A totally truthful (with the occasional lie) account of the life, beliefs, points-of-interest, ramblings and occasional inspired thought of a guy with too much time on his hands.
A twenty-one (and a half) year old with a penchant for the small details in life, and the big impressive things, and sandwiches, and penguins, and films and books and music, and people, and writing about them all on a semi-regular basis.
(Read: A 21-year old with too much time on his hands)
I'm concerned by the amount of blank days on this blog now, but pleased be assured in the knowledge that the entries are written. They are currently sitting scrawled in black pen inside an old notebook. All I need is the time to sit down and copy them across to an electronic format.
I work and I get home and then have about three hours before I should be grabbing sleep, time which I like to spend unwinding. This usually takes the form of reading books or watching films and doesn't usually included meticulously typing up the stuff I wrote at lunchtime.
I'm in the mood to do it tonight though, but I feel that this is because I really, really need to pack my stuff away. My brain sees typing as a more appealing alternative, but I have to resist the lure.
My room is in an odd state right now. Half is bare, stripped of posters and life, whilst the other half is messed up with junk and bags and junk in bags. The bare half scares me a little. A week ago I was all excited about the prospect of leaving and was very much an 'Only one week to go!' person.
More recently, today, I'm starting feeling a little melancholy about it all. I'm saying goodbye to people for the last time and it's a little depressing. I have got some hugs though, so not all bad news.
Anyway, back to packing! Just wanted to fill this space with something new, even if it is something rushed. I'm not dead!
Come back soon to see my freshly typed up views on fashion, music and the dangers of puddles.
It happened the other night, although if we were being pedantic it happened in the early hours of the morning. Bored and procrastinating, I was surfing the internet and listen to Lastfm. For those that haven’t discovered this wonderful website, you should. Type a singer or a band or a genre you like and the site plays you similar stuff. Great for discovering new music or for when you just get bored of your current musical selection.
Anyway, a song began playing that was simply amazing. I forget the name of the song, or even the singer, now but at the time I was determined to hear that song again. The problem with Lastfm is that, due to copyright law, you can’t rewind.
My quest eventually led me to Facebook and the ‘iLike’ feature contained within. It held a snippet, a thirty-second clip, of the song. This wasn’t good enough to call my quest a success of course, so I took iLike’s suggestion to buy the song. It said I could purchase it from the iStore.
I couldn’t.
Seriously. I clicked the iLink, went to the iStore and found out that they were iLying.
What I did find however, ruined my life. Millions and millions of songs were all there, waiting for me to sample. Of course, my first love is film, but music is pretty close up there. My life has a constant soundtrack, either through iPods, radio or just the music in pubs and clubs.
And here was EVERY SONG EVER (well, almost), all waiting for me just to click. And I did, because I’m curious and weak. I picked ‘Walking in Memphis’, an awesome song that I didn’t own. It asked me whether I was sure. I was. It gave me the song.
It was that easy. Scarily easy.
I browsed and clicked more songs, not quite acknowledging that each click was costing me 79p. I mean, I was aware, but my brain wasn’t quite processing this experience as shopping.
I stopped after I bankrupted myself, but the whole thing still cost me the price of three CDs. I guess the upside is that I got to choose what songs went on those discs.
Anyway, since I need a topic for today’s ‘Five on Friday’ I thought that a pick of five of the downloaded songs would work pretty well. They have a similar feature on the actual site, with celebrities choosing favourite songs.
I’m not a celebrity and these are not my favourite songs, but they are good and I’m all you’ve got.
So there!
‘Fascination’ – Alphabeat
I didn’t like this song the first time I heard it. We were in a car, on a day that listening to music wasn’t high on my priority list, and it began playing from the CD. It instantly reminded me of ‘High School Musical’ and I screwed my face up with disgust.
I haven’t actually seen ‘High School Musical’ but I loath it in principle; if enough idiots like something, I find myself taking the opposite stance to balance the world. Seriously, if enough stupid people wore t-shirts proclaiming how much they just adored oxygen, I’d probably stop breathing.
So yeah, my first experience with the song didn’t go all that well. I walked away thinking it was just another generic, cheesy-pop song and it walked away thinking absolutely nothing, since it was a song.
And let’s be honest, I was right. It is a cheesy-pop song.
However, my next encounter with ‘Fascination’ was in the basement of a club, a little and celebrating a friend’s birthday. That was me, by the way. I reiterate, it is a song! And this time, all the negatives became virtues, despite the music not changing one iota.
Played loud enough, you can forget the cheesiness and the Disney-musical similarities and just enjoy it as the hugely danceable song that is, well, fun.
I still hate ‘High School Musical’ though!
‘Misery Business’ – Paramore
This was another song that was discovered to be genius in the basement of a club, whilst tipsy. Different club though and, also, I had never heard the song.
I danced to it, because it was catchy, and I sang along, despite not knowing the words. I guessed for some parts, and I copied my friend for other parts and when I didn’t know the words I just flailed my arms around and hoped no-one noticed.
When I had the chance to download it and actually find out the words, I did so without hesitation. I still don’t know them, but at least I can listen to an awesome song whenever I please.
And before it’s pointed out, looking up lyrics on the internet is for wimps!
‘Work’ – Jimmy Eat World
The amazing talent that Jimmy Eat World have is to write songs that are fun and connect in equal measure. At least they connect to the emo kid that still lurks inside me, who is crying as I type. He cries a lot.
Anyway, this song really seemed to be speaking about me, way back when (four years ago). I live in a small town and school in an even smaller village, and a big part of me felt that I would never escape. I guess that’s one of the reasons I chose to go to university so far away.
This song reminds me of those days, feeling trapped in small-town life.
