We are back for Week 2 of the X Factor and, after last weeks marathon edition that seemed to last so long we had to ditch the concept of time altogether and consider it a feat of collective national endurance like the blitz, we've said goodbye to FYD and Nicolo. Who? I hear you ask, bah typical, I bet you don't remember Gamu either. Me neither actually, and probably neither do any of the 250,000 people who now regret joining her facebook group. Dermot introduces the show and is now so bland and devoid of personality that it is officially frightening. Seriously, he might as well present the show via fax, at least then we'd get a chuckle as he misspells Katie's last name weasel instead of Waissel. This weeks theme is usefully vague “heroes” Which, rather than making the contestants dress up as cheerleaders and exuberant Asian time-stoppers, means they can choose from any song ever recorded. Brilliant. So,with a markedly less orange Cheryl and a markedly more ginger Louie our judges take their seats and Mr Cowell's annual semi-musical circus of cruelty gets ready for round two. On we go.
STORM: Storm is the contestant this week sacrificed to the graveyard slot, and all his bluster about hanging in there and keeping on going will no doubt come back to bite him in the arse as the producers clearly see him as mindless filler. Storm is this years token rock contestant and nothing says rock like motorbikes and backflipping dancers. Except everything, ever. It's unlikely that even Storm's red hair and eerily earnest personality will save him this week, as, if I'm brutally honest, he wasn't brilliant.
TREYC: X Factor cliché alert! TreyC is singing purple rain! Purple rain is one of those X Factor staples that the stronger singers belt out, so we can all be impressed with how good they are and just how much this means to them. But can the girl with the illiterate name beat Ruth Lorenzo quite brilliant performance of the same song from a few years ago? No, quite frankly, but it's a decent enough performance that should see her through to week 2, where she will have to start showing some individuality.
PAIJE: Paije joins us from the set of Miami Vice, where he's been playing the leader of a Columbian drugs cartel, to sing “If I ain't got you” I say sing, Paije spends a lot of the song wailing seemingly unrelated notes as if he's trying to find out which exact note Leonard Cohen was singing about.
ONE DIRECTION: Once again Simon has decided to ignore his own pointless rules and picked a Kelly Clarkson song for “the most exciting band in the country®” I like to think he chose “My life would suck without you” as a coded message to his own ego. One Direction, however, proceed to make a good fist of sucking all on their own, with or without Cowell. Has anyone noticed that the blond one in one direction is the happiest person in the world? Presumably because he realises that he's blagged himself a free ticket to the final simply by bobbing up and down a bit behind Harry and Liam.
CHER LLOYD: Cher is up next and proves her credibility as a true artist by coming up with the idea to rip off Jay-Z all by herself. Cher is now the most famous British rapper since John Barnes, but she still has some way to go before she can match his smooth lyrical bombs. She has also developed a weird quivering delivery for the bits where she actually does sing. Apparently she's popular with 16 year olds, but then so is miaow miaow and happy slapping. Cheryl praises Cher for looking and sounding like a popstar in a manner that suggests that she's trying to convince herself that it's ok that she's one herself.
JOHN ADELEYE: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
DIVA FEVER: Diva fever camp things up in a desperate bid to rouse the nation from the mass Adeleye induced coma that we all found ourselves in. Apparently Diva Fever's heroes are some band called Duck Sauce that wrote a song called Barbara Streisand. It's entirely believable that Barbara Streisand is Diva Fever's hero, but nobody in the world could ever cite Duck Sauce as a hero unless they have an incredibly low opinion of humanity as a species. Simon says he likes them because they are fun, but does it such a patronising way that it wouldn't be a surprise to find out he'd managed to offend every gay person in the country.
REBECCA: Rebecca has seemingly misunderstood the Heroes theme and decided to perform dressed as Lee Falk's superhero creation “The Phantom” It's entirely credible that Rebecca could infact be a superhero, as she comes across as so nice, it wouldn't be a stretch to believe that's it's all a front to cover up the fact that at night she stalks and mutilates criminals in a manner Dexter would flinch at. Rebecca gives easily the best vocal so far, then says hello to a little boy who came to visit them, giving further credence to my superhero theory.
AIDEN: According to his VT Aiden is struggling to reach the right notes for his performance of “Jealous Guy” Obviously this seems just a cynical ploy to add some sense of drama to proceeding until he comes out and balls it right up, making me question my hard-earned cynacism. It looks bad for Aiden until his interview with Dermot where, in a stroke of genius, he looks all sad and pouts his bottom lip like a Robert Pattinson shaped puppy, thus ensuring his continued surivival for at least the next six weeks. Clever boy, Aiden.
WAGNER: Could Wagner possibly match last weeks exceptional Bongo infused love shack-athon? No, but nothing could match that ever so we forgive him. However, what he does do is belt out “Just help yourself” with such virile hetrosexuality that he makes Tom Jones seem like Boy George. Towards the end of the song the female dancers, much like last week, start to rub themselves. You have to understand that this is not a choreographed routine, but simply a natural consequence of being in such close proximity to Wagner's ferocious masculinity.
KATIE 'WHOS GAMU' WAISSEL: Katie's hero is apparently Etta James and not, as I'd imagined, Loki the Norse god of mischief. For the second week in a row Katie sings perfectly adequately, but, in lieu of her scary desperation to win, adequate just won't cut it. Also, her face is really hard and angular, as if someone had constructed a visage out of Fearn Cotton's personality.
BELLE AMIE: Fooling noone Belle Amie choose the Kinks as their musical heroes. The only thing they could possibly relate to The Kinks over is the internal animosity between Ray and Dave as, judging from their VT, they quite clearly hate each other, which is more than enough reason to keep them in the competition, and certainly more of a reason than their half-arsed rendition of “You really got me.”
MARY: Mary is the next to the stage, and the only contestant in X Factor history to subvert the use of microphones is singing “You don't have to say you love me” But if we do she might stop bellowing and allow us to keep what's left of our ear drums. After a night involving topless male go-go dancers, a psychedelic worm hole behind Aiden and Louie's hair, the sight of someone just singing is strangely invigorating.
MATT: Matt Cardle will close the show and in his VT we see pictures of him from when he was 10 years old where, depressingly, he is sans hat. Damn, I like to imagine he was born with a miniture cap that grew up along with him, but, unfortunately, the X Factor has ruined that illusion for me forever, Matt sings Bruno Mars “Just the way you are” in a staggeringly high falsetto that has probably made all British housewives collective knicker elastic snap. Simon lie's that Matt fell off the melody at points, but he has to say things like that so it looks like he was paying attention. Based on tonight's performances Matt should walk this.
So what have we learned from tonight's show? That Aiden is a sinister Machiavellian genius, that Wagner is the single most awesome collection of cells and organs to develop consciousness, that Matt and Rebecca are so far ahead vocally that it doesn't seem fair, and that Cheryl has managed to look less orange and more of a chav, which is something even N-Dubz haven't managed. It doesn't look good for Storm, John or Belle Amie but what do I know, I'm neither current nor relevant like 51 year old Simon Cowell. It's another double eviction so I have no idea who could be going. Based on tonight I would say Storm and John but then I voted for Kodos.
Monday 18 October 2010
Monday 11 October 2010
GENERATION X : Sniggers with attitude.
The X Factor finals are here! Or, to give it it's full title – The X Factor! OMG!!!! I CAN'T BELIEVE CHERYL DIDN'T PUT GAMU THROUGH, THE BITCH, SHE MUST BE RACIST! Or at least that's what it's been dubbed by countless internet message boards. Anyway, amid all the drama, tears, deportations and the criminal fact that geek legends Princes and Rogues were overlooked, there is the small matter of swelling Lord Cowell's burgeoning bank account. To help matters along, I will be playing a drinking game where I have to down a shot every time Simon say's the word relevant; if I manage twenty minutes without severe liver failure I will consider myself as masculine as an Ox made of fists. However, the judges are seated, the wildcards have surprised noone, Louis's looking svelte, but nobody cares, and everyone is getting ready for the next two and a half (TWO AND A HALF!!!) hours of vaguely singing related shannanigans. FYD are up first.
FYD: FYD are singing Billionaire, the lyrics of which are optimistic considering the track record of X Factor winners. FYD keep changing the words to make gratutious references to Simon, which I suppose is meant to come across as quirky and cool, but is actually just annoying and even Simon looks embarrassed. And if Simon Cowell is embarrassed at the mention of his own name, then you're doing something wrong.
MATT: Matt Cardle is back along with his omnipresent hat, which will be useful for him when he has to start busking. Matt sings When Love Takes Over and, preempting me by about an hour and a half, is having trouble keeping his eyes open. At some point Matt will have to sing a song written for a man and the world will stop on it's axis. Probably.
JOHN ADELEYE: John is up next and is singing a daring cover of the Insane Clown Posse track “Psychopathic” complete with full clown makeup and horribly misogynistic lyrics. Except he's not, because that would be far too awesome. Instead, he's been Louie Walshed to within an inch of his life and has managed to make “One Sweet Day” even more boring than it already was. I give him three weeks tops. Score another one for Mr Walsh.
REBECCA: Rebecca Ferguson is on now, and the girl Cheryl had to put through so at least one of her acts could sing, lest this be accused of not really being a singing contest, is singing a quite lovely arrangement of teardrops. Rebecca manages to give a highly accomplished performance without sounding like shes singing actual words, more word-shaped noises that vaguely resemble language but in actual fact are something else entirely.
STORM: Storm Lee is up next, and following John's studied essay on the nature of boredom his new red hair is probably just interesting enough to see him through. He's joined on stage by what can only be described as a squadron of ninja gimps. Does anyone else think that Brain Friedman is still pissed at being sacked as a judge, and is making sure everyone is still aware of his involvement in the show through these ever more ridiculous routines?
BELLE AMIE: Belle Amie now and they've bravely decided to perform Airplanes in the style of four drunk sixteen year olds hogging the Karaoke machine at their end of term disco. No doubt simon will say they're cool and relevant, but I'm beginning to wonder whether he knows what either word really means.
CHER LLOYD: Cheryl's miniature doppleganger takes to the stage and sings a song recently made popular by Lily Allen. The girl who managed, impressively, to kill both rap as a genre and coldplay simply with the words ring-a-dinging, proceeds to do much the same here, and Cheryl's evil plan to get back at Lily Allen is revealed. The audience seem to like her, and when the song ends she does a triumphant little dance that Cheryl thinks is so good she copies her, confirming, beyond doubt, that this is the most “street” episode of the X Factor ever, and that I really don't understand young people anymore.
