Watch With Mothers

We have MOVED....

2007-01-25T08:52:00.000Z

All new version over here.

Goodbye Blogger, you were a worthy friend, but then you went Beta (whatever that means) and for some reason that totally fucked our blog up, so BYE.

Come and See

2007-01-24T11:21:00.000Z

Actually don't.

I sat through this festival of utter misery for well over an hour before I was forced to turn the bastard off.

Feral-faced Russians populate a creepy albeit lush forest amid scene after scene of poverty, crying faces, corpses, skulls, uniforms and all round squalid shit. And mud.

There is no denying the quality of acting/cinematography/direction blah blah but I felt alienated and uncomfortable. It’s been said of Come and See that it’s the best war film ever made, hence my feeling of alienation and discomfort I should imagine. That may be the case but I confess, and in opposition to my nature, secretly wishing a cigar chomping Kurt Russell/Nicholas Cage etc., even that little turd Jean Claude Van Damn would appear framed by a fucking massive fireball and proceed to spray a million bullets into the foray.

I still feel depressed even now I didn’t watch it too the end. I don’t care what happens to the miserable boy and his peculiar companion.

To summarise. A pile of corpses outside a wooden shack in a godforsaken village.

Awesome TV

2007-01-16T02:00:00.001Z

I've said this before, and I look forward to saying it again; just when you think 24 can't possibly get anymore insane, it goes and defies your expectations again. For all it's po-faced seriousness, repetitive dialogue and exceptional plot holes it remains the finest thing on TV. Season 6, long may you reign.

I'm currently in the delighful throes of Reno 911, a take-off of Cops from Comedy Central. It's a really good show - largely improvised and painfully funny. It's introduced me to the comic talents of Kerri Kenney who plays two roles on the show and is without a doubt the funniest female comic I have seen in a very very long time. They have a movie coming out which looks a little "mah" but we'll see, the TV show is genius.

Call me a geek, call me whatever. The new Battlestar Galactica is has given sci-fi what it really needed; a bastard hard kick up the ass. I think it's best described in the words of the Peabody institute when they said: "It treats contemporary issues from an angle that really make you think about those issues…issues of race, gender, all those things are dealt with in that context... 'Battlestar' considers them in a dramatic narrative."

Damn right.

I also recently watched Crank which is, frankly, an absolutely brilliant action movie - it's ludicrious from start to finish and it knows it, which makes it all the more fun. Mike Judge's Idiocracy is a much maligned, badly treated flick which deserves recognition far beyond the release it was granted - it has some great ideas and moments of genius but the film has clearly suffered at the hands of the studios editors. Let's see... what else...? Last King of Scotland is excellent, so is Casino Royale and if you're in the mood for something gentle I can definately recommend Robert Altmans last film, A Praire Home Companion.

Last part for those that give a cack

2006-12-07T12:32:00.000Z

Monday

If one combines the sound of the street below and the radiator it’s a wonder I slept at all. The bed didn’t help either but despite being woken at 5am, I slept like a baby. After a shower and surprise nose bleed, shit and shave, spot of packing I checked out of the Chelsea. They kindly agreed to store my suitcase and I verbally arranged to go back at dusk to get my gear and head off to JFK. When I asked the best way to get there the two guys behind reception and a cliché homosexual guest in his fifties with dark glasses, goatee and multicoloured jacket gave me advice all at once, the gay guy being the most outspoken and pessimistic, after he told me I should get a car, period, he then told me not to listen to him because ‘he was just being mean’. I thought he was great. I opted for a cab.

I headed out on 8th Avenue for some breakfast and to my eternal shame found myself in a MacDonald’s eating a bacon ‘egg’ and ‘cheese’ bagel. The ‘cheese’ was plastic and the ‘egg’ yellow foam, but it was edible. I haven’t darken the doors of one of these places in 20 years but figured ‘when in Rome’ etc., it seems acceptable to break personal ethics of food. Vengeance came in form of a cup a tea served with fucking cream.

After a wonderful walk up Broadway to Times Square via the Empire State, I hit the Museum of Modern Art. The journey was fantastic as I hit the cliché/tourist part of Manhattan, bright lights, towering skyscrapers, colour, noise and thousands of people of all different shapes, sizes, creeds and colour moving in eight different directions towards me, away from me, North, East, South and West as I pass through block after block watching and absorbing everything. It’s both beautiful and somehow deliciously wrong. People are asking me for directions too and I fucking show them, I know exactly where I am at all times, I get a real kick out of telling a new Yorker literally where to go.

MoMA is utterly fantastic, one of the best collections of works I’ve ever visited and I’ve seen most, if not all of the greats. Like the Metropolitan there are too many pieces to go in detail though I came across a photo by Carrie Mae Weems called ‘From Here I Saw What Happened and Cried’ and for the second time this trip I choked up. Immediately after ‘Don’t You Ever Leave Me Baby’ by Hanoi Rocks hit my head, maybe on account of the reference to Lexington Avenue. I could hear it crystal clear; the emotion in the song was carried by the reaction to Carrie’s exceptional piece and for five stunning minutes I remained in this glorious condition until it passed in the adjacent gallery.

I’m trying really hard to not gush about some of the works in here but the collection is fantastic. Of note Jane and Louise Wilson’s ‘Stasi City’ a four-screen installation which is phenomenal. I’m not usually a fan of the genre, actually the Bill Viola in here is great too, but ‘Stasi City’ blew the top of my head off. One disappointment is the not-on-display ‘Le Dejeuner en Fourrure’ but ‘Les Demoiselles d'Avignon’ sort of makes up for it, as does the sublime and terrifying ‘Christina’s World’ and Pollocks ‘Painting Number 1’ and a host of others I can’t be arsed to mention on account of limited time. It’s a fantastic place and I spent four painful (my dogs are barking) wandering round before getting back on the Street at heading back to Chelsea to get my luggage. It’s a stunning day, mild sunny and clear, apparently the rain comes tomorrow by which time I’ll be well and truly home (assuming the plane doesn’t nose dive into the Atlantic)

On the way back there was a scene outside The Rockerfella Centre, cameras on trucks, crew, screens, lights and a huge crowd. Will Smith was shooting a movie and we had to obey the cries of the runners to keep moving or stay put in a group so as not to be in shot. Bollocks to that so I walked on, my feet crumbling with the sheer amount of mileage I’ve done in the past 5 days. I’ve never walked so much in my life. It has to be done though; it’s by far and away the best way to engage with a Manhattan, or any city for that matter.

I got back to the hotel, struck up a conversation with a stunning tall blonde from Texas, collected my luggage and hailed a cab to JFK. I watch Manhattan shrink behind me, fading a little in smog. The skyline is awesome albeit harsh, the Empire State disappears under a motorway and I’m away. I checked in three prior to my flight in fairly cheery mood despite the journey ahead. I ate some turkey pastrami after a huge amount of deliberation, it was shit and drunk a large Gin and Tonic and waited for the time to pass before boarding. Casual duty free shopping and smokes outside the terminal saw time pass smoothly enough, then, all of a sudden, it was time to leave go. Bugger

Part 4

2006-12-04T13:35:00.000Z

Sunday

I’m about to take the Staten Island Ferry to go to Staten Island (Duh!). It’s a beautiful day, possibly the warmest since I got here; the sky is so blue that it’s virtually purple. It’s been a long time since I travelled on water; in fact, the last time was en-route to Amsterdam 18 years ago and I puked all the way there and back. It’s like a millpond in comparison to the channel and a genuine pleasure. The view of Manhattan from here is quite imposing but I’m looking forward to getting back as Staten Island isn’t much to write home about. Brooklyn Bridge is exceptional a from here looks so beautiful, simplicity, purity and practicality in one hymn, William Morris would have shit himself with delight.

Earlier, after a shower Julian and I drove to 23rd Street and I checked into the Chelsea Hotel. Dylan Thomas lived there and died right after he left, Arthur C Clarke wrote 2001:A Space Odyssey there, Arthur Miller was resident for years and, of course, its’ the place where Sid Vicious stabbed up Nancy Spungeon. It’s a wonderful place, the lobby is full of eclectic paintings, some of them exceptional and it has an atmosphere of Bohemian decadence, rough round the edges but homely and exciting. “I suspect you’re going to love it here, this place is right up your street…” Julian said after he’d checked me in. How right he was. He put the bill on his card; I will pay him back when I see him again. We bid each other a fond farewell and I was alone again.

The guy at reception said he’d hold my luggage whilst I headed out for the day and asked me to fill out my details…name, address etc., he’s a friendly Spanish guy, early 40’s, baseball hate, goatee with a round friendly face. I asked him (foolishly) if he wanted my address in London, ‘sure’ he said, ‘so we know where to send the body’. I liked him immediately. Balls I just missed my ferry back to Manhattan because I went for a cigarette. Thirty minute wait for the next one; next stop the site of the World Trade Centre.

After a lukewarm cheeseburger purchased on board I managed to get right at the front and the middle of the ferry all the way back and watched Manhattan approach fully aware of a part of the landscape denied me. I disembarked and walked up Broadway past Trinity Church, a gothic oddity nestling in the shadow of modernity and there is was, this gaping hole, established on September the 11th. Here something unexpected occurred. I choked up, right up and had to stifle a sob. The atmosphere round here is dignified and utterly devastating, people are openly weeping, the site of the WTC is a yawning hole in the ground, some site buildings and basic foundations are nestling in the crater but nothing can ward off the impact of tangible death, a gaping maw that is nearly as unattractive as the events that unfolded that morning of September the 11th. It brought to mind Julian’s cleaner who, before the attack, had been a classroom assistant at a local junior school. She left her job unable work at there anymore because on the afternoon of September the 11th fifteen children weren’t picked up their parents.

I wandered up Broadway and happened on Murray Street purely by chance, I popped into an empty bar in the absurd hope Kim and Thurston would be in there supping some suds. Of course they weren’t but the beer is good, Bass, oddly, in pints too… I’ve just decided to head towards the Empire State building and make a final visit to CBGB after leaving here. I’m bloody shattered but feel a whole lot better than I did yesterday which was frankly squandered in the Village and Soho. Perhaps ‘squandered’ is too strong a word as I was in NYC, out and about, feeling and experiencing everything for the first time.

Actually, outside the bar having a cigarette I’ve just fallen in love with Manhattan, I’ve concluded that I’m having a killer time. The barkeep is watching two football games at once on two screens located each side of the bar. He’s a friendly chap and just offered me another beer, how could I refuse!? I having noticed, by the way, that most Americans are very insular and proud, this was deduced not just from meeting them in person and on the Internet but also from the TV commercials. For example, over here ones blood doesn’t boil dry when KFC advertise their (new) three cheese chicken ‘gravy’ wrap backed with an overtly jolly jingle and a bunch of inexplicably white-toothed female and male models in their early twenties looking gorgeous. Here, it’s as one expects.

A fat looking Richard Dreyfuss look-a-like has just walked in. The barkeep has been in the bathroom for two minutes, it’s worth noting that I’ve not paid my bill and the cash register is in easy access. Realising there was barkeep at the bar I informed Richard of his whereabouts and was asked if the kitchen was open. When the barkeep returned from the bathroom he was asked the same question, perfectly nicely…maybe Richard should lay off the food. I sort of feel sorry for him. I watched him examine the menu, his head tilting as he rejected each dish, when he finally accepted he was going to have a ‘pork sandwich’ his face lit up, then he actually laughed to himself. Bless him.

I walked through China Town and Little Italy to get back to Bowery. Speaking of ‘little’, I’m like giant in Chinatown, actually on the whole I’ve noticed New Yorkers are shorter than Londoners. Then I walked uptown until I got to 313, it was almost as if I was on autopilot. This was the last afternoon preceding the last ever night of CBGB, after tonight, kaput, gone, nada, zip.

Shit, I’ve just realised that I’m in a gay bar (Gay bar! Gay bar! Etc.,) I hope some one doesn’t want to put something in me… Drink the Bud and leave asap…Shit, Bud! Earlier in CBGB I met Caroline a forty something school teacher from Brooklyn who taught in a tough school in Harlem. We got talking about Bush, punk, real estate in our respective countries and of course CBGB. She was nice and I think she was gently hitting on me. We chatted over a beer and were soon joined by Luther, a Thurston Moore look-a-like with a gut and glasses. Luther had worked at CBGB for four years in the 90’s. He told me that the real reason the club was closing is because Hilly’s ex-wife, who was present eating pizza at the bar, held the liquor licence and Hilly and his sons cheated her out of it, or something, all very iffey. Hilly has lung cancer and according to Luther there was no reason it was closing outside of sheer hostility and sibling rivalry. Basically Hilly didn’t want the place to survive after he’d gone. The information was passed in hushed tones but I liked the guy and took his card so I can contact him again.

After another beer I went outside to catch a cab. The media circus had arrived in droves, ABC, Channel 7 were there along with all the other big names, reporters stood on boxes or wandered through the throng asking questions. It was all very sad and depressing so I caught a cab and went to the Chelsea. The staircase is amazing, wrought iron balustrade with worn white marble steps. It’s over 100 years old so as far as Manhattan is concerned, ancient history. I dumped my stuff in my room after picking it up from reception. It’s simple, clean and like the hotel, rough round the edges and went straight off to find a bar, the one I’m in now, the gay one.

After draining a beer at lightening speed I got a bottle of wine (I have to select the best I can with a screw cap which is surprisingly easy these days) and decided to Dylan-Thomas-out back in my room.

The hotel is located just off 7th Avenue a la Simon and Garfunkel song, but I didn’t see any whores to my knowledge. I’m now sat on my bed watching TV. I just saw a leader on NYC News about CBGB, never know, might see myself passing by. It’s very noisy outside incidentally, it sounds like one would expect New York to sound like, beeps, sirens and the occasion ‘hey buddy!’ It feels oddly familiar.

I’ve changed my mind about the room being ‘clean’ it sort of is but there is some water damage over the two French window lintels, the skirting boards and walls have just been painted over (not recently) the years so the texture is, for want of a wider vocabulary, totally fucked up. I opened the shutters, Parisian in style, they look great and managed to force one of the French windows open so I can smoke on balcony. I tied a red ribbon on the wrought iron outside to remember my stay here and for the all the artists that lived and died here. I’m pissed by the way.

Annoyingly I can’t see the street from up here as there is, much needed I should imagine, reconstruction work going on. I’m spending the night drinking wine and channel hopping. American TV is beyond shit, the CGBG feature lasted less than thirty fucking seconds. Moronic. But not as moronic as watching three fake-titted blonde Playboy dimwits talking about Halloween. They’ve just done an offensive feature on the Black Dahlia murder. They found the site where this poor women was found and lay giggling in the very spot. Oh the irony.

It’s been on for thirty minutes now and it’s so bad it’s compulsive viewing. I’m going to do the rest of the wine, smoke on the balcony and hit the bed. Tomorrow I leave, I’m ready to go home but just as I’m getting used to New York my feelings are mixed. I’ve spent so much time alone here, to write and find ‘Jamie’. Indeed, I’ve learnt a lot.

I’m just outside on the balcony, it smells of fried meat round here. I’ve also realised that New Yorkers must spend a lot of time observing one another, not just from the multitude of fast food joints that look directly out on to the street but from apartments where you can see hundreds of windows. It gives literal credence to my purported view that Americans are essentially inward looking creatures. Last night I saw a party from Julian’s apartment and they must have seen me watching them. One is never alone here though one can be totally lost and lonely. I guess that goes for most cities…not that I’m feeling lost or lonely. That Playboy show is still on, that Hugh Hefner is a right cunt, I hope his knob drops off.

The radiator in here is a big silver painted thing, when it warms up it sounds like a man hitting a steel bar with a hammer. Weirdly the sound is thrown so it appears as if noise of the same pitch is coming from both outside and within at once. For a few minutes until I figured out the source of this noise I was quite concerned. The traffic noise outside is monumental; it’s like trying to sleep on a building site.

Stranger Than Fiction

2006-12-03T21:55:00.000Z

So Will Ferrell plays Harold Crick, a taxman who leads a perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary, perfectly mundane, perfectly repetitive existence. His life is dictated by numbers, times and accounts - he brushes his teeth the same number of time each day, he has exact and precise work breaks, he counts his steps to work... we know all this because the author of his story, Kay Eiffel (Emma Thompson) tells us about him through her narration - a narration that it seems Harold Crick can also hear.

We're in Charlie Kaufman-lite territory here with narrative prose, literary theory and film convention binding as one to tell a slightly surreal, slightly offbeat story of a man driven to change his life because the voiceover tells him to. The problem is that only he can hear the voiceover, and it's just mentioned that he's going to die. In desperate need of help he contacts a literary professor, played by Dustin Hoffman, to help determine what kind of story he is in and identify the mysterious narrator in his head.

This movie draws many parallels to The Truman Show or Punch Drunk Love - most noticeably because it's another example of a comedy star playing it straight, and much like Jim Carrey and Adam Sandler Will Ferrell largely gets it right. He is sympathetic as everyman Harold Crick and manages the fine balance between comedy and drama very well - from screaming in the street at the voice in his head to accepting his fate and facing his death, he is is always entertaining to watch. Despite all this he is still miscast, the central role requires someone with stronger dramatic flair and while Ferrells comedic persona doesn't invade your conciousness too much, he's simply too weak to handle the more serious elements.

Which, I think, is quite a fitting description for the whole movie. As a lightweight comedy with an intriguing central notion it works very well, but the film just isn't assured enough to reach the higher echelons that it is aiming for. The literary theory behind the film and the philisophical ideas contained within are handled with too light a touch to successfully work and I found myself longing for a movie with a little more meat to it. It feels like the bare bones of the first draft have been retained, so as to keep the basic premise, but rewrittten too much to appeal to the casual cinemagoer. Had it been less fluffy and more clever I would have enjoyed it much more.

It's not without merit though; Emma Thompson does a superb job as the befuddled, confused and depressed author, struggling to finish her job, and Dustin Hoffman is entertaining (although again, a little too lightweight) in what is basically a repeat of his I Heart Huckabees character. The movie is funny and intriguing and as satisfying as it needs to be, but with a little more thought and a little less audience pleasing it would have been much better.

Good tagline, though: "Harold Crick isn't ready to go. Period."

Airplane Films

2006-11-27T13:40:00.000Z

I recently undertook a trip to Japan, which was the first long haul flight I've taken in my life. Flying out took 11 hours and flying back was an incomprehensably longer 12 1/2 hours and I spent most of this time on both occasions watching a wide selection of flicks from Virgin Atlantics archive. I was particulary excited about this aspect of the trip, having never experienced it before, but the novelty soon wore off in direct proportion to how much my fear of deep veined thrombosis increased.

Anyway, these were the films I decided to watch:

Taladege Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby

In preparation for the oodles of hours in front of me I decided to start big and watch the only movie on the list that I actively wanted to see. I am a huge fan of Anchorman, as I am Ferrell, Reilly and Baron-Cohen in general so my expectations were high... and while they weren't quite met it was still funny enough for me not to regret my choice.

Ferrell plays hot-shot Nascar driver Ricky Bobby - the sort of big dumb hick who names his sons Walker and Texas Ranger and can become overcome by too much gay in a room - who develops fear of driving after a nasty crash and has to be coaxed back to the track Days of Thunder style. It's the same sort of bizarre shouty humour that, for me, makes Ferrell a winner and while it never quite touches the genius that he has reached before it's by no means as badly bungled as, say, Dodgeball...

American Dreamz

Inexplicably I next chose the Hugh Grant starring 'satire' American Dreamz. Only one film in and I'd already realised that airplane screenings were not the best setting to watch movies that I really wanted to see... they were more like when I worked in a video store and got to take home any old crap I wanted.

American Dreamz is a take-off of Pop Idol style shows with Grant as a Simon Cowell figure presiding over a TV talent competiton. Thrown into the mix is your various collection of try-hards and talentless wannabes competing against a suicide bomber for the all important vote of the American President.

It thinks it's a satire, but a few good ideas aside it's really a bad-made, unfunny comedy that has delusions of grandeur. It's far to light and fluffy to handle the black humour and the script seems to completely miss the point. Grant, though, is quite good as the total bastard of network TV and Willem Dafoe does a great job as a Dick Cheney-eque vice president...

Severance

Normally I'd dismiss this British Deliverance / Southern Comfort immediately simply for the presence of major-league cock-end Danny Dyer but sticking within the theory of watching the movies I wouldn't even rent normally I decided to go for it.

An office outing in Eastern Europe for a group of staff who work for an international arms company turns sour when they find themselves being targeted by a group of masked men. All the cliched characters from the office environment are represented here, from the resident wide-boy to stuffy boss via the requist kiss ass and the office babe.

Despite expecting the loathe it, I found this to be a very entertaining and refreshingly light horror comedy. Danny Dyer actually won me over, especially in the opening scenes when he is chock full of magic mushrooms... the cast are soon culled, and while there's nothing particulary inventive about the methods it does become appropriately nasty, although it is at these moments that the film becomes at its most uneven.

A superb and unexpected aeroplane gag and the wish-fulfilling sight of Tim from Blackadder stuck on a landmine helped keep my attention, as did the all too amusing topless-prostitute with a machine gun sequence. It may not be Hostel, and I'm thankful it's not, but it helped get me through the final two hours of the first flight.

An Inconvenient Truth

On the way back I decided to pull out the big guns and try to pay some serious attention. First off was the third most successful documentary of all time and appropriately ironic for watching on a plane - Al Gore's An Inconvenient Truth.

It's always hard to judge these films when they are primarily aimed at the unconvinced but largely watched by the converted. There was nothing particulary new within this film that I didn't already know, but for an audience previously unaware of the problem I am sure it must be a great eye-opener. Moments of the movie flagged massively for me, much of it as a result of heavy handed and needlessly emotional insights in Gores motives.

Just as the truly terrible soft-rock anthem that plays over the closing credits began I glanced out the window and found ourselves flying of the melting tundras of Siberia. That view shocked the beauty and fragility of the Earth into me far more than a powerpoint presentation ever can.

Dave Chappelle's Block Party

In which our titular hero - already a legend of Tv comedy in the states but virtually unheard of over here - decides to throw the worlds best block party in New York, inviting along Big Daddy Kane, Kanye West, the Fugees, Jill Scott, Erika Badu and Mos Def to perform. The real appeal of this for me was that it was directed by Michel Gondry and I was curious to see what he'd do in the documentary format.

It's an odd movie - not particulary strange, just unexpected and strangely purposeless. The party wouldn't exist without the movie so it's not quite aiming to capture a moment a time, and it's more than just a concert movie as it follows Chappelle around as he organises the event. Basically a film about Chappelle and his friends is not neccessarily a criticism, though, as he makes for an engaging host and the collection of black icons he calls upon put on a very good show.

It runs for too long though and it enters into indulgance far too often. The best bits are provided in little moments away from Chappelle like the owners of the building explaining how they met, or a Washington School marching band discussing their presidential ideas with Wycliff Jean.

Kekexili - Mountain Patrol

Ok, I was going for it - 6 hours in and I started this Tibetian eco-drama about a group of volunteers protecting rare antelopes from poachers. Here the curse of the airplane screening kicked in because while I found it to be utterly fascinating and engrossing, I was also by this point subject to flight fatigue.

The blinds had been brought down and many of my friend had falled asleep. As hard as I tried my eyes kept falling and huge plot points would pass me by before I jolted awake again. Pausing even for a nap did me no good and the true enjoyment from this wonderfully minimalist film was taken from me... and this was a great shame because the movie was gorgeous to look at and the characters brilliantly brought to life. This is one to rent upon return.

Click

Shite. I miss the old Adam Sandler. The Adam Sandler from Happy Gilmore, not this pathetic, maudlin, soppy, life-lesson Adam Sandler. It did keep me awake though, which for a man barely sleeping on a 12 hour flight is probably more of a compliment than it deserves.

Part 3

2006-11-27T10:45:00.000Z

Saturday

This morning at about 6am I woke up wondering where the fuck I was, blinking in the dark my stomach did a 180 and I fought the urge to vomit, I walked to the toilet, had a shit and turned round on myself and following two good pulls last nights cheeseburger, fries, unknown meat product with a host of Buds, Guinness’, Coronas’, whiskey, cokes and cigarette smoke jettisoned from my face, I felt instantly better and returned to bed utterly arseholed.

As I write this its the afternoon following CBGB, I’m preparing myself to go to for a wander round Bleeker Street and get some food. Julian may be back tonight in time for a drink/supper so I’m at a loose end. I’ll save the downtown for tomorrow I think as I’m feeling ravaged. Oh, one thing I’ve learnt about myself, I’m claustrophobic, suffer from vertigo, am an a emotional wreck and am generally afraid of everything I’m unfamiliar with. I know I’ll never get over any of these things but they mustn’t ever stop me from being able to live a full life. After all, I am here am I not?

I feel a whole lot better for having being out. I drifted around Greenwich and the Meatpacking District and right up Bleeker to Braodway. The Village is so lovely, the people seem relaxed and on the whole friendly, but Broadway Downtown was frenetic and packed with a combination of tourists, bums, hustlers (who didn’t get my accent) and the energy was a whole lot more aggressive. I walked down Broadway until I crossed into Canal Street, which was frankly unpleasant. Here I found card sharks, pushy male hookers, New Yorkers selling their possessions and flea markets flogging utter shit.

I managed to get onto West Broadway and after some covert map reading navigated my way to back to The Village via Soho. As soon as the corner was turned onto West 3rd street Manhattan was instantly transformed into peaceful civility, well, largely. It was almost as if there was an invisible barrier between the very wealthy and shit dirt poor. (Julian just texted me, he’s back at 9pm so we get one more night out together until we part. I’m going to kill a few hours reading The Guardian (International version) and my book and smoking on the balcony).

