FIVE
Another Year
The rocking chair pace of Mike Leigh’s latest character study makes for unforced viewing although this does not necessarily mean it’s one to relax into. It makes the number five spot, not as much because I enjoyed the film, I left feeling thoroughly dejected, but because it is crafted so subtly and the whole thing is just so darn considered. There is an overwhelming feel of involvement which makes certain moments pretty much impossible to watch without squirming or referencing a memory – rather than cringing at the idea of sewing up a TB infected wound with a blunt needle one shudders desperately for those on screen – and the pain is as acute. It has been said, Leigh’s chatting about how crap life is without the Tom to your Jerry, but I found much more it’s about interpreting circumstance, alongside a how to in manipulating relationships, and within that, there are some truly perfect occurrences. The amount of wine consumed, stellar cast, the snide jinx of being middle bloody class and the time on the allotment just means it can’t NOT be a film of 2010. And Mary is just freekin’ wonderful - I think she should know.
Dir. Mike Leigh
Viewed November.
FOUR
Alamar
Second of two films I first saw at EIFF and possibly the most circumstantially great film out of this bunch. It’s very simple, delicate and short at less than 80 minutes, which just gently feeds the soul and readdresses some balance. I mean, how can you go wrong with a father son grandpa fishing trip? It’s all about fish, water, lots of boats and just general loveliness. Or is it just because Pedro González-Rubio is the most beautiful man I’ve ever met? Or is there some stirring ecological message? Or are Natan and Blanquita (boy and bird respectively) just too wonderful to watch? See the film, google Pedro, watch that Al Gore thing and decide where my bias lies.
Dir. Pedro González-Rubio. Alamar Film Trailer
Viewed June.
THREE
Mary and Max
A gem from the southern hemisphere that sits softly between both; Mary & Max is the reason Europa Cinemas are wonderful and Cineworld and Odeon aren't so. I have written previously about this film and I was hitting the sentiment angle. Elliot's play with observational comedy and laugh out loud silliness is not to be swept under the carpet of wistful scrutiny – shoplifting sherry and stamps, meeting the person who attaches the string to teabags, clay pants on the clay washing line in the clay worlds of New York and Melbourne, a disinterested mischievous rooster (also clay). It’s a piece of work in its ability to engage on many levels – something we may have considered only Pixar are insanely adept at – there are shockingly bleak moments and startlingly bright ones. Plus, give me Toni Collette and Philip Seymour Hoffman on a bad day and my heart sings. This is them guided by the omnipotent narration of Barry Humphries, on some very good days.
Dir. Adam Elliot http://www.maryandmax.com/
Viewed November.
TWO
Inception.
No surprises here. In good Sci-Fi improbability should be acceptable as standard, and this film asks for more than just suspended disbelief. It expects you to keep multiplying. I know Inception is an easy choice, but sometimes that’s what a Hollywood film should be on the horizon of a film year – there should be insane beauty and ridiculous expectation on the part of the audience. The production should be slick and sweeping, the set pieces should be breathtakingly perfect and vigorously polished in post production and this is all of that. With the development in film technology films like this deserve their place, why should I have to head back to the likes of Blade Runner for kitsch, smart, terrifying concept Sci-Fi? Cheers Nolan, and I look forward to revisiting and hoping none of it looks any less bleedin’ gorgeous.
Also, not to be childish but any film that offers the possibility of exclaiming "Look it's Europe, but bendy!" is a film I want to see.
Dir. Christopher Nolan
Viewed July.
ONE
Boy
The biggest grossing independent New Zealand film to date Taika Waititi’s Boy is a masterpiece for several reasons. Its clamouring perfection with language and characterisation for one; every moment is so well nuanced and thoughtfully built with the same affection and imagination as kids creating a den. The most gutting and heartbreaking moments are thrown in alongside the sharpest quips and the silliest laughs this side of a dry stone wall. It’s consummately Kiwi but ultimately welcomes all, "dukes of hazaaaaard". There’s something about this film that has captured my imagination and it has been the most astounding constant and comfort this year.
I first heard of the film at a local cinema in Matakana North Island NZ, my chance to see it was realised when I leafed through the 2010 EIFF programme and then in turn sat down to watch it at the Cameo on the same day England danced their way to failure in the World Cup. At the interview for the Discovery Film Festival Katharine Simpson asked me about my favourite film of the year – and I wasn’t sure whether it would look geeky to mention something in their programme.
This year, for me, has been one of discovery in a similar way to Boy – no – I’d never thought a deep sea diving, samurai wielding, rugby international, army officing Dad was coming to rescue me from real life – but 2010 was a year with moments where I had to banish some naiveties and accept some other wonders. My hair, like his, is also a bit of a mess. Maybe it is just the sentimentality of his journey into the real world that catches my breath.
Onwards into 2011 for some more silver screen skirmishes deep set in the knowledge my Michael Jackson dance moves will never quite be as wonderful as Boy's, but knowing I can revisit him killing it over and over again.
Dir. Taika Waititi http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
Viewed June.
Tuesday 28 December 2010
Films 2010 - Sorry I Missed You
This is more of an NB than anything else.
Here are the films that did not make my Top Ten but I thoroughly enjoyed for one reason or another:
Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
Secret of Kells
Enter the Void - just as I know I will never see a film quite like it. Ever. Again.
Tamara Drewe - purely for Tamsin Greig.
Sampson & Delilah
That one with Will Ferrell and Marky Mark – pathetic I know – it’s all about the shark/lion extended-metaphor-off in the first 20 minutes, it’s quite a sustaining joke, and the titles are very interesting.
These are some films that probably should be on a list but I missed them:
The Kids Are All Right
I’m Still Here
A Prophet
Illusionist
A Single Man
Winters Bone
Four Lions
Here are some films I’m super excited about in 2011 but am now more concerned about missing and am therefore trying not to think about them:
Somewhere
The King’s Speech
Animal Kingdom
Tintin
Paul
See when I said this was a NB – I was not lying. And you’ll never get those three minutes back.
Here are the films that did not make my Top Ten but I thoroughly enjoyed for one reason or another:
Scott Pilgrim vs. the World
Secret of Kells
Enter the Void - just as I know I will never see a film quite like it. Ever. Again.
Tamara Drewe - purely for Tamsin Greig.
Sampson & Delilah
That one with Will Ferrell and Marky Mark – pathetic I know – it’s all about the shark/lion extended-metaphor-off in the first 20 minutes, it’s quite a sustaining joke, and the titles are very interesting.
These are some films that probably should be on a list but I missed them:
The Kids Are All Right
I’m Still Here
A Prophet
Illusionist
A Single Man
Winters Bone
Four Lions
Here are some films I’m super excited about in 2011 but am now more concerned about missing and am therefore trying not to think about them:
Somewhere
The King’s Speech
Animal Kingdom
Tintin
Paul
See when I said this was a NB – I was not lying. And you’ll never get those three minutes back.
Films 2010 - Count Ten to Six Down
I’m not particularly a fan of a Top Ten – a selected seven, or a random list maybe – but when I got to thinking about my films of 2010, there were ten standouts. The guardian called 2010 a ‘widely underrated year for film,’ concurring, I really hope there will be a something surrounding one of the films in this list that drives you to see it for yourself. It makes me very happy to think you may.
There are many ways to respond to film, critically, viscerally, comparatively and most often emotionally. This list quite honestly is just my first thoughts of what was my film 2010 – there may well be great work missing, but if it hasn’t stuck with me, it’s not here. Welcome, to my interesting world.
TEN
Panique au village.
I look forward to seeing this again when I’m less tired. It’s an absolute ball of random. And some of the most wonderful, ingenious and wistful animation you’d see this side of Creature Comforts (Aardman produced the original mini puppetoon series from birth in 2000). Take the ten most awkward unlikely things you would see together in one film – because they do not, would never, should never belong together – and you have Town Called Panic. That anything that occurs in this feature does so from a cautionary tale of forgetting birthdays, planning barbeques and accidentally ordering 6 million (billion?) bricks just makes it all the more angular in its perfection. Look it up – and make sure you’re well rested and ready to be confused with Cowboy, Indian, and Horse.
Dir. Stéphane Aubier, Vincent Patar http://www.atowncalledpanic.tv/
Viewed October.
NINE
Social Network.
There is always something satisfying about a film that leaves you feeling something tangible other than grief or cheer or cynical about over sentimentalised happy ever everything. Social Network sends you off into the world thinking like a crack whore in the dome at the end of crystal maze; if the dome was filled with crack and none of the trippy time trials had induced a trance. You get the picture. The casting is tight and the scripting is slick. Eisenberg’s Zuckerberg is funny, and it doesn’t matter if that’s true to the real one as the creations of West Wing’s Aaron Sorkin are so fascinating to watch. Armie Hammer’s Winklevoss twins almost become an apelike Jedwood, not getting the point and expecting the world. The real Winklevoss twins, not Jedwood, are a little frustrated by this portrayal to say the least. A smart and well timed piece of work about creation and personal demise – log this off Facebook and call it a tragedy.
Dir. David Fincher http://www.thesocialnetwork-movie.com/
Viewed October.
EIGHT
Kick Ass
It has been noted my interest in having a baby is based purely on playing dress up. A little ballerina one day, batman the next, super hero weekends, the options are endless – just imagine the fun! This film therefore, works for me on two levels. One: Kids playing dress up. Two: Kids being bullied. Sorry little Miriamus’ - both are on the cards. But you’ll look freekin’ cool. And maybe one day we can go into the lucrative crime fighting business.
Dir. Matthew Vaughn
Viewed April.
SEVEN
Toy Story Three
Surely, this film couldn’t be any good? It darned well is. It just is. Congrats Pixar.
Dir Lee Unkrich
Viewed November
SIX
L'arnacoeur (Heartbreaker)
On a good day I fall in love roughly five times. Once with either Robyn or Janelle, the second time with a new musical discovery or moment, the third time could be someone on a train with lovely eyes or someone looking wistful in the queue for coffee. I may fall in love with a place, or an idea, a tree or a pathway (an actual path), a type of cheese, all cheese, a beer freshly tapped from keg land, a glass of pinot noir, a beautiful tomato, a firm rounded merlot. I may fall in love with a moment, a joke or a funny quip. I fall in love with at least one cup of perfectly timed tea, every day. On the day I saw L’arnacoeur, I fell in love with it.
Dir. Pascal Chaumeil http://www.arnacoeur-lefilm.com/
Viewed September.
There are many ways to respond to film, critically, viscerally, comparatively and most often emotionally. This list quite honestly is just my first thoughts of what was my film 2010 – there may well be great work missing, but if it hasn’t stuck with me, it’s not here. Welcome, to my interesting world.
TEN
Panique au village.
I look forward to seeing this again when I’m less tired. It’s an absolute ball of random. And some of the most wonderful, ingenious and wistful animation you’d see this side of Creature Comforts (Aardman produced the original mini puppetoon series from birth in 2000). Take the ten most awkward unlikely things you would see together in one film – because they do not, would never, should never belong together – and you have Town Called Panic. That anything that occurs in this feature does so from a cautionary tale of forgetting birthdays, planning barbeques and accidentally ordering 6 million (billion?) bricks just makes it all the more angular in its perfection. Look it up – and make sure you’re well rested and ready to be confused with Cowboy, Indian, and Horse.
Dir. Stéphane Aubier, Vincent Patar http://www.atowncalledpanic.tv/
Viewed October.
NINE
Social Network.
