House78’s Weblog

Seven random pieces of arse

November 17, 2009 · 1 Comment

There is no rhyme or reason to this.  I just thought I should write a blog, as its been a while.  I coudlnt even be arsed writing 10 random points though.  Just 7.

  1. I want to be good at golf and ten-pin bowling. I am good at neither.  I get beat by girls at TPB and am far worse than anyone I know at golf.  And I had some lessons. Ok I wasn’t one-on-one with Nick Faldo for hours on end but they were lessons none the less.  Ok he was a diabetic who had a hypo during one of the lessons.  But he did remind me a bit of David Lloyd and that’s no bad thing in my book.
  2. I want to solve a mystery.  A proper mystery where other people have tried and failed and people are sure it can’t be solved.  Holmes, Morse, Columbo, Creek and House: they’re my heroes in this realm.  There’s not much to this one, just a real proper ambition.
  3. I do a little ‘oh’ when I nearly bump into people.  The kind of noise an old woman might make if she pissed herself at a family meal, and I mean with urine, not with laughter. I don’t like that I do this and I would like to stop, its reflex though and, thus, is like trying not to blink.  But it makes me look like a bit of a nancy, and I’m not: I’m really tough and gritty and most definitely did not cry a little bit when Inspector Morse died.
  4. I am colour-blind.  Technically red-green colour-blind, but its grey/green confusions that tend to end up making me look stupid.  The most famous example is when Brian Clough died and I thought I’d dress in the textbook later years Cloughie look (green jumper with polo shirt underneath).  I continually mentioned being Cloughied up all afternoon.  After about 3 hours of it my mate Al pointed out that I was wearing a grey jumper.  Not only did I have the realisation that I looked like a twat for having the wrong colour top on, I had been wearing that jumper for 3 years – not continuously, I am not  a hobo – believing I was wearing a green jumper.  No wonder no-one thought I was getting into the spirit of things on St Patricks day.  I mean I wasn’t – I hate the Irish, but that was the only thing I could think of there to do as a gag. 
  5. I want to be good at cryptic crosswords.  I can have a stab at a normal crossword.  Sometimes I can whizz through 90% of the Guardian Quick Crossword.  Yes, you’re right to be impressed at that.  But that’s not enough is it?  I realise you’re being impressed was fake.  I fell for the charade hook, line and sinker.  Thanks – now I feel even worse than I did before at my cryptic deficiencies.  But I want to be good at cryptic ones, that’s how you impress people.  You sit drinking a coffee, or an ale or Guinness if you’re in a pub, and do a cryptic crossword.  But I can’t remember/spot the rules.   I’ve had a few runs at getting them – I’ve even got a few right.  But, its never stuck in there.  Ultimately I think its doomed.  I’m just not meant to be the cryptic crossword guy. I’m stuck being the pub quiz guy.
  6. I would like to be at the forefront (no pre-pun intended) of the queue (pre-pun intended after realising unintended one a second ago) to bring back queues at bus stops.  You can say what you want about the improvement in life quality I feel living in wanky South Manchester as opposed to my upbringing in ‘shit’ Stalybridge, but I’ll tell you (thee) something (somert) for nothing (nowt) the first person at the bus stop was fucking well the first person to get on the bus in Stalybridge (in the days before some fucks started calling it Stalyvegas, not altogether ironically in some quarters which does tell a tale I feel.  Opening a few bars and getting a Tesco does not really equate to Las Vegas now does it?)  But try getting people to follow the basic rules of manners on Oxford Road…you’ve got more chance of the McCanns being asked to babysit.
  7. While we’re having a go at students (that’s what point 6 was – I thought I would put a thin veneer over a direct attack on the wankers that blight my journeys to and from work),  lets get on the bus and get smashed in the head by handbags and rucksacks.  Girls: if you want to carry a bag large enough to fit a deformed head in, fine.  Boys: if you want to keep your rucksack on your back at all times as if you are climbing the north face of the Eiger: fine.  Just remember you are doing so and where the bag is about your person, and treat it as an extension of your body.  But mainly don’t stand there like a fucking retard moving about smacking people in the head with it just because you think you’re the centre of the universe in your stupid cotton shoes and pants half-way down your hips and fucking 1-in-4 hairstyles you fucking twats.

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Phil’s Big 9

June 25, 2009 · Leave a Comment

It’s that time of year again – when I announce my big 9.  The 9 films coming out over the summer and autumn that I am real excited about, I have been doing this since 2009 and it’s a very exciting tradition.  So check out the trailers and bloomin well go and see them and think “wow, Phil was right when he announced his Big 9.  I cant wait until the first Wednesday of Wimbledon fortnight next year, which is traditionally when his Big 9 is released.

 

 

Sci-fi-future-leto-tastic

http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x9f8bz_mr-nobody-trailer_shortfilms

japanese-vampire-priest -mongous

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NNsdBnScQAE&feature=related

genre obeying sci-fi superbness

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pIexG8179K8

american teen comedy-a-o-rama

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4F–nHysJkw

Judd Apatow’s predictable entry

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-oGqZBWQ9Y

A crisp looking offering from Quentin

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oUV-bTqm5ss&eurl=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.slashfilm.com%2F2009%2F06%2F22%2Fnew-inglourious-basterds-footage%2F&feature=player_embedded

because I liked the book, being the gay that I am. And I still have faith in Bana.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=USUDlMBR-dQ

some people have a god, I have a Scorcese

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYVrHkYoY80&feature=fvst

and because it looks shit hot….

