It was not the worst of dates, but perhaps, not the best of dates either.
She was quirky, into animals, and well cute. After the first awkward hour in the pub we ambled the town to look for a curry house, passing an endless parade of fast food joints along the way: McMurder, Kentucky Fried Cruelty, Murder King.
"So, you're a veggie?" I said.
Too bloody right she was. Meat wasn't just murder, it was torture. It was cruel and it was unusual. Why do people even have to eat meat nowadays? I can understand back in the past, but now we have science, and soya!
I advanced the theory that go back far enough and man was pretty much veggie, living off fruits, nuts and seeds scavanged from the land. It was only after tool use that we turned to meat, and the calorie surplus that produced allowed time away from farming to devote to nobler pursuits. To art, to learning, to culture, and that's what drove our brains to grow and one day allowed us to develop the technology to print "Stop the Cruelty" bumper stickers.
That, apparently, was bollocks.
In the curry house she ordered something with chickpeas. I had chicken.
Later, as I drove her back to her car, she hummed the theme to The Great Escape.
I tried not to read too much into this, nor the twin tracks of rubber she left on the tarmac as she left.
Next day and it was bacon for breakfast.
Fucking sweet.
This post was written months ago. Being the hippocrite that I am was waiting to see if there was a chance of a second date before posting...
Friday, 24 December 2010
Wednesday, 22 December 2010
I've only gone and bloody done it!
Read a Dan Brown novel that is. I was finding it a touch hypocritical being so scathing about them having only read the first five chapters of Angels and Demons. So I decided to knuckle down and whack one off. I even re-read the first five chapters.
By chapter 6 my eyes were aching from rolling them so much.
I didn't know you could serpentine through a crowd. Presumably the guy is lying down and wriggling.
An aging ghost, he thought, cruelly reminded that his youthful spirit was living in a mortal shell - I wanted to use that line for someone who's growing old.
When I'm on my way to my weekly meeting of deadly killers I only hope my eyes don't gleam with forboding.
So far people have felt as though they've been stabbed, shot, hit by a truck, electrocuted, punched in the gut (twice) and hit by a cyclone. Never having experienced any of these things I'm at a loss to how the characters were feeling. Can only imagine that Dan Brown had a tougher upbringing than me.
People have quipped, barked, cajoled and hissed.
There was a long discussion about religion and God. It might have been some sparkling reparte but I got a little bored and skipped ahead till the plane landed. Several chapters later he was into all the details of the Vatican City one way system so I don't think I missed much.
The heroine's legs have meandered between chestnut and tawny. Her eyes have not yet become windows into her soul, but it's early days yet. But silly scientist lady. She goes and invents a portable anti-matter containment system based on magnets and then fails to fit an adaptor. I mean, even my two prong electric toothbrush comes with an adaptor for UK sockets.
There's a bad guy. I know he must be bad because he just spent an hour lying on a bed thinking about how much he hates women and how they're second class citizens, good only for demeaning.
A man has looked at someone with bayonets in his eyes.
Every so often a character will stop and run through a list in their mind of all the burning questions that are troubling them.
Did I enjoy it? Not really. I tend not to like reading crap books.
Note - this post was written last year sometime, but I'm so lame I only just got around to hitting publish.
By chapter 6 my eyes were aching from rolling them so much.
I didn't know you could serpentine through a crowd. Presumably the guy is lying down and wriggling.
An aging ghost, he thought, cruelly reminded that his youthful spirit was living in a mortal shell - I wanted to use that line for someone who's growing old.
When I'm on my way to my weekly meeting of deadly killers I only hope my eyes don't gleam with forboding.
So far people have felt as though they've been stabbed, shot, hit by a truck, electrocuted, punched in the gut (twice) and hit by a cyclone. Never having experienced any of these things I'm at a loss to how the characters were feeling. Can only imagine that Dan Brown had a tougher upbringing than me.
People have quipped, barked, cajoled and hissed.
There was a long discussion about religion and God. It might have been some sparkling reparte but I got a little bored and skipped ahead till the plane landed. Several chapters later he was into all the details of the Vatican City one way system so I don't think I missed much.
The heroine's legs have meandered between chestnut and tawny. Her eyes have not yet become windows into her soul, but it's early days yet. But silly scientist lady. She goes and invents a portable anti-matter containment system based on magnets and then fails to fit an adaptor. I mean, even my two prong electric toothbrush comes with an adaptor for UK sockets.
There's a bad guy. I know he must be bad because he just spent an hour lying on a bed thinking about how much he hates women and how they're second class citizens, good only for demeaning.
A man has looked at someone with bayonets in his eyes.
Every so often a character will stop and run through a list in their mind of all the burning questions that are troubling them.
Did I enjoy it? Not really. I tend not to like reading crap books.
Note - this post was written last year sometime, but I'm so lame I only just got around to hitting publish.
Adventures in writing
Cooped up in the house for yet another session of Monday morning I'm so crap blues I thought I'd try a new tack. It started with a Cornetto for lunch (mint and choc chip) and ended with the realisation that armed with a laptop and pocketfuls of my change jar any chic coffee shop could be my office.
Fortunately this being Newport it's not hard to find a coffee house that bustles with the industry of a dozen artistic types tapping away on their laptops. I hit the mother lode in fact - not just a coffee shop, but a coffee AND card shop. Nothing else screams out intellectual thinkers than hand made greetings cards priced at three pounds and above with droll quotations from Oscar Wilde and Woody Allen.
In fact it wasn't just a card and coffee shop, it was a card, coffee AND women's hairdressers. Had I realised then I might just have kept on walking to my local and entered the daily arm wrestling contest (one prize: honour). But I was comitted and I wasn't going to be fazed by the ranks of Bella and Chat magazines beneath those big perm machines. I marched right on past them and up the stairs to the coffee section, the wittily name "The Loft".
That's where I met Henry, my Barrista for the day. Poor Henry. Poor, poor Henry.
With his love of bicep curls and very tight T-shirts, with a glass stud in each ear he treated me to a broad smile and fluttered what I hoped were genetically predetirmined long lashes.
"And what would you like?" he said.
He poured me my coffee, and then added, "With room for some...milk?"
I guess his face was shot so full of Botox that's why his pencil thin eyebrows weren't oscillating suggestively.
"Care to try one of my muffins?"
I thanked him kindly, and said no, going over to a seat by the window and took out my laptop.
He flounced around, clattering cups with wild abandon, counting the change in the tip jar. From time to time he'd join in with songs on the radio. At one point a song by the Scissor Sisters came on and he falsettoed his way over to the radio and spent an inordinate amount of time bending over to tune it in.
I sighed to myself. He must have sensed that I was a writer. Was it the uncombed hair? The baggy, faded and crumpled polo shirt?
Or the tortured look of a soul trying to create?
Somebody (I forget who) once wrote that "with great power comes great responsibilty."
I would do well to remember that, especially around male hair dressers. Poor Henry. His only crime was to be smitten.
That's when the old lady came in. Wearing a raincoat and pitched over almost double, with thick glasses like safety glass on her face.
"And what would you like?" Henry asked her. "Room for some...milk? See anything that catches your eye?"
If anything he was speaking with super italics.
I took my laptop and I slunk away.
Trod in some dog shit on my way home.
Fortunately this being Newport it's not hard to find a coffee house that bustles with the industry of a dozen artistic types tapping away on their laptops. I hit the mother lode in fact - not just a coffee shop, but a coffee AND card shop. Nothing else screams out intellectual thinkers than hand made greetings cards priced at three pounds and above with droll quotations from Oscar Wilde and Woody Allen.
In fact it wasn't just a card and coffee shop, it was a card, coffee AND women's hairdressers. Had I realised then I might just have kept on walking to my local and entered the daily arm wrestling contest (one prize: honour). But I was comitted and I wasn't going to be fazed by the ranks of Bella and Chat magazines beneath those big perm machines. I marched right on past them and up the stairs to the coffee section, the wittily name "The Loft".
That's where I met Henry, my Barrista for the day. Poor Henry. Poor, poor Henry.
With his love of bicep curls and very tight T-shirts, with a glass stud in each ear he treated me to a broad smile and fluttered what I hoped were genetically predetirmined long lashes.
"And what would you like?" he said.
He poured me my coffee, and then added, "With room for some...milk?"
I guess his face was shot so full of Botox that's why his pencil thin eyebrows weren't oscillating suggestively.
"Care to try one of my muffins?"
I thanked him kindly, and said no, going over to a seat by the window and took out my laptop.
He flounced around, clattering cups with wild abandon, counting the change in the tip jar. From time to time he'd join in with songs on the radio. At one point a song by the Scissor Sisters came on and he falsettoed his way over to the radio and spent an inordinate amount of time bending over to tune it in.
I sighed to myself. He must have sensed that I was a writer. Was it the uncombed hair? The baggy, faded and crumpled polo shirt?
Or the tortured look of a soul trying to create?
Somebody (I forget who) once wrote that "with great power comes great responsibilty."
I would do well to remember that, especially around male hair dressers. Poor Henry. His only crime was to be smitten.
That's when the old lady came in. Wearing a raincoat and pitched over almost double, with thick glasses like safety glass on her face.
