Modern (American) Films Are Rubbish

Kaufman & Carrey.

I've wasted 4 hours in the past couple of years watching films in which these two names figure.

Man In The Moon - Jim Carrey playing Andy Kaufman. What an annoying tit! I don't know if the real Andy Kaufman was that annoying but if he was halfway as annoying as he was portrayed by The New Jerry Lewis he must have been one annoying arsehole.

Now here's Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Carrey! That annoying tit again!

This one's written by Charlie Kaufman who wrote that crud about the inside of John Malkovich's head.

OK, Charlie. You've got me. You're obviously more intelligent than me. You can write a screenplay the title of which comes from an Alexander Pope quote. You quote Nietzsche, too. Which puts you in the pretty damn clever class.

But you're so silly, babyish and annoying. You're playing with us, aren't you? Like a baby plays. Goo goo.

The gist of the film is, Carrey is a loser in love who sees no future with women. He meets an American Kate Winslett with coloured hair for Christ's sake. She is a GOOFBALL. Which is handy as Jim's a bit of a GOOFBALL, too. That's two GOOFBALLS falling in love.

But she falls out of love with Jim. She goes to a clinic where they erase all the memories you want to erase from your brain. She gets Jim erased from hers.

The clinic is run by Dr Tom American Wilkinson. Do Americans find the Brits putting on their accents as annoying as we find Dick Van Dyke?

Jim finds out what Kate has done so in a fit of pique he decides to erase the memory of Kate from his, too. So Tom's assistants, a right pair of GOOFBALLS, do the business. But Jim's love for Kate is so strong that his genius brain rebels against the treatment. He doesn't want to let her go, the diddums.

Meanwhile, Kirsten Dunst, Tom's young receptionist who quotes Pope and Nietzsche, decides she's not in love with one of the GOOFBALL assistants but she's really in love with Tom who is old enough to be her father. Tom's wife lets Kirsten know she (Kirsten) had some time ago already had an affair with Tom and that she had asked him to erase him from her memory.

Fuck me, what a carry on!

So Kirsten blows the business to smithereens. Just as Jim and Kate are getting together for the second time, they are both sent old tapes where they were recorded talking about why they wanted rid of each other.

Of course, love prevails. Although they know they may be destined for a relationship in which they will both fall in then out of love, they still want to go ahead with this second time round. Which is a good move for Jim as there's no way a munterface like him would hook up with somebody like Kate even with her funny hair and GOOFBALL personality.

OK, the film was watchable but just so very silly and the characters were extremely tiresomely goofy.

What really got my goat was the music at the start and end.

They take a classic song like the Korgi's Everybody's Got To Learn Sometime which already has two classic soulful versions by the aforementioned Korgis and Baby D.

And they get that wacky GOOFBALL piece of piss, Beck to record it. He, of course, turns it into a dull turd.

A complete bloody travesty.

Cheer up, it might never...yeah, yeah, yeah, I've heard that a million times

It's unseasonally warm and Londoners are wearing their warm weather clothes. As I get older I wonder more and more about t-shirts that say something. Not band t-shirts, but slogans.

For example there's this young man walking past Tesco's. He's very flirty, exuding sexuality and looking for eye contact. His t-shirt describes himself as "LOVERBOY". I invent a tragic life for him. Such upfront behaviour does not bode well for his future happiness. He is bound to be let down time and time again by lover after lover. The loverboy will not become a loverman but will be cynical in his middle age. He won't believe in love because love always disappoints him. But I don't feel sorry for him for I don't know him.

Don't feel sorry for loverboy
You know he wants the world to love him, then goes and spoils it all
Don't feel sorry for loverboy
He wants the world to love him, then goes and spoils it all for love


Then there's this young, colourfully dressed, bright eyed woman who implores us all to "BLOW BUBBLES, NOT BOMBS". A simple girl, her heart's in the right place. Why shouldn't we all blow bubbles, not only all of us peace lovers but those murdering governments and sectarian organisations, too. Hey! Instead of bombing your so-called enemies, pop a few bubbles on their noses! They'll laugh with you instead of hating you and the world will be one big, loving, happy family!

No. This girl will be let down again and again by murdering governments and sectarian organisations. She will die a cynic, like me and everyone I know.

