I feel it'd be somewhat remiss of me not to mention some crap about Christmas and New Year in here, although for all that compulsion I know that reading someone's festive hyperbole just makes me all the more dead inside. So, in passing, I shall say that New Year topped most in that nobody ever thought to include a drum kit in the whole New Year set up before, and why not I can't imagine, since in reflection it's as traditional as Jools titting Holland and passing out in a gutter soaked in your own piss. Oh the auuuuld lang syne...
Yesterday I finally reneged on my 3D vow and went to see Avatar. This was largely on the basis that it'd apparently been designed with 3D in mind, so it'd give it a better chance to state 3D's case than, say, Alan Titchmarsh's Celebrity Biscuit Auction.
I was a little befuddled at first, unsure whether to criticise in advance either the gimmicky 3D, Cameron's desire to weld big explosions and vague spiritualism onto the reclaimed plot of Fern Gully, or the blatant goodie and baddie moral extremes.
I have to admit though, I was impressed - not by the 3D, which gave me headaches and made me go cross-eyed until apparently my depth-perception just fucked off home - but the facial tics and idiosyncrasies of the CGI-rendered, but motion-captured Na'vi characters. Apparently, rather than being seen as special effects, it's more something that's superseding makeup and all that crap, saving studios approximately 5.6 million tons in latex. The rubber industry mourns a loss.
Also, it struck me that the crux of 3D's glittering takeover rests not upons some wondrous, digital HD world of perfectly-rounded, lifelike dewdrops, but on one simple concept: throwing shit in people's faces, REALLY FUCKING FAST. People flocking rapturously to the nearest multiplex to pretend that they're going to be hit by something. Kinda like hysterical quasi-masochism. Or something.
I suppose I could complain about the lazy naming (the rare mineral 'unobtainium' anyone?) but, I have to admit, the child in me couldn't honestly look far beyond the sheer 'ooh' and 'ahh' factor of the CGI, or at least it couldn't detach itself objectively from it long enough to properly critique the script. But is this a bad thing? Well, probably. But neither was it a straight-up, dumbo tits and guns flick. It was, at times, delightfully weird, especially with the Na'avi's propensity for plugging their hair into the local flora and fauna for a bit of a telepathic chat, or the Alice in Wonderland-esqure crack-addled fantasies of nature. Obviously coming from the creator of the abortion known as Titanic it's not subtlety itself, but thankfully, neither is it a drawn-out drama with the word 'harrowing' in the blurb and hordes of vacuous, pale women in it making pouty, existential faces.
Monday, 4 January 2010
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
The Vicissitudes of Slipper Eating.
Last night at work, one of our nurses spoke to a seemly gentleman with a singular problem. He'd eaten a fucking slipper. Or, to be precise, half a slipper. That's right, a slipper. Which he thought was a sandwich, although it apparently took him a good few inches of mucky rubber and old fabric to realise this. In between our screams of mutual laughter I couldn't help but think... how? Honestly? My only rationale for it boiled down to a few points:
a) His wife's sandwich making skills were seriously below par.
b) She'd been serving beef wellington previously, in the literal sense.
or
c) He's stark bollock mental.
As with most things in the NHS, C was the right answer.
a) His wife's sandwich making skills were seriously below par.
b) She'd been serving beef wellington previously, in the literal sense.
or
c) He's stark bollock mental.
As with most things in the NHS, C was the right answer.
Saturday, 12 December 2009
Overheard in the Gym:
'I mean, yeah, the ancient Greeks didn't have all the equipment like this here did they? But they were still fucking ripped though, just look at 300!'
Yeesh.
Yeesh.
Sunday, 8 November 2009
Nocturne.
There are certain times in life's bollocksy travails when you just really need a scotch egg.
Monday, 21 September 2009
3D can piss right off.
That’s it. Seriously. I’ve had it with 3D films. For months, solid months I’ve grimly sat through otherwise adequate films with a rapidly decreasing patience for stupid plastic goggles, wobbly visuals and hyperinflated ticket prices. Like a child insistently shoving their latest mangled, godawful finger painting in your face, there’s inevitably a point at which the politeness ends and you have to just demand that someone gets this shit out of your face, and fast.
Is it me or has it all been done before? Memories of free 3D goggles with the latest 90’s dinosaur magazine spring to mind in which you’d look briefly, think ‘Ah. Yes. It’s marginally less confusing with the glasses on. Kind of like a normal picture of a dinosaur, sans-3D, except this one gives me a headache.’
