What Barry Norman didn't say next

I had the misfortune to see Star Wars: Revenge of the Shit yesterday. The salient points follow...

Lola Ferrari's breast implants* were more realistic than the computer-generated special effects.
Hayden Christensen's acting was more wooden than Jewsons.
Like. Nicholas. Cage. George. Lucas. Seems. To. Think. That. Important. Dialogue. Must. Be. Delivered. Slowly. And. In. Individual. Words. Unfortunately, he also thinks that every line must have Meaning.
The opening text could have been written by a five-year old with attention-deficit disorder.
With all the millions spent on the film, could they not afford someone to watch the first three films to check for continuity errors?

Still, it was better than the last two. But not much.

*I feel compelled to add that these did not appear in the film. It is merely a hyperbolic cultural reference point for how appalling the 'special' effects were. Special as in special school, I'd argue.

Best laid plans

Of course, it never works out the way it was supposed to. I didn’t get to go dancing on Friday night, which was probably a Good Thing considering just how knackered I am today, although that probably had more to do with the prodigious booze consumption over the past two nights.
The failure to go dancing was somewhat inevitable. A group of people who have been in the pub from 5pm and Not Eating are not going to be in the best of states by 8pm, let alone when the time comes to go to a club. And so it proved, with drunkenness abounding. Which is not usually great for group dynamics, and for reasons that I’m still not clear about, I slipped out of the pub like some kind of retreating ninja (albeit a loud and drunk one, in a wildly floral shirt) at some point around 11pm. I have sorted that pub under my mental file for Never Visit Again. It was absolutely abysmal. It was a Wetherspoons (natch), it was open until 2am and was playing some God-awful house music to an empty bar (except, obviously, for our party). Still, I was at home and in bed by half-past midnight and I hadn’t spent excessive amounts of cash.
Fortunately, I spent it all the next day on booze in Tesco (well, I wouldn’t want them going out of business: God knows they’re struggling) in preparation for the Eurovision extravaganza. I didn’t even watch the FA Cup in my pants, or while drinking (I still had a hangover at that point). It was such a dull game that I spent most of it tidying the flat. I need to reappraise my priorities.
Still, I did actually manage to invite people over and watch the Eurovision song contest, which was much the same as it is every other year. Bland and way-below-average pop songs, partisan voting and Terry Wogan getting more and more pissed. The highlight of the evening, however, was the genius that is Donkey Konga. Even for those who despise computer games, this is more addictive than crack mixed with heroin and KFC. Unlike, for example, Singstar or other karaoke-style games, if you have no musical talent (like me) then it is merely entertaining (and frustrating) without being excessively embarrassing. I’m sure the neighbours will have an ASBO on us by the end of the week – we were pounding the skins until the wee hours. But balls to the other residents: I’m going to buy more bongos for four-at-a-time multiplayer bongo carnage and invite even more friends around next time.

We'll have a gay old time

This weekend I shall mostly be camping it up. Tonight, I will be disco dancing to Irene Cara and the like in King's Cross. Tomorrow night I will be hosting a Eurovision party. Classy, eh?
However, to immunise myself against gay*, I will spend tomorrow afternoon watching the FA Cup final, drinking beer. Probably in my pants. While the Girlfriend is out shopping with a friend. How unreconstructed-man is that?

* What do you mean it's not a communicable disease!

