Sunday, February 07, 2010
The 'other' c-word
Further tidying up at home has unearthed a few more relics from my past. Today for show and tell I present a cutting I extracted from the 14 July 2007 edition of Britain’s leading serialised Diana obituary, The Daily Express*.
The most appropriate long-term home for this particular exhibit is in a shiny, white time capsule alongside some Jim Davidson DVDs, Prince Harry’s swastika armband and the attempt by the Daily Mail cartoonist ‘Gary’ to emulate Der Stuermer from July last year**. But for now the Internet will have to sustain the memory of this little beauty from the games and puzzles page, the only part of the Express worth paying attention to. If the circle I drew around it isn’t a big enough hint, you need to level your eyes at the previous week’s answers. The ‘c’ word in question is the ultra-offensive BNP shibboleth, rather than the name that Nick Griffin goes by when he appears in public.
*Or as it’s known in my godforsaken little town – the newspaper you buy when the Daily Mail runs out.
**If they ever find that home recording of Richard Littlejohn and Gary Bushell oiled up and stripped down to what look like thongs to the untrained eye but are actually loincloths, in which they wrestle in a slimy vat of baked beans for David Yelland’s pleasure, then they can sling that in there too. It seems no less real or distressing for having just been made up in my head.
The most appropriate long-term home for this particular exhibit is in a shiny, white time capsule alongside some Jim Davidson DVDs, Prince Harry’s swastika armband and the attempt by the Daily Mail cartoonist ‘Gary’ to emulate Der Stuermer from July last year**. But for now the Internet will have to sustain the memory of this little beauty from the games and puzzles page, the only part of the Express worth paying attention to. If the circle I drew around it isn’t a big enough hint, you need to level your eyes at the previous week’s answers. The ‘c’ word in question is the ultra-offensive BNP shibboleth, rather than the name that Nick Griffin goes by when he appears in public.
I know, I know, they didn't mean it like that. After all, 'coon' can have other meanings. It just happens that none of them are used around here. It was a sort of Freudian slip. I'm sure that back in 2007, as they jotted down those four letters to raise their score by one word, Express readers thought to themselves "Coon? Ah yes, racoon!"
*Or as it’s known in my godforsaken little town – the newspaper you buy when the Daily Mail runs out.
**If they ever find that home recording of Richard Littlejohn and Gary Bushell oiled up and stripped down to what look like thongs to the untrained eye but are actually loincloths, in which they wrestle in a slimy vat of baked beans for David Yelland’s pleasure, then they can sling that in there too. It seems no less real or distressing for having just been made up in my head.
Anti-War Protest Washington DC
A short and playful video shot in March 2008 by Marion Toruno, when the US Administration was still very much in the firm grasps of Bush and Cheney. It doesn't say much, but I've always had an interest in videography and this one is beautifully edited together with music and seems to capture a mood of dancing hippies and patriotism that you will rarely see on any of your news networks, cabled or non-cabled.
An Ode to Shannon Lowry
For a not-so-unusual reason, I always believed the "1 Follower" icon on my Blogger dashboard was always a reference to the Leech. That's why whilst updating my profile and curiously clicking on this for the first time, I was quite surprised to see that we do actually have a following of 1.
And since this icon has been on my dashboard for quite a long time, I think we owe it to Shannon a special commemoration of sorts. Because most people don't really read banner-less blogs.
We don't have much really. So please accept the gift of song.
And since this icon has been on my dashboard for quite a long time, I think we owe it to Shannon a special commemoration of sorts. Because most people don't really read banner-less blogs.
We don't have much really. So please accept the gift of song.
Tuesday, February 02, 2010
Rage Against the Cuisine
The cheapness-motivated genius of this concept here reminded me of Leech:
"A nice little success story comes out of England today, about a group of aspirant restauranteurs with little means or previous experience, who opened up a popular new eatery thanks to hard work, determination, and a mutual hatred of "the man." The restaurant you see, is a pop-up run by an anarchist collective, and operates illegally in an undisclosed squat in Bristol. The place has proved to be so popular that the collective won't even reveal its name to the press for fear that the crowds would be too overwhelming.
"A nice little success story comes out of England today, about a group of aspirant restauranteurs with little means or previous experience, who opened up a popular new eatery thanks to hard work, determination, and a mutual hatred of "the man." The restaurant you see, is a pop-up run by an anarchist collective, and operates illegally in an undisclosed squat in Bristol. The place has proved to be so popular that the collective won't even reveal its name to the press for fear that the crowds would be too overwhelming.