I'm forever blowing bubbles
Pretty bubbles in the air
They fly so high
Nearly reach the sky
Then like my dreams they fade and die


*******


You may say, I'm a dreamer. Last night's dream consisted of...

A cure for cracked fingers: immerse your hand into a solution containing 5,000 mg of effervescent vitamin C. Your wounds will heal within ten minutes.

Essex, The 51st State of the USA

So we've been out for our breath-of-fresh-air, a walk in Belhus Woods Country Park, just north of the Dartford Crossing. It was the first time we've been there and I'm pleased to report nothing untoward happened to us.

There was a twice daily American Civil War re-enactment which we just missed. Skirmishes were scheduled for 11 am and 3 pm. We saw lots of men sitting by camp fires and resting in tents, mentally relaxing before the 3 o'clock skirmish. We saw a large bearded man whip his wife's arse in jest, just as his friend entered one of the event's many chemical toilets. A three man band played pipes and drums, some old Confederate tune or maybe Lynnrd Skynnrd's Sweet Home Alabama; I have no idea. The smell of burgers permeated the air, though the smell of bean farts were sadly missing.

We walked past one of the lakes and some young urchins were busy lifting the biggest freshwater fish I've seen in my life. They didn't tell us to fucking steer clear of their rods which I always expect to hear when in close proximity to hard-looking fishing boys.

Yesterday, we were given a lovely present by a lovely friend. A mini Simnel cake, complete with all eleven Jesus-friendly disciples. Look, here it is with Betty...



We'll eat it later as we're serenaded by the local family who are currently performing their annual Easter Garden Karaoke.

They really have got awful voices.

Shakespeare Was His Teenage Idol

On his jean jacket,
A badge Graham wore.
Neither 'Rush' nor 'Steve Hackett',
He was no prog rock bore.

Not the 'Pistols', 'Jam', 'Ruts',
This kid was more hard.
This boy had the guts
To wear the badge of The Bard.

He promoted 'Will Power',
A neat play on words.
In his finest hour,
He charmed the posh birds.

"Oh, Graham, you're so cool,"
They'd say with their eyes.
"You can tell that you're no fool.
And tremendously wise."

To be in one's late teens,
In '78,
Neither new wave nor prog scenes
Would get you a date.

You just wore The Bard and
Who needed luck?
Cos Will made you hard and
Guaranteed you a fuck.

Simnel Cake

Easter's nearly upon us and all our thoughts turn to food.

This year, why not make yourself a Simnel cake? A moist, rich fruitcake with one layer of the finest almond paste in the centre and another on top. Decorated in the traditional way with eleven small balls of marzipan that represent the twelve disciples, minus Judas because Judas did not like marzipan.

Not many people know that the highlight of the Last Supper was in fact Simnel cake. Jesus himself couldn't get enough fruitcake and used to lick the bowl whenever his mother baked one. It is rumoured that he came back from the dead because he thought he smelt fruitcake cooking.

The eleven disciples who liked marzipan regularly had Marzipan Nights on the first Sunday of every month. Peter was a marzipan glutton and would regularly eat whole bars of the stuff in one sitting.

Judas, however, felt a little left out. The Last Supper was the last straw for him, literally, as he was left to munch on cheese straws as the other lads tucked into their marzipan sodden treat. He never felt less like one of the chaps as he did that night.

Perchance To Dream

I'm dreaming of fish 'n' chips. I don't like fish 'n' chips. The smell is making me feel sick.

I wake up. Not fully awake so my drug addled mind (um, low dose tranquilisers) is not thinking logically, I've got this great idea for a sketch. It's so funny, in my half awake state, I'm almost laughing in bed at 6 a.m.

Morrissey is back in Manchester. He gets on a bus. At the back sits an old friend.

Old Friend: Morrissey! What brings you round these parts?

Morrissey: I've been promoting my new range of chilled ready meals, mate. Sausage & mash. Meat & potato pie. Fish 'n' chips.

Old Friend: Ooh, I love fish 'n' chips.

Morrissey: Me too, mate. They're me favourites. You'd love my fish 'n' chips. A moist, succulent loin of cod, fancifully fried in a light, golden batter; crisp, chunky chips drizzled with balsamic vinegar; all served with a generous side portion of mushy peas. Pucker, mate. Bloody pucker.

Old Friend: Ain't it hard to get hold of cod nowadays, though?

