Easter Hang Up

It was fun but there was no rest, none at all. Does that make me wicked?

Yesterday was the day I went post-Easter cold turkey and boy was it rough. I still feel particularly delicate right now. Why these unpleasant feelings of tiredness, paranoia and pain? Well, I have been drinking solidly and rapidly for five whole days – that’s why. Not a mean feat I admit and many others can drink far more for a protracted amount of time, but I am just not that used to drinking so much. It made me ill.

Still, I must have had a nice long rest during the Easter break, right? I must have read a few novels and watched some brilliant films and met up with some close friends for chats, fun cross-dressing and amateur photography. Well, no. As per usual I was besieged by panic attacks, self-loathing and paranoia. I did have a good shout though, followed by some nudity.

Take my advice kids; drinking is not big or clever and will mess with your mind, man. Rest assured though, I will do it all over again . . . . and again . . . . and again. Hey, I like it so stop moaning, you muppet.

Easter Breakage

It’s break time. Cor blimey governor, I am very much looking forward to my days over the Easter Bank Holiday weekend that I have graciously been allowed to take off.

I am in no way a religious man, in fact I am a devout atheist, but I thank that there non-existent God and his little helper Jesus, for their gift of Good Friday and Easter Monday. I am glad that somebody had the foresight and humanity to sacrifice themselves and then rise from the dead so that I could have a couple of days off work.

So, what exciting events will I be attending, clubs a-visiting or celebs a-snogging? Well, none baby.

I really need a rest and I am going to take this opportunity to recharge my head, body, sex and love batteries. I will lock my front door this evening and not exit again until Tuesday morning.

I am planning on drinking copious amounts of red wine and making a nice big Easter dinner with loads of roast veg, my own unique Yorkshire pudding and a choco-latte cak. I will watch some great films and savour new episodes of Doctor Who and Red Dwarf on television, take very long hot baths and sleep for eight hours a night.

In reality I know that my time off will be fraught with worry, panic, hangover, no sleep, crap TV and crap films, paranoia, inappropriate social networking, far too much booze, uncontrolled shouting, falling asleep in a full bath, smashed crockery, extreme nudity, frantic dancing and gravy.

Is it fruitful?

Well, it sure beats being at work.

Morning Throw

Ah people, you have to love ‘em don’t you? I choose to hate them. You know why? Well, because most of them are stupid and ignorant. It’s a fact. Take this fellow from early this morning. Around 3.30am I was awoken from my broken drunken snooze by a repeated banging and shouting.
There was a chap on the pavement throwing empty beer cans at my building. The cans were loudly bouncing off the outer wall and cascading nosily on the curb. He was enjoying this task of wanton flinging over and over again, whilst shouting the name of, “Neville.” The cans were hitting precariously close to my windows.

I tried lying back in bed hoping that he would become bored and leave. I was anxiously awaiting the sound of shattering glass. I managed to fall asleep.

At around 4.45am it started again. I desperately attempted to ignore the racket. As I started to drop off I thought I heard a muffled gun shot. The man did not return.

An Inconvenient Protest

What were they thinking? Coming to my city and demonstrating about such irrelevant and inane subjects as the destruction of the environment, the evil nature of capitalism and the rape of the world and humanity by greedy selfish fat men in reptile suits.

Why my displeasure? They demonstrated on my patch, that’s why. My walk home was rudely refused to me. Nearing Bank and the Bank of England, in the City of London, I was met with a cordon of policemen and a riot squad who had corralled thousands of protestors into a tiny squeezed-in pen – directly where my feet needed to go. OK, I will try Cannon Street. Oh look, lots of police and rioting crusties.

Making a major and very wide detour I was damning these mucky, scruffy young people and their right to protest and demonstrate. All they think about is themselves.

Striding through the City of London this overcast morning I noticed that I was getting some very strange looks. The Bank area was awash with police and camera crews. Every City person seemed to be glaring at me and aggressively trying to get in my way. “There’s one of ‘em, let’s lynch him before he breaks a window and makes a girl cry,” they were probably thinking.

As I walked into the office the Stupid Girl, who recently made an official complaint about me, also gave me a look of utter hatred and desire to see me hang from a gallows in Leadenhall. I am planning on taking a poo on her desk later, that will give her something to complain about.