DIVA FEVER: Considering Simon's new favourite words are current and relevant, it seems odd that his wildcard would be so heavily in debt to wham. But then I don't have my finger on the pulse like 51 year old billionaire Simon Cowell. It's quite obvious that wildcard just means extra act, so why not just put four acts through in the first place? Diva Fever sing Sunny in the style of Wham imitating Jedward, and we're all encouraged to forget the last 50 years of gay advances.
PAIJE: The man in possession of the second worst name of any contestant (nothing will top TreyC) bounds on stage looking like a genetic splice between Fat Albert and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Paije claims he's Killing us softly with his sing, but I couldn't imagine him killing anything, softly or otherwise. Unfortunately his performance reminds everyone of Sean Kingston's continued existence and that can't be a good thing, ever.
NOT GAMU: Not Gamu is up next and faces a bigger uphill struggle for the public's affections than if Gary Glitter had got through to the live shows. Not Gamu gives a competent performance of We Are The Champions that isn't the worst vocal of the night by far. But people will forget that because a.) She's wearing a helmet that looks like it was used when welding a spaceship together, b.) She mimed playing a keyboard. Badly. And c.) She's not even a little bit Gamu. Be afraid Katie, be very afraid.
MARY BYRNES: Mary takes to the stage and is, by some distance, the loudest singer in the history of the X Factor. She bellows “This is a mans world” terrifyingly at the judges for four minutes, like she's waiting for them curl into a ball and concede that it's not. Dermot askes the judges for their opinions but they all speak at such lowly decibels it's hard to take them seriously.
NICOLO: Is the next finalist to sing for our affections and Italy's answer to Mika is wearing the worst pair of glasses designed this century. And considering the ubiquity of 3D, and those glasses Kanye West wore for the stronger video thats some going. Nicolo sang lady Gaga, I think, but it's hard to tell after Mary's performance.
ONE DIRECTION perform and Simon's ungodly attempt to create a band entirely of haircuts reaches fruition. One of them looks like a Jonas brother, and the blond one smiles so much throughout this performance you begin to wonder if Simon laced his sippy cup with ecstasy. At the end of the performance Simon praises Liam for something that didn't even happen, proving that he's now so drunk on his own sense of power he believes we will accept his word over the very nature of reality. And, depressingly, he's right.
WAGNER: Wagner is incredible. Not only does he look like Mickey Rourke portraying god, but he performs like he is bellowing commandments to his mortal followers from atop Mount Olympus. Wagner is thy religion and Love Shack is his hymn, we should all start worshiping him now.
AIDEN: Aiden steps onstage looking like Joe Mcelderry would if he borrowed Nick Grimshaw's hair and Cristiano Ronaldo's face. If this wasn't the year X Factor turned it's swag on then he would have this in the bag. But, unfortunately for Aiden he's only swagging at a Vanilla Ice level when Cher is already up there with Missy Elliot. He need's to find some swaggage and fast.
TreyC: Although I have serious misgivings against anyone who spells their name TreyC, I have to admit she can sing. TreyC is dressed like Pam Grier playing Wonder Woman, but at no point does she either rap or play bongos. She isn't even surrounded by pointless dancers trying to spell out Brian Friedmans name so we all know he still exists. Get it together TreyC or people will think this is a singing competition.
So there we are, all 342 finalists have performed and, like everyone else in the country I can barely remember FYD. Looking at it from this early stage the front runners would be One Direction, Cher. Matt and TreyC. So exactly the same as before tonight then, proving that, although the X Factor probably isn't fixed, it's as searingly predictable as ever. We have learnt some important lessons though: Firstly Wagner is a glorious mountain of a man, John Adeleye is screwed and if Harry and Liam manage not to fall out during an epic power struggle One Direction will sail through to the final and that rapping, despite being a cop out when Jedward did it, is now current and relevant. What a difference 12 months makes.
FYD: FYD are singing Billionaire, the lyrics of which are optimistic considering the track record of X Factor winners. FYD keep changing the words to make gratutious references to Simon, which I suppose is meant to come across as quirky and cool, but is actually just annoying and even Simon looks embarrassed. And if Simon Cowell is embarrassed at the mention of his own name, then you're doing something wrong.
MATT: Matt Cardle is back along with his omnipresent hat, which will be useful for him when he has to start busking. Matt sings When Love Takes Over and, preempting me by about an hour and a half, is having trouble keeping his eyes open. At some point Matt will have to sing a song written for a man and the world will stop on it's axis. Probably.
JOHN ADELEYE: John is up next and is singing a daring cover of the Insane Clown Posse track “Psychopathic” complete with full clown makeup and horribly misogynistic lyrics. Except he's not, because that would be far too awesome. Instead, he's been Louie Walshed to within an inch of his life and has managed to make “One Sweet Day” even more boring than it already was. I give him three weeks tops. Score another one for Mr Walsh.
REBECCA: Rebecca Ferguson is on now, and the girl Cheryl had to put through so at least one of her acts could sing, lest this be accused of not really being a singing contest, is singing a quite lovely arrangement of teardrops. Rebecca manages to give a highly accomplished performance without sounding like shes singing actual words, more word-shaped noises that vaguely resemble language but in actual fact are something else entirely.
STORM: Storm Lee is up next, and following John's studied essay on the nature of boredom his new red hair is probably just interesting enough to see him through. He's joined on stage by what can only be described as a squadron of ninja gimps. Does anyone else think that Brain Friedman is still pissed at being sacked as a judge, and is making sure everyone is still aware of his involvement in the show through these ever more ridiculous routines?
BELLE AMIE: Belle Amie now and they've bravely decided to perform Airplanes in the style of four drunk sixteen year olds hogging the Karaoke machine at their end of term disco. No doubt simon will say they're cool and relevant, but I'm beginning to wonder whether he knows what either word really means.
CHER LLOYD: Cheryl's miniature doppleganger takes to the stage and sings a song recently made popular by Lily Allen. The girl who managed, impressively, to kill both rap as a genre and coldplay simply with the words ring-a-dinging, proceeds to do much the same here, and Cheryl's evil plan to get back at Lily Allen is revealed. The audience seem to like her, and when the song ends she does a triumphant little dance that Cheryl thinks is so good she copies her, confirming, beyond doubt, that this is the most “street” episode of the X Factor ever, and that I really don't understand young people anymore.
DIVA FEVER: Considering Simon's new favourite words are current and relevant, it seems odd that his wildcard would be so heavily in debt to wham. But then I don't have my finger on the pulse like 51 year old billionaire Simon Cowell. It's quite obvious that wildcard just means extra act, so why not just put four acts through in the first place? Diva Fever sing Sunny in the style of Wham imitating Jedward, and we're all encouraged to forget the last 50 years of gay advances.
PAIJE: The man in possession of the second worst name of any contestant (nothing will top TreyC) bounds on stage looking like a genetic splice between Fat Albert and the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. Paije claims he's Killing us softly with his sing, but I couldn't imagine him killing anything, softly or otherwise. Unfortunately his performance reminds everyone of Sean Kingston's continued existence and that can't be a good thing, ever.
NOT GAMU: Not Gamu is up next and faces a bigger uphill struggle for the public's affections than if Gary Glitter had got through to the live shows. Not Gamu gives a competent performance of We Are The Champions that isn't the worst vocal of the night by far. But people will forget that because a.) She's wearing a helmet that looks like it was used when welding a spaceship together, b.) She mimed playing a keyboard. Badly. And c.) She's not even a little bit Gamu. Be afraid Katie, be very afraid.
MARY BYRNES: Mary takes to the stage and is, by some distance, the loudest singer in the history of the X Factor. She bellows “This is a mans world” terrifyingly at the judges for four minutes, like she's waiting for them curl into a ball and concede that it's not. Dermot askes the judges for their opinions but they all speak at such lowly decibels it's hard to take them seriously.
NICOLO: Is the next finalist to sing for our affections and Italy's answer to Mika is wearing the worst pair of glasses designed this century. And considering the ubiquity of 3D, and those glasses Kanye West wore for the stronger video thats some going. Nicolo sang lady Gaga, I think, but it's hard to tell after Mary's performance.
ONE DIRECTION perform and Simon's ungodly attempt to create a band entirely of haircuts reaches fruition. One of them looks like a Jonas brother, and the blond one smiles so much throughout this performance you begin to wonder if Simon laced his sippy cup with ecstasy. At the end of the performance Simon praises Liam for something that didn't even happen, proving that he's now so drunk on his own sense of power he believes we will accept his word over the very nature of reality. And, depressingly, he's right.
WAGNER: Wagner is incredible. Not only does he look like Mickey Rourke portraying god, but he performs like he is bellowing commandments to his mortal followers from atop Mount Olympus. Wagner is thy religion and Love Shack is his hymn, we should all start worshiping him now.
AIDEN: Aiden steps onstage looking like Joe Mcelderry would if he borrowed Nick Grimshaw's hair and Cristiano Ronaldo's face. If this wasn't the year X Factor turned it's swag on then he would have this in the bag. But, unfortunately for Aiden he's only swagging at a Vanilla Ice level when Cher is already up there with Missy Elliot. He need's to find some swaggage and fast.
TreyC: Although I have serious misgivings against anyone who spells their name TreyC, I have to admit she can sing. TreyC is dressed like Pam Grier playing Wonder Woman, but at no point does she either rap or play bongos. She isn't even surrounded by pointless dancers trying to spell out Brian Friedmans name so we all know he still exists. Get it together TreyC or people will think this is a singing competition.
So there we are, all 342 finalists have performed and, like everyone else in the country I can barely remember FYD. Looking at it from this early stage the front runners would be One Direction, Cher. Matt and TreyC. So exactly the same as before tonight then, proving that, although the X Factor probably isn't fixed, it's as searingly predictable as ever. We have learnt some important lessons though: Firstly Wagner is a glorious mountain of a man, John Adeleye is screwed and if Harry and Liam manage not to fall out during an epic power struggle One Direction will sail through to the final and that rapping, despite being a cop out when Jedward did it, is now current and relevant. What a difference 12 months makes.