Morrissey: Murder, mate. Bloody murder.


The alarm goes off and jerks me out of my reverie. The working day starts here and heaven knows I'm miserable now.

The Angel Gabriel Came Down To Me

Thank you for your comments on the last post. I'm pleased to report I've now had a good night's sleep and come to my senses.

Murph was right. It normally doesn't take me my whole lunchtime to compose a post. Just that yesterday I had my serious hat on.

From now on, weekdays will be devoted to light, frivolous ten minute posts. The heavy, meaty, serious stuff ("no comments") I shall reserve for weekends.

There, I feel so much calmer now.


******


I've just received the following email from Amazon:-

Dear Amazon.co.uk Customer,

We've noticed that customers who have expressed interest in music by Yes have also ordered Genesis 1976 - 1982 [Hybrid SACD + DVD] by Genesis. For this reason, you might like to know that Genesis 1976 - 1982 [Hybrid SACD + DVD] will be released on 2 April 2007. You can pre-order your copy for just £88.98 by following the link below.

No!

No!!

No!!!!!!!

Pills For Me Nerves

"What the bloody hell's he doing, posting four posts in two days?"

Just letting you all know I'm going to take it easier from now on, just posting at weekends when I'm more relaxed and have the time.

I know the rest of you blog from Sunday night to Thursday night and I'll have more time to read your blogs if I'm not spending whole bloody lunch hours writing.

So hopefully in the future round here, less will be more.

TV For A Change

I first started this blog to review tv programmes. I would sit watching a recording, stopping and starting it, taking notes. It all became a bit of a chore. Now I try to get to the essence of things (oh, yeah?), leaving the details for when I do my retirement blog in 2041.

Now we're more involved in the reading and commenting merry-go-round of blogging, we rarely get the time to sit down and watch a programme in full on a single night. They're dispersed in half hour chunks over the week, we only catch up properly over a miniature glass of wine or two at the weekends.

Recent viewing has been dominated by the BBC's series of documentaries on the history of slavery and racism. There's an illustration of the hold of a slave ship which crops up again and again. It's a drawing looking from above down on human beings laying chained together, packed like sardines. You can't see the death and the disease. You can't smell the stench. It looks so neat and ordered, when of course it's inhumanity at pretty much its worst, planned by an ordered mind, a cruel bastard of a mind. A mind which sees other human beings as inanimate objects, tools to be used for making money.

The only programme in the series to make me smile so far featured Ms Dynamite (Ms Dynamite tee hee) travelling to Jamaica to discover some more about the Maroons, escaped slaves who fought and beat a British army of vastly superior numbers. The British didn't know the terrain and were slaughtered. (Thinking of drafted young British men being slaughtered is not the bit that made me smile).

The Maroons leader was a woman nicknamed Nanny, a Jamaican Boudica who as legend would have it used to cushion British bullets in her arse and still come back for more. The arse actually belonged to a scarecrow type decoy but the legend's a good one and is more entertaining than Superman.

The original Maroons were warriors but their descendents look as if they couldn't fight their way out of a paper bag. This, of course, may be deceptive and maybe they could still give a colonial army a pasting. Then again, no, they're too nice for that.

I have opposing feelings for Ms Dynamite. I can't stand her music but perhaps because she is not the most articulate interviewer they could have chosen, I like her. Then again I like the more articulate Moira Stuart who presented another of the films in this series. So it's not inverse snobbery on my part. Oh no. I just like Ms Dynamite and Moira Stuart.

Has Anybody Ever Seen A Pie In The Sky?

Parenting Skills in The Noughties - Number One

Explaining to a 6 year old girl...

1. Why the 80 year old woman is taking off all her clothes at a grown man's 21st birthday party.

2. Why there is a crowd of people around the woman.

3. Why she leaves her shower cap on.

Between The Covers With JonnyB

Well, we've got the book and I'm happy to be facing one of East Anglia's premier bloggers. Funny how the flat wastelands of the East of England have produced so many decent bloggers. I'm a "fen" (geddit?) of a few of them.

The general feel of the book is smooth and shiny. Considering it was produced in a week it's a fantastic achievement. How do they get these books so smooth and shiny in a week?

But seriously (God, I'm such a wag), it is a fantastic achievement by Mike and the gang who got it all together in a week and I'm chuffed to be a part of it.