Arse, my elbow

With overprotective parents and institutions wary of being sued for any injuries, I'm surprised that school playgrounds are covered in asphalt rather than, say, marshmallows or inflated balloons. I'd like to think that grazed knees and hands from playing overly violent games during school breaks as a young boy toughened me up and taught me a little about risk.
However, now that the age of 30 is rapidly approaching, the need for toughening up and learning risk is less important. And, sadly, I appear no longer to have the miraculous youthful ability to regenerate skin rapidly and without scars or, more importantly, exercise without my muscles seizing up for days afterwards. Unfortunately, every Tuesday evening I play football on a concrete 'pitch' that by day is a school playground and by night is hired out by Camden council, seemingly to cause injury to my foolish co-workers.
Normally, I tend to limit the amount of effort I put into these games. On a Sunday morning, I'll throw myself around and in the way of the ball as much as is necessary, safe in the knowledge that I'll land on (relatively soft) grass (or, in most cases, mud). Hence, on Tuesdays I don't tackle with any venom and won't divert a goal-bound shot with a selfless leap in front of the ball. This strategy has frequently paid off. Whereas other players have suffered gashes, grazes and cuts that are present for weeks afterwards, I have remained relatively unscathed. Until last night.
For some reason that I have yet to fathom, I tried to clear a ball that was about six feet off the ground. With my right foot. While another played was running in to challenge for it. He was sensible enough to duck out of my matix-esque (only without the grace or slo-mo bullet-time camera work) kick, leaving me to gracelessly fall over his shoulder and onto the concrete below. Elbow first. I would have felt bad about hurting him if I wasn't so concerned with my own arm. The tingling feeling in my fingers wasn't a good start, but I quickly realised that nothing was broken. That didn't stop it hurting like hell.
The moral of this story is (apart from not playing on concrete like you are still 10 when you are three times that age: you no longer bounce), don't underestimate how important your elbow is. Sleeping, leaning on tables and sitting on the tube all require far more attention than should be necessary when you are trying to avoid knocking off a huge scab and bleeding everywhere. Next week, I'm going to play at walking pace and not tackle at all.

Blow jobs off

I have decided to eschew the usual press conference to bring you my momentous news. A full, oh, 18 hours or so before I even ram the official notification up HR's collective arse, I am proud to announce my defection from the Ministry of Truth.
I'm not saying that the decision was easy. Not the decision to leave, of course. That was simple. But where to go next. There comes a time in every man's life when he must face the tough decision: work in an office full of young women or try to develop a career. I'm not sure what swayed me, but it might have been the fistful of fivers waved in front of my face, tantalisingly close yet still out of reach. But who knows, in a few years - if I work hard and have a large slice of luck - I could earn a wage that matches my current outgoings.
I'm being presumptuous: I haven't actually been offered the harem job. But then again, I went to the interview knowing I was going to take the filthy lucre (or the future possibility of it) anyway. To be told by the manager that she was tired of people phoning just before their interviews to cancel because 'they had been offered another job in the meantime' made me wish I'd done the same. Still, it'll be a nice change for her to have someone turn it down after an interview, won't it?

Phone sects

Every evening, without fail, I receive unsolicited phone calls from telemarketing companies and the like. Most are dead-air autodiallers that you can hang-up on before the tape starts, but some are irritating and persistent graduates, evidently wondering why they can’t get a better job (hint guys: because you’re morons and your degrees are worthless). Some conversations, however, indicate exactly why all these jobs are being outsourced to Bangalore.
“Hello Sir, I’m from CrapTel. Can I ask you, are you still with BT?”
“No.”
“So you don’t have a land line then?”
“What the hell do you think you’re speaking to me on?”
“Oh, er, um. Thank you Sir.”
*Click*
Usually telephone salesmen are more persistent than herpes, but this one couldn’t get off the line quick enough. If I’m ever unemployed, I’ll turn to bank robbery before telesales: it’s better regarded by society.

Eating with the fishes

And as I'm on the subject of Lake Tahoe, while I was there, another of my illusions was shattered. I was out having fine sushi, when I saw a clownfish in the fish tank. (I don't even want to get into the bizarre ethics of having a fish tank in a sushi restaurant: although I'm about to. It struck me as akin to having a slaughterhouse - made of glass - next to a pasture of cows. But considering I was happy to eat their cousins in front of them, I can't really complain: I never said I was consistent.)
Anyway, this clownfish. From a documentary I had seen the previous year ('Finding Nemo'), I had expected these fish to be larger: about the size of angelfish. Imagine my disappointment to find out how small they actually were. I'm tempted to sue Disney for giving me false expectations and being deliberately misleading about piscine dimensions; judging by their relationship to sharks and turtles in said documentary, they were much larger.
It's taken me this long to get over it, and I'm still not happy.