Wednesday 1 September 2010
Grandma's House
It's four episodes in to Simon Amstell's sim-com, and I still cant decide whether or not I actually like it. I will be honest and concede that I've stuck with this show far longer than I would have had it been a freshman effort, based soley on Simon Amstell making Preston cry. For all the joy that gave me, I owe him that at least. I am afraid to concede, however, that this series has yet to win me over. The problem being, mainly, Simon himself. It's nothing to do with Amstell's woodchip acting (anyone who complains about Simons acting but goes on to praise the acting in Curb your Enthusiasm is nothing but a hypocrite by the way) but more the character he portrays. Simon Amstell is funny, Simon Amstell is likable. In Grandma's house he is neither of those things. He is self absorbed, neurotic and whiney or what Preston might term a “bitter, snotty nosed public schoolboy.” The character comes across as thoroughly unpleasant and I don't think that was the intention. I genuinely believe the makers thought that by now the audience would have started to relate to Simon a little bit. However, most people have real problems so seeing a young man with a good job facing an existential sense of doubt simply beacause he was mean to steps once is a bit much. His character can afford two mortgages, how about you stop residing up your own backside and live in the real world like the rest of us. This is in stark contrast to Simon's Granddad (the sorely missed Geoffrey Huthings) who, in one of the shows better pieces of writing, approaches his cancer with the kind of quiet dignity that would be completely alien to someone of Simons generation. This aspect of the show is handled extremely believably, with Hutching's stoic acceptance of this illness a nice contrast to Simon's constant bleating about his inner torment. The villain of the piece is Simon's soon to be stepdad, the confident materialistic Clive, played with absolute relish by James Smith. Simon handles their engagment with all the maturity of a six year old pulling on his testicles for attention. As a viewer we're meant to hate Clive but for some reason I don't. It could be because James Smith's endless Charisma means he could play Hitler and I'd still find him charming, or it could be because he's a much more acceptable arsehole than Simon. Yeah he's the sort of loud, over confident bellend who dominates dinner parties and organises activities that noone wants to do, but I find that far less offensive than Simon's self absorbed bumholery. Overall the show plays out as a weird kind of therapy for Simon Amstell (the man, not the character) as the replication of principal figures in his personal life, and the constant footage from his childhood (though not his diabolical appearance on GamesMaster, one might add) suggest he wrote the show to work through his own personal problems then stuck it on TV. So while there is a terrific cast and the odd good line, the whole things falls slightly flat for me. The pacing is far too slow for a comedy show, and the while the individual pieces are fine (the acting, the script, the characterisation) it just doesn't hang together properly, like a jigsaw put together with sellotape. Ironically for what is essentially a vanity project, it would have been far better removing Amstell's character completely and focusing soley on the rest of his family, as that would have made for a far more succinct, and likable, family drama.
Wednesday 21 July 2010
The poet laureate is a pointless position for pontificating pissants.
The Poet Laureate, documents life through stanza,
But it's really as relevant, as a fat Tony Danza.
This, the above work of art, is my rhythmically woeful attempt at a rhyming couplet. I ask you to drink in it's juvenile charm because- I'm proud of it. No really, I am. I found it difficult to compose: I had to use an on-line rhyming dictionary and everything. I was close to tearing my ears off in frustration at my inability to rhyme the world “laureate”, then spent ages mulling on an effective rhyming scheme, before settling on the glorious AA scheme you see before you, and I still managed to shoehorn in a pun about Tony Danza. Although, I have no idea whether he is fat or not. Why? I don't hear you ask. Because recently I came across this:
Afterwards, I found him alone at the bar and asked him what went wrong. It's the shirt, he said. When I pull it on it hangs on my back like a shroud, or a poisoned jerkin from Grimm seeping its curse on to my skin, the worst tattoo.
I shower and shave before I shrug on the shirt, smell like a dream; but the shirt sours my scent with the sweat and stink of fear. It's got my number.
I poured him another shot. Speak on, my son. He did.
I've wanted to sport the shirt since I was a kid, but now when I do it makes me sick, weak, paranoid.
All night above the team hotel, the moon is the ball in a penalty kick. Tens of thousands of fierce stars are booing me. A screech owl is the referee.
The wind's a crowd, forty years long, bawling a filthy song about my Wag. It's the bloody shirt! He started to blub like a big girl's blouse and I felt a fleeting pity.
Don't cry, I said, at the end of the day you'll be back on 100K a week and playing for City.
This is the latest in line of sporting poems by our current poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy. And it has proven beyond doubt that the position of Poet Laureate is the most utterly, utterly, pointless position in the whole country. And I include whatever it is Nick Clegg does in that assessment. I'm not an expert on poetry but, when I read the above “poem,” it made me hate language. It made me hate all forms of communication; it made me pray for a regression back to the use of guttural sounds and violent sexual advances as our only forms of interaction, in the hope that something so mortifyingly shit could never be committed to coherency ever again. I'm not an expert on poetry, but I don't think that's a good reaction.
It bothers me how smug poetry aficionado's react when I mention that, shock horror, I don't particularly like poetry! How they chuckle to their friends, how they shake their dreadlocked heads, how they look at me like I just admitted I have difficulty tying my own shoelaces. Well you know what? I'm right. Poetry is the easiest and least rewarding of all artforms. And I include whatever it is Nick Clegg does in that assessment. I don't look down on them when they say they've never played Call of Duty. And Call of Duty is better than anything Alexander Pope ever wrote, and that a fact. I know this a contentious argument but I will attempt to illustrate my point. Below is a very famous poem by William Carlos Willliams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I had a poetry teacher spend an entire term trying to explain to me why that was good, why the clarity of language is a brilliant example of Modernist American poetry, how through work such as this Williams was one of the forebearers of imagism, and why there is art in it's simplicity. And I just don't get it. It's just not good. I don't like Hiakus, I don't like sonnetts, I haven't enjoyed a limmerick since I was 13 and, do you know what? I'm o.k. with that. Fine and Dandy, thank you very much and people should be o.k. that I'm o.k. with it. So why should I be made to feel like the intellectual equivalent of a dog learning to fetch a stick?
I attended a poetry evening recently and it was the most soul destroying experience of my life. When asked for my opinion of her set by an angry ginger woman, who uncannily resembled Susan Boyle's face drawn onto a digestive biscuit, I politely offered that poetry wasn't really “my scene”- the smug condensation I was met with was tangible, and was joined by a room full of pretentious nitwits exhaling in my direction at the same time. The smell was quite horrific. I later found out this woman didn't even own a T.V! I was getting grief for being an intellectually inferior being from someone who had never even seen the Wire, and, I'm sorry, but this just doesn't wash with me, go fuck off back to your audience of fat girls and thirtysomething men in berries, because I think you're an idiot. Someone once remarked to me that if you can't become a writer you become a poet. And there is truth in that. I believe a poet is to writers what a ball juggler is to footballers, someone who can be impressive in small bursts and knows a number of impressive tricks but is lacking and not able to compete on the real field of play. Ross from Friends described his music as wordless, sound poems and I feel poems are soundless, word songs and are exactly as dull as that sounds. Most poetry is written and performed by pseudo intellectuals with ideas above their station, who, for some bizarre reason, believe that their drippy metaphors for the fact live hasn't kissed them on the arse is somehow art- it's not. I don't think anyone should be considered a poet unless their dead, and even then I'm on the fence.
I should qualify myself at this point and say I don't hate poetry entirely. I do, however, think there should be a craft to it; there should be a rhyme scheme, there should be meter and there should be worldplay. I don't hate poetry, I just don't get it. And that's what bothers me. Why is there such intellectual snobbery in a dying art form? Why do people feel their love of Paradise Lost is somehow greater and more intellectually satisfying than my love of the Final Fantasy series? The Final Fantasy series has just as much creativity, invention and poetry as Milton's overrated ripoff of the Book of Genesis. Play Final Fantasy 7 on the Playstation and it's biblical in it's scope, why can't this be as celebrated as some words cobbled together and left to your own imagination? Because people are pretentious.
I think my main problem comes down to free verse poetry more than anything. Art critics will find meaning in anything, mnaking the vast majority of free verse poetry redundant, hence Tracy Emin, Damien Hirst, the Turner Prize, Gillian Clarke. When there is a craft on display such as painting or sculpture, I can appreciate it. The Raven was criticised by William Butler Yeats for being “insincere and vulgar” and for being, simply, a “rhyming trick” But that's what I love about it. I love it's artificiality, I can get on board with that. It's clever, I can look at it and think "I couldn't do that", and that should be the case with all great art. And I find it a damn sight more entertaining than something like Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas which is just a drunk throwing metaphors at a page and seeing what sticks. Jimmy Carr writes brilliantly clever one liners but his jokes are not afforded the same intellectual integrity as Haikus and that's deeply unfair. I don't think a well crafted Haiku has anything to offer that a one-liner doesn't, but because it's classed as poetry it's given it. This is why I hate free verse poetry, because readers will do your work for you, they will intellectualise something that has no right to be intellectualised, giving it meaning that it doesn't deserve and that it's composer hasn't earned.
So what this rambling, incoherent entry basically amounts to is that anyone can write free verse poetry because no one knows if it's any good, it's subjective and it's easy. It's an art form for people without talent, who can't admit to themselves that they are not the creative, haunted soul they believe, but merely a stuck up moaner. Poetry has no bearing on Modern Britain and the post of poet laureate is meaningless. It should at least be replaced with some form of literature that people actually care about- a twitter laureate, perhaps? I don't get poetry and I think that should be celebrated, because most poetry isn't very good. Instead of pseudo intellectual bellends looking down on me in the way that only someone who can't grow a proper moustache can, people should celebrate true art forms of the 21st century: Flash Animation, stand up comedy, twitter (which is essentially no different to Haikus) and forget about an outdated, meaningless art form which hasn't been relevant since World War 2.
**Nb On the subject of Haikus my friend Ed came up with the following during a session in our student union, and it remains the greatest Haiku I have ever heard.
Hitler posseses
the greatest moustache ever
Shame about the jews.
You will never, ever beat that.
But it's really as relevant, as a fat Tony Danza.
This, the above work of art, is my rhythmically woeful attempt at a rhyming couplet. I ask you to drink in it's juvenile charm because- I'm proud of it. No really, I am. I found it difficult to compose: I had to use an on-line rhyming dictionary and everything. I was close to tearing my ears off in frustration at my inability to rhyme the world “laureate”, then spent ages mulling on an effective rhyming scheme, before settling on the glorious AA scheme you see before you, and I still managed to shoehorn in a pun about Tony Danza. Although, I have no idea whether he is fat or not. Why? I don't hear you ask. Because recently I came across this:
Afterwards, I found him alone at the bar and asked him what went wrong. It's the shirt, he said. When I pull it on it hangs on my back like a shroud, or a poisoned jerkin from Grimm seeping its curse on to my skin, the worst tattoo.