The cooking, bartending, and front of house duties are all shared by collective members, and the set-up shifts from night to night. Says one of the group members, who goes by "Lady Hop":
Kitchens and the service industry are very hierarchical set ups. The classic image is of the head chef barking orders. We organise horizontally, there's no leaders amongst us...I think it's more about everyone taking a lead in doing certain stuff. This is a shared dream of many people.What's the menu like? Mostly South American fare, but the menu changes nightly, because the chefs change nightly as well. Also, in true anarchist spirit, smoking is totally allowed in the spot, all electricity is stolen from a nearby source and piped in via a long electrical cord, and, the entire meal is "pay what you will." The restaurant is closing soon, but the group has future plans for another pop-up in another squat. Says "Lady Hop":
Each building has a different character, each time of year is different, it's nice not to be constrained to open all the time."If your rice is served slightly undercooked/inedible, you know that you've just been served by a fellow blogger here at Bastardisation of the East.
Monday, February 01, 2010
My next exhibit: The Football Atlas, 1997-1999 edition
Thank heavens for the internet. Where else can I file my youthful creativity for safe-keeping? Our exhibit today is my football atlas, which has lived for the past few years in a carrier bag under my bed. Several hundred A4 pages of hand-drawn maps, club badges and football shirts with hand-written histories of the game in almost every FIFA member between 1997 and 1999 can be found here. While it all looks like a waste of youth now, my current geographical knowledge, interest in travelling and foreign languages and opinions on self-appointed experts, patriotism and chauvanistic nationalism formed throughout this period, slap bang in the middle of my angsty teenage years.
The atlas (and yes, I will continue to call it that) is divided into continents, and then into countries. Some countries contain profiles of prominent teams, stadiums and historical annecdotes that I would generally have read about rather than seen. Being a teenage boy the countries were arranged in the order of the strength of their football leagues, because ranking things was important. Important enough to get angry with those of lesser knowledge. Italy's Serie A came first, followed by La Liga in Spain, which is on the left here. Well, the map sort of looks like Spain. All the points correspond to cities where the more significant teams played.
Below are maps of Russia and Greece. Not only two of the more accurate maps but also two of my favourite international sides. A fantastic snob I was back then, and very passionate about footballing nations that I felt were good but did not get the attention they deserved, usually because they repeatedly let themselves down.
My opinions on global affairs hadn't crystalised just yet. Here we see a map of Israel with both the West Bank and Gaza incorporated into it. This would have made me eligible for membership of Binyamin Netanyahu's Likud party, but would have seen me chased out of many of the social circles I hang out in nowadays. I didn't bother with a Palestine entry, even though Palestine became a member of FIFA in 1998.
Spain, Russia, Greece and Israel are all handy European footballing powers, to varying degrees. Things got a little more obsessive further on in the atlas. Below are country profiles for Liechtenstein and San Marino, and a profile of the Ta' Qali National Stadium in Malta. Does this sound like the work of a nerd? We're just getting started...
On the right is a profile of Soviet goalkeeper Lev Yashin. I profiled players the greatest players from each continent too. These are arranged alphabetically rather than in order of who was best. What do you take me for, some kind of geek? Yashin was the greatest goalkeeper in the history of the game, though.
The maps of South America are ridiculously small and generally pretty awful in terms of accuracy, so let's skip to Africa. Here we have Eritrea, the Gambia and Sierra Leone. Putting things in order of bestedness permitted me to bunch three geographically distant nations onto one page. There are fewer arrows pointing to these more obscure footballing nations, largely because sources were scarce. Back then the internet meant nothing to me beyond some mythical device paedophiles utilised to masquerade as young children (not exactly joking here, but be considerate and bear in mind which alarmist newspaper I grew up with). Instead I used World Soccer magazine, some esoteric football books and late night football shows from Channel 5 (remember, in its infancy C5 offered a cornucopia of sport, softcore pornography, Nazi documentaries and little else).
On to Asia now, with a wonky photo of Iran celebrating qualification for the 1998 World Cup. The leading Asian footballing powers were all pretty easy to research. The J League received good international coverage, while Channel 4 went through a strange period where it broadcast Chinese football highlights very early in the morning (at seriously antisocial hours. And on school nights too, the bastards). But I didn't just stick with the big Asian nations. Below, on the right, are 'maps' of Guam, Maldives and Singapore. Green blobs with arrows pointing to the capital cities rather than maps, if we're being honest. Channel 5 sometimes showed The Asian Football Show, so I got my fill of S-League action.
The final two football conderations were CONCACAF (comprising North and Central America, along with the Caribbean) and the Oceania Football Confederation (OFC). Apart from Australia and New Zealand the OFC was a real pain in the ass to research. Here are maps of Tonga and French Caledonia, complete with a picture of Christian Karembeau, who was born in French Caledonia but who played with relatively little distinction for France. Tenuous. Tonga doesn't appear to have any teams listed next to it. I probably just wanted to draw the map.
