavy, and those vocals syncopate so unusually with the rhythm, it's easy to miss what's going on behind Ms Fierce's famous vocals. Uh oh oh, oh oh oh.

Take out the voices, and you get an awkward ratchety stomp that leads into some pleasing space whoops, curious bleeps, epic strings, and that lovely bubble of a bass note that rises up to say hello every now and then.

Have a listen below.

I also flipping love the stunning string notes on Amerie's One Thing. Of course, these tracks are best with the vocals on, and I'm sorry for silencing these amazing women. But it's nice to hear very familiar tracks in a different way.

Wow, this blog post was like being in the noughties again.





Further Fats: Rihanna will knock out a cover version of Hangable Auto Bulb as soon as she claps her eyes on this pile of blog waffle (2007)

Suspended puppies: an absolutely genuine review of Warp20 Sheffield

What kind of skrunk-flapped piffoon would profess to run a blog on electronica then not bother to go to the most important electronica night in the history of the bleepiverse?

At the weekend, Warp Records celebrated its 20th anniversary with an absolute doozer of night. Warp20 Sheffield (logo pictured) featured smash-n-bassmaster Squarepusher and a hatful of classic Warp artists.

Because I couldn't go (and my diary clash really was unavoidable, like trying to walk past a pedestrian who's swallowed a house), I'm going to have to make up a fictitious review. Here goes...

Harmonic 313 came on before anyone had arrived; he was only playing to one man and an ill horse. To be honest, this took the pizzazz out of his set, and all he did was whip his keyboards with a wet towel. A disappointment all round.

Hudson Mohawke didn't begin his set because Kanye West stormed on stage and told everyone how he loved Beyonce. HudMo was later spotted crying in the corner sobbing his way through the lyrics of Single Ladies. Instead, Nightmares On Wax filled in with a unique set of tracks alternating between bland soundtrack chill-out and gabba nosebleed techno.

It is difficult to describe Squarepusher's set without using the following words:

- slap;
- krunk;
- Ogden Nash;
- visible beard growth;
- suspended puppies;
- Middle East peace process;
- Celine.

Then came Clark, who took his cue from old Top Of The Pops and performed all his song titles literally. So Totems Flare had him setting fire to things dressed as a Native American and he wore a bear suit for Ted. He went too far with that operation he did on an audience member during Empty The Bones Of You, but at least it was different.

After Andrew Weatherall's DJ set, which was mainly him shouting "does anyone remember me, I used to be important", it was time for Forgemasters.

Everyone who knows about the history of Warp Records will know about Forgemasters. They invented music back in the caves of 70,000 BC and if their music ever stops being played, the Earth will die.

So it was a delightful surprise when they closed Sheffield's Warp20 with a gushing rendition of Somewhere Over The Rainbow. Everyone simpered; it was lovely.

Shame it was spoilt by Clark who, now horrifically drunk, stumbled onto the stage as Tinman and crashed sideways into their keyboards. That really upset Hudson Mohawke, who forgot the lyrics to Independent Women. Bastard.

Rihanna will knock out a cover version of Hangable Auto Bulb as soon as she claps her eyes on this pile of blog waffle

I am a blithering hypocrite and you should pap me on the nose with the back of a spoon.

I was going to excrete a post about chart-topper Rihanna making the dullest r 'n' b since R Kelly and Aaliyah. (No disrespect to the deceased, but Aaliyah's music was the very epitome of r 'n' b medocrity.)

The post would have been magnificent, and would have finally exposed r 'n' b for the drivelling middle-of-the-road dross it is.

But then, I am the sort of manchild who spends hours listening to clicks and beeps and barely distinguishable melodic themes. My music taste by nature means I can get lost in a repetitive mantra which, essentially, doesn't change for six hours. My middle road is so narrow, I have to build bridges over the cats eyes instead of going round them.

And I confess to liking some r 'n' b, no more so when I saw The Ladyboys Of Bangkok do Usher's Yeah routine at the Lowry a couple of years ago.

It does seem strange that the very week Rihanna claims this decade's record of the longest run at number one whilst simultaneously releasing her own range of umbrellas in the wettest period of UK history, the queen of r 'n' b she is hoping to depose Beyonce Knowles "falls down some stairs" in Orlando, Florida.

Actually, the umbrella move is shrewd. You see, her single is called Umbrella. And she has released a range of umbrellas. Her single is called Umbrella. Umbrella. And she has released a range of umbrellas. Umbrella. Umbrellas. Subtle, isn't it?

This could be the start of a new and startling range of cross-promotional opportunities. All sorts of records could be used to shift product. It's the kind of business acumen Tesco would kill for. No, seriously, they actually kill people. With hammers. This sounds like bad stand-up, but they do really kill people with hammers.

I have trawled the backlist of Warp Records, and sifted out some electronica albums that are desperately needing some merchandising spin-offs. Rihanna had better watch for that discarded roller skate at the top of the stairs...

>AFX's Hangable Auto Bulb (pictured): a light connected to the ceiling that is somehow turned on remotely, maybe with a switch.

>Boards Of Canada's In a Beautiful Place Out In The Country: estate agents

>Aphex Twin's Windowlicker: a rather unpopular window cleaner.

>Autechre's Amber: Jurassic Park tie-in, a new range of actual dinosaur DNA in actual amber.

>Autechre's Anvil Vapre: a tool for converting unwanted blacksmith equipment into gas.

>Squarepusher's Big Loada: trucks, obviously.

>Squarepusher's Budakhan Mindphone: a microchip in the shape of Chaka Khan dressed as the Buddha inserted underneath the skin in the forehead and enabled to take telephone calls.

>Squarepusher's Burningn'n Tree: cigarettes.

>Squarepusher's My Red Hot Car: Ferrari dealerships. You're getting the hang of this now, aren't you?

Ten places I want to see Autechre played

I'm off to see uber-techno-super-gods Autechre on Friday. I'm as excited as pink buckets because you never hear Autechre played in regular pubs and clubs; it's usually all Beyonce Aguilera and the Arctic Monks and suchlike.

Here are ten places I want to see Autechre played:

>At the final of the X Factor. I want to see Ben / Bobby / Betty / whoever warble You Raise Me Up to the sound of synthesisers mating over hot coals.

>At the start of most Sanctus 1 services (this already happens - I'm just plugging them).

>In the heels of every trainer shoe ever sold in the UK. The frequencies should phase out anything that comes out of a scally's mobile phone speakers.

>From speakers fitted into the side of planes, so when they fly low over your house, instead of getting the roar of the engines, they would emit a deafening analogue C major seventh.

>On the Quite Early Show in April 2007, although I doubt my co-presenter Lee would allow it as he likes girl's music.

>As muzak in the lobby of the entrance hall to the parallel universe to which I have been digging a tunnel for the past sixteen years. I've been digging with Christening spoons and hiding the soil in Paddington Bear toy coat pockets, so that my escape plan from this universe won't be discovered by Barbie and Ken who watch over me all day from their ivory watchtowers made not of ivory, but of lego and poo.

>On the moon. Obviously.

>Behind Bjork's voice. She's used Graham Massey and Mark Bell as producers, so the Autechre boys seem like a logical step.

>On a stage in a big Ten Mile-style stand-off between Autechre and 808 State. The Manchester band that comes up with the most original, fartiest sound wins, and the hyped-up audience will mimik TB303 sounds in celebration.

>On my CD player. Well, technically, in my CD player, not on it.

I may have to settle for that last one, although I'm still holding out hope for the parallel universe.