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dWof6CovHxI

 

Notable mentions for The Road and Bruno, close – but no cigar.  NB. All films released before the announcement of the Big 9 are ineligible.

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Be Nice People

June 11, 2009 · Leave a Comment

Ok, so lets get one thing very clear. I hate the British National Party. I thought I’d better spell it out as I didn’t want the top brass at Banque Nationale de Paris getting the wrong end of the stick. Because I like people from other countries and don’t want to offend them, although the French are gonna get it if anyone does. So, back to the racists. There’s a bit of an uncomfortable climate at the moment. And I have a few thoughts on it, and I’m going to share them and at points everything I say wont be entirely clear in being anti-them. But I am, there are just few fundamental issues I have.

Primarily, people saying they should be banned or whatever. That’s quite funny really, quite a facist mentally to a right-wing political party. We live in a democracy, we have like free speech and stuff. So, as long as what they say doesn’t break the law they can do what they want cant they? [At this stage a point: how is most of what is said not inspiring racially motivated hate? It’s like what gets them going. But it mustn’t be because the Police aren’t arresting them all every time they open their silly mouths]. The price of free speech is dickheads like this. We could put everyone who doesn’t consent with popular opinion in prison or something but then we know where that all ends In 1984, the book not the actual year. I would like to see the faces of people in 1984 when we all turned up, though. Of course Nick G and his mates would fit in better back then.

So if it needs repeating I’ll repeat it. I hate them, the BNP. I just think they should be allowed to speak their minds. Stupid, tiny, wrong minds that they may be, they should be allowed to speak. The worrying thing is the people who listen is it not? The people turning out last week putting their ticks at the sides of boxes and voting for these people. These are the people to worry about. These are the disillusioned massed who can be turned by a – I refuse to use the word charismatic here, but you know he must be to these people – man telling them everything that is going wrong is the fault of….well we know who they blame everything on. But its these people who fall for the bullshit who are the problem. These are not people with posters of Hitler on their wall, espousing silly things about the holocaust on blogs. They’re normal people who’ve been misled. Ok, and they’re probably racist. But they’re not beyond hope. They’re the same people who fell for New Labour, they’re just the one’s who haven’t got disillusioned and turned to the bigger more acceptable face of the right wing of British Politics.

What I’m saying is, if we can’t convince these people that there is a better option than for voting for the BNP then maybe we are a bit fucked and maybe I’ll move to Chile. I don’t think we are though. I think its got a little bit overblown. It’s more heartening to see the outpouring of hatred for them, than it was disturbing to see their success but its all publicity for them and they’re loving it. I’m not trying to make a pedantic philosophical point regarding a sensitive issue but anti- things are often just what the thing needs. It helps them. I don’t see a day when the Anti-Nazi League are sat around kicking their heals in an office thinking they should call it a day, their existence makes some idiots be the anti-anti-nazis, that’s the nazis for people not following me.

If you stifle a voice you give it some credence with the kind of people who will be attracted to stupid things. The best thing to do with a dissenting voice is let people listen. Just educate beforehand, so they can listen and be all like “what a nob”. If we beat them up or use the media to bully them we’ve sunk to their level. And we don’t need to. Labour should just make a puppy dog their leader. With big eyes. Job done – call election, win election: all hail Prime Minister Scamp.

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Begging You

June 9, 2009 · Leave a Comment

I think the time has come to form some form of agreement with homeless people. I don’t mean one where they get homes – sure that would be great, but they’d only turn it into a drug den wouldn’t they? Plus we all like having them on the streets really. No-one wants to admit it, but no matter whats going on at work or home you can always think “At least I’m not that bearded alky smelling of shit over there (actually that’s just most people, I don’t have that luxury. When I have a beard). No, that’s not the sort of agreement that I’m talking about. I’m talking about some agreement on begging, and when it’s acceptable.

I am fed up of being asked for money when I’m trying to go about my daily routine of ignoring the world and hating the things that inhabit the same planet as me. Don’t get me wrong, I’m very sympathetic (I’m not but you’ve got to say you are haven’t you?) for the plight of anyone who has got to the level where pissing themselves is ‘just another thing I do’. I think its terrible that some people don’t have houses (they’re the ones laughing when its very hot though aren’t they? When I’m tossing and turning in my luxury duvet, throwing my Egyptian cotton sheets off because I’m a bit hot – the homeless man is laughing as he sleeps underneath the stars with a slight breeze cooling him, and taking away the smell of shit a bit. Who is laughing then? Its not me I’ll tell you. I already to struggle to sleep, I’d kill to be in a shop doorway with a bottle of cider and a remarkably healthy looking dog.) and that some people smell when they scrape the money together to get a bus and sit near me. Yes, I hear their pain – but I don’t want to be giving them money every fucking day.

What I’m proposing is not abject ignorance or me being mean. I suggest that for a token sum (£5) you could pay for some kind of arm-band or badge which would denote you as someone who could not be begged (to?at?). The money would go to Microsoft or Apple who could use the money to develop the technology to kill homeless people humanely. Haha! I got you, I’m not that evil. The money could be used for the good of the homeless people. I would suggest the homeless community be allowed to vote on what the money was spent on, but it would just be drugs wouldn’t it? So, best we just build them a shelter. In return they would have to promise to leave people alone who were wearing the badge/arm-band. If they ignored ignoring them they would be banned from the shelter – and maybe get a bit of a kicking.