Also, one day I really would like to grab some friends, get in a car and drive to anywhere, just to escape. Guess I have to learn to drive a car first.
‘Scar’ – Missy Higgins
This is a happy song about something really depressing. It is usually the case with songs like this that it takes me an age to figure out just what they’re singing about, and when I do the shock is genuinely shocking. How can they sing so happily about something so utterly depressing.
Seriously. Listen to the lyrics. Boys suck!
I don’t know why I downloaded this song, but recall hearing it in my sister’s collection. I’m just a copycat.
‘Absolutely (Story of a Girl)’ – Nine Days
Songs have that amazing ability to take us back to the days we first heard them. This is why I downloaded this song.
It was one of the songs in my collection I played whilst crushing on a girl. The slightly bitter romantic lyrics appealed to me back then.
Because nothing ever happened with my crush (This could be a lie. The crush could be one of two girls) but I can just replace her with a different girl now. I don’t stand a chance with this girl either, so not a lot has changed in six years.
Jason (not his real name; identities have been changed to protect the emotionally damaged) shook as he took a sip from his whiskey and coke.
“I keep having the same dreams. An alien stands above Indy and keeps kicking him in the head. I try to run and help him, but I never get any closer. He just keeps kicking and kicking and…”
Tears well up in his eyes and he can’t speak anymore. Everyone around him nods their heads. They understand.
Jason is suffering from P.I.S.S, Post-Indy Stress Syndrome, an affliction that is growing in numbers as the new Indiana Jones film racks up millions in the box office.
It is hard to take seriously. After all, how can a simple thing like a film cause such an adverse reaction? But we shouldn’t be taking this casually at all. Left untreated, this syndrome can cause stress, anger and eventually a lack of emotional contact with the world. It is the only way they can cope with the world.
If you believe that yourself, or someone you know, may suffer from P.I.S.S., please check the following checklist. If you can answer yes to three or more of these questions, you may well be a sufferer.
*Do you find yourself reluctant to watch another film, ever again? *Do you repeatedly watch the original trilogy and mutter to yourself “Just forget” over and over again? *Do you feel anger towards people with Indiana Jones-style hats? *Do you feel anger towards people with beards that have a striking resemblance to George Lucas? *Have you lost friends because they claimed that the new Indy film “wasn’t that bad”? *Have you found yourself looking up at the stars and shaking your fist, cursing aliens for getting involved in ANY world affairs? *Have you stopped eating, because whenever you look at food you think “What’s the point? They’re only going to make Indy 5.”?
If some, or all, of these apply to you or a friend, don’t worry! Help is at hand in the form of P.I.S.S.A.R.T. (Post-Indy Stress Syndrome Active Reduction Therapy). Meetings are held weekly and members are encouraged to drink and just forget about their troubles. Sufferers are asked what they didn’t like about the film, and the allowed the full amount of time to rant and ramble.
We teach sufferers that it isn’t THEIR fault, but George Lucas’, and ask that members write angry notes to him, essentially cleansing themselves of the anger held within.
To find out where your nearest meeting is, please contact 07682 775775 (Not a real number. Numbers have been changed to protect the innocent.)
Please don’t read that as ‘I am not fashionable’ because that is not the case. Sure, I’m no Victoria Beckham, or the male equivalent (David Beckham?) but I can hardly be called a particularly bad dresser. Just a lazy one. The amount of time I spend choosing what to wear can only be measure by the nanosecond, with the finest time-keeping equipment science can buy.
But no, I just don’t get it. More specifically, I don’t get why in order to be “in fashion”, people have to wear the same things.
Chief culprits here are the skinny jeans; torture device and clothing combined. Wave upon wave of people wearing jeans that condense their legs to the width of a toothpick. A light wind would snap them, I swear. And how boys wear them is a mystery to me. We have parts, guys! Surely too much tightness there… ruins performance. Or just plain hurts.
I bought a pair of skinny jeans once, by accident. Like my daily clothing choice, my purchases of clothes spend as little time being processed in the brain as possible. Get in, get clothes, get out, get sandwich. This means that there is often a failure on my part to read labels. Important labels. Like “Skinny Fit”.
Upon realizing my mistake, I figured I may as well try them on, to see what all he fuss was about. After about half an hour of trying to get them past my knees, I eventually reached a stage where I could do up the fly.
I have never worn anything so ridiculous in my life, and I’ve dressed as Tinkerbell (Another story, another day). For starters, I couldn’t bend my knees, which meant I walked around like a pirate with one too many wooden legs. I don’t know about you, but I like the use of my knees.
The jeans seemed determined to let my know they were there, all the damn time! You couldn’t just get on with your day because the tightness below your waist is constantly shouting “You are wearing skinny jeans! You are cool!” I get how girls in corsets feel now, but whilst a corset pushes boobs out and stomach in, the jeans just seemed to force all the fat from my legs upwards and overflowing over the waistband.
So. Skinny jeans are out for me. So are scarves when it isn’t cold, turned up collars and band hoodies.
Regarding the latter, I have nothing against hoodies, or even hoodies that feature bands on the front. In fact, they regularly appear in my wardrobe. Issues arise when people walk around with the band logos emblazoned on the front and pretension emblazoned on their faces. The idea that wearing the symbol of a cool band somehow embodies someone with cool is ridiculous. The reality is of often the opposite. If someone walks down the street with a t-shirt saying “FBI: Female Body Inspector” (They exist), I always get the feeling that the only female attention they get is in the front seat of a car after parting with fifty British pounds.
The same applies to those who choose to buy clothes that their favourite celebrity has been caught wearing. There are pages and pages in ‘Heat’ magazine (Yes, I have been known to read it) dedicated to this stuff.