I Predict A Riot

There was a very unusual and subdued atmosphere in the City of London early this morning. The usual swathes of be-suited arrogant and selfish City Units – Notable TosserS (think about it) had been replaced by laid-back, casual-attired people, students, travellers and crusties. On this lovely sunny and warm morning pedestrians were strolling around as though they were enjoying a riverside walk in the countryside.

However, walking past the Bank of London, this breezy air was replaced by an underlying feeling of fear and threat. Banks and shops were boarded-up, police were suspiciously watching my passing, television crews were trying to shove their erect furry microphones in my face and snipers trained their red dots onto my chest and forehead. Such unprecedented security reminded me of that drunken lost week in Beirut.

As you know there are protests underway in the heart of the City due to the G20 Summit. Thousands of environmentalists, anarchists and anti-capitalists have descended on the Square Mile with plans to shout, gesticulate, push and shove and bang drums. Luckily, I managed to avoid the scenes I am now watching on BBC News 24. Just a few hours ago it was deserted.

What will the scene be when I venture home, passing the Bank of London? With a bit of luck there will be rioting, looting (I love a good loot), the demise of capitalism and the equal distribution of wealth – I deserve a bit of wealth.

Breakfast of Champions

There is a brand new sandwich and snack emporium in the heart of the City of London. I walk past this canteen of unusual delights at breakfast time, just before passing Mansion House Station. What catches my eye and piques my interest are the exotic treats being hawked on the advertising chalk board which nestles on the pavement between pedestrians and cigarette butts.

The owners do not appear to be descended from citizens of this country. I cannot place them by their swarthy looks but I am certainly intrigued by the range of foreign culinary delicacies they are selling. My mouth salivates and stomach rumbles as I yearn for unknown tastes and flavours.

Scrawled on the small exterior blackboard, in the uncouth calligraphic-deficient hand of a dead man, are these exotic edible mysteries:

Sauage
F.EG & Beercan
Sandwhiches & Veroius filings
Koffe & Croisante
Choco-latte Cak
Marmlad & Taost
Musilly & Serial
Fork Handles

Mmm marmlad, Yummy!

Shock of the Liking

At the recent NME Awards shindig after show party I had an unusual experience in a toilet with Oasis singer and celebrity spitter Liam Gallagher. I was busily checking my make-up in the urinal mirror, discussing the joy of lipstick with The Cure’s Robert Smith, when there was a fracas and excitable activity in the entrance.

I could hear someone shouting, “Oooo’s ‘avin’ it?” Looking around I noticed the gesticulating, attitude-laden, dark glasses adorned, foul-mouthed singer of dad rock outfit Oasis. Various sullen black-clad members of White Lies and Glasvegas rapidly scurried out, all eyes to the floor and shuffling black brogues. Robert Smith made a high pitched squeal and bounded out on his oversized white trainers.

Liam sauntered up to the mirror. He stood very still, nonchalantly chewing gum, looking like a cowboy ready for a gunfight. His legs were slightly akimbo and thumbs were in pockets. His hands appeared to be poised on holsters, ready to reach for his revolvers. Swaying slightly he looked like a man who had ridden his horse a little too vigorously.

“Owright, Nelson?” I felt intimidated, frightened about the possible confrontation from this testosterone fuelled bully. I did not move, a bead of sweat appeared on my top lip.

Then Liam’s attitude totally changed, as though he had discarded a well worn robe. He relaxed, slumping his shoulders and leaning against the sink. As he removed his sunglasses I noticed he looked tired and old. “You know something, Nelson?” His voice had changed, this non-descript home counties accent had lost all of its attitude and bravado and held a hint of exhausted knowledge.

Our eyes met. Liam had the heavily bloodshot eyeballs of a desperate, drowning man. He slowly and deliberately said, “God defend me from my friends, from my enemies I can defend myself.”

With that he again straightened his back, replaced his glasses, began rapidly chewing his gum and regained his cocky stance. He slapped me fraternally on the back. “Ur owright u Nel.” He left.

Shakily I locked myself in a cubicle and did the business.

Who Watches the Watchmen? I Did

It was set to be the movie event of the year. The film adaptation of the Citizen Kane of comic book novels is here. Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons’ revolutionary and inventive deconstruction of the superhero myth is a weaving story of redemption, betrayal, love and humanity.