I shower and shave before I shrug on the shirt, smell like a dream; but the shirt sours my scent with the sweat and stink of fear. It's got my number.
I poured him another shot. Speak on, my son. He did.
I've wanted to sport the shirt since I was a kid, but now when I do it makes me sick, weak, paranoid.
All night above the team hotel, the moon is the ball in a penalty kick. Tens of thousands of fierce stars are booing me. A screech owl is the referee.
The wind's a crowd, forty years long, bawling a filthy song about my Wag. It's the bloody shirt! He started to blub like a big girl's blouse and I felt a fleeting pity.
Don't cry, I said, at the end of the day you'll be back on 100K a week and playing for City.
This is the latest in line of sporting poems by our current poet laureate Carol Ann Duffy. And it has proven beyond doubt that the position of Poet Laureate is the most utterly, utterly, pointless position in the whole country. And I include whatever it is Nick Clegg does in that assessment. I'm not an expert on poetry but, when I read the above “poem,” it made me hate language. It made me hate all forms of communication; it made me pray for a regression back to the use of guttural sounds and violent sexual advances as our only forms of interaction, in the hope that something so mortifyingly shit could never be committed to coherency ever again. I'm not an expert on poetry, but I don't think that's a good reaction.
It bothers me how smug poetry aficionado's react when I mention that, shock horror, I don't particularly like poetry! How they chuckle to their friends, how they shake their dreadlocked heads, how they look at me like I just admitted I have difficulty tying my own shoelaces. Well you know what? I'm right. Poetry is the easiest and least rewarding of all artforms. And I include whatever it is Nick Clegg does in that assessment. I don't look down on them when they say they've never played Call of Duty. And Call of Duty is better than anything Alexander Pope ever wrote, and that a fact. I know this a contentious argument but I will attempt to illustrate my point. Below is a very famous poem by William Carlos Willliams
I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox
and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast
Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold
I had a poetry teacher spend an entire term trying to explain to me why that was good, why the clarity of language is a brilliant example of Modernist American poetry, how through work such as this Williams was one of the forebearers of imagism, and why there is art in it's simplicity. And I just don't get it. It's just not good. I don't like Hiakus, I don't like sonnetts, I haven't enjoyed a limmerick since I was 13 and, do you know what? I'm o.k. with that. Fine and Dandy, thank you very much and people should be o.k. that I'm o.k. with it. So why should I be made to feel like the intellectual equivalent of a dog learning to fetch a stick?
I attended a poetry evening recently and it was the most soul destroying experience of my life. When asked for my opinion of her set by an angry ginger woman, who uncannily resembled Susan Boyle's face drawn onto a digestive biscuit, I politely offered that poetry wasn't really “my scene”- the smug condensation I was met with was tangible, and was joined by a room full of pretentious nitwits exhaling in my direction at the same time. The smell was quite horrific. I later found out this woman didn't even own a T.V! I was getting grief for being an intellectually inferior being from someone who had never even seen the Wire, and, I'm sorry, but this just doesn't wash with me, go fuck off back to your audience of fat girls and thirtysomething men in berries, because I think you're an idiot. Someone once remarked to me that if you can't become a writer you become a poet. And there is truth in that. I believe a poet is to writers what a ball juggler is to footballers, someone who can be impressive in small bursts and knows a number of impressive tricks but is lacking and not able to compete on the real field of play. Ross from Friends described his music as wordless, sound poems and I feel poems are soundless, word songs and are exactly as dull as that sounds. Most poetry is written and performed by pseudo intellectuals with ideas above their station, who, for some bizarre reason, believe that their drippy metaphors for the fact live hasn't kissed them on the arse is somehow art- it's not. I don't think anyone should be considered a poet unless their dead, and even then I'm on the fence.
I should qualify myself at this point and say I don't hate poetry entirely. I do, however, think there should be a craft to it; there should be a rhyme scheme, there should be meter and there should be worldplay. I don't hate poetry, I just don't get it. And that's what bothers me. Why is there such intellectual snobbery in a dying art form? Why do people feel their love of Paradise Lost is somehow greater and more intellectually satisfying than my love of the Final Fantasy series? The Final Fantasy series has just as much creativity, invention and poetry as Milton's overrated ripoff of the Book of Genesis. Play Final Fantasy 7 on the Playstation and it's biblical in it's scope, why can't this be as celebrated as some words cobbled together and left to your own imagination? Because people are pretentious.
I think my main problem comes down to free verse poetry more than anything. Art critics will find meaning in anything, mnaking the vast majority of free verse poetry redundant, hence Tracy Emin, Damien Hirst, the Turner Prize, Gillian Clarke. When there is a craft on display such as painting or sculpture, I can appreciate it. The Raven was criticised by William Butler Yeats for being “insincere and vulgar” and for being, simply, a “rhyming trick” But that's what I love about it. I love it's artificiality, I can get on board with that. It's clever, I can look at it and think "I couldn't do that", and that should be the case with all great art. And I find it a damn sight more entertaining than something like Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas which is just a drunk throwing metaphors at a page and seeing what sticks. Jimmy Carr writes brilliantly clever one liners but his jokes are not afforded the same intellectual integrity as Haikus and that's deeply unfair. I don't think a well crafted Haiku has anything to offer that a one-liner doesn't, but because it's classed as poetry it's given it. This is why I hate free verse poetry, because readers will do your work for you, they will intellectualise something that has no right to be intellectualised, giving it meaning that it doesn't deserve and that it's composer hasn't earned.
So what this rambling, incoherent entry basically amounts to is that anyone can write free verse poetry because no one knows if it's any good, it's subjective and it's easy. It's an art form for people without talent, who can't admit to themselves that they are not the creative, haunted soul they believe, but merely a stuck up moaner. Poetry has no bearing on Modern Britain and the post of poet laureate is meaningless. It should at least be replaced with some form of literature that people actually care about- a twitter laureate, perhaps? I don't get poetry and I think that should be celebrated, because most poetry isn't very good. Instead of pseudo intellectual bellends looking down on me in the way that only someone who can't grow a proper moustache can, people should celebrate true art forms of the 21st century: Flash Animation, stand up comedy, twitter (which is essentially no different to Haikus) and forget about an outdated, meaningless art form which hasn't been relevant since World War 2.
**Nb On the subject of Haikus my friend Ed came up with the following during a session in our student union, and it remains the greatest Haiku I have ever heard.
Hitler posseses
the greatest moustache ever
Shame about the jews.
You will never, ever beat that.
Saturday 26 June 2010
Govan and take a bow.
It's the second eviction of the final ever series of Big Brother, and, as is customary on a blog, I'd like to share my thoughts. I don't care if you don't want to read them, that's the concept of a blog and you'll just have to deal with it. I mean, chill out it's the 90's man. Govan has been evicted. I'll give you a minute to process that earth shattering news. Yes, the human Kif Kroker from Futurama is on his way home, to 72% (72%!!!) of a four way vote.
I both love and hate eviction nights. I find them an incredibly schizophrenic experience. On the one hand, it satisfies the blood lust I've built up all week, due to an irrational frenzy of hatred for people I've never actually met, and, on the other hand, it's also the moment I realise that the people in Big Brother are actually human beings, and that time they ate an extra yoghurt 4 weeks ago, probably wasn't such a big deal in the grand scheme of things. And, as they are released out to the baying mob, I begin to feel sorry for the person, who, just days ago, I likened to Mussolini. As I said, it's very confusing.
Govan exits to massive boos from the crowd, leaving the housemates in a state of shock and Shabby to pick her, no doubt artistically relevant, jaw up from the floor that it just hit. It always amazes me just how enormously housemates misjudge public opinion. I know they're isolated from the real world and exist within a self-contained bubble, but they must have some sense of self-awareness. Ben is upper class twit, he has no concept of life outside his 40 acre mansion and probably hasn't spoken to anyone who isn't a blood relative, ever, without referring to them as “the help.” He would have been a shoe in to go, but no. As things stands he is one of the more likeable memebers of the house. That a man who, on national television, sung the praises of feudal paternalism, would be one of my favourite housemates, is a damning indictment of them all, to be honest. People don't like bitching. People don't like it when housemates team up in groups and isolate other members of the house. People don't like Shabby. If any of the housemates had seen any other series of big brother, or, simply, existed on Earth for more than a week, they would know this.
Govan sits down for his interview with Davina and is confronted with his atrocious behaviour, which err.... isn't actually that bad. Govan's biggest crime is being a bit of a gossip, and, to be fair to him, there isn't anything else to do in there but naval gaze gossip. If every one sat around in silence trying to look up their own bum cracks while waiting for the tasks, we probably wouldn't have reached 11 series. Govan is obviously a very confused young man, struggling with, among other things, his sexuality and sense of identity, so I do question whether Big Brother was a good choice for him. This stage of his development was always going to be tricky, without having his every decision analysed and criticised by millions of baying viewers. It was obvious that he was going to seek companionship in the house as, if he was well liked, it would be a sort of validation of himself as a person. And I think, that's where his ostracisaion of Ben stemmed from, as, if his group had an enemy, if you will, then Govan would not be left to feel isolated or an outsider. It was playground stuff, admittedly, but he is just a kid. So I, for once, feel Davina handled his interview brilliantly, as there was no need to criticise him aggressively for his behaviour, he can do that himself over the next few weeks. Anyway enough of the cod psychology, I've been on the internet now for well over an hour and I haven't even looked at any pictures of Rachael in her undercrackers, and, that, is the real tragedy.
I both love and hate eviction nights. I find them an incredibly schizophrenic experience. On the one hand, it satisfies the blood lust I've built up all week, due to an irrational frenzy of hatred for people I've never actually met, and, on the other hand, it's also the moment I realise that the people in Big Brother are actually human beings, and that time they ate an extra yoghurt 4 weeks ago, probably wasn't such a big deal in the grand scheme of things. And, as they are released out to the baying mob, I begin to feel sorry for the person, who, just days ago, I likened to Mussolini. As I said, it's very confusing.