But surely it’s worth the price hike? Right? Although in theory you could actually recreate the experience for yourself by buying the DVD, turning the brightness down to ocean-floor levels, smearing vaseline on the screen, downing some ipecac and then borrowing a pair of your granddad's old NHS glasses (making sure to have a cohort of aids-ridden tramps wear them before you of course) with the lenses replaced by shit-smeared tracing paper. But hey, what’s the good of the latest summer blockbuster without that one point in the film in which some ZANY anthropomorphic marsupial swings through the air and momentarily messes with your depth perception? ‘Wow, it’s like he was coming RIGHT AT ME!’ No. Just no.
Is it me or has it all been done before? Memories of free 3D goggles with the latest 90’s dinosaur magazine spring to mind in which you’d look briefly, think ‘Ah. Yes. It’s marginally less confusing with the glasses on. Kind of like a normal picture of a dinosaur, sans-3D, except this one gives me a headache.’
But surely it’s worth the price hike? Right? Although in theory you could actually recreate the experience for yourself by buying the DVD, turning the brightness down to ocean-floor levels, smearing vaseline on the screen, downing some ipecac and then borrowing a pair of your granddad's old NHS glasses (making sure to have a cohort of aids-ridden tramps wear them before you of course) with the lenses replaced by shit-smeared tracing paper. But hey, what’s the good of the latest summer blockbuster without that one point in the film in which some ZANY anthropomorphic marsupial swings through the air and momentarily messes with your depth perception? ‘Wow, it’s like he was coming RIGHT AT ME!’ No. Just no.
Sunday, 7 June 2009
Curse you ketchup.
Why do we still have glass ketchup bottles? Instead of just being able to squeeze some out and move on with our lives, we're transformed instead into a nation of demented, arthritic cuckoos, manically tapping bottles with twitching patience as we pray for the tiniest, dried glob of sauce to come out. Everywhere I look, the world seems to have moved along happily in every other way: no one hauls their shopping home on a mule, the sky dish doesn’t operate via creaky water mill, and people... well, most are still arseholes. I suppose some things never change.
Is it playing on some kind of condiment spin on the old ‘classic’ coke bottle paradigm? Plastic is just, so... so budget, right? Wrong. The reason it fails like a one-eyed dyslexic midget is that ketchup just isn’t cool. In terms of style vs. functionality, it’s arguably only a couple of notches above adult nappies and tin foil. No matter how much their advertising Tristans may have wet dreams about it, no A-list star is likely to be gleefully lathering up hookers’ breasts with Heinz on the sunset strip anytime soon. A hard truth, perhaps, but maybe we just need to face facts. That and the fact that, somewhere down the line, that ketchup is going to run dry and someone will have to store it upside down in the cupboard. In the case of the glass bottle this, of course, means wobbly imbalance and then smashing and lots of shrieking and running around with eyes full of jagged glass shards which, I’ll admit, I find hilariously funny, except when it could actually happen to me. In which case someone needs to pull the plug on this whole damn Triassic operation right now since clearly they didn’t think things through. Luckily, they have me to do that for them.
Is it playing on some kind of condiment spin on the old ‘classic’ coke bottle paradigm? Plastic is just, so... so budget, right? Wrong. The reason it fails like a one-eyed dyslexic midget is that ketchup just isn’t cool. In terms of style vs. functionality, it’s arguably only a couple of notches above adult nappies and tin foil. No matter how much their advertising Tristans may have wet dreams about it, no A-list star is likely to be gleefully lathering up hookers’ breasts with Heinz on the sunset strip anytime soon. A hard truth, perhaps, but maybe we just need to face facts. That and the fact that, somewhere down the line, that ketchup is going to run dry and someone will have to store it upside down in the cupboard. In the case of the glass bottle this, of course, means wobbly imbalance and then smashing and lots of shrieking and running around with eyes full of jagged glass shards which, I’ll admit, I find hilariously funny, except when it could actually happen to me. In which case someone needs to pull the plug on this whole damn Triassic operation right now since clearly they didn’t think things through. Luckily, they have me to do that for them.
BA. (hons.)
It’s a strange thing, education. Perhaps mine has done a fairly naff job all in all, reducing me to beginning blogs with entirely meaningless platitudes, but the baulksome concept of uni – and yes it is as much of, if not more of a concept than an actual reality – still floats around me like some very old, but very well-hidden cheese.
