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.
Friday, 18 June 2010
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.
Monday, 28 December 2009
Modern life is rubbish.
Society is hard. I'm using society as a verb, not a noun or an adjective as I genuinely feel it's a doing word. I did attempt to conjugate the verb societing or societe, as in “quick everyone- societe now!” and we would all conform to the mundane bullshit game we play everyday, just so everyone else thinks we are getting by, even though in their heads they are just as depressed and fed up of it all as you. So I use society as a verb, it means to conform to the imposed pretending in your head. Try it, it works,
“What are you doing today?”
“I'm society”
O.k, maybe it doesn't. But my point remains. It's hard just existing, simply getting from the moment you wake up and coming full circle to go to sleep is an achievement. Which is why I can't understand people who actually want babies! How can you be so confident in your ability to be a person that, not only do you feel you've mastered the art of being a functioning member of society, but you can actually teach other people to be one? It's astounding to me. When ever I go out and attempt to society it's a futile and laborious attempt at co-existing with other human beings that invariably ends with me curled in foetal position humming the theme tune to gummi bears at the back of a bus. People should take more care when having children- some people seem to put less thought into the decision to procreate, than I do over what breakfast cereal to eat. Living is hard, trust me I've tried I've failed. We shouldn't subject this onto infantile beings unless we have actual physical barometers of success at society, like butlers and jet ski's. Spiritual success won't cut it I'm afraid, you may have reached the spiritual plateau of nirvana, but it's still not as good as a wii, and you know it. The only hope for us all now is we, as a nation, collectively give up and allow ourselves to be adopted by Angelina Jolie and live in her rainbow house of joy while she farts sunshine. That or you could join me at the back of the bus.
“What are you doing today?”
“I'm society”
O.k, maybe it doesn't. But my point remains. It's hard just existing, simply getting from the moment you wake up and coming full circle to go to sleep is an achievement. Which is why I can't understand people who actually want babies! How can you be so confident in your ability to be a person that, not only do you feel you've mastered the art of being a functioning member of society, but you can actually teach other people to be one? It's astounding to me. When ever I go out and attempt to society it's a futile and laborious attempt at co-existing with other human beings that invariably ends with me curled in foetal position humming the theme tune to gummi bears at the back of a bus. People should take more care when having children- some people seem to put less thought into the decision to procreate, than I do over what breakfast cereal to eat. Living is hard, trust me I've tried I've failed. We shouldn't subject this onto infantile beings unless we have actual physical barometers of success at society, like butlers and jet ski's. Spiritual success won't cut it I'm afraid, you may have reached the spiritual plateau of nirvana, but it's still not as good as a wii, and you know it. The only hope for us all now is we, as a nation, collectively give up and allow ourselves to be adopted by Angelina Jolie and live in her rainbow house of joy while she farts sunshine. That or you could join me at the back of the bus.
Tuesday, 29 September 2009
The Alan Sugababes
The Sugababes are back, except they're not. But they are. If you hadn't heard the Sugababes have gone and sacked founding member Keisha Buchanan. “That's not unusual” I hear you cry, “the Sugababes always replace members” well, yes. But this time it's different; Keisha was the only original member left in the band she formed, over ten years ago, with Mutya and some other girl no one really remembers, but she wasn't Heidi, which matters all of a sudden. This is brilliant because it has opened up all manner of debate over the authenticity of pop music, and has seen some brilliant hand wringing from muso types harping on how music has 'no soul' and that as it was Keisha's band they should quit- The Sugababes have become a soulless corporate production with an endless treadmill of desperate wannabes, kind of like The Apprentice. I don't agree with any of this. I think it's ace. Pop music has never been authentic – Pat Boon sang Little Richard records and Elvis had blonde hair! All that's happened is that 3 reasonably pretty girls with nice voices have replaced three less reasonably pretty girls with nice voices, it's not the end of the world. It's only a name, if Mika was Mika by any other name would he still be as shit? Yes. Names are meaningless, and the fact they have kept the Sugabaes name only means it will be much easier to search for any new songs they produce on Spotify. Far from being the final corporate nail in the music industry, I think we should embrace this as the next evolution in how the public digests music. For instance, there's too many bands as there is, who can really tell the difference between Fall Out Boy and Panic at the Disco? No one, not even their mums. We should turn music into a league based competition like football. Each Genre of music should have a league table with 12 bands who then go head to head over a season with results based on downloads and sales and number of tracks released, this way everyone gets to keep up with music as it's the same bands, there's far less copycat acts producing mindless disco-pap and music becomes generally interesting again as you support your band over everyone elses. You could even introduce transfer windows- imagine in the off season: “Following the disappointment of their last Album U2 have signed Jay Z! Or: “In an effort to combat accusations that their play is boring Coldplay have signed funk master Prince!” It would be awesome,and you know it. And we should thank the Sugababes, whatever Jayne, Deborah and Mary make them up.
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