Govan exits to massive boos from the crowd, leaving the housemates in a state of shock and Shabby to pick her, no doubt artistically relevant, jaw up from the floor that it just hit. It always amazes me just how enormously housemates misjudge public opinion. I know they're isolated from the real world and exist within a self-contained bubble, but they must have some sense of self-awareness. Ben is upper class twit, he has no concept of life outside his 40 acre mansion and probably hasn't spoken to anyone who isn't a blood relative, ever, without referring to them as “the help.” He would have been a shoe in to go, but no. As things stands he is one of the more likeable memebers of the house. That a man who, on national television, sung the praises of feudal paternalism, would be one of my favourite housemates, is a damning indictment of them all, to be honest. People don't like bitching. People don't like it when housemates team up in groups and isolate other members of the house. People don't like Shabby. If any of the housemates had seen any other series of big brother, or, simply, existed on Earth for more than a week, they would know this.
Govan sits down for his interview with Davina and is confronted with his atrocious behaviour, which err.... isn't actually that bad. Govan's biggest crime is being a bit of a gossip, and, to be fair to him, there isn't anything else to do in there but naval gaze gossip. If every one sat around in silence trying to look up their own bum cracks while waiting for the tasks, we probably wouldn't have reached 11 series. Govan is obviously a very confused young man, struggling with, among other things, his sexuality and sense of identity, so I do question whether Big Brother was a good choice for him. This stage of his development was always going to be tricky, without having his every decision analysed and criticised by millions of baying viewers. It was obvious that he was going to seek companionship in the house as, if he was well liked, it would be a sort of validation of himself as a person. And I think, that's where his ostracisaion of Ben stemmed from, as, if his group had an enemy, if you will, then Govan would not be left to feel isolated or an outsider. It was playground stuff, admittedly, but he is just a kid. So I, for once, feel Davina handled his interview brilliantly, as there was no need to criticise him aggressively for his behaviour, he can do that himself over the next few weeks. Anyway enough of the cod psychology, I've been on the internet now for well over an hour and I haven't even looked at any pictures of Rachael in her undercrackers, and, that, is the real tragedy.
Wednesday 23 June 2010
Thoughtcrime does not entail death: thoughtcrime is death.
Big Brother is back! Yeah! But the world cup is on, so almost noone cares. Our brave housemates will now face what will feel like 700 years locked up in a house, which, this year, appears to have been designed by Brian Bolland for a sequel to The Killing Joke. Get ready for everyone to tell us what an amazing experience they've had, despite the fact all they've done for the past 3 months is sat around a house and drank tea. An experience you can have around your Nan's house, only with the added bonus of countdown. Still, without further ado, let us take a look at the 14 people who we will casually acquaint ourselves with when there's nothing better on telly:
Josie: A loud, brash, Bristolian gal; she will gain much popularity purely because of her accent, causing much crowing on internet forums about how “real” she is. Later on in the series Stockholm Syndrome will take full grip and she will pursue an illicit affair with the diary room chair. Possibly.
Steve: Bookies favourite, as he is an ex-soldier who has lost both his legs and one eye. Steve will sail through to the final three despite doing nothing all series, before being patronised live on eviction night by Davina McCall who will tell us all how brave he's been. He had his leg's blown off by a BOMB Davina! I'm sure this pales in comparison! Actually scratch that until you've met the rest of the housemates.
Ben: A writer/broadcaster who doesn't appear to have actually done any writing or broadcasting, which will stand him in good stead for his post Big Brother career. Ben is a chippy posh lad; the kind of which we stopped producing around 1974. Ben has quite a good vocabulary, so bet on him to be evicted by about week 4, as people are suspicious of this sort of thing.
Rachael: A confident and good looking Beyonce impersonator. Which, these days, is enough to qualify you for celebrity Big Brother, surely? As she was no doubt bumped to fit in another Z-list celeb that shagged Jordan, this will have to do for poor Rachael. Rachael is very pretty and of mixed race. She will be evicted almost immediately, which is a shame, as she has a gorgeous figure, and pictures of her arse are destined to appear plastered all over the Daily Mail while they moan about Big Brother being voyeuristic.
Nathan: Speaking of arses. Bez continues his post CBB experience with a stint in the regular Big Brother house. Nathan is tall and Northen, and the sort of fellow Will Mellor will go on Big Brother's Little Brother and tell us he'd like to go for a pint with, until he freaks out and attempts take control of the whole house hold using only a spoon.
Dave: Straight from graduating Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Dave “The Weirdo”, is our next contestant. Depressingly Welsh, Dave's unsettling joviality and Catholic views will alienate him from all the other housemates quick to show how progressive and easy going they are.
Caoimhe: The mythical white member of Kid n' Play has, apparently, been living in Ireland masquerading as a model. Caoimhe has achieved the unlikely feat of being incredibly beautiful and incredibly ugly at the same time, which is an arresting combination. Seemingly pleasant, she will avoid nominations for ages as the other housemates will be unsure of how to pronounce her name.
Govan: A sprightly, could be gay, voluntary worker, who has entered the Big Brother house to find himself. Which, if Steve wasn't around, would mean guaranteed winner. Expect Govan to be this years contest to go the biggest 'journey', about which we will be reminded everytime he appears on screen. In the Australian outback, Aboriginies will undergo a journey during adolescence and live in the wilderness for six months, tracing the paths of their ceremonial ancestors. Govan will cop off with a transvestite and flash his privates to the nation. Maybe, we're not so different after all.
Shabby: A former child actor and art student. Shabby dresses like a lesbian Noel Fielding genetically spliced with a bin. Shabby is a squatter who, along with her art collective “The Oubliette”, promote emerging artists through the re utilisation of empty space. Or, to put it another way, they are a bunch of work shy tossers squatting. I always wondered what the collective noun for “cunts” was; and now I know: The Oubliette. Don't say Big Brother doesn't teach you anything.
Ife: A professional dancer who lives with her adoptive parents and fiancee. Ife is not religious but believes in God and prays to him in her own way. Expect this to be indulged by all the other housemates, who will also row vociferously with Dave as soon as he shows any concession to his religion. Ife is also bald, a quirk that will, no doubt, be the most interesting thing about her.
John James: A 24 year old Australian who is a retired vehicle body builder. That sentence makes no sense to me either, but it does make me hate him. As a young man he changed his name to Achillies or chills to his mates. He had change it back though, as they, presumably, kept pronouncing it “dick”. John's dream is to have daring people and hot girls in the house, I think he may have confused Big Brother with Charlie's Angels..
Sunshine: A posh young lady who's clueless demeanour belies her moniker. She, frighteningly, claims to be a medical student, but also believes her car is powered by fairy dust. She has gone on Big Brother to prove that beauty and brains do mix. It's a well known fact that beauty and brains do mix as there are millions of beautiful, intelligent woman in the world. Most of them don't, however, apply for Big Brother. Something Sunshine should think about.
Corin: Our second lookalike of the evening sees Corin, as a Jordan look alike from 10 years in the future. Corin is exactly the sort of person you expect has auditioned for every Big Brother series ever. According to her Big Brother Bio she “is always tanned, dyes her beauty spots and uses hair pieces.” It would annoy her if there were better looking girls in the house, but surely, as she's hidden underneath all that, how would we know? Also claims to dislike posh, arrogant people who 'turn their noses up at others' which you can take to read as: dislikes posh people.
Mario: Unfortunately, not the really rather brilliant lunatic that brightened up Big Brother 9. But a person who, this time, is actually called Mario. Mario was chosen randomly by Big Brother and had to enter the house on a secret mission dressed as a mole. A fact not lost on Sunshine, who showed her intelligence by spotting this almost straight away.
So there you are. All 14 housemates for the final ever series of Big Brother ever, until it gets remade on Channel 5. I forgive you if you feel you've seen them all before, because with the raft of reality shows on TV over the last decade, you probably have actually seen them all before. I will be watching, but I long ago lost the will to better myself. I'll see you at the Rapture, I doubt I'll get in.
Josie: A loud, brash, Bristolian gal; she will gain much popularity purely because of her accent, causing much crowing on internet forums about how “real” she is. Later on in the series Stockholm Syndrome will take full grip and she will pursue an illicit affair with the diary room chair. Possibly.
Steve: Bookies favourite, as he is an ex-soldier who has lost both his legs and one eye. Steve will sail through to the final three despite doing nothing all series, before being patronised live on eviction night by Davina McCall who will tell us all how brave he's been. He had his leg's blown off by a BOMB Davina! I'm sure this pales in comparison! Actually scratch that until you've met the rest of the housemates.
Ben: A writer/broadcaster who doesn't appear to have actually done any writing or broadcasting, which will stand him in good stead for his post Big Brother career. Ben is a chippy posh lad; the kind of which we stopped producing around 1974. Ben has quite a good vocabulary, so bet on him to be evicted by about week 4, as people are suspicious of this sort of thing.
Rachael: A confident and good looking Beyonce impersonator. Which, these days, is enough to qualify you for celebrity Big Brother, surely? As she was no doubt bumped to fit in another Z-list celeb that shagged Jordan, this will have to do for poor Rachael. Rachael is very pretty and of mixed race. She will be evicted almost immediately, which is a shame, as she has a gorgeous figure, and pictures of her arse are destined to appear plastered all over the Daily Mail while they moan about Big Brother being voyeuristic.
Nathan: Speaking of arses. Bez continues his post CBB experience with a stint in the regular Big Brother house. Nathan is tall and Northen, and the sort of fellow Will Mellor will go on Big Brother's Little Brother and tell us he'd like to go for a pint with, until he freaks out and attempts take control of the whole house hold using only a spoon.
Dave: Straight from graduating Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Dave “The Weirdo”, is our next contestant. Depressingly Welsh, Dave's unsettling joviality and Catholic views will alienate him from all the other housemates quick to show how progressive and easy going they are.
Caoimhe: The mythical white member of Kid n' Play has, apparently, been living in Ireland masquerading as a model. Caoimhe has achieved the unlikely feat of being incredibly beautiful and incredibly ugly at the same time, which is an arresting combination. Seemingly pleasant, she will avoid nominations for ages as the other housemates will be unsure of how to pronounce her name.