"And what would you like?" Henry asked her. "Room for some...milk? See anything that catches your eye?"
If anything he was speaking with super italics.
I took my laptop and I slunk away.
Trod in some dog shit on my way home.
Mac Mini Review
Why I hate my Mac Mini.
This is the second in a series of occasional technology reviews that are based, not in any subjective way, but around how things are making me hate them.
Today: My Mac Mini.
First off I guess I should preface this with how pretty she is. How whisper quiet. How she boots up so fast.
I use it primarily as a front end to my Personal Video Recorder Server that is running MythTV. To sum up - the server records freeview programs to a hard drive. The Mac Mini connects to the server and shows them on my TV.
So I use very little of the Mac OS itself.
My main gripe? The auto update system.
I think every piece of software comes with a feature the developers shoved in there just to see how much rage they could generate. For me, with OS X, that feature is the auto update system.
It first manifests itself as a chirpy little blue icon that sits at the bottom of the screen and bounces in a happy go lucky, look at me, I'm a happy blue icon kind of way. If I could physically punch an icon displayed by a computer on a TV screen I would happily punch this happy chirpy blue icon in the face till it was dead. And then go after it's mother.
It pops up just after I've started my Mac and gives me three options.
Let's take the "Install and restart" option.
Install and restart. Hmm. How can I put this? I just turned my fucking computer on. I wish to use it. I do not wish to wait for an update to install and then have it restart on me.
The other options are "Not now" and "Ask me later". Both of these appear to mean "Ask me next time I turn my computer on".
Which starts the whole cycle of start my mac, have the urge to go on a chirpy blue icon search and destroy mission, get pissed at being asked to restart the computer that I just turned because I WISHED TO USE IT and then click on "not now".
I did try a second way. I left the dialog alone until I'd finished using my computer. And because I'd finished using it I decided to shut it down. Only to get this message:
"The Update application has cancelled the system shutdown"
Cue the urge to get punchy. My television was expensive. I took it out on my Keysonic keyboard with built in track pad. It's surprisingly still working.
Through gritted teeth back to the update dialog. Still those three options.
"Install and restart".
How can I put this in words a computer that doesn't respond to my voice would understand?
Sadly it didn't understand the phrase "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrfuceatshitanddieyoudirtymother". Slight oversight on Apple's part there I feel.
Translated that roughly means "I've just spent a pleasant two hours watching the very fine Guillmero Del Toro film, Pan's Labyrinth, and now it's gone midnight and I wish to go to bed."
Not stay up to watch a computer that I wish to have shut down instead update itself, shut down, and then start the fuck back up again.
If only there was another option. Like "Install updates and shut down". Man, that would be fine. So fine.
But until then it's a battle of wills. And my Mac hasn't been updated in months.
This is the second in a series of occasional technology reviews that are based, not in any subjective way, but around how things are making me hate them.
Today: My Mac Mini.
First off I guess I should preface this with how pretty she is. How whisper quiet. How she boots up so fast.
I use it primarily as a front end to my Personal Video Recorder Server that is running MythTV. To sum up - the server records freeview programs to a hard drive. The Mac Mini connects to the server and shows them on my TV.
So I use very little of the Mac OS itself.
My main gripe? The auto update system.
I think every piece of software comes with a feature the developers shoved in there just to see how much rage they could generate. For me, with OS X, that feature is the auto update system.
It first manifests itself as a chirpy little blue icon that sits at the bottom of the screen and bounces in a happy go lucky, look at me, I'm a happy blue icon kind of way. If I could physically punch an icon displayed by a computer on a TV screen I would happily punch this happy chirpy blue icon in the face till it was dead. And then go after it's mother.
It pops up just after I've started my Mac and gives me three options.
Let's take the "Install and restart" option.
Install and restart. Hmm. How can I put this? I just turned my fucking computer on. I wish to use it. I do not wish to wait for an update to install and then have it restart on me.
The other options are "Not now" and "Ask me later". Both of these appear to mean "Ask me next time I turn my computer on".
Which starts the whole cycle of start my mac, have the urge to go on a chirpy blue icon search and destroy mission, get pissed at being asked to restart the computer that I just turned because I WISHED TO USE IT and then click on "not now".
I did try a second way. I left the dialog alone until I'd finished using my computer. And because I'd finished using it I decided to shut it down. Only to get this message:
"The Update application has cancelled the system shutdown"
Cue the urge to get punchy. My television was expensive. I took it out on my Keysonic keyboard with built in track pad. It's surprisingly still working.
Through gritted teeth back to the update dialog. Still those three options.
"Install and restart".
How can I put this in words a computer that doesn't respond to my voice would understand?
Sadly it didn't understand the phrase "aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrfuceatshitanddieyoudirtymother". Slight oversight on Apple's part there I feel.
Translated that roughly means "I've just spent a pleasant two hours watching the very fine Guillmero Del Toro film, Pan's Labyrinth, and now it's gone midnight and I wish to go to bed."
Not stay up to watch a computer that I wish to have shut down instead update itself, shut down, and then start the fuck back up again.
If only there was another option. Like "Install updates and shut down". Man, that would be fine. So fine.
But until then it's a battle of wills. And my Mac hasn't been updated in months.
It snow joke
Today is a snow day for me. I get to go build a snowman in Cardiff. So if I get hit by a mobility scooter that's not been fitted with its winter tyres and the morgue attendant wonders, that's why I have a carrot in my pocket.
Given the slow speed at which snowmen move perhaps I'll be able to capture a decent picture with my HTC Hero phone camera. But I doubt it.
Given the slow speed at which snowmen move perhaps I'll be able to capture a decent picture with my HTC Hero phone camera. But I doubt it.
Movie Review: RED
This was okay, this was fun. Lots of well known actors put on funny voices and shoot people.
RED stands for Retired, Extremely Dangerous. That'd be Bruce Willis, a former CIA operative, the most dangerous agent in the world who now spends his time sighing by himself in his house, and trying to hit on a lady in a call centre by tearing up his pension cheques and claiming they never arrived.
Then someone decides he needs to be dead (perhaps he's dragging down the call centre response times), and much shooting and explosions ensues.
It gets 3 out of 5 for being entertaining but loses points for having very little substance about it.
RED stands for Retired, Extremely Dangerous. That'd be Bruce Willis, a former CIA operative, the most dangerous agent in the world who now spends his time sighing by himself in his house, and trying to hit on a lady in a call centre by tearing up his pension cheques and claiming they never arrived.
Then someone decides he needs to be dead (perhaps he's dragging down the call centre response times), and much shooting and explosions ensues.
It gets 3 out of 5 for being entertaining but loses points for having very little substance about it.
Movie Review: Winter's Bone
Not a lot to say about this one. Fucking ace. 5 out of 5.
There's barely a hint of a smile throughout. It's deeply harrowing, it's brutal. Hungry people eat squirrels. Most people are ugly thanks to the bitter mountain cold.
But it's still an uplifting film.
There's barely a hint of a smile throughout. It's deeply harrowing, it's brutal. Hungry people eat squirrels. Most people are ugly thanks to the bitter mountain cold.
But it's still an uplifting film.
Movie Review: Monsters
Firstly a bit of background. It was shot for around half a million by Gareth Edwards, a couple of cameras and the two leads. They headed down to Mexico, did a bunch of improv and Edwards did all of the special effects using a pretty beefy but still essentially still a home computer.
The premise is this - a NASA space probe brings back some alien life, it crashes in Mexico and the result is a whole bunch of big monsters that take over half the country. Move forward a few years and the monsters have become the norm. The US has built a big wall around the infected area and because their overseas image is on the up every so often they lob over a few cruise missiles to take out a rural village or two.
It's against this backdrop that a photo journalist and a rich Daddy's little girl have to trek across the infected zone to reach the safety of the United States (try not to wonder why they don't opt to simply fly around in complete safety).
Mark Kermode on Radio 5 described it as a road movie that happened to have monsters in the background (far, far, far in the background in fact). I get that. But Christ, couldn't they have made a more interesting road movie?
There was very little formal script - most of the dialogue was improvised by the two leads. Which resulted in such sparkling exchanges as:
Girl: What are you doing tomorrow?
Boy: I don't know. What are you doing tomorrow?
Girl: I don't know.
I've heard it described as a film in the style of overhearing a conversation in a pub. Perhaps that's why I don't go to pubs - why would I want to spend my even bored witless by such inane chatter?
The film promised much - an intelligent take on the concept of alien invasion movies for once. Instead of crash, bang, wallop there would be subtly, the suggestion of menace by the slither of a slimy tentacle half hidden by the forest haze. Please God, some menace, any menace even. Someone who couldn't get their drinks bottle open perhaps.
There were so many scenes that promised much - the tension building, building, building. Something's going to happen, something bad, and then, oh, it's the next day. Lots of lingering shots of infected trees and strange alien sounds in the distance - that's a setup for the big twist at the end if ever I saw one.
Perhaps the film is best summed up by the scene when the two leads discover a town that's had the living shit kicked out of it. Roofs are off, walls are tumbled down, cars overturned. There's not a soul about.
And then one of them says - entirely seriously - "What do you think happened here then?"
