Fox Force Farknash

Tom Rosenthal - Keep a Private Room Behind the Shop. Review

2011-11-09T10:51:00.004Z

Was sent this album. So I listened to it. That shit was good. A writing of words ensued. It was published care of our friends @godisinthetv

Take a look.

Also - go browse the GIITV blog. Much learning and happiness may you find there.

Love.

Speed of Light. Or, "Creationists are Dicks".

2011-09-23T15:38:00.004+01:00

Mike Sharkey Posted/..
http://www.guardian.co.uk/science/2011/sep/22/faster-than-light-particles-neutrinos
11:15:08 AM

◄
The trip [around Cern] would take a beam of light 2.4 milliseconds to complete, but after running the experiment for three years and timing the arrival of 15,000 neutrinos, the scientists discovered that the particles arrived at Gran Sasso sixty billionths of a second earlier, with an error margin of plus or minus 10 billionths of a second.
11:16:03 AM

◄
hmm
11:16:54 AM

◄
maybe there is a god after all and he is just phuck1ng with us
11:17:17 AM

Mark Temple/...
http://xkcd.com/882/
11:18:03 AM

Mike Sharkey
heh
11:18:27 AM

◄
science is for dorks
11:18:46 AM

◄
and makes the baby jesus cry
11:19:02 AM

◄
"Heinrich Paes, a physicist at Dortmund University, has developed another theory that could explain the result. The neutrinos may be taking a shortcut through space-time, by travelling from Cern to Gran Sasso through extra dimensions. "That can make it look like a particle has gone faster than the speed of light when it hasn't," he said.
11:19:43 AM

◄
i like heinrich
11:19:46 AM

Mark Temple/...
AND I QUOTE.... '...sufficiently powerful consciousness would be capable of collapsing quantum mechanical waves to highly improbable states, such an event would by definition be a miracle. This provides a scientific bases for miracles. God being the most powerful consciousness of all, would be capable of collapsing quantum mechanical waves to even the most improbable of states, including making the universe from nothing. This opens the door to a possible scientific model for creation.'
11:21:58 AM

◄
General Grand Unification fits the Biblical worldview well. It allows for the intelligent design and control of the universe. It shows how the universe could have been created from nothing and provides a scientific model for creation.
11:22:06 AM

◄
http://creationwiki.org/Quantum_physics
11:22:10 AM

◄
problem
11:22:27 AM

◄
SOLVED
11:22:29 AM

◄
ALLE-F8CKING-UJAH
11:22:45 AM

Mike Sharkey
i feel better now. i knew it all along. but is good to have confirmation
11:22:47 AM

Mark Temple/...
'SCOTTY, ADD MORE BIBLES TO THE WARP DRIVE HOLY FYRE'
11:24:16 AM

◄
'I JUST CANNAE DO IT CAPPEN', WE'RE OUT OF GUTENBERGS!'
11:24:32 AM

Mike Sharkey
MR SULU: - WARP SPEED CORINTHIANS
11:25:07 AM

Mark Temple/...
'And yeah, God created the light, and thought... that's well slow that is, better make it a bit faster... and lo it was'
11:26:10 AM

◄
LaForge 3:14
11:26:32 AM

Tracey Emin. Love Is What You Want. Review.

2011-08-30T11:10:00.017+01:00

Never let it be said that Nature Girl and I are not at the forefront of the cultural Zeitgeist; fearlessly carving a way through the myriad wonders on offer in the capital's galleries and exhibition halls; relentlessly elbowing our way to the front of the queue to ensure we get first dibs on checking out what the Next Big Thing is going to be. And so it was again, on a windy bank holiday in August that we finally got our arses in gear to pay a visit to Tracey Emin's show Love Is What You Want. On the final day of the exhibition.