Govan: A sprightly, could be gay, voluntary worker, who has entered the Big Brother house to find himself. Which, if Steve wasn't around, would mean guaranteed winner. Expect Govan to be this years contest to go the biggest 'journey', about which we will be reminded everytime he appears on screen. In the Australian outback, Aboriginies will undergo a journey during adolescence and live in the wilderness for six months, tracing the paths of their ceremonial ancestors. Govan will cop off with a transvestite and flash his privates to the nation. Maybe, we're not so different after all.
Shabby: A former child actor and art student. Shabby dresses like a lesbian Noel Fielding genetically spliced with a bin. Shabby is a squatter who, along with her art collective “The Oubliette”, promote emerging artists through the re utilisation of empty space. Or, to put it another way, they are a bunch of work shy tossers squatting. I always wondered what the collective noun for “cunts” was; and now I know: The Oubliette. Don't say Big Brother doesn't teach you anything.
Ife: A professional dancer who lives with her adoptive parents and fiancee. Ife is not religious but believes in God and prays to him in her own way. Expect this to be indulged by all the other housemates, who will also row vociferously with Dave as soon as he shows any concession to his religion. Ife is also bald, a quirk that will, no doubt, be the most interesting thing about her.
John James: A 24 year old Australian who is a retired vehicle body builder. That sentence makes no sense to me either, but it does make me hate him. As a young man he changed his name to Achillies or chills to his mates. He had change it back though, as they, presumably, kept pronouncing it “dick”. John's dream is to have daring people and hot girls in the house, I think he may have confused Big Brother with Charlie's Angels..
Sunshine: A posh young lady who's clueless demeanour belies her moniker. She, frighteningly, claims to be a medical student, but also believes her car is powered by fairy dust. She has gone on Big Brother to prove that beauty and brains do mix. It's a well known fact that beauty and brains do mix as there are millions of beautiful, intelligent woman in the world. Most of them don't, however, apply for Big Brother. Something Sunshine should think about.
Corin: Our second lookalike of the evening sees Corin, as a Jordan look alike from 10 years in the future. Corin is exactly the sort of person you expect has auditioned for every Big Brother series ever. According to her Big Brother Bio she “is always tanned, dyes her beauty spots and uses hair pieces.” It would annoy her if there were better looking girls in the house, but surely, as she's hidden underneath all that, how would we know? Also claims to dislike posh, arrogant people who 'turn their noses up at others' which you can take to read as: dislikes posh people.
Mario: Unfortunately, not the really rather brilliant lunatic that brightened up Big Brother 9. But a person who, this time, is actually called Mario. Mario was chosen randomly by Big Brother and had to enter the house on a secret mission dressed as a mole. A fact not lost on Sunshine, who showed her intelligence by spotting this almost straight away.
So there you are. All 14 housemates for the final ever series of Big Brother ever, until it gets remade on Channel 5. I forgive you if you feel you've seen them all before, because with the raft of reality shows on TV over the last decade, you probably have actually seen them all before. I will be watching, but I long ago lost the will to better myself. I'll see you at the Rapture, I doubt I'll get in.
Friday 18 June 2010
Why the World Cup is good.
The World Cup, eh? What are you going to do? The biggest sporting event on Earth is here, and, try as you might, you simply can't avoid it. Much like herpes it's back after four years to see men procrastinate sex, and make woman cry. And I love it. Every time the World Cup comes around you get the same naysayers peddling the same arguments: it's only a game; there are far more important things in the world; it takes away money the government could use elsewhere; vuvuzelas are shit. Well, stop it. All but that last argument are bollocks, and you know it. The World Cup is being held in South Africa and this was a controversial decision before we realised what vuvuzelas sound like. This is an opportunity for South Africa to show the World just how far it has come since Mandela was released. To marginalise football as trivial compared to some of Africa's, obviously, larger problems is not entirely fair; this is an opportunity for people all over the world to be privy to the side of the Rainbow Nation we never see.
Unlike Europe, Africa will be united at the World Cup, they will go into the tournament as a mutually consenting force, each cheering on each others victories and each mourning each others setbacks. This is exemplified by the so called 'African six pack' comprising South Africa, Ivory Cost, Ghana, Cameroon, Nigeria and Algeria. They will all be the home nation for this tournament, all proudly wearing the banner of South Africa for the next month. If France or Germany had attempted to coerce Europe in this way in 1998 or 2006, there wouldn't be a Europe left. But the benefits of this tournament far outweigh the blurring of Nationalistic pride- Football is huge in Africa. For many African's it is their only escape from their day to day struggles, indeed, many young Africans see an escape into football as their only chance to escape poverty. Young footballers could be a lucrative export for South Africa, and one only has to look at the beyond commendable efforts of Didier Drogba to realise what an asset to the country a successful world footballer can have. However, the current state of African football academies is exploited by European Countries in what Sepp Blatter called “social and economic rape” with a majority of teenage footballers exploited by unscrupulous agents and illegal academies. A well run world cup could help to change all of this. The interest in African football will never have been at a greater high and if the African authorities can organise a professional, exciting world cup then investment into African football from FIFA could easily become a world wide agenda, and help make sure their “Win in Africa, with Africa” slogan, is not just a slogan. Renewed investment could help create a viable academy system and allow South Africa to get fair compensation for exporting their young footballers. There will always be debate over the validity of investment into stadiums over public services, but the triumph of this world cup would be both economic and symbolic. While it will, undoubtedly, bring millions in from tourism, it could be the moment people look at, years from now, when Africa is a footballing powerhouse, and say “that is when it all changed” and isn't that something worth cheering? They could also make vuvuzelas popular, but I doubt it.
Unlike Europe, Africa will be united at the World Cup, they will go into the tournament as a mutually consenting force, each cheering on each others victories and each mourning each others setbacks. This is exemplified by the so called 'African six pack' comprising South Africa, Ivory Cost, Ghana, Cameroon, Nigeria and Algeria. They will all be the home nation for this tournament, all proudly wearing the banner of South Africa for the next month. If France or Germany had attempted to coerce Europe in this way in 1998 or 2006, there wouldn't be a Europe left. But the benefits of this tournament far outweigh the blurring of Nationalistic pride- Football is huge in Africa. For many African's it is their only escape from their day to day struggles, indeed, many young Africans see an escape into football as their only chance to escape poverty. Young footballers could be a lucrative export for South Africa, and one only has to look at the beyond commendable efforts of Didier Drogba to realise what an asset to the country a successful world footballer can have. However, the current state of African football academies is exploited by European Countries in what Sepp Blatter called “social and economic rape” with a majority of teenage footballers exploited by unscrupulous agents and illegal academies. A well run world cup could help to change all of this. The interest in African football will never have been at a greater high and if the African authorities can organise a professional, exciting world cup then investment into African football from FIFA could easily become a world wide agenda, and help make sure their “Win in Africa, with Africa” slogan, is not just a slogan. Renewed investment could help create a viable academy system and allow South Africa to get fair compensation for exporting their young footballers. There will always be debate over the validity of investment into stadiums over public services, but the triumph of this world cup would be both economic and symbolic. While it will, undoubtedly, bring millions in from tourism, it could be the moment people look at, years from now, when Africa is a footballing powerhouse, and say “that is when it all changed” and isn't that something worth cheering? They could also make vuvuzelas popular, but I doubt it.
Wednesday 9 June 2010
I love you but we only have 14 hours to save the earth!
It's almost time for the summer blockbuster season, and we all know what that means: skin cancer, gratuitous lady bumps and shitty barbecues. But, more importantly, lots and lots of sub-par action movies! Yay. We can all forget about the recession, global warming and Britain's continued decline into nation of call-centres, and enjoy some popcorn- life is good. However, on discovering that you can now purchase alcohol in Vue cinemas (I'm assuming this was made a prerequisite after the last Ricky Gervais film) I've decided to help make your cinema going experience much more enjoyable. You can forget surround sound and Imax, this is the true revolution of the interactive cinema going experience- The movie cliché drinking game! Yes, as our cinema screens fill with frame after frame of tried, rehashed movie ideas, lame, uninspiring dialogue and hundreds of generic plot twists (usually starring Mark Wahlberg and directed by M Night Shymalan- I still haven't forgiven them for The Happening.) we can all sit back and make their predictable antics that much easier to take: by plying ourselves with alcohol. So sit back, line up some shots and get ready to get buzzed; in, what I'm calling, Jar Wars.
1.Cool guys don't look at explosions: The ultimate in cinema cliché. The mack daddy of them all, and something we all only realised thanks to Andy Samberg, but pretended we knew about it anyway. In the summer of dire blockbusters there will inevitably be at least one film were our hard ass hero – who no doubt has a heart of gold underneath that gruff exterior- walks calmly away from the 12 pounds of TNT he has detonated, that sends a building to it's knees, and, even though the seismic force of the explosion is able to shatter windows all around our wannabe John McClaine, his hair isn't even ruffled. Take that physics. Take one drink this happens, two if it happens to be a former wrestler doing the walking away.
2.Nobody calls me chicken: Yes, it's the ultimate in cool guy trash talk. When words aren't getting the job done, simply revert to the go-to cool guy fighting manoeuvre: The walk away sightly, turn around and punch! The scene usually begins with our grizzled hero trying to suppress his unstoppable rage during a slanging match with some unscrupulous bastard. Then, just as our boy tries to be the bigger man by walking away, the aforementioned bastard says something to push him over the edge, something like “Oh yeah, I heard your mum smells of eggy farts” (I'm paraphrasing, of course) causing our would be Steve McQueen to stop in his tracks turn around and sock the sucker into next week! It wasn't cool when Michael J Fox did it in Back to the future part2, so it certainly isn't cool now. Another drink if this cliché occurs, make it two if the hero retorts with a line of snappy dialogue.
3.I'm too old for this shit: A popular movie cliché that, although uttered numerous times by the character portrayed on-screen, is never used by the actors who play them when offered the role. And, rather than settling into their Autumnal years with a range of self parodying roles, before accepting old age gracefully and winning an Oscar on the back of a low budget film where they spend most of the film staring blankly to the camera, they, instead, don a fedora and whip and piss all over our childhood memories. Interestingly, although our ageing Robert Redford will utter this phrase about chasing criminals, operating stakeouts or detailed police investigation (basically anything that involves paperwork) never once have they uttered the phrase when presented with the chance to hop into bed with the nubile 22 year old model, who is inexplicably cast as their love interest. Drink one drink every time an over 50's action hero uses this phrase. If in the unlikely event they do refuse casual sex with co-star young enough to be their granddaughter, you have my permission to use hard drugs, but only once.