The thing is - I didn't go there wanting to watch aliens fighting. But I wanted threat. I wanted tension. I wanted to watch a film where I actually feared for the main character's safety.
So only 2 out of 5 from me.
The premise is this - a NASA space probe brings back some alien life, it crashes in Mexico and the result is a whole bunch of big monsters that take over half the country. Move forward a few years and the monsters have become the norm. The US has built a big wall around the infected area and because their overseas image is on the up every so often they lob over a few cruise missiles to take out a rural village or two.
It's against this backdrop that a photo journalist and a rich Daddy's little girl have to trek across the infected zone to reach the safety of the United States (try not to wonder why they don't opt to simply fly around in complete safety).
Mark Kermode on Radio 5 described it as a road movie that happened to have monsters in the background (far, far, far in the background in fact). I get that. But Christ, couldn't they have made a more interesting road movie?
There was very little formal script - most of the dialogue was improvised by the two leads. Which resulted in such sparkling exchanges as:
Girl: What are you doing tomorrow?
Boy: I don't know. What are you doing tomorrow?
Girl: I don't know.
I've heard it described as a film in the style of overhearing a conversation in a pub. Perhaps that's why I don't go to pubs - why would I want to spend my even bored witless by such inane chatter?
The film promised much - an intelligent take on the concept of alien invasion movies for once. Instead of crash, bang, wallop there would be subtly, the suggestion of menace by the slither of a slimy tentacle half hidden by the forest haze. Please God, some menace, any menace even. Someone who couldn't get their drinks bottle open perhaps.
There were so many scenes that promised much - the tension building, building, building. Something's going to happen, something bad, and then, oh, it's the next day. Lots of lingering shots of infected trees and strange alien sounds in the distance - that's a setup for the big twist at the end if ever I saw one.
Perhaps the film is best summed up by the scene when the two leads discover a town that's had the living shit kicked out of it. Roofs are off, walls are tumbled down, cars overturned. There's not a soul about.
And then one of them says - entirely seriously - "What do you think happened here then?"
The thing is - I didn't go there wanting to watch aliens fighting. But I wanted threat. I wanted tension. I wanted to watch a film where I actually feared for the main character's safety.
So only 2 out of 5 from me.
Movie review: The Chronicles of Narnia - The Voyage of the Bunch of Idiots
It's been a long time since I read the book, but were all the characters such morons in that as well?
In case you're unaware of the premise - it's set on some ocean and there's a Narnian ship called the Dawn Treader voyaging around solving mysteries and the like. The mouse with the sword - Reepicheep - has a cold and it's affected his voice so now he sounds like Simon Pegg. If only Strepsils existed in made up lands and came in handy mouse sized lozenges.
Anyway, back to the moronity. The ship makes landfall at some harbour. It is Deserted. As in empty. As in no sod there. Something fishy's going on you might think, and you'd be right! Suppose you're a King, and you're in charge of the ship and a whole kingdom, then you're quite important. You might think, quite sensibly, how about we send some a few expendable crew members to have a look see while people above the rank of Prince stay safe on board the ship. Maybe send the mouse with the sword - perhaps a change of scene will cure his throat infection and he'll sound like Eddie Izzard again.
Though if you're in this film instead you gather all important people (i.e. other Kings and Queens) and off you all toddle, just the three of you, not even with one or two of the fifty or so crew men armed with big swords and axes, just you and the two annoying younger kids from the first two films, and go and investigate.
The pinnacle of stupidity was reached just as the ship arrived at an unknown and uncharted mysterious isle.
This is not a direct quote, but I think I remembered the gist of it.
Says King Caspian (King of the Morons):
What ho lads! We appear to have reached the mysterious and uncharted island that we were warned about. The island that all our mates went off to find, but then disappeared.
Right ho, let's leave the security of our ship, safe behind the protective barrier of water, behind the thick oak planks of the sheer sides where a man armed with a cross bow can make smart remarks to any one foolish enough to row out in a small boat. Yeah, let's leave all that, go ashore and camp on the beach. And just to make sure that we're all well rested for the morning, everyone go to sleep, no one stay on guard. Because obviously nothing untoward is going to happen on this strange and mysterious uncharted island we were warned about.
There were some good things about this film. I liked Will Poulter, the kid from School of Comedy on E4 who played the annoying cousin Eustace. I was also rather taken by the subtlety of the religious imagery.
The 3D sucked though - long swathes of the film could be viewed minus the glasses. This led to brighter colours and a smug feeling of being the only normal one watching.
I give it 2 out of 5.
In case you're unaware of the premise - it's set on some ocean and there's a Narnian ship called the Dawn Treader voyaging around solving mysteries and the like. The mouse with the sword - Reepicheep - has a cold and it's affected his voice so now he sounds like Simon Pegg. If only Strepsils existed in made up lands and came in handy mouse sized lozenges.
Anyway, back to the moronity. The ship makes landfall at some harbour. It is Deserted. As in empty. As in no sod there. Something fishy's going on you might think, and you'd be right! Suppose you're a King, and you're in charge of the ship and a whole kingdom, then you're quite important. You might think, quite sensibly, how about we send some a few expendable crew members to have a look see while people above the rank of Prince stay safe on board the ship. Maybe send the mouse with the sword - perhaps a change of scene will cure his throat infection and he'll sound like Eddie Izzard again.
Though if you're in this film instead you gather all important people (i.e. other Kings and Queens) and off you all toddle, just the three of you, not even with one or two of the fifty or so crew men armed with big swords and axes, just you and the two annoying younger kids from the first two films, and go and investigate.
The pinnacle of stupidity was reached just as the ship arrived at an unknown and uncharted mysterious isle.
This is not a direct quote, but I think I remembered the gist of it.
Says King Caspian (King of the Morons):
What ho lads! We appear to have reached the mysterious and uncharted island that we were warned about. The island that all our mates went off to find, but then disappeared.
Right ho, let's leave the security of our ship, safe behind the protective barrier of water, behind the thick oak planks of the sheer sides where a man armed with a cross bow can make smart remarks to any one foolish enough to row out in a small boat. Yeah, let's leave all that, go ashore and camp on the beach. And just to make sure that we're all well rested for the morning, everyone go to sleep, no one stay on guard. Because obviously nothing untoward is going to happen on this strange and mysterious uncharted island we were warned about.
There were some good things about this film. I liked Will Poulter, the kid from School of Comedy on E4 who played the annoying cousin Eustace. I was also rather taken by the subtlety of the religious imagery.
The 3D sucked though - long swathes of the film could be viewed minus the glasses. This led to brighter colours and a smug feeling of being the only normal one watching.
I give it 2 out of 5.
Sunday, 5 December 2010
With Facebook you can make a difference!
So there I am, walking home through the dark streets of Newport and I hear the sound of one hand clapping. It's a slapping sound, a harsh sound, and each time it's followed by a hiss of indrawn breath, almost like a sob, but cut off, half way. I push on the wooden gate by the side of the house and creep around till I'm in the garden and I can see the whole, horrifying scene.
It's a big guy, with a beard. A big, fat guy, and a little kid, and the kid is on his backside, snivelling, cowering. You can't walk on by, can you. It's a little kid after all, and his Dad's beating him. So I said something.
"Oy," I said. "Don't you know you shouldn't be doing that? Don't you know that right now all the good folk of Facebook are changing their profile pictures to cartoons from their childhood to cut out this sort of thing?"
It felt good, coming out with it, making a stand. But I don't think he did know about the Facebook campaign.In fact he looked a little bit aggrieved at having his parenting skills called out like that.
After he beat the shit out of me he was feeling a bit tired, and anyway, all his aggression was done, so him and little Jamie went for ice cream and father son bonding.
Next time, fuck it. I'll just walk on by, go home and change my profile picture to Tintin.
It's a big guy, with a beard. A big, fat guy, and a little kid, and the kid is on his backside, snivelling, cowering. You can't walk on by, can you. It's a little kid after all, and his Dad's beating him. So I said something.
"Oy," I said. "Don't you know you shouldn't be doing that? Don't you know that right now all the good folk of Facebook are changing their profile pictures to cartoons from their childhood to cut out this sort of thing?"
It felt good, coming out with it, making a stand. But I don't think he did know about the Facebook campaign.In fact he looked a little bit aggrieved at having his parenting skills called out like that.
After he beat the shit out of me he was feeling a bit tired, and anyway, all his aggression was done, so him and little Jamie went for ice cream and father son bonding.
Next time, fuck it. I'll just walk on by, go home and change my profile picture to Tintin.
Friday, 26 November 2010
Movie Review: Due Date
Do you remember the eighties movie "Planes, Trains and Automobiles"?
In this Steve Martin and John Candy play two polar opposites who are forced to join together to trek across country by any means of transport at their disposal because of a plausible reason why they cannot fly. It features likable characters, amusing situations and ultimately believable character growth.
Well Due Date, it's almost the same.
In this Robert Downey Jr and Zach Galifianakis play two polar opposites who are forced to join together to trek across country by any means of transport at their disposal because of aplausible reason why they cannot fly. It features likable characters, amusing situations and ultimately believable character growth.
