In a few weeks it's time for the 3rd annual Machynlleth comedy festival. 4th - 6th May to be exact. I went last year and had an ace time.
Machynlleth is a charming little one horse market town in Powys. This time last year it was more a fifty-six horse town, but there's just NOWHERE for starving volunteer ushers to go eat once the sun has set. It's also a place that has no concept of local geography once the sun has fallen. Night time? Right, let's plummet the temperature below zero and set a few Trans-Siberian weather patterns in a low orbit above the camping field.
I guess what I'm trying to hint at is that my immediate post festival thought for 2011 was along the lines of "ain't never gonna git me camping in Machynlleth ever again. No sir."
Roll forward to Jan 2012: Five months till Mach? Right, start thinking about hotels.
February 2012: Four months. Need to get in early. Get a good deal.
March 2012: Oh crap. It's soon. Only be a few places left. Right, on it.
1st April 2012: Shit. Book it. Now. Now.
Anyway. I digress. But I have just bought a fancy new tent.
Friday, 13 April 2012
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
QUICK!
Quick James!
Post something.
Anything.
Make your sole reader fall off his chair and go, "crikey!".
So, Phil. Did it?
Post something.
Anything.
Make your sole reader fall off his chair and go, "crikey!".
So, Phil. Did it?
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Some things that make me attempt to pull away from traffic lights in neutral
- Typing up comedy tweets
- Checking out my (quite frankly) amazing hair in the rear view mirror
- That blonde girl
(This next bit is completely unrelated, but is too short to warrant its own post)
Amazing (adjective) - to have a hairstyle of such magnificence that it puts an older man, typically a fatherly figure, in mind of a porcupine molesting an electric light socket.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Puppy dog eyes
You know the thing - the TV spot where the cute dog with those big brown eyes looks beseechingly at camera holds up a paw and poses the question: How can you not love this?
There are times when my compassion gets the better of me, when I'm almost taken in.
Then I think to myself - do I really want a dog that can write letters knowing where I live? I have enough trouble with next door's cat climbing in the bathroom window and pilfering my tea without a bloody great dog making off with a string of sausages in its mouth.
And with these dogs, it's even worse. These are abused dogs right, so street dogs. That makes them even more wily and cunning. We're talking Fantastic Mr Fox levels of cunning, combined with a detailed knowledge of the workings of a human abode.
A fox gets in your house he's just blinking in the kitchen light trying to work out where the chickens are. But you let a dog know where you live and he's going to town on the remote control.
And no way, absolutely no way am I adopting a monkey. Those little fuckers would be up a drain pipe and into to bed with granny in no time.
It doesn't stop with TV ads. Yesterday I saw a handwritten poster taped to a lamppost.
Please help me, it said. I'm a grey 8 year old parrot and I'm lost. Please help me to find my way home.
And I say yeah right.
You can write a letter and tape it to a lamppost, you free loading bird?
Well read a fucking map then.
There are times when my compassion gets the better of me, when I'm almost taken in.
Then I think to myself - do I really want a dog that can write letters knowing where I live? I have enough trouble with next door's cat climbing in the bathroom window and pilfering my tea without a bloody great dog making off with a string of sausages in its mouth.
And with these dogs, it's even worse. These are abused dogs right, so street dogs. That makes them even more wily and cunning. We're talking Fantastic Mr Fox levels of cunning, combined with a detailed knowledge of the workings of a human abode.
A fox gets in your house he's just blinking in the kitchen light trying to work out where the chickens are. But you let a dog know where you live and he's going to town on the remote control.
And no way, absolutely no way am I adopting a monkey. Those little fuckers would be up a drain pipe and into to bed with granny in no time.
It doesn't stop with TV ads. Yesterday I saw a handwritten poster taped to a lamppost.
Please help me, it said. I'm a grey 8 year old parrot and I'm lost. Please help me to find my way home.
And I say yeah right.