It opens in room one with a series of aplliqued blankets on the west wall in a room that also contains her collapsed pier installation Knowing Your Enemy (2002) complete with the framed letter from her father as he explains his struggle with alcohol, gambling, sex and smoking. The whole is bathed in a strangely soothing pink light from a piece of her Neon work on the east wall. The angry, misspelt diatribes yelping out from the tapestries with the tumbledown beach house at the end of a ramshackle and untraversable pier speaks of frustration, resentment and is an affecting opener.

Through the darkened space of room two we see more Neon. We have both Is Anal Sex Legal counterpointed with Is Legal Sex Anal along with some of the more recognisable images of the female form and genitalia. Darkened room, vibrant colour, left-field sentiments.

Room three. Room three was a struggle for me. It was based around three themes of Family & Friends, Early Work and Trauma. I couldn't get passed it being merely a collection of things. Various miscellania interspersed with pieces that lacked cohesion. Was this simply a collection of tat curated by someone who captured the public and critical attention in the nineties and therefore imbues piles of stuff with more meaning? If so, I failed to find the significance.

There were the expected strong items - the drugs, the hospital admission band, the blood stained swab all presented in a small cabinet on the wall and detailing one of the Emin's abortions in the nineties complete with childlike water colours was affecting. But viewed as a whole in the large room of the Hayward it felt scattered, shambolic - scatty. Perhaps that was the point.

Room four and five was much improved. Detailing some of the artists later work it began to pull some of the themes together. Delicate embroidered images of the female form focusing on a PoV of the female (and male) genitalia; a repeating loop of images concerning masturbation; an image of a penis gushing forth flowers - it seemed less an attack or rebuff on sexuality and maybe even a coming to terms with it.

I also finally had my gallery moment where I was captured by the installation - in the corner of the room, a series of intricate wooden spiral structures - "to alllow my cats to climb" piled in the corner of the room dissected by a sheer bolt of lightning Neon. A fabulous and unexpected use of space.

And then we were out, back into the Festival of Britain safe in the knowledge that we once again had beaten the hipsters, the trendestters and those vultures of culture. With at least three hours to spare until the exhibition closed for good.

Hayward Gallery, Southbank

Nature Girl. Looting flowers in Lea Valley

2011-08-22T17:01:00.002+01:00

Carleen goes all Ray Mears on our arses. Right up to the point she encounters the worm...

Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Concrete Circus. Review

2011-08-18T15:51:00.015+01:00

It’s fair to say that I’ve never really been considered by my peers much in the “street” stakes. Sure, I had a second hand skateboard for a few weeks one summer in the eighties. It snapped. I owned a Budgie bike so light you could bunny hop a lamppost but not generally perceived a particularly urban piece of kit. The most alternative sporting activity I got up to was fashioning a peg gun out of discarded planks of wood and elastic bands. Dangerous, but not particularly revolutionary.

It is therefore entirely possible that the mad, burning feelings of I’m-not-worthy awesomeness that I felt when watching the feature length documentary Concrete Circus on Channel 4 on Monday night can be traced back to being a little bit square as a child. It’s OK. I've come to terms with it.

The premise of the film is simple. Take 5 of the best street sport talents who have over 50 million online video hits between them as they demonstrate their various skills: Urban trail-riding, freestyle skateboard, BMX flatlanding and parkour – and ask them to team up with a filmmaker each to make four unique films to debut.

First up is Danny MacAskill who we are introduced to as a cheeky wee chappy raised in the middle of nowhere on a Scottish island who as a boy, seemingly free from the shackles of an urban capitalist culture, set about happily wiring up a fishing net on which to trampoline from 20 feet in the air to practice his gravity defying skills; all with the quiet approval of his unprepossessingly proud parents.

We also meet Keelan Phillips; a taciturn fellow who is “as one” with his bike – truly a fusion of man and machine. Also on board is Killian Martin - a youthful Spaniard who, and I shit you not, is fucking amazing on his skateboard. Finally we have two of the UK’s top Parkouristes. These two are fearless urban gymnasts; Paul ‘'Blue’ Joseph and Phil Doyle who see a wall, a gangway, a fecking fifteen metre drop into an underground car park as nothing but a trifling obstacle at which to hurl oneself at.