It’s a great system and would improve my life immensely. Last night I walked the long way home from the chippy becaue I didn’t want to walk past a homeless man again. I had already said no once but I knew he would ask again. The twat. I didn’t say I had no change, which maybe would allow him to ask again once I came out of a shop having maybe obtained some change. I said “no”. So, I walked the long way back to my own house. I bet he would (literally) piss his sides if he knew what he’d put me through. “Haaaa! He has walked the long way home, with his chicken and chips maybe being slightly colder than they would have been had he taken the more direct route past me. Its taken him longer to get home, the prick. Nor to mention the fact that in a way he has walked in my house as I’m homeless so everywhere is my house”. That’s the kind of thinking that leads to people being homeless – his very name means he has no home or house, not that outside is his house. And I wanted my chicken and chips to be a bit colder so up yours.

But seriously what do I have to do to be left alone? Walking around with a scowl on my face doesn’t work (that goes for more than homeless people though, normal people don’t leave me alone either). I need to find something that repels homeless people, maybe I should dress up as a house. Or a job. Or not a drug addiction. The only sensible solution seems to be my scheme, at least they get something out of it.

Wow, managed to get through that without resorting to the cliché about them always begging outside Greggs or an ATM. One last thing though, Big Issue vendors, with your little vests ‘It’s not begging, its working’: I suppose it is kind of working, but its like begging to isn’t it? In the way you’re annoying and people try not to make eye contact with you. And you’re asking people to buy the rubbish paper in an annoying mithering way, rather than waiting to be asked.

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Meeting My Hero and My Enemy

April 30, 2009 · 2 Comments

Everyone has those odd thoughts don’t they? From time to time, you do – come on don’t you? Whether it be ‘how would I manage without the bendability my knees offer my legs?’ or ‘I think I’m going to murder a load of Norfolk-based prostitutes’ we all have them. The one that I often come back to is how I would react if I walked into a room. Let’s rephrase that, as I know how I react when I walk in a room – I think ‘Am I the only one in here? If not how can I (a) get some attention or (b) make me the only person in the room without these selfish not-giving-me-attention-cunts not devouring my every interesting thought and action as though I was a modern day Jesus. What I mean is, how would I react if I looked up and saw me entering a room. A doppelganger, a clone, a replica; my personality, clothes and memories.

Now I often think that 99% of people I’ve ever met are utter cunts and I don’t view myself to favourably about half of the time. So, odds suggest I would take one look at myself and dismiss myself as a strangely familiar, definitely handsome, cunt. (Yeah, I know how accurate). But, seriously how would I handle it? Would you freak out? Would you instantly consider yourself insane? I am sure for one or two people on the planet their version of insane is being absolutely certain that one day an identical being to themself would walk into a room as though it were the most normal thing in the world, and thus this occurring would make all seem right after years of misery and therapy. But I’m not talking about them mad bastards, I’m talking about this mad bastard.

If we got talking (would small talk be necessary?) surely we would get on? Would my sometimes self-loathing manifest itself in loathing this other Phil? I mean I can be pretty annoying, and my voice….have you heard me? It’s not great, that would grate on me surely. I’ve got used to it from inside my head but when I hear it on a video or phone, Jesus – it’s terrible. Then again, when I’m not loathing me I’m pretty much loving me so this could be amazing – a chance to experience the glory of me in full flow from the non-first-person POV, I could just relax and listen to me go on and on about utter shit. Loving every minute of it, ‘what an intelligent and funny fella’ I’d muse.

How long would the love-in last though? It would get a bit weird when he started touching all my/his/our things. I don’t like people touching my stuff. But I like touching my stuff so he’d be doing it. He’d go on my laptop. Mainly not really doing anything, just idly browsing the internet or reading some article he’d maybe read already a few months ago (I’d know because I did, it was a good article – that Kubrick eh?)…I’d start staring him down with my evilest eyes. He’s fucking ignore me the prick (I would – I’d ignore anybody staring at me, the stupider they are the more it winds them up) and I’d start to get wound up to my limits. “Are you fucking finished on there or what you goggle eyed, fat bastard? [I know what winds him up, ha!] I want to go on it”, I’d scream after reaching the end of my tether because newly created twin was using my/his laptop for five minutes. Come on – it’s mine, why shouldn’t I use it? Five minutes later and I’d be picturing smashing his stupid fucking face, American History X-ing my own mouth on the kerb outside and then jumping on my skull until I was dead because he’d used my computer for 5 minutes when I didn’t even really need to use it. At this point other me would realise it was driving me insane, and because I’m not pure evil he’d cede the laptop too me, admittedly begrudgingly and muttering ‘cunt’ under my breath. When I got the laptop I’d not have anything to look at and check my hotmail that I’d checked half an hour ago before looking at the sale section of HMV for the ninth consecutive day.

Let’s cut to the chase: is wanking this clone off masturbation or a homosexual sex act? How long could we both last before one of said it? We’d probably go about 13 minutes before both saying it simultaneously like people do in romcoms before going “no, no, no you say what you have to say, I insist”. At first it would be jokey, but we’d both be intrigued by the idea – and we’d both know the other one was as well. I mean, we both know the instrument intimately- surely we would get one hell of a tune out of the beast? Or more to the point one of us would. Or wouldn’t. No matter what one of us was turning down, neither of us would do the wanking first. “If I’m going to wank someone’s cock, it’s going to be mine now wank me off you downs syndrome looking bastard”, I’d argue to the selfish bastard. But he wouldn’t, because he’s stubborn. And only looks out for number one. Inevitably, we’d retire to separate rooms before angrily committing the act of onanism.