“Jennifer Aniston was wearing the most BEAUTIFUL dress at the BAFTAs. Where can I get one? ” The letter will usually say. Heat will reply with news that you can get one cheap at Primark, for only 1.50. Great.
What is should say is “Forget it woman! Jennifer Aniston has a fitness and health routine, and must weigh about three stone now. She has a pretty face and a good figure. Sure, the dress was ‘BEAUTIFUL’ (Why the capitals, by the way? Slip on the Caps Lock?) but it worked because she would look good in a bin bag’
‘We don’t know this for a fact, but judging by our average readership, Heat can only assume you’re a twenty stone, single mum of three children. There is a reason you’re single. You’re ugly! Simple. As. That.’
‘You can get yourself the same dress for only 1.50 at Primark and delude yourself that maybe, just maybe, you’ll be beautiful and successful and Brad Pitt will want to marry you. It won’t come true. You’ll look like a whale in a cheap night gown.”
Okay, so this is a whole lot harsher, and may to win them more readers, but the truth hurts sometimes. It is the only way these people will learn.
I think that the crux of my issue is that people shouldn’t all try to be the same. Sure, I’m ragging on fashion, and I know it happens elsewhere.
In film school, for example, I want to scream every time I hear someone say “I want to be the next George Romero” or, more often now, “I want to make films like Shane Meadows”. The reason these people are successful is because they are doing stuff their own way and not trying to be the ‘next’ anybody. Have some originality! Be the first you.
But it is in the fashion world that copycats prosper and so it is that world that I will call up for its sins.
A world in which everyone looks the same is BORING! Why not skip ahead to the near-future where everyone wears the same silver jumpsuit? Because that’s where this will all end up if we’re not careful.
There are two important things you need in life: a good head on your shoulders and good shoes on your feet.
Wise advice indeed, yet I forget who said it. The whole thing sounds like something a parent would impart on their child, but my memory seems to imply that it was a drunk friend instead.
Also, whilst the advice may be good, my life has been spent not listening to it. I do have a good head on my shoulder, but am perpetually destroying it with television and alcohol. And my shoes are a mess.
I kind of like them that way. I’ve had them about a year now and they are falling apart quite impressively. It gives them character. If they inexplicably grew mouths and managed to talk, my shoes would have interesting stories to tell, especially over the white, sterile Nike trainers of other people.
Sure, they may also complain a lot, but that’s what old people (shoes) do. It goes with the territory.
My current shoes are so full of holes that if they entered a sponge look-a-like competition they would place a respectable third. Again, it’s all about character.
The downside to having holey shoes, and the curse of many a good person, is rain. It always seems to catch me by surprise: a step in a puddle and a wet sock. Always, damn it. I never learn.
I’ve taken to the only course of action available: like the aliens from ‘Signs’ and the Wicked Witch of the West, I just stay indoors when it rains. Sure, I avoid socialization and work and important opportunities, but at least my feet stay dry.
It’s either that, or have boring shoes. And I need something interesting to talk to when I’m stuck indoors.
My initial reaction was to go with the romance of stars and the humbling nature they inflict on us (By us I mean, as always, me. Maybe they don’t humble anyone else).
Then, I remembered an old joke, I figured I could have the best of both worlds.
So...
Sherlock Holmes and Watson were out camping in the woods. They lay out on the grass, staring up at the stars.
“Watson.” Holmes said, snapping his partner out of his daydream. “Hm?” replied Watson, which isn’t even a real word. “What do you see?” “I see the stars.” “And what does that tell you Watson?” Holmes asked.
“Well. It tells me that we are so small in the grand scheme of things. That when we get caught up in our own lives we should look up and see that the universe is huge and we are only tiny specks.’
‘And that is just our universe. Somewhere, there is more, which makes us even smaller. How can people even think that their problems with love or work or whatever can mean anything when we are less than a piece of dust in the galaxy’
‘It tells me that people need to take the time to be humble once in a while, to look at these specks of light which have taken thousands of years to get here, which is hundreds of human lifetimes. We’re only around for a blink in the galaxy’s eye and we should savour that time instead of fussing about the little things that will never be remembered’
‘It shows me why people can believe in a great creator, how they can look up at the night sky and see such raw beauty that gives the impression some kind of god with artistic talent had a hand in making this world. But it also lets me marvel at the power of science, how a ball of gasses can create pretty lights that travel for billions of miles to appear to us now. Some of the stars might even be dead, and we wouldn’t know’
‘Why? What does it tell you?”
Sherlock took a puff of his trademark pipe and breathed the smoke out into the night air.
“It tells me, dear Watson, that somebody has stolen our tent.”
I’ve forgotten what made them nice, what colour they were or pretty much anything to do with them. Maybe one day, I’ll see the shoes again and it’ll all come flashing back to me. Until then, you’ll have to make do with ‘nice’.
She was nice too, although I forget the details. I remember that she wore a cool charm bracelet and dressed unconventionally. And yeah, she was nice in a pretty sort of way.
We sat across from each other at the back of a bus, separated by about three seats but also by social conventions. She was a stranger on public transport. You don’t speak to them.
I didn’t want to chat her up or anything. I have an aversion to that whole scene, partly because I fear that I’ll come across as some creepy player (pronounced ‘playa’) and partly because it’s always been scary to stand in front of girls and talk. So I don’t chat strangers up. It seems that I only flirt with those I’ve known for ages, which is a fools game also.
But enough about my romantic life, or lack thereof.
All I wanted to say was ‘Nice shoes’, a genuine compliment, just to make her smile. As noble motivations go, I’d say it was quite up there.
