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.
Monday, May 23, 2005
Sunday, May 22, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, May 20, 2005
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!
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!
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
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?
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?
Friday, May 06, 2005
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.
“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.
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