You get the distinct feeling after graduating that, you know, this must be how ex-servicemen feel after being thrust back into regular civilisation. No, not the giddy possibility of surprise anal gang rape hiding around every corner, more a glum realisation that you’re ultimately just another one of the grim-faced shits sitting opposite you on the bus, periodically breaking wind out of spite and vague self-loathing. Coming to the shop counter, you instinctively reach for your student card before you realise that, oh shit, I’m just a norm now. A great big fucking civvy square. I may as well wear a grey bobble hat and do the lottery. The low point of the entire student card debacle is arguably the point at which you can no longer even uphold the flimsy pretence that you thought the card was valid until the end of the actual year, not the academic one, pathetically determined to hold on to that 2% NUS discount on Jeffrey Archer scrotal wash or whatever it entitles you to these days.
That said, however, I spent the entirety of my degree absolutely loathing students. Self-congratulatory, scarf-wearing arseholes to a man, it nevertheless took the best part of a year to realise that these were not gods, Jim, but wankers. Absolute, velvet-lined wankers. Parochial, first year Hull boy that I was, I couldn’t defer quickly enough to the nearest tosser with excessive facial hair and a wanky southern accent. Mid-seminar you’d hear them interrupt the lecturer only to ineffectually repackage an ambiguous proposition into some cool, rebellious imposition of their studenty, ‘question authority’ modus operandi. ‘But is it? Really?’ Wankers. Absolute wankers. They may as well have halted the whole thing just to excitedly present the class with a crude, messy sculpture of themselves, crafted entirely from a lump of steaming shit. It’s essentially the same principle. Until then, ‘wanker’ had been little more than a dull and faintly inoffensive pejorative, yet all of a sudden it so wondrously described all such omnipresent, guffawing ambassadors of student cool. Swaggering from one event to another in pseudo-bohemian knitwear, irritatingly self-assured, syrupy accents and mahogany-carved smirks, they looked, to my eyes, merely chirruping, idiot-faced hatstands.
Yet, the more keen-eyed of you may have noticed the arch-hypocrisy here: namely that yes, I was, technically, a student myself. Except that I wasn’t. Not really. I liked metal, not faux-arty NME toss and squawky singer-songwriters with stupid, outlandish names. I liked Jeff Buckley, not Jeff Backley, and I’d actually listened to all of his songs, not just Hallelujah, the worst song he never wrote. Neither did I live in some kind of feral sub-community constructed entirely of dried cheese and pizza boxes. Admittedly though, there were occasionally parts of university that didn’t solely involve berets, white wine and pretentious simpering.
The greatest thing, speaking retrospectively, is probably the lack of external pressure: the world refrains momentarily from voiding its filthy, wretched bowels all over your head because, well, you’re just a cheeky student arntcha! There is, of course, the occasional fuzzy, hovering guilt of, well, I should have probably read that, or, I shouldn’t have called so-and-so a pubic-bearded cuntrag etc etc. The list goes on. But what are you doing with yourself now? Oh, you’re a student? Well, why didn’t you say! You lovable little scamp, enjoy your cold baked beans and piss-weak cheap cider young leader of tomorrow!
Cruelly thrown back into civilian land, blinking blearily-eyed after graduation I could already feel the mental rot setting in. Barely a second had passed before I was hurling myself back at the now-locked door of higher education, hyperventilating and desperately clawing at it like some hunted teenage girl in a crap horror film. And it’s true. The ink had barely dried on the degree certificate before I’d regressed into some sort of gurgling man-child, alternately hacking at tins with sharpened flint for nourishment and licking condensation from the windows. Any notions of post-structuralism or contemporary literature had decidedly evaporated from my rapidly shrinking skull. The truth is, without the rigorous program of lectures and seminars to continually reinforce the perception that you’re a preppy, liberal, free-thinking intellectual those delicate, ever-so-carefully-built layers of student identity all too easily melt away back into the yawning abyss of lifelong personality flaws and imperfections. It’s why it’s so essential to snappily garner that graduate job: the ego can thus hop effortlessly from ‘pretentious tosser student’ to ‘pretentious tosser businessman’ without once having to sulkily shuffle down from its egotistical stepladder.
I can see now, though, that I went to uni almost exclusively to become a grown up: in short, to become someone who would happily and without hesitation choose James Joyce over Streets of Rage without batting an eyelid. The truth, it slowly dawns, is that the graduate makeover ultimately resolves itself to be little more than fluffy dice in the front seat of the self. Am I alone in still feeling such a fraud? I’d still sooner stuff a box of pine cones up my arse than read the entirety of Ulysses in knotted-brow faux appreciation. That or play video games. Fawn breathlessly over the self-indulgently drab non-adventures of Stephen Daedalus or kick sinister looking people repeatedly in the face with surround sound? Joyce never had a chance.