But things are never, never that simple. So I compliment her, and it goes badly, what then? What if she really thinks I’m hitting on her? We’re sitting only a few feet away, and the awkwardness would kill me. Maybe I could get off at an earlier stop, and await the next bus. The other choices, headphones in ears or moving somewhere else on the bus, are dead giveaways I’m trying to avoid her after the awkward encounter.
And even if it goes down well, and I get the smile I’m after, what then? We’ve already discussed that I don’t hit on people well, and the idea of stilted small-talk isn’t my idea of a fun-filled bus journey.
What I needed was a way to compliment and run. Like a really nice hit-and-run incident without the mangling of human limbs and car. I hoped she was getting off after me. I could say my piece and leave, unworried about whether my compliment hit home or not. It couldn’t be the other way around. Shouting after a leaving girl just seems lame.
My (not very) elaborate plan was spoiled somewhat when we stopped outside a pub and a bunch of lads got on the bus. They were celebrating some sort of victory in football or rugby or cricket, I forget which, and they chose to take up the three seats between me and the girl with nice shoes.
They were drunk and chanting, which kind of crosses cricket off the list of potential sports they had been watching. Not a whole lot of chanting in that sport.
I’ve never got the appeal of shouting sporting chants on public transport. I get the idea of it, the way it harkens back to ancient times and blood chants before hunts or battle and some such. I even get why people do it at sporting events. There’s that sense of community in it and, unless you enlist in the army, a local derby game is the closest the average Joe gets to taking part in a battle.
What I don’t get is the motivation behind shouting “EN-GER-LAND!” loudly and rhythmically on a bus or a train. For one thing, England has two syllables. But I just don’t get what they expect to achieve. They just come across as jackasses who don’t know what is appropriate to do in any given situation. Like making out with your girlfriend during a funeral.
Anyway, little off-topic there.
So they sat between us, drinking and shouting and being boys. I had my headphones in, and could just barely drown them out, but they still halted any plan of complimenting the girl across from me.
She put on some music too, also annoyed by the Neanderthals separating us. Thank god, I thought, because the fact that she didn’t like the lads translated in my mind to her having impeccable taste in everything. We probably loved the same songs, owned the same movies and would enjoy the same restaurants. We were made for each other, thanks to the simple act of putting headphones into ears.
She caught me looking.
I wasn’t staring, oh no. The occasional glance was all it was, and it just so happened we glanced at the same time. I raised my eyebrows, a silent hello. She did the same. At about this time, one of the man-apes shouted something obscene or acted in a childlike manner (I forget which) and I rolled my eyes at it.
It was supposed to say “What an incredibly inarticulate individual. With his low IQ and clumsy physique, I’m surprised he can even dress himself in a morning. People like him are the reason I’m skeptical about the whole theory of ‘Natural Selection’.”
Maybe she got that. Maybe not. Either way, she nodded and mirrored the gesture. Then she smiled.
I never did compliment her on her shoes though. We got off at the same stop and there was a brief moment where I could have, maybe, complimented and ran. But I didn’t, because I’m a chicken.
Perhaps there is an alternative world me that had the nerve and is living in a happy relationship with the girl. Perhaps she even bought him his own pair of nice shoes.
But me, I’m just left with the memory of her smile. And even that is fading. Soon, all I’ll be left with is the word ‘nice’ and her shoes.
What follows has the unfortunate advantage of being true.
In the words of Neil Gaiman, life isn’t ‘story-shaped’. This is all well and good when all you are doing is living it, but becomes a problem when recounting life in a medium such as this. Life just seems to happen and a storyteller finds themselves desperately trying to shoehorn in some kind of rhyme or reason, any kind of conclusion that would give the tale a point for existing. Like some old lady who, upon finishing her puzzle, finds that she is left with two pieces that are blank, so gets her three-year-old granddaughter to colour the space in with crayon.
But life doesn’t have a point, no matter how much you try and hide that fact with childish pictures. Please allow me to leave the story as is, sans meaning, and just accept it as something that happened. If you feel like colouring in the white pieces yourself, go ahead.
This wasn’t a new feeling. It happens every now and then, essentially forcing me to stop writing. I really want to be a perfectionist when I write, so if I don’t feel that it is working, I won’t write. The actual quality of what I’ve written doesn’t matter. In fact, it has often been the case that the stuff I don’t think works ends up being praised the most later down the line.
Anyway.
There are two ways that I use to deal with this problem. The first is to let it air. Leave the room, go for a walk, write something else. Pretty much anything to distract me enough and get me away from the world of the story. The optimum time is a couple of days, but my deadline meant I couldn’t do this.
The second option is to show it to someone, but not to get their opinion on it. I just need someone to say ‘Hey, that’s quite a cool idea’ or ‘I like this bit’. Basically just some hot air to fill my big ego balloon. Petty, maybe. But it works.
However, it was close to one in the morning and I don’t have many friends who would be willing to sit and read something in those early hours just for the purpose of a writer’s block-ending ego boost.
So I saved it, close my computer down and retired to bed. I’ll get up early and do it, I thought, rather earnestly because it’s often the case that I NEVER get up early and do stuff.
I laid my head down on my pillow and closed my eyes. This is when things got odd.
A girl was standing there, in my mind. Everything else was white, like that scene in ‘The Matrix’ just before he asks for “Guns. Lots of guns.” Part of me wishes I had the dream sense to make that request, but hindsight sucks.
She was gorgeous, this girl. Jet black hair that fell down past her shoulders, dark and soulful eyes, and a whisper of a smile on her lips. She wore a thin black dress, simple but elegant.
Here’s the thing though: she was just there. Dreams form in your mind, the people and the location taking shape as if your brain is painting in the details. This girl wasn’t like that. It was as if she was there all along, just waiting for me to close my eyes.