Change of plan, Julian texted again, he claims he’ll be too tired to go out when he returns so I’ve hit a bar on Bleeker. It’s 7 pm. The bar is quiet, nice atmosphere and the barkeep is friendly. The beer was advertised as $3 but its actually $6, when I mentioned this he didn’t understand how people kept objecting to the price, so I showed him the sign outside making me the most boring man in NYC. I feel good though and after this I’m need to get some food to go and some wine, then I can get back and flake out, I’m shattered actually. Just finishing off my second beer in the bar, life feels better already and I delighted in telling the barman the origin of ‘Limey’. I’m still the most boring man in NYC, double now.

I grabbed another slice (the evidence of which is now soaked into the cover of my diary) after much deliberation and bought a bottle of Shiraz after even more. I also got some ‘New York Cheddar’ Kettle Chips for the irony factor and memories of eating them with friends as a teenager. (‘New York Cheddar’ is an oxymoron surely; Cheddar is English cheese from Cheddar). This spurious connection with my past at home coincided with an oddity when I was channel hopping and ‘Are You Being Served’ was on WLIW, Channel 21, right after MTV. One of the actors now deceased lived in Thames Ditton on the next street from where I grew up. I used to deliver his free paper. Headfuck from the point of view from here, the actor played Mr. Lucas incidentally.

Quote from a New Yorker on TV, “I love this city but God, what a weird bunch of people live here”.

Part 2

2006-11-22T11:38:00.000Z

Friday

Riding on the subway is a whole new experience; I never thought I’d view the London Underground as clean and comfortable, from my plastic seat in this noisy dimly lit silver box, I mentally repent for my ignorant derision. I’m heading uptown towards the Bronx but stopping off at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. After much hassling of New Yorkers (wholly polarised in their attitude of good and bad) I’m heading in the right direction, I think. The London Underground map is work of utter genius in case you didn’t know.

The Metropolitan Museum of Art is, like most things American, enormous. It backs on to the East side of Central Park which itself is remarkable huge. It’s a glorious autumn day, the sky azure, and the air crisp without being cold. The imposing architecture of the Met cuts into the blue as if razored into situation, its vast façade somehow seems forced and one can’t help acknowledging with a certain degree of amusement the neo-classical sleight of hand employed in it’s design. It’s fake old.

The collection is vast and sprawling and unlike London’s National Gallery $20 to get in. I’ve already seen some sensational pieces and refuse to expand on this any further save a Chinese poem from The Japanese Wing that features on a twenty-foot long decorated silk screen.

“The autumn moon is half round above the Emei mountain
Its pale light falls in and flows with the water of the Pinggiang river
Tonight I leave Qingxi of the limpid stream for the three gorges
And I glide down past Yuzhou thinking of you whom I cannot see”
Li Bo (701-762)

Li Bo had a good innings for an 8th Century chap.

I wandered around Lexington, Madison and 5th Street for fucking ages trying to find a place that sold cigarettes. Eventually on a connecting street I found a deli and bought forty Luckies. How lucky it is to die of cancer/heart disease/thrombosis of the penis etc., I thought as I lit up.

It was extremely pleasant wandering around lonesome as a cloud but also, lonesome. I didn’t feel as much part of the city as I did in The Village, in fact that fucking Sting song came into my head about an Englishman in New York which was a bloody irritating companion for 30 minutes until R.A.M.O.N.E.S. knocked it out…Speaking of which, after catching the 6 train from 63rd Street to Bleeker I took a round the houses Yellow cab back to Julian’s apartment, I could’ve walked it in three minutes actually, the radio news was telling of the fact that this was indeed the last CBGB weekend and they played some Ramones to drive the point home, wonderful.

I’m sitting in Julian’s ex-wife apartment waiting for him to come home so we can go and eat before we get to the club. It doesn’t seem real that I’m actually going. In fact it will be my second visit as I went there this morning to wander about the place and check the tickets were ready. I was curtly informed they were, then politely given permission to peruse what is the birthplace of punk rock. The place is covered from floor to ceiling in band stickers, fliers and torn posters and smells damp with hint of sweat and musty with a tang of vomit…the overall effect is childishly comforting. I even got up on the stage to feel ‘something’ it gave me a massive kick, here was where, without question, it began. This was a true church, hallowed, sacred and for me, very moving. I will go once more and that’s it, forever. This is why I came to NYC, everything else including the NYC itself plays second fiddle, or in this case three bar chords on a chipped Fender.

When he got back Julian and I had made our way to CBGB OMFUG (Country Blue Grass Blues. Other Music For Uplifting Gormandizers. Gormandizer usually means a ravenous eater of food, but according to Hilly Kristal, the owner, here it means “voracious eater of music”) at 315 Bowery Street, a good three-quarters of an hour before the doors were due to open at 8. We hit the queue near the front and were instantly joined by a little guy in his early fifties dressed in a black leather jacket, NYC baseball hat (black) and a Ramones tee-shirt. He’d been to CBGB since it opened some 33 years earlier and seemed to know everyone. A succession of passing punks and musicians greeted him with varying degrees of warmth. This guy (his name isn’t forthcoming though his face is etched into my minds eye) just talked at me for half an hour as Julian got increasing agitated brought on by a combination of the cold, the wait to get in and the little fellows endless yakking. In addition to this we still weren’t 100% sure we’d actually get in, despite my popping in earlier to check. Three-quarters of an hour late the queue finally started moving and on entry credit card details were exchanged for a blue wristband and we were in, properly, not just visiting but there to see three bands. We even managed to get a table over the mixing desk with a raised view to the stage some 30 yards off, I was delirious with happiness, in shock actually. Drinks were immediately ordered from the waitress and from that point on, settled with a huge grin on my face. CBGB is coated in fliers and stickers, the earlier rush through the place didn’t do this credence, every surface is covered even the seats and tables, it’s as if Kurt Schwitters has gone mental in there for 33 years.

The first band on were The Bullys, a nice all round punk outfit and according to the lead singer Joey, handpicked by the headline act The Dictators. I discovered later that the bands co-founding member John Heffernan was a fireman and died on September 11th. As I was making my way to the notorious toilets, you pass the backstage area, they’re just three open rooms where the bands hang out. I can’t think of a single venue in the world where the audience are on such an intimate level with the performers, even the stage is only two feet higher than the rest of the club and there’s nothing to stop anyone from stepping right up onto the stage even when bands are actually playing. I was wearing my Motorhead tee and Joey was the only other guy in the place wearing the same shirt, so we started chatting and the bassist took some pictures of us and announced we were separated at birth, it was a jolly nice moment and after that everyone seemed to want to talk to me, including a large furry freak brother look-a-like called Camel. On hearing my accent he asked me if I knew Jools Holland, I knew of him of course but wanted to know why I was asked if I specifically knew Jools Holland as opposed to Glen Matlock, say. It transpired that in the 80’s Camel had sold Jools spares for his Buick and still owed him fifty bucks for an AM Radio. I was ordered to inform Jools that “fucking Camel from fucking GBGB wants to know where his fucking fifty bucks is for the fucking radio” should I run into him. I found the whole episode hilarious especially as we’d started talking after I rated his fart in the not-as-bad-as-everyone-makes-out toilets and despite the nature of his words and size, he wasn’t remotely threatening, quite sweet, in fact.

The night rolled drunkenly on punctuated by the occasional cigarette outside where I was cosseted and photographed by the throngs outside who didn’t have a ticket. It was all rather odd. Julian and I were still sat in the same spot and had struck up a friendship with the couple on the adjoining table. They had met at CBGB 25 years ago and had been married, for 25 years as it turned out. They were nice despite my performance of Anti Nowhere Leagues ‘So What?’ after one of them mentioned Brighton and clearly offending the large husband with my over emphasis of ‘you boring little cunt’ which I directed at him without implication.

The second act on were The Sick Fucks, the fat middle aged self-deprecating lead singer was hilarious, belting out some beauties accompanied by two lingerie clad forty year old twins who’d seen better days but still had it. I met one backstage and like an utter thoughtless git asked if she’d been one of the Anadin ‘Brothers’ in Dr and The Medics, she sweetly said no, flashed me a Hollywood smile and shook my hand anyway. I would’ve by the way.

By the time The Dictators came on Julian and I had moved to right over the mixing desk. There was a small ledge over the little flight of stairs to the tables and I can safely say I was at the highest point in the whole club, which included the band. Again, the music was excellent, really old school just-about punk, the bands frontman, Handsome Dick Manitoba punctuated the set with hilarious anecdotes, the booze prevents me from recalling anything but at the time Robin Williams couldn’t touch him. The songs were fast and simple and Julian and I were able to tap into choruses which we yelled with aplomb, when they performed ‘Who Will Save Rock and Roll’ I flipped out. Christ it was fantastic a real cheesy ‘pinch me I’m dreaming’ moment climaxing with Tommy Ramone joining the band for Blitzkrieg Bop. All too soon it was done, and I said farewell to CBGB, I watched punters leaving, pausing to remove baseball hats and fedoras, mumble words and stare once more at the chaotic decoration with moist eyes.

Despite this we left in high (and full of) sprits and grabbed some food off a street vendor, some meat, no idea from what animal it derived, it was fucking awful as well. Julian decided he needed to eat something else and we found a lovely diner come bar, I was rather surprised that, at 3 am, it was a third full comprising of small groups of girls in their early twenties. I had Bourbon and Coke, a cheeseburger with a side of stringy fries that were pinched by charming departing diners, they asked of course and anyway, I wasn’t hungry anymore. Before we left I complimented one of our female neighbours for her rendition of Lep Zeppelin’s ‘Misty Mountain Hop’, my accent had an effect and she responded in a most delightful way. On the way home we passed dozens of groups of black rent boys on West 11th, I was so pissed that I found myself being flattered by some of their comments. We got back to the apartment at about 4am and went directly to bed.

NYC Diary. Thursday

2006-11-16T10:52:00.000Z

I went to New York last month to visit CBGB before it closed. Over the next few days I will post the diary of my stay, it's written in real time, 'live' if you will and hasn't been edited save ironing out a few typos.

Thursday

I was convinced I was going to die on the plane but went through the gate anyway.

We are now required to move our fucking shoes at security, no doubt thanks to that Richard Reed cunt, I thought, just as I noticed two death metal Muslims cautiously eyeing up seven foot tall Hasidic Jew, I smirked openly, isn’t religion a funny old thing. After the quickest cigarette in the world in the history of Atlantic flying I arrived at Gate 32 bound for Newark. The pair of large G&T’s I’d had in the lounge bar had taken the edge of my innate fear of flying, but sitting here now, writing this, I’m far from happy (its worth noticing however that I’m not unhappy per se, its this whole getting in a metal tube breathing fake air at 500 mph that’s crushing my will to be amused, that’s it, I’m not unhappy at all, just un-amused, and mildly terrified).

I’m on the bastard now maybe an hour into the flight? Feeling okay as I’m enjoying my third G&T. I just started watching Adrift and it occurred to me, sitting in my little seat with small headphones and tiny monitor jamming a bright green plastic swizzle into my mouth, that the cabin crew perusing the isle must only see hundreds of pithy faces gawping ahead, the odd facial expression reacting to the media but largely in a state of mass absorption. No wonder the Stewardesses grin like that when they’re serving you. Travelling by air just isn’t natural on any possible level save the fact air is involved. And even the stuff inside the craft is fake.

I want a cigarette.

I reckon I’m about half way through the flight, maybe I sort of don’t want to check, in case I’m disappointed that I’ve only been in this coffin for an hour. Watched the beginning of Ringer and aborted, I’m going for Inside Man, it’s not too bad but the loud noise and pace of the movie are causing me to panic. Panic is one of the most dreadful things; my particular peccadillo is having respiratory problems, I feel as if I can’t breath, or rather, the air I’m breathing is devoid of oxygen. Naturally being on a plane is the least desirable means of travel but the speed of the journey mean that at least once a year I have to suffer this absurd situation. The lady to my left is falling asleep, I wish I were asleep. I still need a cigarette.

We’re thirty minutes off landing, thirty minutes late which won’t please Julian, I’ve already fucked up booking the flight to Newark rather than JFK saving myself, ironically, £30 and inadvertently causing him a four hour round trip.

Shit. I was watching A Scanner Darkly and they just stopped it without warning, pain because it’s bloody good and it was working well to take my mind off the flying and now, the landing. Still at means that if I DO survive, I will be on American soil in twenty-five minutes or so…I may as well confess that this is my first time to America let alone New York, I’m thirty-seven, what kept me? It’s always been a mild fantasy of mine to visit The States, especially NYC, like most kids growing up in England there is a sort of symbiosis of existence with the Americans’, even if it is largely imposed on us by TV and films, it’s there from day one and even right now as I’m about to land in the U.S., I’ve just watched three U.S. movies back to back. Well two and half annoyingly.

I can already taste that cigarette, I hope.

Change of pen, I lost my other one ‘somewhere’ so I’m using the Virgin freebie which is quite lovely actually, how thoughtful of them. Well, I survived the flight, after a pleasant stand off at immigration (where I felt forced to explain my lack of hair in my passport photo with regard to a contemporary ‘me’, the reaction I got from the un-gruff immigration officer was quite congenial). I waited for an age to retrieve my bag off the carousel, I walked out of the airport and there was Julian on 24 carat U.S. soil looking for all intense and purposes the New Yorker. We greeted each other fondly and walked to the parking lot for his ride, a brand new 420 bhp Audi S8, basically, a fucking sports car with number plates. The Audi is supersonic fast, Julian cut through the traffic in ways unholy by decree of U.K. laws (and probably U.S. ones too) and despite toll queues and congestion it took no more than 35 minutes from Newark to his apartment in West Village, where he lives during the week with his now-looking-likely-ex-wife and baby girl.

I dumped my stuff off and we out to a Chinese restaurant, the food was sensational, before moving onto a bar called ‘The Dublin’ where we laughed, drank and discussed his impending divorce and business. As stands right now, Julian has gone to bed (I’ve been up for nearly 24 hours, I’m wired) and here I am drinking Corona and occasionally succumbing to cigarettes on the apartment balcony, offering views of both The Hudson, Liberty and the Empire State. I’m shattered, happy and it’s my turn to turn in.

We Need to Talk About Kevin

2006-11-04T00:30:00.000Z

We Need to Talk About Kevin
by Lionel Shriver

"Shortly before his 16th birthday, Kevin Khatchadourian kills 7 of his fellow high-school students, a cafeteria worker and a teacher. He is visited in prison by his mother, Eva, who narrates in a series of letters to her estranged husband Franklin, her account of Kevin's upbringing."

Lionel Shriver was doing a talk as part of a literary festival I was working at and her event sold out in a matter of days. I asked one customer what all the fuss was about and she readily and eagerly told me of this book which had changed her life, and the life of everybody she knew who had read it.

As anyone who ever read 'On the Road' when they were 15 can testify, some books can come along at exactly the right time and throw your conceptions of a subject to the wall. You can argue their merit all day, but without 'Papillon', 'Wild Swans', 'Fear and Loathing', 'Rebel Without a Crew' and Calvin and Hobbes I would be a very different person. It wasn't just because these are great books, it was the pertinence of the subject matter that resonated with me. They came along at a time when I was thinking about these things and these books opened up new ways of thinking, gave me new ideas and challenged what I thought I knew. 'We Need to Talk About Kevin' is such a book.

Through a series of letters to her ex-husband, our narrator recalls her experiences of motherhood as she experiences what many potential parents fear the most; disconnection from their child. Eva feels no attachment to Kevin and cannot enjoy even the simple pleasures of raising a child... Kevin is a burden to her, a permanent reminder of her old life and he is turn is able to see through her maternal facade and manipulate her.

The whole book has this feeling of dread about it that makes it hard to forget. Kevins actions on that Thursday are revealed early on, and so his perfectly normal, perfectly ordinary upbringing can be viewed in retrospect of the heinous act that ended it. There are no easy answers and no explanations, instead we look at relationships and motivations and roles we play in the world even they are no more us than anybody else. As Eva says: "once you have found out that there is nothing to stop you - that the barrier, so seemingly uncrossable, is all in your head - it must be possible to step back and forth across that threshold again and again.."

As the full ramifications of Thursday become clear and you realise, only a few tantalising pages ahead of the reveal, what has been driving the whole novel, the tension becomes almost unbearable. It's a masterstroke of writing that creates characters this compelling, this believable and this unstandable that the events you have been expecting all book can still be so surprising.

I met Lionel Shriver at the literary festival and she signed my book, which I had yet to finish. "Well it's outstanding so far" I said "so I really hope the final third doesn't suck." It doesn't.

More about 'We Need to Talk About Kevin' here

When Nothing's All You've Got

2006-10-23T20:32:00.000Z

Misty's Big Adventure 'Fashion Parade' feat Noddy Holder

Music sounds bloody horrible these days. Not the songs so much as the production, the packaging. It’s like listening to someone hammering in a tin shed. A lot of music is mastered to sound super loud these days so all the subtleties, should they exist, are ironed flat into one vast brick of noise, which is then used to pummel the listener. It’s possible this is done to compensate for the sound loss due to compression in your mp3 format which, we are reliably instructed, is going to phase out granddad formats like ‘compact discs’ (so retro!). Never mind that cds have a much greater dynamic range, allowing for a richer sound and a more satisfying listen. Never mind that the majority of mp3s are digested via tiny, shrew sized speakers that sit as comfortably as pebbles in the ear and hiss the tiny racket that cost you only slightly less than a cd album and which dictates how many different places it may be played in.

A case in point – I was sitting in the barbers the other day. That’s not right – I was seated in the grooming parlour this Saturday hence and listening, as you are forced to in such situations, to morning radio 1 fm wow bonanza, presented by foxy Vernon Kaye. A quick listen to the man Kaye will leave you confused if you are a certain age, as you will believe it is DLT on the airwaves, it is 1985 and he is about to play audio snooker. Whack whack oops! Hilarious! Except the one major difference being that instead of songs between the twaddle, there appears to be a 3 minute blast of industrial white noise accompanied by the howls of the damned. In this case, those Killers and them Kasabien. (Incidentally, Vernon pronounces Kasabien like Casa-Beeyen, like its some vaguely upmarket bar with a dress code that only appears in provincial town centres.) A lot of songs on the radio are like that. It’s getting difficult to tell the difference – not because it’s all bang bang bang, but because it’s not. Because all sound is compressed and contrived to seem as initially thrilling as possible, essentially ignoring the dynamic possibilities of the song in hand, the result being that everything literally sounds the same. In this context, the voice of Vernon is like a sonorous lullaby.

So where’s the alternative? A quick glance at the schedules confirms my worst fears - Huw Stevens and Rob Da Bank and all those unfashionable, beard sporting djs are getting pushed back, farther and farther into the small hours. It’s simply not possible to stay up and listen. But what am I thinking? It’s the 21st century, and here’s music on demand. I don’t need top stay up! I can have it online, whenever I want it. Ace! Well, yes, sort of ace, I suppose, but you lose an all important factor. One of the great things about radio was the random element, that you could switch it on and, in amongst the playlisted dross, the naughty, subversive dj would play a tune from their own bag, one of their personal favourites. When I was 15, I heard Jo Whiley play ‘Something For Joey’ by Mercury Rev. She didn’t have to play it, she clearly just fancied it. And she was right to, it’s a classic, and a song which changed the course of my musical interest forever. That’s Jo Whiley folks – a pivotal force in my life. That’s all but gone now, unless Colin Murray truly loves The Automatic and thinks they deserve one more spin. It’s clearly a form of reciprocal sponsorship, but it works because I know if I want to listen to The Killers, Dirty Pretty Things and The Teats I need stray no farther than Colin Murray, who won’t annoy me by playing something weird and unexpected.

Which probably means, for better or for worse, that Fashion Parade by Misty’s Big Adventure will sink without a trace, or be consigned to the graveyard shifts when, just this once, it really needs to be heard in the mainstream, as it is so much a product of it.

The Noddy Holder connection is important, I think. Not just a Birmingham thing, but also that pretty much the whole story of the song is detailed in the film ‘Slade in Flame’ from about 30 years ago. This probably denotes that the whole thing is entirely cyclical, has happened before and will continue to happen as long as music can be packaged and sold in any form. Not that important in the grand scheme of things, then, but it’s still reassuring to know that a few other people are sickened by the flagrant careerism of it all. And anyway, it’s fun to watch someone having a big moan.

And in any case, Jarvis is back, The Indelicates are being aggressive, and the ever circling, skeletal claws of Mark E Smith and Luke Haines are always around when you want them, so maybe it’s no so bad, if you’ve half a mind to explore. And, there are still surprises to be had, such as Squarepusher being interviewed by Lauren Laverne on BBC2, which is like some kind of weird and delicous dream.

Apologies if this has been a directionless rant. I had to tell someone, don’t you understand?

World Trade Center

2006-10-05T08:30:00.000Z

I've waited a long time for Oliver Stone to stop all this wishy-washy political film making and get down to making a good old-fashioned men-in-a-hole movie, and by thunder it's been worth the wait. Who, I say who, wouldn't be enthralled to spend two and a half hours of their life in the company of Nicholas Cage and Michael Pena buried under the rubble of the World Trade Center singing the theme tune to Starsky and Hutch? What arse would rather watch Children of Men or Click when you've got Maggie Gyllenhaal and Maria Bello crying quite a lot and being very worried? If it's you, then you're a gutless fucking philistine and you should have your teeth smashed out with an ice-pick.

Stone, who's last movie Alexander stank because it had too many Irish people in it, here coaxes a powerhouse performance from his cast of has-been action stars and indie film regulars. Cage, who's dust covered head moves slightly to the right about an hour in to the movie, is amazing as Port Authority police sergeant John McLoughlin. The way he's surmounted the difficult feat of lying on his side for two hours is an acting masterclass and there's no doubt Oscar will be knocking on his door come next February. His co-star, a be-moustached Michael Pena, is equally stunning at lying on his back with a big concrete slab on his chest; and singing the theme tune to Starsky and Hutch, lest we forget. The third officer down there, pretty-boy Jay Hernandez, also stands out despite being dead for most of the film (in fact, I'd defy anyone to come up with a better portrayal of a deceased cop buried under a ton of concrete ... watch yer ass Al Pacino).

As for the girls, there's an emotional performance from Maggie Gyllenhaal as Pena's pregnant wife Alison Jimeno. Gyllenhall (who in looks resembles a Happy-Shopper Kirsten Dunst) is superb at panicking and the scene where she gets out of a car because the red light is taking too long to change only to get back in the car when it does change is a joy to behold. Maria Bello (who's not a bad piece of ass) also performs well as Cage's wife Donna. The scene where she nags Nicholas Cage to finish the kitchen despite the fact he's buried and dying under thousands of tons of rubble and steel is outstanding (and if you'll indulge my firmly-held sexist beliefs for a moment, just so bloody typical of women eh lads?).

Great support comes from William Mapother as a religious Marine, and Steve Chappell as Jesus Christ of The Holy Plastic Water Bottle. There are also various cameos from acting giants such as The Doors' Frank Whalley and Steven Dorff from the Tia Maria advert (the one with the wolves).

World Trade Center is a film I'd recommend to anyone who likes movies where two men lie in a hole singing the theme tune to Starsky and Hutch whilst their wives cry a lot and watch TV. Anyone who doesn't like this sort of thing might wish to avoid it in favour of something more preferable ... such as pouring acid on their testes or ripping out their own guts and forcing their children to eat them.

3 Albums I was looking forward to

2006-09-28T20:59:00.001Z

Three albums have suddenly turned up by artists who I really like. This made me very afraid. The last time this happened all three albums were by the same person (Kool Keith) and 33.3% of them were drivel. Surely these won't let me down?

Squarepusher - Hello Everything

I used to work at Safeways in Northampton when I was 16 or so, and for about six months a bloke called Kieran worked down the fruit and veg aisle. He told me an anecdote about a night out with his mates during which, unexpectedly, he had passed out, fell to the floor, and began twitching uncontrollably. He did an impression of himself, jerking around, which was darkly comic: "When I woke up, my mates said 'Kieran, you're a spastic!'"

The funniest epileptic I ever met was a part-time DJ, and he introduced me to Aphex Twin, for which I will always be grateful. Drunk on the ludicrous sounds Aphex made, I feverishly asked Kieran if there was anyone more fucked up, "only Squarepusher," he said. I went out and bought Hard Normal Daddy and Feed Me Weird Things that day and they are still marvellous. I managed to watch him play a set in the Halcyon on Division St. in Sheffield years later, it was the weirdest thing I'd ever heard.

The albums above were very fast and inventive "drum and bass", spasmodic basslines (Jenkinson plays live bass guitar - and other instruments), and mischievous synths. He then went through a ponderous jazzy stage (Music is Rotted One Note, Budakhan Mindphone), and subsequently an anarchic noise-obsession that seemed designed to sabotage the sweeter passages in between (Go Plastic, Do You Know Squarepusher). The new album is back to the earlier style: it glides like KY and twitches like Kieran, and after hearing it, Flea himself is purported to have declared Squarepusher the "best bassist in the world". So pretty good then...

Bonnie 'Prince' Billy - The Letting Go

"Here's a safe bet" I thought. Make no mistake, Will Oldham has written some of the best songs of the last two decades, and in some cases, perhaps of all time (Johnny Cash concurred). I bought Joya because the alluring girl who worked in Record Collector in Broomhill told me that "O Let it be" was her favourite ever song. You can't blame her, it is a completely stunning album and if you haven't heard it, you should. Your next stop should probably be I See a Darkness (the eponymously titled song made his name, deservedly), but among the older "Palace" releases are some true genius.

Recently people got all in a tizzy because he brought out a Nashville-produced record of self-covers in an unflinchingly sincere country style. Bewildered journalists half-arsedly reviewed it as "ironic" and "self-aware pastiche", but he seems to be genuinely into it, to me. Greatest Palace Music is the favourite Oldham album of some of my friends, and I love it too.