4.The black dude dies first: Actually no, he doesn't. Unless you're watching Amistad, or a documentary set anywhere, any time before the 21st century, which says more about our collective failure as the dominant species of the planet than about our horror films. In purely horror movie terms, however, then no, the black dude doesn't die first. This non- cliché only came to prominence after it was mentioned in Scream when, ironically, this very line of dialogue became cliché, after it was then repeated to nauseating effect in every teen movie ever made. In horror movies the first person to die was almost ubiquitously a slutty teenage girl. In fact the only Friday the 13th movies where a black character is the first to die is Jason goes to Hell:The final Friday when Jason possesses Phil the coroner. And as nobody wants to remember Jason goes to Hell, we can rule this one out. Drink one drink every time you hear this line. Two drinks if the actor playing the character is a would-be stand up comedian. Three drinks if the movie was made pre-2003 and you've heard nor seen from the stand up comedian since.
5.Alan Rickman: Just Alan Rickman. In everything. Drink steadily for the entire length of time he appears on screen.
6.Don't tell me how to raise my kids: If earth is ever threatened by impending doom, be it an Alien Invasion, some kind of thermo-nuclear disaster or a Godzillaesque monster, then you had better hope that you're not a divorced dad of two looking after his kids for the weekend, as, for some reason, the onus to save all humanity will fall on you. Despite the fact there will be thousands of people caught up in the impending apocalypse, both more interesting and dynamic, the film will inevitably follow the story of some drippy, washed-up fathers for justice reject, just trying to understand his kids better. The fact that all of humanity has to be almost wiped out for him to do so is a damming indictment on his abilities as a Father, and is a point lost on Steven Speilberg. To be honest, they'd be better off with the all American step dad we're introduced to at the beginning of the film, and encouraged to hate on no stronger recommendation than his cheekbones. If there does happen to be children involved in a shameless attempt to make you care for the characters in a way the writing can't, then take one drink for each child and an additional drink if they have a lisp or some other quirk.
7.My kids are in there: Sticking to the theme of kids for the time being, then I'd like to draw your attention to another of their annoying idiosyncrasies. At some point in the film(usually when fleeing from the aforementioned Alien/Storm/Monster) The child will drop some sort of toy or heirloom and go back to collect it, cheerfully ignoring the threat at hand, despite the fact they've spent the previous hour screaming in abject terror at whatever happens to be chasing them. Thus leaving Tom Cruise to pull his best I'm not mental I'm a caring dad face, and run back to save them even though he will throw the whole rescue operation into danger. I say, fuck them, let them get eaten. They've let themselves down and they've let you down. Plus, they'll only hamper our attempts to later repopulate the earth by passing on the stupid gene into our DNA anyway, so you might as well let them get eaten. Drink one drink for each child that this happens to. If they do happen to taken by the monster/caught in an avalanche/abducted then please allow yourself another, celebratory, drink.
8.Eureaka!: Just as all looks finished, when all hope is extinguished and humanity is gearing itself up for an age where we harvested as mere batteries for our new robo-alien overlords, salvation strikes! Our hero is able to gain divine inspiration from a seemingly useless non-sequitur: a woman sneezing, a man spilling coke over himself, a dog shitting a table leg in a field of cheese (okay, I might have made that one up). Our chiselled Jeff Goldblum is then able to relate this curious act of innocuousness back to the previously unsolvable equation that had flummoxed the greatest minds, algorithms and computer systems that NASA could provide, presumably because no one working there ever GOES OUTSIDE. Drink one drink for the act of inspiration itself, and further drinks for just how implausible/tenuous the link back to the plot actually is.
9.God bless you, Mr President: In the vast majority of Hollywood made, ILM powered super movies, the president is king. The American president is often depicted as a super cool, suave, possibly African American, buff shagmeister. The rest of the world's leaders are portrayed as hapless, naval gazing morons who spend much of their time picking their bums with a spoon. This is clearly unrepresentative of real life, erm.. Anyhow, as the film progresses it becomes inevitable that the only way the world can save itself is if the president strips down to his misleadingly buff torso and fight whatever alien/robot/tornado happens to be at hand, all by himself. Possibly with his cock. This leads to a fist biting epilogue in which America and it's values is agreed as the definitive law of all time and space and I, with a spectacular disregard for anatomy, vomit my brain out of my arse. Drink constantly until you are sick. It will only hasten the inevitable death of your brain cells anyway, and alcohol abuse is a far humane way to go about it.
10.I'll deal with my problems in my own way: If we happen to be watching a sequel, or a particularly gritty Steven Segal film, then it's entirely possible that our grizzled anti-anti-hero will be deep in the throws of addiction, usually heroin, or alcohol. However, rather than sleeping in pools of his own watery shit under a bridge while offering blow jobs to compensating middle-aged business men in desperate effort to get his next fix, our hero simply dresses a bit grungy and grows a cool beard. This is a usually a ham fisted attempt at symbolising a deep inner turmoil such as the death of their daughter, or that one time at band camp. What you never see is a would be Will Smith, hopelessly in the throes of an internet porn addiction, who, just as he is needed to hack in to the pentagon, has logged on to red tube and is thrashing away to two girls one cup, at exactly the same time the Russian's bomb detonates, all the while screaming "It's ok, windows 7 and protected browsing was my idea." I don't know the plot to independence Day 2, but that's out there now. Whatever addiction plagues our hero I suggest you follow suit, as a full blown addiction will probably make the loss of the next 120 minutes of your life slightly easier to bear, and will be a good talking point when you appear on Jeremy Kyle.
So there you go, I do have explain that this is merely a suggestion and if anyone is injured following these rules (either through alcohol consumption, or the sheer mind-numbing inanity of the films themselves) I can in no way be held accountable. However, I do bid you adieu, as I go forth, drink in hand, to watch Russell Crowe mumble his way through Robin Hood. Happy Watchin'!
1.Cool guys don't look at explosions: The ultimate in cinema cliché. The mack daddy of them all, and something we all only realised thanks to Andy Samberg, but pretended we knew about it anyway. In the summer of dire blockbusters there will inevitably be at least one film were our hard ass hero – who no doubt has a heart of gold underneath that gruff exterior- walks calmly away from the 12 pounds of TNT he has detonated, that sends a building to it's knees, and, even though the seismic force of the explosion is able to shatter windows all around our wannabe John McClaine, his hair isn't even ruffled. Take that physics. Take one drink this happens, two if it happens to be a former wrestler doing the walking away.
2.Nobody calls me chicken: Yes, it's the ultimate in cool guy trash talk. When words aren't getting the job done, simply revert to the go-to cool guy fighting manoeuvre: The walk away sightly, turn around and punch! The scene usually begins with our grizzled hero trying to suppress his unstoppable rage during a slanging match with some unscrupulous bastard. Then, just as our boy tries to be the bigger man by walking away, the aforementioned bastard says something to push him over the edge, something like “Oh yeah, I heard your mum smells of eggy farts” (I'm paraphrasing, of course) causing our would be Steve McQueen to stop in his tracks turn around and sock the sucker into next week! It wasn't cool when Michael J Fox did it in Back to the future part2, so it certainly isn't cool now. Another drink if this cliché occurs, make it two if the hero retorts with a line of snappy dialogue.
3.I'm too old for this shit: A popular movie cliché that, although uttered numerous times by the character portrayed on-screen, is never used by the actors who play them when offered the role. And, rather than settling into their Autumnal years with a range of self parodying roles, before accepting old age gracefully and winning an Oscar on the back of a low budget film where they spend most of the film staring blankly to the camera, they, instead, don a fedora and whip and piss all over our childhood memories. Interestingly, although our ageing Robert Redford will utter this phrase about chasing criminals, operating stakeouts or detailed police investigation (basically anything that involves paperwork) never once have they uttered the phrase when presented with the chance to hop into bed with the nubile 22 year old model, who is inexplicably cast as their love interest. Drink one drink every time an over 50's action hero uses this phrase. If in the unlikely event they do refuse casual sex with co-star young enough to be their granddaughter, you have my permission to use hard drugs, but only once.
4.The black dude dies first: Actually no, he doesn't. Unless you're watching Amistad, or a documentary set anywhere, any time before the 21st century, which says more about our collective failure as the dominant species of the planet than about our horror films. In purely horror movie terms, however, then no, the black dude doesn't die first. This non- cliché only came to prominence after it was mentioned in Scream when, ironically, this very line of dialogue became cliché, after it was then repeated to nauseating effect in every teen movie ever made. In horror movies the first person to die was almost ubiquitously a slutty teenage girl. In fact the only Friday the 13th movies where a black character is the first to die is Jason goes to Hell:The final Friday when Jason possesses Phil the coroner. And as nobody wants to remember Jason goes to Hell, we can rule this one out. Drink one drink every time you hear this line. Two drinks if the actor playing the character is a would-be stand up comedian. Three drinks if the movie was made pre-2003 and you've heard nor seen from the stand up comedian since.
5.Alan Rickman: Just Alan Rickman. In everything. Drink steadily for the entire length of time he appears on screen.
6.Don't tell me how to raise my kids: If earth is ever threatened by impending doom, be it an Alien Invasion, some kind of thermo-nuclear disaster or a Godzillaesque monster, then you had better hope that you're not a divorced dad of two looking after his kids for the weekend, as, for some reason, the onus to save all humanity will fall on you. Despite the fact there will be thousands of people caught up in the impending apocalypse, both more interesting and dynamic, the film will inevitably follow the story of some drippy, washed-up fathers for justice reject, just trying to understand his kids better. The fact that all of humanity has to be almost wiped out for him to do so is a damming indictment on his abilities as a Father, and is a point lost on Steven Speilberg. To be honest, they'd be better off with the all American step dad we're introduced to at the beginning of the film, and encouraged to hate on no stronger recommendation than his cheekbones. If there does happen to be children involved in a shameless attempt to make you care for the characters in a way the writing can't, then take one drink for each child and an additional drink if they have a lisp or some other quirk.