There is always something satisfying about a film that leaves you feeling something tangible other than grief or cheer or cynical about over sentimentalised happy ever everything. Social Network sends you off into the world thinking like a crack whore in the dome at the end of crystal maze; if the dome was filled with crack and none of the trippy time trials had induced a trance. You get the picture. The casting is tight and the scripting is slick. Eisenberg’s Zuckerberg is funny, and it doesn’t matter if that’s true to the real one as the creations of West Wing’s Aaron Sorkin are so fascinating to watch. Armie Hammer’s Winklevoss twins almost become an apelike Jedwood, not getting the point and expecting the world. The real Winklevoss twins, not Jedwood, are a little frustrated by this portrayal to say the least. A smart and well timed piece of work about creation and personal demise – log this off Facebook and call it a tragedy.
Dir. David Fincher http://www.thesocialnetwork-movie.com/
Viewed October.
EIGHT
Kick Ass
It has been noted my interest in having a baby is based purely on playing dress up. A little ballerina one day, batman the next, super hero weekends, the options are endless – just imagine the fun! This film therefore, works for me on two levels. One: Kids playing dress up. Two: Kids being bullied. Sorry little Miriamus’ - both are on the cards. But you’ll look freekin’ cool. And maybe one day we can go into the lucrative crime fighting business.
Dir. Matthew Vaughn
Viewed April.
SEVEN
Toy Story Three
Surely, this film couldn’t be any good? It darned well is. It just is. Congrats Pixar.
Dir Lee Unkrich
Viewed November
SIX
L'arnacoeur (Heartbreaker)
On a good day I fall in love roughly five times. Once with either Robyn or Janelle, the second time with a new musical discovery or moment, the third time could be someone on a train with lovely eyes or someone looking wistful in the queue for coffee. I may fall in love with a place, or an idea, a tree or a pathway (an actual path), a type of cheese, all cheese, a beer freshly tapped from keg land, a glass of pinot noir, a beautiful tomato, a firm rounded merlot. I may fall in love with a moment, a joke or a funny quip. I fall in love with at least one cup of perfectly timed tea, every day. On the day I saw L’arnacoeur, I fell in love with it.
Dir. Pascal Chaumeil http://www.arnacoeur-lefilm.com/
Viewed September.
Saturday 18 December 2010
Tedious and Rambling
It appears to me that there is a certain clarity missing from this blog. My apologies. I have decided to invest some time – escaping the glorious sunshine* – to remind this blog of its purpose, and in turn, all four of you that skim read it when you’ve done checking Facebook on a miserable night in.
Blog literal - place to notate all the crap that surges through one's mind, you know, the stuff that falls on deaf ears in the pub.
To Blog (verb)- sit down on one's own and talk to oneself and then kind of publish it.
Blog (noun) - a unique entity that is not defined by name but rather by contents in turn leading other people to wonder what is wrong with the author.
I have chosen to approach this in the style of an English language GCSE mark sheet. Please note my A* bitches – earned minus the knowledge of how to apply an apostrophe correctly – I learned this in my 21st year. Apparently I still have problems applying oo correctly too. Loose and lose and also, I must admit, choose and chose often catch me out. I think it’s the ownership over oos as an Attwood.
Style – There is no specific style in which I write, nothing that has a stipulated term, and I have never indulged in specific rules regarding style; I do freekin’ love a good semi-colon. I think the main way to approach the style in this blog is to imagine everything is persuading you to indulge in my emotional response. For example, if I’m describing something tedious and rambling, you will note my style is tedious and rambling. I wouldn’t want you to miss out.
Language – Making words up and finding new linguistic applications is the best thing about writing. Fo’ sho’. Anything that can be exclaimed in a silly and unclear way that either takes insane deciphering or is only funny to me – will bring me joy – and hopefully that will infect the style of the copy. Wondering what the fudge I’m talking about? Maybe you’re reading the wrong blog. I don’t ask you to understand me. Just come with me.
Sincerity – Now, I add this into the score chart, as it’s a feature of writing that has got me into endless trouble. Hopefully Contained doesn’t see me in some kind of sticky shiz with the Arab Emirates. As there is a level of insincerity in my jest (there’s not. I hate it there) you see? See also Orange Highlighters for my continued struggle with sincerity. If it’s a review then trust I’m being sincere. Have you still not seen Boy? Idiots.
Text Inference/interpretation – I have posted a poem regarding caravans on my blog this week, in return I have received several emails detailing concern for my well being. I’ll leave – gentle – interpretation for readers in their own time. The text will often infer I’m bonkers; it’s best to take this at face value but I cannot promise to play party to your concerns.
Sentence structure, punctuation and spelling – Apparently to get full marks. You have to avoid ambiguity. That’s me out then.
*There isn’t any glorious sunshine, yes, I’m as confused about that as you all are about the bouts of glimmering snow pummelling down in the UK. Or maybe you’re all used to the snow by now? As used to it as my rambunctious oddities anyway.
Blog literal - place to notate all the crap that surges through one's mind, you know, the stuff that falls on deaf ears in the pub.
To Blog (verb)- sit down on one's own and talk to oneself and then kind of publish it.
Blog (noun) - a unique entity that is not defined by name but rather by contents in turn leading other people to wonder what is wrong with the author.
I have chosen to approach this in the style of an English language GCSE mark sheet. Please note my A* bitches – earned minus the knowledge of how to apply an apostrophe correctly – I learned this in my 21st year. Apparently I still have problems applying oo correctly too. Loose and lose and also, I must admit, choose and chose often catch me out. I think it’s the ownership over oos as an Attwood.
Style – There is no specific style in which I write, nothing that has a stipulated term, and I have never indulged in specific rules regarding style; I do freekin’ love a good semi-colon. I think the main way to approach the style in this blog is to imagine everything is persuading you to indulge in my emotional response. For example, if I’m describing something tedious and rambling, you will note my style is tedious and rambling. I wouldn’t want you to miss out.
Language – Making words up and finding new linguistic applications is the best thing about writing. Fo’ sho’. Anything that can be exclaimed in a silly and unclear way that either takes insane deciphering or is only funny to me – will bring me joy – and hopefully that will infect the style of the copy. Wondering what the fudge I’m talking about? Maybe you’re reading the wrong blog. I don’t ask you to understand me. Just come with me.
Sincerity – Now, I add this into the score chart, as it’s a feature of writing that has got me into endless trouble. Hopefully Contained doesn’t see me in some kind of sticky shiz with the Arab Emirates. As there is a level of insincerity in my jest (there’s not. I hate it there) you see? See also Orange Highlighters for my continued struggle with sincerity. If it’s a review then trust I’m being sincere. Have you still not seen Boy? Idiots.
Text Inference/interpretation – I have posted a poem regarding caravans on my blog this week, in return I have received several emails detailing concern for my well being. I’ll leave – gentle – interpretation for readers in their own time. The text will often infer I’m bonkers; it’s best to take this at face value but I cannot promise to play party to your concerns.
Sentence structure, punctuation and spelling – Apparently to get full marks. You have to avoid ambiguity. That’s me out then.
*There isn’t any glorious sunshine, yes, I’m as confused about that as you all are about the bouts of glimmering snow pummelling down in the UK. Or maybe you’re all used to the snow by now? As used to it as my rambunctious oddities anyway.
Monday 13 December 2010
Caravan and poem.
If I had a caravan.
I’d be in it all the time,
doing dishes,
drying up, eating shortbread by the clock.
I wouldn’t have a 4 by 4,
to tow my caravan about
I’d rather have a van or some bears,
they could get my caravan up any stairs.
I would tour round all the cities,
people would come in my caravan
for a gentle break from their norm
I’d make them up a cup of tea
with formula milk and Tetley.
It’ll be such a nice place.
Chilled, refined and empty of space.
As what could be better than
sitting in one’s caravan
letting the world meander by
there’s nothing bad in the caravan
free to roam like a free range ram.
I see you think this is not a poem.
Well take this you naysayer you,
do you have a portable loo?
Boiling water on tap
vintage sofas and more too?
Any day you fancy eating your words with
some cheese and biscuits call on me
I won’t be far
with my caravan and ah ha.
I’d be in it all the time,
doing dishes,
drying up, eating shortbread by the clock.
I wouldn’t have a 4 by 4,
to tow my caravan about
I’d rather have a van or some bears,
they could get my caravan up any stairs.
I would tour round all the cities,
people would come in my caravan
for a gentle break from their norm
I’d make them up a cup of tea
with formula milk and Tetley.
It’ll be such a nice place.
Chilled, refined and empty of space.
As what could be better than
sitting in one’s caravan
letting the world meander by
there’s nothing bad in the caravan
free to roam like a free range ram.
I see you think this is not a poem.
Well take this you naysayer you,
do you have a portable loo?
Boiling water on tap
vintage sofas and more too?
Any day you fancy eating your words with
some cheese and biscuits call on me
I won’t be far
with my caravan and ah ha.
Contained
In the last three weeks I have paid visits to four countries, been in a women’s only taxi, allowed a Frenchman’s dazzling smile to befuddle me into accepting two six euro sandwiches when I ordered un, been offered the plinth in some man’s life as his forth wife, had an Aussie in customs tell me ‘it’s funny, you don’t look like a pom’, oh and besides that, I’d forgotten how odd it is to dare to be called Miriam. But it’s an Arab name? (This only beats being greeted in Morocco with ‘Oh, Miriam? You’re not black?’)
Dubai has always been on my list of places I categorically never want to go. The idea of glass and chrome rising out of desert and sea so Paris Hilton can party on her way round the world (or something) was my basis for not going. That and the awful film with that awful harem of bitchy middle aged women stolen from a previously better land of televisual opportunity... Oh, and the rules. Which were firmly assured by my hotel guide to Dubai that explained what ‘day-to-day’ law breaking could result in the death penalty. But, as much as my interest in returning to Dubai where my luggage was searched and run through with red dye and my heart was burst with uncomfortable everything as the whole place is encased in shiny soullessness, is non existent; it was interesting.
I have often passed the time wondering if odd things happen to me, I invite odd things to happen to me, or I find things more remarkable than everyone else. In Dubai I haplessly found myself ricocheting off the walls of a Landrover (thing) in the desert on a Monday evening, which felt strangely like a large Truman Show style set, (the desert, not the vehicle) with a Russian woman of broad design and wired eyebrows shouting ‘MAMUSKA’ and ‘AYYEEEE’ each time the wheel arches tempted to smash through the tires and we tumbled over the dunes. This may in essence already seem odd, but imagine, if you will, our Moroccan (as he took pains to tell us he was not from the oil risen land of the Arab Emirates) driver mirrors her cries for life with his own ‘WAAAAA AYYEEE, MAMA’ and the Philippines and the Germans and I were torn between knocking Russian out, telling her to put her freaking seatbelt on and laughing mercilessly, and openly, at this crazy woman’s expense.
There is something a little odd in parting with a wadge of hard earned cash to be driven on a motorway out of a city to some sand dunes off another motorway, to then be driven about and ear raped by a crazy Russian, then taken to a tourist camp of ‘Dubai’ stuff, none of which, as our lovely driver told us on the way back to the hotel, was remotely Dubaineese. Some call it tour'ism. To be fair, the baked coffee really was of a very high standard. And the shisha. But I’ve had shisha in Morocco and southern Spain and Tunbridge Wells and no one there was offering to buy me into a life of polygamy. Well, possibly in Kent, but still.
Being a tourist – or a newbie to a different place is always going to present challenges. I get that. And I usually reserve confusion for the way so many people treat ‘foreign’ places. But Dubai and MAMUSKA seem to have captured my attention full throttle with the unashamed random combination of various worlds and cultures and a blatant disregard for what I would consider expected norms in my world.
I could wang on about the Louis Vuitton clad persons headed to Dubai merely to buy stuff for $20 less than in the US or wherever you go to buy nasty overpriced branded celebrity endorsed crap normally and to eat in restaurants where the pizza is genuine as a real Italian was flown in to make it – go to Italy? I don’t want to get started on serving pork even though it’s religiously wrong to offer it... ? I left the place with as many new questions as I had thought up to take in with me – but I now am sure I do not need to return to get answers. I’d rather read a book.