It felt like I knew her, and I began to walk closer. It felt like the natural thing to do and I was caught in her eyes. When we were close enough, I kissed her. It felt incredible, as it should since it was in my mind. My body, although incorporeal, buzzed with energy as she moved her body close to mine.
Then I woke up.
I had only been ‘asleep’ for less than an hour, but the energy from the dream filled my waking life as well. Ideas and words and snippets of dialogue filled my head, fighting and bustling for attention. I couldn’t keep up.
The computer went back on. The file was loaded. I wrote. For hours.
Remember that it was already two in the morning, but I kept writing all night, until a sunrise told me that it was time to shower and enter the outside world.
Like I’ve already said, there is no ending to the story, no satisfying point to make. I’ve never seen the muse girl again. I forget the script, so I can’t even say if that ended up being my ticket to fame and fortune or just sits incomplete on my hard drive.
Okay, so this was originally going to be a 'Five on Friday' thing about sequels that should never have happened. I spent three days writing the thing, but when I click 'publish' the whole thing deletes itself.
Well, not everything. The first entry (and a little bit of the second) remained and so I keep it here so I can actually post something finally.
My review of the new Indiana Jones film:
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls
Okay, let me say this first: I wanted to like this film. It was Indiana Freakin' Jones, back for one final crack of his whip! Sure, the critics weren't saying the nicest things, but what do they know? They liked 'Lost in Translation'. So, screw the critics I said, as I walked proudly into the cinema screen. I would like this film.
A second point before I begin to talk about the film: I don't often not like films, even bad ones, and I never feel like walking out of a cinema. So understand how important it is that I wanted to walk out of this film.
I can't believe that after several scripts were rejected, that this was the one finally chosen. We open on some kids in a car who have no point of being in the story. This is all followed by a lengthy dialogue scene in which lots of pointless exposition is given. As for movie openings, this is the lamest in a long time.
It is followed shortly by Indiana Jone surviving a nuclear explosion in a fridge. You heard me, a fridge! Then, the janitor from Scrubs appears as an FBI agent and tells Mr. Jones that they are keeping an eye on him.
I describe all of this because out of this first fifteen minutes, about one minute comes back to be relevant later in the film. The FBI don't keep an eye on him. All they do is make him lose his job, which is another exercise in pointlessness because it has NOTHING to do with the story.
Indiana Jones is set up to be an old man at the beginning, and any sane person would believe that this was going to come back later, that he fails in doing something because of his age. But it doesn't. In fact, he hardly does anything. He wins the day at the end by running away!
Cate Blanchett also does absolutely nothing as a villain either. Occasionally you'll hear a gun cock and then she'll be there with her gun pointed at our heroes. In fact, too often this happens. But she's set up as an expert sword fighter, and can't beat a high-school drop out in a fight. She's set up as psychic, as far as I can understand it, and this doesn't come back either. She doesn't even kill anybody!
Ray Winstone's character is a mess of motivation. So he wants gold, has gold, but still betrays his friend?! It just felt like they wanted a token twist towards the end.
The whole film is too stop-start, and spent so many scenes explaining what must be the most complicated McGuffin ever. Every time I was getting excited about an entertaining action scene (and they were quite good) they stop and talk about the mystery of the crystal skulls in so much detail that I started to doze off.
The only reason they do this is to try and ground the crystal skulls into some kind of reality, so when the secret is revealed, we might believe it. Turns out, the crystal skull is part of an alien skeleton. That's right, an ALIEN SKULL! Not just any alien, but the most generic alien ever designed.
I wanted to walk out after the fridge bit. Then, I wanted to walk out after the gang fell down three waterfalls and lived. But when the film ends with a flying saucer taking off, they must be joking right?!
Seriously, this film is a mess of failed attempts to bring back old moments from the previous film and plot points that don't go anywhere. Why was Mutt so attached to his bike, but forgot it later? Why show him as a good knifeman, then fail to bring it back again? Did age affect anything Harrison Ford did? And what exactly did looking into the skull actually do to Indiana Jones?
This had the potential to be an awesome film, and failed on a spectacular level. Yeah, maybe tomorrow I will have mellowed and will find the good points. I'll point out that Shia Le Beof was pretty damn cool, and that there were some awesome action scenes. Also, monkeys get to save the day, and who doesn't like monkeys?
But right now, I'm just plain annoyed that this film exists at all. And from Speilberg, no less. You should be ashamed Steven. Ashamed!
"That's £4.05 then." said the train conductor lady, and I had the correct amount ready. It's what happens when you ride the same route every day.
"Oh wait..."
I stop passing the money over, expectant.
"It's £4.60 before nine."
I'm sorry, what?! Why is riding the train earlier in the day more expensive? I'm travelling the same distance, taking up the same amount of space. Why am I paying more? If anything, more people travel in the morning so the costs should lessen.
Perhaps that fifty-five pence is compensation for having to work mornings. If so, I'm missing a trick. Tomorrow I'll be speaking to my boss about a raise in my morning hours. After all, I could be sleeping.
But it's not like a ticket collector is the most taxing of jobs. You just walk up the train with a machine around your neck, saying "Tickets?" every now and then. If people need some, you punch numbers into the machine and it creates them for you. Easy.
They don't seem to be earning that extra 55p either. For my extra pennies, I demand a jig or a cooked breakfast or something. But all of this was left unsaid as I dug a few more coins from my pocket.