Thank heavens for the internet. Where else can I file my youthful creativity for safe-keeping? Our exhibit today is my football atlas, which has lived for the past few years in a carrier bag under my bed. Several hundred A4 pages of hand-drawn maps, club badges and football shirts with hand-written histories of the game in almost every FIFA member between 1997 and 1999 can be found here. While it all looks like a waste of youth now, my current geographical knowledge, interest in travelling and foreign languages and opinions on self-appointed experts, patriotism and chauvanistic nationalism formed throughout this period, slap bang in the middle of my angsty teenage years.
The atlas (and yes, I will continue to call it that) is divided into continents, and then into countries. Some countries contain profiles of prominent teams, stadiums and historical annecdotes that I would generally have read about rather than seen. Being a teenage boy the countries were arranged in the order of the strength of their football leagues, because ranking things was important. Important enough to get angry with those of lesser knowledge. Italy's Serie A came first, followed by La Liga in Spain, which is on the left here. Well, the map sort of looks like Spain. All the points correspond to cities where the more significant teams played.Below are maps of Russia and Greece. Not only two of the more accurate maps but also two of my favourite international sides. A fantastic snob I was back then, and very passionate about footballing nations that I felt were good but did not get the attention they deserved, usually because they repeatedly let themselves down.
My opinions on global affairs hadn't crystalised just yet. Here we see a map of Israel with both the West Bank and Gaza incorporated into it. This would have made me eligible for membership of Binyamin Netanyahu's Likud party, but would have seen me chased out of many of the social circles I hang out in nowadays. I didn't bother with a Palestine entry, even though Palestine became a member of FIFA in 1998.
Spain, Russia, Greece and Israel are all handy European footballing powers, to varying degrees. Things got a little more obsessive further on in the atlas. Below are country profiles for Liechtenstein and San Marino, and a profile of the Ta' Qali National Stadium in Malta. Does this sound like the work of a nerd? We're just getting started...
On the right is a profile of Soviet goalkeeper Lev Yashin. I profiled players the greatest players from each continent too. These are arranged alphabetically rather than in order of who was best. What do you take me for, some kind of geek? Yashin was the greatest goalkeeper in the history of the game, though.
The maps of South America are ridiculously small and generally pretty awful in terms of accuracy, so let's skip to Africa. Here we have Eritrea, the Gambia and Sierra Leone. Putting things in order of bestedness permitted me to bunch three geographically distant nations onto one page. There are fewer arrows pointing to these more obscure footballing nations, largely because sources were scarce. Back then the internet meant nothing to me beyond some mythical device paedophiles utilised to masquerade as young children (not exactly joking here, but be considerate and bear in mind which alarmist newspaper I grew up with). Instead I used World Soccer magazine, some esoteric football books and late night football shows from Channel 5 (remember, in its infancy C5 offered a cornucopia of sport, softcore pornography, Nazi documentaries and little else).
On to Asia now, with a wonky photo of Iran celebrating qualification for the 1998 World Cup. The leading Asian footballing powers were all pretty easy to research. The J League received good international coverage, while Channel 4 went through a strange period where it broadcast Chinese football highlights very early in the morning (at seriously antisocial hours. And on school nights too, the bastards). But I didn't just stick with the big Asian nations. Below, on the right, are 'maps' of Guam, Maldives and Singapore. Green blobs with arrows pointing to the capital cities rather than maps, if we're being honest. Channel 5 sometimes showed The Asian Football Show, so I got my fill of S-League action.
The final two football conderations were CONCACAF (comprising North and Central America, along with the Caribbean) and the Oceania Football Confederation (OFC). Apart from Australia and New Zealand the OFC was a real pain in the ass to research. Here are maps of Tonga and French Caledonia, complete with a picture of Christian Karembeau, who was born in French Caledonia but who played with relatively little distinction for France. Tenuous. Tonga doesn't appear to have any teams listed next to it. I probably just wanted to draw the map.
So despite my hostility towards it at the time, the internet is now a fine nursing home for this ageing piece of youthful creativity. This is only a tiny sample of a work that is so eccelctic that even I now wonder what I was thinking back then. It includes team profiles of the now defunct J-League team Verdy Kawasaki and Kaiser Chiefs from South Africa (nearly a decade before they became better known as a band), footballing maps of the Seychelles and Madagascar and player profiles of Wagner Lopes from Japan, Jürgen Sparwasser from East Germany, Marco Antonio Etcheverry from Bolivia and Lefter Küçükandonyadis from Turkey. Wikipedia does it all so much more thoroughly now, although I'm willing to bet there are several things here that slipped through its clinical filters.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Weird use of the word 'warned'
Not only does this Guardian article start off more like a Zen Buddhist koan than a news story, it also finds something new for us to be afraid about:
"Human beings are making it harder for extraterrestials to pick up our broadcasts and make contact, the world's leading expert on the search for alien life warned yesterday."
Oh no (..?)
"Human beings are making it harder for extraterrestials to pick up our broadcasts and make contact, the world's leading expert on the search for alien life warned yesterday."