Of course I've read my own contribution several times and come up with a whole host of opinions on its merits or otherwise.

"Oh God, it's shit."
"It's not bad, actually."
"That's not my voice at all."
"Actually it's the reporting of a reasonably funny incident, told in a concise, understated way."
"But it still doesn't seem like me."
"And some of those sentences jar."

Is this what proper writers go through? Does Ian McEwan or Jeffrey Archer go over everything they write again and again? Is this what you call "rewriting"? If so I'm happy to keep blogging and just churn my shit out. I couldn't be doing with all that worrying about whether this or that sentence is worthy of being published. If Penguin or Puffin or Ladybird come along and say they want to publish me I'll say they can take what they like from my blogs but they can get stuffed if they think I'm going to sit around analysing and changing things. Whatcha see is whatcha get, Mr Big Publisher!

To (Some Of) The Girls I've Loved Before

ABBA 1975



Mamma mia, here I go again
My my, such a pair of teasers
Mamma mia, does it show again?
I mean the women, not the geezers



KIKI DEE 1976



Don't go breaking my heart
I couldn't if I tried
Honey d'ya wanna get breastfed?
Baby I'm not that kind



MANHATTAN TRANSFER 1978




On a little street in Singapore
No chew-ing gum discarded on the floor
The gals move like sophisticated chicks
Though the blokes look just like a pair of dicks



NENA 1984





99 Decision Street
99 fashionistas meet
To worry, worry, super-scurry
Leather kecks off in a hurry!
This is what we've waited for
This is it boys, this is phwooar!
The sweaty trousers on the line
As 99 red balloons go by



TRACY BARLOW 2007





Bang! Bang! Tracy's silver hammer
Came down upon his head.
Bang Bang Tracy's silver hammer
Made sure that he was dead.

Who's A Fart Young Smeller?

What They've All Been Saying About My New Green Ski Jacket

That's a lovely coat!
Really trendy!
Really smart!
Really suits you!
Makes you look years younger!



What They're Really Thinking

That...




...was really not a good look, Geoff.

My Eyes Are Red, My Nose Is Blue

Well, it's a Relief that's all over, isn't it?

The highlight of last night's extravaganza had to be the Mitchell & Webb snooker song with Chris de Burgh. It really was truly fucking abysmal and Betty was the luckier of the two of us in that she fell asleep after the ten second appearance of Kate Moss on the Little Britain debacle. We didn't sing along to the Proclaimers because although we're both bespectacled we have got a modicum of musical talent in that we can do Amy Winehouse's Rehab in pub singer voices which is a damn sight more entertaining than those 1980s hasbeens with their walking 1,000 miles. If they walked 500 miles away, why didn't they carry on walking 500 miles further into the fucking sea instead of walking 500 miles back to annoy us so? Peter Kay is the most overrated comedian of all time - he just sits there in that wheelchair doing fuck all, he has never ever made me laugh, what in God's name do you all see in him? Shite, shite and more shite all night long.

Don't get me wrong, we weren't actually watching it but watching a docudrama on the independence and division of India, just watching Comic Relief during breaks for urinating and refilling wine glasses. Betty thought Lord Mountbatten was quite dishy (well, actually the actor playing him). Gandhi wasn't played by Sir Ben Kingsley which I found disappointing as now my last image of Sir Ben is not of a blacked-up peacemaker but of a violent psychopathic gangster in Sexy Beast. Makes you wonder what would have happened if Ray Winstone was in charge of India's independence.

Still the funniest things to come out of my blog are the searches people use to get here. Here are the latest:-

1. Kung fu drawstring trousers
2. Does Noel Edmonds drink urine?
3. Grayson Perry posh bastards house
4. Does Prince Charles wipe his own arse?

I don't think he does.

Have a good weekend, y'all. I'm back to work on Monday for the run-up to the dreaded end of year.

Lovely.


*******


UPDATE SUNDAY 18TH MARCH 2007 6PM

I've just woken up from my afternoon nap and that pissing song is still in my head. I don't see why you should be spared from this crap. Here's the link to the video if you want to see why I'm thinking about emigrating from this freakishly humourless land.

LOOOOOOOOK! THERE'S THE KRANKIES, EVERYONE!