However, his last "real" album (Master and Everyone) was a subdued and gentle one, just well-penned and weird enough to keep me happy, but the same journalists - with withering predictability - said he was "maturing". I hoped for something a little more impish and cavalier this time round, but I am woefully disappointed. I once stared rapt at this man for two hours in Yokohama as he telepathically played every one of my favourite songs with a mixture of grace and pirate-faced grimaces, it was the best gig I'd ever been to. But on this album, he manages to sound like a lukewarm cross between Beth Orton and Jack Johnson. There are some sweet lyrics, and passable melodies, but this is just weak and insipid compared with everything else he's ever done. I can recommend ten other Will Oldham records before I'd resort to this one.

Sonic Youth - Rather Ripped

Yeah, the first thing I bought was Dirty, but I dug all the older stuff, and Washing Machine eventually became my real favourite ("Becuz" and "No Queen Blues" are wicked). But I was a bit bored by A Thousand Leaves and Murray Street, they never got into much of a groove. Sonic Nurse was way better, but I still thought they must be past it.

I was wrong, though, because this is the best thing they've made in ages. I can't remember where but I read that Thurston Moore said (roughly) "noise is cheap, everyone is making it now, we don't need to do that anymore". Call me a lightweight, but what musos call the "challenging" passages of Youth's back-catalogue have always left me unimpressed unless they are weaved into blinding melodies (like "The Diamond Sea", for example). This album knows exactly what I want. Kim Gordon sings better than she ever has, the improv. is measured and contained to maximum effect and the sound is like a brawl. Put "Reena" on loud after a half-bottle of vodka and see if you don't agree.

Clerks 2

2006-09-24T22:07:00.000Z

There's probably gonna be spoilers. It may not matter, but just so you know...

The first Clerks movie is one of my all-time favourites. It came along as I was exactly the right age to appreciate the levels of crude humour and high intelligence that it offered. I feel pretty confident stating that it was of enormous influence to me, as a person and as a filmmaker. It made me realise that huge budgets and stars weren't important if you had good writing and an original voice on your side. That in-jokes, referentialism and movie gags could work... it put those conversations I had with my friends on the big screen (albeit a lot more eloquently) and made screen heroes out of people who had the same crappy jobs I had.

Despite all that, though, the prospect of a sequel didn't concern me too much. Sure I wanted to see it, but because all but one of the Kevin Smith movies that were made subsequently were set in the same universe and largely featured the same cast and characters, it wasn't like I had been starved for a decade. There had even been an animated Clerks series (which is frickin hilarious) so this wasn't a movie that I felt carried much responsibility on its shoulders. I really wanted it to be as good as the original, but if it wasn't then I wouldn't be too concerned.

And it's not as good as the original. It's just not. It would have been extremely hard to recapture that sense of time and place that the first film had, it would certainly have been impossible to have had the same effect. It is, though, a worthy and well thought out successor that doesn't try to recreate former glories - just trades on them and tries something new; the Star Wars conversations are now feeling tired and overdone, but they also work because they reflect the characters inability to grow up. Jay and Silent Bob still sell drugs, but they're fresh out of enforced rehab and have found Christ. Kind of.

Whilst the first film was about slacker twentysomethings, the sequel is about lost thirtysomethings - maintaining McJobs and waiting for their lives to start. They're no longer bored youth, they're now failed adults and the schtick of their lives is beginning to grow thin. Randal, once the quotable rebel du jour, is now a bitter man - using his wit and acerbic humour in almost pathological destruction of anything and anyone around him. It's an interesting direction to take the characters in, and while it doesn't always mix with the foul language and scatalogical obsession, there is a real heart to the movie.

Did I mention it was funny? At times it is gut-bursting, pain-inducingly funny - most notably in the segments where Jay plays directly to camera and in a terrific Jason Lee cameo. The denouement is a 20 minute long homage to Bachelor Party, and was something I was genuinely not expecting. Special notice should once again go to Jeff Anderson, as perverted man-child Randal, who's attempts to reclaim the phrase "porch-monkey" had me in pain...

This is not a film without faults, though; it's as shoddily put together as Smiths other features and at times smacks of downright amateurism. Anderson and Brain O'Halloran are not the greatest actors and the scenes of sincerity are at times awkward, as the cliched montages used to pass time. Smith has also tried to recreate the episodic nature of the film, but also have several plotlines running throughout - this is not something he has successfully achieved and the movie often lurches from exposition to throwaway scenes in an instant.

Kevin Smith is not the worlds greatest filmmaker. He is beloved by a very dedicated band of followers and seems to be content making films just for them. As one of that dedicated band of followers I will eternally love him for what he has given us, but I can understand that its often a niche crowd he plays to. If you like his other movies and are prepared to enter his world - one where people speak in eloquent monologues, where dances sequences suddenly burst forth, where "pussy" is used every other sentence, where Lord of the Rings fans fight Star Wars fans and where, most crucially, the filmmaking skills are not always the best on display - then you'll have a whale of a time. If you're not that sort of person... mah, you might like it.

Oh, and by the way - it ends very well. Nicely poignant, very deserving and with a great last shot.

Go see.

Guys & Dolls

2006-09-19T12:58:00.000Z

Not the musical, you understand, rather the documentary Channel 5 aired last night. As you can see from the picture, sex dolls have progressed in recent years. For starters, they're no longer inflatable. Gone are the circular mouths perfect for pout-poking. The hands like rubber mittens have been replaced with slender fingers, with realistic knuckles that can actually be bent round any cylindrical object with a light grip, should the urge overcome you. Their eyes are less like Cuddles the Monkey's and now have a vague realism to them. The most alarming aspect comes into play when one catches a glimpse of their lady-parts. From a distance, they look more realistic than an actual wanny. If the leg is bent, all the bulges are in exactly the right place. It's alarming.

This documentary focused on four incredibly lonely men who all shared their homes with these dolls. Their attachment to their women substitutes varied wildly. Dave-cat (I'd love to know where he got his name from) was first up, probably as the editor wanted to save the best for last - Dave-cat only had one doll. Dave treated his Real Doll like a real girlfriend. She slept in his bed, he applied her make up (in quite a professional manner too) and he spoke to her in the evening as they watched TV. Dave-cat has had a girlfriend or two in the past but he says that now, having discovered his Dolly, he'll never need one again. Dave had the look of a camp-depressive. It's possible the Doll is his way of not facing his sexuality. Dave was the most innocent seeming of the bunch - just a sad and lonely man, still slightly in touch with reality, but childlike when around his Doll.

Everard was next. Everard is English, which was disappointing. I felt a little ashamed of our great nation. Everard seemed a little more pathalogical than Dave-cat. Everard owns five dolls. Which is a lot. They all sit in rooms around his semi-detached house, or if it's fine, he puts a sun-hat on them and takes them into the garden 'so they can read'. Cut to a shot of two Dolls 'reading' a magazine while Everard films them.
Everard has never had a girlfriend - well - he has, but it only lasted one night. Since then, his mother died. In his house is a room covered in polythene and dust, devoted to her. Utterly, utterly tragic. Everard's manner was precise and relaxed, almost languid. It was when he spoke about his lack of success with ladykind that he became animated. Firstly, with Everards profile in shot, he speaks sadly but angrily about how women see him but never speak to him. 'They just take one look and go no further. I can't fathom it.' Then the camera pulls back to reveal his enormous gut, freckled red limbs and tight shorts. Then Everard reveals he goes hang-gliding on a weekly basis. 'How can girls go for lazy football-loving slobs when they could have Everard the superhero?' he asked, baffled. We were left to draw our own conclusions. I felt sorry for Everard but I would never, ever set foot in his house. The camera crew deserve a Bafta just for ringing the doorbell.

I was distracted by a friend during the next case study. From what I could see he was an American man whose obsessions were swords, guns and dolls. I caught the phrase 'two dolls and three guns' as he shook his Uzi at the camera, followed by 'real women are bitches, Real Dolls are for life'. Scary shit.

The final case study was the clincher though. This man had Real Doll body parts strewn across his house, here a limb, there some fake, plastic teeth and over in that box, packets of blonde pubic hair - real exports 'direct from Sweden'. I can't remember this guy's name because by now I was pissed. But I do remember the legs and arms that lay on the carpet and the headless bodies stuck upside down in the garage. Patrick Bateman with a Barbie fixation. I remember also the failed attempt at bringing a lady-friend home, a real lady, with warm blood and moving eyes. When she saw two Real Dolls sitting on his sofa, one in a pink fishnet top which showed her obscenely pink, rubbernips, she gamely stayed - dumping him a week later, according to the voice over.

This was a good documentary, and also a shit one. It's fun to watch freaks. Admit it. And it's also fun to play amateur psychologist, trying to figure out where it all went wrong. At times, you could see how these grossly extravagant wank-pieces may actually offer some benefit to terminally lonely individuals, in that their existence might prevent a future Dennis Nilssen type incident. Their eyes, though static, seemed very lifelike. The curve of their stomach is actually quite human.

This effect was ruined, thank Christ, towards the end, when Dolly, Dave-cat's Real Doll was sent to a Doll-Doctor for a service. As he peeled away and binned Dolly's labia, replacing her fanny lips with a new piece of coloured rubber before inserting a spanner in her thigh to 'tighten her up', this illusion was completely shattered and I thanked the lord that I choose to fuck animals. You can keep your latex toss-socks you social retards. I've got bestiality.

Arrested Development

2006-09-19T04:18:00.000Z

A friend of mine called Marilyn recommended that I watch this - in response to a gleeful introduction to Chris Morris via Brass Eye and the Blue Jam radio shows. Forgive me, Marilyn, for I was dubious of North American comedy, but this show has paralysed me with giggles three times this week.

My regionalist suspicion was probably unwarranted: The Kids in the Hall were a formative influence on my sense of humour, I have a secret affection for earlier Friends, and there's The Simpsons.... But I still can't stand the (admittedly clever) irritable delivery of The Daily Show, the mindless, banal quips of Conan, Letterman, and the whole host of bland, egocentric chat show hosts, and the cosy, utterly inoffensive drivel that pollutes my one-hundred-thousand channels of television (see Everyone Loves Raymond and you've seen them all). I had become jaded, despite the odd moments of recent brilliance in Dave Chapelle and David Cross, the latter of whom graces this show, incidentally (that's him on the left).

The show revolves around the central character, Michael, the only functional member of a family of four siblings – a failed magician, an immoral coquette, and a blabbering man-child. In the first episode, Michael's witchlike mother is handed control of the affluent family business, rather than Michael as expected, minutes before the police arrest his affably corrupt father and put him away for abusing company funds. The family club together to beg Michael - the only one with the brains - to save the company upon which the unemployable others utterly rely. Each episode revolves around his attempts to reconcile this responsibility with bringing up his son and policing the general misbehaviour of the rest of the family.

Eschewing a laughter track for some solid comedy writing, the show is like The Royal Tenenbaums Sitcom - trading a little weirdness (not much though) for more gags. And the gags are twisted, acid and sublime.

Here's two excerpts that, if you haven't already seen it, might convince you:

Mother berates youngest (backward) son as he returns from stint in army.
Mother: Buster, thank god you're back. There's no shame in being a coward.
Buster: Coward? I'm not a coward. Would a coward have THIS? (holds out a stuffed seal)
Mother: What the hell is that?
Buster: These are my awards, Mother, from the Army. The seal is for marksmanship, the gorilla is for sand racing.

Tobias Funke, wife of the whorish sister, justifies his existence to his wife.
Tobias: Okay, Lindsay, are you forgetting that I was a professional twice over - an analyst and a therapist. The world's first analrapist.

I think it is on BBC2 for most of you. Ron Howard narrates it, try not to let that put you off.

Female solo singers, especially Lily Allen

2006-09-15T09:42:00.000Z

Here's a conversation I imagine happened about 6-8 months ago, somewhere in a very nice neighbourhood in London. It is a beautiful summers day, and father and daughter team the Allens are relaxing with non-alcoholic cocktails in their expansive garden.

Keith: Right then my little princess, Daddy is gonna fuck off to Romania for 6 months to shoot Robin Hood for the BBC - a show which will become known only for having its master copies stolen as it sinks faster than their first conveniently forgotten attempt to redo Doctor Who.

Lily: Oh Daddy, that's wonderful. Will you be able to trade on your slightly hardman cockney persona?

Keith: Well what else am I gonna do? Act? No fucking way!

Lily: Jolly good Daddy.

Keith: So what do you want to do in the meantime my precious? What does my little darlin' want to do with her time?

Lily: Well, I thought about maybe becoming a pop star, that looks fun.

Keith: Then a pop star you shall be my little princess, for nothing is unachievable for the daughter of a pretend regional hardman with an extremely limited range.

Lily: Oh goody! Peaches and Pixie will be jealous!

And so began, I imagine, the delusions of quality that formed in little Lily Allens mind... for that is the only explanation I can possibly consider to explain the purposeful releasing of this music. The problem is this; even if I was the son of a famous man who could get me anything I wanted, I would still at least try to create something that was in some way listenable to, in one way shape or form.

Paris Hilton at least had the good sense to aim her music at prepubescent spendaholics who hadn't worked out the difference between sonic injury and a wankfantasy was yet, but Lily Allen has gone one step further (and this is her downfall) by actually trying to sing. Most pointless celebrity offspring know their limits and are happy to stay afloat with whatever their Hello-endorsed surname can dredge up for them. But not Ms. Allen, oooooh no - she has decided she wants to be a real artist. Which is a shame, really, as Lily Allen is about as close to being a real singer as I am to conquoring the entire Northern Hemisphere.

The thinking of the record label is really quite clever here... girl bands and their plastic sexuality work very well on sweaty palmed Heat readers, but are totally ignored by those who actually 'like music.' Thus they create a new form of sexually alluring performer; the supposed free spirit who can handclap and sing in a weird voice the songs she 'wrote herself.' It's a cunning marketing move, make the musuos heart melt when they see Cat Power all barefoot on Jools Holland dancing like a retard and, boom, you have the nerd market... it's self expression, you see, not cynical marketing aimed directly at your loins.

Katey Melua, KT Tunstall, Cat Power, Lily Allen, that stupid punk-rocker bitch with flowers in her hair... these people are all the same. Quite cute ex-goth girls who make people think its ok to like pop music. The thing is, it is ok to like pop music - it just has to be good pop music, not deliberately kooky alt-folk sung by girls with dreads.

Of course the difference between these other singers and Lily Allen is clear. They can sing. Katey Melua is never gonna change the world, hell, she's barely going to change an opinion she's so fucking bland, but at least she has a good voice. It's the sort of voice that your father in law falls asleep to a Sunday afternoon, easy and inoffensive and just about as dull as possible.

Remember when Victoria Aitken tried her hand at hip-hop...? Lily Allen is like that. She heard Regina Specktor and Joanna Newsome, got told that bo-ho is about singing weird, had her label aggressively pester MySpace and found her famous father made it much easier to circumnavigate such trivialities as a genuine sense of expression and a modicum of talent. She's fucking useless, another pointless warbling shitheel of a famous turd who thinks that her gift to the world is her voice. It's not. She has no gift to the world. She's just another self indulgant f-list celebrity offspring who thinks it would be beneath her to get a real job.

I had never heard Lily Allen until today. I downloaded her album and listened to it on the walk to work... I got two tracks in before she officially ruined my day. Internet piracy is bad? Well internet piracy saved lives today, because had I paid for that album I would have needed to collect the heads of every fucker who was involved with it just to get my moneys worth.

And that includes the Sherrif of Nottingham.

9/11 Yeah Yeah Yeah!

2006-09-13T11:33:00.000Z

Well thank fuck for September 11th 2001 what? God alone knows what the cocaine-addled retards who run television did before this monstrous attack on the U.S., but I'm willing to bet my arse they're cock-a-fucking-hoop it came along to rescue them from those troublesome scheduling decisions. Over the last few days we've had The Path To 9/11, Inside 9/11, 9/11: The Survivor's Story, I Shot 9/11, 9/11 Makeovers and Ooops 9/11! (possibly). Is there, I wonder, anything left about this thoroughly shitty day for the human race that the meejia hasn't sloppily worked up into a TV movie or documentary? I Missed 9/11 On Television: A Cultural Outsider's Story perhaps?

I'm not sure, but I now think I've heard enough about 9/11. Thanks to a ghoulish inclination and an unholy addiction to factual programming I now know more about those funky-ass buildings and their terrible fate than I really should. I have an expertise about their collapse I could use to fool my way into a civil engineering conference. I know more about the flammability of jet fuel than is perhaps good for me. I have, I believe, reached my limit vis-a-vis descriptions of the sound a human body makes when it smacks into concrete after a fall of 1300 feet.

One of the things TV does terribly well is overkill. With the addition to this country of a bazillion TV channels peddelling their wares it is now possible, for instance, to spend your whole life watching nothing but shows about World War II. From the moment you get up until the moment you go to bed you can relive this barbarous event in minute and often graphic detail. From the opening salvo of Britain's declaration of war right up to the almighty kick up the arse that was Hiroshima and Nagasaki, it's all there on BBC2, Biography, The History Channel, National Geographic et al night and day week after week. Hitler's Secret Weapons of WWII gives way to Stalingrad: A Soldier's Story in turn leading to Churchill: Winston's War which precedes I Was Hitler's Barber which begats Operation Market Garden and the Quest for the Holy Grail etc. etc.

I know everything it is possible to know about Adolf Hitler. Many of you will be aware that the Furher was lacking in the trouser department - missing, as he was, the 'one ball'? But have you seen the missing testicle that once dangled so proudly beside it's brother in the Chancellor's fascist ball bag? I have, because I watched an exhaustive three-hour documentary on Discovery Civilisation that showed how the British managed to smuggle the aforementioned bollock from under the noses of Soviet authorities and out of Germany after the Battle of Berlin (it now hangs, as any schoolboy will joyfully tell you, in the Albert Hall).

There's surely a point where an event (no matter how earth-shattering it may be) has been covered to death? I understand it's important to learn the lessons of events such as WWII and 9/11, I really do. It's just that when we get to the stage where we're presented with documentaries that go to great lengths to describe the relationship between Hitler and his German Shepherd, isn't it prudent to say enough is enough? Or am I, in years to come, going to suffer a National Geographic second-by-second special on the morning Reinhard Heydrich forgot to pack his razor on the way to the Wansee Conference? Hitler's Attached Testicle and the 9/11 Bombers anyone?

On the night of September 11th 2007 I honestly honestly honestly don't want to watch another fucking 9/11 documentary. There are people all over the world who cannot look at a photograph of those accursed structures without gulping in grief and I think it's about time TV acknowledged this fact. There used to be a sober time of reflection before the meejia army came knocking on the door (Hungerford recieved it's documentary 20 years after the event, for instance); now the hounds beat a path to the survivors and widows within hours of the tragedy. Am I the only person to think this is just a little bit shitty for the sake of a TV show?

Gastricken

2006-09-12T11:52:00.000Z

I’ve been off sick farting the Thames out of my bottom.

With reference to previous notes here on this page praising the joys of passing a stool, I’ve discovered the dark side, the parallel universe of taking a plop, or in the case of my recent condition, a ‘skooosh’.

It all began on bank holiday Sunday, a happy sunny bank holiday Sunday, when I met with my brother in a hostelry by Clapham Common. There was some pop nonsense taking place outside but it bothered us not as we imbibed ales and then, gins and tonics like women. We laughed heartily, girls gazed ‘pon us lovingly and we got more and more drunkerly.

Early evening I had to take flight with a cab to a friend who had invited me to a fine curry house in Norwood to celebrate his birthday, by this time I was fully engaged in inebriation and slowly being stuffed with chilli, pickles and dhal, ‘tis a bank holiday’ I mentally quipped and down went another. I eventually arrived home in the wee hours and fell into a rotten state of sleep.

I woke at 11 am-ish, initially my stomach felt as if it was being gnawed from within by an epileptic hedgehog, this was accompanied by the most awful south sea bubbling and within seconds this awful pressure had landed on the inside of arsehole like a bloated seagull. Half asleep I attempted to ward off its escape but as the realisation of exactly what I was up against I had to rise from my pit, arse cheeks clamped to the pressure of bolt cutters, and shuffle to the toilet. Perspiring like a navvy I was in the process of lowering myself over the Can when all hell broke loose squirting a steaming jet of effulgent over the front of the cistern (bit up the walls) but mercifully the majority into the bog, the accompanying sound resembled a hasty barman pulling a pint of Fullers into a jug, though the resulting muckite looked more like one of those trendy wheat beers but with a piquant of fresh chillies and death.

I had a Calcutta rinse and returned dazed to my bed, no sooner had I lay down my sweet little fucking head another cackture seized my pipes and I was up on my feet cursing the Christ that doesn’t exist. And this was the routine for my entire bank holiday, bed, bog, bed, bog, bed, bog…until about 7pm, punctuated with poetry from John Betjeman on Radio 4. A lifeline, no question.

In the evening following a short period of calm I attempted to eat in the hope it would bind me within, I tentatively nibbled on some dry toast, within seconds my guts were soon boiling like a Gambian swamp and I wearily, though rapidly trudged back to my throne. ‘skooosh’ Jesus.

I awoke the following afternoon, shattered and quite empty from a night of hot arsed pissing. My final delivery of milkmud had been at 3am where I had nearly turned my nipsy inside out in effort to work some solid through from ‘somewhere’. I could have sworn at one point half my kidney was blinking in the warm glow of a 40 watts lightbulb.

After calling work (like they believed I was really ill and not suffering from a weekend of toxic abuse) I crawled back to bed and slept in a my raw damp bedclothes until evening, by this time I was shitless but the cramps kept me informed that I wasn’t ready to nip off down to the pub, sink 6 pints and eat fish and chips on the way home. I got up and decided to go for broke. Pitifully aware of my lack of appetite but feeling weaker than Jenna Jameson’s cervix, I concocted a meal of beans on toast with grilled cheese. I’d barely begun eating when a cramp twinge pulled me in half with such force I almost head-butted the plate, I moved to the toilet faster than sound and the exact same brew pissed its self into the loo, again. I was starting to get worried. What the fuck was the matter the matter with me? I examined the loo for signs of blood; I could feel my brow crumpled like an old bag of crisps as I peered into the now orange murk of my evacuation. I was drenched in sweat.

The following day was spent in bed, I didn’t even have the strength to knock one out, I just lay there mentally watching my insides from within, what was going on in there? In envisaged a violent cloud of thick green gas replete with brown forked lightening jabbing into my intestines. I was dying?

Later in the afternoon I risked a cup of tea, it burped its way out after 10 minutes, blast. No, I will not give in I thought, and I punched the air weakly. A sandwich of ham, salad, fuck it, mayo… I ate it slowly. The expected deluge occurred half an hour later, but it wasn’t too harsh, a mere trickle in comparison to the Niagara earlier. Was I winning, clawing myself back to the light from my dark damp pit of slurry? Was I?

That evening I sat squinting at nothing on TV, by now I was cadaverous; I’d lost over half a stone in weight. I was too ill to even withstand the weight of a paperback, that’s how ill I was. All those so-called terminally ‘ill’ types, they know fuck all, you want ill? That was me on Wednesday. I was what they meant when they invented the word ‘ill’.

Thursday I awoke at 10-ish following a fairly restful nights sleep. I was optimistic, the pain in my stomach had subsided and the desire to have a bowel movement had moved away from my bowel to where? Je ne sais pas, I cared not a jot and spent the day lolling about in my pants watching Japanese horror films. In the evening I abstained from all food and drink outside of water but found that I could happily smoke without upsetting any of my internals.

On Friday I was feeling ready for some food, I kept it simple to start with, dry toast and marmite and a cup of ‘greentea’. I didn’t know I had ‘greentea’ some bird must have left it when she thought she’d got her Jimmy Choos under my nesting tables, hahaha, they’ll never learn these birds, you gotta love ‘em though, yeah… Anyway, I ate the toast and drunk the ‘greentea’ and nothing happened, two hours later I did a can of spaghetti hoops on toast with a little butter. It was looking good, really good.

By the afternoon I was inspired with both a lack of tummy rumbling and the desire to poo, being Friday, I hastily arranged a local drink with friends. At 7 I wandered down to the pub. It was the first time I’d left the house for days and the combined experience of walking and fresh air was ethereal, almost incomprehensible and I knew that it was 2 pints maximum then home.

My recollection of conversation and surroundings are scant save the fact that after the second gulp of beer I shit myself. I haven’t shit myself since I was a child so I sat there, gormless style for a good minute before casually undertaking the sour apple quick step to the pub loo to survey the damage. It was bad, not terminal as the cack was largely water based, but it had filled my crevice to the top and needed a good Sunday Times quantity of paper to mop up the offensive fizz. After five minutes I had tennis ball sized wet patch on my pants but for all intense and purposes it wasn’t enough to cause me to entirely abandon the social scene. Following the second pint I was feeling alright and decided for a third, then a fourth and by the time I was home, seven pints down with a mate keen to imbibe the cans in my fridge. We did a good job, up until 4am drinking can after can until he sorted himself with a cab and left. I can remember nothing about the evening save laughing a lot and loud music.

The following afternoon I awoke. I wasn’t too hungover, I hadn’t mixed my drinks, but I did need a poo quite seriously. And then it happened; I dropped myself down into position and relaxed and guess what? I gave birth to a selection, a fine cheese board if you will of four Turd Idols, each was fat, smooth and boyant, The perfection of health, the model of the Bristol Stool scale and the apple of my watering eyes.

Not only had my turd joie de vivre returned but I’d discovered a cure for dysentery. I fully intend to pass my knowledge on to the World Health Organisation but, dear reader, you heard it here first. It’s my gift of love to you all.