Except with Due Date, they kinda left out the jokes. This was four hours of grind. Of one bizarre and unbelievable situation leading to an even more bizarre and uncomfortable situation.
Go watch this movie if you like comedy films that aren't funny.
Go watch this movie if you like shots of simulated dog masturbation.
Go watch this movie if you're an evil person and want to get some penance out of the way early.
The the best things in this movie are (in this order):
In this Steve Martin and John Candy play two polar opposites who are forced to join together to trek across country by any means of transport at their disposal because of a plausible reason why they cannot fly. It features likable characters, amusing situations and ultimately believable character growth.
Well Due Date, it's almost the same.
In this Robert Downey Jr and Zach Galifianakis play two polar opposites who are forced to join together to trek across country by any means of transport at their disposal because of a
Except with Due Date, they kinda left out the jokes. This was four hours of grind. Of one bizarre and unbelievable situation leading to an even more bizarre and uncomfortable situation.
Go watch this movie if you like comedy films that aren't funny.
Go watch this movie if you like shots of simulated dog masturbation.
Go watch this movie if you're an evil person and want to get some penance out of the way early.
The the best things in this movie are (in this order):
- A clip of a Tom and Jerry cartoon
- Pink Floyd's "Hey You"
- The "Legendary Pictures" animated logo at the start. This was fairly exciting
- A cameo of the not very hilarious Charlie Sheen sitcom "Two and a half men"
Oh, and all the vaguely funny bits are in the trailer. So you could just watch that instead, have a half smirk from the comfort of home.
Tuesday, 16 November 2010
Moview Review: Skyline
In short, this was a bit shit.
In slightly more words...
The movie opens with the standard disaster movie technique, the mysterious Exciting Incident.
You've not got a clue what's going on, so interest is piqued, what's going to happen next?
Unfortunately what happens next is another standard technique, the words "Fifteen Hours Earlier".
I want to see aliens trashing LA, not the chattering of rich, unsubstantial and above all tedious folk.
When the action does return to alien pillaging fun it's a messed up mix of Independence Day, The Matrix and War Of the Worlds, taking all of the best bits of the action but none of the charm of any of the characters.
I believe I saw a smile being cracked at one point, though possibly just a muscle spasm as a result of an alien death ray.
One of the stars was Donald Faison, Doctor Turk on Scrubs. I had far more fun imagining JD attempting to bond with an alien gribbley than actual watching the film.
It's a movie that has the look of a big budget. I'm all for curbing the excess of the Hollywood crap machine, but couldn't they have made a better film?
In slightly more words...
The movie opens with the standard disaster movie technique, the mysterious Exciting Incident.
You've not got a clue what's going on, so interest is piqued, what's going to happen next?
Unfortunately what happens next is another standard technique, the words "Fifteen Hours Earlier".
I want to see aliens trashing LA, not the chattering of rich, unsubstantial and above all tedious folk.
When the action does return to alien pillaging fun it's a messed up mix of Independence Day, The Matrix and War Of the Worlds, taking all of the best bits of the action but none of the charm of any of the characters.
I believe I saw a smile being cracked at one point, though possibly just a muscle spasm as a result of an alien death ray.
One of the stars was Donald Faison, Doctor Turk on Scrubs. I had far more fun imagining JD attempting to bond with an alien gribbley than actual watching the film.
It's a movie that has the look of a big budget. I'm all for curbing the excess of the Hollywood crap machine, but couldn't they have made a better film?
Thursday, 11 November 2010
Gordon Ramsay, pet lover
So Gordon Ramsay has written an open letter to his mother in law imploring her not to cut off contact with his family after a slight spat with her husband (he fired him).
Details here: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23896008-dont-cut-off-my-family-gordon-ramsays-plea-to-mother-in-law-in-sacking-row.do
This is an early draft dictated via the new version of Dragon NaturallySpeaking, with built in profanity filter.
Dear Mother-in-law
Puppies.
Puppies you.
Puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, kittens, puppies you.
I apologise. Getting emotional here. I puppies mean it.
You are the greatest puppies mother in puppies law a puppies chef could ever puppies have.
For puppies sake, please, puppies, please, don't take the spat between myself and your shetland pony cute bunny husband out on your daughter and your four grandchildren.
Yours puppily,
Gordon Puppies Ramsay
PS: Your old man is a complete and utter total fluffy bunny piece of candy floss pie wrapped around a sack of useless rotting yellow ducklings
Details here: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/standard/article-23896008-dont-cut-off-my-family-gordon-ramsays-plea-to-mother-in-law-in-sacking-row.do
This is an early draft dictated via the new version of Dragon NaturallySpeaking, with built in profanity filter.
Dear Mother-in-law
Puppies.
Puppies you.
Puppies, puppies, puppies, puppies, kittens, puppies you.
I apologise. Getting emotional here. I puppies mean it.
You are the greatest puppies mother in puppies law a puppies chef could ever puppies have.
For puppies sake, please, puppies, please, don't take the spat between myself and your shetland pony cute bunny husband out on your daughter and your four grandchildren.
Yours puppily,
Gordon Puppies Ramsay
PS: Your old man is a complete and utter total fluffy bunny piece of candy floss pie wrapped around a sack of useless rotting yellow ducklings
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
Her name was Lola
So I meet this cute girl called Lola.
Like the song, I say.
That's right. She smiles at me. And I'm a bit of a showgirl too.
I run through the lyrics in my head - the champagne that tastes like cherry cola, dancing in the club in old Soho, the squeeze so tight it nearly broke the spine.
Are we thinking of the same song, I say. You know, Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola.
Her smile fades.
She says to me, The song about the transvestite you mean?
Like the song, I say.
That's right. She smiles at me. And I'm a bit of a showgirl too.
I run through the lyrics in my head - the champagne that tastes like cherry cola, dancing in the club in old Soho, the squeeze so tight it nearly broke the spine.
Are we thinking of the same song, I say. You know, Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola lo-lo-lo-lo Lola.
Her smile fades.
She says to me, The song about the transvestite you mean?
Tuesday, 12 October 2010
A love story
There once was a beautiful young hand maiden to the Queen. With the face of an angel and a laugh that set fairies to dancing she caught the young prince's eye. But alas! He was a prince, and she a mere hand maiden; his love for her could never be.
Daily he would travel to the mountain lakes and leap naked into the icy water to cool his ardour. Unfortunately this caught the eye of a local farmer who sold the pictures to a sleazy newspaper. Soon the image of his pasty white body was all around the tiny kingdom, and he, a laughing stock. People stopped to point their fingers and laugh, and it didn't matter how much he protested that the lake was freezing, they would still snigger.
The King disowned the Prince - the laws on public nudity were very strict at the time. He was now a common man, just a serf, like the hand maiden. His love could be!
Before he left the castle he went down on one knee to her.
"I love you, with all of my soul. Come with me?"
And the girl with the face of an angel looked at him. Where once he had dressed in the finest of silks and his hair was sculpted with the smoothest of Brylcreems now he wore sack cloth and his hair was slicked back with cooking oil. He wasn't that good looking either.
She said to him, "So you're not a Prince anymore, and you're not rich. You don't have a fancy house, or a big horse, and I've seen the pictures. I think I'll stay here in the warm, if it's all the same to you."
Daily he would travel to the mountain lakes and leap naked into the icy water to cool his ardour. Unfortunately this caught the eye of a local farmer who sold the pictures to a sleazy newspaper. Soon the image of his pasty white body was all around the tiny kingdom, and he, a laughing stock. People stopped to point their fingers and laugh, and it didn't matter how much he protested that the lake was freezing, they would still snigger.
The King disowned the Prince - the laws on public nudity were very strict at the time. He was now a common man, just a serf, like the hand maiden. His love could be!
Before he left the castle he went down on one knee to her.
"I love you, with all of my soul. Come with me?"
And the girl with the face of an angel looked at him. Where once he had dressed in the finest of silks and his hair was sculpted with the smoothest of Brylcreems now he wore sack cloth and his hair was slicked back with cooking oil. He wasn't that good looking either.
She said to him, "So you're not a Prince anymore, and you're not rich. You don't have a fancy house, or a big horse, and I've seen the pictures. I think I'll stay here in the warm, if it's all the same to you."
Monday, 20 September 2010
Got wood?
This year my home folly is having a wood burning stove fitted. Not because I care about the environment. Not to save money, or even for the cosy glow that only real flames can give you.
It's because I like to burn things.
Wood mainly, and possibly a Euro 2012 wall chart when England get knocked out in the quarter finals.
Today it was the joy of quotes from installers. An endless parade of air sucked through teeth, of hushed mutterings about "building regs", of opinions delivered in a firm voice that totally contradicted what the previous guy had to say.
One guy made a great play about having to use scaffolding to get up the two storeys to the roof.
Another guy was blase about it - "just a ladder job mate".
Someone else is coming this afternoon - I'm guessing he'll favour some kind of circus based trampoline system to get up there.
I've set aside the whole of tomorrow morning to have a good mull.
And then I'll pick the lowest quote.
It's because I like to burn things.
Wood mainly, and possibly a Euro 2012 wall chart when England get knocked out in the quarter finals.