Oh no (..?)
Monday, January 25, 2010
The next mission
So Clyde, that was a highly successful round of Modern Warfare 2 on Sunday morning. Ridiculously early on Sunday morning, I should add. And having checked out the competition I believe that our numerous successes, particularly in the Terminal stage, were quite an accomplishment. Certainly our tactics were far superior to those exhibited in this video:
Sure, he was playing solo, but I bet he had had a good night's sleep before playing through this stage, rather than a full day rushing around London followed by six hours of gaming powered by tea and Jaffa Cakes.
And so on to the next challenge. With the possibility of a rapidly increasing cash reward in mind, prepare yourself - to arrest Blair.
(This shouldn't be too hard - I don't think he sleeps so easily these days either).
Sure, he was playing solo, but I bet he had had a good night's sleep before playing through this stage, rather than a full day rushing around London followed by six hours of gaming powered by tea and Jaffa Cakes.
And so on to the next challenge. With the possibility of a rapidly increasing cash reward in mind, prepare yourself - to arrest Blair.
(This shouldn't be too hard - I don't think he sleeps so easily these days either).
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Oooh, regulating sarcasm. What a useful idea...
Where has this indispensible piece of punctuation been all my life? I can't for the life of me think how I survived without it:
A cartoon of a pierced ear designed to denote sarcasm - so useful, so necessary, so exquisite. I suppose the Nobel Prize for Literature is a forgone conclusion this year. And on a personal level, what a joy for me. After years of flailing in the dark for meaning my friends can now see when I'm being sarcastic and follow my instructions to act as I deem appropriate, ultimately allowing them to empty the storage space in their brains clogged up with data accumulated through them getting to know me. In truth, I would have preferred some kind of written disclaimer, maybe: ''The following sentence is a product of sarcasm, please do not take it literally; please do feel stung and diminished.'' But no, I'll take this accessible symbol and clasp it to my bosom. After all, where's the fun in making sarcastic statements if you cannot telegraph them in a nice, orderly, obvious manner.
This sainted device is intended for written sarcasm, but it shouldn't be limited to this medium, no sir. One can blunder with sarcasm and make faux pas in spoken conversation too. Perhaps I should print my very own Sarcmark, blow it up and make flashcards to hold up so I can draw on its powers in conversations in the real world too. I could even plaster it across my chest and rip my shirt open to reveal it, so that whenever someone asks me my opinion about the proposed Bad Boys III, I can reply ''yes, it will certainly be a work of genius to match the first two. A work of the High Renaissance'', and onlookers will comprehend that my thoughts belie my words and that in fact I am slightly less than favourably inclined towards another round of that crap. I could stamp the Sarcmark on my forehead. That certainly would aid communication. That would make me more likeable.
TV executives could use it too. A flashing Sarcmark could pop up in the corner during those snooty comedy shows like Curb Your Enthusiasm and The Office, where a studio audience has not been granted to viewers to signpost the laughy bits. Look, here's birthday boy Tim, evidently pleased with his new hat. He's even saying so. We should all feel really happy for him, despite that odd tone in his voice. But, uh-oh, with Sarcmark flashing in the bottom right corner of the screen you can see that...hehe...Tim is in fact, not pleased with his new hat. Audience, commence laughing now.
And look at me - being sarcastic about the Sarcmark, that's original. Pretending to overreact to generate meta-sarcasm. I trust no one else on the internet will do that. And I do hope nobody abuses the Sarcmark, attaching it to statements that are not intended to be sarcastic, therefore using the Sarcmark in a sarcastic manner. The multiple layers of sarcasm would build on each other and propel us into a black hole of sarcasm. But if used sincerely...well, the Sarcmark could raise our collective state of being, end wars and propel us to a brighter future. Oh thank you Sarcmark, thank you, THANK YOU. THAAAANNNKKK YOOOOUUUUU
(Seriously, thanks a lot...)
(Seriously, seriously, I really am very happy about this idea, and eagerly anticipating the first signs of it in my inbox)
(But seriously...)
A cartoon of a pierced ear designed to denote sarcasm - so useful, so necessary, so exquisite. I suppose the Nobel Prize for Literature is a forgone conclusion this year. And on a personal level, what a joy for me. After years of flailing in the dark for meaning my friends can now see when I'm being sarcastic and follow my instructions to act as I deem appropriate, ultimately allowing them to empty the storage space in their brains clogged up with data accumulated through them getting to know me. In truth, I would have preferred some kind of written disclaimer, maybe: ''The following sentence is a product of sarcasm, please do not take it literally; please do feel stung and diminished.'' But no, I'll take this accessible symbol and clasp it to my bosom. After all, where's the fun in making sarcastic statements if you cannot telegraph them in a nice, orderly, obvious manner.