Left me feeling annoyed though, and along with a mild hangover and a perpetual dead arm I had a very lame day. There were a few events that mildly cheered me up though. A woman saying she was allergic to pheasant (Possibly a lie, but what an odd and very specific thing to be allergic to). Also, a cute mother/child scene; She (or he. Was a fairly androgynous baby) was shaking her head around like a crazy punk rocker when her mother looked her in the eye and kissed her forehead, calming the kid down. Something I call good parenting. Lame story, but what can I say? I'm a sucker for sentimental moments.
Come 6.30, in a bid to cheer myself up somewhat, I went to buy the latest issue of my magazine. At the stand, I checked by change. I was, irony of ironies, 55 pence short.
:(
PS: The last part sadly isn't true. I was only twenty pence short.
This is one of the reasons that I can't believe in a higher power. Even an amateur writer (i.e. me) can see the perfect ending to the story. If a God isn't paying attention to today, what should make me think he's paying attention if I steal or sleep with the neighbour's wife.
A music video for the song 'Don't Reinvent What You Don't Understand' by Forward Russia. The song sucks, but the music video is pretty funky. Also, it has me running around a maze. What more can you want?
This was a three day shoot, two weeks ago. I was ill for the entire shoot, and kept having to leave he studio to breathe real air. Was fun though. And I'm really impressed at how a bunch of about fifteen sets turned out looking like a real maze.
Oh, and ignore the hair. I was going to get it cut on the first day, but once I didn't manage that I had to keep the same hair for the next two.
I always promise myself I won't go back, that no matter how little reading material there is I won't resort to reading it. But out of morbid curiosity I go back, I open the front page and I start to read the Daily Mail.
It didn't take long for me to get annoyed at what I read.
There has been a story recently about a drunk guy in London who was shot by police marksmen. He was in his expensive flat and waving a shotgun around. He fired it a couple of times and was eventually taken down by the police.
The Daily Mail writer (whose name I have forgotten, and even if I'd remembered I wouldn't print here for fear of giving him more fame than he deserves) made two points about the story.
The first was that the police shouldn't have shot the guy, on the basis that he "only" had a shotgun, a short range weapon that wouldn't do any damage to anybody. This is ridiculous. The guy had a gun, was drunk and refused to listen to the police.
For all the police knew, he had other weapons with him and was highly dangerous. They didn't shoot first and ask questions later (Usually a bad option, as the answerer tends to be dead). They tried to coax him down and he gave them no choice.
The second point that the idiot writer made was that the police were wrong not to have sent the man's wife up to negotiate. He honestly believed that if they allowed the wife up to the flat to talk to her husband, he wouldn't have been shot and would have come down peacefully.
What he failed to take into consideration, in his magical view of the world, was the headlines the next day when the guy turned the shotgun on his wife and pulled the trigger. Would it be the wife that got the blame, for asking to go up? Or would it be the "incompetent" police who allowed her to?
Think about what you are writing for one moment! Why would they risk the life of a civilian on the off-chance a drunk guy waving a shotgun would listen to her?!
I swear now, I'm never reading the Daily Mail again.
A couple have won rights to reapply to adopt a child. They were disqualified when they answered a question wrongly. The question?
Would you tell your child it was acceptable if they told you they were gay?
Their answer was a deep and resounding "No", because they were Christians and they believe that homosexuality was wrong. Or so their argument goes.
So they were banned from adopting, thanks to anti-discriminatory laws, before this ruling was eventually overturned.
So here's the dilemma: is the outcome of this story positive or negative?
Surely, any kind of homophobia is a bad thing and should be stopped. And any situation in which a child is rejected for their sexual belief by his or her own family should be avoided, especially if the family can be picked.
But isn't the whole point of a society with free speech that people can say what they like, believe what they like, even if it's idiotic? If we censor this, will we be stopping people from adopting if they want to send their child to a single-sex school? After all, it is detrimental to a child and stunts their social growth.
Yes, I know that homophobia is wrong, but it is still a valid opinion. A wrong, ignorant opinion, but one none the less. If the couple are not causing problems to gay people, aren't going out their way to harm them, why should they not be allowed to adopt?
I have still yet to decide on my point of view, so the post has very little in the way of a conclusion.
You take a fork, preferably a clean one. Hold it at the un-pointy end, so the rest of the fork faces down. Stab into the spaghetti and begin to turn the fork.
The spaghetti should be becoming a larger and larger coil before running out and staying on your fork. Now, it is the easy matter of scooping a little bit of mince onto the top and eating it.
Chew, then swallow.
Congratulations! You have just eaten a bite of Spaghetti Bolognese. Just about thirty more mouthfuls to go and you've finished the plate.
All very simple right?
Wrong!
The spaghetti never goes on the fork properly, and it often curls itself back down onto the main spaghetti pile. Or some strands will curl and one or two will droop from the fork. So now I have the option of starting the curling technique again, or risking those couple of strands hitting my chin during the eating process.
Then, when I try to place the mince on top, I tilt my fork too much and the collected spaghetti tumbles off. Or the mince just slips off the sauced-up pasta already on the fork.
By the time I even eat the first mouthful, after way too many attempts to get it onto the fork in the first place, the rest of the meal is cold. Now it's not worth eating.
Seriously, I figured that at the age of twenty-one these kind of things would come to me easily. But, as the two stains on my work shirt prove to the world, I still can't eat Spaghetti without making a complete fool of myself and a mess.
Brad woke up to find the brown, cardboard box on his bedroom floor. It wasn't too small and it wasn't too big; it was about the size of a human head. In fact, that was Brad's first thought. He looked across to his wife, who looked remarkably like Gwyneth Paltrow, to find her sleeping peacefully and still with her head.
Brad breathed a sigh of relief.