Today it was the joy of quotes from installers. An endless parade of air sucked through teeth, of hushed mutterings about "building regs", of opinions delivered in a firm voice that totally contradicted what the previous guy had to say.
- You have to insulate your flue mate
- You don't have to insulate.
- You HAVE to have a liner mate
- I ALWAYS fit a liner, even though you don't have to
- I recommend a liner
- Fuck lining your chimney. You got a baby's bedroom mate? I'll just vent the stove into that
One guy made a great play about having to use scaffolding to get up the two storeys to the roof.
Another guy was blase about it - "just a ladder job mate".
Someone else is coming this afternoon - I'm guessing he'll favour some kind of circus based trampoline system to get up there.
I've set aside the whole of tomorrow morning to have a good mull.
- Which guy made the most sense?
- Who seemed the most knowledgeable?
- Do I go with the young and dynamic but slightly wide boy, or the more solid older guy?
And then I'll pick the lowest quote.
Saturday, 11 September 2010
Out for a run
"Oy! You!"
The cry went from the yellow Saxo.
"Yeah, you. You run like a Springer Spaniel!"
It was already pulling away, so time only to smile and give a thumbs up.
The car slowed.
"Like a Spaniel with its legs broke!"
The mocking sound of tyres screeching as it sped away.
But he showed them how he ran, and he only fell over once before he caught them at the lights.
Then they showed him how they could open all four doors simulataneously when someone shouts, "Hey, dickheads!"
They showed him how well they could loom.
They all watched him for a while, before agreeing he had more the lolloping gait of a Golden Retriever about him.
The cry went from the yellow Saxo.
"Yeah, you. You run like a Springer Spaniel!"
It was already pulling away, so time only to smile and give a thumbs up.
The car slowed.
"Like a Spaniel with its legs broke!"
The mocking sound of tyres screeching as it sped away.
But he showed them how he ran, and he only fell over once before he caught them at the lights.
Then they showed him how they could open all four doors simulataneously when someone shouts, "Hey, dickheads!"
They showed him how well they could loom.
They all watched him for a while, before agreeing he had more the lolloping gait of a Golden Retriever about him.
Friday, 10 September 2010
I like fish
So I'm in Tesco and this guy who sort of looks like a guy I went to school with is on the fresh fish counter.
What do I do?
Where once we were equals now here I am filling my trolley with fresh olives and parma ham, and he goes home smelling of haddock.
Should I roll on over there and just pretend like I don't recognise him?
Fifth time around, and this could be a little awkward.
I could just roll on by, but I really want some Swordfish loin, and God, I've not had any dressed crab for two days.
Three circuits of the store later I come up with my genius plan - he's a jobbing actor. He's making his way to the top by taking any old crappy job in between acting gigs. This isn't a dead end, it's a mere stepping stone to a brighter life.
Full of gay abandon I march back to the fish counter, only Possibly Stuart is gone. There's some old lady serving there now, and that's okay - she's on the wind down path of her career, pulling a few shifts to buy Christmas presents for the grand kids.
Making a mental note to not say this kind of thing out loud I pick my fish up from the floor and head for the checkout.
It's a lovely sunny day. Birds are singing, and I have seared yellow fin tuna for tea.
In the car park Could Be Colin is collecting the trolleys.
What do I do?
Where once we were equals now here I am filling my trolley with fresh olives and parma ham, and he goes home smelling of haddock.
Should I roll on over there and just pretend like I don't recognise him?
Fifth time around, and this could be a little awkward.
I could just roll on by, but I really want some Swordfish loin, and God, I've not had any dressed crab for two days.
Three circuits of the store later I come up with my genius plan - he's a jobbing actor. He's making his way to the top by taking any old crappy job in between acting gigs. This isn't a dead end, it's a mere stepping stone to a brighter life.
Full of gay abandon I march back to the fish counter, only Possibly Stuart is gone. There's some old lady serving there now, and that's okay - she's on the wind down path of her career, pulling a few shifts to buy Christmas presents for the grand kids.
Making a mental note to not say this kind of thing out loud I pick my fish up from the floor and head for the checkout.
It's a lovely sunny day. Birds are singing, and I have seared yellow fin tuna for tea.
In the car park Could Be Colin is collecting the trolleys.
Thursday, 9 September 2010
Think of the children - save the planet!
I'm doing my bit with my car. It's not a Prius, it doesn't run on chip fat. And it's old, 13 years, and with a road tax pushing £200 but small engine you know it's from the era of cancer spewing death cars.
The way I look at it - there's enough C02 pumped out by building me my all new cool-mobile, and crushing the old one, to choke a fair sized Panda. By sticking to the car from the last century I'm actually saving lives.
But now, like a couple of hippies on Grand Designs who want all natural and no concrete until they see the price, I'm starting to waver.
Four days in a shiny new rental car and I'm sorry animals, but you're all screwed. Lights that come on when it's dark - that's worth a baby meerkat or two. And crikey - wipers that sense the rainwater - sorry baby hippopotamous, you're just not that cute.
Coming back to the old jalopy the worst part wasn't leaning across to adjust the side mirror, and it wasn't the leaden feel of feet on pedals. Not even the inside fog mist that's like cataracts.
No, none of that. It was the smell.
Not a bad smell. Not the smell of endless coffee cups spilled in the side pocket, or that cucumber that rolled under the back seat.
It was the smell of memories. Of petrol and damp. Of hats slipping down over eyes, of grim reversings where no matter the kerb was two feet high and not a kerb at all, but dang it I will make it over despite all the crying from us kids in the back. The triumphant waving of disabled badges that means it's okay to park in the middle of a roundabout or up on that man's foot.
My car reminds me of an elderly relative, long since passed. That's right, I have an old man's car.
No wonder the net curtains twitch when I drive past that retirement home two streets over.
The way I look at it - there's enough C02 pumped out by building me my all new cool-mobile, and crushing the old one, to choke a fair sized Panda. By sticking to the car from the last century I'm actually saving lives.
But now, like a couple of hippies on Grand Designs who want all natural and no concrete until they see the price, I'm starting to waver.
Four days in a shiny new rental car and I'm sorry animals, but you're all screwed. Lights that come on when it's dark - that's worth a baby meerkat or two. And crikey - wipers that sense the rainwater - sorry baby hippopotamous, you're just not that cute.
Coming back to the old jalopy the worst part wasn't leaning across to adjust the side mirror, and it wasn't the leaden feel of feet on pedals. Not even the inside fog mist that's like cataracts.
No, none of that. It was the smell.
Not a bad smell. Not the smell of endless coffee cups spilled in the side pocket, or that cucumber that rolled under the back seat.
It was the smell of memories. Of petrol and damp. Of hats slipping down over eyes, of grim reversings where no matter the kerb was two feet high and not a kerb at all, but dang it I will make it over despite all the crying from us kids in the back. The triumphant waving of disabled badges that means it's okay to park in the middle of a roundabout or up on that man's foot.
My car reminds me of an elderly relative, long since passed. That's right, I have an old man's car.
No wonder the net curtains twitch when I drive past that retirement home two streets over.
Wednesday, 8 September 2010
How I shop for clothes
So there I am, loaded down with like fifty shirts from the sale rack and I go up to the blonde hair extension with smile at the cash desk.
Fix my best charm smile, and I say to her: "Do you know how many on sale fashion free polo shirts I can buy for the price of a single Ben Sherman top?"
She didn't, and she wasn't free for a date.
Too busy washing her hair extension I guess.
Fix my best charm smile, and I say to her: "Do you know how many on sale fashion free polo shirts I can buy for the price of a single Ben Sherman top?"
She didn't, and she wasn't free for a date.
Too busy washing her hair extension I guess.
Tuesday, 7 September 2010
How I shop for cars
The guy comes over to me - white shirt stretched tight over belly, big bushy moustache, but he has a kindly smile.
"Can I help you sir?" he says.
It's a total reflex, and I tell him no, I'm just browsing.
In this car showroom two miles out of time. The place I had to drive to. In that piece of shit car he can see from the window.
He looks at the piece of shit, and he looks at me.
"Are you in the market for a new car?" he says.
I look at the piece of shit, and I look at him.
It's a total reflex, but I tell him no, not really.
He gets the message and I get to wander, all by myself.
I silently curse, wondering how I find out what ABS means without looking like a tit.
It'll go the same way most of my purchases do. A couple of weeks making the decision - whether to actually buy a car or not. Then a good few months of in depth research - working out whether I want 18V or 16V, do I want alloys, can I save myself £2.37 by getting the generic floor mats rather than the ones they make specifically for that model.
Followed by a single day of mad, carefree abandon as I decide to bloody do it, throw all my careful research out the window and buy something totally different because that's what they had in stock.
All you have is floor mats made of Madagascan Spider Silk, edged with gold and you can't get them wet? Gimme, gimme, gimme!
"Can I help you sir?" he says.
It's a total reflex, and I tell him no, I'm just browsing.
In this car showroom two miles out of time. The place I had to drive to. In that piece of shit car he can see from the window.
He looks at the piece of shit, and he looks at me.
"Are you in the market for a new car?" he says.
I look at the piece of shit, and I look at him.
It's a total reflex, but I tell him no, not really.
He gets the message and I get to wander, all by myself.