This sainted device is intended for written sarcasm, but it shouldn't be limited to this medium, no sir. One can blunder with sarcasm and make faux pas in spoken conversation too. Perhaps I should print my very own Sarcmark, blow it up and make flashcards to hold up so I can draw on its powers in conversations in the real world too. I could even plaster it across my chest and rip my shirt open to reveal it, so that whenever someone asks me my opinion about the proposed Bad Boys III, I can reply ''yes, it will certainly be a work of genius to match the first two. A work of the High Renaissance'', and onlookers will comprehend that my thoughts belie my words and that in fact I am slightly less than favourably inclined towards another round of that crap. I could stamp the Sarcmark on my forehead. That certainly would aid communication. That would make me more likeable.
TV executives could use it too. A flashing Sarcmark could pop up in the corner during those snooty comedy shows like Curb Your Enthusiasm and The Office, where a studio audience has not been granted to viewers to signpost the laughy bits. Look, here's birthday boy Tim, evidently pleased with his new hat. He's even saying so. We should all feel really happy for him, despite that odd tone in his voice. But, uh-oh, with Sarcmark flashing in the bottom right corner of the screen you can see that...hehe...Tim is in fact, not pleased with his new hat. Audience, commence laughing now.
And look at me - being sarcastic about the Sarcmark, that's original. Pretending to overreact to generate meta-sarcasm. I trust no one else on the internet will do that. And I do hope nobody abuses the Sarcmark, attaching it to statements that are not intended to be sarcastic, therefore using the Sarcmark in a sarcastic manner. The multiple layers of sarcasm would build on each other and propel us into a black hole of sarcasm. But if used sincerely...well, the Sarcmark could raise our collective state of being, end wars and propel us to a brighter future. Oh thank you Sarcmark, thank you, THANK YOU. THAAAANNNKKK YOOOOUUUUU
(Seriously, thanks a lot...)
(Seriously, seriously, I really am very happy about this idea, and eagerly anticipating the first signs of it in my inbox)
(But seriously...)
Saturday, January 16, 2010
These turtles aren't reptiles; they're am-fib-ians
I don’t keep a diary, I don’t jot down all my inspired, important thoughts and I don’t have a hilarious sitcom to work them into, so this site will have to bear the responsibility of filing my random thoughts. This one concerns a theory that I recently put forward to a small group concerning the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. And pizza. And how the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles didn’t love pizza that much at all.
As one would predict, this bold thesis was initially shot down. The Turtles loved pizza! Remember? They couldn’t shut up about it. Yet my memory of how the Turtles behaved rather than what they said gave me cause to believe that there was something to this theory. Vague recollections from the show had given me cause to shoot my mouth off, but before doing so any further I needed proof. And, lo and behold, having checked the archives I think I was right. With an admittedly small data sample and research conducted by nothing more scientific than watching a few episodes of the cartoon and drawing the logical conclusions I can conclude that if anything, the turtles couldn’t stand pizza.
It doesn’t take long for the evidence to trickle in. In their first appearance in the very first episode one of them orders a pizza coated with ice cream while another goes for a jelly bean topping. Maybe they do like pizza. And maybe people that gorge on Terry’s Chocolate Oranges enjoy fruit. It doesn’t even look like pizza. It’s like alien roadkill. Look at that shimmering, sickly paste spread across the surface. What is it exactly? And why do they need salt, or whatever condiment is inside that salt-shaker, to accompany it?
As one would predict, this bold thesis was initially shot down. The Turtles loved pizza! Remember? They couldn’t shut up about it. Yet my memory of how the Turtles behaved rather than what they said gave me cause to believe that there was something to this theory. Vague recollections from the show had given me cause to shoot my mouth off, but before doing so any further I needed proof. And, lo and behold, having checked the archives I think I was right. With an admittedly small data sample and research conducted by nothing more scientific than watching a few episodes of the cartoon and drawing the logical conclusions I can conclude that if anything, the turtles couldn’t stand pizza.
It doesn’t take long for the evidence to trickle in. In their first appearance in the very first episode one of them orders a pizza coated with ice cream while another goes for a jelly bean topping. Maybe they do like pizza. And maybe people that gorge on Terry’s Chocolate Oranges enjoy fruit. It doesn’t even look like pizza. It’s like alien roadkill. Look at that shimmering, sickly paste spread across the surface. What is it exactly? And why do they need salt, or whatever condiment is inside that salt-shaker, to accompany it?
Just as strange for would-be pizza obsessives, they repeatedly gorge on the pizzas, with their disgusting toppings, but leave the crusts. They never ate the crusts, but tossed them away with the box. So not content with adding extra ingredients to warp the concept of a pizza to a level that Willy Wonka would find disturbing, the turtles actually dispense with one of the fundamental parts of the original pizza. They want a dough-based product without the structural constraints of thick crusts or the flavour constraints of a cheese and tomato base. That’s a sandwich. Or a cake. The turtles liked sandwiches and cakes. They probably couldn’t have given a shit about pizzas.