Sometimes I can be more succinct in my ponderings when I compare life’s trivialities to films or some kind of referential creative expression. If my take on the world is Kill Bill – a little to whiny and judgemental but in essence put together for the right reasons, then Dubai is SATC2. One fucking huge contradiction.
NB: For legal reasons I must state there is no referential creative expression involved in SATC2. Or I won’t be allowed back into the Arab Emirates.
Dubai has always been on my list of places I categorically never want to go. The idea of glass and chrome rising out of desert and sea so Paris Hilton can party on her way round the world (or something) was my basis for not going. That and the awful film with that awful harem of bitchy middle aged women stolen from a previously better land of televisual opportunity... Oh, and the rules. Which were firmly assured by my hotel guide to Dubai that explained what ‘day-to-day’ law breaking could result in the death penalty. But, as much as my interest in returning to Dubai where my luggage was searched and run through with red dye and my heart was burst with uncomfortable everything as the whole place is encased in shiny soullessness, is non existent; it was interesting.
I have often passed the time wondering if odd things happen to me, I invite odd things to happen to me, or I find things more remarkable than everyone else. In Dubai I haplessly found myself ricocheting off the walls of a Landrover (thing) in the desert on a Monday evening, which felt strangely like a large Truman Show style set, (the desert, not the vehicle) with a Russian woman of broad design and wired eyebrows shouting ‘MAMUSKA’ and ‘AYYEEEE’ each time the wheel arches tempted to smash through the tires and we tumbled over the dunes. This may in essence already seem odd, but imagine, if you will, our Moroccan (as he took pains to tell us he was not from the oil risen land of the Arab Emirates) driver mirrors her cries for life with his own ‘WAAAAA AYYEEE, MAMA’ and the Philippines and the Germans and I were torn between knocking Russian out, telling her to put her freaking seatbelt on and laughing mercilessly, and openly, at this crazy woman’s expense.
There is something a little odd in parting with a wadge of hard earned cash to be driven on a motorway out of a city to some sand dunes off another motorway, to then be driven about and ear raped by a crazy Russian, then taken to a tourist camp of ‘Dubai’ stuff, none of which, as our lovely driver told us on the way back to the hotel, was remotely Dubaineese. Some call it tour'ism. To be fair, the baked coffee really was of a very high standard. And the shisha. But I’ve had shisha in Morocco and southern Spain and Tunbridge Wells and no one there was offering to buy me into a life of polygamy. Well, possibly in Kent, but still.
Being a tourist – or a newbie to a different place is always going to present challenges. I get that. And I usually reserve confusion for the way so many people treat ‘foreign’ places. But Dubai and MAMUSKA seem to have captured my attention full throttle with the unashamed random combination of various worlds and cultures and a blatant disregard for what I would consider expected norms in my world.
I could wang on about the Louis Vuitton clad persons headed to Dubai merely to buy stuff for $20 less than in the US or wherever you go to buy nasty overpriced branded celebrity endorsed crap normally and to eat in restaurants where the pizza is genuine as a real Italian was flown in to make it – go to Italy? I don’t want to get started on serving pork even though it’s religiously wrong to offer it... ? I left the place with as many new questions as I had thought up to take in with me – but I now am sure I do not need to return to get answers. I’d rather read a book.
Sometimes I can be more succinct in my ponderings when I compare life’s trivialities to films or some kind of referential creative expression. If my take on the world is Kill Bill – a little to whiny and judgemental but in essence put together for the right reasons, then Dubai is SATC2. One fucking huge contradiction.
NB: For legal reasons I must state there is no referential creative expression involved in SATC2. Or I won’t be allowed back into the Arab Emirates.
Sunday 21 November 2010
Honestly?
How much do people genuinely appreciate honesty? I’ve been spending rather a large amount of time being honest with people recently, and the rest of the time lying. Is it best to lay your cards on the table or is it better to respect other people’s traditions and ideals and keep them happy? Intense pondering has led me to some my favourite straight forward opportunities where there is ample opportunity to just be plain honest - all depending on how much one values their sanity.
The compliment request: If someone is fishing for a compliment is it best to give them what they want? It’s tricky as these requests come from many different places – from ‘I totally am amazing’ through to ‘I’m paranoid about everything and I feel rubbish and I think I look rubbish and oh lord is the world about to end and please please grant me this one nice thing or the world will end’ – the latter may just need some vodka by means of response – but it's also the perfect place to chuck in some curve ball honesty, something straight forward like ‘you’re wonderful’.
When responding to compliment fishing people often shoot from the hip with such gems as ‘if you like them’ ‘they’re very in’ OR my personal favourite – through gritted teeth – ‘they’re very you’. I take great issue with the phrase, ‘they’re very you’ ‘it’s very you’ ‘you’re so you, Mim.’ Fuck off. Of course I’m me you idiot (is the willed, but silent response; out loud) Oh really? Yeah, it's cool indeed. Thus being me is tantamount to being really rather cool. But thoroughly, knife twistingly honest, as I’m pretty sure ‘they're very you’ actually means ‘they revolt me as do you’.
It’s personal: The most tangible kinds of honesty are the worst, staving off mental break downs, guarding friendships, supporting decision making. Honesty and instinct is often the most sensible and genuine way to go but it’s not always so easy. ‘No I completely think you’ve done the right thing,’ is a great opener, but only if it definitely isn’t going to end with ‘but you’re still crying loads and let’s be honest, this is all over a cheese and tuna melt from upper crust.’
New acquaintances and exit greetings: ‘It was lovely to meet you, you cantankerous old racist you, lovely, just lovely.’ Best not to be too candid.
Weddings: Ah ha, always a dangerous one as there’s all that free wine; honesty and fantasy come together so well after a nice bottle or two of Rioja. ‘You really got married? Well, it’s not for me, but congrats all the same,’ followed with the final, assertive, ‘and I mean that, I think you’re very brave.’
Interviews: 'Describe myself in three words? Wee. Bit. Drunk.'
All in all there are six million, four hundred and thirteen different awkward social traditions and situations in which there’s an honesty conundrum*. And if like me, you find it hard to keep your larynx from indulging in a spot of hilarious honesty tourettes, you can always worry about it for at least 3 days after, (with celebrities it can be months,) in turn killing some possible outburst time with hardcore brow furrowing and a general sense of guilt and regret.
*I’m off to start work on my first coffee table book, with illustrations. Look out for it November 2011 ‘Honesty Conundrums: Six Million, Four Hundred and Thirteen Different Awkward Social Traditions and Situations.’ Fully Abridged.
The compliment request: If someone is fishing for a compliment is it best to give them what they want? It’s tricky as these requests come from many different places – from ‘I totally am amazing’ through to ‘I’m paranoid about everything and I feel rubbish and I think I look rubbish and oh lord is the world about to end and please please grant me this one nice thing or the world will end’ – the latter may just need some vodka by means of response – but it's also the perfect place to chuck in some curve ball honesty, something straight forward like ‘you’re wonderful’.
When responding to compliment fishing people often shoot from the hip with such gems as ‘if you like them’ ‘they’re very in’ OR my personal favourite – through gritted teeth – ‘they’re very you’. I take great issue with the phrase, ‘they’re very you’ ‘it’s very you’ ‘you’re so you, Mim.’ Fuck off. Of course I’m me you idiot (is the willed, but silent response; out loud) Oh really? Yeah, it's cool indeed. Thus being me is tantamount to being really rather cool. But thoroughly, knife twistingly honest, as I’m pretty sure ‘they're very you’ actually means ‘they revolt me as do you’.
It’s personal: The most tangible kinds of honesty are the worst, staving off mental break downs, guarding friendships, supporting decision making. Honesty and instinct is often the most sensible and genuine way to go but it’s not always so easy. ‘No I completely think you’ve done the right thing,’ is a great opener, but only if it definitely isn’t going to end with ‘but you’re still crying loads and let’s be honest, this is all over a cheese and tuna melt from upper crust.’
New acquaintances and exit greetings: ‘It was lovely to meet you, you cantankerous old racist you, lovely, just lovely.’ Best not to be too candid.
Weddings: Ah ha, always a dangerous one as there’s all that free wine; honesty and fantasy come together so well after a nice bottle or two of Rioja. ‘You really got married? Well, it’s not for me, but congrats all the same,’ followed with the final, assertive, ‘and I mean that, I think you’re very brave.’
Interviews: 'Describe myself in three words? Wee. Bit. Drunk.'
All in all there are six million, four hundred and thirteen different awkward social traditions and situations in which there’s an honesty conundrum*. And if like me, you find it hard to keep your larynx from indulging in a spot of hilarious honesty tourettes, you can always worry about it for at least 3 days after, (with celebrities it can be months,) in turn killing some possible outburst time with hardcore brow furrowing and a general sense of guilt and regret.
*I’m off to start work on my first coffee table book, with illustrations. Look out for it November 2011 ‘Honesty Conundrums: Six Million, Four Hundred and Thirteen Different Awkward Social Traditions and Situations.’ Fully Abridged.
Tuesday 16 November 2010
Radio 4
I have just transferred butter from a paper packet into a butter dish. Usually there is only real butter (still in the packet) anywhere near my person if it is linked so some extraordinary scenario. Like an afternoon tea party, at night. And six million scones. The inflection of this blog may even be off kilter as I am currently listening to Radio 4. It’s so calm and well pronounced. There’s a woman talking about cats. Last night I had a bath (first of 2010) and listened to Just a Minute, watched some of a god awful documentary about Aphrodite in which the presenter (I never want to know his name) pronounced Aphrodite incorrectly the whole way through and got far, far, far too excited at the idea that she was created by an explosion of sperm in the Cypriot sea.
I think the defining factor of my situation is that I come here, to my parents house – like a disposed writer in Tamara Drew or a useless, lonely work colleague in Another Year – to relax and ponder. But relaxing and pondering - without wifi – is dull. And may I just point out that neither of my parents are Tamsin Greig or Jim Broadbent (above films’ best bits respectively,) as much as I love them. It’s not that it’s dull, I managed to get worked up about George Osborne and Strictly last night to the point where my head and hands combined forces and I pronounced “I’m not a habitually violent person – well, since my last temper tantrum in 2001 – but I would really like to” (mum completed sentence) “wipe the smug look from his face” in reference to Osborne and the self-satisfied idiosyncrasy that he wallows in – unawares. Isn’t it worse that he really doesn’t realise how smug he looks? And that other people can see how convinced at his own abilities he is. You know he gets in every night and proffers a glass of Bristol Cream at the family portrait and announces ‘I done well, Mummay’.
When I stay with my parents I’m not sure what they really think; I think they think ‘I done well’ but there’s always a but. And I’m not quite sure where the Bristol Cream is kept. But then again, relaxing and pondering aside I’d much rather come home and be poked and prodded, hummed and hawed at but be able to have a natter about shiz openly, (yes and defend Strictly), than have parents that gave me enough false confidence to convince me I’m good enough to chuck together a budget for the UK in the midst of its meanest economic crisis for donkeys with little more than an abacus’ worth of number skills.
I think the defining factor of my situation is that I come here, to my parents house – like a disposed writer in Tamara Drew or a useless, lonely work colleague in Another Year – to relax and ponder. But relaxing and pondering - without wifi – is dull. And may I just point out that neither of my parents are Tamsin Greig or Jim Broadbent (above films’ best bits respectively,) as much as I love them. It’s not that it’s dull, I managed to get worked up about George Osborne and Strictly last night to the point where my head and hands combined forces and I pronounced “I’m not a habitually violent person – well, since my last temper tantrum in 2001 – but I would really like to” (mum completed sentence) “wipe the smug look from his face” in reference to Osborne and the self-satisfied idiosyncrasy that he wallows in – unawares. Isn’t it worse that he really doesn’t realise how smug he looks? And that other people can see how convinced at his own abilities he is. You know he gets in every night and proffers a glass of Bristol Cream at the family portrait and announces ‘I done well, Mummay’.