I silently curse, wondering how I find out what ABS means without looking like a tit.
It'll go the same way most of my purchases do. A couple of weeks making the decision - whether to actually buy a car or not. Then a good few months of in depth research - working out whether I want 18V or 16V, do I want alloys, can I save myself £2.37 by getting the generic floor mats rather than the ones they make specifically for that model.
Followed by a single day of mad, carefree abandon as I decide to bloody do it, throw all my careful research out the window and buy something totally different because that's what they had in stock.
All you have is floor mats made of Madagascan Spider Silk, edged with gold and you can't get them wet? Gimme, gimme, gimme!
Sunday, 5 September 2010
I like clean
Strange as it may seem to people who who come to my house - I like things clean.
Those piles of dust, the sixteen copies of Watchtower on the foot of the stairs, the red marks on the wall from where I kicked the pommegranate that time, all there because I haven't found the right tool.
It's not through wont of trying. I have so many gadgets for cleaning, all promise to make my life easier, but none have the wow factor to overcome laziness. I have a higher ratio of cleaning devices to dirt than an NHS hospital ward.
Until now.
Because now I finally have my handheld Dyson DC31.
I've wanted one of these babies for a while, always holding off because of the price tag. Can a handheld vacuum that costs over one hundred pounds really be worth it? I still don't know, but before you write me off as having more money than sense...
It looks like a gun.
It comes out of the box and you have to click things together like a sniper rifle. I'm tempted to get it a silver case filled with black foam inserts to fit the sleek form.
It also has a button that transforms it from a mere 38W of suck into a virtual hurricane of 60W. In layman's terms that's enough to take a wig off a bald man at forty paces. I'm also hoping it'll be enough to suck out those three apple cores that have glued themselves to the inside of my car's ash tray.
The DC31 is small and light, great for sneaking into the hospital with you when that guy with the comb over resents your little moment of fun.
Those piles of dust, the sixteen copies of Watchtower on the foot of the stairs, the red marks on the wall from where I kicked the pommegranate that time, all there because I haven't found the right tool.
It's not through wont of trying. I have so many gadgets for cleaning, all promise to make my life easier, but none have the wow factor to overcome laziness. I have a higher ratio of cleaning devices to dirt than an NHS hospital ward.
Until now.
Because now I finally have my handheld Dyson DC31.
I've wanted one of these babies for a while, always holding off because of the price tag. Can a handheld vacuum that costs over one hundred pounds really be worth it? I still don't know, but before you write me off as having more money than sense...
It looks like a gun.
It comes out of the box and you have to click things together like a sniper rifle. I'm tempted to get it a silver case filled with black foam inserts to fit the sleek form.
It also has a button that transforms it from a mere 38W of suck into a virtual hurricane of 60W. In layman's terms that's enough to take a wig off a bald man at forty paces. I'm also hoping it'll be enough to suck out those three apple cores that have glued themselves to the inside of my car's ash tray.
The DC31 is small and light, great for sneaking into the hospital with you when that guy with the comb over resents your little moment of fun.
Saturday, 4 September 2010
I bet this would totally suck if it was real
He didn't love the girl. How could he love someone after just two dates? That was a sure fire ticket to Loserville. But he did really like her. Then one mistimed comment and boom, all gone.
They had this single perfect date together. The kind of first date you get in movies, when the both of them clicked, right at the same time. They drank Mojitos in the bar at the end of the bay. Somehow they talked about kids. One hour after meeting they were onto children, and neither of them was leaving.
They shared their first kiss before the hour was up, waiting for a table in Demarcos. His impulse, her surprise, but they both kinda liked it. And they both kinda liked the guy who sang like Dean Martin, who held the note, until the guy leaned over the table and kissed the girl again.
In the downstairs bar they drank beer. They held each other close, they kissed some more. The drink was flowing well and with hands clasped this new couple made so many new friends that night.
No one could believe that it was their first date.
They rode the carousel even though it was all tucked in for the night, laughing on the same pony until the man came and shouted at them.
Their second date a film, a movie that she liked but he didn't. That wasn't why it felt flat - who outside of Romeo and Juliet could top that first date?
He still did not know how he fucked things up, only that his sole memory of her - a contact on his phone that said: "Imogen?" - victim of a pissed off number deletion followed by frantic fumbling to get it back. Going months without calling her, and it wasn't until he was back in that downstairs bar for the first time since, on another first date, that he thought to himself, "Fuck".
He was there with this new girl, and she was nice, and he was having fun, but she was no Imogen. He started to think - with a first date like that, it was meant to be.
Perhaps it made him a dick, but he didn't care. Text her, and ask her - "That Imogen? Remember me?".
Scrolling through the contacts on his phone, looking for her name. Slowly, the horror growing, remembering that message, just two nights before:
Warning! Upgrading to the latest version of Android will erase all local data on your phone. Including contact details of your one, true love.
He said fuck once more, out loud. Didn't care that everyone was staring.
They had this single perfect date together. The kind of first date you get in movies, when the both of them clicked, right at the same time. They drank Mojitos in the bar at the end of the bay. Somehow they talked about kids. One hour after meeting they were onto children, and neither of them was leaving.
They shared their first kiss before the hour was up, waiting for a table in Demarcos. His impulse, her surprise, but they both kinda liked it. And they both kinda liked the guy who sang like Dean Martin, who held the note, until the guy leaned over the table and kissed the girl again.
In the downstairs bar they drank beer. They held each other close, they kissed some more. The drink was flowing well and with hands clasped this new couple made so many new friends that night.
No one could believe that it was their first date.
They rode the carousel even though it was all tucked in for the night, laughing on the same pony until the man came and shouted at them.
Their second date a film, a movie that she liked but he didn't. That wasn't why it felt flat - who outside of Romeo and Juliet could top that first date?
He still did not know how he fucked things up, only that his sole memory of her - a contact on his phone that said: "Imogen?" - victim of a pissed off number deletion followed by frantic fumbling to get it back. Going months without calling her, and it wasn't until he was back in that downstairs bar for the first time since, on another first date, that he thought to himself, "Fuck".
He was there with this new girl, and she was nice, and he was having fun, but she was no Imogen. He started to think - with a first date like that, it was meant to be.
Perhaps it made him a dick, but he didn't care. Text her, and ask her - "That Imogen? Remember me?".
Scrolling through the contacts on his phone, looking for her name. Slowly, the horror growing, remembering that message, just two nights before:
Warning! Upgrading to the latest version of Android will erase all local data on your phone. Including contact details of your one, true love.
He said fuck once more, out loud. Didn't care that everyone was staring.
Thursday, 2 September 2010
Quentin Tarantino's Inglourius
Well, that's one way to describe it.
Another way is the phrase "total borefest".
It's a war film about a group of Nazi hunters going around killing Nazis, and somehow I was actually rooting for the Germans.
They're Nazi hunters and when they find a Nazi they kill him. Only they don't just kill the evil, nasty Nazis, like the SS, they go find some poor German conscript - a guy only fighting because he's been told to fight -and they bash his head with a baseball bat.
In typical Tarantino style scene after "cool" scene happens. People sit around talking. They discuss German cinema, their favourite directors. There's a curious scene when a British agent who's also an expert on German cinema is briefed by an officer and another man I suspect was Winston Churchill. They meet in a large, almost totally empty room yet for some reason they all choose to stand in opposite corners and shout across the empty space at each other.
This might be the point (fifteen hours in I think) when all three people in the room said together as one: "This is crap."
But we lasted, all the way to the end.
Through the forty seven hours of scenes where people chatted about German cinema.
Through a two hour scene in a bar where a British agent was exposed because he said he grew up in Krimml in a house with Sky Blue window shutters, when in fact any native of Krimml knows that due to local planning laws all window shutters must be painted Topaz Blue. (In fact there's special dispensation for houses built between 1921 and 1926 to allow them to have Mirage Blue shutters, a shade very close to Sky Blue, so it's possible the agent could have been mistaken about the precise shade of blue, but since he was a boy at the start of the Great War, the house he grew up in can't have been built between 1921 and 1926). ***
Lots of people get shot.
Brad Pitt didn't get shot. Perhaps the German soldiers were confused by how American he was looking, or how many times he said, "Mama mia!". (He was disguised as an Italian you see).
Hitler may have got shot, or maybe it was blown up, or burned to death. I missed most of the frantic climax because I was spluttering with incredulity that the Hitler, the leader of the German people, the Fuhrer, the most important man in Nazi Germany, the guy you'd think the Germans would be keen on protecting, they'd given him two guards.
In Paris. The captial of France. A city, filled with Frenchmen. Who hate Germans. With Brad Pitt dressed as an Italian and his crack team of Nazi hunters on the loose.
*** Okay, so the scene didn't quite get to this level of banality, but watch it - it skirts damn close to it
Another way is the phrase "total borefest".
It's a war film about a group of Nazi hunters going around killing Nazis, and somehow I was actually rooting for the Germans.
They're Nazi hunters and when they find a Nazi they kill him. Only they don't just kill the evil, nasty Nazis, like the SS, they go find some poor German conscript - a guy only fighting because he's been told to fight -and they bash his head with a baseball bat.