The day went badly. Pertubed by the lack of any sense of kinship I’d shown myself, annoyed by his stupid daft face, sickened by his voice…and yes bloody frustrated that he wouldn’t wank me off, I would creep into the spare room as he slept (at about 5 in the morning, why doesn’t he go to bed at a reasonable time?) and slowly put a pillow to his face and suffocate him. I’m not sure he put up much of a fight, it was half-hearted at best. He is now in a shallow grave. Or is it me?? Ohhhhhhhhhhh Twilight Zone ending! Der-der-der der-der-der.

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Rocky IV – An Essay

April 19, 2009 · Leave a Comment

Let’s get something out of the way, I’m a Rocky Balboa fan. I’m pro-Balboa. I wanted him to win from the first fight I saw him in and I wanted him to win when he fought that guy 56 years younger than him in Rock 6: Balboa. So it is in no way condemning the man, the myth when I share the following thoughts on what was at the time a big favourite of mine. Rocky IV. I just watched it again (what else am I gonna do at 3 in the morning on a Saturday nay Sunday?)

If you need refreshing a bit, this is the one with Dolph Lundgren in it. Yeah, that one. It’s amazing watching the later Rocky films when you’re (a) not eight anymore and (b) haven’t seen them for a while. Rocky is a great film, don’t care what you say – it is. Rocky II, bit of a re-tread but still not too stupid. Rocky III and IV are daft and V and VI try and redress the balance of 80s glam with retreading the grit of Rocky, the former terribly the latter rather more successfully. But I’m here today to talk about Rocky IV.

Apollo Creed, former foe now best mate, wants to fight the monster from the bloc, not J-Lo but Ivan Drago. Rocky is concerned for his mate, suggesting that at 56 Apollo is maybe best shying away from a fight with a nine-foot poster boy for communism with arms like a big muscle-y man’s arms and legs like a big muscle…you get where I’m going with the particularly unimaginative similes here. However, the ego of Creed cannot be held back and he lines up a fight with Drago. Now, I’m not saying anyone deserves to die (I have said that sentence a few times over the last week or so) but Creed’s ring entrance to the bout borders on being over the top, like Josef Fritzl’s parenting borders on being a bit too touchy-feely, and he’s asking to be put on his arse. If not being lethally beaten by a man-machine from Russia. I mean – come on – James Brown is actually there singing with about 30 or 40 dancers while Creed dances into the ring in a big stars-and-stripes hat, waistcoat and a cane (I’m not gonna bother writing spoiler alert before every plot point I describe but if you don’t want to know Apollo Creed dies, and didn’t pick up on the pretty heavy hint, I’d stop reading now).

The fight between Creed and Drago doesn’t last long. They say pride cometh before a fall and for Apollo, it comes before brain death too. At his insistence the corner doesn’t stop the fight and Drago throws the referee across the ring when he tries to stop the fight. He then plonks a good right hook on Apollo’s noggin and he falls to the ground and starts twitching like a fish in a boat, or a Michael Thomas after scoring a League winning goal in 1989 (depends on your field of reference. Probably). Sadly Apollo doesn’t share the healing prowess of the god he was named after (yeah I know my stuff eh? But I am kind of assuming that’s who he was named after, they never went into that particular back story. Maybe he was named after the cinema chain) and dies. One thing I never picked up on, watching this as a child, was that Drago is declared the winner as Apollo lies slowly twitching less and less. Yes, he knocks Creed dead but surely –even in a non-title fight – throwing the referee across the ring is cause for a disqualification. Maybe the decision was overturned – again its a storyline not explored by the film. More shockingly Drago utters the inimitable line “if he dies, he dies” while Creed is being alive for the last few seconds, is anyone that cold (obviously he is, but you get my question). Of course this is only more shocking if you have a humanist type worldview, not if your worldview is primarily concerned with the rules of boxing being followed, if this is you then just read that sentence as ‘Less shockingly Drago utters…etc.

The Creed-Drago stuff is just the pre-amble to the main event though, and of course story wise it gives the Italian Stallion a reason to fight Drago. The writers were clearly running low on ides though and killing off one of the main characters, Mickey, had prolonged Rocky III, and so it was here. If they had just jumped into Rocky defending the Western freedom then it would have only been about an hour long. I say this for it is worth saying this film weighs in at under 90 minutes and it has four, that’s FOUR montages. Not short ones either. I’d say at least fifteen minutes of Montage. A sixth of the film is a montage. Now that’s 80s-ness film making for you in a nutshell. The first of these montages is a (slightly homoerotic) gathering of emotional memories from Rocky as he speeds along in his car at night thinking about vengeance. Well thinking about Apollo so not actually vengeance, its his reason for vengeance. I say its about Apollo but its kind of about Rocky, there’s some bits of him and Adrian in there that are nothing to do with Apollo. The bits of Stallone acting all ‘remembering’ in the studio pretending to be in a car are very much like the bits in Garth Marenghi when he has his monologues whilst driving, almost like it might have been a pastiche.