When I stay with my parents I’m not sure what they really think; I think they think ‘I done well’ but there’s always a but. And I’m not quite sure where the Bristol Cream is kept. But then again, relaxing and pondering aside I’d much rather come home and be poked and prodded, hummed and hawed at but be able to have a natter about shiz openly, (yes and defend Strictly), than have parents that gave me enough false confidence to convince me I’m good enough to chuck together a budget for the UK in the midst of its meanest economic crisis for donkeys with little more than an abacus’ worth of number skills.
Saturday 13 November 2010
100% Pure Pop
This was going to be about how frustrating I’m finding POP at the moment. Katy Perry and her Fire-not-at-all-a-metaphor-for-shiz-with-the-lothario-husband-Work, Cheryl and her I’m-not-talking-about-my-private-life album all about broken trust and relationship failure. The Saturdays. It’s exhausting. Don’t even get me started on Will.I.AINT. Just doing research is rather draining. All the bright noises and loud colours, music TV is terrifying. Willow Smith is whipping her hair back and forth and I’m wondering if she’s even old enough to go out and purchase a cone from an ice cream van on her own?
But this will not be about that. Instead, I’m going to talk about Robyn. The Swedish wonder woman known for such tracks as With Every Heartbeat, and With Every Heartbeat, this lady is actual bosching out super POP at a super rate. So as not to dilute – like a soda stream glass of tizer – I’m going to go for my top six Robynisms - a resolute favourite of music TV. Lists with numbers that is, not tizer.
First Up: She’s a lady pop star so we have to talk about appearance. Robyn has amazing hair. Her videos often feature her wearing t-shirt based outfits, rather than having been dipped in orange tango and sheen and having got caught in a tornado at River Island; she is consummately normal.
Secondly: Her most recent album was SO bleedin’ good she made three. Body Talk was released in June this year, then September and the third installment is due soon.
Thirdly: Dancing on My Own (Body Talk Pt. 1.) was inspired by “inherently sad, gay disco anthems” … like Donna Summer. Genius.
Fourthly: Most of her songs deal with the issues of being not quite good enough for the world and boys (and girls) not being quite good enough for Robyn. Her new favourite thing to do is wasting time with a bum. Lovely.
Fifthly: Crash And Burn Girl (Robyn 2005.) Illustrates watching a girl ‘crashing and burning’ in a social situation, and actually describes how she doesn’t realize she’s messed up until her face smashes into the ground. Metaphorical innit. That bit is good – all the people watchers come life experiencers know exactly what she’s wanging on about, but Robyn, not content with this does a talkie bit about how she’s not being a cow – she’s just pointing out a real life thing that happens and it’s more that she’s been there before than she’s wishing to enjoy someone else’s’ pain. Thus, bringing it back to Robyn being messed up and truly wonderful and human.
Sixthly: The 15th track on Robyn is a crap recording of Jack You Off. In which Robyn details different places she would happily Jack You Off. Sing a bit of Jack You Off in public and your friends will tell you to Keep It Down. I wonder if that’s a song on Body Talk Pt. 3?
But this will not be about that. Instead, I’m going to talk about Robyn. The Swedish wonder woman known for such tracks as With Every Heartbeat, and With Every Heartbeat, this lady is actual bosching out super POP at a super rate. So as not to dilute – like a soda stream glass of tizer – I’m going to go for my top six Robynisms - a resolute favourite of music TV. Lists with numbers that is, not tizer.
First Up: She’s a lady pop star so we have to talk about appearance. Robyn has amazing hair. Her videos often feature her wearing t-shirt based outfits, rather than having been dipped in orange tango and sheen and having got caught in a tornado at River Island; she is consummately normal.
Secondly: Her most recent album was SO bleedin’ good she made three. Body Talk was released in June this year, then September and the third installment is due soon.
Thirdly: Dancing on My Own (Body Talk Pt. 1.) was inspired by “inherently sad, gay disco anthems” … like Donna Summer. Genius.
Fourthly: Most of her songs deal with the issues of being not quite good enough for the world and boys (and girls) not being quite good enough for Robyn. Her new favourite thing to do is wasting time with a bum. Lovely.
Fifthly: Crash And Burn Girl (Robyn 2005.) Illustrates watching a girl ‘crashing and burning’ in a social situation, and actually describes how she doesn’t realize she’s messed up until her face smashes into the ground. Metaphorical innit. That bit is good – all the people watchers come life experiencers know exactly what she’s wanging on about, but Robyn, not content with this does a talkie bit about how she’s not being a cow – she’s just pointing out a real life thing that happens and it’s more that she’s been there before than she’s wishing to enjoy someone else’s’ pain. Thus, bringing it back to Robyn being messed up and truly wonderful and human.
Sixthly: The 15th track on Robyn is a crap recording of Jack You Off. In which Robyn details different places she would happily Jack You Off. Sing a bit of Jack You Off in public and your friends will tell you to Keep It Down. I wonder if that’s a song on Body Talk Pt. 3?
Wednesday 10 November 2010
About The Boy
It’s been a fairly bonkers few months. I’ve found it’s always best to define things by happenings in the real world – rather than one’s own self indulgent musings. I could natter about anything all the way from the odd indignity of One Dimension’s charges flashing their boxers on national tele through to the coalition’s pathetic disinterest in doing anything useful. But, much more wonderful are some of the films I’ve been watching. Yes, I’m just going to go for some of my own self indulgent musings.
There are two films recently that I have truly and wonderfully wallowed in every minute of, firstly, Taika Waititi’s Waihau Bay NZ set Boy. Boy, alongside his ever trusted Michael Jackson has a series of encounters with the world and how some parts are inclined to work and how some parts will just come down to luck and how some bits will just be plain rubbish. Mary and Max – another Antipodean offering (no not related to my imminent relocation) which handles loneliness, singularity and that all involving trust you find with some people where however much you push it you know there can be a way to pull it back – like the naive beauty of sending perishables round the world in the post; that Lamington was never going to make it Mary. These films are similar in few and in many ways –wonderful story telling and ingenuity with imagery are enough to pin them together, and the personal facets of both pieces. One is 1984 Kiwis - one is clay-animation narrated by Barry Humphries, on paper, you're already onto a winner.
The most moving moment in a film I’ve ever seen is in Boy – and it’s simply a small child in a parker (hood up) on roller boots silently proffering a sparkler gliding across a garage floor in the dark. A film maker who can put that together so perfectly is surely a visionary. Mary and Max has skills in human fault and error, every character's flawed traits are their most prominent – it’s the complete opposite of a Saturday's music video – where perfection is prominent, as is the dubbing. Mary and Max makes one proud to be imperfect – and scared of the world. Why shouldn’t we be frightened? It’s big and dark out there kids.
I adore the idea that reading this may inspire you to look each or any of these films up. Mary and Max is currently kicking about in a projection room near you, but I’m concerned the looking up may not be likely with the lack of any synopsis or general ‘review’ of these films. Please don’t let that stop you. When you’re in a world of obscure thoughts and ponders; where every tiny little act of misadventure is mulled over and appreciated – genuinely thought filled stories seem to have an even greater impact. These are two of those. ‘Nuff said.
http://www.maryandmax.com/
http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
There are two films recently that I have truly and wonderfully wallowed in every minute of, firstly, Taika Waititi’s Waihau Bay NZ set Boy. Boy, alongside his ever trusted Michael Jackson has a series of encounters with the world and how some parts are inclined to work and how some parts will just come down to luck and how some bits will just be plain rubbish. Mary and Max – another Antipodean offering (no not related to my imminent relocation) which handles loneliness, singularity and that all involving trust you find with some people where however much you push it you know there can be a way to pull it back – like the naive beauty of sending perishables round the world in the post; that Lamington was never going to make it Mary. These films are similar in few and in many ways –wonderful story telling and ingenuity with imagery are enough to pin them together, and the personal facets of both pieces. One is 1984 Kiwis - one is clay-animation narrated by Barry Humphries, on paper, you're already onto a winner.
The most moving moment in a film I’ve ever seen is in Boy – and it’s simply a small child in a parker (hood up) on roller boots silently proffering a sparkler gliding across a garage floor in the dark. A film maker who can put that together so perfectly is surely a visionary. Mary and Max has skills in human fault and error, every character's flawed traits are their most prominent – it’s the complete opposite of a Saturday's music video – where perfection is prominent, as is the dubbing. Mary and Max makes one proud to be imperfect – and scared of the world. Why shouldn’t we be frightened? It’s big and dark out there kids.
I adore the idea that reading this may inspire you to look each or any of these films up. Mary and Max is currently kicking about in a projection room near you, but I’m concerned the looking up may not be likely with the lack of any synopsis or general ‘review’ of these films. Please don’t let that stop you. When you’re in a world of obscure thoughts and ponders; where every tiny little act of misadventure is mulled over and appreciated – genuinely thought filled stories seem to have an even greater impact. These are two of those. ‘Nuff said.
http://www.maryandmax.com/
http://www.boythemovie.co.nz/
Wednesday 22 September 2010
Sulking And Shiz
I’ve only gone and put my bloggy moan pants on. And the only (well) problem (my life sucks ya’ll) with blogging about sulking is it turns into a self criticising criminalising act.
And also, no good sulk noises will ever work on paper.
So instead of sharing more of my life is too darn hard I’m going to silence my tirade and instead go for my top five celebrity sulks of this week. After all - life is harder when earning (mim's synonyms recommends stealing/begging/borrowing as viable thesaurusable alternatives) inane amounts of money for merely poncing about.
Kim Kashardaiididididnanana. And I quote “It’s hard being me.”
Katy Perry. “OOOOH How dare you put a camera up my incredibly short dress when I get paid to hang around on street corners magazine covers with my waps out.”
Russell Brand. “Dear Fellow, get off my young lady. Oh good gracious, pontificating (long word) exorbitantly (long word) antidisestablishmentarianism.”
Paris Hilton. “What do you mean I can’t come in? Oh. Cuuum. On. Rheally? But I totally had the dawgs booked in for a two week spa treatment out in the $4,007,832 a night Crystal Kunst Wet Spa at Mount Fuji. Oh that is inconvenient. Oh and the private jet was totally due a no-carb-no-meat-no-fish-noodle restock. Just Grr all round hey guys.”
Chris Moyles. “It doesn’t matter how much you get paid, when you haven’t been paid for two months that becomes irrelevant.”
That last one has just made me so annoyed I’m off to throw puppies at Japanese tourists on the castle esplanade. There’ve been times when I haven’t been paid for two months. And no Mr Moyles, it wasn’t rubbish because I had to miss my monthly ritual of perusing my online bank statements, smirking to myself, drinking Cristal and shouting KA-CHING - but more because there are no jobs.
Oh cock - full circle on the sulk then.
And also, no good sulk noises will ever work on paper.
So instead of sharing more of my life is too darn hard I’m going to silence my tirade and instead go for my top five celebrity sulks of this week. After all - life is harder when earning (mim's synonyms recommends stealing/begging/borrowing as viable thesaurusable alternatives) inane amounts of money for merely poncing about.
Kim Kashardaiididididnanana. And I quote “It’s hard being me.”
Katy Perry. “OOOOH How dare you put a camera up my incredibly short dress when I get paid to hang around on street corners magazine covers with my waps out.”
Russell Brand. “Dear Fellow, get off my young lady. Oh good gracious, pontificating (long word) exorbitantly (long word) antidisestablishmentarianism.”
Paris Hilton. “What do you mean I can’t come in? Oh. Cuuum. On. Rheally? But I totally had the dawgs booked in for a two week spa treatment out in the $4,007,832 a night Crystal Kunst Wet Spa at Mount Fuji. Oh that is inconvenient. Oh and the private jet was totally due a no-carb-no-meat-no-fish-noodle restock. Just Grr all round hey guys.”