The first half of the doc followed each team as they set off making a brand new film with their film-makers (Stu Thomson, Brett Novak, Claudiu Voicu and Kendy Ty). There are a few ups and a few downs. We see the Parkouristes casually set themselves on fire and do flips “because if we’re not going to push the boundaries, I don’t see the point”. We learn of Keelan’s dark side and how Kendy Ty is interested in exploring it. We see Danny MacAskill look dubiously at the height of the drop off the side of a train and we see Killian setting off with Brett Novak on an amiable trip round all four countries in the UK.

The centrepiece of the film is then the premiere of each these shorts. The first, and best, is “A Skate Illustration” which utilises slow motion to accentuate the grace and poise of Martin who performs feats of incredible skill – some standard rail slides and flips, but also handstands and balancing on the rim of his board. One particular trick involving two boards has to be viewed several times to believe what you saw. The thrilling denouement involves a disused swimming pool in the evening sun – testament to the eye of the director for a good location and the luck of the magic hour – where Martin skates through a the silhouette of the buildings window frames and then pirouettes in fabulous slo mo in the remnants of water in the pool. Splashes arc up and catch in the light. Mesmerising.

Next up is Kendy Ty’s “Release”. This is heavy on the post production and takes us into the mind of the biker as he prepares to do a routine. We see him think of a stunt, perform it, and then in his minds eye we get a graphic overlay of the name of the trick - “Nose Manual”, complete with angular overlay – the skaters HUD. It’s dark and ominous and at times this overshadows the skill of the biker though the director’s cut is more complete.

Third is “Industrial Revolutions” by Stu Thomson. No overt post prod, no gimmicks – this sits back and lets Megaskill do his thing. Deftly framed and set to a celtic ballad this is a showcase of Danny’s skills. It speaks for itself and is wonderfully paced and almost hypnotic in quality.

Finally we have the free runners. This was the weakest film containing as it did a narrative centred around some faux secret service type test that our two protagonists were due to complete – hence all the jumping, flipping and generally scaling of high scary shit. It felt clunky and it yet again detracted from the skills of the two athletes. They even worked in the safety dude extinguishing the flames from the set piece finale which should have been the piece de resistance yet left me feeling unsatisfied.

The final section of the film is when all the athletes are let loose in the Barbican Centre, The Barbican Bolero It is really very awesome. In short this was bold, beautiful television. 90 minutes or so where I genuinely was unable to take my eyes off the screen. Poetic, hectic and balletic.

The skill and grace, the derring do and outright balls of these guys is really quite staggering and my misspent youth playing Commodore 64 games and trying to shoot wood pigeons with peg guns never before felt like such a misappropriation of my time....

Go watch. Go on. Right now.

Producer/Director: Mike Christie
Exec producer: Alan Hayling
Renegade Pictures & ChristieHQ

A digger Enroute to riots nr hackney with police escort 08.08.11

2011-08-08T19:57:00.004+01:00

A night of disturbances in London meant we witnessed a procession of 7 armoured riot vans at full speed heading East toward Aldgate. Minutes later with a slower police escort we saw this digger being escorted in the same direction. The mind boggled at the possible uses for a dinky fork-lifting contraption as the estates were set ablaze and the shops looted...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Location:Spotted 19.00 hours outside the Ten bells Bow

Pieterson 50 Bell 100

2011-08-01T10:55:00.005+01:00

Trent bridge innit

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Where the Bodies are Buried, Chris Brookmyre Review

2011-07-28T10:25:00.012+01:00

Christopher Brookmyre made his name peddling furiously satirical, feverishly funny and deliriously over the top action/thriller/heist novels. They are singularly excellent. Even the one about how a wee nerdy school boy struggles to save the day when faced with inter-dimensional daemons intent on breaking through from their hellish reality into ours and horrendously, systematically murdering a coach load of his ballsy Glaswegian classmates at a highland retreat.