7.My kids are in there: Sticking to the theme of kids for the time being, then I'd like to draw your attention to another of their annoying idiosyncrasies. At some point in the film(usually when fleeing from the aforementioned Alien/Storm/Monster) The child will drop some sort of toy or heirloom and go back to collect it, cheerfully ignoring the threat at hand, despite the fact they've spent the previous hour screaming in abject terror at whatever happens to be chasing them. Thus leaving Tom Cruise to pull his best I'm not mental I'm a caring dad face, and run back to save them even though he will throw the whole rescue operation into danger. I say, fuck them, let them get eaten. They've let themselves down and they've let you down. Plus, they'll only hamper our attempts to later repopulate the earth by passing on the stupid gene into our DNA anyway, so you might as well let them get eaten. Drink one drink for each child that this happens to. If they do happen to taken by the monster/caught in an avalanche/abducted then please allow yourself another, celebratory, drink.
8.Eureaka!: Just as all looks finished, when all hope is extinguished and humanity is gearing itself up for an age where we harvested as mere batteries for our new robo-alien overlords, salvation strikes! Our hero is able to gain divine inspiration from a seemingly useless non-sequitur: a woman sneezing, a man spilling coke over himself, a dog shitting a table leg in a field of cheese (okay, I might have made that one up). Our chiselled Jeff Goldblum is then able to relate this curious act of innocuousness back to the previously unsolvable equation that had flummoxed the greatest minds, algorithms and computer systems that NASA could provide, presumably because no one working there ever GOES OUTSIDE. Drink one drink for the act of inspiration itself, and further drinks for just how implausible/tenuous the link back to the plot actually is.
9.God bless you, Mr President: In the vast majority of Hollywood made, ILM powered super movies, the president is king. The American president is often depicted as a super cool, suave, possibly African American, buff shagmeister. The rest of the world's leaders are portrayed as hapless, naval gazing morons who spend much of their time picking their bums with a spoon. This is clearly unrepresentative of real life, erm.. Anyhow, as the film progresses it becomes inevitable that the only way the world can save itself is if the president strips down to his misleadingly buff torso and fight whatever alien/robot/tornado happens to be at hand, all by himself. Possibly with his cock. This leads to a fist biting epilogue in which America and it's values is agreed as the definitive law of all time and space and I, with a spectacular disregard for anatomy, vomit my brain out of my arse. Drink constantly until you are sick. It will only hasten the inevitable death of your brain cells anyway, and alcohol abuse is a far humane way to go about it.
10.I'll deal with my problems in my own way: If we happen to be watching a sequel, or a particularly gritty Steven Segal film, then it's entirely possible that our grizzled anti-anti-hero will be deep in the throws of addiction, usually heroin, or alcohol. However, rather than sleeping in pools of his own watery shit under a bridge while offering blow jobs to compensating middle-aged business men in desperate effort to get his next fix, our hero simply dresses a bit grungy and grows a cool beard. This is a usually a ham fisted attempt at symbolising a deep inner turmoil such as the death of their daughter, or that one time at band camp. What you never see is a would be Will Smith, hopelessly in the throes of an internet porn addiction, who, just as he is needed to hack in to the pentagon, has logged on to red tube and is thrashing away to two girls one cup, at exactly the same time the Russian's bomb detonates, all the while screaming "It's ok, windows 7 and protected browsing was my idea." I don't know the plot to independence Day 2, but that's out there now. Whatever addiction plagues our hero I suggest you follow suit, as a full blown addiction will probably make the loss of the next 120 minutes of your life slightly easier to bear, and will be a good talking point when you appear on Jeremy Kyle.
So there you go, I do have explain that this is merely a suggestion and if anyone is injured following these rules (either through alcohol consumption, or the sheer mind-numbing inanity of the films themselves) I can in no way be held accountable. However, I do bid you adieu, as I go forth, drink in hand, to watch Russell Crowe mumble his way through Robin Hood. Happy Watchin'!
Friday 16 April 2010
Politics for kicks.
This week British politics followed America's lead, once again, and staged it's first televised leadership debate. Yes, British politics was dragged kicking and screaming into the twentieth century, even though it's the middle of 2010, by utalising the magic talking box that's been around for about 300 years. By this rate MP's should be uploading funny clips of themselves onto you tube by about 2050. But, despite this radical step forward for British politics and radical step backward for live TV, there was only one question on everybody's lips this week “ What the fuck has Charlie Brooker done to his hair? It looks like he bought all the hair Simon Amstell had left over when he styled his head wig into a similarly detestable fop, and weaved it into the garishly trendy poncecap you see before you. With Charlie Brookers new hair making him look 20 years younger and 50 times more of a cunt, one was forced to pay attention to the antics of Larry, Curly and Moe (or David, Gordan and Nick, as they are now known) as the curtain raised on the first of their 3 live performances, or the triumvirate of shit, as it's not nearly referred to enough. By general consensus the night belonged to Harpo Marx, or, to use his pseudonym, Nick Clegg, for speaking in public for the first time. Although his performance was rather good, his performance in the polls is a bit misleading as he scored most of his points simply by not being Brown or Cameron. Indeed, the Lib Dems could, conceivably, have stood Bertie Bassett on stage and people would have voted against Gordan and David because they “weren't nearly made of enough liqourice” By all accounts Brown came across as solid and dull, while Cameron was disappointing, or at least as disappointing as someone could be when you expect the to turn up and simply imitate Blair. The whole thing began to resemble a surreal live game of rock, paper, sissors with the three leaders, simply, cancelling each other out. The good thing to come from this is that Britain is now a three party country- and not one of them can explain their proposed spending. See, democrazy works!
Friday 29 January 2010
Why don't you? I'm saving kids TV - for us all!
Ola! Do you know what this blog needs? Pictures of Shakira naked? Yes, we all need that. But, despite sending her numerous handwritten letters, samples of my own blood, and pictures of my toes with her name written on them in jam, they are still forthcoming. However while we all wait for the lady who is surely the image in which god created eve to let us glimpse her Eden, we will have to content ourselves with this:
How did they get away with that? That's brilliant and it's real, unlike that rainbow parody that litters the net and the urban myth that Captain Pugwash actually had characters called Master Bates, and Roger the Cabin Boy. I think all Children's TV shows should go in this direction and include all manner of smutty innuendo to help keep parents, and early developers, rich in chuckles. It's not a bad thing as 1.)It's Prince not Michael Jackson, so it could have been worse. 2.) The joke goes over the Children's heads anyway, I saw every episode of Animaniacs and didn't twig, and I love smut. And finally 3.) It's funny. The unexpected joke is always funny. Which is why, no matter how high brow you are, you will, at some point in your life, have found a fart hilarious. It's genetic. I propose a quota: A mandatory three innuendos per episode, then parents will have reason not to tear their eyes out while trying to comprehend In the Night Garden (which, by the way, is awesome.) and kids will have something to look back on when they're 20 somethings; using whatever frightening mind powered medium we will have evolved to and say “How on earth did they get away with that?” It's fun to do, I enjoyed the clip above, and so did you. Why deny them that pleasure? We're fucking everything else up for them we could at least give them this. They can't look back on the Teletubbies and say “how did they get away with that?” because the inevitable response would be “because it's shit, it doesn't make sense, the purple one is offensive to gays and the baby in the sun is just creepy.” So for the sake of our kids, let them partake – Let's give them smut!
How did they get away with that? That's brilliant and it's real, unlike that rainbow parody that litters the net and the urban myth that Captain Pugwash actually had characters called Master Bates, and Roger the Cabin Boy. I think all Children's TV shows should go in this direction and include all manner of smutty innuendo to help keep parents, and early developers, rich in chuckles. It's not a bad thing as 1.)It's Prince not Michael Jackson, so it could have been worse. 2.) The joke goes over the Children's heads anyway, I saw every episode of Animaniacs and didn't twig, and I love smut. And finally 3.) It's funny. The unexpected joke is always funny. Which is why, no matter how high brow you are, you will, at some point in your life, have found a fart hilarious. It's genetic. I propose a quota: A mandatory three innuendos per episode, then parents will have reason not to tear their eyes out while trying to comprehend In the Night Garden (which, by the way, is awesome.) and kids will have something to look back on when they're 20 somethings; using whatever frightening mind powered medium we will have evolved to and say “How on earth did they get away with that?” It's fun to do, I enjoyed the clip above, and so did you. Why deny them that pleasure? We're fucking everything else up for them we could at least give them this. They can't look back on the Teletubbies and say “how did they get away with that?” because the inevitable response would be “because it's shit, it doesn't make sense, the purple one is offensive to gays and the baby in the sun is just creepy.” So for the sake of our kids, let them partake – Let's give them smut!
Tuesday 5 January 2010
The future is now!!
It's 2010 at last! this is good for a number of reasons: first, we no longer have to stomach pissed up ladies on their hen night screaming "It's the noughties! Wooo!" like it's some hellish Orwellian nightmare decade, where everyone is forced into self-conciously wacky fun, due simply to an unfortunate homophone, before downing sambuca and crying. Second, Back To The future part 2 was set in 2015, so we can expect hover boots in the next 5 years (as everyone knows Back to The Future was a series of documentaries) and third, due to the twenty year gap needed for kitsch appeal (the 70's in the 90's, the 80's last decade) the 90's will become fashionable again towards the end of the decade, which means my knowledge of Oasis and Men Behaving Badly and collection of worn out linen shirts will garner me some retro cool. Excellent. So to celebrate the oncoming seismic change in taste and fashion, ITV have decided to take us back to the 70's through it's bizzarely out of place new game show- "Take Me Out." A spectacularly dated piece of Saturday night fluffutainment where single men have to prove themselves to a panel of what appears to be 300 or so women, before being rejected purely for their looks. The show is hosted by Ginsters spokesman and professional friend of Peter Kay's, Patrick "Paddy" Macguiness whose complete lack of charm is depressingly apt. The show is brazenly sexist in a way television only dares to be towards men, and will no doubt be dismissed as just a laugh in the shows numerous press releases, but the whole thing feels oddly flat, and no amount of staged whooping and northen accents can inject any life into proceedings. The show, I feel, is supposed to resemble a kind of hen night, where random men will have a bit of dance, while the girls merrily laugh their heads off. However, the flat tone, vacant stares of the contestants, and Macguiness's turn as a savoury Willy Wonka, mean the whole thing more closely resembles a kind of televised brothel- where, instead of men paying for prostitutes, the whores simply choose the most pathetic specimen of masculinity they are presented with, before taking them backstage to humiliate them and laugh at their genitals. They might as well just go the whole hog and replace the women with snipers who simply shoot the men they don't like, at least that would put them out of their misery quicker and might actually be more fun. It's the way TV is going anyway. Roll on 2020, I'm sick of this decade already.
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