Chris Moyles. “It doesn’t matter how much you get paid, when you haven’t been paid for two months that becomes irrelevant.”
That last one has just made me so annoyed I’m off to throw puppies at Japanese tourists on the castle esplanade. There’ve been times when I haven’t been paid for two months. And no Mr Moyles, it wasn’t rubbish because I had to miss my monthly ritual of perusing my online bank statements, smirking to myself, drinking Cristal and shouting KA-CHING - but more because there are no jobs.
Oh cock - full circle on the sulk then.
Sunday 12 September 2010
Vs The World
There is something oddly Shakespearian about Scott Pilgrim vs. the World.
Seven exes.
One 22 year old.
A Chinese schoolgirl.
An indie band.
A girl with five colours in her hair – interchangeable over nominally regular periods of time.
Everyone is in love with everyone.
It’s quite often snowing.
There’s no iambic pentameter so the comparisons may feel far-flung but if Will was writing now you know the advent of video game would mean he would’ve headed down the Scott Pilgrim/World avenue at some juncture.
Relationships in movies are pretty much the point of movies. Even putting that down on paper is consummately stupid because films without some kind of person on person interaction... March of the Penguins... are not real films. Avatar, the greatest grossing 3D pants party ever was effectively just a series of madly complicated, tech heavy booty calls.
Michael Cera redresses his geek in love role for Scott Pilgrim. Edgar Wright (The Nick and Simon Party General) directs, writes and moves away from the flipper pad style of Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz scene development and instead indulges his inner geek with a movie long super Mario style challenge for bass playing Pilgrim. As he dreams about then meets the lady of his (Suz from As If) dreams Pilgrim discovers – whilst performing at Battle Of The Bands – that he will encounter each of the magical Romana Flowers’ (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) seven exes. Each ‘x’ presents another challenge – Wright and Bacall pondering the way in which our moves inform how we build relationships.
The advent of super cool big screen geek youngsters, most of whom made their big screen debut in a Judd Apatow movie – you know which one – is no accident. We all like to pretend we’re a little bit geek. How many people do you know that showed off how they (actually) saw Shaun of the Dead (yeah) in the cinema and drove home like Nick Frost on acid? There’s that consummate aspect of our super busy over exhausting moan-o-meters that mean living in a playstation seems cool. Meeting a girl with coloured hair does give reason to fighting seven strangers to the death, does it not? Being a big fan of hair was not the only reason for enjoying Scott Pilgrim vs but the constant references to it were super. Go see. Ponder living in a video game, and being in love.
Seven exes.
One 22 year old.
A Chinese schoolgirl.
An indie band.
A girl with five colours in her hair – interchangeable over nominally regular periods of time.
Everyone is in love with everyone.
It’s quite often snowing.
There’s no iambic pentameter so the comparisons may feel far-flung but if Will was writing now you know the advent of video game would mean he would’ve headed down the Scott Pilgrim/World avenue at some juncture.
Relationships in movies are pretty much the point of movies. Even putting that down on paper is consummately stupid because films without some kind of person on person interaction... March of the Penguins... are not real films. Avatar, the greatest grossing 3D pants party ever was effectively just a series of madly complicated, tech heavy booty calls.
Michael Cera redresses his geek in love role for Scott Pilgrim. Edgar Wright (The Nick and Simon Party General) directs, writes and moves away from the flipper pad style of Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz scene development and instead indulges his inner geek with a movie long super Mario style challenge for bass playing Pilgrim. As he dreams about then meets the lady of his (Suz from As If) dreams Pilgrim discovers – whilst performing at Battle Of The Bands – that he will encounter each of the magical Romana Flowers’ (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) seven exes. Each ‘x’ presents another challenge – Wright and Bacall pondering the way in which our moves inform how we build relationships.
The advent of super cool big screen geek youngsters, most of whom made their big screen debut in a Judd Apatow movie – you know which one – is no accident. We all like to pretend we’re a little bit geek. How many people do you know that showed off how they (actually) saw Shaun of the Dead (yeah) in the cinema and drove home like Nick Frost on acid? There’s that consummate aspect of our super busy over exhausting moan-o-meters that mean living in a playstation seems cool. Meeting a girl with coloured hair does give reason to fighting seven strangers to the death, does it not? Being a big fan of hair was not the only reason for enjoying Scott Pilgrim vs but the constant references to it were super. Go see. Ponder living in a video game, and being in love.
Thursday 9 September 2010
Finders Keepers?
On Friday 3rd September 2010 my iphone 3GS was stolen. Correction, more precisely at somewhere between 2.30AM and 4AM on Saturday 4th September my bag was rummaged through, in my tent, where I slept alone somewhere in a field 10 minutes drive from Moffat, Dumfries at Eden Festival.
What has happened since ranges from odd to some other emotions I think it’s easiest to group as extreme moodiness. The idea of losing your own personal possessions through no personal error is annoying. From pick pocketing on the airport train into Barcelona to car theft in any one of the six hundred and forty three random places it happens - like zoo car parks - ‘It’s my stuff’ is the initial thought. ‘Why is it any use to you?’ – ‘it’s probably drugs’, I tellingly and drolly murmured at the police when I reported my shit missing.
I’ve never been robbed before. Never personally anyway, my family went through the 80s and 90s living in Bris-UK’s-hot-spot-for-car-crime-tol (taken over by Leeds late 90s I believe) and we seemed to lose a car weekly. I remember mum and dad not coming home from the theatre because the Astra (navy, desirable) had been nabbed and was found ‘wrapped round a lamppost’. The image haunts still. But I’ve never been robbed. I’ve caught pickpockets three times actually opening zips and grabbing at bags, and the violation still wrangles. It’s this immediate subconscious feeling of ‘it’s not yours to touch, let alone take, and its shagging attached to me’. Often this is verbalised as noisy human noises.
I’ve chosen not to use a phone for the rest of the week. Part in protest, partly so I didn’t get too het up that the Vodafone replacement sim didn’t arrive. It’s an odd one. I genuinely thoroughly still feel that I should be able to reach back in time, wake up at an opportune moment and scream blue murder (or purple theft) ... and snatch my wonder gadget back from the clutches of whichever kiniveing sludge living on the edge of a disused toilet left over from last year’s hippy fest covered in dead racoons and mouldy pigs ears is currently sitting in my tent. They’d be startled that that sleeping bag there contains a person who has possessions and genuinely believes it’s their right to keep them.
And my parents did eventually come home from the theatre; we had some hippy couple babysitting. I quite liked the drama. At four years old. Who would have thought?
What has happened since ranges from odd to some other emotions I think it’s easiest to group as extreme moodiness. The idea of losing your own personal possessions through no personal error is annoying. From pick pocketing on the airport train into Barcelona to car theft in any one of the six hundred and forty three random places it happens - like zoo car parks - ‘It’s my stuff’ is the initial thought. ‘Why is it any use to you?’ – ‘it’s probably drugs’, I tellingly and drolly murmured at the police when I reported my shit missing.
I’ve never been robbed before. Never personally anyway, my family went through the 80s and 90s living in Bris-UK’s-hot-spot-for-car-crime-tol (taken over by Leeds late 90s I believe) and we seemed to lose a car weekly. I remember mum and dad not coming home from the theatre because the Astra (navy, desirable) had been nabbed and was found ‘wrapped round a lamppost’. The image haunts still. But I’ve never been robbed. I’ve caught pickpockets three times actually opening zips and grabbing at bags, and the violation still wrangles. It’s this immediate subconscious feeling of ‘it’s not yours to touch, let alone take, and its shagging attached to me’. Often this is verbalised as noisy human noises.
I’ve chosen not to use a phone for the rest of the week. Part in protest, partly so I didn’t get too het up that the Vodafone replacement sim didn’t arrive. It’s an odd one. I genuinely thoroughly still feel that I should be able to reach back in time, wake up at an opportune moment and scream blue murder (or purple theft) ... and snatch my wonder gadget back from the clutches of whichever kiniveing sludge living on the edge of a disused toilet left over from last year’s hippy fest covered in dead racoons and mouldy pigs ears is currently sitting in my tent. They’d be startled that that sleeping bag there contains a person who has possessions and genuinely believes it’s their right to keep them.
And my parents did eventually come home from the theatre; we had some hippy couple babysitting. I quite liked the drama. At four years old. Who would have thought?
Monday 15 February 2010
Sunshine And Silence...
Just last week I was sitting in a cafe eating banana bread, drinking coffee, getting down with the sunshine sitting on a table adjoining two men – over-gymed, gay, 30s, gossiping in the soft palate’d haughty middle class Sydney accent that pounds out of Sydney's Inner East. I was pondering writing blogs about Australia, and they were talking about all kinds of random - it became clear they were catching up after several years of not having seen each other. Their discussion kept meandering back to how when one returns to Sydney from Europe, Japan, the US there was a general shift in the quality of chat. Besides being loud enough for a six table radius to hear of their pomp and circumstance they did strike a chord with my blog contemplations; namely, is there any good chat in Aus? Well, it would be libellous to presume in any country there is NO good chat. Even within regimes where certain conversation is banned - either topics, or restrictions on whom you can converse with - there are people banging out great chat - infact, maybe more so. Take Dada, a cultural movement spurred on by the fact everyone else was getting busy with war chat* (it's not quite that simple but you catch my drift.)
In Australia the sun is shining, the morning comes before the rest of the world goes to bed and there are platypuses - the weirdest creature ever invented. There is sea everywhere (round the edge) and the current Prime Minister was the first ever to apologise to the Aborigines for the horrendous treatment at the hands of the settling population; specifically the events surrounding lost and the stolen generations. So leaving that as another discussion for the well informed it’s fair to say there is plenty of fodder for great chat down under. Then again, is it too easy to just talk about shrimps and sun? The British have a name in the rest of the world for moaning and tearing anything apart. The fact that more people should know David Cameron's clearly a twat is discussed and even though the Mori Polls would try and convince you otherwise, and although many may not arse going out and voting in elections any more (except X Factor) there will always be some chat rattling around about current affairs. But spend 24 hours getting yourself to the other side of the world and people seem continually surprised that you would want to talk about politics, or anything, besides the sun. This fine country (and Manly** no less) has produced the easiest to caricature opposition leader I've ever had the pleasure to read about. He's a dream, harbouring many a crazy confused left wing view, but, Tony Abbott*** is better known for budgie smugglers and swearing in interviews as he is for being an actual politician.
I am not ungrateful it's sunny, but I don't see why just because the weather is more conducive to 'thongs' and 'bbqs' there should be any less discussion of what's going on, is it not worth taking an interest? Then again, (I am aware there is some fierce generalisation going down here) if people generally choose to live anywhere like Manly (besides if their job's primary action is surfing which makes it a reasonable place for settlement) then they can stay here. And they can talk about buying girlfriends, drinking corona for $8 as long as they make sure they don't talk too loudly about how their great friend Mrs Abbott husband's*** new position at work is going very well.
*DADA is an artistic movement formed in Zurich during WW1. It was a wee bit bonkers.
**The shit hole where I work, you have to get a ferry from central Sydney.
***Take a look www.crikey.com.au/topic/tony-abbott/
In Australia the sun is shining, the morning comes before the rest of the world goes to bed and there are platypuses - the weirdest creature ever invented. There is sea everywhere (round the edge) and the current Prime Minister was the first ever to apologise to the Aborigines for the horrendous treatment at the hands of the settling population; specifically the events surrounding lost and the stolen generations. So leaving that as another discussion for the well informed it’s fair to say there is plenty of fodder for great chat down under. Then again, is it too easy to just talk about shrimps and sun? The British have a name in the rest of the world for moaning and tearing anything apart. The fact that more people should know David Cameron's clearly a twat is discussed and even though the Mori Polls would try and convince you otherwise, and although many may not arse going out and voting in elections any more (except X Factor) there will always be some chat rattling around about current affairs. But spend 24 hours getting yourself to the other side of the world and people seem continually surprised that you would want to talk about politics, or anything, besides the sun. This fine country (and Manly** no less) has produced the easiest to caricature opposition leader I've ever had the pleasure to read about. He's a dream, harbouring many a crazy confused left wing view, but, Tony Abbott*** is better known for budgie smugglers and swearing in interviews as he is for being an actual politician.