In fact particularly that one.

Admittedly – that’s quite a hyperbolic opening gambit - but the quality of his work speaks for itself. He has not unfairly been called the UK’s answer to Carl Hiassen (our boy is better) and picking up a Brookmyre meant you were going to get some of the most crackling, sparky, politicised, angry dialogue. You’d also likely get some form of horrific, mutilating death sequence; a wee bit of romance, some lovingly crafted characters and several pairs of stained trousers as you snort your beverage of choice out your nose in laughter as you sit on the bus.

Then, this summer, we were introduced to Chris Brookmyre. A shortened name, and a shorter novel - and one which caused ripples of concern from his die hard fanbase trumpeted, as it was, as a straight novel – “a big new beginning”.

Our main character is Detective Catherine McLeod who was always taught that in Glesga, they don’t do whodunit. They do can’t-miss-whodunit. The book starts with the murder. Either way McLeod looks at it, she recognises that the discovery of a dead drug-dealer in a back alley is merely a portent of further deaths to come. Elsewhere in the city, aspiring actress Jasmine Sharp is reluctantly – and incompetently – earning a crust working for her uncle Jim’s private investigation business. When Jim goes missing, Jasmine has to take on the investigator mantle for real, and her only lead points to Glen Fallan, a gangland enforcer and professional assassin whose reputation is rendered only slightly less terrifying by having been dead for twenty years.

Problem is I never really bought McLeod – a woman we find precariously balancing her life as the departments' Grade A collar feeler with the demands of a 21st century family. I’m perhaps being unkind; I know that this is the sort of expositional stuff that needs to be included for the sake of roundness of character – particularly at the beginning of what is hoped will be a long, multi storied arc for the characters. It never quite rings true - her angst with her younger partner and how her job was pushing him away, her anger at being overlooked for promotion and, most damagingly, the hatred she feels towards Fallan (the ex gangster) as a result of some expositional wrong he did to her family way back in the mists.

On the other had we have Jasmine. Our introduction to her starts as a comedy of errors as we see her desperately trying to blag her way as a PI for her uncle’s firm. She is fun, believable and well rounded. I think I will like Jasmine as we get to know her some more. The plot is far from byzantine but is helped by the perspective of two different sides closing in on the truth from different angles and it is all wrapped up, well – rather nicely.
So what do we get from this departure of style? We get a thoroughly serviceable crime novel.
It is darker – not overtly for laughs - and its pacing is relentless; I ate this up in a matter of hours. There are moments of gritty humour and smart dialogue. Jasmine’s journey from arse clenching ineptness through to her resolution as a capable young woman is very pleasing indeed.

Is it more satisfying than, say, a Grafton? Almost certainly. Is it better than the Rankin? Maybe. Almost... Perhaps in those flashes of dialogue, in those instances of wry observation of the sardonic nature of both sides of the law, the very well crafted character of Jasmine and Fallan, the satisfactory wrap up.

Will DCI McLeod and (hopefully with her trusty sidekick of novice PI and grizzled ex-gangster) improve with age? Undoubtedly. And I think Chris should get to it.

But Christopher - please don’t forget Jack Parlabane. Or Angela de Xavia. Or the pleasure derived from a pant wettingly funny polemic on Thatcherism.

And whatever you do don’t forget bus loads of potty mouthed wee bairns and the face eating daemons.

Where the Bodies are Buried. Little, Brown. Available now. Priced £17.99 (if you are really bad at shopping).

Flick Golf Extreme! iPhone Game Review

2011-07-27T11:00:00.020+01:00

Addiction. Terrible thing. A scourge on modernity. From 18th Century gin fiends through to the crack addled streets of Baltimore we are awash with folk with questionable moral standards and their damnable dependences.

I feel compelled to warn you of a new and ominous threat to our children. This threat is clear, present and is undoubtedly liable to lead to thrombosis in your legs if you take but the merest taste of its elixir.

This fractious threat is Flick Golf Extreme! for iPhone (and iPad if that’s your bag). Beware.