You can write a letter and tape it to a lamppost, you free loading bird?
Well read a fucking map then.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
I'm sorry Kevin TotallyTheBestSurnameEva
I'm sorry Kevin James.
I liked you in that sitcom you did, King of Queens. I liked the whole chalk and cheese thing you had going on. You doing your whole chubby funny man thing with the impossibly hot wife. Okay, so I lie. I only watched it for the impossibly hot wife, but c'mon, she was hot. But still, sometimes you'd do something fatman that amused me. I dunno. Ate a massive burger or cheated on your wife with a plate of nachos or something.
But now you've become the guy in the films that are automatically shit.
Tonight I saw the poster for your film, The Zookeeper. There you are in your fat man shirt with your fat man grin luring me in with the promise of fat man jokes. Perhaps I'm being judgemental and unduly harsh, but I've seen the trailer for Paul Blart: Mall Cop, and I've heard the premise for The Dilemma (and by the way, it's not hard is it. YOU TELL YOUR BEST MATE HIS WIFE'S CHEATING ON HIM).
Okay, so Hitch was passable, but that was mainly down to Will Smith's innate coolness.
(Interesting side note - they actually modelled one of the characters and how he talked to women on me. Not that I'm trying to brag or anything, but I have been known to rap).
Anyway Kevin, I'm sorry. From now on I will review all your films based on the amount of fat man gurning going on in the poster. And I'm sorry to say, any amount of fat man gurning, is too much.
It's your own fault. If you will star in films with Adam Sandler.
I liked you in that sitcom you did, King of Queens. I liked the whole chalk and cheese thing you had going on. You doing your whole chubby funny man thing with the impossibly hot wife. Okay, so I lie. I only watched it for the impossibly hot wife, but c'mon, she was hot. But still, sometimes you'd do something fatman that amused me. I dunno. Ate a massive burger or cheated on your wife with a plate of nachos or something.
But now you've become the guy in the films that are automatically shit.
Tonight I saw the poster for your film, The Zookeeper. There you are in your fat man shirt with your fat man grin luring me in with the promise of fat man jokes. Perhaps I'm being judgemental and unduly harsh, but I've seen the trailer for Paul Blart: Mall Cop, and I've heard the premise for The Dilemma (and by the way, it's not hard is it. YOU TELL YOUR BEST MATE HIS WIFE'S CHEATING ON HIM).
Okay, so Hitch was passable, but that was mainly down to Will Smith's innate coolness.
(Interesting side note - they actually modelled one of the characters and how he talked to women on me. Not that I'm trying to brag or anything, but I have been known to rap).
Anyway Kevin, I'm sorry. From now on I will review all your films based on the amount of fat man gurning going on in the poster. And I'm sorry to say, any amount of fat man gurning, is too much.
It's your own fault. If you will star in films with Adam Sandler.
Monday, 13 June 2011
Go, go, graphene!
I know little about this new miracle material - graphene - but the more I read, the more excited I become. For too long boring white coated egg heads have beavered away in the lab to give us useless products that have little application outside of an academic environment. Like DNA sequencing. Sure, you can get a good movie out of it, but come on, give me one practical example.
But this graphene stuff. Just wow.
Richard Van Noorden writes in Nature that:
According to the Nobel prize committee, a hypothetical one-metre-square hammock of perfect graphene could support a four-kilogram cat - the hammock would weigh 0.77 milligrams, less than a cat's whisker, and would be virtually invisible.
I think the phrase is along the lines of "hot diggity damn", because I for one have gone on long enough living in a world without invisible cat hammocks. Why, just last week I saw a cat, and it was SITTING ON THE FUCKING GROUND. How boring is that? From now on I want all my cats to be almost shitting themselves with fear at being suspended three to four feet up from the ground.
Thank you Science People.
But this graphene stuff. Just wow.