So Rocky is out of retirement…and announces he will fight Drago on Christmas Day and not be paid anything. What? Who is planning this thing? On what planet is that a good idea? I mean I know people go to the cinema on Christmas in America but…still….for free? It pure pisses Adrian off, she thinks he should have at least got paid, and she’s maybe worried about him dying. And of course he insists on going to a little log cabin with no home comforts at all. It’s at this point that two things happen, the first thing is it seems to stop being about revenge and becomes a USA-RUSSIA thing and the second thing is Russia looks very like you’d imagine some 1980s American film makers would picture it. I’m just suggesting that its bit stereotypical. That’s all. I’m unlikely to get the chance to explore if this is the case. Should I ever get access to a time machine I’m pretty sure, despite many grand ideas, I’d go to sixties London for a longer than necessary (maybe even twice, I could hang about with myself from the first time round – people would just assume we were brothers. Or put it down to a bad bag of LSD) and maybe 1970s Cuba, quickly dash to Dallas 1963 to check out who did bloody do it before going back to 60s London. I’d clean forget about going to 1985 Russia. I may remember the odd night when I was nodding off and think about writing it on the back of my hand so I would remember when I woke up in the morning, but who can find a biro when they need one? So I’d fall asleep, probably have a pretty disturbing dream (I’ve abandoned my life to time travel, remember) and forget all about 1985 Russia.

The heavy montaging covers Rocky’s training. It’s about eight minutes of soft rock – with a quick bit in the middle where Adrian comes to see him to say she’s sorry she was angry at him for going to fight someone who might kill him in Russia (on Christmas Day). But either side of that its Rocky running (in a big bomber jacket)- stubble, Rocky sawing wood- heavy stubble, Rocky chopping down a tree – short beard, Rocky doing chin ups – pretty thick beard, and Rocky lifting up Adrian, Paulie and Apollo’s coach in a horse carriage- still pretty thick beard (facial hair kind of plateaus growth-wise at thick beard). All with John Cafferty’s epic ‘Hearts on Fire’ blaring out. Yes I did have to google that. This is all intercut (still in montage) with Drago training at a state of the art lab, all connected to machines and shit. Like proper futuristic. We even see Rocky climb a literal mountain at the end. Yeah – they used literal imagery, figuratively. And I know Rocky films aren’t about realism, apart from maybe bits of Rocky IIIIV and Rocky IIIIX, but he doesn’t spar with anyone. Come on, what boxer wouldn’t spar before a fight? (Rocky). The montage seems to suggest that chopping a tree with an axe is similar to sparring. I suppose they know more than me.

You think that was a lot of montage – you think there cant be more, but of course the montage is the staple of the Rocky Fight. You see the first couple of rounds and then montage through the rest until you get the last round. But before the montage we get to see the crowd chanting Drago’s name and boo-ing Rocky, the evil westerner. These are a people suppressed by a regime you see, believing their way is best and adoring this product of their technology and training. Fierce, loyal people these communists – they certainly could not be swayed by a small American man mainly being beaten to a pulp. (Yes he does win, but they have already started chanting his name before that). As Drago says “he’s not a man he’s like a piece of iron”, people love a piece of iron it would seem. And so it is, the Russian cannot break the piece of iron and he is defeated by Rocky in the last round – a victory I, for one, never saw coming. And with that comes the fall of communism. Despite being hit in the head very hard every few seconds the sea change of the Russian people (on Christmas day) has been noted by Balboa “During this fight I’ve seen a lot of changes [Cut to Russian Military leader in crowd stroking chin, obviously eradicating an entire ideology from his belief system]..If I can change, you can change….everybody can change”. I was not fucking crying when I typed that and anyone who says I was is a liar.

In many ways Rocky was ahead of its time. And I don’t mean by having a film entirely filled with montages and images filling in for storyline (take that Hollywood!). Indeed I am talking about the fall of communism. Rocky 4 was released six years before the collapse of the Soviet Union. Yes, people will say it was about the breakdown of the Unitarian belief system that holds a people together in a communist state. Yes, the Russian nation had had enough – suppressed as a collective by the suffocating power of an ideology promising much but delivering little. And yes people will say it was a backlash against the tyranny of a beautiful belief system gone rotten that threw down the shackles of the Eastern bloc (and allowed McDonalds and stuff to move in), but is it all too ridiculous to suggest the fourth instalment of, to my mind, the worlds finest heavyweight boxing based film serial had a little something to do with it? When Drago turns to the crowd, frustrated- but not yet beaten – he screams “for me, for me”. He is not fighting for his people, for his flag, for communism..he just wants to win for himself…and so we see that the victory is not in Rocky’s heart, or the people chanting his name but Drago being a big, self-obsessed ego maniac..the American Dream.

Footnote: When Adrian goes to Russia to make-up with Rocky it’s never really explained why she doesn’t bring their son. It’s Christmas he can’t be missing much school. A couple of times we are shown him watching the fight at home with a couple of other boys aged about ten. The only supervision appears to be that big rubbish robot he got bought in Rocky III. I’m sure someone was there, I’m over thinking it. But……and in no way is this over thinking it, after he has delivered his address on ending the cold war he adds something about saying hello to his son who is probably watching past his bedtime and should be in bed. Now I can’t remember precisely if the world was different in 1985 with regards time zones but I haven’t read anything about a big change since. So, why would it be past his son’s bed time? If the fight was in Russia at night it would be daytime in America, at worst it was in the afternoon and his son would have just got up very early. It’s like no-one thought about these things when they were writing this film.