This is a sequel from Flick Golf! Released in November last year to positive acclaim and it takes those elements that made that game un-put-downable and gives them cleaner lines, even better physics and an extra little crack cocaine coating.

The game is split into 3 modes. World Tour (career mode), Quickshot, 5 Ball Challenge. On World Tour it’s all about the leaderboard – you have nine shots on three different holes to rack up a score deemed good enough to open the next level (of which there are 5). Unlock them all and then there is the Platinum award set at a curve set just right to get the dopamine levels pulsing for the real addict. Scoring is based on a bullseye target around the pin – sure you get points for the outers and inners, but what you really want is a hole in one. And better yet – a perfect shot. The feeling one gets as the balls slides down the pin and into the hole was getting me really very excited. Really very excited.

Those physics. Whilst they may not reflect accurately the laws posited by Newton, they are quite simply so sensitive and responsive that within 15 minutes you will be starting to feel the mastery of swerving, spinning and floating that ball to the pin. And with that sense of mastery – that power – over an inanimate object you have deftly chipped 220 yards across the North Sea comes the key note to the “I’m just going to have one more try at that”.

And you will. Repeatedly. It will become a slow and creeping obsession. After missing a hole in one after your first shot you will be starting the round again. Soon after missing a third consecutive hole in one you will be resetting. And starting again. Before long and in hot pursuit of Platinum Award recognition, after getting 6 hole-in-ones and missing that FUCKING PERFECT SHOT again - your finger will be pressing pause and restarting like a pavloved German Shepherd. It’s that addictive.

The negatives - The Quickshot is the weakest element of the game – with skills honed on the tour, it becomes very easy on the earlier levels to effectively play on ad-finitum (holes in one, bullies and perfect shots gain you added seconds). This quite quickly leads to fatigue.

However – this doesn’t detract from its opiate appeal. In short – this game will haunt you until you finish it. Which will take some doing.

And if, unlike me, you have never before had the pleasure of falling off a toilet with a dead leg after playing a game on the lavatory at lunchtime for 30 minutes, then I can pretty much guarantee you will be a slightly damp member of the club before very long upon downloading this bastard.

Now please do excuse me. I need a hit. Just one more fucking hit...

Full Fat Games

Another one under the belt

2011-07-26T19:19:00.004+01:00

Roxy Bar and Screen. SE1

it was a Tuesday, I'd skipped a networking event, and it was 2 days before rmuneration day. When asked whether I'd like the opportunity to go for "a quick half" I was clear on my requirements: off the beaten track and somewhat understated. I wasn't dissapointed. We were taken to London Bridge's darkest boozer. Official. Though with a screening of a Marx bros comedy chucked in gratis. So not all bad.

And there was me thinking I had been to absolutely every boozer within 2 miles of work. I was wrong... Damn you all.

http://www.roxybarandscreen.com/

Sent from my iPhone. Ooh, get me

Predators (2010) Review

2010-07-09T11:20:00.002+01:00

A man falls unconscious into a jungle. What a rush. Then another. Plunk! Like dazed, heavily armed coconuts they land. And face off. Bristling. This is going to be great.

Yet as soon as these characters begin to speak it becomes painfully clear the script is a clunker. The one line dialogue delivered in various shades of gruff; expositional, devoid of spark and in parts ('when I get home I'm gonna rape me some bitches') so excruciating I am writhing in my seat with fist in mouth. Twitching.

It plays like a comic book. Stationary frames and staccato dialogue. All too clearly you can see the storyboard being lazily lifted onto the screen. Fine if they really pushed the stylised effort and played it for effect. Here, it just adds to a sense of disconnected imagery.

in 1987 Fangoria reported ominous rumbles in the jungle. Deciduous leaves and changing seasons. The fanfared arrival of a monster suit on set which underwhelmed. Now Nimrod Antal gets the latter right – the SFX are solid – but still fumbles the “we’re in a really hot jungle – only in the hottest years does it come” ball. We switch from deciduous forest in the autumn to swishing savannah grasslands to tropical bush with every change of scene. It might appear a trite concern. And maybe it is. It just got on my tits.