Richard Van Noorden writes in Nature that:
According to the Nobel prize committee, a hypothetical one-metre-square hammock of perfect graphene could support a four-kilogram cat - the hammock would weigh 0.77 milligrams, less than a cat's whisker, and would be virtually invisible.
I think the phrase is along the lines of "hot diggity damn", because I for one have gone on long enough living in a world without invisible cat hammocks. Why, just last week I saw a cat, and it was SITTING ON THE FUCKING GROUND. How boring is that? From now on I want all my cats to be almost shitting themselves with fear at being suspended three to four feet up from the ground.
Thank you Science People.
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Early to rest, early to rise. It keeps the mind sharp, the Sashimi knife sharper.
If I knew any wise old Sushi masters I'm sure it's the kind of sentiment they would echo. Doubtless they would frown on my approach involving Jack Daniel's sour mash whisky, involving most of a massive bag of cashews (roasted and salted), and involving copious amounts of Portal 2 till well into the wee small hours.
Oh, and don't forget the one litre bottle of yellow snot my friend brought me as a gift. Perhaps I'm being a touch harsh. We think it's Spanish eggnog, though we're not quite sure. It tastes faintly of banana. It cannot be drunk, it must be poured, much like that last globule of a runny yoghurt that would bring grief from your mother because you lifted the pot to your mouth.
Now the shot glasses of yellow goo stand on the counter top, a monument to my rudeness as a gift recipient. I truly am sorry for my initial knee jerk reaction ("What the hell is that?" I said). But I stand by it.
Anyone fancy some of my 1.0 litre bottle of strangely sweet and gloopy liquid? There's at least 0.99 of it left.
Oh, and don't forget the one litre bottle of yellow snot my friend brought me as a gift. Perhaps I'm being a touch harsh. We think it's Spanish eggnog, though we're not quite sure. It tastes faintly of banana. It cannot be drunk, it must be poured, much like that last globule of a runny yoghurt that would bring grief from your mother because you lifted the pot to your mouth.
Now the shot glasses of yellow goo stand on the counter top, a monument to my rudeness as a gift recipient. I truly am sorry for my initial knee jerk reaction ("What the hell is that?" I said). But I stand by it.
Anyone fancy some of my 1.0 litre bottle of strangely sweet and gloopy liquid? There's at least 0.99 of it left.
Friday, 10 June 2011
The loneliness of the short distance and moderately puffing runner
Last Friday I went for a run. Three miles, down by the river, no biggie.
Halfway through I did the usual - pause at the kiddie play area to knock out some chins on the monkey bars, and feel that self inflicted sense of discomfort - "what if someone sees me and calls me a paedophile?"
Then just this Tuesday gone - out for a run, same route, only this time I came a cropper. Put my foot on something hidden in the grass and down I went. Obviously I ruptured a whole series of ligaments in my ankle, damn near tore the whole foot off, but that wasn't my first thought.
I wasn't worried that my new nickname might become "hop along Jimbo".
I didn't care that I was now the limping buffalo calf of the Newport herd should Jurassic Park ever come true.
All I could think - I was down on my hands and knees, hidden in the long grass, lurking right next to the kiddie play area.
Now it's three days later, and though the foot has reattached itself I'm still in considerable agony.
People tell me - don't be a hero James.
But damnit, men should be men.
I'm still going on that sushi making course tomorrow.
Halfway through I did the usual - pause at the kiddie play area to knock out some chins on the monkey bars, and feel that self inflicted sense of discomfort - "what if someone sees me and calls me a paedophile?"
Then just this Tuesday gone - out for a run, same route, only this time I came a cropper. Put my foot on something hidden in the grass and down I went. Obviously I ruptured a whole series of ligaments in my ankle, damn near tore the whole foot off, but that wasn't my first thought.
I wasn't worried that my new nickname might become "hop along Jimbo".
I didn't care that I was now the limping buffalo calf of the Newport herd should Jurassic Park ever come true.