Even in the later episodes, the really, awful ones, the implausible, nonsensical free for alls, we consistently see the turtles slavering over pizzas with overpowering, inhuman, anti-pizza toppings, hankering after them like a dog hankers over his worms medication provided that it’s buried deep in the centre of a rolled-up ball of tripe. Fast forward to 3:00 in this disappointlingly half-arsed installment to see what gets them excited. And at the start of this episode they reject free pizzas as a “punishment” because they are too small. Sure, a likely excuse. Coke addicts can snort it off the seats of public toilets, yet these picky bastards don’t want their free bite-sized pizzas? There’s obviously no pizza fixation here. Perhaps what none of them were prepared to admit is that they hated pizza. Perhaps the pressure of living up to their inappropriately selected Renaissance names and fitting in with New York City forced them to shovel pizzas down their throats, just like it compelled them to wear those unconvincing trench coats and spout their trendy catchphrases. They're living a lie, fibbing just to fit in. They’re not fooling me.
To finish, here is a special fruit pizza I endured in Colombia. No, of course it doesn’t work. I had to scrape the strawberries and blueberries off to enjoy it. That’s because I actually like pizza. The Turtles, on the other hand, liked cakes.
PS: Lots of Turtles episodes are available on YouTube
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
New Moon: If ever there was turd at the box office...
... This one would be sinking right to the bottom.
Have you ever seen a poster for a movie promo and immediately thought "that looks like a shit film"? If not, there's always a first time and a poster for The Twilight Saga: New Moon might inspire just such thoughts. Here it is.
Ok, perhaps the poster does not fully sway your opinion without at least some idea of a synopsis. It is essentially a romance drama (I find the Rotten Tomatoes categorisation as "Action/Adventure" very, very unlikely.) that centers a love triangle between a young woman and two young men. One's a werewolf and the other a vampire.
Is it just me or do authors and movie writers nowadays love taking classic storylines and shitting all over them with their cheesy teeny romance... That's right, what young teenage girls need more of these days are movies and books about superficial relationships with superficial men in a romanticised take on the vampire and werewolf.
Hollywood took a big dump on the Terminator franchise with the Sarah Connor Chronicles with enough she-bots to make my iMac look inadequate. And Smallville, which I actually enjoyed for the first season or two before tiring of the teenage drama, also was responsible for possibly intiating this trend of heroes/villains regurgitated into something for the mass of hormonal teenagers.
And yes, if you have read all the books to the Twilight series, watched the movie and find yourself somehow infatuated with the idea of a love triangle between a woman, a bat and a dog, then you are a bestiality empathiser. It is what it is no matter how many tight fitted t-shirts you want to slap onto those once unruined concepts of werewolves and vampires.
Have you ever seen a poster for a movie promo and immediately thought "that looks like a shit film"? If not, there's always a first time and a poster for The Twilight Saga: New Moon might inspire just such thoughts. Here it is.
Ok, perhaps the poster does not fully sway your opinion without at least some idea of a synopsis. It is essentially a romance drama (I find the Rotten Tomatoes categorisation as "Action/Adventure" very, very unlikely.) that centers a love triangle between a young woman and two young men. One's a werewolf and the other a vampire.
Is it just me or do authors and movie writers nowadays love taking classic storylines and shitting all over them with their cheesy teeny romance... That's right, what young teenage girls need more of these days are movies and books about superficial relationships with superficial men in a romanticised take on the vampire and werewolf.
Hollywood took a big dump on the Terminator franchise with the Sarah Connor Chronicles with enough she-bots to make my iMac look inadequate. And Smallville, which I actually enjoyed for the first season or two before tiring of the teenage drama, also was responsible for possibly intiating this trend of heroes/villains regurgitated into something for the mass of hormonal teenagers.
And yes, if you have read all the books to the Twilight series, watched the movie and find yourself somehow infatuated with the idea of a love triangle between a woman, a bat and a dog, then you are a bestiality empathiser. It is what it is no matter how many tight fitted t-shirts you want to slap onto those once unruined concepts of werewolves and vampires.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
No more lies
It's a new year, and time to reassess some of our core beliefs. Having looked out of my window on several occasions, and having seen all those pictures of Britain on the news, something has jumped out at me, and as a result I have come to some pretty radical conclusions. These conclusions mean we must to rethink one of the most persistent theories propogated by the media, we must reassess our hysteria and all the money we have wasted on it. I know that the press, our elected officials and those bloody self-appointed experts have spent years rabbiting on about it, but the evidence from these pictures is irrefutable. So far only a brave few have spoken up, but the fact is we cannot fool ourselves and I for one refuse to be taken in any longer...