Animated Double Bill

2006-09-06T18:58:00.000Z

A Scanner Darkly

Much has been made of this latest adaptation of seminal fuck-up author Phillip K. Dicks work. This is regarded as his most personal book, it deals with the issues of drug use, paranoia, government control and pretty much anything else that you'd think about if you mainlined household cleaner and acid for 40 years. The film is adapted by Richard Linklater (he of Slacker, Before Sunrise and Dazed and Confused fame) who is an enormous DickHead and has proudly stated that this is the most faithful adaptation of his writing.

It's a very good film. The rotoscoped animation style (shooting the film first, then drawing over it) works splendidly, really accentuating the paranoid, otherworld feel that the characters inhabit. Sometimes it distracts - particulary during a handful of thought-bubble sections - but largely it's just a beautiful sight to behold. The pseudo-stoner cliches seem less, um, cliched, when using this style and the unemotive acting of Mr Cool-Breeze-Over-the-Mountains works perfectly when he becomes a cartoon character.

The acting is very good, save for Reeves who is involved more as a name to find funding than for his thespian abilities, and particulary Robert Downey Jr whos paranoid, babbling housemate steals the film. Then again, he's been researching this role his entire life, so anything less than brilliant would be a disservice to his drug history.

Many people have complained about the confusing nature of this film, but these people must be morons as I'm not the sharpest tool in the shed and I followed it perfectly. The ideas are what matters, and these are conveyed very well and so the final few scenes, where the crux of the story is revealed, are staggering as you understand the motivations and emotional impact of the characters actions.

Yeah, it's a good film. Check it.

Renaissance

Jesus Christ. This is possibly the most annoying film I have ever had the misfortune to sit through. On one hand, it is a masterpiece in terms of the style and animation. On the other hand it is an atrociously plotted, embarrassingly written and a poorly acted mess.

Basically, it looks lovely. The use of not only black and white, but of reflections and glass is stunning - truly. It's a visual treat with a lovingly created world, each frame drips beauty and forethought as we are taken through a Paris of 50 years in the future that has glass malls, arching offices and long futuristic freeways. It must be crippling for artist who designed the project, though, as he saw what a fuck-up the filmmakers had made of everything else.

The plot, based around a missing person, is like the juvenile scribbings of a horny 15 year nerd, crossed with all the emotional impact of a bad episode of The Bill. Each time the characters came together to talk you could hear a sigh of disappointment rippling through the cinema. Turgid cliches of suspended cops, guilty scientists and mysterious dames are made worse by the truly abysmal voice acting. Daniel Craig is not a particulary charismatic man, and here he even worse than usual - although nothing really compares to the "mwah ha ha" evil laughing of bad guy Jonathon Pryce.

I'd recommend getting it on DVD, turning the stereo up to drown out the audio and basking in the absolute beauty, style and flare of the visual side.

The Good Mixer, Camden

2006-08-31T09:40:00.001Z

Strike me down as a heathen, but if you are a Christian and visit Jerusalem, or if you are a Muslim and travel to Mecca, that is THE SAME as me going for a pint of lager in the Good Mixer, Camden, Laaaahndan-taaahn last Sunday.

For the uninitiated (ie those who didn't read NME as a sacred text every Wednesday from 1994-1999), The Good Mixer was the pub where you could be guaranteed to sink a pint with Johnny Dean of Menswear while laughing uproariously at the drunken antics of Louise Wener and Donna from Elastica. This, in case you are of a different opinion, is a Good Thing, as Britpop (1994-1999) is the pinnacle of all human cultural achievement. It is.

So, it was with a fast beating heart and sweaty palms that I made my pilgrimage from Camden tube station, passed Mecca Bingo (yes, MECCA! I was surely on the right path) and strode manfully (for a lady) into the smoky haze of the main bar. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust from the bright Sunday sky to the dark, and some might say dingy, interior, but I was soon rewarded. Oh yes! Why, who should be playing pool but that bloke from 60 Foot Dolls, beating a rather annoyed looking drummer from Sleeper! That woman from Republica was having a stand-up fight with Sonya from Echobelly while Justine Frischmann (the brightest of all the Britpop luminaries) was sitting at the corner table looking contemplative.

I bought a pint of cooking lager and walked over to her.

"Do you mind if I sit down?" I asked, in a creaking voice like a tiny broken floorboard.
"Not at all. You're Ros aren't you? I remember seeing you at that Manchester gig in September 1999 after the release of our second, critically panned, but loved by the proper fans, album. I remember thinking at the time 'I wish I could get to know her, she looks well cool'"
"I thought you'd made meaningful, if fleeting, eye contact with me!" I replied, laughing merrily.

After breaking the ice, we chatted for many hours on all topics under the sun. Oh the larfs we had! Larfs mixed with serious soul-baring, I should add. It turned out that she was back on good terms with Brett and Damon, so she invited them out to meet us and we ended up going for pie and peas and then they let me have a go on their guitars, and then she did loads of kissing on me. It were a reet good day out.

So that is the story of my visit to the Good Mixer, exactly as it happened.

I don't think I'll go back though. It was a bit pricey.

Books I have read recently

2006-08-30T23:23:00.000Z

Bill Bryson - A Short History of Nearly Everything

This is a culminative description of the history of the world, the universe, everything inbetween and, most importantly, how we know it all in the first place. It's a very well written, if not slightly dense, laymans explanation of some major subjects and you can't help but come away feeling educated. The downside is that it feels at times very much like a textbook despite Brysons informal style, but I suspect that is because it is very hard to describe the process of calculating the age of the earth without it sounding like a textbook. I just wish I could remember more of it.

Richard Heinberg - The Party's Over

This is a highly detailed sociological, political and environmental analysis of Western societies addiction to oil, the historical effects of that addiction and a prediction of likely outcomes. Heinbergs primary point is that with the depletion of fossil fuels comes the end of the industrial age, and that these final tulminous decades will see increased instability in the world, the outbreak of more politically motivated wars and a slow breakdown of Western control over the world. It is a terrifying image that Heinberg paints, and that it comes from a simple presentation of facts rather than scare-mongering or sensationalism only adds to its impact. It is a dense read at times and can heavily involve theory, however it truly makes you realise your position in the world and the power you yield is not a commodity to be wielded lightly.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez - 100 Years of Solitude

Hmmm. I know it's supposed to be a classic and all that, and I know it's meant to be the masterpiece of the 20th century, but I thought it was a bit bobbins. Not entirely bobbins, the characters were very well realised and it had a great streak of black humour running throughout, but I found myself reading without caring and without wondering what would happen. In fact, I read the two above books whilst reading this, and then took another few weeks to get it done. It reminded me of God of Small Things by Arundanti Roy - from every page dripped worth and literary prowess, but it was completely unengaging.

Jonathon Safran Foer - Everything is Illuminated

Fucking awful. Pretentious bollocks masquerading as quirky New York humour. Unless, that is... the... two... are... the... same... thing... Phonetic, regional, or interpretative dialogue and description is one thing, but it has to work. Anthony Burgess did it very well, Irvine Welsh does it very well. Jonathon Safran Foer does not. It's largely incomprehensible, and when you can catch a glimpse of understanding, it's desperately, even painfully, unfunny. Sucked. Ass. Big time.

Cervantes - Don Quixote

Ok, I'll be honest. I didn't finish this. It's really long and like reading an English assignment, and beside that new Bill Hicks biography was calling to me. I did get about 250 pages in, though, and it was really good upto then. Were it not for a predisposed allergy to classical texts (it's not my fault, it's just been there since Mrs Brooks at school) I would have finished it. It's extremely funny and I was amazed at the levels of self referentialism and post-modernism invovled, before either of them even existed. It's great, just a bit too much for me.

Glen David Gold - Carter Beats the Devil

One of the best pieces of fiction I have read in years, this takes the vague history of real-life 1920s stage magician Charles Carter and twists a complicated web of murder, intrigue and lots and lots of magic. It dips into history when neccessary, but this is largely a fictional tale - plotted with the intricacy and detail of a stage illusion, it also follows the three-act structure of Carters real shows and has stunning 'reveals' at the climax of each. Glen David Golds next novel is due this year and I, for one, cannot wait.

Luke Rhinehart - The Dice Man

A few contradictions; this is not a great novel - because of that, it's a great novel. I didn't really like this book - because of that, I loved this book. This book is not factual - because of that, it's a true story. It's a remarkable piece of literature, simultaneously repulsive, fascinating, inspiring, indulgent, sloppy and frustrating. But all of this is intentional, the very book itself is so dedicated to the central character that it is willing to sacrifice its own quality to prevent his integrity. I could explain more but it will be as equally cryptic - it's needlessly complicated, excessively sexual and frustratingly farcial, but it's all for a purpose and you can't help but admire it. The sequel, which I read immediately afterwards, is pretty bad and should be avoided.

There we go, that's the last few months. If no-one else writes anything I'll keep going with my all-time favourites.

Tool For A Day

2006-08-24T12:47:00.000Z

I decided to find out what it's like to live my life as if I'd recieved a 2:2 in Meejia Studies from Greenwich Polyversity. For the purpose of the experiment, I imagined I had a job as a researcher at the BBC, my name was 'Nick', and I had an important dinner gathering to attend that evening. This was my day...

8:17 As go-getter Nick, I rise and have a shower. I've forgotten to buy any of that shit 'men' smear on themselves instead of soap, so I use soap and pretend it's Nivea.
8:33 Not owning a DeLonghi Espresso Maker, I heap five spoons of Nescafe into an egg-cup, then add a dash of hot water. I drink the 'espresso' and instantly need a shit.
8:52 I go to the newsagent's and buy a copy of The Guardian and twenty Marlboro Lights. The newsagent looks at me with puzzlement (probably thinking "I didn't know he was gay/went to university/works in the meejia").
9:12 Get home and smoke a Marlboro Light. Not having knowingly smoked one of these before, I can't help but wonder why they're so popular. They taste like burning paper sprayed with fag-end juice.
9:20 I try reading The Guardian. It's the worst newspaper I've ever read. I have to put it down after 5 minutes as I'm foaming at the mouth.
9:25 Off to work at the BBC! As I don't actually work there, I just pretend to. I come up with six really shit 'concepts' for a new Saturday night prime-time show, then laugh smugly and pat myself on the back. The show ideas are Celebrity Shoe-Shine Challenge, Strictly Break-Dancing, Ronnie Corbett's Lottery Laugh-In, Celebrity Slaughterhouse, BBC Breakfast News Bloopers II and Graham Norton On Ice (as in crack-cocaine). I imagine my boss, Nick, is very pleased with my 'creativity' - so much so that I imagine him awarding me a break and a latte.
11:40 Go to Starbucks. Discover a latte is a milky coffee that costs £2.50, as opposed to the 80p I usually pay for a much nicer milky coffee at the market. I drink my latte outside at a table reading my Guardian whilst smoking a Marlboro Light. Somebody walks past and calls me a 'ponce'.
12:30 Back at the BBC (which is now located in an internet cafe in town), I pretend to be working on a new show with Jonathan Ross. I find a picture of him on the internet. I tell the picture it is wonderful and so funny and offer it a cup of coffee and a Marlboro Light. The picture doesn't respond, so I go to lunch.
13:04 Pay £3.20 for a Brie and Grape bagel at a 'trendy' sandwich bar. I can't eat it because it's a fucking cheese and fruit sandwich for the love of fuck.
13:13 Throw twelve Marlboro Lights in the bin and go off to buy some proper cigarrettes that don't taste like burning tyres. Mask of Nick the BBC researcher slipping rapidly.
13:39 Back at the internet cafe/BBC, I get talking to the girl next to me. She asks me what I do and I reply that I work in 'The Creative Industries'. This makes me feel like a risible, boastful, talentless little shit.
14:24 I ditch The Guardian on my way back to Starbucks where I've set up a 'meeting'. I try to get my mate Terry to pretend to be a young trend-setter who's just written the script of the decade. He tells me to 'get fucked' and asks how many hooky packets of fags I require from his contact in the black market. I tell him 1000. He forgets to ask which brand ... needless to say they're not Marlboro Lights.
14:40 In the pub with Terry. Decide to ditch the idea of being Nick because he's so up his own arse with smug self-satisfaction that I actually want to punch myself in the mouth.
02:36 Now very drunk. Terry has disappeared so I eat my kebab alone, then buy a copy of Farmer's Weekly (?) from the 24 Hour Shop. Stumble home. Go to bed.

So that was my day as a pretentious London wanker with a 2:2 in Meejia Studies. In the main I had a shit time smoking rank fags whilst attempting to read a socialist propaganda pamphlet full of spelling mistakes. In fact, the day didn't really pick up until I went out and got drunk with Terry. Why do people affect this kind of lifestyle? Fuck knows.

Listening To All My Records #2

2006-08-23T17:45:00.000Z

2. Big Star – ‘#1 record’

Location: At home in the ‘studio’

Date(s): 21/8/2006

Time: Night

3. Big Star – Radio City

Location: Walking – South Road to Charter Row

Date(s): 22/8/2006

Time: Morning (pre-9am)

I’ll be honest here, I’ve never listened to this record before. I never even bought it – it was knocking around in the office at my old job, so I pinched it. It’s not got a cover and half the case id missing. The music of Big Star is as revered as any, cited time and again as an influence to many, I have always known this, yet for some reason never listened to the record. I have to admit, I didn’t like it very much, though I know it’s massively unfair to judge an album on first listen, as everything kind of blends into one, so here’s some bits I did like.

Of ‘#1 record’ - ’ Thirteen’ actually, I had already heard this one, and it can only be described as yearning. Also, ‘The Indian Song’ stood out as it had a lovely weird organ sound. It also sounded a lot like ‘December’ by Teenage Fanclub. In fact, it can be said that I liked the quieter acoustic stuff a lot, and the rest of it not so much. However, one of the songs went impossibly noisy in the middle, and that was excellent.

Playing ‘Radio City’ first thing in the morning was a bad idea, as my ears were not prepared for the trebly, screechy voiced onslaught, but such is the insolent logic of the exercise I was forced to listen to it. Unfortunately, it just sort of coalesced into a tinny mush and made the spaces in my brain ache. Until, that is, ‘September Gurls’. When all of this is over, and I can choose what I want to listen to, I’ll be going back to this song. Many many times. Quite disarmingly beautiful. The rest of it sort of reminded me of Rod Stewart and the Faces. I have no idea if this is a good or bad thing.

So, on first listen, not that impressed. I know in many circles this is sacrilege, as the Big Star are a band which grown men get teary eyed for. Perhaps I will give it a few more listens, some far off day from now.

'September Gurls' on You tube

Relish

2006-08-22T13:55:00.000Z

Today I gave my sperms to a lady I have never met before. It was quite an experience. She didn’t really seem that impressed with my spunk and just put it in her box. I was not very flattered.

The reason for this is because I was informed some years ago by my mother that after surgery to remove a hernia she was told by the surgeon that I might not be able to make babies. Look, I was five weeks old, they didn’t have much area to work with and *sniff*, it seems like they went through my bag to get at it. Well the scar (though faint after 32 years) does run across the top of my scrotum. She didn’t really bother telling me for years but it came up in conversation a few years back. It’s played on my mind I can tell you. Anyway, I now really want to know if I can have children for reasons personal and so I resolved to do something about it.

So I went to my doctor and was given a form, special plastic bag and a sample jar. I was to fill the jar (or, let’s be honest, part fill) and take it to the pathology unit at my local hospital. However, the doctor made it very clear that:

I must abstain from having sex for three days. And just in case I was thick she also made it clear that she included masturbation in that rule. Actually it doesn’t sound too bad does it? Three days without doing any sex piss? Well it seems like a fucking eternity once someone’s told you not to do any spurts! Also, and she made this clear as day, I was to wash my penis, hands and foreskin thoroughly before teasing one out into the jar. And I was to do it MYSELF. (but surely Doctor, onanism is a sin?! I must write to the bishop about this)

That was a week ago. The reason I went and heaved my muck into a jar today is because my girlfriend went away for the weekend and I finally got the chance to build up a good ‘brew’. Possibly rich in motile sperm. Who knows?!

You CAN flob one out at the hospital apparently but last night I really went off the idea. My girlfriend took the piss out of me something rotten and I could tell that she was feeling a bit weird about the possibility of me knocking one out over a mag full of big titted lovlies. (we’ve just had the ‘porn talk’ and I think she’s still getting over the fact that sometimes I’m NOT thinking about her). Anyway, since our talk I didn’t like the idea, and I really didn’t like the idea of banging one out to the full knowledge of hospital staff in a small cubicle known as the ‘wank room’…probably. Well, my girl came up trumps and bless her cotton socks she texted me a lurid description of filth which allowed me to express my love for her into a plastic receptacle. Ahhh. How romantic. Got to the hospital double quick and handed my jitler to an old crone through a hatchway. She looked like I was a tramp who’d just come in her eye, not a reasonably pleasant looking man who’d handed her his filth in a sealed bag. Bitch.

Anyway review fans, I should get the results in the next few days…I’ll let you know via an update whether I’m firing blanks or doling out lashings of baby-rich nut-custard.

Listening To All My Records #1

2006-08-21T20:51:00.000Z

Listening to every cd in my collection, to the exclusion of everything else, from beginning to end, in the order which they occur in the stands for reasons as yet confirmed (hereafter known as ‘Listening To All My Records’) # 1

Level A – Top left:

1. Pavement – Crooked Rain Crooked Rain (LA’s desert origins)

Location: At home in the “studio”

Date(s): 21/8/2006

Since there is no finer band known to man, there is no finer place to start, and with luck it begins with said band’s finest album. Mind – this is the 2004 reissue, which adds b-sides, outtakes and radio session recordings to the original 12 track album, resulting in a frankly staggering 49 songs.

Best foot forward.

Someone once said that Pavement were a summer band, and made no sense in the winter months. There’s truth in this, but I would be even more specific and say that they are an August band, or at least ‘Crooked Rain’ is an August record. Could be the drunken lollop of the drums, the ever present air of melancholy, the explosions of unbridled, sun kissed Big Rock or the perpetual smirk in Malkmus’s vocal phrasing. Whatever, it’s the best album in the world to play today, a day of warm air, cold earth, dark skies. Summer’s packing it’s bags, or at least is making lists. Tom Stoppard once said something about autumn being ‘a brownness at the edges of the day.’ Today is a brown edged day, and Crooked Rain is it’s historical soundtrack. It has never failed in the 12 years since release.

Quick out-of-context stand-out lyrics:

"There’s 40 different shades of black/so many fortresses and ways to attack” (Elevate me Later)

“Career, career, career, career, career…” (Cut Your Hair)

"Out on tour with the Smashing Pumpkins/Nature kids I, they don’t have no function” (Range Life)

I don’t really know what would go into making a perfect album, but a perceptible freshness a dozen years from release must be a large contributing factor. I think I expected waves of nostalgia to come flooding when I sat down to write and listen to the record, but not so: it seems uniquely unmoored to any personal past or present. Having said that, it is very familiar all the same. It’s a beautiful album, but I could replicate it from memory with a comb I’ve heard it that many times, and there will be few revelations here, so perhaps onto the extra tracks.

Pavement were a band that could make mucking about on studio time into an art form of itself. Or perhaps, as I’m slowly beginning to suspect, the true genius lies in making everything sound sporadic and chaotic whilst in fact it’s all carefully considered and executed. There’s something about the way that ‘Raft’ (“stimulate the open chords!”) collapses in on itself on mangled guitar strings that sounds just so. Same goes for their utterly disrespectful version of R.E.M.’s ‘Camera’. Sounds like they knocked it out in between cups of tea – probably the result of weeks worth of work. Of course, there’s another side to that coin, in the somewhat interminable second disc of this set. Despite the allure of ‘new material’, you’re in reality looking at a collection of rough jams not deemed fit even for b-sides at the time, and promptly forgotten about. But even having said that, ‘Hands of the Bayou’ and ‘Soiled Little Filly’ are Pavement at their very best to my ears. It’s just a shame you have to wade through unremarkable ‘alternate versions’ of familiar songs and the above mentioned studio rambles to get to them.

One of the additional songs is ‘Strings of Nashville’ (“and watch the suns expire”), originally on the ‘Gold Soundz’ single, and a long time personal favourite – a hollow and tired sounding song which drifts listlessly on synthesised wind effects into a gentle locked groove ambience. The fact that it was hidden away on a single which hardly anyone bought meant this was a song that I could, in my overtly precious and typically ‘indie’ way, lay a claim to. I didn’t have to share this roughed edged beauty with anyone. The most personal of personal soundtracks. Now, thousands of ignoramuses have got hold of it and probably think it is ‘a bit boring’ or ‘well sad’. Well, I tell you this, Johnny Come Lately – unless you can look into the inside of my mind, this song means nothing to you, right? Nothing.

So there you go then – one of mankind’s finest achievements. Go out and buy it if you haven’t already. Remember to skip over ‘Strings of Nashville’ though – it’s not for you.

'All My Friends' mp3 courtesy of Matador

24 Series 5

2006-08-18T16:49:00.000Z

Read my review of 24 Series 4 here

SPOILERS LIKE YOU'VE NEVER KNOWN
SPOILERS THAT WILL SO TOTALLY RUIN IT
SPOILERS THAT WILL FUCK YOUR DAY RIGHT UP

24 Season 5

Jack Bauer is back! Again! After faking his own death at the end of series 4 he became a manual labourer, renting a trailer and sleeping with the slightly dumpy but not unattractive landlady. He did, though, make the fatal mistake of only moving about 5 miles away from where he used to live as within minutes of his day starting he is once again back in California helping save peoples lives.

So far, so-so. In fact the first half of this series is pretty standard. Terrorists, torture, urgent races against time etc. It's good, but it's not that good - Jack gets back into CTU with alarming ease, there is no mention of the Chinese wanting to arrest him, people are non-plussed at his being alive. What could have been a good idea (a man who everyone thought was dead being framed and going against the law and the criminals) is squandered quickly as the creators race to get Bauer back into his usual environment.

And then, at episode 12, it all shifts. They must have hired new writers, or changed producers, or all smoked crack, because this show suddenly becomes everything that is great about 24. It all shifts - just like THAT - as the cast are mercilessly slain, old characters revived, conspiracies exposed and guest stars aplenty. The one continuously brilliant aspect of 24 is its ability to surprise. Just when you can't imagine how anything can get any worse, the dial is turned up and your jaw hits a new level of floor.

I have to respect any show that is so prepared to kill off their major characters. The first scene, of the first episode, sees an assassination of a season regular, then the next scene takes two more much loved characters taken out. By the middle of the series, virtually anyone who has ever known Jack Bauer is dead, and then nerve gas gets into the headquarters and they cull the rest. It is remarkable... for a show that relies heavily on investment in characters their decision to kill most of them is impressive.

They are also increasingly prepared to blur the morality of their characters actions. In this series the villain is the President who he orchestrates terrorist acts in order to defend his countries actions in the middle east and gain control of oil pipelines. By the 18th episode, when Jack Bauer has hijacked a Boeing 747 so as to steal evidence that implicates the president, you no-longer know who, or what, to root for. By this point the series has carefully created a sense of political realism which allows us to believe in the out-and-out chaos that follows.

It is interesting, though, how 24 artfully plays on popular fears and gently introduces new ones. At the end of the series the President is arrested, but it is acknowledged that his corruption will never be known and he will be forced out of office through more conventional methods. Jack Bauer, having defeated the enemy, is suddenly kidnapped and taken on board a cargo ship heading to China to pay for his crimes in the 4th series.

If we interpret the President as the USA (obstensibly accused of inspiring terrorist actions) and if we see Bauer as being American justice (always right, never questioned) we can learn alot. At the end of this second term we will see a new country arise - one that has paid the price for its behaviour and will be free of any perceived corruption. American Justice, despite having saved the world many times, will suddenly be held responsible for its actions overseas. The methods may not be pretty, or legal, but they get the job done and if it is lost to foreign powers (specifically China, having now over taken the USA as #1 superpower) the security of the country will be at risk.

I don't mean to scream "conspiracy" but the subtle details of 24 have always fascinated me. As you may know, the show is made by Fox - Rupert Murdochs company. Throughout the whole 5 series of 24 the only news network that is watched is Fox News - everyone from the extras to the President watch Fox. Specifically the President. Series 5 has many lingering shots of Fox News on the Oval Office screens, or of the President watching it, or of their new mobile service being used by the Chief of Staff. It's everywhere, and cannot be said more clearly: Fox News is the one to trust,

The only time Fox News is not featured in the Presidents inner sanctum, in fact, is from the moment we discover he is the villain. From THE VERY MOMENT we find out he is a bad guy, he watches a different channel. He doesn't even watch any other channel, no, he watches the fictional CSB channel - a fictional channel that has a logo and name very similar to the real channel CBS which is, if I'm not mistaken, the main rival of Fox and of a liberal leaning.

I mean... come on...! Is that the worlds best diss, or a really sinister form of socialisation?

I digress. 24 is still one of the best adult dramas on TV. It tackles some very difficult themes which are rarely addressed in mainstream entertainment, and it does that with an admirable sense of balance. It may be silly at times, and it may have more than a whiff of melodrama about it, but it's also terrific fun, and if you can buy into their world (which isn't too different from ours) you'll find a very well made and very well written piece of television.

Bill Hicks: Agent of Evolution

2006-08-18T02:27:00.000Z

Bill Hicks: Agent of Evolution
by Kevin Booth and Michael Bertin

Harper Collins £8.99
(or about a fiver from Fopp)

"Revered in Britain, ignored at home, Bills Hicks wasn't just the quintessential 'comedians comedian,' he was often their proxy, saying things on stage they wished they had the courage to say. No cow was too sacred. All game was fair.