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He’s not the messiah he’s a very wealthy boy

April 3, 2009 · Leave a Comment

One thing hasn’t changed since the interim appointment of Alan Shearer as the new Christ at Newcastle: I still hope they go down. Regardless of his success, or failure, Shearer is a member of the exclusive club of two in Newcastle that means he will still be adored by the toothless, ugly, retarded bastards who populate St James Park on a fortnightly basis. Even though it was likely he could do anything and get away with it (maybe not anything, the Gallowgate faithful might start to slow handclap him off the field if he dragged the rotting skeleton of ‘wor Jackie’ on to the centre circle and proceeded to fuck it like a mule. They might not though), this really is a position in which there is no real failure. Stay up and his legend only multiplies, they go down and it wasn’t his team, he didn’t have enough time and it wasn’t fair. And he’s got a big fucking pile of cash for doing it.

I don’t begrudge Alan Shearer his standing with the Newcastle public. I don’t like them or him so it’s a fitting couple in my mind. Unlike the affable Kevin Keegan, I’ve always been put off by Shearer’s stern front. Much like Kenny Daglish this is supposedly masking a very funny man. My definition of very funny differs it would seem. Very funny to these people seems to entail being (ranging from) quite to very dull and serious but occasionally making a very poor, shit joke. Everyone is that amazed that they think it shows a dry wit. In the same way that if a racist talking dog were to appear on Jonathon Ross people would give it’s ideas of an overcrowded Britain some credence (“It’s a talking dog, wearing glasses, it’s not going to spout some idiotic racist nonsense”). Cut through the chaff and you’ll see that a talking dog is still as thick as your average BNP member from Burnley if he’s saying the same things. Cut to Shearer announcing Iain Dowie’s involvement in his regime as “bringing in a fresh look, not so much a pretty one, but a fresh one”. Ha ha! Because Iain Dowie is fuckign grotesque, I see what you did there Alan. Why not just go straight for “these are ugly time at Newcassle, haway, but – haway – Iain’s a right ugly cunt if you ask me”?

Shearer insists that this is a ‘sabbatical’ from his job at the BBC in order to take on an impossible job. Notably satisfying the Geordie public’s ideas of what their club should be capable of – namely winning the World Cup EVERY YEAR with a CLUB TEAM and WINNING every game 4-3, even if it means LOSING every game. The justification for these dreams is that they nearly got relegated to the third tier of the game and within a decade got in a position where they were able to throw away the title. Not won naffin, nah. They threw a title away and had a couple of 4-3 losses to Liverpool. That is Keegan’s legacy. As one called to Talksport put it last night Keegan’s ‘I’d love it’ speech and Keegan on the steps at St James telling people to trust him when he sold Andy Cole will go down in history as great moments of Premiership management, what has Alex Ferguson got to compare to that? You feel a bit silly saying 11 titles as a comeback. It seems to obvious. But what would I know? I’m not from Newcastle so I cant understand football, not properly.

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Healthy interest in Shit adverts

March 29, 2009 · Leave a Comment

What is the deal with the health adverts doing the rounds at the moment? Wow, how ‘observational comedy from the late ‘80s’ was that opening gambit? There are two that spring to mind. First up is the one about getting a blood test to check you haven’t got hepatitis. The voiceover is words to the effect of “Have you ever had one too many and sent a text to an ex-girlfriend? [Audience does an internal half-smile, and shakes head at past indiscretions] Have you ever phoned in sick when you’ve had a hangover and can’t face work? [Audience “wow yeah I can’t believe how this advert is speaking directly to me, highlighting not one, but, two things I have done in my life. Very unique things too that surely only a select handful of people have done, what could this mystery voice say next? Have I ever really enjoyed having a wee after needing one for ages?] Have you ever been at a party and injected drugs with a shared needle? [Yeah there was that one time I held a wee in for a 45 minute bus ride...what the?? No I fucking haven’t. I’m not Sid Vicious.]

I’m not ignorant to two things here (1) there are people alive who, though aren’t Sid Vicious, lived through a time when sharing needles of heroin at parties was more socially acceptable (like racism and hitting women), and (2) those people might want to get checked up. But really, how many people lived through that lifestyle and have gone through their life not considering getting a check-up, or more likely being forced to have one. Or dying of AIDS. (Like Mark Fowler. I just mean an AIDS death. He got good AIDS through sex with a WOMAN, who herself had got it from a blood transfusion. Didn’t stop people stopping buying fruit and veg from him when they found out though did it? Probably the same people who didn’t stop drinking in The Dagmar when they found out Wilmot Brown had (been accused of having) raped Kathy Beale. He did do a ‘buy two glasses of wine, get the bottle’ offer though.) Where was I? Oh yeah. I think people who needed such a blood test have probably had one. But what do I know? Apart from not to share needles with people at parties when injecting drugs. I carry fresh needles to input heroin and I don’t share, as you ask.

Taking into account that the advert might have a very small target audience (and one might guess a shrinking one), it was the leap in levels of the questions which struck me more than anything. Bit of a double-take. Do you like drinking water when you’re thirsty? Do you like being entertained in an enjoyable way? Would you gang rape a boy to fit in? I like the thought that some re-formed punk (as opposed to re-formed punk band) has to hear this advert to think “maybe I should get checked out. Now that I’m married and have two kids. It would be a crying shame if I’d infected the three people I love more than anything in the world, even smack. It would be somehow ironic that my recklessness with drugs was equally to blame as my recklessness in not getting tested for these potentially deadly diseases. I’ll book a test tomorrow, just after I take this methadone.”