All I could think - I was down on my hands and knees, hidden in the long grass, lurking right next to the kiddie play area.
Now it's three days later, and though the foot has reattached itself I'm still in considerable agony.
People tell me - don't be a hero James.
But damnit, men should be men.
I'm still going on that sushi making course tomorrow.
Friday, 20 May 2011
Welcome (to the insanitorium)
All being well this time next week I should be deep into Working At Home.
The suit is being dry cleaned of wedding ice cream, victim of a particular vicious kiddie ice cream hurling match (I won, by the way), the shirt has been excised of Looney Tunes shiny stickers (here's a tip - bridesmaids find it endearing when you let their stupid little niece stick them all up your arm), and the Corporate Noose (aka my single Tie) is being dusted down, all ready for a business meeting on Monday.
That's right, I do business meetings now.
Perhaps I'll channel the spirit of something and end up like one of those well adjusted and decent human beings that people The Apprentice.
So it's back to the dusty world of this blog, the aim being to stay even a little bit sane as I while away my working life with only the C# compiler and my Tassimo coffee machine for company.
With luck I might even write some fiction.
Or just arse around on Twitter.
One of the two anyway.
The suit is being dry cleaned of wedding ice cream, victim of a particular vicious kiddie ice cream hurling match (I won, by the way), the shirt has been excised of Looney Tunes shiny stickers (here's a tip - bridesmaids find it endearing when you let their stupid little niece stick them all up your arm), and the Corporate Noose (aka my single Tie) is being dusted down, all ready for a business meeting on Monday.
That's right, I do business meetings now.
Perhaps I'll channel the spirit of something and end up like one of those well adjusted and decent human beings that people The Apprentice.
So it's back to the dusty world of this blog, the aim being to stay even a little bit sane as I while away my working life with only the C# compiler and my Tassimo coffee machine for company.
With luck I might even write some fiction.
Or just arse around on Twitter.
One of the two anyway.
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Movie review: Predators
It was okay....
The premise this time is that a bunch of hard nuts are in some jungle somewhere. Something nasty and mean is lurking. Uh oh, what could be about to happen...
In case you didn't guess from the title, lots of the Predator aliens show up. Lots of things die in horrible ways. People say fuck a lot. A well known famous big star Hollywood actor is in it. He wheezes a bit, presumably unable to believe the size of his paycheck for so little work.
Though much like the Borg from Star Trek, the more we see of them, the wimpier the Predator aliens become. In Predator 6 I expect to see a group of rowdy teen Predators terrorising the residents of the Sunnydale Retirement Home. Cue lots of young punk Predators getting their asses handed to them by Granny Mabel and Grandpa George wielding a walking stick, with much comedy whacks on the back of the cool Predator dreadlocks with a big cushion.
The premise this time is that a bunch of hard nuts are in some jungle somewhere. Something nasty and mean is lurking. Uh oh, what could be about to happen...
In case you didn't guess from the title, lots of the Predator aliens show up. Lots of things die in horrible ways. People say fuck a lot. A well known famous big star Hollywood actor is in it. He wheezes a bit, presumably unable to believe the size of his paycheck for so little work.
Though much like the Borg from Star Trek, the more we see of them, the wimpier the Predator aliens become. In Predator 6 I expect to see a group of rowdy teen Predators terrorising the residents of the Sunnydale Retirement Home. Cue lots of young punk Predators getting their asses handed to them by Granny Mabel and Grandpa George wielding a walking stick, with much comedy whacks on the back of the cool Predator dreadlocks with a big cushion.
Friday, 21 January 2011
New year, new start
Except it's January 21st, so the year's already slightly rusty. And it's not a new start because I'm working on the novel I started in August 2008. Plus the chapter I wrote today, it's a bit shit.
But, on the other hand, at least I wrote it.
So that makes me happy.
But, on the other hand, at least I wrote it.
So that makes me happy.
Friday, 24 December 2010
Meet is murder
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...
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...
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
