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.
Wednesday 22 September 2010
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?
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