In typical Tarantino style scene after "cool" scene happens. People sit around talking. They discuss German cinema, their favourite directors. There's a curious scene when a British agent who's also an expert on German cinema is briefed by an officer and another man I suspect was Winston Churchill. They meet in a large, almost totally empty room yet for some reason they all choose to stand in opposite corners and shout across the empty space at each other.
This might be the point (fifteen hours in I think) when all three people in the room said together as one: "This is crap."
But we lasted, all the way to the end.
Through the forty seven hours of scenes where people chatted about German cinema.
Through a two hour scene in a bar where a British agent was exposed because he said he grew up in Krimml in a house with Sky Blue window shutters, when in fact any native of Krimml knows that due to local planning laws all window shutters must be painted Topaz Blue. (In fact there's special dispensation for houses built between 1921 and 1926 to allow them to have Mirage Blue shutters, a shade very close to Sky Blue, so it's possible the agent could have been mistaken about the precise shade of blue, but since he was a boy at the start of the Great War, the house he grew up in can't have been built between 1921 and 1926). ***
Lots of people get shot.
Brad Pitt didn't get shot. Perhaps the German soldiers were confused by how American he was looking, or how many times he said, "Mama mia!". (He was disguised as an Italian you see).
Hitler may have got shot, or maybe it was blown up, or burned to death. I missed most of the frantic climax because I was spluttering with incredulity that the Hitler, the leader of the German people, the Fuhrer, the most important man in Nazi Germany, the guy you'd think the Germans would be keen on protecting, they'd given him two guards.
In Paris. The captial of France. A city, filled with Frenchmen. Who hate Germans. With Brad Pitt dressed as an Italian and his crack team of Nazi hunters on the loose.
*** Okay, so the scene didn't quite get to this level of banality, but watch it - it skirts damn close to it
Fly me to the moon
"You only get one shot kid. Just one."
As I lined up the target, my finger quite literally on the trigger, and I took that final breath that would serve me through the hit those words came back to me.
Close your eyes. Breathe. And do it.
So I took the shot.
Before I left my last job I spent the summer as the fly killing king. My badminton racquet was my weapon. My panacea the tink of the connection between string and fly, then head going one way, body in the opposite direction. On those hot, sweaty days when the air seems to pool around you and the flies are buzzing, on those days I was a king. Making double figures most days, easy.
My signature move was the lateral aerial bisecting shot (LAB for short). Man, I could pull off a LAB with a flick of my wrist, and boom, seventh heaven. Seeing the body fly, in two directions. And sometimes the added bonus; the cry of a desk mate - "I felt wet splash on me!"
Now that I work from home I don't quite have the room to swing and pull off a LAB any longer. I've had to get more sophisticated. I've had to invest in my armoury.
Introducing....the http://www.amazingflygun.com/
This thing is fabulous. Okay, if you use the string to hold the projectile to the gun then it has a tendency to swing back and whack you in the balls, but it's fab nonetheless! Not for me the random wavings of a piece of sports equipment, instead I hunt, and I go for the kill.
And did I make the hit?
Of course I did.
That fragment of fruit cake, with the current in - never moved a millimetre after I was done.
As I lined up the target, my finger quite literally on the trigger, and I took that final breath that would serve me through the hit those words came back to me.
Close your eyes. Breathe. And do it.
So I took the shot.
Before I left my last job I spent the summer as the fly killing king. My badminton racquet was my weapon. My panacea the tink of the connection between string and fly, then head going one way, body in the opposite direction. On those hot, sweaty days when the air seems to pool around you and the flies are buzzing, on those days I was a king. Making double figures most days, easy.
My signature move was the lateral aerial bisecting shot (LAB for short). Man, I could pull off a LAB with a flick of my wrist, and boom, seventh heaven. Seeing the body fly, in two directions. And sometimes the added bonus; the cry of a desk mate - "I felt wet splash on me!"
Now that I work from home I don't quite have the room to swing and pull off a LAB any longer. I've had to get more sophisticated. I've had to invest in my armoury.
Introducing....the http://www.amazingflygun.com/
This thing is fabulous. Okay, if you use the string to hold the projectile to the gun then it has a tendency to swing back and whack you in the balls, but it's fab nonetheless! Not for me the random wavings of a piece of sports equipment, instead I hunt, and I go for the kill.
And did I make the hit?
Of course I did.
That fragment of fruit cake, with the current in - never moved a millimetre after I was done.
Monday, 8 March 2010
It's the heady world of the IT contractor for me tomorrow. At any moment I could be jetting off to spread my knowledge of .NET and Star Wars quotes to the four corners. Though tomorrow it's Bristol.
I've decided I should try and look the part. So today I bought a new notebook. It has three inbuilt dividers. They are moveable.
Inside the front cover is a map of the world with time zone information and world capitals. Possibly I shopped in the Evil Genius bent on World Domination aisle in Tesco.
I've decided I should try and look the part. So today I bought a new notebook. It has three inbuilt dividers. They are moveable.
Inside the front cover is a map of the world with time zone information and world capitals. Possibly I shopped in the Evil Genius bent on World Domination aisle in Tesco.
Thursday, 4 February 2010
A prize winning limerick
Here follows a prize winning limerick.
There was a Norwegian called Lars
Who'd meet Gary Numan in bars
His life had no meaning
A failure so seeming
Till he helped with the single called Cars
For this charming little ditty, my mate Dave and I recieved a jar of pickled herrings, and a jar of pickled gherkins. I think you can agree they were well deserved.
This is the most well received piece of writing I've been involved in to date.
There was a Norwegian called Lars
Who'd meet Gary Numan in bars
His life had no meaning
A failure so seeming
Till he helped with the single called Cars
For this charming little ditty, my mate Dave and I recieved a jar of pickled herrings, and a jar of pickled gherkins. I think you can agree they were well deserved.
This is the most well received piece of writing I've been involved in to date.
South Wales Fight Club anyone?
Not so much for the fighting, but then at least there might be something positive out my latest bout of insomnia. I think I could even hack the extremely grubby Newport version of Helena Bonham Carter that would be bound to show. Possibly dressed in pyjamas after buying some fags from Somerfield on her way over.
After some research* into insomnia, and how to beat it, I've discovered I've been making a number of mistakes.
Mistake #1 - oversleeping to make up for lack of sleep.
Like today for instance - not getting to sleep till 3 and staying in bed till 11. All this does is reset your body clock so tonight it'll be half three before I drop off.
Mistake #2 - going to bed early to make up for the lack of sleep aka my dad's traditional remedy of "Having an early night".
What this amounts to is lying in bed for six hours getting more and more pissed off at not being able to sleep until you go straight ahead and launch into mistake #3: the relaxation CD.
Mistake #3 - The relaxation/self hypnosis music
These generally take the form of gentle ocean noises or baroque music overlaid with the gentle sounds of someone talking in a soothing voice. This voice pauses from time to time - I guess the guy with the microphone is trying to contain his mirth that people are giving him $20 to listen to him ramble. Or perhaps he has to step away from the tape machine to help his assistant with another barrow load of cash.
I've discovered I'm not all that keen on these sleep tape voice over chappies. I don't think I've ever hated anyone in my life, but they are coming pretty close. Generally it's about fifteen minutes in, and then they utter the words, "By now you have fallen into a deep and relaxing sleep."
Well I have news for you Mr Sleep Hypnosis Man, with the stupid beard:
NO I FUCKING AIN'T.
And you know why I'm not in a deep and relaxing sleep?
It's because I'm lying in bed listening to somebody talking.
He's telling me to lie back and let my scalp go limp. That's right - my scalp. That thin layer of skin over the top of my skull, the one with the very few, and very thin muscles. The body part that I tend not have much in the way of concsious control over.
I don't know how to relax my cheek muscles either, or my lips. And thank you, but no, I'd rather not relax my intestines - pretty sure if I did then a short time later I'd be very far from relaxed.
My new insomnia beating technique
I'm going to try this one tonight. It's going to involve me lying in bed. Perhaps I'll do some deep breathing. Then a little light music, or the gentle sounds of the trilling of waves over a sandy beach. The sun is warm, and beaming down on me. It's filling me with its healing rays. And I am relaxed. And I am calm.
Then the sound of vigorous splashing breaks the calm, and there's a thumping noise, like feet in expensive shoes drumming on wet sand. As I float gently off into a deep sleep, feeling relaxed and calm, I smile at the irony that Mr Sleep Hypnosis Man didn't seem all that relaxed and calm as he went off for the big sleep.
*Research = Google
After some research* into insomnia, and how to beat it, I've discovered I've been making a number of mistakes.
Mistake #1 - oversleeping to make up for lack of sleep.
Like today for instance - not getting to sleep till 3 and staying in bed till 11. All this does is reset your body clock so tonight it'll be half three before I drop off.
Mistake #2 - going to bed early to make up for the lack of sleep aka my dad's traditional remedy of "Having an early night".
What this amounts to is lying in bed for six hours getting more and more pissed off at not being able to sleep until you go straight ahead and launch into mistake #3: the relaxation CD.