Shaggy Blog Stories

It's out! It can't be bought at Sainsbury's!

For every book sold, £3.63 goes direct to Comic Relief.
To buy, it costs £12.72 including £3.76 postage and packing.
Which may not seem very charitable but it's better than 10p from a £2.00 sandwich at Sainsbury's.
And if it's going to be done, it's the best return you could hope for.
The publishers are making nothing out of the sales but publicity.
The contributors are making nothing out of the sales but a wider audience.
Shit, I'm not selling this very well, am I?

Yes, there are the usual A-list bloggers there but also a lot I haven't heard of before. And as far as I know this is the first anthology of (hopefully funny) bloggers' writing ever assembled in Britain. So I'd probably buy it even if some of the money wasn't going to charity.

What I mean to say is...

BUY THIS BOOK!

I Can See Clearly Now...

"I bet you get a good variety of background music in this job," I say to the window fitter.

"Yeah. The bloke yesterday, the old bloke who had the dirty house, he asked us if we liked trad."

"Trad jazz?"

"Yeah. He played it really loud. It was blaring out. He played the whole album."


I asked him about the background music because the window fitters were probably earlier having a good laugh at our choice of television programme to watch as they put in the windows upstairs.

We've got a lot of catching up to do so we watched two old documentaries, one on the Chelsea Hotel, the other on the background to the Lou Reed song Walk On The Wild Side.

The first documentary had a very camp man taking tourists round the hotel, singing and namechecking Brendan Behan, Oscar Wilde and William Burroughs amongst others. As he walked past some painters and decorators on the stairs he compared their work to Jackson Pollack.

We saw Burroughs and Andy Warhol at a dinner party, talking about chicken-fried steak, Quentin Crisp talking about his hair products, and Jobriath singing a super song about naked brunch. the documentry also featured a glorious sequence showing Viva's daughter watching her mother give birth to her on video. The birthing screams reverberated round our house and sounded like a long loud orgasm until the baby started to cry.

The Walk On The Wild Side documentary included interviews with several transexuals from Warhol's gang including discussions of "giving head" to sailors.

Unsurprisingly, with all this going on, the window fitters finished fitting the windows in record time. I bet they can't wait to see what we've got in store for them when they do the doors tomorrow.

Lovely Days

It's lovely today. It was lovely yesterday. Too lovely for March, maybe.

Yesterday we went for a walk at Trosley Country Park. It's been spruced up since we were last there a few years ago - new toilets, a new cafe. The cafe was busier than the walking trails.

"Come on, let's off-road," I said. And we took the "B" route, all the way down the hill, through several fields, not knowing whether the route was two miles or nine. After about an hour and a half we seemed to be heading back towards the car park. Up, up, up, then across.

"We've reached the woods now," I said. "I'm glad those trees are there because I wouldn't fancy walking on the side of this steep hill with nothing to stop my fall."

We came to a clearing with nothing to stop our fall. Eyes down at the path, not left to the less than gentle slope. Past a braver young couple sitting on the slope with their even braver dog chasing his tail.

I'm such a wuss with heights. My legs turn to jelly, I can't go on, I can't go on, I can't go on.

I went on and we made it. A lovely day with a bit of nervous excitement added.


*******


Today is a lovely day. We go to the dentist's. The receptionist is wearing sexy boots and her cleavage is overspilling. An old man comes out of the torture room and after picking up his cap from under one of the chairs, pays his £50 in cash. There goes his pension for this week.

"Can I use the facilities?" he asks the receptionist.

"Of course you can," she says.

He goes into the toilet and clatters about a bit. I hear running water. He comes out and leaves without another word.

I bury myself in my Sherlock Holmes in case the receptionist thinks I'm looking at her tits. I hear the drill start up.

"Filling for Betty," I think. "That means one for me too."

Our dentist enjoys filling teeth. It's good to see someone taking pleasure in their work.

Me, I take pleasure in my days off.

Mallard In Love

I am a mallard in love
And I'd do anything
To get you into my wings
And hold you within
It's a right I defend
Over and over again
Waddle, I do!

Yeah but, no but...

Think you can do better than Little Britain?

So do I.

But then I look in my archives and I don't see much humour, just anger and spite.

Still, I've chosen a post for this. Why don't you?

Just don't expect me to watch it on the telly.