The box didn't look special and wasn't doing anything particularly ominous, but the box scared Brad. He spent several moments perched on the edge of his bed just staring at it, as if he expected it to break out into a dance any moment now.
It didn't.
When he was sure it wasn't going to stand up and run out of the room, Brad gave the box a gentle kick, retreating to the corner of the room in case the box attacked him in any way. It didn't, but he remained in the corner in case.
The box still didn't do anything.
Brad began to wonder what was in the box. A bomb maybe, because Brad was a pessimist. It took him a few more guesses before he even thought that it may be a present.
Once again, he looked to his wife. It wasn't his birthday, or their anniversary, or any other kind of special event. There was only one thing he could do.
He stepped back to the box and knelt down. Carefully he opened the lid to see what secret it held.
The box was empty.
This is also a cautionary tale about rubbish endings.
If you walk into any branch of Waitrose, anywhere across the country, and ask where a certain product is, you will be given exactly the same response.
They will smile at you, because that implies that the company is warm and loving and happy to help you. They will motion at you to follow them; no just pointing and saying "It's just over there."
They will initiate a conversation. This will usually follow one of two topics: "Has your shop been okay today?" or, the old British favourite, "Lovely weather we've been having recently." Occasionally you will be asked to clarify your request: "Was that brown sugar you wanted, or white?".
Once at the product they will take it down from the shelf and hand it to you. Then they will ask you if there is anything else you need help with. If the answer is yes, then the whole process is washed, rinsed and repeated.
If not, and after you say "Thank you", they will say "You're welcome." They will not say "No problem" because that implies that it may have ever been considered a problem. They will not say "Just part of the job" because that means that you're only helping because you are getting paid.
What you get when you ask for a product in Waitrose is perfect structured "good customer service". Or, in other words, you get a robot.
Because when they smile, it is fake. The conversation is forced because really, what can you talk about in 30 seconds that's even remotely worthwhile? The moment you're at the product, nobody wants to go traipsing across the shop to find the next item you're too lazy to look up for (There are signs on the ceiling!).
But I won't be a robot, oh no. I'm slowly subverting the system from within.
I smile when you speak to me, but in a way that implies that I'm privy to a private joke that you're not. I mock you with my eyes.
I start conversations about the big issues on the walk to a product: "It can be argued that a human being can never prove that anything else, apart from their self, exists. Discuss." or "What are your views on abortion?" I watch as they try to muster up a conclusive answer in the short journey, and sigh at them when they don't manage it.
I see how many of the product I can hand to them before they tell me to stop. General politeness means that you can get a fair few cans of beans into someone's hands before they ask you to stop it.
I ask "Is there anything else I can help you with?" patronisingly, in the same tone of voice that a mother asks a child if he needs the toilet before a long car journey.
When I'm thanked, I reply "No, thank you for this wonderful experience." with only the tiniest hint of sarcasm in my voice.
I'll abide by your rules, Waitrose, but I will never become a robot!
The audience was buzzing, talking about the last film they had just seen. The cinema was packed and I was sat a couple of rows back from the front.
The buzzing quietened as the next film started. My film. All of a sudden the words that I wrote almost twelve months ago sprang to life on screen.
My heart began to beat faster and my breathing slowed. The first joke didn't come for about thirty seconds, I knew this, and in those thirty seconds you can think about a lot.
Was this the correct way to open the film? Will people get it? What if they don't laugh at the first joke? What if they don't laugh AT ALL?!
I wait with baited breath. Now the success of this first joke decides my future. If it fails, so have I, and I might as well leave the industry now. It all rides on this one pratfall.
The joke plays and people laugh. The whole cinema laughs, in fact. I breath out, relieved.
A smile creeps across my face as they keep laughing: At the second joke and the third and all the others after.
The human body has the amazing ability to forget illness. Once healthy, you will find it hard to remember that your nose felt like it was on fire whenever you blew it but dripped constantly if you didn't.
You forget the way you felt your brain slosh around whenever you moved your head, or the way your muscles constantly ached despite a lack of body activity. You forget the horrid croak of your voice and the itchiness that sits forever in your throat.
Because you feel better and are metaphorically walking on sunshine now, your body forgets that it was ever in such a state. And for all the times you remain a picture of health this is only a good thing. Why remember something negative when you can just get on with your life?
It all begins to suck when you get ill again. Your nose is leaky or on fire and you body aches. You've forgotten all this in the months of health, so it all comes as a nasty surprise.
So I'm lying on my sofa, very surprised at all the things that are happening to my body. It was sunny today and I've got a ton of work to do.
So the human body also has the amazing ability to get ill at wholly inappropriate times.
Occasionally a good idea spawns whilst I’m lying in bed, drifting away to the land of nod. Most of the time, the idea is ignored, out of sheer laziness. Sometimes the idea merits penning, and usually I can find the equipment required next to my bed.
Sometimes a pen and paper aren’t readily available.
The following was found in the note section of my phone.
“Love is just a feeling to shield a girl from the fact that she’s just given away her body to the guy with the biggest ego and the smallest cock.”
It’s a piece of dialogue for a script I’m writing, but it does worry what goes through my head as I fall asleep.
I’ve been failing this task for a while now, but feel it’s time I jumped back on the Manic Monday bandwagon. Even if it’s technically Tuesday.
I’ve been finding lately, because of the sudden onset of warm weather, that I’m very much against evening showers. It’s almost that I’m allergic to them.
I come home at night, sweaty from the walk home and smelling of boy, and find that despite really needing to be clean, I remain unwashed.
It’s a freshness thing, really.
Even if I do night-shower, by morning time I’m just not as fresh as I’d like to be to face the new day. I need another, and in this day and age of global warming and Al Gore winning Oscars, I refuse to waste the water.