I am not ungrateful it's sunny, but I don't see why just because the weather is more conducive to 'thongs' and 'bbqs' there should be any less discussion of what's going on, is it not worth taking an interest? Then again, (I am aware there is some fierce generalisation going down here) if people generally choose to live anywhere like Manly (besides if their job's primary action is surfing which makes it a reasonable place for settlement) then they can stay here. And they can talk about buying girlfriends, drinking corona for $8 as long as they make sure they don't talk too loudly about how their great friend Mrs Abbott husband's*** new position at work is going very well.
*DADA is an artistic movement formed in Zurich during WW1. It was a wee bit bonkers.
**The shit hole where I work, you have to get a ferry from central Sydney.
***Take a look www.crikey.com.au/topic/tony-abbott/
Thursday 4 February 2010
A kookaburra tried to nick some roo from my barbie then a dingo stole my baby
Having now spent a rocking and rolling two months in Sydney town and a little longer down under all in, I feel I am now in the right place to comment on the Queen's only continent. This may also be the right time to apologise to my readers (myself and Alan) for the self indulgent shizzle I rambled out in 'Humiliation' and 'Sickies' (although my sick day ponderings were more of a public service announcement) and I promise to follow them up with a burst of incisive, no holds barred, razor-sharp commentary on the land of Oz*.
So pour yourself another gin and settle in for some Holy Moly level bitchin', some Guardian style typos and perhaps a little tabloid enthused creative license. This is Australia, but not as Mark Anthony “Baz” Luhrmann would have you believe...
*Cliché Camel represents y’all.
So pour yourself another gin and settle in for some Holy Moly level bitchin', some Guardian style typos and perhaps a little tabloid enthused creative license. This is Australia, but not as Mark Anthony “Baz” Luhrmann would have you believe...
*Cliché Camel represents y’all.
Wednesday 27 January 2010
Alternative Medicine: Sick Days
In my working life there have been several days I planned stepping out into the road without looking (properly) just to get a couple of days off. It seems to me, that with shit jobs, it appears more likely that one would call in with croaky morning throat sound effects and not be believed, and why? Because your hatred of the job must be apparent to others in the office yes? Therefore every time you contemplate calling in sick for normal sickness, hot flushes, cough and a banging headache it seems these symptoms become signs of deviousness and a calculated way of receiving more days off without booking annual leave.
Here are some cunning ways to call in sick to a job that may not believe you would genuinely EVER be sick just because they know you hate being underpaid and bored all day long*
Food poisoning Now this is a pretty straight forward one, but it doesn't do any harm to mention you're off to Heston Bloomingdale's several times in the lead up to your proposed day(s) off. Remember though, thou doth protest too much isn't a cliché for nothing. Don't mention it more than twice - let it sink into several co-workers’ consciousness but not their frontal lobe. Your second day off is because you've only managed to eat two digestives and you brought back up your toast when you were getting ready to return to work.
Burglary Two options here: you can either pay someone last month's salary to smash up your office, or more practically you can wake up to find OH NO the TV's gone and my auntie's gold heirlooms.
Falling off the ferry Now - this one is rather geographically specific but let's think of ferry as being any part of your journey to work that involves water. A canal, river or puddle will do. No-one wants to sit next to someone slowly mouldering in their swivel chair and smelling like frogspawn. Downsides include, risk of death by boat or pneumonia and worse - you may have to attend the office to prove your incapable of doing anything but ‘working from home’.
Getting run over Now this may seem a little extreme in practice but it's time consuming planning this one off event properly - helping you wend away the hours in work the day before your tragic mishap. Several things to bear in mind. Firstly, do you want to get bumped first thing, on the coffee run, or at lunch? Secondly, how do you go about calling in, which in turn effects the third point of consideration, did your collision involve a trip to A&E? Fourthly, injuries, obviously broken bones can be a challenge to fake so stick to mild concussion and large bruises in 'embarrassing' places. i.e. a bruise on the shin maybe available for morbid colleagues to peer at, stick with ass and belly as you're least likely to get these out on a bad day, let alone when they're all yellow and blue. If you go for the ass, remember it’s going to hurt to sit at a desk for too long (more than twenty minutes).
You've decided that you'd rather dance around in racoon poo and have rotten milk in your tea than go into work this morning. ‘Nuff said.
So, it may seem like taking a day off is as complicated as installing wired intranet system for fifteen people in subzero conditions and gale force icy winds but it is immeasurably more fun. Try it, and for tips on getting hit by a car please feel free to contact Ms Caitlin Skinner who was once bruised by one of the pesky polluting machines on Princess St.
(If you like your job this is not for you, as we all know if anything but a cheeky pest urchin devoid of stimulation/pocket money in the work place you only take genuine sick days if you're trusted to do your job well regardless.)
*No businesses were harmed in the writing of this blog, just my soul, oh look, another chunk just fell to the floor with a gigantuous clunk.
Here are some cunning ways to call in sick to a job that may not believe you would genuinely EVER be sick just because they know you hate being underpaid and bored all day long*
Food poisoning Now this is a pretty straight forward one, but it doesn't do any harm to mention you're off to Heston Bloomingdale's several times in the lead up to your proposed day(s) off. Remember though, thou doth protest too much isn't a cliché for nothing. Don't mention it more than twice - let it sink into several co-workers’ consciousness but not their frontal lobe. Your second day off is because you've only managed to eat two digestives and you brought back up your toast when you were getting ready to return to work.
Burglary Two options here: you can either pay someone last month's salary to smash up your office, or more practically you can wake up to find OH NO the TV's gone and my auntie's gold heirlooms.
Falling off the ferry Now - this one is rather geographically specific but let's think of ferry as being any part of your journey to work that involves water. A canal, river or puddle will do. No-one wants to sit next to someone slowly mouldering in their swivel chair and smelling like frogspawn. Downsides include, risk of death by boat or pneumonia and worse - you may have to attend the office to prove your incapable of doing anything but ‘working from home’.
Getting run over Now this may seem a little extreme in practice but it's time consuming planning this one off event properly - helping you wend away the hours in work the day before your tragic mishap. Several things to bear in mind. Firstly, do you want to get bumped first thing, on the coffee run, or at lunch? Secondly, how do you go about calling in, which in turn effects the third point of consideration, did your collision involve a trip to A&E? Fourthly, injuries, obviously broken bones can be a challenge to fake so stick to mild concussion and large bruises in 'embarrassing' places. i.e. a bruise on the shin maybe available for morbid colleagues to peer at, stick with ass and belly as you're least likely to get these out on a bad day, let alone when they're all yellow and blue. If you go for the ass, remember it’s going to hurt to sit at a desk for too long (more than twenty minutes).
You've decided that you'd rather dance around in racoon poo and have rotten milk in your tea than go into work this morning. ‘Nuff said.
So, it may seem like taking a day off is as complicated as installing wired intranet system for fifteen people in subzero conditions and gale force icy winds but it is immeasurably more fun. Try it, and for tips on getting hit by a car please feel free to contact Ms Caitlin Skinner who was once bruised by one of the pesky polluting machines on Princess St.
(If you like your job this is not for you, as we all know if anything but a cheeky pest urchin devoid of stimulation/pocket money in the work place you only take genuine sick days if you're trusted to do your job well regardless.)
*No businesses were harmed in the writing of this blog, just my soul, oh look, another chunk just fell to the floor with a gigantuous clunk.
An idiot’s guide to humiliation
First and foremost you have to make sure you are putting yourself in a position out of your comfort zone. Then, find someone to support your humiliation. This supporting role can be entirely straight forward or more complex. Often the easiest way to set this up is to make sure the supporter has no idea what you're trying to achieve. For example, you want to complete a record time upside-down in the handstand arena - the supporter is the person holding your legs once you are upright. So, say you're wearing a flimsy flowery topshop skirt your supporter has to be blissfully unaware they are going to help you air your dirty laundry. Following? Good. As I previously said ignorance is a good way to start, also, if it's easier to be unspecific than provide any clarity for your supporter you’re already off to a head start.
So, we have a supporter - and the starring role goes to you. Think of all those nativities where you played a sheep - yes, this is your chance to be Joseph. The most important thing to remember is to give your supporter any opportunity to remark on how you're clearly several pegs short of a tent - always make sure you don't get to the point of the altercation - back in the record-breaking headstand scenario once you've shown Chris Akabusi your pants give up immediately. Bear in mind the main aim - you are not out there to achieve anything. There are several situations where there are added extras. Tears, dribbling a little, sweating profusely, liquids and general bodily fluids can help - but all in once you may be having a fit so watch out for that.
Join me tomorrow for a ‘how to’ on playing dead on train tracks.
So, we have a supporter - and the starring role goes to you. Think of all those nativities where you played a sheep - yes, this is your chance to be Joseph. The most important thing to remember is to give your supporter any opportunity to remark on how you're clearly several pegs short of a tent - always make sure you don't get to the point of the altercation - back in the record-breaking headstand scenario once you've shown Chris Akabusi your pants give up immediately. Bear in mind the main aim - you are not out there to achieve anything. There are several situations where there are added extras. Tears, dribbling a little, sweating profusely, liquids and general bodily fluids can help - but all in once you may be having a fit so watch out for that.
Join me tomorrow for a ‘how to’ on playing dead on train tracks.
Tuesday 26 January 2010
Brit 2010 Award Nominations. Vol 2.
So, it seems studying the Brits 2010 nominations more than once in one week is nothing short of a chore. But, for my three faithful readers, I soldier on. To keep this interesting I will endeavour to slip in further Robbie Williams and Flight Of The Conchords quotes and lyrics (now that would be a duet to rival Leon Jackson and Kylie Minogue).
BRITs Album of 30 Years - After some hardcore interweb trawling I discovered that there has been no such award to celebrate previous Brits decade landmarks; deeming this award even more ridiculous than its insanely odd nominees. To give this a little context the BPI Awards began in 1980 and we're renamed Britannia Music Awards in 1989 hence the rebranding with nickname Brits. In the last 30 years, these things have happened in worlds of politics and music.
1982 - Michael Jackson's Thriller goes on general release.
1989 - Berlin Wall pulled down.
1990 - Margaret Thatcher, the longest serving Prime-Minister of the 20th Century and only ever woman to serve in the role; resigns.
1991 - Freddie Mercury dies of AIDS aged 45
1996 - Jay-Z releases his first album Reasonable Doubt on record label Roc-A-Fella Records created by himself, Damon Dash and Kareem Biggs
1998 - B*Witched album B*Witched is released, the first four singles are all UK number ones.
2001 - On September 11th passenger jets are flown into the World Trade Centres in NY.
2004 - Boxing Day Tsunami kills nearly 230,000 people in fourteen countries.
2009 - The first African American US President is inaugurated.
Bearing this in mind... the nominees for 'BRITs Album of 30 years' are:
Coldplay: A Rush of Blood to the Head.
Dido: No Angel
Dire Straits: Brothers in Arms
Duffy: Rockferry
Keane: Hopes & Fears
Oasis: (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?
Phil Collins: No Jacket Required
Sade: Diamond Life
The Verve: Urban Hymns
Travis: The Man Who
International Female Solo Artist
Lady Gaga - Gaga ooh la la. Work it Stephanie.
Ladyhawke - is a band
Norah Jones - eh?
Rihanna - So just pull the trigger.
