In the midst of Edinburgh’s unseasonably beautiful week of sunshine, Los Campesinos stated their presence with a passionate performance. Their chanting, jangling heady noise which slotted so well during the hight of indie’s reign in 2006 still holds strong. You! Me! Dancing! and Sweet Dreams Sweet Cheeks still hold up as simple and effective tracks but the band have moved far beyond the constrains of their ‘genre’, unlike some of their counterparts who remain tempted by the ease of skinny jeans and a lazy riff.

With lyric driven songs that seep through your consciousness with a rare sense of wisdom and sensitivity, the band seem more focussed than ever to evolve their reputation. Where as once they could have been dismissed for their canon of jaunty, even disposable pop, they have now developed and matured their sound to quench a need for more meaningful music.

Taking charge of vocals, Gareth dances, shouts and politely “thank-you’s” his way through a captivating performance. His awkward charm objectified in his being beiger than beige cardigan is almost immediately outbalanced by his rawkus energy which lies underneath, even ending the set with a (modest) stage dive. Over the past 6 years, Los Campesinos have clearly not lost what they loved to begin with, a knack for beautiful lyrics teamed with unpredictable music; and it suits them well.

However, not everyone shares this opinion as the delightful and ever … vocal Matt Wilkinson from NME deems then “dreary, drippy fuckwits who should have done us all a favour and split years ago”, which seems rich coming from a magazine that lost all sense of credibility the minute it decided the get in bed with anyone who said they were cool. Unlike the NME, most people have faith and loyalty in bands, and Los Camp have proved why this should be the case. And as much as he might want bands like Kasabian to produce that same mainstream “oh-we’re-so-different-no-you’re-not” drivel to appease the 14 year old saps who buy the magazine it wont work.  It just illustrates that the NME would rather buy a pint and shag Alexa Chung than it would to actually indulge in something vaguely intelligent.

Los Campesinos still batter the glockenspiel, they still flash their co-ordinated dance moves, they still have a glee for their earlier excitement, but they also embrace a dexterity for the darker side, the one that wonders if you’re really in love, if you’re really happy and if it’s really all worth it.

But don’t label me a Anglo-snob too quickly as it’s a fair assessment that we are the classier nation, we bore Shakespeare for the love of Jemima …  oh come to think of it, even he might have been a fraud. In fact who are we to judge, we also home John Barrowman, a vision of all things jazz hands with a small concept of actual entertainment (soz).

So, maybe America isn’t crass, instead they’re justifiably confident. There are some things, painful though it is to admit, that America is just better at. Satire is their domain. Whereas we cling on to the wit of Have I Got News For You, an influence which sadly dissipates as soon as we switch over to the intelligence-ridden Total Wipeout, some of the US’s most influential liberals are comedians. Jon Stewart and Stephen Colbert have stood high over questionable republicans for years, and embrace their role of “satirist”. They mock but they also inform and whether you see it as right or wrong that some people gain their main intake of news through comedy, the fact remains that they are significant because they don’t take no shit. Stateside, comedians are idols and ours are panel show fodder, saying the right words and pressing the right buzzers for the fast track to arena comedy, depressing.  

When you become ready to commit you’re life to a box-set the first ones on the list are probably American with programmes like The Wire and The Sopranos topping the most wanted lists and tend to highlight the archaic nature of our “classic shows”. Recently, however, things have shifted and we have awoken from our creative coma with British cinema at a peak as Submarine and Attack the Block are critically acclaimed for their originality and it’s no secret that behind the biggest US shows is often the most underrated British talent as the God-like status of gawky Blackadder star and silver fox, Hugh Laurie goes to prove. So, it may even be fair to say that America has been craving the British influence, putting aside the rivalry for a slice of our eel pie. 

Since the dawn of Western culture there have been battles depending on whether you screamed for the lip curling sexiness of Elvis or for the freakishly talented mop tops of The Beatles. The arts are competitive in their nature but our tête-á-tête with the good folks over in the US of A is healthy and even necessary to keep culture at its best. We have even learnt to play to our strengths as both countries are co-dependent in our love of good culture. We say potatoes and they say potahtoe but let’s call the whole thing off.

Although I was fully committed to writing a Christmas telly round-up, i’m not ashamed to admit that I was hit bad, real bad by the departure of a certain Pat Butcher so in my emotionally raw and sensitive state I have decided to focus on the Pièce de résistance – the hundreds of thousands on top of the sherry trifle – the return of the original odd-ball, Sherlock (lets not mention the bitterly disappointing return of a jaded Ab Fab)

We start exactly where we left off, in a shady swimming pool being thoroughly freaked out by Begbie-style Moriarty. What follows is a complicated plot involving Americans with guns, a lesbian royal, an EXTREMELY important camera phone (why did they keep stressing its picture taking ability?) and the one thing Sherlock should be incapable of doing … falling in love, or at least his equivalent of it.

The series yet again coincides with the release of Guy Richie’s blockbusting film extravaganza, Sherlock Holmes – Game of Shadows. The latter reincarnation is the cocky smart arse at the back of the bus, who is comparatively cooler than you but nevertheless is still a bit annoying compared to Benedict Cumberbatch’s sparse yet intricate depiction. He is grumpy, stubborn and irritable but we begin to crave the moments when he shows a hint of compassion, whether it manifests by coming to the defense of Mr. Hudson or apologising for his misinterpretation of romantic feelings. But he still can’t resist a sarcy look or ignore his ability to suss anyone out with the blink of his eye. To better the first series, this return had to develop Sherlock further and resist letting these brilliant idiosyncrasies take over the show’s effect and indeed it does. By showing a potential for emotional capacity in his relationship with Irene Adler we are left as intrigued and as puzzled as Watson is.

There has been ridiculous claims made by the “newspaper”, The Daily Mail, which states that  Sherlock is burning the very innocence of our children with heinous depictions of a naked woman pre-watershed, whilst being compelled at the same time to show us such images. Get a grip. This seductive and odd introduction to the infamous Irene Adler (played with precision by Lara Pulver) was an ingenious way of showing that there are flaws in Sherlock’s logic, and when it comes to women, there are many question marks.

As it has come to be expected of this series, the script was drenched with humour and wit, sealing the chemistry between Holmes and Watson, as well as ensuring they we are never distanced from Holmes, despite being infinitely separated by his intelligence. The show never feels consciously pushed into the 21st Century, it is a natural fit and makes us wonder why it had never been attempted before. The use of technology and social media avoids clunkyness by stressing the obvious progression because it would be odd not to write a blog about your weirdo crime solving housemate, surely? Watson (played with an endearing frustration by Martin Freeman) yet again portrays the perfect counterpart, evoking sarcasm and a general disillusionment to the great but infuriating Sherlock.

Richie and Moffat’s interpretations are world’s apart and joyous in their own right but it seems the modern day skew suits a character who was the modern man of his time. Despite a charming nod to the deerstalker, Moffat has moved away from any temptations to sink into Sherlock stereotyping and re-defines him on our terms, in our language and it is unfalteringly successful.

p.s. I feel compelled to put into the interweb-stratoshpere my immense love for Black Mirror, a clever, sharp and through examination of modernity’s progression into self-destruction and one which should (but probably wont) render all of the Charlie Brooker mainstream haters into a stinking silence because yes it was gross at times but it went way beyond any notion of controversy and if that is all you take away from it then you need to re-watch it or go home.

I am a little slow off the mark with this set of videos by SNL writer Mike O’Brian but nevertheless they are just the right amount of awkward and gawky.