Black as the driven snow

I’ve been meaning to bring this up for a while, but laziness always seemed the better option. Nevertheless, it’s still vaguely fresh in my mind, so I’ll bang on regardless of its relevance.
I was in Lake Tahoe earlier this year, although my holiday is not really what I want to talk about. (For the record, the holiday was excellent; the snow was perfect; the food was fresh and healthy – except for up the mountain, which was a terrible franchise operation, resulting in minimal choice and overpriced greasy crap; they could certainly take a leaf out of the Italian resorts’ books, with small family-run restaurants, quality and choice; and everyone was friendly. I had a great time, even though I did not – somehow – win a fortune on the slot machines in the Nevada casinos.)
No, what interested me (not the only thing, of course; but for the purposes of this diatribe) was a poster that I saw in the fresh-juice shop (oh, how metrosexual of me). As far as I can recall – and I apologise if I get the details wrong, but I wasn’t there to involve myself in local politics – the local council (or equivalent) was beginning (by which I mean, in 2007) a consultancy to look into why the famous clarity of the lake was diminishing. If you are unaware (and there is no reason why you shouldn’t be, if you’ll excuse my double negatives), Lake Tahoe is renowned for its clarity; apparently you can see down 70 feet, so pure is the water. But, and here is the crux, it is not as clear as it used to be. And it’s getting worse.
South Lake Tahoe is approximately a four-hour drive from San Francisco. I know this because I drove it. When I got to the rental desk, and the check-in robot had refused to countenance the fact that I might need to use snow chains, despite the fact that snow had closed the roads for two days just the previous week, she offered me a 4x4 SUV. For only $100 more. Well, I was feeling flush, and didn’t fancy driving through icy roads in a matchbox car, so I took it. Thank God. The feeling of power in a big car was incredible. So much so that, thinking I was invincible (or being shattered after an 11-hour flight and severely misjudging the width: your choice), I attacked the pillar of the multi-storey car park that the rental office was in. Needless to say, the wing mirror lost. Still, that’s another story. Until I got the highway, I still thought I was king of the road. However, although the SUV I was in would dwarf anything but the largest Range Rover over here, it was a mid-size by comparison. The trucks (which are sold as personal vehicles, much like you or I would buy a Focus or, if you wanted something a little larger, a Volvo) were huge. And plentiful: very plentiful. Six lanes of gas-guzzling monsters. Each with only one person in.
At the resort, I couldn’t walk to the Safeway 200 yards from my hotel room because the pavements (or sidewalks: when in Rome…) weren’t cleared of snow (unlike the roads). And I didn’t fancy being arrested for jaywalking on a five-lane through road. No, I had to get into the car and drive there. Literally: out of the hotel car park; drive 100 yards up the road; into the car park. When I asked at the hotel reception if I could get to the slopes without driving, they looked at me as if I was mad (to be fair, there was a free shuttle bus all day, and cheap casino buses in the evening. I guess not many people fancied this option). To ensure that everyone can get on the slopes, huge car parks are provided.


Spot the difference

And yet the Lake Tahoe authority need a discussion about why the lake is losing a foot a year of visible depth. The answer, to anyone that doesn’t see their car as an essential appendage, is to remove the traffic. It’ll never happen of course. I wonder if anyone will even suggest it…

Testing, testing. 1, 2...

In an ideal world, I'd have somebody else to do this; probably an overweight bearded man in a faded Metallica T shirt. But it's just me here, so I'll have to do all the legwork myself.
And that, with luck, is all there is to it. If not, I shall be throwing my computer around in a rage, and then trying again.

Here goes nothing...