In a similar act of being overtly obvious are the new adverts for recognising having a stroke. Are there people out there who wouldn’t recognise something a bit odd about someone having pain in the left side of their body, half of their face being paralysed? Maybe it’s a generational thing that this is obvious. Maybe it’s just me and my piers to whom this screams ‘sounds like they’re having the old strokey-woke there’. Perhaps there are people listening to the radio as their granddad grips at his chest with half his face suddenly collapsing going “granddad what up? What’s up?” [it helps if you imagine this as a young cockney lad, I don’t know why. It just does]. Then on hearing this add are like “fack (he’s a cockney remember) saarnds like you’re having a knock-knock joke I’d best dial pearls to swine – pearls to swine –pearls to swine etc”. Though, I think if we live in the country that needs to tell people that if someone goes numb down one side of the body and has a paralysed face they might want to direct said person in the direction of the medical services then we probably live in country where a radio and TV advertising campaign wont solve the problem. Perhaps they should just get a brain-dead talentless celebrity to die of a stroke and create a massive over the top fuss about strokes. I suggest Jodie Marsh.
                     Do you remember when this was how you did a new paragraph? When did that change to a line gap?

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London Calling

March 26, 2009 · Leave a Comment

I’d love to have had an exciting couple of days in London, but I didnt. I’ll tell you something for nothing though, it’s not paved with gold. There was an attack by a big alien spacecraft – but I can’t be arsed writing about that at the moment. I kind of saved the world. No biggie. No thanks needed.

There are a lot of people on bikes in London. Like, I’m down with being environmental and shit but the cyclists here are like the cyclists everywhere – they’re fucking arseholes. The rule if you’re on a bike is you get to act like a pedestrian when that is what suits you and you get to pretend you’re a car when that suits you. Of course cyclists are neither car nor man, not something in between. [Note to self, breed man with car]. Cyclists are fucking douchebag queebs. A couple of them have even shouted at me to get out of the way…when I was just stood in a bike lane. Who knows they’re stood in a fucking bike lane? A bike lane is like a small road at the side of a proper road. You know what’s a bit like a small road at the side of a road? Yes a pavement, sorry sidewalk. I’m trying to appeal to the Americans.

I’ve done my usual fast living when I’m away with work – that’s right roooooooooooooom service and remembering what it’s like not to have Sky. So basically eating not very good food in about 1992. I did not like 1992 too much. [Shit, a car bred with a man is a transformer]. I did throw the universe a curveball though…honestly my actions were in danger of evoking the tooting horns the apocalypse..you wont believe this when I tell you…On the first night I was here, I ordered a steak sandwich. I know. There was a cheeseburger on the menu and I didn’t get it. And the world still turned. But what did happen? I was unsatisified, that’s what. It was a poor steak sandwich. Tonight (writing on Wednesday) I had the burger and chips, and it was just above adequate. Just the way I like it.

I would love to be able to comment on the adequacy of the breakfast at this place. Despite building a 20 minute window into my schedule for breakfast, before going to my meeting. I didn’t make it. Well the bathroom is full of windows (the reflective surfaces not the computer operating system) and I kind of got preoccupied with my own reflection. I took some ace snaps of myself so don’t worry I wasnt the only one who will benefit from how pretty I looked. Just so we’re clear, my Narcissus moment came after I’d showered and dressed. It wasn’t like kinky.

Also just the way I like it? The Apprentice. It ended with that man saying “you’re fired”. I love it when he says that. Every episode I think it’s not going to happen and then it’s always just at the end, then some queeb looks sad in the back of a taxi. One of the boys said “this is what I would do if I was a millionaire”. He was sat on a veranda at an, admittedly nice, appartment. I mean the appartment was the kind of place you might have if you were a millionaire. But he was just sitting in a chair (with some twattish men he had known a few hours). When I say silly things about being a millionaire they are things like taking all my friends around the world watching sport. They aren’t like sitting in a chair in the kind of place I would own if I was a millionaire. If I was a millionaire I would sit in an airport all day. Just sit in the airport.

I’ll tell you something else for nothing. The Holborn Grange Hotel in London doesn’t mind stiffing people wanting some internet. [Wait is it? A transformer is a robot in disguise. Maybe I'm ok...but a robot is a man meets a machine. Fuck it, I'm not breeding a man with a car]. First night – after much twatting about with cables – I get the internet. Just double click on the e thing and the internet (Homepage: BBC, if you were wondering). Today? It wants money. £5 for an hour, which is less than the minimum wage but it still less than the value I would get from being able to get beat by someone at Scrabble on Facebook and maybe posting this when I wrote it, rather than tomorrow. Because the fanbase can hold out that long.

Here’s a couple of my pictures.  I ended up putting 4 in after writing couple, there you go.  I only meant to take one and I took about 20.  So, in summary; me scrunching; me failing in doing a catalogue model shot (it would make more sense if you could see my pointing hand); doing my best zombie face (whilst not really getting where I was taking a picture of like the mongs who look and wave AT the bigscreen when they realise they’re on camera at a match); finally, sad because it’s the last picture and I have to go and be an ‘adult’ all day.