Offstage, Bill was something very different - just an unassuming, thoughtful person seeking enlightenment. Sometimes he tried to get there through books, other times through reckless drugs. Too few people got to see either side of Bill Hicks, though, as just as Bill was on the cusp of breaking through on both sides of the Atlantic, cancer took his life. He was just 32 years old."

This is the third book published on Hicks in as many years. American Scream (by Cynthia True) is a very good, but very standard, biography and Love All the People (edited by John Lahr) is a fantastic, if not slightly repetitive, collection of his writings and routines. Agent of Evolution is a welcome addition to the cannon as it is written by Kevin Booth who was his best friend and "co-conspirator" since they were both aged 13.

Booth has assembled most of Hicks' friends, fellow comedians, lovers and co-workers together to artfully tell the definitive story of his life. All these stories and recollections are personal, which is a remarkable thing, as it paints a vivid picture of Hicks as more of a friend than performer. These contributors are unflinching honest in their memories, presenting Hicks as both a loyal and funny friend as well as an egotistical and angry misanthrope. What is evident is that Hicks was a remarkable and affecting individual, and despite whatever criticisms they may level at him what is abundantly clear is a great love for their friend, and the great sorrow they feel at losing him.

Co-writer Michael Bertin has done a terrific job of weaving these stories into a cognitive whole. Flitting between first and third person, built from interviews and research, we have a flash biography of Hicks' life that is aided and built upon by personal recollections and direct transcripts. The same story is often told from a number of viewpoints which is beneficial as it allows the reader a closer sense of objectivity, it also offers an insight into how he was interpreted by a wide variety of different people.

What I particulary liked about this book is a noticeable absence of his comedy. His ideas, and his gigs, and his collaborators, and his successes and failures are all documented, but there is little mention of his actual routines. We learn the origins of jokes and how his interest was pigued in certain subjects but Booth and Bertin wisely avoid repeating his stage routines. Hicks, unfortunately, produced a finite amount of material and much of it is already known - by concentrating on how that material came to be, not what it came to be, they have created a much better insight into Hicks' work.

Bill Hicks has been a hero of mine for a very long time, longer than I can remember. While I love his stand-up, it is his character and message that I am most interested in. Hicks believed in tolerance and understanding, in questioning everything he saw before him and exposing the hypocricy of those who peddle themselves for financial gain. He described television as "taking a black marker to your third eye" and believed above all else that the human race were capable of incredible things, if only they would take more drugs. He spoke firmly of "getting the message out there" and convincing the world that enlightenment and understanding were achievable, if only they would look inside themselves and stop trusting the systems of control he saw everywhere.

Agent of Evolution sees Hicks as a man who lived and believed all of this, but was also very angry and troubled by the conflicts that arose within him. He was a mean drunk but a good friend, he was a vicious critic but an inspirational presence. His friends love him dearly, but he pissed them off sometimes. "That was just part of being Bills friend" one contributor says. It is rare to have friends admitting to sleeping with his girlfriend when he had died, or heaping criticisms upon his father, or describing the sound of him having sex in the next room but these people are happy to talk about their most personal moments. This is not in a voyeuristic or titilating way, but as if told in conversation - like these times are what have defined him in their memory, and only by knowing of them can be understand who he was.

If you know the work of Bill Hicks then I cannot recommend this book highly enough. It is terrific insight into a remarkable man, one that is praiseworthy and critical but built from personal recollection and and considered comment. If Hicks' is still a mystery to you, check out Love All the People, then American Scream, then this. Think of it as the Return of the King of Hicks biographies.

Snippet of a conversation heard in the street.

2006-08-17T19:04:00.000Z

I’ve just taken a seat after coming back from the pub. I wouldn’t usually log on now but I have the urge to review a tiny bit of conversation I just heard on the way home. It’s the tiny exchange you hear when you are walking one way, a couple are walking t’other, and just as you go past you hear a couple of exchanges without having any knowledge of what has come before, or what will come after.

The protagonists were two ‘pram faces’, neither that close to their 20th birthdays (I’d say 18, tops) pushing buggies with recumbent infants within. (conversation heard at 7.45 on Colliers Wood High Street, South West London, in front of the Tesco Metro).

Girl 1: “…and I can’t get a fackin babysittah”
Girl 2: “I nevah knew you ‘ad a black sistah!”
Girl 1: “Yeah!!”
(conversation disappears out of ear shot)

Brilliant. A Daily Mail Reader (or Robert Kilroy-Silk) would shit themselves.

Saints and Soldiers

2006-08-16T13:06:00.000Z

I thought as I’d given a glowing review to another war movie (Brotherhood) I should balance it out with a review of a film I watched the day afterwards.

Saints and Soldiers is, essentially, shit. I’m going to say what happens in it and give away the ending so if you have a penchant for low budget, lazily thought out films stop reading now. Ok, so I’m going through a phase of watching war movies, but this is perhaps to be expected after a week long battlefield tour of Normandy and Flanders. Recently I have seen:

All Quiet on the Western Front: A gritty portrayal of the futility of the first world war and a comment on the loss of innocence and the emptiness of patriotism.

The Longest Day: A dramatised account of June 6th 1944, which attempts a non-judgmental look at the conflicting sides. Shot on location with a huge attention to detail, an absolute classic.

Brotherhood: A harrowing yet nationalistic look at the brutality of civil war and the effects on a family, brilliant.

Saints and Soldiers: A bit like a pissy tramp wandering into a royal garden party and doing a shit at Her Majesty’s feet.

Why is it so shit? I hear you ask. Well kids, I’ll tell you. It wants to be Saving Private Ryan but lacks a strong cast and big budget. It would quite like to be Band of Brothers but can’t quite show the hideousness of war in winter. It just doesn’t hack it. I think it was released straight to DVD, in fact it may have been shown as a two parter on American TV or something. Basically it’s just not the big screen movie it so desperately wants to be.

It’s set in the winter of ’44 during the last German offensive of the war in the Ardennes region of Belgium. It starts at the Malmedy Massacre, where American prisoners of war were shot out of hand by the German Army. Four soldiers escape the massacre and go on the run. You know the line up already; the experienced sergeant, the big guy from Hicksville, the traumatized sharpshooter and the embittered Medic. Basically the sharpshooter is traumatized cos he’s a good Christian boy who six days earlier accidentally killed a family of women and children when he lobbed a grenade into a house where a German sniper was er..sniping. So basically he keeps seeing hollow eyed children staring at him. Ooh, shellshock. Thing is, he’s the only one with a gun and the sergeant trusts him cos he’s ‘saved my life a hundred times’. The medic doesn’t like him for reasons unclear. On the way they pick up a downed British airman who just so happens to be carrying vital, yes, VITAL information regarding the German offensive, but we don’t really find out what that is either. The director doesn’t seem that bothered about telling us. Probably cos the writer never bothered to think up what it is. The British pilot is clearly an American who can ‘do’ accents, so he talks with that weird cross between a Kensington drawl and ‘eeh-bah-gum’ northern shite. Clearly the script writers were thinking that if they got the cunt to say ‘you chaps’ enough we’d just have to accept he’s English. Anyway they flounder around with a constant backdrop of patriotic music whining about the damn war, but not enough to make any real points of interest. They shoot up some krauts. Hey, guess what, the one that doesn’t get shot turns out to be a guy called Rudolf who the sharpshooter knows from his time as being a missionary in Berlin before the war. Thank fuck for that, now they’ve got someone who can help them at the end! They stumble around, shoot up some more beastly Huns and then have a big duffy at the end. Somehow they’ve all got captured weapons now with endless ammunition. “Fuck me!” thinks the director (I don’t know who directed it, don’t care) “now’s the time for our shaky camera saving private Ryan type shit!”. Which doesn’t quite get pulled out of the bag. Sergeant and big Hick get shot. And die. Even after an hour and a half you don’t feel a thing for them, which if you think about is quite an achievement in character underdevelopment….you can get attached to vacuous cunt on Big Brother in less time than that! Ends up with the no longer bitter medic (who I think is supposed to be the hero you’re meant to identify with but don’t because he comes across as a whining little turd) gets the wounded pilot to safety while our sharpshooting god-botherer gets his cocoa in the manner of William Defoe in Platoon (lots of slow mo getting shot up with his arms in the air). As he subsides into his seemingly painless death the director pulls the dead Belgian kids out of the bag who rock up to watch him die. Boo fucking hoo. We cut to the pilot talking urgently (and soundlessly) to a U.S. Army sergeant….yeah, I’d divulge the war winning plans to him too, why bother with a high ranking officer who might have a fucking clue what you’re talking about.

Look, the film’s shit. Don’t watch it. It will make you feel like someone just prized open your jaw with a speculum and shat a pound of fetid gutmud into your throat while singing The Star Spangled Banner.

It’s not quite as bad as John Wayne’s propaganda vehicle Green Beret though. That’s like having your jaw prized open with a speculum, having them fuck your mouth with a dead baby and then breaking your skull at the end of a 100 man, Aids-infected bukkake fest.

My ace fucking birthday

2006-08-14T13:59:00.000Z

On my last birthday I turned 32. As such I had low expectations regarding feelings of excitement or to be frank, presents. I’d already got a present from my best mate, a freeview box, which is ace cos it means I can now watch Fred Dibnah and The World at War, and any other program that tends to appeal to boring as fuck 32 year old teacher cunts like myself.
Anyway, here’s a review of my birthday:

Awoke on July 25th to a gloriously sunny day. Good start. Go downstairs and find 3 cards and a package from Amazon. It’s from my older brother. Inside is a reproduction of a 1947 map of Normandy showing the campaign of ’44. Ace. It’s got arrows all over it and lots of shit like ‘40th Div HQ’. Pretty incomprehensible but a good present for a man. It also contained two DVDs; The Longest Day and All Quiet on the Western Front (the proper 1930 version, not that 70s one with that cunt from the Waltons in it). I must explain that these presents weren’t as random as they seem, the following week I was off to France to visit Normandy and the Somme. Yes, I’m that sort of person.

Around 11.00am my girlfriend came round. She’d managed to farm her children out for the day so we were free to do as we pleased for a WHOLE DAY. A rare occurrence. I was promptly given my present (a rather nice silver chain for my neck) and fellatio.

Then to Covent Garden where we had a couple of beers, lunch in an Italian place, watched some street performers (one was good, one was an Essex wanker who was far too needy and kept getting cross with us for not applauding his lackluster feats of juggling) and looked in some shops. Girlfriend got a temporary tattoo of a dragon fly painted on her upper arm. I decided that if she ever got a tattoo there for real I couldn’t possibly take her out in polite society. Looked in some more shops and wandered into Anne Summers. Came out with a little present to myself; a cat-o-nine-tails. Someone recommended them to me, so figured it was worth investigating.

Get on tube to go home. Remember that in a previous life I used to a do a proper job in town and that getting on the southbound northern line at Embankment on one of the hottest days of the year at 6pm is incredibly fucking stupid. Arrive home 45 stinky minutes later. Go home with girlfriend and continue drinking (Bacardi and diet coke. Look, don’t laugh, I’ve grown to like it and I’m still as heterosexual as I ever was). Get sent out for takeaway and more Bacardi. Get home to find that girlfriend has spent all those vouchers for Anne Summers I’d bought for her months ago and forgotten about. Brilliant! I’m a sucker for a lady in saucy underwear. And it was nice too, not that weird plastic shit that Anne Summers used to peddle. Try out cat-o-nine-tails on screaming girlfriend. (screaming in a good way, honest. I wasn’t cleaning lumps of flesh off the walls afterwards or nothing)

1am walk girlfriend home (teenage son is at home so she has to be in at some point). Go home and smoke a joint and fall into blissful sleep.

Findings: my 32nd birthday was fucking ace. Much better than the last one. And the one before that which is when I last had a girlfriend on my birthday. No blow jobs or flogging sessions then, oh no. She just screamed at me and had a fanny fit cos my parents wanted to see me to wish me a happy 30th, which seemed entirely unreasonable in her mental foreign brains.

I suggest you have a 32nd birthday soon, hopefully it will be as good as mine.

Brotherhood

2006-08-14T11:24:00.000Z

If you like Asian cinema and films like The Thin Red Line and Saving Private Ryan you must put this film on your ‘to see’ list.

Directed by Kang Je-kyu in 2005 the film follows two brothers (played by Dong-gun and Won Bin) from South Korea at the outbreak of the Korean War in 1950. The film is clearly and unashamedly influenced by Saving Private Ryan and as such is subject to some patriotic grandstanding and cloying sentimentality, however don’t let this put you off as it counters this with frank brutality and attempts ultra-realism. I don’t know if it succeeds in this as I’ve never been in a war but I’d imagine the director gets pretty close with his portrayal of the harsh realities of battle.

Like Saving Private Ryan the film is bookended with the present day, focusing on one of the men trying to find out what became of his brother during a particularly brutal battle. OK, so this is where you have lots of close ups of a crinkly old Korean bloke getting misty eyed about a pair of shoes he keeps in a box (hmm, surely there is some shoe-based relevance to this) and patriotic background music. Fine, so it’s a bit mushy, and a direct steal from Spielberg but it is important to the story and you must remember that this film has an up-front nationalist bias, which is fair enough really.

We then cut to Seoul in 1950 and meet our two protagonists. The younger brother is a student (big brain, a bit sensitive, heart condition…very oriental so far) and his older brother has given up school to shine shoes (aha, the shoe connection) to pay for his brother’s education and generally keep the family going (including his rather cute fiancé who runs a noodle stall). I don’t know enough about Asian cinema to be familiar with its conventions but I was a bit confused at first. I’m not sure if grown men in Korea do run about like 10 year olds sharing iced lollies, or whether the director was just trying to emphasise the ‘innocence’ before the hideousness of war…but anyway, don’t worry about this bit, it soon goes away. To cut a long story short (it’s over 2 hours long this flick, but well worth it) war breaks out, the commies invade and the family have to leg it. En route the two lads are drafted, well, press-ganged really, into the South Korean army. Cue wailing and gnashing of teeth and a family being split apart.

We cut to the boys who’ve now arrived in the line. This is where it all kicks off. You know the first 20 minutes of Saving Private Ryan? You know, the real-time sequence of the Rangers landing on a section of Omaha Beach? The bit where we all thought “holy shit, this isn’t like a John Wayne movie is it?!” Well take that bit and make it into a 2 hour movie with the occasional gulp for air. It’s all ‘orrible. Shelling, gunshots, landmines, bayonets, rifle butts, it’s all there. Lots of shaky camera action, lots of screaming, lots of limbs being blown off. Before you suspect I’m flogging a wank-fest for war mongers I’d like to assure you it all ‘works’ and the film wouldn’t be as good without it. It really does put you off going into the Army recruitment office for an informal chat. Machine guns don’t seem quite as ‘cool’ as they used to when you were growing up on films like The Longest Day and Sands of Iwo Jima. As for the set-piece battles; you’ve never seen anything like it and the sheer scale of the attack when the Chinese get stuck in makes you cack your pants and wonder if even Michael Cain and his thin red line would stand up to it.

Without wanting to give too much away the dilemma of the story comes when the older brother decides that his younger sibling must be sent home. He’s not well (an early bombardment sets off a mild heart attack which nearly carries him off) and his big bro decides that for the good of the family he must leave at once. The problem is, the South Korean army aren’t keen on letting him go. Fair enough when you’ve got the Red hordes knocking on your front door and executing the families of soldiers and policemen…you need every man who can fight, even if it’s the wheezy kid with a note from Matron. The older bro discovers that if you win a medal the army starts to listen to you, so to get his brother out he embarks on a series of lunatic feats of courage to get his medal. In doing this of course he loses a large part of his humanity, which causes much Korean shouting and crying between the two brothers (is getting soldiers under your command killed worth it to save the life of one man?). Oh, and more people getting their limbs blown off. In between all this we see the rift between ideologies, South Korean death squads shooting suspected communists, disease and more bloodshed.

I won’t write anymore as I’ve gone on to long, and I don’t want to actually tell you what happens to them. It’s a great movie…IF you like Asian cinema and war films.

It’s better than Saving Private Ryan, on a par with The Thin Red Line and knocks them both into a cocked hat for the “fuck me, I’m glad I never had to go to war” element.

Watch it.

RV

2006-08-14T10:00:00.000Z

Due to my jetset lifestyle, much like that of Christina Agwuilleria or the Queen, I was on a long-haul flight on Saturday to Heathrow. If you have eyes or ears, you will no doubt have heard about some rather cross fellows who hated people taking hand luggage onto planes so much that they hatched a plan to blow some aircraft up, therefore meaning that no boozes or books could be taken on board. Their cunning plan worked, and I was left on a 13 hour flight with no reading materials (interestingly I managed WITH EASE to smuggle a sleeping pill on board, without even trying, despite having the insides of my shoes searched. That could have been a trigger for an explosive device for all they knew, or even an ecstasy paracetomol). The upshot was that I had to watch the rollicking family comedy 'RV', starring everyone's favourite stupid-faced man, Robin Williams.

I was sitting next to a profoundly deaf man throughout the flight, and I felt a bit bad for him as I thought his enjoyment of the inflight entertainment might be limited, yet as he watched the RV roll away from Robin Williams into a lake (if you're not familiar with the term, it's a massive American caravan where the car is actually part of the caravan. Or a big posh camper van, if you prefer), he was in hysterics, doubling over in his seat at the madcap antics and the terrified yet comedic look on Williams' face.

The basic storyline is thus: Robin Williams is a stressed business man with two ungrateful children and a long-suffering wife. They go away in an RV for a holiday under the pretence that he wants to spend more time with them, but really so he can attend a business meeting that will save his career. They find out and are pissed off. They forgive him. Everything works out lovely in the end.

Conclusion: If you don't like Robin Williams then you will hate this film. If you really like Robin Williams then you are probably a twat.

Monster House

2006-08-13T19:29:00.000Z

Do you remember those days when childrens films were really scary? I don't mean 'carefully orchestrated to appeal to teenagers but still a 12a' kind of scary (see: The Fog remake), or 'really fucked up' kind of scary (see: Babe 2: Pig in the City). I mean 'treat kids like they're capable of handling more than we give them credit for' kind of scary.

This was a time when we were less critical of the media and its role in affecting children, when films weren't designed by the Parents Association. They revelled in all the PG certificate skeltons, aliens, bad guys, psychological trauma, school bullies and adventure that they could muster. And we loved them for it.

This is what Monster House is like. It has the spirit and style of a Joe Dante movie - all twisted angles, crazy zooms and genuinely scary set-pieces. Any house at night can become a realm of shadows and danger to a child, and Monster House capitalises on that perfectly - taking the design of a home to nth degree and turning carpets into tongues, floorboards into teeth and windows into eyes. This house is a fully-fledged creature and when tearing down the street, using trees for arms and snapping up lost dogs, it becomes a genuinely scary sight.

The animation is outstanding - it doesn't compare to Pixar for lush beauty, but it terms of production design, camera movement and character it is flawless. Human characters are always tricky in computer animation, however Monster House has such well realised central characters that every mannerism and quirk contributes. As well as the dangers of a stoner eating house, the characters also face typical teenage issues (puberty, rivalry, relationships) which is very rare in animated features. It gives the film real depth and offers up a complexity that, again, has been strangely missing from childrens films of late.

So there we go. No pithy sarcasm, no biting analysis. It's just a great film and it deserves to be seen by adults and children alike. If you know an 8 year old, take them to see this. They'll remember it forever.

Lassie ... that fucking bitch

2006-08-07T13:03:00.000Z

Alright so Lassie's a kid's movie and perhaps I should put this in perspective but ... JESUS WEPT LASSIE GETS ON MY FUCKING NERVES.

I've got a dog right? I've had him for thirteen years and not once during that entire time has he EVER rescued me from an abandoned mineshaft/well/burning barn etc. Not once has he gone to get help after I've found myself dangling off a cliff. He's never, to the best of my knowledge, found himself far away from me, having to undertake an incredible journey frought with danger to get back home.

No! He sleeps all fucking day is what he actually does. And when he's not sleeping, he's shitting, or begging for food, or knocking me over, or farting. If he was human, I'd have kicked his lumpy, stinking ass out the door long ago. I don't because he's a dog and that's what dogs do.

But not Lassie, oh no. Lassie, the bitch, never eats little Jimmy's shoes before shitting in his bed. Lassie doesn't eat an entire bag of dried cat food before spending the next week projectile crapping foamy, gelatinous diahorrea all over little Jimmy's fucking carpet. Lassie doesn't sleep on little Jimmy's bed thus covering it in hairs - a fact little Jimmy and his missus only discover later that night when half of Lassie's coat ends up inside little Jimmy's missus.

When was the last time you saw a Lassie movie where little Jimmy and the folks sit down to a wholesome family meal only for all hell to break loose when Lassie farts under the table? Ever seen Lassie being chased out of the house by little Jimmy's dad as he bellows "Get out of here you DIRTY little fucking BASTARD!"

That's what dogs actually do Lassie, you preening poncy litlle shitbird. Dogs don't go rescuing small kids from burning buildings because they're far too busy licking shit off lamposts to notice. Dogs think nothing of farting in front of your grandmother or ripping your last tenner to shreds. They certainly don't come to the rescue unless they're rescue dogs (and they're only doing that because it's like a big game of 'fetch').

FUCK YOU LASSIE. Fuck your bastard hide you precious little princess of a nazi canine bastard. Wanna know what I want to see next as a Lassie movie? Lassie Goes To Korea ... I reckon you can work out what happens in that movie eh Lassie? That is if you're not too busy digging around in your own anus for shit.

Juila Roberts vs. White Lightning - The Big Fight

2006-08-07T09:22:00.000Z

Is it, I mused the other day, infinitely preferable to get so drunk you are in danger of killing yourself rather than watch a Julia Roberts movie? Having a spare weekend on my own, I decided to test the theory ... for scientific purposes, you understand.

My experiment would take the form of a two night test. Day one would see me stone cold sober in front of 2001's America's Sweethearts starring Julia alongside John Cusak, Catherine Zeta-Jones, and Billy Crystal. Day two would find me drinking large quantities of white cider and vermouth whilst listening to The Wall over and over again. These are my findings ...

DAY ONE - AMERICA'S SWEETHEARTS

Let me explain from the start that I can't stand 'bird's' movies. I've been dragged along to so many of these fucking things by various females and have had a thoroughly miserable time of it every time. I hate 'sisterhood', romance, dancing, ABBA, love, The fucking Carpenters and 'bonding' - whatever the fuck that is. I especially hate any scene where two or more women sit around a table and get drunk and reminisce about good times and bad ... because they're fucking bonding there aren't they? I also feel physically sick whenever I see (and it's usually Cameron Diaz) a woman singing along to an upbeat seventies disco classic with a big grin on her face or two women singing along to an upbeat seventies disco classic whilst knocking their hips together ... this often happens after they've sat at the aforementioned table getting pissed.

No. I like bloke's films. I like guns, killing, explosions, car chases, nude women getting fucked, kung-fu, evil foreigners, sharks, tanks, blood and Burt fucking Reynolds. If a film doesn't feature at least one death, I aint that interested ... and I'm not talking the Four Weddings And A Funeral sort of death neither - I'm talking the eyeballs ripped out of your anus by Chuck fucking Norris sort of death. And if there isn't a death there bloody well better be a car chase or a comedy monkey. Or a dog in a truck.

So you can imagine my excitement at having to spend my saturday night in the company of Julia and Cathy and Johnny and Billy as opposed to Jean Claude, Dolph, Sly or Arnie.

Let me get it straight right off the bat - America's Sweethearts is a joyless, soulless, unfunny, egotistical piece of predictable shit. It's exactly the same as a million other 'ugly duckling who turns out to be beautiful and gets the handsome prince' fairytale bullshit that inexplicably appeals to grown adult females who should know fucking better, quite frankly. The 'plot' sees John Cusak and Catherine Zeta-Jones as the biggest movie stars in the world, appearing as on-screen lovers but also married in real life. Julia Roberts plays Catherine's sister (of course! why hadn't I noticed the strong family resemblance before?) who is secretly in love with John. She used to be fat (this is Julia Roberts, remember) but now she's not. Billy Crystal is a publicist or something.

The twist in the tale is that John and Catherine hate each other and are only pretending to like each other for the benefit of publicising their new movie. Julia (who's secretly in love with John, don't forget) is seen by a swimming pool by John who mistakes her for his estranged wife. This causes John to try and get back with Catherine until it is revealed to him that it wasn't her by the pool, but Julia and yadda yadda yadda -fill in the fucking gaps. The only decent line in the movie is delivered by Billy Crystal who calls a dobermann a 'nazi bastard'. I actually laughed at this because I've always thought there's something so very Third Reich about dobermanns.

So there you go. One decent fucking line in what is supposed to be a 'smash-hit comedy'. One decent line in a movie that, considering the amount of 'stars', must have cost an arm and a leg to make. I mean for fuck's sake ... I watched an episode of that risible My Hero the other day and laughed twice, and that show looks like it costs about £30 to make, including salaries. If a piece of filth like My Hero can make me laugh more than the extremely expensive America's Sweethearts, there's something deeply wrong going on with Hollywood screen writing. Or maybe the comedy and plot came second fiddle to the fact that Julia and Cathy and Johnny and Billy had all signed on the dotted line (shit! we've got 'em all ... better write a movie! QUICK!)?

That said, I'd happily have all my teeth smashed out with a mallet if it won me a blow-job from Catherine Zeta-Jones.

DAY TWO - GETTING REALLY REALLY DRUNK

"Now hang on," you're thinking, "you've already said you hate rom-coms ... so getting pissed is bound to beat last night's fun 'n' games hands down! What sort of a science experiment is this anyway? I want my fucking money back you robbing, theiving piece of shit!"