I’m not even doing anything in my bed to justify the feeling of dirtiness when the sun rises. Okay, most nights anyway.
The shower is just part of the morning ritual that is necessary in order for the day ahead to be plain sailing. No matter how bad the previous day has been, no matter what I have had to put up with, I can stand underneath the hot jet of water and wash it all away.
The stress, the tears, the sweat can all be washed away and down the plughole. And anything remaining can be masked with mint and tea tree oil. I can start the day afresh.
I need to be a new person every new day. I need to be fresh and alive. I can’t leave the house with the smell of bed following me. Just what would people think?
So yes, right now I’m lying on the sofa and may not be the prettiest thing to enter your nostrils. But it’s for the best, in the grand scheme of things.
Okay, so I want to eat this sandwich. Sausage, egg and bacon, with a little bit of brown sauce. I'm not usually a brown sauce fan, but in this sandwich I'm a convert. Maybe I want a smoothie, mangoes and passion fruit, because I feel I need to be a bit healthier.
With the smoothie, I get two out of my five fruits a day out of the way. Then, if I have veg for dinner and a different smoothie, it'll equal five. But each smoothie is 29% of my daily allowance of sugar, so two comes to 58%. The sandwich has a little, so now I've got to make sure that I have a low-sugar meal later.
It'll have to be fairly fat-free because the sandwich is 38% of my allowance of fat and 57% of my allowance of saturated fat. Maybe I'll eat fish, because that is supposed to be good for you. But I need one of three potions of yogurt or cheese. In fact, now I need three because there isn't any with the current sandwich/smoothie combination.
Okay, so I change my sandwich to something with cheese. Cheese and ham. Sure, it ups my saturated fat consumption, but now I get one cheese portion and some calcium. Maybe I'll add a tomato and get to three fruit and veg a day.
Oh, and I could have a yogurt. With fruit in it. Then, two out of three yogurt/cheeses will be sorted and I'll only have to eat one portion of peas with my fish.
And what about my two litres of water? Should I have a bottle with this meal? Can I have both a smoothie and some water? Wouldn't I just need to pee a lot?
So I add a bottle of water, throwing bladder issue caution to the wind, and luckily this doesn't do much more to my figures. I can take a quarter off my water allowance, and just have to make sure I drink more later.
So now, half an hour later, I'm tucking into my food. The sandwich is rubbish, and the water takes the taste of the smoothie away. I'm not really hungry anymore, and am just eating because I'd put so much effort into figuring this meal out.
Seriously, when did you start needing a mathematics degree to eat food?
To match the 'Five on Friday' to the week, it could have either been this (to go with Iron Man) or 'Five On Friday: Judd Apatow Films That Aren't Quite As Good As Knocked-Up' (Forgetting Sarah Marshall).
I went for the former because the latter is a whole lot more than five and a whole lot less fun.
*CONTAINS SPOILERS*
Iron Man
For some reason, Iron Man has never reached the dizzy heights of fame that his brothers in super-heroism have. Kids dream of web-swinging or of adamantium claws and Tony Stark is left to rot in obscurity.
Thank god then for Robert Downey Junior's brilliant portrayal of the red and yellow warrior. Smart and sexy (in a mostly heterosexual way), funny and cocksure, Downey's Tony Stark sizzles with cool.
From the first moment we see him sipping whiskey in an army jeep, to the moment he tests his suit for the first time, to that final moment when he reveals to the waiting journalists that he is Iron Man, every minute he's on screen he is awesome.
Let us hope that, after the success of this film, more kids dream of being billionaire, alcoholic playboys.
Ocean's Eleven
You have George Clooney, man of the year, and Brad Pitt, cool even when eating sandwiches, and you stick them in a film in which George Clooney plays the man of the year and Brad Pitt eats sandwiches. Instant success!
The cast is pretty much the coolest collected in a movie, and the whole thing ended up being the springboard for Matt Damon's rise to taking Clooney's 'Man of the Year' crown.
Entourage
Coolness is about ease: easy dialogue, having people gravitate towards you, and being able to get what you want when you want it. The moment you look like you have to try, you are no longer cool.
Entourage succeeds because it shows this easy life and lets you, the viewer, get involved. Easy cars, easy women and easy access to all the hot clubs in Hollywood; Entourage is the life!
Devil May Cry
Being half-demon is always going to raise your status on the scale of cool, but Dante even puts his phone down in a cool way.
* * *
The observant amongst you will notice that the name is currently a lie, and that this in only four things. The reason for this is that youtube has failed me, and will only play two seconds into any video. Therefore, I couldn't possibly choose a suitable video to fill the last slot.
As big moments go, it really lacked weight. I sat in a writing class and found that no-one in the class had read my treatment. My tutor told me I was funny and needed to work on dramatic tension. Iron Man and Hot Fuzz were discussed. The End.
It didn't really appear as the huge, life-changing event that it was. But then I guess most huge, life-changing events appear timid and unexciting at first.
Either way, I should be terrified. And I guess I am. But also oh so very excited for what the future brings. I think that may be because I don't realise the enormity of what lies ahead, but I can enjoy this feeling whilst it last.
I was going to spend a post extolling the virtues of Matchbox Twenty's song 'How Far We've Come'. I'd have used pretty words and vivid imagery.
Then I realised that no amount of writing actually compares to hearing a song. And nothing compares to hearing a song and looking at pictures of kittens.
So, enjoy. And be patient. It takes a while to get into the song.
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I'm concerned by the amount of blank days on this blog now, but pleased be assured in the knowledge that the entries are written. They are currently sitting scrawled in black pen inside an old notebook. All I need is the time to sit down and copy them across to an electronic format.