And that script. It just keeps clunking. Laurence “exposition” Fishbourne mugs manfully through his cameo. The big Russian reveals he has some kids. Our taciturn Yakuza hints at a past with blank indifference.

Rodriguez wrote the initial draft (though someone else gets the cred). It feels like he backed all the way off from this. “Yeah, yeah, yeah – I’ll produce this shit,” whilst quoting mysterious projects that kept him out of the Big Chair.

All in, this might have made an excellent hour long episode in some form of a longer story arc - as part of a series of BSG or Stargate SG1 scope. Royce might have a back story. He might be interesting.

As a stand alone movie stretched to one hour 49 minutes it feels underdeveloped. Producers: Recognise your audiences get ever more sophisticated. Particularly the fanboys. We can take a 140+ minute hit. Give us the details. Fill in the gaping void between characters with well written dialogue. Give us something.

Anything, to make someone give the slightest shit about the outcome.

Yes. A man falls unconscious into an alien jungle. Me thinks perhaps his ‘chute shouldn’t have opened.

Avatar

2009-12-22T11:12:00.020Z

James Cameron chose to trail Avatar utilising a PR program built entirely on a blanket of secrecy right up until 3 months or so prior to release. For a film so long in production and so tantalisingly full of pure SF promise it is not unfair to suggest that this was a move which ramped up hype and expectation to rather significant levels.

Not since Alien, Bladerunner or Dune has a world been so fully realised, so completely crafted; so tangible. Yes the story was weak. Yes, the Ferngully, Pocahontas and Dances With Wolves comparisons are accurate. Yes, the ending was a studio friendly dissapointment. But fuck me man - what a world!

This is work of breathtaking vision and dedication. That a man can talk a studio out of so much money to dedicate to the purest science fiction experience is one thing. That he delivers on such a technically impressive scale whilst making only minor concessions (diluted 12A rating, slightly derivative plot trope and an arguably over exec-friendly final set piece) is quite another. It's staggering.

And let’s face it, big Jim has always had the skills. He had me when I first discovered robot terminators from the future were real. He had me in 1985 when the walls suddenly transformed into less than welcoming xenomorph. He had me in 1989 when the ocean came alive.

And he had me last night when I opened Pandora’s box and let out a rich, tangible world of wonder.

The folly of Dubai - a city built on debt.

2009-11-26T09:27:00.003Z

seen from above, this
glittering relic scrapes air
our lasting folly

http://www.bloomberg.co.uk/apps/news?pid=20601087&sid=aoFe12bwzZ2M&pos=1

Låt den rätte komma in (Let the Right One in) Review

2009-04-27T09:49:00.007+01:00

Låt den rätte komma in

Stories that focus on the personal and emotional wellbeing of your average ghoul, demon or undead creature of the night have had something of a renaissance recently. Especially in Sweden in 1982...

All the damned vampires…

From Michael’s infatuation with half breed Star in Lost Boys back in 1987 through to Hellboy’s temporary crisis of confidence with his human associates last year, it seems that the feelings and sentiments of the bloodthirsty underworld are continuing to proffer a rich vein on which we all can feed.

And this year it is in a remote and desolate corner of Sweden where we find a truly compelling example of a tale of loneliness, isolation and the sweet possibility of salvation.
“Squeal. Squeal like a pig.”

Oskar, played brilliantly by Kåre Hedebrant, is a twelve year old boy whom we first meet repeatedly acting out revenge fantasies in the communal area of his block of flats. His knife, hidden under his bed as he sleeps, the focus of his impotent desire to resist his tormentors at school.

The arrival in the middle of the night of Eli – a raven haired, quietly spoken peculiarity - provides the tantalising possibility for change. Oskar quickly becomes fascinated with her; failing to heed and indeed gamely attempting to overcome her stark warning on this first meeting where she confirms that they can not be friends.