 

 

Me not having breakfast, in London
Me not having breakfast, in London
Failed attempt at a catalogue portfolio shot

Failed attempt at a catalogue portfolio shot

On reflection

On reflection

Unhappy face

Unhappy face

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

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Day Off 2: The Revenge of Nothing

March 23, 2009 · 4 Comments

I couldn’t let my second day-off of the last few days go without some kind of summary. Especially as I basically just lay in bed, got up, walked to opticians, walked back, went back to bed. Of course though – nothing is that simple, there were a couple of minor incidents that I can over describe.

As hangovers go it wasn’t too bad. I went to see Richard Herring last night. Didn’t have too much to drink though as Ste is a fucking queeb and had to get his last bus home. He’s 31. I had the good idea of having a pint of water when I got in: I’m told its good for reducing hangover. Only, I made the pint of water out of a bottle of pear cider. And then fell asleep, fully clothed on the floor. Not all night though, I’m not a complete loser. I got up in the middle of the night and moved to the settee. Anyway, I did get to bed as my girlfriend was getting up for work. Three different sleeping places in seven hours. Yeah – look impressed mother fucker.

So when I woke up for the third time of the day it was, unfortuantely, not followed by another period of sleep somewhere nearby. You can’t have it all. And even if you do, does it make you happy? Not if you’re Ashley Cole. Instead of another period of sleep I had a period of watching the American version of The Office [I think that was quite a long way to go about describing it, but I don't think I left anyone reading that in any doubt as to what I was watching]. I am beginning to know that I prefer it to watching the original. I have thought it was for a while. But now I think I know it is. Soon it is likely that I will know it is better. Then I will begin to question my certainty. Such is the circle of life.

When I eventually left the house it was to go to the place I went when I left the house on my day-off on Friday, and I dont mean the cinema. Yes, dear reader, I went to the opticians again as I didnt have the ear bit curved curved enough and they were still sliding down my nose a bit. Though I am happy that I am now glasses wearer, I don’t want to be one of those people who is always nudging their glasses up their nose. On the way there I witnessed quite an odd thing. Now I cant be sure what I am going to describe is what I am going to say it is, but who gives a shit about accuracy? I saw 3 scally lads with a dog. The dog was sniffing up a wall and the lads were encouraging it. Then they took it behind the wall and were looking in some bushes. Now, I think they may have been looking for drugs using the dog. Maybe they were undercover police men, if they were they were very good at being undercover as they really looked like twatty scally bastards. I would love to say there was more information to offer on this but there isn’t.

The remainder off my journey to Specsavers was uneventful. So exactly the same as what I just described then. I was not bored though as I was listening to the Adam and Jo podcast, which is a bit naive as I know that they will make me laugh. I also think it is odd when you see people seemingly randomly laughing when you see them walking on the street. I was voluntarily being one of those people. I assume at least one person saw me, maybe thinking I had Downs Syndrome.

I treated myself to a subway on my way back. In the queue, in front of me, was an old woman. All she wanted was a cup of tea. Now I want to make it clear that she is entitled to want a cup of tea, Subway sell tea. It is not the oddest thing in the world that she was just buying a cup of tea. It would have been a lot odder if she had tried to evacuate the server of their sense of smell using only the act of mime [well even that's not the oddest thing but that could go on all day]. But she didn’t, she was asking for a cup of tea. Now I was in Withington, there are several places either side that I would go to for a cup of tea – cafes and wanky little shops. But she chose a shop that is essentially called ’sandwich’. It is called that because thats its main product, all the drinks and cookies are merely things to be sold WITH sandwiches. She chose this place above cafes and the like…but she might just like Subway tea, you fucking prick. Well I dont think she did, she had no idea how the ordering system at Subway works (I don’t know why this necessarily amazes me, why should someone know how it works? Especially if they are a, probably, smelly old woman with some beard hair who hasn’t been in before). Right…..she asked for a cup of tea…..and tried to give the money to the woman behind the counter as she was asking….right at the start of the subway counter. You know where you start…choose bread and filling and size, before you turn down/accept the offer of cheese for 20p extra, before you ask for it toasted/not toasted. Well before you ask for whatever salad you want. Ages before you ask for a dressing or sauce. Practically a lifetime before you pay, which is just after you turn down crisps and a drink (unless you want to pay around 80% extra for a drink and crisps than you would at a shop nearby). So she was fucking well early with the offer of financial reimbursement for the tea, the stupid old bastard. Proving it wasnt Subway tea that she craved, and she could have gone to somewhere not called by a word for a specific kind of sandwich, delaying my pointless day – in my almost pointless life – by about 45 seconds or so. The fucking slag, I hope she choked on the tea. Perhaps in an alley and is still lying there, undiscovered – with a cat pissing on her dead face.

In all seriousness I dont hope the woman died. I hope she is safe and sound. Maybe she could have not enjoyed the tea though, so she doesn’t hold up the honest-to-goodness sandwich wanters of the world in the future. To be fair, she is from a bygone age when, I imagine, there were tea shops on every corner – and subway shaped sandwich selling franchises were sparse and so this modern world is a confusing place for her. So I should be more understanding for her actions. And I shouldn’t have followed her home and stoved her skull in with a brick. I didn’t. And I didn’t want to as she looked at the Subway employee with a confused face when she asked her if she wanted a sandwich with her tea. No, I just thought ‘aw’.

So, another fun-filled entry there. Remainder of day: watched Wall Street (Is nothing made in the 1980s as good as I actually remember it being when I first watched it ages ago?) and doing little else.

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