You get the distinct feeling after graduating that, you know, this must be how ex-servicemen feel after being thrust back into regular civilisation. No, not the giddy possibility of surprise anal gang rape hiding around every corner, more a glum realisation that you’re ultimately just another one of the grim-faced shits sitting opposite you on the bus, periodically breaking wind out of spite and vague self-loathing. Coming to the shop counter, you instinctively reach for your student card before you realise that, oh shit, I’m just a norm now. A great big fucking civvy square. I may as well wear a grey bobble hat and do the lottery. The low point of the entire student card debacle is arguably the point at which you can no longer even uphold the flimsy pretence that you thought the card was valid until the end of the actual year, not the academic one, pathetically determined to hold on to that 2% NUS discount on Jeffrey Archer scrotal wash or whatever it entitles you to these days.
That said, however, I spent the entirety of my degree absolutely loathing students. Self-congratulatory, scarf-wearing arseholes to a man, it nevertheless took the best part of a year to realise that these were not gods, Jim, but wankers. Absolute, velvet-lined wankers. Parochial, first year Hull boy that I was, I couldn’t defer quickly enough to the nearest tosser with excessive facial hair and a wanky southern accent. Mid-seminar you’d hear them interrupt the lecturer only to ineffectually repackage an ambiguous proposition into some cool, rebellious imposition of their studenty, ‘question authority’ modus operandi. ‘But is it? Really?’ Wankers. Absolute wankers. They may as well have halted the whole thing just to excitedly present the class with a crude, messy sculpture of themselves, crafted entirely from a lump of steaming shit. It’s essentially the same principle. Until then, ‘wanker’ had been little more than a dull and faintly inoffensive pejorative, yet all of a sudden it so wondrously described all such omnipresent, guffawing ambassadors of student cool. Swaggering from one event to another in pseudo-bohemian knitwear, irritatingly self-assured, syrupy accents and mahogany-carved smirks, they looked, to my eyes, merely chirruping, idiot-faced hatstands.
Yet, the more keen-eyed of you may have noticed the arch-hypocrisy here: namely that yes, I was, technically, a student myself. Except that I wasn’t. Not really. I liked metal, not faux-arty NME toss and squawky singer-songwriters with stupid, outlandish names. I liked Jeff Buckley, not Jeff Backley, and I’d actually listened to all of his songs, not just Hallelujah, the worst song he never wrote. Neither did I live in some kind of feral sub-community constructed entirely of dried cheese and pizza boxes. Admittedly though, there were occasionally parts of university that didn’t solely involve berets, white wine and pretentious simpering.
The greatest thing, speaking retrospectively, is probably the lack of external pressure: the world refrains momentarily from voiding its filthy, wretched bowels all over your head because, well, you’re just a cheeky student arntcha! There is, of course, the occasional fuzzy, hovering guilt of, well, I should have probably read that, or, I shouldn’t have called so-and-so a pubic-bearded cuntrag etc etc. The list goes on. But what are you doing with yourself now? Oh, you’re a student? Well, why didn’t you say! You lovable little scamp, enjoy your cold baked beans and piss-weak cheap cider young leader of tomorrow!
Cruelly thrown back into civilian land, blinking blearily-eyed after graduation I could already feel the mental rot setting in. Barely a second had passed before I was hurling myself back at the now-locked door of higher education, hyperventilating and desperately clawing at it like some hunted teenage girl in a crap horror film. And it’s true. The ink had barely dried on the degree certificate before I’d regressed into some sort of gurgling man-child, alternately hacking at tins with sharpened flint for nourishment and licking condensation from the windows. Any notions of post-structuralism or contemporary literature had decidedly evaporated from my rapidly shrinking skull. The truth is, without the rigorous program of lectures and seminars to continually reinforce the perception that you’re a preppy, liberal, free-thinking intellectual those delicate, ever-so-carefully-built layers of student identity all too easily melt away back into the yawning abyss of lifelong personality flaws and imperfections. It’s why it’s so essential to snappily garner that graduate job: the ego can thus hop effortlessly from ‘pretentious tosser student’ to ‘pretentious tosser businessman’ without once having to sulkily shuffle down from its egotistical stepladder.
I can see now, though, that I went to uni almost exclusively to become a grown up: in short, to become someone who would happily and without hesitation choose James Joyce over Streets of Rage without batting an eyelid. The truth, it slowly dawns, is that the graduate makeover ultimately resolves itself to be little more than fluffy dice in the front seat of the self. Am I alone in still feeling such a fraud? I’d still sooner stuff a box of pine cones up my arse than read the entirety of Ulysses in knotted-brow faux appreciation. That or play video games. Fawn breathlessly over the self-indulgently drab non-adventures of Stephen Daedalus or kick sinister looking people repeatedly in the face with surround sound? Joyce never had a chance.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)