Shakira - Her hips don't lie.
International Male Solo Artist
Bruce Springsteen - Glastonbury 2009
Eminem - Glastonburried
Jay-Z - Glasto-mutha-shinging-bury
Michael Buble - Glasto-shaaabaa-be-bury
Seasick Steve - That tramp what lives in Glastonbury
International Album
Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavilion - Meh
Black Eyed Peas: The End - Its ‘E.N.D’ brits.com
Empire of the Sun: Walking on a Dream - Youtube their Arias* acceptance speeches to see why this should NEVER EVER BE ALLOWED TO HAPPEN.
Jay-Z: The Blueprint 3 - In moo york
Lady Gaga: The Fame - Touch my sugar cubes
*Australian music industry awards. Presented by an over-excited Sally off Home & Away. (Winners included Kiwi's if they have an Aussie postage stamp in their wallet for more than one month)
Only two to go, take a deep breath
International Breakthrough Act
Animal Collective - Bleughh
Daniel Merriweather - Just crawl up somewhere and bleed.
Empire of the Sun - Oh gawwwd.
Lady Gaga – You could be a part-time model.
Taylor Swift - Is Kayne invited?
Outstanding Contribution Award
Robbie Williams - No that's it, Sorry. I'm done. This is shagging ridiculous. If you want Robbie lyrics you can read BRITs 2010 vol. one.
BRITs Album of 30 Years - After some hardcore interweb trawling I discovered that there has been no such award to celebrate previous Brits decade landmarks; deeming this award even more ridiculous than its insanely odd nominees. To give this a little context the BPI Awards began in 1980 and we're renamed Britannia Music Awards in 1989 hence the rebranding with nickname Brits. In the last 30 years, these things have happened in worlds of politics and music.
1982 - Michael Jackson's Thriller goes on general release.
1989 - Berlin Wall pulled down.
1990 - Margaret Thatcher, the longest serving Prime-Minister of the 20th Century and only ever woman to serve in the role; resigns.
1991 - Freddie Mercury dies of AIDS aged 45
1996 - Jay-Z releases his first album Reasonable Doubt on record label Roc-A-Fella Records created by himself, Damon Dash and Kareem Biggs
1998 - B*Witched album B*Witched is released, the first four singles are all UK number ones.
2001 - On September 11th passenger jets are flown into the World Trade Centres in NY.
2004 - Boxing Day Tsunami kills nearly 230,000 people in fourteen countries.
2009 - The first African American US President is inaugurated.
Bearing this in mind... the nominees for 'BRITs Album of 30 years' are:
Coldplay: A Rush of Blood to the Head.
Dido: No Angel
Dire Straits: Brothers in Arms
Duffy: Rockferry
Keane: Hopes & Fears
Oasis: (What’s the Story) Morning Glory?
Phil Collins: No Jacket Required
Sade: Diamond Life
The Verve: Urban Hymns
Travis: The Man Who
International Female Solo Artist
Lady Gaga - Gaga ooh la la. Work it Stephanie.
Ladyhawke - is a band
Norah Jones - eh?
Rihanna - So just pull the trigger.
Shakira - Her hips don't lie.
International Male Solo Artist
Bruce Springsteen - Glastonbury 2009
Eminem - Glastonburried
Jay-Z - Glasto-mutha-shinging-bury
Michael Buble - Glasto-shaaabaa-be-bury
Seasick Steve - That tramp what lives in Glastonbury
International Album
Animal Collective: Merriweather Post Pavilion - Meh
Black Eyed Peas: The End - Its ‘E.N.D’ brits.com
Empire of the Sun: Walking on a Dream - Youtube their Arias* acceptance speeches to see why this should NEVER EVER BE ALLOWED TO HAPPEN.
Jay-Z: The Blueprint 3 - In moo york
Lady Gaga: The Fame - Touch my sugar cubes
*Australian music industry awards. Presented by an over-excited Sally off Home & Away. (Winners included Kiwi's if they have an Aussie postage stamp in their wallet for more than one month)
Only two to go, take a deep breath
International Breakthrough Act
Animal Collective - Bleughh
Daniel Merriweather - Just crawl up somewhere and bleed.
Empire of the Sun - Oh gawwwd.
Lady Gaga – You could be a part-time model.
Taylor Swift - Is Kayne invited?
Outstanding Contribution Award
Robbie Williams - No that's it, Sorry. I'm done. This is shagging ridiculous. If you want Robbie lyrics you can read BRITs 2010 vol. one.
Tuesday 19 January 2010
Brit Award Nominations 2010
So, the 30th Brit Awards nominees have been announced by Ferne 'doesn't like drinking, just likes banging' Cotton. Bring on Cotton dressed as the 6th member of Girls Aloud - and here comes the news we've all been waiting for, yes the big G.A will be performing again at the 2010 event.. Sorry? Ah I see, nope the Geordie one will be performing* solo at the event. She realised another single? What? Will.I.AM off the Black Eyed Peas has adopted her in a weird street dancing come producing outfit? Dang blast that's annoying. I'd super hoped she'd perform "love ain't no picnic, it ain't no walk in the park' (no Chez it's not, it's an abstract noun) again. That would be amazing. Maybe as a yellow street fighter this time and Uma Thurman can do some yellow-suited sword tricks in the background. ANYWAY. I digress.
*Please note I would prefer to see Dannii Minogue performing the classic Put The Needle On It in Per Una's pregnancy line.
Go Cotton, read the prompts like you've never read them before (it's not like everyone's management will already know who's nominated for what to make sure someone off Pop turns up.)
First up, British Female Solo Artist
Bat for Lashes - 'Tash can play autoharp
Florence & the Machine – Is/are they/her not a Band
Leona Lewis - At GGs. Not in a film; 'hates' pointless publicity.
Lily Allen - Erm.
Pixie Lott - There are too many Pixies knocking about. I can’t keep up.
British Male Solo Artist
Calvin Harris - Bodies in the Bodhi tree
Dizzee Rascal - Bodies making chemistry
Mika - Bodies on my family
Paolo Nutini - Bodies in the way of me
Robbie Williams - With lyrics like this?
British Breakthrough Act, I would love to see this award based on the best break-in, instead of a Radio 1 phone vote, each act has to do a televised burglary, recorded on crap secret cameras used previously on Noel's House Party.
Florence & the Machine - They were nominated last year so this really shouldn't count.
Friendly Fires - Breakthrough?
JLS - Ah this one's for Louis
La Roux - Refer above
Pixie Lott - The same Pixie?
British Group - Suggested award prefix: Katie Price can name this
Doves
Friendly Fires
JLS - BINGO
Kasabian
Muse
MasterCard British Album - My silent protest for SuBo starts...
Dizzee Rascal - Tongue n’Cheek
Florence & the Machine - Lungs
Kasabian - West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum
Lily Allen - It’s Not Me, It’s You
Paolo Nutini - Sunny Side Up ... and ends here.
British Single - Suggested award prefix: If you have appeared on reality TV then you will be nominated for
Alesha Dixon: Breathe Slow - She IS very pretty and super lovely.
Alexandra Burke Ft Flo Rida: Bad Boys - have herpies
Cheryl Cole: Fight For This Love - Still?
Joe McElderry: The Climb - Now it's gone from the sublime to the bloody chuffing ridiculous
JLS: Beat Again - What happened to Ruth Lorenzo
La Roux: In For The Kill - Sold to a tele-box phone company advert brand thing.
Lily Allen: The Fear - Not as scared as you will be when Keith sees you've done another naked magazine shoot.
Pixie Lott: Mama Do - Refer above above
Taio Cruz: Break Your Heart - In the words of K$sha: blah blah
Tinchy Stryder Ft N-Dubz: Number 1 - There's a worm at the bottom of the garden, and his name is wiggley-woo.
Critics' Choice
Ellie Goulding - Yeah GO female singer song writers, I say we're one more off saturation. Ellie Goulding & K$sha FIGHT
Delphic - Hot Chip meets 2010 in a dark alley in 2009. Charming vocals though.
Marina and the Diamonds - Oh yeah, sorry the FIGHT should be Ellie and Marina... Maybe Jarvis Cocker can oversee.
Here's the thing. I still have seven categories to go through and I'm exhausted and I think we can all see the level of thought and insight has ground to a halt. I'll leave you with a conundrum and we'll regroup for some Internationals and the well known BRITs Album of 30 Years Award.
The Been-a-rough-ride-09 Best Artist
Cheryl Cole - She's SO brave
Joe McElderry - Bloody facebook stole my number one, nasty facebook
Leona Lewis - Seriously, was there even an album? OH YEAH Happy - that's right.
Robbie Williams - Never forget that Take That don't really want you back. Kisses.
Here's me off to check whether they did a BRITs Album of * Years Award in 1990 and 1980...
*Please note I would prefer to see Dannii Minogue performing the classic Put The Needle On It in Per Una's pregnancy line.
Go Cotton, read the prompts like you've never read them before (it's not like everyone's management will already know who's nominated for what to make sure someone off Pop turns up.)
First up, British Female Solo Artist
Bat for Lashes - 'Tash can play autoharp
Florence & the Machine – Is/are they/her not a Band
Leona Lewis - At GGs. Not in a film; 'hates' pointless publicity.
Lily Allen - Erm.
Pixie Lott - There are too many Pixies knocking about. I can’t keep up.
British Male Solo Artist
Calvin Harris - Bodies in the Bodhi tree
Dizzee Rascal - Bodies making chemistry
Mika - Bodies on my family
Paolo Nutini - Bodies in the way of me
Robbie Williams - With lyrics like this?
British Breakthrough Act, I would love to see this award based on the best break-in, instead of a Radio 1 phone vote, each act has to do a televised burglary, recorded on crap secret cameras used previously on Noel's House Party.
Florence & the Machine - They were nominated last year so this really shouldn't count.
Friendly Fires - Breakthrough?
JLS - Ah this one's for Louis
La Roux - Refer above
Pixie Lott - The same Pixie?
British Group - Suggested award prefix: Katie Price can name this
Doves
Friendly Fires
JLS - BINGO
Kasabian
Muse
MasterCard British Album - My silent protest for SuBo starts...
Dizzee Rascal - Tongue n’Cheek
Florence & the Machine - Lungs
Kasabian - West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum
Lily Allen - It’s Not Me, It’s You
Paolo Nutini - Sunny Side Up ... and ends here.
British Single - Suggested award prefix: If you have appeared on reality TV then you will be nominated for
Alesha Dixon: Breathe Slow - She IS very pretty and super lovely.
Alexandra Burke Ft Flo Rida: Bad Boys - have herpies
Cheryl Cole: Fight For This Love - Still?
Joe McElderry: The Climb - Now it's gone from the sublime to the bloody chuffing ridiculous
JLS: Beat Again - What happened to Ruth Lorenzo
La Roux: In For The Kill - Sold to a tele-box phone company advert brand thing.
Lily Allen: The Fear - Not as scared as you will be when Keith sees you've done another naked magazine shoot.
Pixie Lott: Mama Do - Refer above above
Taio Cruz: Break Your Heart - In the words of K$sha: blah blah
Tinchy Stryder Ft N-Dubz: Number 1 - There's a worm at the bottom of the garden, and his name is wiggley-woo.
Critics' Choice
Ellie Goulding - Yeah GO female singer song writers, I say we're one more off saturation. Ellie Goulding & K$sha FIGHT
Delphic - Hot Chip meets 2010 in a dark alley in 2009. Charming vocals though.
Marina and the Diamonds - Oh yeah, sorry the FIGHT should be Ellie and Marina... Maybe Jarvis Cocker can oversee.
Here's the thing. I still have seven categories to go through and I'm exhausted and I think we can all see the level of thought and insight has ground to a halt. I'll leave you with a conundrum and we'll regroup for some Internationals and the well known BRITs Album of 30 Years Award.