Well hold your horse there pardner. I aint talking about getting drunk in a fun way, you impatient, cynical fuck-knuckles. I'm talking getting drunk like a tramp who lives under a bridge gets drunk. I'm talking sitting on my own drinking White Lightning direct from the bottle whilst listening to the world's most miserable progressive rock album kinda getting drunk. I'm talking the genuine possibility of daefacating in my own trousers sort of drunk. You know - the sort of drinking that leads you to question if it's actually worth being alive.

I, like most of the adult population of the developed world, suffer from 'depression'. What this actually boils down to is that I get fed up from time to time and feel sorry for myself. I mope around and can't be arsed with life and blame everything on an unhappy childhood etc etc. Pathetic because in actual fact I'm actually feeling sorry for myself because I've not turned out to be James Bond, which is what I really really wanted to be when I grew up. I'm not rich or sucessfull. I don't live on a yacht. I'm not currently moored off Montego Bay being sucked off by super models whilst drinking dry martinis. In short, my life is as shit as everyone else's and instead of pulling myself together and improving my lot, I instead sit in a corner and sulk and blame my woes on everyone else.

So you can probably understand that a night in on my own getting drunk on filthy cheap booze whilst being upset by Roger Waters and the boys didn't exactly fill me with a sense of excitement.

It started off alright, as drinking always does. The cider was revolting, obviously, but as I've been drinking heavily since birth, I coped. I'm afraid Pink Floyd got turned off pretty soon because I can't bear to listen to The Wall any more (too many bad memories, man). Instead I focused on sunday night TV, which is just as depressing as The Wall but at least gives you something to look at.

After my first one litre bottle the 'thinking' began. Whenever I drink on my own, I get to thinking of all the mistakes I've made in my life and how I'd have done things differently if only I'd had the benefit of hindsight. I certainly wouldn't have wasted eight years of my fucking life living with a woman who would one day walk off and get married to one of my best friends for instance, oh no (three hours later I would be wailing "why did she leave me? I loved the f-f-f-f-fucking bitch!Why? WHY? AAAAAAGGGGGHHHH!"). You get the picture.

And so the night wore on. I won't bore you with the details, but needless to say it was fucking awful. I started crying. I downloaded a porno movie then couldn't get my penis to work which left me wrenching it around in fury. I pissed in my trousers and threw up on the living room carpet. I (and this is the worst bit) rang my mother at four in the morning to tell her how miserable I was and that this state of affairs was in fact her fault. Basically, I did all the things you'd expect a naked, angry, blind drunk manic depressive to do short of hanging himself in the bathroom.

I awoke the next morning on the dining room floor. I'd pissed myself again at some stage and as I'd been naked when I'd finally collapsed, I was freezing cold and fuck me did I stink. I thought my dog had crapped in my mouth, a taste that lingered for two days. I had a hangover you could have sold to the Science Museum. Later, my mum rang me up to tell me off. I felt like the shit I most certainly was.

CONCLUSION

So is it preferable to get so drunk you put the relationship you have with your mother in serious jeapordy rather than watch a Julia Roberts movie? I genuinely believe it is. Alright, so you're in for a crappy night of wailing and moaning and being unable to masturbate. And yes, you do feel like shit on a spike the next day with one helluva lot of cleaning and apologising to look forward to. But so what? You've still technically had a night out ... sort of. It just wasn't a very good one. And that's the point - it could have been. My night in on the cheap sauce could have gone any of a thousand different ways, some good, some bad ... it just so happens that this time it went bad for me; that doesn't mean it will next time.

In contrast, it doesn't matter how many times I watch America's Sweethearts because the result will always be the same - I will be watching a piss-poor slice of American crap and I will not enjoy the experience ever. No matter how many times I see Julia get her man and Catherine get her comeuppance, I will not change my mind that I'm watching anything other than celluloid sewage. However, the next time I get pissed on my own might see me accidentally writing an award-winning children's book or stumbling across the secret of the universe on the internet (it's there somewhere, I'm fucking sure it is).

And anyway, every cloud has a silver lining because those nice people at the porno site I downloaded my movie from have promised plenty more where that came from, just as long as I let them remove $39.99 from my bank account every three months. Julia and Johnny and Cathy and Billy can't top that, I fancy.

Ministry

2006-08-04T11:41:00.000Z

I think this is a first, a live music review on Mothers, despite being nearly double the age of you lot, none of you seem to get out and rock out like what I do. IN YOUR FACE TEENIES.

I met up with my mate Gary at the The Two Brewers in Covent Garden. The previous night he’d been forced to take his missus to see Madonna at Wembly, he said it was quite a show despite having a strong predilection for punk/death. It’s also worth mentioning that he used to live next door to Madonna’s keyboard player, I don’t know why, but it is.

Gary doesn’t get out much these days due to his 3 year old and 3 month old daughters, but back in the day Gary was quite a boozer. On the odd occasion he does get out he doesn’t wait for last orders. This may explain why that before we even got to the Forum we were already 4 pints down and were enjoying our 5th in the large pub by the venue after having arrived in Kentish town at 8-ish. The atmosphere was congenial as usual. Despite all of the black clothing, tattoos, piercings, sneers, shouting and general skuzziness, fans of the extreme ‘rock’ genre are usually a pleasant enough bunch. In fact, lately, I’ve noticed that it is in fact I that can behave in a manner not befitting a gentleman.

The Forum was packed solid, as expected. For those that haven’t been (that is probably all of you I’ll wager, cunts) it’s a split-level venue with sound engineers slap bang in the middle protected by stairs either side, the optimum place to stand but also very prized and therefore one must use a bit of souse to conquer and remain in position. Unusually, instead of our usual gang, there was only the two of us so we had to time our buying of beers and taking of wees to ensure that each protected the others space. Once one has put in the groundwork this system does get easier to work and using a bit of FurQ charm, we employed the help of Roxanna, a delightful little thing from Hastings, to assist in keeping areas free of invasion.

Getting to the bar to get beers is a bloody BBC series. Getting the beers back to the spot is worthy of a mention in the Bible, the perpetual shift of bodies of groups means that at least a 6th of the beer is lost in transport, even when settled in place it’s common to have some lunky cunt whack into you and spill your beer. Half way through he gig in fact I was walloped so hard I ended up tipping beer all over my chin and t-shirt. On most occasions such offence is usually quelled by a cheery apology, on this occasion the tool breezed past without so much as a word. I leant forward and grabbed the back of his t-shirt and hauled him back to my angry and sodden face. I rudely informed him of his offence and in return I got a myriad of apologies and he was released. What a nice terrified young man he was.

After a dreadful support act called President Evil (awful young German grindcore act with no ballZ)) Ministry finally came on. I’ve seen them plenty of times but this was Ministry at their most raw, cut down. For those in the know the line up was pretty special, in addition to the redoubtable Al Jourgensen, Joey Jordison of Slipknot, Paul Raven from Killing Joke and Tommy Victor of Prong all featured as shadows in front of flashing montages of George W Bush, warfare, corpses, cartoons and religious iconography, brutal left wing deliciousness that was on occasion memorising. Al’s usually ostentatious lectern cum motorcycle-handlebars come Microphone, was exchanged for more streamlined and paired down effort on the same theme and there was nice subtle take on the light show allowing the slickly edited backdrop to do its job.

I’m not going to blabber off about the actual gig too much as I don’t expect it will mean much to you awful Luddites, they played a lot of the Rio Grande Blood and classics off Psalm 69 and The Mind is a Terrible Thing to Taste, which was delightful. The sound was, as one would expect, fucking loud (though no bands are as loud as Motorhead or Slayer, both of which are literally deafening to the point you can hear nothing for a full 5 minutes when they open (save white noise) and nothing after the gig for hours and well into the following day). But at this point it is worth going into some detail regarding the condition of the loos. Gary and I were, by the end of the gig, 8 or 9 (10?) pints down so the toilet had become rather familiar, and over the course of the evening, more disgusting. Due to a number of blocked loos and the condition of the punters, piss was inches deep on the floor of the Forum latrines so my Converse and jeans had begun to absorb some the pissy slurry, in fact by the end of the gig osmosis resulted in the piss riddling of the entire bottom half of my trousers. I stunk, I reeked like a Polecat, and I could even smell it as I walked back to the tube station.

On the journey home, deafish, complete with new and offensive t-shirt and my state of inebriation, I decided to inform my fellow passengers (probably at great volume) that, despite my refreshed state, I hadn’t pissed myself but was the victim of a piss flood at a gig. This may have gone down well or not, Catherine a portly 25 year old to my left (she clearly wanted some FurQ) and Lance a possible bisexual 35 year old assured me that they could smell nothing, but I found this unacceptable insisting that the smell was making me feel nauseous and that they needn’t be so fucking polite. I don’t recall the rest of those that were on receiving end of my apologies.

The walk home from the Tube was awkward. By now I was feeling every drop of the beer I’d drunk, I felt like a marionette with strings attached to my limbs. I noticed with some amusement that when drunk for some reason I can always see my knees rising and falling in my peripheral vision. In this aspect, reclining slightly and stepping on ground that felt like biscuits on a cushion of room temperature butter, I finally made it home at 12.30 (–ish?)

The smell of piss had given way to the clawing fug of ammonia so before entering my flat I stripped naked and threw everything into the washing machine, which, despite the late hour, was switched on. I hastily washed the face, front and forks, brushed my teeth and got into bed.

Now this is where it all gets complicated so it may be best to start from the following morning and work back First off on waking I noticed (despite still being half cut and partially hungover) that the clothes rail that ran over my wooden Ikea laundry box was all fucked up with clothes crunched and scrunched into submission. How the fuck did this happen I thought… It was only when I went over to the clothes rail for a closer inspection my memory was refreshed when I realised the carpet under the rail was soaking wet.

I could only presume that during the night the spin cycle had woken a part of my brain and the whole urine aspect of the previous evening had settled deep within my psyche. I don’t fully recall sitting on the wooden laundry box, I sort of do, but I do have a fractured memory of an awareness of peeing and then explosive frustration that resulted in loud swearing when I decided that the reason piss was splashing on my feet and ankles was due to the fact the toilet wasn’t doing its job properly and that this situation simply wasn’t my fault. I recollect peeing slowly in order to reduce the dancing splashes of what, mercifully, was by now mainly water. I must have became so exacerbated with this ‘loo’ not working that I took myself off to the bathroom and finished off what I had started on the toilet, though unaware of what I had started in my other ‘loo’

After running through a series of probabilities as to how I wound up leaking on my own carpet at 2am there is one glaringly obvious reason for this state of affairs. Now I have drunk more than 10 pints in one sitting and not pissed in my bedroom (or on myself) so it can’t be that, I didn’t piss all over my flat the last few times I saw Ministry, so it can’t be them….BUT I didn’t have a joint that day (the last time I didn’t have a joint in a day was when I was in hospital with a fucked back) which means skunk acts like a bladder stone, a plug if you will to stop the flow of urine.

Who would have thought a Ministry gig would lead to a medical breakthrough? I will notify you of my article due to be published in The Lancet, no doubt, shortly. And I conclude by suggesting that you all have a long good hard look at your record collection and perhaps, just perhaps, we can all save the world together yeah.

Lost

2006-08-02T12:34:00.000Z

I’ve been watching Lost and I don’t know why.

We’re now on season two and it’s nothing more than a vacuum of plottery and subsequent entertainment. So why do I watch it?

The main problem comes with drinking wine and doing spliffs, it’s on at 10 o clock by which time I’ve had a few glasses and am mid way through my third fatty boom batty of the evening. It’s not a simple question of a refusal to move away from the TV, I am fully aware it’s going to be on and something deep within a mind poisoned by ITV in the seventies is quietly thrilled at the prospect of having my brain disengaged and massaged gently with mediocrity and trite…

In addition to this I fancy the shit out the Korean bird and that Latin one. I can’t remember anyone’s name in the series apart from Mr. Echo on account of a tenuous link to Gibby Haines of the Butthole Surfers. Yet I’ve been watching it for fucking ages, maybe nearly a year or something? Hang on, the older bald one is called Locke. All is not Lost (geddit) *phew* etc.,

The threadbare plot of Lost relies on action from both the island where our heroes and villains are Lost, intercut with background stories before the characters found themselves stranded. This additional character information will obviously play a part in how we perceive said characters, but more importantly, how these prior comings and goings will directly effect the current ‘plot’ on the Island. On which they are ‘Lost’. Fucking tedious isn’t it.

Possible the most compelling thing about Lost, when seen from the glassy pov of my rather comfortable leather recliner in a mild soporific trance, is the title graphic of an out of focus ‘LOST’ slowly spinning and coming closer accompanied by ‘ooh how fucking weird’ tones from the US equivalent of the Radiophonic workshop. There is a critical moment in said sequence where a part of the ‘LOST’ graphic becomes sharply in focus, for a mere slice of a split second, prior to disappearing in a cloud of smudge. The trick here is to determine when the ‘LOST’ is at its most critically in focus. It’s a bloody lovely way to spend 10 seconds I can assure you.

It may be worth mentioning that Prison Break (in terms of watching addictive shit bombed mercelessly) had a similar effect on me, possibly because of the explicit violence and the appearance of quality (-ish) actors such as Stacy Keach and, more importantly, Peter Stormare.

Here though the plot wasn’t dull and inadequate, it was wholly and utterly preposterous, the absurd balancing on the ludicrous, even. The basic premise of the plot defies belief (a prison architect gets the gaol’s blueprints tattooed all over his toned and polished bod, commits a crime in order to get himself banged up in the very same prison that his brother is facing execution, just so he can get him out) and each week it gets more and more far out. By the end of season one I would’ve accepted a plot twist that relied on a shoal of talking clouds sent by Genghis Khan to wish them all off to a land of penises.

Yet I sat in my rather comfortable leather recliner absorbed for weeks on end.

Next week, I review rehab.

3 Albums

2006-08-01T17:24:00.000Z

This is a review of three albums, each of which I associate with a particular memory.

1 Nirvana - Bleach

I was given this on tape by a German lad called Markus Leitmer who I met on holiday in Majorca when I was 15. He wore the same Bad Religion T-shirt for at least ten days, and I drew a picture of his parents for which they gave me 500 pesetas. Taped on to the end of the album was what I later discovered to be Danzig's "Mother", I once lied to an inquiring friend that it was sung by the bassist of Nirvana - the only plausible reason I could come up with for the inconsistency.

The album doesn't need much of a reviewing; it is well known. I still play it regularly. It is very satisfying when drunk and alone as Cobain's growls and gravelly voice seem to mirror the despairing aggression of that condition. My favourite lyric was always that bit in "Swap Meet" that went:

She loves him more than he will ever know
He loves her more than he will ever show
[He] keeps his cigarettes close to his heart
[She] keeps her photographs close to her heart
Keeps the bitterness close to the heart

2 Dire Straits - Brothers In Arms

Along with Phil Collins, Billy Joel and Kate Bush - Dire Straits were a band my parents liked, and I grew up listening to them on long car journeys to Sheffield and Liverpool to visit my grandparents. Many years later, I noticed the song "Brothers in Arms" was used for the soundtrack to the TV series "Civvies" about ex-army types making a living in the "world", and recalled how in my youth I found the song particularly moving and poignant. This prompted a first delve into my parents' record collection where I found some very formative records for me: Leonard Cohen, The Beatles and Billy Connolly's comedy albums.

I put the album onto my iPod recently, and I am glad I did. It is impossible to say if it is nostalgia, but the thunderous intro to "Money for Nothing" still worked on me, "Your Latest Trick" is gorgeously bitter and "The Man's Too Strong" is all menace and sadness. I can't yet love "Walk of Life", however, but that final track is still a real payoff.

3 Carter USM - 30 Something

This was the first album I ever bought, and I did it in the worst possible way - through the Brittania Music Club. In my eagerness I forgot to tick the box and they sent me a terrible pop quiz book for 8 quid that I didn't want, that is a real blow when you're 14 and your Christmas money is almost entirely gone.

It isn't known as their best album, and my runner up choice was Nevermind which I didn't end up getting for another year, but I was (am) very happy with 30 Something. At our school we had "tutor group" on Fridays during which we could bring things in, one week it was music. My friend Peter Snelson brought Appetite For Destruction (a "dangerous" album, said he). I brought Carter, and played the whole of "Bloodsport For All" - a belter about racism and abuse in the British Army (did you know it was banned from airplay during the Gulf War?).

The rest of the group were unimpressed. One said "Carter is children's music isn't it?", and they laughed. However, this was perhaps the first time I ever remember my conviction that something was good shielding me from humiliation. I took the laughs and sat down, believing that I was as cynical, sneering and funny as Jim Bob:

While we're on the subject,
I've been called a spade
Single filed in public
With my privates on parade

Bloody Trilogies!

2006-08-01T14:17:00.000Z

So who’s the fuck-knuckle who’s decided every successful movie now requires its own trilogy? Or that films that were clearly not trilogies to begin with (Beverly Hills Cop, all 4 Alien movies etc.) are suddenly, retrospectively, trilogies none the less? Eh? Come on … outside!

I watched that piece of crap Pirates of the Caribbean 2 the other week and that (except for just how much I’d like to butt-fuck Kiera Knightly) was what kept ringing around what’s left of my booze-addled brain. Why? What’s the point? Did the producers think we couldn’t keep living as functioning human beings unless we were served up two more slices of shiver-me-timbers shit?
The first film was alright (mainly because I wanted to fuck Kiera Knightly’s seventeen year old ass) but it surely did what it set out to do didn’t it? I was mildly amused by Johnny Depp’s Richard E Grant impression and I liked the skeletons obviously, but that’s about it. I certainly didn’t think I’d need to see more of the same.

We’re getting a lot of this nowadays. The Matrix, which was bad enough on its own, was made ten times worse by the two garbled pieces of celluloid filth that came after it. Star Wars, for no reason I can fathom, required not one but two fucking trilogies despite the fact that not one millisecond of any Star Wars movie is any fucking good. And what about The Lord Of The Rings? Alright, so the book’s a trilogy, but does that mean you have to follow suit when it comes to the movie version? A couple of kids going for a walk to get rid of a piece of jewellery could have been done in 90 fucking minutes, not 90 fucking hours or however long those insufferable bloody movies took.

You don’t get this with other sorts of movies. You don’t get Don’t Look Now 2: Attack of the Ugly Dwarf Boy. You don’t get Schindler’s List/Schindler’s Bigger List/Schindler’s Biggest List (now with 57% more Jews!). You will not, I assure you, ever see Road To Perdition 3: Counterstrike or The Shawshank Redemption 2: Andy’s New Boat.

Stop making fucking trilogies! In fact stop making sequels and calling ‘em trilogies just because there’s three of them and the second one hasn’t got an ending. I don’t want to know what happened to Neo or Anakin or good old Cap’n Jack because they weren’t all that interesting in the first place …

… that said, I’d be interested to know what happened to the general after he died in the car crash at the end of Patton: Lust For Glory.

Those Robot Car Adverts

2006-08-01T13:57:00.000Z

Have you seen that Citroen advert where the car turns into a big dancing robot and the other one where the car transforms into an ice-skater? I had an argument with some dumb fuck the other week who said they were the best robots he’d ever seen. Well that’s shit surely because the best robots anyone has ever seen ever are the Smash instant potato robots who came to Earth in the seventies to laugh at us because we were still peeling and boiling potatoes instead of using Smash instant potatoes like they do in space.

I don’t see any evidence of the big dancing car doing this (or the big ice-skating car for that matter). I’ve watched the ads quite a few times and not once, at any point, is Smash instant potato even mentioned. In fact, these advertisements seem to be asking me to buy a Citroen of all things. Well, I don’t want a fucking Citroen, thank you very much. I want mashed potato I can make instantly without going to the bother of peeling and boiling the fucking things first.

Why are Citroen trying to waste my fucking time?

In fact, now I come to think about it, car companies do this to me all the time. I really wanted a cheese sandwich last week - only I’d run out of cheese, hadn’t I? What was the best television could come up with? Why it tried selling me a Ford, of all things. I don’t know about you, but the very last thing I’m going to stick in a sandwich (with the possible exception of a beating cow’s heart or human shit) is a Fiesta - £8,995 or not.

And then there was the time I needed a replacement boiler. That’s a boiler - not a Renault Megane. Alright, so I’m prepared to admit that some of the arses jiggling about in the advert were worth watching, but they didn’t exactly help when it came to the rather urgent (I’d been playing tennis) matter of having a bath. You can’t bathe in a Renault no matter how hard you try because the water will leak out of the doors so it’s of absolutely no fucking use to me whatsoever.

Isn’t it about time that car advertisers were strung up by their balls and shot? Or hanged with piano wire?

B P Perry

Superman Returns

2006-07-27T23:28:00.000Z

This review will probably contain spoilers, only read it if you don't care about the actions of Krypton's dullest son.

What possible introduction could I give to this movie that you haven't already come across in the last few weeks...? Superman has returned. Five year absence. Lois Lane has a baby and a boyfriend. Blah blah blah. I'm beginning to think that filmmakers can do away with needless character exposition by simply leaking vital plot details to the press. We all know Lois Lane has a young son, so why waste time with scenes explaining that fact. Just take it as read that we all know and get on with the story...

I have already started a campaign of hatred against this movie and didn't really expect it to be any good, or rather didn't think a movie about Superman can be any good. And I was right. Kind of. It's an infuriating film, simultaneously stunning and boring, and I am struggling to separate the quality of film against the inherent crapness of the central character.

Bryan Singer has done a terrific job, he has realised the world, image, style and characteristics of the Superman universe perfectly. The film glitters with 40's nostalgia, a black and white approach to morality and a glamorous sense of sentimentality. The action scenes are faultless in Singer's approach, the effects surprisingly low-key (save the occasional close-up of a bullet flattening against Superman's eye) and the right level of sincerity and tongue-in-cheek humour.

The problem is that this film is a technical marvel. Everything is right about it, except the very content itself. The morality and "he can never tell a lie" charactistics of Superman are now forgotten, we live in a world where complicated conflicts are a fact of life and the good versus evil themes of Superman are now outdated. Singer, noticing this, has taken a nostalgic approach but the character still jars with what the modern audience's idea of heroics is.

Superman is a 2D figure, an emblem of our greatest hopes, and where the film falls down is in its attempts to humanise that figure. We can empathise with Clark Kent because he is obstinately human, but we struggle with seeing Superman as anything else as a metaphor for our positive attributes. This is much the same problem Christians have with humanising Christ, to see a martyr as anything but a character who transcends the human condition is tantamount to sacrilege. This film, incidentally, is riddled with Christ allegories - not necessarily to make any grand point - but the similarities are unavoidable.

The main problem with the film, though, is in its casting. Brandon Routh does a terrific job in the duel lead but the supporting characters are the most uninspired choices - personified by Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane. This character is a great role, and in the hands of someone with a slither of experience could be a terrific match for Superman. As it stands we have Miss Bland O'Bland who carries the role of 'good-looking girl in peril' very well but utterly fails, on every level, as a hard-nosed, intrepid reporter. She speaks the dialogue very well and looks scared when she should but, for fuck's sake, this is Lois Lane! She is not some snivelling 22 year old beauty pagent winner, she's a fucking bloodhound with no regard for her own personal safety and a fuck-you attitude toward anyone who stands in her way. Kate Bosworth is the single greatest failing of this film, the role should have gone to Cate Blanchet or Toni Collette - someone who looks like they could have had a child, won a Pulitzer in five years AND learnt something along the way.

Singer has done good though, the movie is stunning to look at and the realisation of his world is perfect. There are moments of great beauty (Superman sleeping in space, a doomed family in a sinking boat) and the three main set pieces are remarkable. The use of Marlon Brando's cut dialogue from the first film is inspired, and the opening credit sequence may be one of the best ever committed to film.

Oh, and Kevin Spacey? Meh. He's alright. Funny but not that funny. Scary but not that scary. Good but not that good. He makes you long for Gene Hackman, and when you find yourself longing for Margot Kidder as well you know that this new version is losing your interest.

It's a shame, as this is a lovingly made film, filled to the brim with an adoration of the Superman story and you can't help but be excited when the John Williams theme starts up. It's also a shame, though, that it's just not very good.

No Children by The Mountain Goats

2006-07-27T12:57:00.000Z

I love albums, and I’m vaguely depressed at the prospect that ‘the digital revolution’ is changing the way we are listening to music. If the pundits are to be believed then your downloads and playlists and whatnot are putting the control back into the hands of the consumer. I’m not certain that’s entirely a good thing. Since when has the consumer been the authority on the sequence of a long player?

There again, how many artists actually put that much thought and effort into their albums? Most records seem to resemble a few key tracks padded out with a bit of filler and some stuff they came up with in studio when the clock was ticking. Or they go the other way and become pompous bloated things. Over-considered, saturated, dismal and stinking. In fact, now I think about it, it’s a rarity that I ever sit through an entire album. I never really did. I always utilised the FFWD to spin through the bad tunes in search of the good. Perhaps it’s always been about the songs after all.

I love songs, although if I’m honest I’m not quite ready to call them ‘tracks’, to use the parlance of the day. It just feels wrong in my mouth. It’s a needy sort of word, desperate for acceptance. Tracks. Tracks. “I like this track – nice breaks”. It’s a haircut word. I don’t like it.

A song, then, which I love at the moment is ‘No Children’ by The Mountain Goats. It is the best break-up tune you are ever likely to hear. It is bitter, incoherent, raging and sort of funny, depending on your outlook. It basically addresses a divorce with an escalating list of pointlessly nihilistic images cumulating in a death-wish. It is fantastic. It makes the head-killing detritus that is the death of a relationship seem romantic, almost desirable. Sample lyric:

I hope the junkyard a few blocks from here,
Someday burns down,
I hope the rising black smoke carries me far away,
And I never come back to this town,
Again.
In my life,
I hope I lie,
And tell everyone that you were a good wife…

And if you don’t feel giddy, tearful, astounded, if not utterly heroic at:

I am drowning,
There is no sign of land,
You are coming down with me,
Hand in unlovable hand.
And I hope you die,
I hope we both die.