Ah, but what about the film? In the hands of a director who understands the art of cinema and storytelling this could have been the greatest superhero movie of all time. Alas, with young American surfer dude Zack Snyder behind the camera Watchmen is a mess of a movie.

It is not the source material that is at fault here. I have not read the comic novel but the use of original layout, convoluted plotting and ingenious and individual look does sound very admirable and commendable. It has forever changed the medium of comic books. Transpose that onto the big screen frame by frame and a good film is not produced.

The film is all surface with no depth. It attempts to be portentous whilst being overly flippant, making the violence, rape and gore seem clunky, non-affecting and unbelievable. I know it is set in the 1980s but do the latex costumes have to look so out of date and silly? The constant referencing of pop culture and politics seem to be included for their own sake and not plot related, and what’s with Nixon’s enormous rubber nose?

The entire middle section of the film really falls down and destroys any sense of pace and forward development. There is nearly an hour of exposition and back story, as we see the development of each character, which really drags the movie down.

Terry Gilliam was interested in making this until he realised the source material would not fit into film format and the compromises that he would have to make would ruin the story. He asked Moore how he would film the comic to which Moore replied, “I wouldn’t.” Then Paul Greengrass was attached, even down to pre-production but this did not last. These are both great directors and would have made a brilliant dystopian comic hero film from the source material.

Do not get me wrong, I have nothing against Zack Snyder. I thought his re-imagining of Dawn of the Dead was brilliant and I even thought 300 was alright, even though if he did make a film about extras from the Village People defending a mountain pass against RuPaul. However, Christopher Nolan he is not.

Also, will someone please tell Snyder that the length of a film does not equal depth and weightiness. At one point a character says, “I don’t think this will ever end.” That is pretty much how I felt.

Overall, this is not a bad film; it is just exceedingly average and disappointing.

Tiberius Trailer

My excessive excitement about the impending Star Trek film is reaching unnatural extremes. I may do myself an injury. I cannot wait to see this film. Just released is the new trailer. This is two minutes of prime spectacle. I implore you to go and watch this right now.

You will be able to view the destruction of the USS Kelvin, an imploding planet, Spock and Uhura cuddling and Kirk being beaten up. This looks amazing and sends shivers down my spine and makes the hair stand up on the back of my neck.

Will I be disappointed when I see it in May? Yeah, of course I will but I still believe this film will p*ss all over Watchmen, Wolverine, Harry Potter, Transformers and Terminator Salvation.

Other Star Trek news: The film tie-in novel is to be written by the legendary Alan Dean Foster – who wrote a number of other great tie-in novels, including The Thing, Alien, Dark Star, Outland and Clash of the Titans.

Also, keep an eye out for the Star Trek XI prequel comic book Countdown. This spans the period between Nemesis through to the new film – obviously two different time lines and should go some way to explaining Nero’s desire for destruction.

Check out this scene-by-scene trailer breakdown at TrekMovie.com.

Comic Relief Belief

An exciting sight welcomed me on the Millennium Bridge this beautiful sunny crisp morning. Seeing another film crew I thought nothing of it, they are there everyday after all.

As I closed in on the flittering crew I realised those in front of the camera were foul-mouth idiot Jonathan Ross, smug pug-faced little fat man Ricky Gervais and an old fellow riding a pretend emu, what’s his name because he is famous for doing this one thing?

Ross and Gervais were being all pally, laughing at their own jokes and cupping each others balls. However, the emu man stood stock still, looking rather depressed with legs encased in bright yellow tights and claw slippers on feet. As he pulled on the reins of the false stuffed animal belt I thought I saw a tiny salty tear fall from his old, bag laden puffy eye.

They were all attired in plastic red noses so I assumed they were promoting Comic Relief in some way. The director was attempting to ready them for a live broadcast.

Walking past I began to understand the actions of misbehaved mongrel children, loud mouthed track suited youths and obese drunken football men. Passing the recording camera and bright lights I had to fight the overwhelming urge to begin gesticulating, sticking up my thumbs and doing the funky gibbon monkey dance in an oversized pair of white y-fronts, tongue in lower lip and shouting “Joey”.

All I managed was a mumbled ‘w  kers’.