The Been-a-rough-ride-09 Best Artist
Cheryl Cole - She's SO brave
Joe McElderry - Bloody facebook stole my number one, nasty facebook
Leona Lewis - Seriously, was there even an album? OH YEAH Happy - that's right.
Robbie Williams - Never forget that Take That don't really want you back. Kisses.
Here's me off to check whether they did a BRITs Album of * Years Award in 1990 and 1980...
Monday 18 January 2010
Orange Highlighters
Aged fifteen, I got into a fair few corners, scrapes and brushes with the powers that be, mostly the head of year nine. The icing on the cake was an end of year geography exam in which I became so disinterested with 90 minutes in one room, my desk exactly one metre from Jenny Briggs on my left and the door on my right that I decided to use my learned vocabulary rather than employ guess work to describe geographical terms. If you cast your mind back, in school the pen was the tool of the mind, the sword of studies, the link to a brighter future. I always used to find that my parker fountain pen wanted to take me, and my creative juices, places not necessarily on the curriculum - having spent four pounds on special parker cartridges, it was my ink.
Tattooists’ ink marks for ever, as do BSG jabs and scars on the forehead. Apparently geography inspired cheek does the same. Filling out an essay question on precipitation and its affect on urban centres, (YES, effectively what happens to rain on contact with concrete) my brain powered up and my parker went to work. Culminating in a line that was to be photocopied at least four times, so it could be highlighted without smudging ink onto a much treasured orange highlighter nib. "So, in conclusion, I don't really care about precipitation OR its affect on urban centres and seeing as this is the end of my geography career I think I may as well go out with a bang." (Bang in capitals.)
I have trawled through my school history and drawn out this enlightening tale of parker pens and overactive imaginations to illustrate how year nine geography exams invoked exactly the same feeling as insurance does in my brain lands. The only difference is, it’s brokers not precipitation and organiseit (not even a word) rather than geography. If I flip reverse this however, I do realise there is one person in their job ever who hated it more than me: my year nine geography teacher. If now by chance, I chanced across a policy renewal in which a broker mentioned it was the end of their insurance career and they would rather go out with a bang (bang in capitals) I would send it round the office with a NB saying although the turn of phrase is rather teenage in its application, it is a good and a true one, and then I would take the orange highlighter sitting on my desk, highlight something with smudging properties and throw it in the air conditioning unit and watch everyone gradually turning into sunnyD.
Tattooists’ ink marks for ever, as do BSG jabs and scars on the forehead. Apparently geography inspired cheek does the same. Filling out an essay question on precipitation and its affect on urban centres, (YES, effectively what happens to rain on contact with concrete) my brain powered up and my parker went to work. Culminating in a line that was to be photocopied at least four times, so it could be highlighted without smudging ink onto a much treasured orange highlighter nib. "So, in conclusion, I don't really care about precipitation OR its affect on urban centres and seeing as this is the end of my geography career I think I may as well go out with a bang." (Bang in capitals.)
I have trawled through my school history and drawn out this enlightening tale of parker pens and overactive imaginations to illustrate how year nine geography exams invoked exactly the same feeling as insurance does in my brain lands. The only difference is, it’s brokers not precipitation and organiseit (not even a word) rather than geography. If I flip reverse this however, I do realise there is one person in their job ever who hated it more than me: my year nine geography teacher. If now by chance, I chanced across a policy renewal in which a broker mentioned it was the end of their insurance career and they would rather go out with a bang (bang in capitals) I would send it round the office with a NB saying although the turn of phrase is rather teenage in its application, it is a good and a true one, and then I would take the orange highlighter sitting on my desk, highlight something with smudging properties and throw it in the air conditioning unit and watch everyone gradually turning into sunnyD.
Wednesday 13 January 2010
Conundrum de la Cowell
So the world is about to spin another day on its axis and Simon Cowell decides to drop a TV related bombshell, that, besides not literally having the force to stop the world turning, is pretty huge. He's ditching Simon Fuller's cash cow - American Idol - for his own, a star spangled X Factor. No surprises there, the big question is, who does he dress up and drag across the shiny set with him?
The X Factor began in the UK in September 2004 with Simon Cowell (off being god's gift to A&R'ing), Louis Walsh (off being Irish) and Sharon Osborne (off The Osbournes Board Game) as judges. Then in brief, Cowell added Dannii - put the needle on it - Minogue to bolster the 'judging' effort; Osbourne couldn't get a surgery that would make her look like a 35 year old sporting loads of botox so she stormed off, Tweedy, by this point Cole, minus wedding ring, is allegedly cheated on my footballer husband and is hoisted onto the pedestal of 'National Treasure' in mass sympathy led by the same tabloids that alleged her hubby had been sick down the side of a hairdresser's bed… So where does this leave us? The US judging panel needs an out of touch older gay man with a kitsch accent and out of time head bopping; an overseas pretty lady come child star in her home country’s most famous 80s TV show; and a national treasure.
Cowell has his work cut out.
Let's start with the simple. Old, gay, kitsch. Ok, so this is America. Two of the above leaves us with Clive Davis - the man who made Houston (out of play safe pottery clay) and now represents Lewis and appeared on this year's X Factor and both nodded AND clapped out of time. I don't know if he's kitsch?
Next up, an overseas pretty (botox’d to the max), childhood star with a more famous sibling. One woman, and one woman only can do this job, and she's totally toyed with the idea of a music career, Lindsay Dee Lohan. Now she may be from the US but she's definitely living on another planet. AND she has a sister who's going to embark on a career in show business in 2010. Loves it. It's like the Minogues but in the 00s, kind of. Her acts would be falling down the Sunset Strip with rats living in their hair within a week.
Finally – National Treasure. If I can take the liberty of trading in 'overseas' the job has to go to Columbia's national treasure. Not only has she set up twenty schools with her Pies Descalzos Foundation educating underprivileged children in Columbia, her accent is not nearly as hard to follow as Britain's National Treasure's can be and you wouldn't catch Antonio De La Rúa being sick down the side of a hairdresser's bed. Fingers crossed Shakira Shakira would get her acts to do trumpet impressions in the instrumentals of their performances.
The X Factor began in the UK in September 2004 with Simon Cowell (off being god's gift to A&R'ing), Louis Walsh (off being Irish) and Sharon Osborne (off The Osbournes Board Game) as judges. Then in brief, Cowell added Dannii - put the needle on it - Minogue to bolster the 'judging' effort; Osbourne couldn't get a surgery that would make her look like a 35 year old sporting loads of botox so she stormed off, Tweedy, by this point Cole, minus wedding ring, is allegedly cheated on my footballer husband and is hoisted onto the pedestal of 'National Treasure' in mass sympathy led by the same tabloids that alleged her hubby had been sick down the side of a hairdresser's bed… So where does this leave us? The US judging panel needs an out of touch older gay man with a kitsch accent and out of time head bopping; an overseas pretty lady come child star in her home country’s most famous 80s TV show; and a national treasure.
Cowell has his work cut out.
Let's start with the simple. Old, gay, kitsch. Ok, so this is America. Two of the above leaves us with Clive Davis - the man who made Houston (out of play safe pottery clay) and now represents Lewis and appeared on this year's X Factor and both nodded AND clapped out of time. I don't know if he's kitsch?
Next up, an overseas pretty (botox’d to the max), childhood star with a more famous sibling. One woman, and one woman only can do this job, and she's totally toyed with the idea of a music career, Lindsay Dee Lohan. Now she may be from the US but she's definitely living on another planet. AND she has a sister who's going to embark on a career in show business in 2010. Loves it. It's like the Minogues but in the 00s, kind of. Her acts would be falling down the Sunset Strip with rats living in their hair within a week.
Finally – National Treasure. If I can take the liberty of trading in 'overseas' the job has to go to Columbia's national treasure. Not only has she set up twenty schools with her Pies Descalzos Foundation educating underprivileged children in Columbia, her accent is not nearly as hard to follow as Britain's National Treasure's can be and you wouldn't catch Antonio De La Rúa being sick down the side of a hairdresser's bed. Fingers crossed Shakira Shakira would get her acts to do trumpet impressions in the instrumentals of their performances.
Sunday 3 January 2010
Stranger befriending: Australia's Top Five
In the mood of all things ending (decade wise, not life wise) and therefore needing a top ten - top ten films, top ten celebrity outrages, top ten celebrity dogs and their jackets - here are my top five things I have noticed about Australia and person to person communication in public.
1. Sales. Start with a topical one. 'Boxing day' sales. Since when is it normal to go into a store mobbed by people making a hash out of finding clothes for $20 less than $150 and expect the sales staff to be jovial and ask about your day. Verbatim: (whilst searching through a sale rail of dresses in surf sand and something) "Hey there, how's it going" "Are you talking to me?" "Yes. It's busy hey" "Sorry, I've got wet feet. I'm in a bit of a bad mood. Do you mind?" "Sure. No worries"
These situations will now be described in verbatim. It leaves more to the imagination - and gives a clue to the oddity of the situations. (This may be a good point to give up.)
2. Bars. Buying a drink. "How you doing" "Yeah good" "What can I get you" "House white and, erm, what else is on happy hour" "Toohees, and yeah wine" "Cool, well a Toohees then please" "What you been up to today" "At work. Rubbish" "Yeah I know, weather's been crap too. Where do you work" "Oh erm, well insurance. Kinda" "Oh" "I know. It's pretty shit, but pays the bill, ah ha ha" "Eight dollars please" "Cheers"
3. Newsagents. "You having a good day" "Erm" "Just this" "Bit busy, it's hot out" "What?" "Oh You?" "What?" "You asked about my day" "Oh" "How much?"
4. In my workplace, in the kitchen. Coffee in the morning/making lunch. Silence "Oh sorry" "No worries" "..." "You have a good weekend" "Yeah thanks... You?" "Yeah I ... *insert detail ..." "Ah ha ha. Ooops, sorry, I didn't mean to nervously spill coffee all over the counter. I think I've had too much coffee, I can't see properly" "Some more GREAT chat"
5. In the street. "Ouch" "..." "You just walked into me and didn't notice. Ah well. Seems to be the way..."
1. Sales. Start with a topical one. 'Boxing day' sales. Since when is it normal to go into a store mobbed by people making a hash out of finding clothes for $20 less than $150 and expect the sales staff to be jovial and ask about your day. Verbatim: (whilst searching through a sale rail of dresses in surf sand and something) "Hey there, how's it going" "Are you talking to me?" "Yes. It's busy hey" "Sorry, I've got wet feet. I'm in a bit of a bad mood. Do you mind?" "Sure. No worries"
These situations will now be described in verbatim. It leaves more to the imagination - and gives a clue to the oddity of the situations. (This may be a good point to give up.)
2. Bars. Buying a drink. "How you doing" "Yeah good" "What can I get you" "House white and, erm, what else is on happy hour" "Toohees, and yeah wine" "Cool, well a Toohees then please" "What you been up to today" "At work. Rubbish" "Yeah I know, weather's been crap too. Where do you work" "Oh erm, well insurance. Kinda" "Oh" "I know. It's pretty shit, but pays the bill, ah ha ha" "Eight dollars please" "Cheers"
3. Newsagents. "You having a good day" "Erm" "Just this" "Bit busy, it's hot out" "What?" "Oh You?" "What?" "You asked about my day" "Oh" "How much?"
4. In my workplace, in the kitchen. Coffee in the morning/making lunch. Silence "Oh sorry" "No worries" "..." "You have a good weekend" "Yeah thanks... You?" "Yeah I ... *insert detail ..." "Ah ha ha. Ooops, sorry, I didn't mean to nervously spill coffee all over the counter. I think I've had too much coffee, I can't see properly" "Some more GREAT chat"
5. In the street. "Ouch" "..." "You just walked into me and didn't notice. Ah well. Seems to be the way..."
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