Mistake #3 - The relaxation/self hypnosis music
These generally take the form of gentle ocean noises or baroque music overlaid with the gentle sounds of someone talking in a soothing voice. This voice pauses from time to time - I guess the guy with the microphone is trying to contain his mirth that people are giving him $20 to listen to him ramble. Or perhaps he has to step away from the tape machine to help his assistant with another barrow load of cash.
I've discovered I'm not all that keen on these sleep tape voice over chappies. I don't think I've ever hated anyone in my life, but they are coming pretty close. Generally it's about fifteen minutes in, and then they utter the words, "By now you have fallen into a deep and relaxing sleep."
Well I have news for you Mr Sleep Hypnosis Man, with the stupid beard:
NO I FUCKING AIN'T.
And you know why I'm not in a deep and relaxing sleep?
It's because I'm lying in bed listening to somebody talking.
He's telling me to lie back and let my scalp go limp. That's right - my scalp. That thin layer of skin over the top of my skull, the one with the very few, and very thin muscles. The body part that I tend not have much in the way of concsious control over.
I don't know how to relax my cheek muscles either, or my lips. And thank you, but no, I'd rather not relax my intestines - pretty sure if I did then a short time later I'd be very far from relaxed.
My new insomnia beating technique
I'm going to try this one tonight. It's going to involve me lying in bed. Perhaps I'll do some deep breathing. Then a little light music, or the gentle sounds of the trilling of waves over a sandy beach. The sun is warm, and beaming down on me. It's filling me with its healing rays. And I am relaxed. And I am calm.
Then the sound of vigorous splashing breaks the calm, and there's a thumping noise, like feet in expensive shoes drumming on wet sand. As I float gently off into a deep sleep, feeling relaxed and calm, I smile at the irony that Mr Sleep Hypnosis Man didn't seem all that relaxed and calm as he went off for the big sleep.
*Research = Google
Friday, 22 January 2010
Right, that's enough procrastinating. Time to work...after this blog post
It's Friday night.
It's 10 PM.
At night. On a Friday.
And I'm at my desk. Not still, but again.
See, the thing is this. I've spent 26 hours at my desk this week. And my biggest accomplishment of the week was that I hoovered the stairs, and I used the attachment with the little brush, and the flat one. And I emptied the bag.
Not that it needed emptying, but I did it anyway.
It's not writer's block - I can hear the words, I can even get them written down. And that's the problem. It all seems so dull. It all seems so pointless.
Basically it all seems a bit crap.
So my new approach is to eschew the pleasures of an early night and get back to it first thing in the morning, and instead I'm going to embrace the pleasures of some whiskey, on the rocks, and write something.
And it might be shit, but I don't care. Right now I'm envying the day last week when I wrote 3700 words and pretty soon realised it was for a scene I didn't need. But at least I'd written something.
Or I might get drunk and post to facebook.
It's 10 PM.
At night. On a Friday.
And I'm at my desk. Not still, but again.
See, the thing is this. I've spent 26 hours at my desk this week. And my biggest accomplishment of the week was that I hoovered the stairs, and I used the attachment with the little brush, and the flat one. And I emptied the bag.
Not that it needed emptying, but I did it anyway.
It's not writer's block - I can hear the words, I can even get them written down. And that's the problem. It all seems so dull. It all seems so pointless.
Basically it all seems a bit crap.
So my new approach is to eschew the pleasures of an early night and get back to it first thing in the morning, and instead I'm going to embrace the pleasures of some whiskey, on the rocks, and write something.
And it might be shit, but I don't care. Right now I'm envying the day last week when I wrote 3700 words and pretty soon realised it was for a scene I didn't need. But at least I'd written something.
Or I might get drunk and post to facebook.
Friday, 15 January 2010
Pets, pets, wonderful pets
Tonight I plan to watch A Fish Called Wanda.
It's something of a reward.
Over 12,000 words have been pinned, squirming to the page. Over half of these aren't the words: "Oh Jesus, Jesus, buggery piece of shit this is bollocks I'm writing".
I'm led to believe this is positive.
I've been swimming.
I've been kicked in the head by a small child and his plastic float.
I didn't sideswipe that car that zoomed up the dedicated right hand lane and forced his way into the backed up ahead only lane. And it was a BMW. And it had one of those "I'm poor with contraceptives" cards in the back window.
I have (mentally) given a troglodyte armed with trolley a severe verbal tongue bashing.
I haven't made any crank phones calls to Aneka Rice. Or Zora Suleman.
I've even written a blog post (this one counts).
But the top class comedy movie, A Fish Called Wanda, starring one third of Monty Python, about a fish, called Wanda, and with poor old animal loving Ken causing several small, yappy dogs to snuff it, isn't a reward for all this.
This film, where one small, yappy dog is crushed under a big heavy box, where another small, yappy dog is savaged by a Doberman Pincher, and where the final small, yappy dog is also killed*, all of this small, yappy dog slaying is for none of the above.
Next door have a small, yappy dog.
And it yaps whenever that concept physicists known as time is passing.
It's been yapping all fucking day.
At one point I shouted, "Shut up," quite loudly. Had someone been in the room next to my office they might have heard me.
Watching A Fish Called Wanda with its three glorious scenes of small, yappy dogs yapping no more is going to be so sweet.
* I'll know how the third yappy dog snuffs it about two hours. I cannot wait.
I've also written the phrase "small, yappy dog" so many times that now I don't know if there should be a comma in there or not.
It's something of a reward.
Over 12,000 words have been pinned, squirming to the page. Over half of these aren't the words: "Oh Jesus, Jesus, buggery piece of shit this is bollocks I'm writing".
I'm led to believe this is positive.
I've been swimming.
I've been kicked in the head by a small child and his plastic float.
I didn't sideswipe that car that zoomed up the dedicated right hand lane and forced his way into the backed up ahead only lane. And it was a BMW. And it had one of those "I'm poor with contraceptives" cards in the back window.
I have (mentally) given a troglodyte armed with trolley a severe verbal tongue bashing.
I haven't made any crank phones calls to Aneka Rice. Or Zora Suleman.
I've even written a blog post (this one counts).
But the top class comedy movie, A Fish Called Wanda, starring one third of Monty Python, about a fish, called Wanda, and with poor old animal loving Ken causing several small, yappy dogs to snuff it, isn't a reward for all this.
This film, where one small, yappy dog is crushed under a big heavy box, where another small, yappy dog is savaged by a Doberman Pincher, and where the final small, yappy dog is also killed*, all of this small, yappy dog slaying is for none of the above.
Next door have a small, yappy dog.
And it yaps whenever that concept physicists known as time is passing.
It's been yapping all fucking day.
At one point I shouted, "Shut up," quite loudly. Had someone been in the room next to my office they might have heard me.
Watching A Fish Called Wanda with its three glorious scenes of small, yappy dogs yapping no more is going to be so sweet.
* I'll know how the third yappy dog snuffs it about two hours. I cannot wait.
I've also written the phrase "small, yappy dog" so many times that now I don't know if there should be a comma in there or not.
Sunday, 10 January 2010
Avatar - the movie
This was great. I loved it.
So what if it was a basic story that's been done a hundred times before. So what if the bad guys might as well have been running around with swastikas and kicking puppies.
It was a basic story, done well.
The visuals are stunning.
I was impressed by the whiteness of some of the marine's whites.
The music was atmospheric, though strangely familiar. I left the theatre humming "My heart will go on"...
My only criticisms were:
So what if it was a basic story that's been done a hundred times before. So what if the bad guys might as well have been running around with swastikas and kicking puppies.
It was a basic story, done well.
The visuals are stunning.
I was impressed by the whiteness of some of the marine's whites.
The music was atmospheric, though strangely familiar. I left the theatre humming "My heart will go on"...
My only criticisms were:
- The 3D - not really sure what it added (aside from 30% colour loss)
- The IMAX at the Cardiff Bay Odeon is too small to be a real IMAX screen. It's a fake IMAX. It might have the super high resolution of an IMAX but you don't sit right up close and you don't have to move your head to see everything like in a real IMAX.
Though the highlight of the evening had to be the drunk man on the train who spent the whole journey chatting up a student maths teacher. With real verve and wit he moved on to the tricky subject of personal relationships, because what's the point in the chat up if she's taken?
"Do you ever have trouble getting boyfriends?" he said.
"I've got a girlfriend," she said.
It took him a while to work this out, and the his jaw hit his chest.
Eight chapters in, and still going!
At the beginning of last November I finally got fed up with trying to inch chapter 17 along to its oh so hard to find conclusion, and go back to the beginning and fix all the stuff I knew I'd done wrong first time around.
So I added the heading "Second Draft" and started back on chapter 1.
Just over two months later I've just finished chapter 8, and some of it doesn't seem half bad. Going to work on half good next I think.
There is hope though. Earlier I read a couple of chapters from later on in the book, and I actually laughed out loud. A quiet laugh, but it's still a laugh. And though it's my own stuff and this might lead to the accusation of bias I think I've avoided that - normally I read my stuff and cringe, so things are looking up!
Not enough stats lately, so here's some:
- Word count: 110,858
- Word count of stuff I've cut: 53,107
- Number of times I've written chapter one: 7
- Version of chapter one is currently being used: 1
- Time wasted blogging: 0!
- Time wasted on Fallout 3: Um...
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