...then you have not lived a life.

I’m not certain what’s more addictive - the alcohol sodden vitriol or the radio-friendly guitar and piano hook that it’s wedded to. What is certain is that you need to hear the real thing, and you can, for through the magic of the internet it is available legally and freely to download, learn and bellow at the ceiling in a drunken small hour.

Proof, then, that the digital revolution has not changed the way we listen to music, merely the way we acquire it.

The Mountain Goats - No Children

My career so far...

2006-07-27T01:21:00.000Z

"When I was 14 I watched an episode of 'Cinema! Cinema Cinema!' that changed my life forever. You remember 'CinemaX3', one of those staple TV programmes that existed in the twilight hours on ITV before they realised they could con fuckwits out of money with crap quiz marathons. A programme made entirely of EPK (Electronic Press Kit) materials that said only positive things about the films they previewed. I was 14 and fucking loved it, I could barely wait for the next episode and when it was repeated midweek I nearly cried with frustration.

Anyway. I saw a featurette on the movie 'Backdraft' where Ron Howard was talking about how much fun it was to direct movies. Boom. That was it. Suddenly I knew what I wanted to do with my life. I wanted to be in pictures. And I figured that since most people wanted to be actors, it wouldn't be that hard to become a director.

So that was it. My target was aquired. My aim was steady. Now all I needed to do was pull the trigger and I've been pulling that trigger for 14 more years since. Half my life taken up with a single minded goal chosen almost at random, and worst of all, inspired by Richie Cunningham."

And from that stirring story sprang a career. But just how good is Dave Holloway's career? Is it a career to be proud of, or one that is filled with mistakes and near-misses? It began with promise. His first film was a two-hour action epic starring his friends and shot on his Dads Hi8 camcorder. 'Bullet Proof' is nowhere near a perfect film, in fact it's barely watchable, but it does show signs of early promise and definitely demonstrates a dedication, rather than an ability.

His second feature 'Unlawful Pursuit' was sadly never completed, although during this time Dave managed to squeeze out a short, 'Grotesque', which, despite containing every cliche of teenage adolescence, does have a couple of good shots of his mate's girlfriend's tits in it. Always a winner.

After completing an A-level in film studies with a grade C, Dave moved to Sheffield to do a degree in film. During this time he completed two shorts, 'Tomato Catch-Up' and 'Renaissance Frank.' The latter title is the first indication of the themes running through Dave's work; irony, in-jokes and concepts that are only funny if you think about them really hard.

After graduating with an entirely acceptable 2:1 thankyouverymuch Dave moved toward the film industry, where the first lull in his career takes place. His role as Production Assistant on the as of yet unreleased 'Dream' lacked dedication, and his performance on 'Murder on the Orient Express' smacked of outright hatred, earning him the notice of being the only crew member not to be credited on IMDB.

Timely advice from a dead man led Dave to become an independent producer, and it is here that his work becomes of note. He formed a collective with friends called the Media Lounge that, through a series of coincidences and things in common, led to them starting a highly succesful series of self-titled events. Dave's work over this period is shambolic and unreliable, but a definite theme and style emerged that has remained largely unique to this day. His good use of marketing skills helped the Media Lounge become known internationally (albeit under the label 'cult') and obtain credible employment.

While Dave loves to keep the image of the rock and roll filmmaker, either on tour or creating a super hot music video for a super hot band, he does his fair share of uncredited money jobs. His work on many government education videos, corporate promos and even the occasional wedding 'memory' betrays his intended image of underground crusader.

Dave's music video work is very impressive, although the fact that its only been for one band does smack of nepotism. His credits on other promos seem vague and largely concerned with 'executive' or 'advisory' roles. The visual work for music artists has also been very well received, but again a closer look implies a certain reliance on other members of his collective.

As it stands, though, one must look at Dave Holloway's career from an optimistic stance. He is well position as both an independent producer and as a filmmaker for hire. He has worked with many a credited artist and the output is largely very good. He is well connected within the film industry, having worked on many promotional items and the music industry alike.

I do feel that he would be more productive if he wouldn't display so many signs of narcissism and self-satisfaction that threaten to undermine his creative output. He also displays a remarkable ability to procrastinate (i.e. writing a self-involved and slightly creepy assessment of himself instead of doing real work) which could hamper his abilities later in life.

*****

Ambient advertising

2006-07-26T09:25:00.000Z

By ambient advertising, I mean any promo that attempts to disrupt the flow of the average three and a half minute ad break by soothing the viewer into a state of passive reception.

From memory, I think this trend started when Venus in Furs featured in a Dunlop ad from around 15 years ago. In this feature, a car swooped around imagery so far removed from the product it made the message almost completely irrelevant and the audience were left to gasp at the music video stylings of gimps in nail adorned rubber suits, sumo-sized bondage babies and freakish reptilian queens. I remember wearing Dunlop plimsoles at primary school and, though they were pretty effective for sprinting during quick cricket, I couldn't quite see the connection between good quality rubber and all this madness. It looked good on the eye, however and 15 years on I remember the brand association. The most galling thing for me though is that this was the first time I had ever heard Venus in Furs, and the first time I had ever sat up and realised how great the Velvet Undergound were. And it's all down to a fucking advert. Depressing isn't it?

Then, in the 90s, it all went crazy when Warp records were going big and Ninja Tunes were at the top of their game. Mobile phones were becoming accessible to everyone and as Orange started making big money, their ad campaigns began to become increasingly savvy with the student/teen/stoner market. Aphex Twin's 'To Cure a Weakling Child' was an amazing tune. To hear it distorted and remixed (by the man himself - always proud of his sell-out credentials) to be only 60 seconds long in order to fit into a cell phone promo was a little bit upsetting. The same goes for Brian Eno, only recently one of his numbers was used in another Orange ad. Beautiful though the film is, and it is actually bloody lovely, it's still selling phones for a company that overcharged me for 12 months then blacklisted me when I caused a stir about their stupid billing messes. Where will this madness end?

And now, currently, there's an ad you'll have seen bloody everywhere. It's the one for Bravia televisions, with Jose Gonzales covering The Knife's 'Heartbeats'. Gonzales does the track justice - in fact he makes the song entirely his own - changing the squelchy bass and twisting it into a bassy fingerpicking masterpiece. It's wonderful. The imagery accompanying it is of a million powerballs, the ones you used to buy for 20p when you were a youngster, bouncing around the streets of San Francisco in slow motion. It came on in the pub during half time, slap bang in the middle of an England match in my local. The shouting and whooping of the locals in this Hackney shithole dissipated as they slowly stopped the coarse hubbub and became hypnotised as the advert unfolded and remained transfixed as it played out. I remember the face of ruddy-cheeked, 67 year old Francis, an alcoholic with the catchphrase 'you fucking cunt', as he watched, absorbed by the pleasant mesmeric onscreen. When the ad ended (it was the full length version, so over 2 minutes) there was, for a split second, total and utter silence in the pub.
Francis turned to me and said:

'What a load of fucking shite'.

And I felt he had a point.

Three samples of a scene taken from an unknown film.

2006-07-24T16:10:00.000Z

The first sample opens with a medium close up shot of a young lady lying on her back on a bed of pink fluffy cushions. We do not know our heroine’s name, nor indeed do we know what film this scene takes part in. Is it perhaps a simple drama, a tale of intrigue? We are not sure, and perhaps we should ask ourselves if it matters what narrative this intimate scene is bound up in, for its simplicity is remarkable, its meaning is unclear yet it is does not confound the viewer.
Two things are immediately apparent about our mysterious heroine (or perhaps anti-heroine?); firstly that she is clad entirely in pink. We are instantly reminded of the Barbie doll owned by our sisters in childhood, which at once we reviled, detested and yet secretly coveted. The two emotions ultimately would culminate with a humiliating rape by Action Man, left to be found by a horrified sister. Perhaps this is what the director would like us to feel now, looking down upon the Barbie doll made flesh, made indeed, woman. For this is no girl dressed as a child’s plaything, but a fully grown woman ripe in her sexual maturity, further confusing our sense of our own sexual identity; mature adult responding appropriately to our own fleshly desires, or a furtive degenerate, desiring a child’s fantasy?
The second thing which becomes apparent is that she is being penetrated by man’s penis. We do not see his face, are we to identify with him through his penis alone? Perhaps so, for is not the phallus the extension of a man’s psyche itself. In effect, the director wants us to believe that we are the male character in this scene, fulfilling our own childhood fantasies. Neither character speaks, conveying their emotions through low moans, but we do hear her cludge squelch a bit.

The second sample of the same scene is shot so that we can now see both of the characters making love in what appears to be a dance studio. It becomes apparent that the heroine is a ballerina, further emphasizing the juxtaposition with our own childhood fantasies. But whose? One could argue that ballet is almost exclusively a little girl’s fantasy - not a boy’s - and one who has long been conditioned by our phallocentric society to believe that liking ballet was a sign of passive homosexuality. By showing the viewer a grown woman dressed as a Barbie doll ballet dancer the director has sucked us into his own Nabokovian nightmare from which we are powerless to withdraw, not unlike the engorged member noisily penetrating the female lead. We also now see the man’s face. We now no longer see him as ourselves, but a reflection of our own desires, symbolised by his reflection in the mirror. The woman looks away from his reflection and turns her gaze on his real features, moving away from the mirror world of fantasy, and back to the turgid reality that surrounds her.

The third, and last sample shows her straddling her gallant, his face mostly hidden behind her skirt. It is as if our hero is little more than an appendage to his penis, an afterthought to the mis-en-scene and narrative unfolding before us. It is here that we have our only dialogue, or indeed, monologue. “Fuck”. It is barely audible yet profound. For this word encapsulates the entire scene with a witty finality, Swiftian in its simplicity and barbed sincerity. So far our minds have wrestled with the question of the relationship between the characters, have we witnessed a scene of intimate love, perhaps even the first delicious moment of union enjoyed by new lovers. We are now forced to consider that we have witnessed a primal act, committed in the throes of two people’s basest desires. As the scene closes we see the heroine give a shudder of pleasure, herself spent and worn out. Finally the scene freezes, showing a whirlpool of emotions etched on our heroine’s face. Love? Distraction? Regret? Desire? Confusion? Or maybe she’s remembered she left the iron on.

A thought provoking film. I spunked twice.

Stoned (contains spoilers?)

2006-07-24T11:06:00.000Z

Where to begin? It’s actually painful to attempt to recall this because even though I watched all of it, all I can think of when trying to make a fist of describing this film is ‘HATECUNT’. It seems to be the only suitable word and must be in capitals,

Well, I will attempt a synopsis, this may well take a few days to write and I will periodically be required to pass nails between my Meatus and Fenulum. Moreover, it may well end up in my having to section myself; this will of course be of no consequence to you, dear reader.

So, Brian Jones was in the Stones, we all know that, the film starts with his drowning sort of, it was right here at the start that I knew I was in for shit because he drowned in the shape of a fucking cross, with lots of light behind him, lyke he waz jeysus for fukarghhhh..

I’m back. So. The actor playing Brian Jones, who lets face it was a beautiful looking chap (I feel lighter just thinking of the real Brian) looks like Ringo Starr (angry, getting psychotic, deep breathes). Now this may not seem immediately apparent but it hit me so hard mid way through I nearly blew off my colostomy bag.

Right, I cannot convey how hard this is to write and have decided to hit you with aspects of particular annoyance over and above the high-level background dross. Really, this is terribly hard…I mean for a kick off the ‘film’ looks as if it’s been made on the equivalent budget of one episode of Grange Hill and all the male actors, despite being English, sound like Dick van Fucking Dyke. Why, for the love of world peace is this? I refuse to mentally engage with this because I value the face of next person I see, but Mick Jagger is ‘portrayed’ in this film. That’s all I’m saying on the matter. I’m moving right on

Lets have a brief look at some clichés. When Brian is pushed (yes I do mean that, the nasty awful Swedish bitch pushes drugs into poor Brian and makes him all wanked out an unable to do his job so he gets fired by Mick and Keith and some unidentifiable Stone which must be Bill or Charlie or fucKoi[hsgnlkscmbg) (sorry) acid. The lady coos ‘hey Brian, yeah, it’s like, lysergic acid diethylamide’, some cunt, and I don’t know who this was decided that, not only would it be a good idea for someone to point out to the viewer that lysergic acid diethylamide is LSD, so Brian replies ‘LSD’ in a really ‘ooh, how FUCKING CONTROVERSIAL’ way, then have the audacity to immediately cut into (sorry I must quickly break here, please, think how many millions of times you’ve seen someone attempt an LSD scene. There is a fucking library of clichés, you know, out of focus lights, dopey eyes and White Rabbit by Jefferson Starship/Airplane) an LSD scene featuring out of focus lights, dopey eyes and White Rabbit by Jefferson Starship/Airplane. In fairness to the cunt that directed it he used up so many clichés he must have then thought, ‘well fuck me, I’ve used up all the fucking clichés in the world, I know, I’ll do a bondage scene to round it off, how trippy, oooh’ And that quite inexplicably, is what he did???????????

I’m back again. I hope I don’t get an infection ‘downstairs’. So, nudity, there is a lot of nudity because Brian spent most of his time wasted screwing lots of chicks, sometime more than one at a time, and a man maybe. And because of this we see not only lots of breast implants but Brian’s willie as well, and Mick’s briefly. The actor playing Brian has a big old cock (girls) but we don’t see this engine engorged, fully swollen and ready to engage in some cludge, we see it hanging over his leg or dangling about like some awful gut appendage, and I didn’t and don’t want to see it. Lets face it, these days we’re used to seeing a tit and a bit of bush (and I’m not talking about our prime ministers unique relationship with the illusive president of the states, boom boom) but we don’t need to cancel this out with flaccid cocks do we? I mean come on people, I’ll trade you one tit and two nipples for a foreskin and three scrotums, IS THIS WHAT WE’VE BECOME?

Throughout all of this the ‘film’ centres (sorry, must interrupt myself, the direction and cinematography looks as if it came from sick, like actual sick called the shots) on Brian’s dozy builder, who, according to the end credits fessed up on his deathbed to drowning Jones in his swimming pool. Once again, for sake of my health and those that I may encounter as my day cheerfully passes, I will not indulge in mental discourse on this matter.

Finally, wigs, there are wigs in this. And man made to look old in an appalling 'sentimental' dream sequence with the worst make-up I've seen since Bowie in The Hunger, worse than that even. And wigs

0/10

24 Series 4

2006-07-21T16:48:00.000Z

WARNING
There may be spoilers ahead...
For while there's plot twists and music...
And love and dead characters...
Let's watch the series, and gasp...!

Prior to moving house and being stripped of any internet access for a few weeks, I embarked on a furious hoarding of entertainment in order to keep me distracted from the pressing matters of real life. As well as acuminating the first two series of the remake of Battlestar Galactica, the second Paradise Lost movie and as about as much Deadwood as one man can handle, I also got my grubby little mitts on the 4th series of serial violence advocater 24.

Lets get something straight, right off the bat. Jack Bauer, as angrily portrayed by Keifer Sutherland, is a sadist. A violent murderer, operating soley within his twisted moral guidelines and using his position as a government agent to justify this machochistical behaviour. His willingness to take the hardest route, the most violent method and the thorniest of legal proceedings would be admirable, were it not for the fact that he manages to kill an unprecedented number of people in the process.

As the series begins Jack is busy explaining to his new girlfriend, the daughter of the Secretary of State, that he no longer wants to be involved with the violent life that being a CTU agent brings. 3o minutes later and he is forcing his way into an interrogation room and shooting a prime suspect. This man thrives on excessive behaviour, and when he gets into a position of power he abuses it.

He does, though, have quite a day cut out for him; presidential attacks, nuclear meltdowns, defense cabinet kidnappings, suicide bombings and a staggering amount of torture. This is a neo-conservatives wet dream, and Jack Bauer is the poster child for American justice. The audacity of the shows creators is to be commended, this may well be pulp entertainment but it is done so well that you willfully and gleefully accept this catalogue of disasters.

It is, though, a drastic step down from the previous 3 series. The quality of the writing is at times dreadfull, and there are shocking gaps in logic and plotholes that even suspension of disbelief cannot cover. William Devane, a terrific character actor, vanishes half way through with only a cursory line of explanation, a 16 year old boy gets turned over to the terrorists and is then forgotten and, most amazingly, a hitman who steals a stealth bomber and shoots down Airforce One is NEVER MENTIONED AGAIN.

Despite these complaints, and they are noticeable because of 24's usual high quality, the show is still one of the best examples of popular dramatic adult entertainment. It is not afraid to blur the lines of good and evil, and has no problem with pointing long term blame at Western civilisations. The terrorists may be free of real-world motivations (their eloquent speeches talk of 'oppressors' and 'our God' but never go into details) but the root causes are explored, and the behaviour of the Americans is often as deplorable as the terrorists.

Keifer Sutherland may be the headline star but the series belongs to the supporting cast. Jack Bauer is now a caricature with almost-catchphrase dialogue, but the characters of Chloe, Edgar and particulary Nixon-esque Gregory Itzin make for compelling viewing and provide great subplots. 24s casting has always been spot-on, most noticeably in their revival of forgotten staright-to-video stars. Series 2 was a triumph when Lou Diamond Phillips cropped up, and in series 4 we get villain of The Mummy Arnold Vosloo who provides a credible nemesis.

After losing his wife, being hooked on heroin, dying, being tortured, setting off a nuclear weapon, holding up a gas station, shooting Dennis Hopper, saving the President and, according to the Guardian, killing 122 people (I swear it's more) it was entirely fitting that Jack Bauer end up dead at the end of the series. But of course he's not dead... no, he's just avoiding a Chinese prison sentence and he will be back to fight another day.

24 is great. It just is. Don't think about it too much and you'll be fine.

May to December

2006-07-21T12:12:00.000Z

A few days ago I came down with a streaming summer cold, the sort that turns your head into a pressure cooker of mucus and tears. I begged off work an hour early before snot started shooting out of my eyes like fucked up firehoses, and went home to do the only thing possible when you can't breathe or eat or drink, which is of course channel-hop.

Although I live in the very centre of a large city, it is impossible to get terrestrial telly through an aerial (the city is in the north, so only to be expected); this means that everyone has a Sky dish strapped to their roofs. When I first moved into my house I railed against this. "I don't want a Sky dish! What need have I for 400 channels of utter rubbish to flow from my telly into my eyes?". Very soon the answer was obvious - lots of need. If someone tried to take away my Sky dish now I would have to forcibly kill them to death in no uncertain terms.

So I was flicking through, watching a couple of minutes of Britain's Next Top Model here, 30 seconds of Friends there (as an aside, an ex-boyfriend was bemoaning the fact that Friends had finished - "Why?" I asked, "you HATE Friends more than anything". "Yes, but I'm still going to be forced to watch it on repeat, and now there's not even the slight chance there will be a new episode. I want to die"), a whole episode of Pimp My Ride (the UK version with Tim Westwood, it's very credible. Bishop's son, dontcha know), when I came across May to December. Now that's not a sit-com I'd seen or even given a passing thought to since about 1992, or whenever it was made.

I watched the whole thing. During the course of the episode I drank two Lemsips (any Lemsip afficionado knows that you are only meant to take one every four hours). This did something a bit weird to me, and I found myself gripped and quite affected by it's late 80s charm.

This particular episode revolved around the May woman's (Zoe) sister who had to choose between two different men who had come a-courting, and December's (really can't remember his character's name - Alex? Alec? I think he died in real life a few years ago. Scottish) son (Jamie, the upstart young solicitor who had joined his father's firm) who had decided to bring the office into the glorious world of technology by buying a couple of BBC Micros or similar and insisting that the two secretaries use them. The older secretary had a real problem adapting to the new computer and got quite upset (as did I in my over-paracetomoled brain, thinking about all the older people who had been sidelined by technology after fighting in wars etc etc). In the end it turned out that he'd been ripped off and the December-man got rid of them all and gave them their typewriters back. That's one in the eye for so-called 'progress' I thought, HAHA! The sister of May decided not to go with either bloke, uttering the line "I've decided I'm going to stay with myself!" which made me go "YEAH" (in my head) before passing out for the next three hours.

Feel a bit better today. I don't think I'll be watching it again.

Editors - Munich

2006-07-21T11:08:00.000Z

Editors. I first heard them on T4. Vernon Kaye shouted from the autocue disturbing my raging hangover. He said that the band about to play live (actually miming without any visible amplification) were 'heirs to the throne of the mighty Joy Division'. Now, if Vernon Kaye genuinely likes Joy Division we are all screwed. It's far more likely he wears their T shirts to promote his own indie credentials, no better than Peaches Geldof and her Strokes 'look'.

Joy Division are a band I never truly loved, ditto New Order. But I always respected Ian Curtis. It'd be difficult not too considering he topped himself so young, proving that his ink-black lyrics were true to his feelings. He left a stunning legacy even in the only two songs I know well. The ones everyone knows well, in fact - Love Will Tear us Apart and the one that goes 'Dance, dance, dance to the radio'. If you've seen the live footage of that you'll see Ian jigging about like his life depends on it. You can't fake dancing that silly-looking and passionate.

This is why it pisses me off, enormously, that the horrible weasels who call themselves 'Editors' are trying to fill that market-gap left by Curtis' death and New Order's apparent shutdown. They've spotted a hole in consumer requirements and they've stepped in with half-written songs to exploit it till its udder snaps.

The name, 'Editors', is admittedly pretty accurate. They've taken the Joy Division sound and edited it of all soul and meaning. Thunderous bass? 'Check'. Repetitive drum pattern? 'Check'. Meaningful, revealing lyrics? 'Nah, we'll just edit them out as we haven't an ounce of talent to repeat that trick - we can wear black shirts if that helps? Our stylists got a load from Top Man...'.

'Munich' is the name of the song that I heard that day. 'Munich, eh?' I thought. Naming a song after a place is a neat trick if you can pull it off. Sly references to architecture, historical events, epoch-defining moments. Then the voice chimed in. Tom Smith's vocals are clearly intended to emulate Ian Curtis. He sings well below his register and copuies nuances he could never actually have been born with, so forced are they that you worry his trachea might implode. It sounded horribly rapey, like a great band were being pissed on right in front of me, right in front of the entire country and we were powerless to prevent it.

And the lyrics. Christ - the lyrics. Obviously, they don't relate in anyway to Munich itself, rather, they sound like a man intent on being mean to his weak-willed girlfriend.I'll try and demonstrate.

'It breaks when you force it'.

What does. Your winky? Your will? Be specific man, otherwise we'll just assume you're being vague to try and perpetuate the idea that your band are mysterious when in fact you just have no idea what to write about having had no life experience of any interest to anyone.

'People are fragile things you should know by now'

Ok Tom, fair enough, bit patronising though isn't it? Yes, I do realise that humans are fragile. Who is this addressed to? Has your missus been nasty to you? Are you a bit sensitive?

'You'll speak when you're spoken to'

Now. This is the one that curdles my blood and makes me spit piss. Who is this Tom character to talk to me like this?
The cheeky sod.
I'll tell you who he is. He's the lead singer of a woeful band whose last single, marketed like it was aiming for the dizzy heights of the top ten, actually charted at number #54, and he can fuck off.

Poo

2006-07-20T11:39:00.000Z

I've been out and about lately, so I thought instead of reviewing last night's Big Brother or another showing of 'Three Men and a Little Lady', I would review something a little more basic, for this morning I had quite a remarkable poo.

I think I need poo (ah ha - of course, I mean: 'to') put the matter into some sort of context. In my opinion, people take pooing for granted. It’s the usual, ‘oh, I need to cack’ and in they go, pants down, a small ‘nngggh’ and it's plop/splash, wipe, check paper, wipe, check paper etc., pants up, NOW WASH YOUR HANDS YOU CUNT and out. Not me, no, never.

I like to feel the tempting wriggle that occurs in that mysterious part of one's tummy, that little twinge that informs one that, in fact, you no longer have any internal organs, merely a slippery baby trog playfully squeezing the entrance to the chute to freedom.

I like to enjoy the tantalising whinge of the impending birth, allow it to steam in its own fetid sauce prior to WALKING to the toilet (this journey is made even more delicious when one has the aura of weekend about them) and on entering the WC, I pause to select my entertainment. It’s a simple choice: Radio 4, default to Viz if the former is The fucking Archers, Bells on Sunday or anything with Jenny Murray in it…

Then one sits down and without so much as a knowing contraction, awaits the delivery of what will hopefully be a smooth, albeit large, evacuation. This moment is critical. One has to allow the trog to engage itself, it needs to find its own way down the slippery pipes of my insides, damn it all, it needs to, like, find its own way, yeah?

After a delicious while I feel my freckle open a smidge and then we’re off, in one orgasmic motion the turd slides from my body, caressing my walls as it laughs towards the porcelain and the clear water contained within, but what’s this, there is another, and another! I laugh with joy as they are freed into my world, laugh, laugh…!

Then it’s over, ahhh, the feeling of relief, the gasses that re-convene inside feel soft and calm. I can relax; I let the wave of pleasure wash over me before turning to the task of wiping the excretion-lubrication from my quivering nipsy. I pray for an angel poo…But alas, as so often I am usually disappointed, ‘nevermind’ I mutter to myself. Nevermind indeed.

But this morning was different, for I was having a stand up argument stark bollock naked with my missus about a comment I had made to a nerd on the Tube on the previous night. Ready for a day’s work she was preened, polished and looking damn fine (and bloody angry) when, all of a sudden, a large though not entirely unpleasant, weight dropped down heavily onto the pre-plopdoor. ‘Blast’ I thought, ‘Damn, blast and shit, what the hell do I do?’
I didn’t have time to ponder; I needed her out so I could fling out the gut-mud before it flung itself without a formal invitation.