Well? Do you see terrorists in any of these pictures? Where are all these terrorists we keep hearing about? Don't give me any of your crap about context or what's going on elsewhere, I've looked out of my window and I can't see any terrorists. The War on Terrorism is OVER, ladies and gentlemen. WHY AREN'T WE CELEBRATING THIS?
Monday, January 11, 2010
Frosty Tumbleweed!
Second only to its TV guide so far, is this week's article from the Daily Mail Online which reports a phenomenon occurring in Somerset amidst the freezing temperatures and iced up British islands.
"Frank Barrow, a lecturer in meteorology at the Met Office, described the exact science behind the formations and said it was nature's version of a snowman.
He said: 'They start off with a nice thick layer of snow, with the top snow just on the point of melting either because of general temperature or sunshine on the surface.
'The top snow layer becomes a bit sticky and you then need a fairly strong wind. The sticky layer can be peeled off the colder and more powdery snow underneath by the wind, forming a roll."
Tuesday, January 05, 2010
Postscript to Christmas 2
I must say, The Daily Mail Christmas TV guide was as trusty as always this year, despite there being hardly anything decent on TV for it to guide me to. In a new year I should start on a positive note and proclaim that by a distance as far as the eye can see the TV guide the best thing about The Daily Mail.
One thing puzzled me, though. For a newspaper that wails on an on about the true meaning of Christmas, incessantly pretends its being banned or reined in by the PC brigade, actively seeks out heretics that deviate from religious worship and blows its top over attempts to make it a secular and enjoyable affair, some of the wording inside was a little, shall we say, sensible:
Why, Happy Holidays to you too, Daily Mail!!! And since today is the twelfth day of Christmas, and since my parents won't stop buying your shit newspaper, you should at least reward them with a gift. For my part, I want twelve columnists-a-walking. I'm thinking Melanie Phillips, Jan Moir, Richard and Georgina Littlejohn, William Rees-Mogg, Peter Hitchens, Amanda Platell, Quentin Letts, Piers Morgan, Max Hastings and that cowardly, anonymous scribe known only by the name 'Daily Mail Reporter', who normally reports on non-stories that are so embarassingly shite that their collected cringe factor could be harnessed to cure rigor mortis and maybe death itself. Stories such as this one, where the quotes are all pilfered from that week's TV guide. Daily Mail Editor and Director Paul Dacre should promote the TV guide staff to the actual paper and then make up the numbers of columnists-a-walking by sacking himself too.
One thing puzzled me, though. For a newspaper that wails on an on about the true meaning of Christmas, incessantly pretends its being banned or reined in by the PC brigade, actively seeks out heretics that deviate from religious worship and blows its top over attempts to make it a secular and enjoyable affair, some of the wording inside was a little, shall we say, sensible:
Why, Happy Holidays to you too, Daily Mail!!! And since today is the twelfth day of Christmas, and since my parents won't stop buying your shit newspaper, you should at least reward them with a gift. For my part, I want twelve columnists-a-walking. I'm thinking Melanie Phillips, Jan Moir, Richard and Georgina Littlejohn, William Rees-Mogg, Peter Hitchens, Amanda Platell, Quentin Letts, Piers Morgan, Max Hastings and that cowardly, anonymous scribe known only by the name 'Daily Mail Reporter', who normally reports on non-stories that are so embarassingly shite that their collected cringe factor could be harnessed to cure rigor mortis and maybe death itself. Stories such as this one, where the quotes are all pilfered from that week's TV guide. Daily Mail Editor and Director Paul Dacre should promote the TV guide staff to the actual paper and then make up the numbers of columnists-a-walking by sacking himself too.
Postscript to Christmas 1
You should be familiar with the pre-Christmas order:
Well, here is the new order. It should take me a while to trash all these headphones.
I just had to take a picture of this too. It's A4 in size and I still don't have the heart to eat it.
Well, here is the new order. It should take me a while to trash all these headphones.
I just had to take a picture of this too. It's A4 in size and I still don't have the heart to eat it.
Monday, January 04, 2010
Dear British MPs
The end of 2009 marked a special ocassion. Not only was it the end of a dramatic and somewhat important year. We saw the end of Obama's first year in Office. We mourned the death of the King of Pop, leaving us with even less to watch on MTV that we can pass off as 'talent'. And we enjoyed the temporary delights like getting an extra 22p worth of credit with every £10 of credit top-up on your pre-pay phone because of the 2.5% reduction in VAT. Or Rage Against the Machine pwning the X Factor annual turd.
But more importantly, the 31st of December 2009 marked the end of a decade, some might say the end of an era. And so I find myself in the company of others marking this joyous occasion (because one can always remain moderately optimistic for the future when on alcohol no matter how bleak the future and past may be), watching the London Eye's exploding fireworks in its glory over the Thames accompanying Londoners in their transition into the new era.