‘I’m sorry! I love you more than life itself!’ I declared, my eyes shining from what may have been perceived as amorous sincerity but was in actuality the strain of retaining the remnants of two pounds of last night's disappointing minted lamb burger, cheap house red and a couple of pints of Carlsberg leaning heavily over my button. ‘I’m sorry for everything, I was wrong beyond reason, I love you and will always love you, know this my precious, go, go in that knowledge, let the warmth of my words wrap themselves around you and carry you through this time until, at last, our lips shall once again be as one!’ I said. Within I was wrestling with myself, I had already nearly farted faeces on the second ‘go’ and I was started to get proper worried.

She kissed my face, unfortunately the words had had an effect and she started to really kiss my mouth, I started to wriggle, using my posture to bullwhip the cow pat back away from the exit, it was getting frighteningly close to seeing a chink of sunlight.

‘I gotta go, love you too…’ She said breathlessly. Music to my ears, despite the temptation to push her down the stairs to speed her leaving I smiled gently, my teeth gritted in the erotic pain of my gurgling nemesis. She waved slowly, so fucking slowly, and floated delicately down the stairs as fast as a photograph, waving, smiling and after an ice age arrived at the bottom. Gurning all the while, I waved in return, short staccato movement with such ferociously high speed I could hear the whoosh of my arm as it cut through the air, my arse cheeks clamped so tight I could feel a lump on the back of my neck. She opened the door and following a final flurry of waves and air kisses, the bitch was gone.

Without a quark of a second I was reversing onto the throne, as soon as my botty cheeks parted the maelstrom of detritus was already half out, my eyes rolled in my sockets and I swear to Jesus fucking Christ my tongue came out as wave upon wave of fermented offal boiled out of me, exploding over the sides of the bog and shattering shards of effulgent into the swamp of water. It was like the best ejaculation I’d ever had, a fucking REVELATION of joy, like nothing else before and after. Surely, if there was a heaven casting away volumes of fermented supper this was it, no question.

I must rest now, I’ve tired myself. Even as I type this my insides are singing like the sirens of mythology, I leave you with one final outcome of this morning, it is a ratio, simple in form, divine in reason and the ultimate expression of my feelings towards this remarkable, nay, religious, poo.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you 10/10

The Shield (pilot)

2006-07-19T21:50:00.000Z

For my first post on "mothers" I thought I'd try to be original, perhaps review the inside of my eyelids or the entire internet or something, but instead, the very best of the banal usurped my pretentious leanings and twatted me with inspiration.

I know a bloke called Martin (he is the writer and producer of a popular TV series) and a recent conversation with him went something like this:

Me:...ha ha, that's priceless, Martin, I had no idea you could even DO that with an otter. But tell me, what I really want to know is, as a man in your line of work, what do you think is the best, the most addictive TV series of our times?
Martin (smile fading from his face, eyes narrowing into slits and gripping my arm forcibly): The Shield is fucking fucked.
Me: ?
Martin: Go out and rent the pilot, and tell me it isn't the fuck.

So I rented the pilot of The Shield, and I have no idea if it has been out in England for ages, or if it never will be, but if you haven't seen it, and you have any patience for televsion whatsoever, please rent it.

Most cop TV shows revolve around a few themes, such as the true question of "justice" in a world full of stultifying, depressing ironies (NYPD Blue), the futility of subjective historical transcendence (CSI), and crime can be very, very dull (The Bill). If The Shield had a central theme, which I'm not sure it does, but if it did, that theme would be something like "face-rape".

Usually, cop shows muse over the internal tensions of those upholding the law, and corruption, neurosis and pathology bleed in and out of each character subtly in neat, morally holistic circles. In The Shield, there are two types of cop: "bastard" and "utterly depressed" ("ethical" gets killed in the first show).

In this show crack gets smoked in officers' quarters, every cop has a personal relationship with a criminal, the police openly solicit the apprehended for homosexual encounters, and the grieving relatives of the recently murdered are subjected to merciless sexual innuendo. I haven't felt this aroused since the first season of "Oz". It never pretends to be smart, it doesn't pander to conservative ideologies, and David Caruso isn't in it. It is the crack-rush. It is Natural Born Killers with uniform-eroticism. It is a thousand gleeful stereotypes. It is great.

(The first half of) Thank You For Smoking

2006-07-19T19:05:00.000Z

Working as I do in an independent cinema, I get to watch most of the movies on general release at some point or another. Usually I watch these movies whilst at work as, frankly, there is bugger all else to do.

I just watched the first 45 minutes of 'Thank You For Smoking' with the intention of seeing the second half at a later screening. This is what I think so far...

It's a pretty funny movie. The script is full of sharp dialogue, although it seems so far to be a little low on actual plot. I left just after the first appearance of Rob Lowe's slimy Hollywood agent and that was one of the funniest exchanges of dialogue I have seen in a long time. It does have to said, though, that I am a disturbingly large Rob Lowe fan and anything involving him will usually get a thumbs up.

The film does seem to be quite low of morality, which I always admire, as it has yet to condemn smoking - so far it seems happy to simply parody those who think smoking isn't harmful, whilst at the same time explaining through caricature how big tobacco businesses function.

J K Simmons plays essentially the same role as he does in Spiderman, the hard-nosed and fast-talking boss and has had the best line thus far: "We sell cigarettes; they're cool, available and addictive. Our work is basically done for us."

I'm looking forward to seeing what happens next.

Crimelibrary.com

2006-07-19T16:18:00.000Z

Killing time with killers.

It's morbid, I realise that. The thing is, though the b3ta links board is good for games and videos, if you're working at a desk as exposed as mine, it doesn't go down too well to be sitting gawping at a video of a hippo fighting a tiger or clicking the left mouse button like there's no tomorrow. An entire finance militia and half the marketing squadron can see my monitor in the open plan office and I have to avoid the risk of being seen. I won't get dobbed on but I'll definitely have people saying 'WOW, what're you playing?? Send me the link, yeah?', and then you're screwed. The cover is blown.
For this reason I have recently become addicted to crimelibrary.com. It started as sideline. One day I was asked by a friend on another floor whether John Wayne Gacy received the death penalty. I thought I'd send him a bit of detail on the killer clown's demise. I cut and pasted details on his final moments, realising that I'd never heard before that his final words were 'You can kiss my ass', spoken to a prison guard before they botched his lethal injection. The solution solidified meaning it took JWG half an hour to die, in agony. It's those kind of details that make the website so compelling. The devil is in the details, and crimelibrary is well-researched. So I went from Gacy to Kroll, to Rifkin, to Juarez. Obviously it gets a bit much, but in half hour bursts it's fascinating stuff. And as it's a website you're spared the sound of a voice-over attempting to modestly sensationalise the atrocities.
Having said that, the writing isn't going to win any awards. Take this tasteful little piece from the Juarez report:

The last thing they expected to discover was a human body.

wait for it...

Much less three.

But I forgive these things because there is a decent amount of respect for the dead and the subject is fascinating, specifically towards the end of each section where the details of prosecution and defence are listed and the psychological assessments are outlined.

Maybe I'm just sick. Or maybe I'm just trying to convince myself I'm not as sick as that lot.

The song stuck in my head

2006-07-19T10:59:00.000Z

It’s in line to be the hottest day of the year, perhaps the hottest day ever, and I’m in an office. There’s a thermometer near my desk, and at the time of writing it’s at 25 degrees. But it’s still the early morning, and the sun has barely stuck it’s neck over the hills. By mid afternoon, the temperature will have staggered to illegal degrees and my throat will have melted into my chest. The only thing getting me through these boiling days is the fan above my head – they’ve attached a standard table top fan to the wall about 8 or nine feet up, so it’s sticking out at a right angle. It rotates its soothing head back and forth and spreads it’s cool waves around the place like a benign sentinel, keeping watch over it’s diligent flock.

What is the soundtrack to this day, a day when it will surely get so hot that cars and buildings will spontaneously explode? Aside from work related chatter and the rattle of computer keyboards, it’s the contents of my mind, and whatever song is lodged there. And it’s ‘Nothing Else Matters’ by Metallica. Yes, the unutterably overwrought ballad from the enormously successful, self titled, bloated and wearisome Bob Rock assisted mega-bucket 1991 album. It’s all the fault of Planet Rock, the digital music station seemingly owned by Alice Cooper. It’s the station of choice for cooking. But it was weeks ago I heard this last. Seemingly, its residue has been lying in wait in a scarcely visited corner of my head, ready for ambush, biding its time. With only gently plucked nylon strings as a brief warning, it pounces from behind a bush, quickly undoing it’s filthy raincoat to reveal the true intentions. And let me tell you, it’s engorged. In fact, it’s the very definition of turgid.

‘So close, no matter how far/couln’t be much more from the heart/forever trust in who we are/and nothing else matters’

The lyrics, sappy and infantile, unfurl like a greetings card, once heard forever lodged in the memory, concealed like a pea under the cooker, waiting to reveal themselves at inopportune moments.

'Never opened myself this way/life is ours - we live it our way/All these words I don't just say/And nothing else matters.'

On the lyrics go, only enlightened by the occasional ‘Yey-ah’ from James Hetfield in his custom growl, as if to remind us that despite this open display of ninny rock, they’re still the same band that brought us ‘Kill ‘em all’.
‘Couldn’t be much more from the heart’, he says, and he couldn’t be more wrong. There’s nothing ‘from the heart’ about this laborious concession to daytime radio. It’s all sub ‘Stairway to Heaven’ finger picking giving way to wide-horizon rock guitar and orchestra. It’s vile. With its cosy strings and by-numbers chord progression it offers a bogus hand of comfort. I imagine someone like Brian May hearing this for the first time, running a tense hand through his hair and murmuring a dejected ‘they’ve really raised the bar on this one.’

I can’t remember the video to this song, but I’m guessing it’s a black and white montage of the band in some abstract monochrome room with no walls or ceiling, playing their Fucking Instruments. If only it had been a video diary of the men from Metallica going on a camping weekend in the New Forest, then all might have been saved. Or perhaps dressed as Vikings commandeering a longboat in a storm - that I may forgive. And I don’t know, that it could well be, but I’m willing to put money on it not being.

The worst thing about all this is that there is so much great music in my collection that I actually like and play, some fine examples of which were in my ears this morning on the walk to work. So why couldn’t some of that have nestled in my brain? Why not Devendra Banhart’s dozy folk? Or the lo-fi anthems of Sunset Rubdown? Or the bizarre solemnity of Champion Kickboxer? They all jostle for airtime on my fashionable sound gadget. But no. Instead, I am lumbered with this useless, twittering berkery; the very noise of betrayal. A dead swan dangling from a pylon. Hope collapsing and subsiding like clay hills into a black and boiling sea.

In summary then; a dismal, bruised banana of a song, and a new form of excruciating mental torture. I give it an emphatic and desperate 0/10, and volunteer myself for a lobotomy.

A blog found entirely by chance.

2006-07-17T08:25:00.000Z

On Friday morning I was innocently jumping from blog-link to blog-link, peeking at the minutiae of complete strangers' lives. It's odd how this crazy, super-information, internetular, weblike highway allows us to do this and how people allow us to read their goings-on in the first place. Still, it kills dead time at work so I'm all for it. I can't keep a blog going myself. I've never kept a diary either. I don't think it's vanity to journalise your entire life, I err more to the belief that my life isn't really that interesting, so why try to attract others to read about my humdrum existence? Yesterday I ate some grapes and played Manhunt. If you want to know more, you must be terminally bored.

During this jumping from blog to blog, whilst on some butch American lesbian's diary I saw a link named: 'Some awful little paedophile'. I clicked away and found the blog of some young lady named Corin. It's right here.

Have a look around. She's a foul-mouthed monster of a girl with a camera and a hilariously caustic attitude. She has the darkest sense of humour I think I have ever seen online. I salute her. Worth a look, as is her Flickr page.

Bad Lads Army.

2006-07-15T18:23:00.000Z

I only have two issues with this program, so I'll be done with them and they'll be out of the way. Firstly, the 'bad lads' should be punched and kicked by the instructors.
Secondly, the title should not be 'Bad Lads Army Xtreme' but simply 'Schadenfreude'.
I was an enthusiastic watcher of Bad Lads Army One and Two and the third series (after one episode) shows promise. The premise of this one is 1950's parachute training. Not that it makes much of a difference really I suppose.
For the uninitiated the idea of the program is quite simple, and is thus:

Take a group of about 30 self confessed 'bad lads' (car thieves, shoplifters, hooligans, wasters etc) in their late teens, early 20s and put them through four weeks of basic training based on 1950s conscription. You know, the sort of thing great uncle Billy bangs on about when he thinks every generation that came before or after his had it fucking easy.

Already the cracks are appearing in the 'platoon'. The geordie hardcase (caught after robbing an off license and doing his fucking hair in a mirror next to a security camera, the fucking prick) broke on day one and has been kicked out. The Asian gangsta wannabe (done for going at someone outside a nightclub with a hammer) cried like a fanny and clung to a corporal's neck when someone showed him a python. (as in the snake, not a cock) Personally I'm rooting for the fat welsh fucker, shaped like a human white-malteser with a cheeky taffy smile and more blubber than pasty eating walrus.

Particularly good are the instuctors, all ex army and playing the roles of corporals, sergeants, provosts etc. The provost sergeant is genuinly scary, a frightening Londoner who would probably make the Krays shit their pants. The platoon sergeant is the one to watch though. He uses all the cliches in the book, and has a quiet, smouldering sexual threat about him. I suspect that deep down he wishes it were legal to discipline recruits with seven torrid inches of cock. In fact I suspect he'd approach gay love in precisely the same way he'd approach bayonet drill: lots of screaming, brutal and prolonged stabbing and rather a lot of blood.

I await episode two with twitchin' tip...watch it if you want to see a bunch of good for nothing, lazy, feckless, violent, thieving arseholes get treated with the disdain they so richly deserve. Don't feel sorry for them, they're the sort of young men who make you think that the Mail might have a good point.

A History of Violence

2006-07-14T11:13:00.000Z

*beware - it’s utter crap*

I saw the History of Violence last night. Oh how they all raved about and being (largely) a Cronenberg fan I thought it would be a good rental.

There are some very nice shots, the direction is okay too, but the film is utter toss. It’s like a mini series in one shitting, I mean sitting. The plot is so vacuous I could hear my IQ discussing Iceland best buys. It centres around a mild mannered chap who, it turns out, was once a hit man/gangster type. Though said chap isn’t consciously aware of his past. Oooh (not).

We meet this buffoon as an overtly mild mannered family man (this is rammed so far down our throats I can still see it dangling out of my freckle) who runs a cheery backwater diner, you know the sort, everyone on first name turns, local tittle tattle, the obsession with fresh fucking coffee etc., when two chaps attempt to fondle some bird in his gaff, something triggers in our hero’s brain and suddenly he turns into a precision fighting machine. Basically, he’s a dead shit super hero without capes or quips and oddly, a quark as believable.

And that’s the basic plot, he wipes out the baddies that have returned from his past, (hence the ‘history of violence’ in one respect) and there is a subplot with his son, who is seems has a similar talent (hence the ‘history of violence’ in the other, clever ain’t it? No it’s not). You should see the ‘jocks’ he has a ding dong with, they look like something out of Grease. There is also his wife who adds nothing to the film outside of some MILF erotica which is the only possible excuse one has for watching this cack.

On a final note, why is these days that just about every single fucking film on release is the best film ever with a load of quotes plastered all over the case (nearly always one from ‘Total Film’ which must be as incisive as the bloke in my local Co-op, with battery operated indicators on his bicycle and a penchant for ‘Singing Eye of the Tiger’ at the bog rolls he’s just stacked on the shelf) with so much hyperbole you are automatically convinced that if you DON’T watch this film you will flung into the black hole of social isolation shortly before being quietly removed from the gene pool by a nefarious wing of the British secret service.

So to summarise, I wasn’t too keen on it.

An old C90 I found in a bag

2006-07-13T19:30:00.000Z

No box or inlay for this one, so it's a blind journey into nostalgia. Written on label of side one is: 'the sound of birds'. On side 2 - 'and assorted generators.' Clumsy poetic whimsy dates tape at around late '94, early '95. Lower 6th form.

Side One

1 - Blur - 'Intermission'. Foolish, throwaway stopgap from 2nd Blur album. Not auspicious begining. Everyone knows that compilations must begin with an anthem.
2 - Manic Street Preachers - 'Motown Junk'. This is more like it. Although, in truth, a bit too stressful for my ears this evening. Who writes lyrics like this these days? Not the MSP. Poor guitar solo.
3 - Wonder Stuff - 'Me, my mum my dad and my brother'. The Wonder Stuff were capable of moments of true beauty and I will thump anyone that says any different. This is one of them. They should not have reformed.
4 - Pulp - 'Babies'. About 30 seconds into song, tape suddenly chews itself up and plays brief snippet of something in reverse before rejoining Pulp just in time for 'Well, it happened years ago....' They should reform.
5 - Gene - 'I can't help myself'. Ridiculous Smith's tribute act in rare momentary goodness.
6 - Madder Rose - 'Beautiful John'. Yes! One of the great lost albums of the 90s is Madder Rose's 'Bring It On Down'. Good guitar solo.
7 - Beatles - 'Penny Lane'. Twee nonsense. Good though. Cheeky use of brass. Involuntarily give it thumbs up.
8 - Portishead - 'Glory Box'. Although I loved 'Dummy', I don't recall being overly fond of this song. Suggests this tape was originally intended for someone else? Or did I briefly have a trans-gender crisis? I'll never tell.
9 - Boo Radleys - 'Lazy Day'. The song that started it all, though what it is doing here at this period in time is anyone's guess. Once again suggests tape was intended for another. Mind you, a more perfect 90 seconds of music you couldn't wish to find and it should have a home on anybody's tape.
10 -Orange - 'Judy over the Rainbow'. I reckon this is a genuine lost classic. Possibly the best example of that sort of mid-90s psych-rock nonsense I can think of, and I mean that as a compliment. Ace whistling solo.
11 - Supergrass - 'Caught by the fuzz'. Appears to be an acoustic version. I still like this song, though if had realised at the time this would eventually spawn Menswear, I might have thought twice. Probably not though.
12 - Pavement - 'Box Elder'. "I've got a lot of things to do, a lot of places to go, I've got a lot of good things coming my way, and I'm afraid to say that you're not one of them." Take that Mrs Hillier. You think I'm interested in double geography? Well, listen up and think again old timer.
13 -Wonder Stuff - 'Closer to Fine'. I used to really, really like the Wonder Stuff. See No. 3
14 - Oasis - 'Whatever'. Christ, I'd forgotten this song existed. It's difficult to be cynical, to be honest. Despite the fact it's at least three other people's songs, it still sounds fairly lovely to my bent and useless ears. Reminds me of Christmas. Cuts off just before end.

Half time analysis: preponderance of 'white boys with guitars' a worry. See no reason for this to change on second side. Everyone knows that side 2 is harder than side 1 as you tend to use up your best tunes first. Fully expect entire thing to fall to pieces in an ignoble shower of wacky forgettable b-sides as resources dry up.

Side 2

1 - Lemonheads - 'Rest Assured'. As if to prove pre-emptive worry about b side quality, this is a slightly old song even at that point in time. Good chorus but hardly a classic. A momentary lapse?
2 - Sebadoh - 'Magnet's Coil'. It's been said before, but no-one does angst like Lou Barlow. Back on course by track 2.
3- Jesus and Mary Chain - 'Upisde Down'. Although a very old song, I'm certain at that at that time I was just discovering JAMC. Better than almost everything ever. Beginning of side 2 slightly noisy and aggressive. Strongly suggests that by this point I was compiling for me.
4 -Oasis - 'D'yer wanna be a spaceman?' Running out of ideas, then. There really isn't a need to repeat bands on a compilation tape, except in exceptional circumstances. Still, where do you go after 'Upside Down'? Oasis should have done more acoustic stuff.
5 -Stone Roses - 'Love Spreads'. This is just bollocks, unfortunately. First instance of genuinely duff music on tape to this point. Still, 19 songs isn't bad. Employ fast forward. Had forgotten how long walkman takes to fast forward. Stone Roses interminable.
6 - Boo Radleys - 'Song For the Morning to Sing'. Two songs from same album. Definitely running out of inspiration. Strongly suggests that tape compiled on a school night and time was short.
7 - Blur - 'Parklife'. There's really no need for this at all. I could have saved side 2 for another night and made a decent fist of it. Curse my impatience.
8 - Dodgy - 'What Have I Done Wrong?' Actually, quite pleasing acoustic melancholy. Very short.
9 - Nirvana -'Dumb'. Yes, very good, but what is it doing here? Side 2 short on surprises. Running out of patience with the whole thing.
10 -R.E.M. - 'I don't sleep I dream'. I refuse to believe I ever liked this song.
11 - Manic Street Preachers - 'Faster'. That this can sit not 5 songs apart from 'Parklife' literally makes no sense to me. Still, teenagers eh?
12 - Pixies - 'Planet of Sound'. Reliance on tried and tested classics strongly suggests heart is well and truly not in it anymore. End of tape must be imminent.
13 - Beatles - 'Wild Honey Pie'. Well, at least it's a bit odd. Song once covered by the Pixies. Was I making a clever link?
14 - Suede - 'Still Life'. Despite being so overblown it can induce giggles, it's still a pretty good tune to watch sunsets and stuff too. Seems I was going for the big finish. Looks like it might have been a bit early. Features 5 seconds of 'Babies' backwards.
15 - Sammy - 'Babe Come Down'. Sod sequencing, this song is still great. Makes 'Still Life' sound like 'Barcelona' in comparison. Crackle and rumble confirms song recorded from vinyl. Unedited, the sound of the needle automatically lifting of the record is recorded also. And that's how it ends.

Summation: In the main, compilation was clearly still a dark art to my younger self, as this document displays no knowledge of the finer points of sequencing or selection. In fact, these 90 minutes betray a wilful lack of interest in the whole affair and no understanding of the key importance of preparation. Overall, I give it a resigned 5/10.

Awesome! I Fuckin Shot That

2006-07-13T15:45:00.000Z

For those of you who don’t know, the Beastie Boys have a new concert movie currently on general release called ‘Awesome! I Fuckin Shot That.’ They gave cameras to 50 fans at a sold-out Madison Gardens gig in 2004 and told them to just keep shooting… no matter what, keep shooting.

The result is, in my humble opinion, the best concert movie ever made. It’s scrappy, messy, hard-to-watch and exactly like going to a real gig. You get all the experiences of a live show rolled into one, from a wide array of perspectives and through the eyes of fans and detractors alike. You are backstage with the band as they prepare and you are outfront in the mosh-pit. You are hanging with security, buying a beer, having a piss, singing along and dancing like crazy…

The footage is almost unbearably beautiful - pixelated and abstract, grainy and hectic, shaky and striking. At times they splash effects all over the footage which, whilst technically breaking up the editing narrative, just further adds to the Beastie Boys stamp of approval. It’s silly, and garish, and unneccessary and, again, exactly like being at a Beastie Boys gig.

See it. It’s fucking awesome.

This review also appears on the Media Lounge blog.

FEED

2006-07-13T12:58:00.000Z

*beware, for there are spoilers*

As a fan of plot-free, beyond-stupid horror films, I'd been geared up for this one for ages. When a friend lent it to me she said she hadn't watched it herself as the cover had made her feel physically sick. I looked it over. A blurred woman, skin stretched to morbid obesity and in front of her a tattooed man, clearly having a Tommy Tank.
'Excellent', I thought.

I'd seen a documentary on the subject around three or four years ago called Fat Girls and Their Feeders, a truly shocking piece that was harrowing and, weirdly, moving. On a basic level, the fetish is chubby-chasing taken to the ultimate extreme. Nerdy men exploit larger women with low self esteem making them their projects - feeding them up, taking careful note of their weight increases over time, cholesterol levels - basically stat-collecting while their human guinea-pigs balloon. Brett Leonard, our Director here, also clearly watched this documentary as all the components are in place - enormous scales for the bulbous birds, websites devoted to their deteriorating health - the whole works.

The main problem with the movie, aside from the many and varied smaller inconsistencies, is that, where the doc was a slow-moving and thoughtful piece, allowing us to get some insight into why both parties took part in this exploitation of the ever-expanding female form, the film sets out to shock from the off. Within five minutes we establish exactly what territory we're in when we're introduced to our hero (a cop, obviously) breaking into the flat of a German cannibal - ooooh! topical! - and finding a cock sizzling in a bath of hot lard on a stove. Slow-moving and thoughtful go out of the window at this point.

A very poor effort at explaining the psyche of the killer is made which really doesn't make up for the degree of his obsession, and a parallel with the cop's own sex life is made so clumsily that I fell off my chair. Our protagonist likes his ladies rough, used and abused. So who's worse? Who's crossing boundaries? Who cares?
When we are shown a split-screen sex scene wherein the baddie (it really does come down to goodies and baddies) is thrapping away as his humungous missus scoffs some pies and our policeman is roughly taking his 'slut' from behind, any comparison is made for us, we aren't even credited with the intelligence to work out for ourselves that in sub/dom relationships it's never obvious who fills which roll. Or 'role', rather.

But, and I'll be honest, I was too knackered and bored to get to the end. It was late and I'd just entertained a scene in which killer and pursuer come face to face. Pursuer has a hangover. Killer offers a pre-prepared breakfast. Pursuer accepts. The lady and I, watching through half-closed eyes shouted
'Don't! It's drugged!'
It was drugged.
We switched off.

I'll finish up and watch the end later tonight, but - from what I've seen - I wouldn't recommend even looking at this one's cover.