You see, aside from the alcohol, it helps to forget and perhaps forgive a little, the wrong doings of assholes like Wall Street who have indenfinitely ruined lives everywhere, Israel bombing the shit out of schools in Lebanon and Palestine, the utter FAIL that came out of Copenhagen's recent climate change summit, British police kettling G8 protesters and persecuting citizens armed with cameras, bankers and CEOs earning way too much for the mistakes they made. And of course the complete embarassment of British nation when you and your fellow colleagues were exposed for the expense claims scandal. No, it wasn't because you liked to watch a bit of porn now and then when the wife was at work. Nor was it the fact that you charged the taxpayers for phantom mortgages. It was embarassing because now the whole wide world knows that there are people in England who still think that building a moat around your luxury house is the dog's bollocks.
But I forgive all this. Because every so often it's good to restore your faith in humanity and there is no better time than when we enter a new era and look to the future rather than behind us. Maybe it was inspired by Obama's conviction in 'change' that spills into every other corner of the sociopolitical world. Sure, I don't expect it overnight.
But then, a select few of you found yourselves unable to resist the urge to have your cake and eat it too. To think you are now safer and further away from the public eye but to resist paying for your sins:
"Three labour MPs are arguing they cannot be prosecuted over expenses claims because they are protected by parliamentary privilege.
Therefore, as a long-standing resident of this country, a taxpayer of considerable contribution and a law-abiding citizen of the middle class, I kindly request that you and and any of the approximately 400 MPs in breach of expense claim rules who may wish to follow in your footsteps and avoid giving us our money back for your moat, Scandinavian porn, pool boys, bell tower maintenence etc, to assemble at the cliffs of Dover at mid-day tomorrow. And then jump the fuck off. And hopefully the currents will flush your bodies onto the shores of France, because quite frankly this land as no room for your kind around here anymore. And neither does 2010.
Yours sincerely,
Clyde
Contributor @ Bastardisation of the East
But more importantly, the 31st of December 2009 marked the end of a decade, some might say the end of an era. And so I find myself in the company of others marking this joyous occasion (because one can always remain moderately optimistic for the future when on alcohol no matter how bleak the future and past may be), watching the London Eye's exploding fireworks in its glory over the Thames accompanying Londoners in their transition into the new era.
You see, aside from the alcohol, it helps to forget and perhaps forgive a little, the wrong doings of assholes like Wall Street who have indenfinitely ruined lives everywhere, Israel bombing the shit out of schools in Lebanon and Palestine, the utter FAIL that came out of Copenhagen's recent climate change summit, British police kettling G8 protesters and persecuting citizens armed with cameras, bankers and CEOs earning way too much for the mistakes they made. And of course the complete embarassment of British nation when you and your fellow colleagues were exposed for the expense claims scandal. No, it wasn't because you liked to watch a bit of porn now and then when the wife was at work. Nor was it the fact that you charged the taxpayers for phantom mortgages. It was embarassing because now the whole wide world knows that there are people in England who still think that building a moat around your luxury house is the dog's bollocks.
But I forgive all this. Because every so often it's good to restore your faith in humanity and there is no better time than when we enter a new era and look to the future rather than behind us. Maybe it was inspired by Obama's conviction in 'change' that spills into every other corner of the sociopolitical world. Sure, I don't expect it overnight.
But then, a select few of you found yourselves unable to resist the urge to have your cake and eat it too. To think you are now safer and further away from the public eye but to resist paying for your sins:
"Three labour MPs are arguing they cannot be prosecuted over expenses claims because they are protected by parliamentary privilege.
The trio – Elliot Morley, David Chaytor and Jim Devine – are being represented by a legal firm that has acted as solicitor to the Labour Party since 1990.
Their lawyers are understood to maintain that the Bill of Rights of 1689 makes them immune to prosecution. Police have forwarded files relating to the expenses claims of six MPs and peers to the Crown Prosecution Service.
Mr Morley and Mr Chaytor both claimed thousands of pounds for "phantom" mortgages they had paid off. Mr Devine submitted invoices for electrical work worth £2,157 from a company with an allegedly false address and an invalid VAT number. Steel & Shamash, a London legal company, confirmed it had instructed two QCs to consider whether the MPs should be protected by parliamentary privilege."
- The IndependentTherefore, as a long-standing resident of this country, a taxpayer of considerable contribution and a law-abiding citizen of the middle class, I kindly request that you and and any of the approximately 400 MPs in breach of expense claim rules who may wish to follow in your footsteps and avoid giving us our money back for your moat, Scandinavian porn, pool boys, bell tower maintenence etc, to assemble at the cliffs of Dover at mid-day tomorrow. And then jump the fuck off. And hopefully the currents will flush your bodies onto the shores of France, because quite frankly this land as no room for your kind around here anymore. And neither does 2010.
Yours sincerely,
Clyde
Contributor @ Bastardisation of the East
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