The relationship that forms is one of aching earnest as two characters increasingly isolated find solace together. Eli makes attempts to engage in normal pursuits – consuming an offer of a bonbon only to find it makes her violently ill. In return, she inspires Oskar the confidence to stand up to the classroom aggressor. Their relationship ultimately fused as the revelation of her true identity is made: “I’m twelve, but I’ve been twelve for a long time.”
By invite only

It is the skill of director Tomas Alfredson to blend these subtleties with bouts of violence, bizarre horror and scenes of graphic murder (a young man is in one scene nonchalantly anaesthetised, strung up feet first from a tree and bled like a pig into a dirty plastic jug) and all done with moments of touching humour.

Hoyte van Hoytema’s photography stunningly captures the white-out icy suburban scape; fully utilising the fierce streetlights and capturing remarkable contrast with the dark, impenetrable night; an apparently effortlessly ethereal landscape for the action. Long, static shots also allow the melodic dialogue to shine as well as adding to the building tension and the poetic feel to the whole narrative.

Personal sacrifice, a sinister yet beautiful romance: wonderfully portrayed and lovingly photographed. And, yes, that definitely means avoiding the American remake that has already been green lit…

OVERVIEW
· Tomas Alfredson (dir.)
· John Ajvide Lindqvist (novel & screenplay)
· Kåre Hedebrant, Lina Leandersson
· 15 rating
· UK theatrical release: April 10th

And again.

http://www.igizmo.co.uk/articles/reviews/1403-films-l%C3%A5t-den-r%C3%A4tte-komma

iGizmo Review

2009-04-16T11:59:00.002+01:00

Stylised sequence of events in the life of UK’s most violent inmate.

It’s perhaps symptomatic of our fascination with the darker side of human nature; our seemingly innate interest in learning just what motivates or drives your average serial killer, sociopath or good old fashioned nut job, which means that there’ll likely always be an audience for films which take the true life criminal as their main focus.
And continuing this line is Bronson; a portrait of Michael Peterson who achieved notoriety as an unabashedly violent inmate and took the name of the American actor Charles Bronson as a moniker more suited to the fame he sought in a bare knuckle boxing circuit.
“I always knew I had a calling”

The narrative is a collection of stylised sequences: Episodes focusing on his early days, his incarceration for armed robbery and rise to infamy via a series of violent attacks on prison staff and the period of institutionalisation at Rampton. This hospital segment, where Bronson spent long periods of time sedated to the point of dribbling incoherence, is shot in a large, light and ethereally photographed ballroom – a great space which allows the filmmakers to inject surrealist imagery flavoured with a hint of the institution in A Clockwork Orange; a metaphor for the increasingly absurd and alienated position that Bronson has engineered for himself.

Barnstorming

And throughout, Tom Hardy’s wonderful depiction is unflinching, menacing and minutely observed – a man who glories in physical confrontation, who revels in the combat (who prepares for a ‘battle’ in one scene by forcing a kidnapped and terrified prison librarian to grease him from head to naked toe). Hardy also depicts a more taciturn Bronson - all small verbal tics, quiet groans and mumbles as he ponders how to come to terms with a period of freedom.

Overall, the artistic approach can mean it remains difficult to sympathise with Bronson, despite some suggestions toward the end that the audience should. At times it fraternises with glorification and, though presented extremely effectively, the violence is rarely naturalistic and is often set to music, filtered or slowed down.
Yet despite this, and because of this, Bronson remains a visceral and visually poetic portrait and is a forceful addition to the canon of criminal biography.

Bronson is on general Release from 13 March 2009 (UK).
OVERVIEW
· Brock Norman Brock (writer) Daniel Hansford, Rupert Preston (prod.)
· Nicolas Winding Refn (dir.)
· Tom Hardy, Matt King, Hugh Ross
· 18 rating
· UK theatrical release: March 13th

Shameless self promotion again, I'm afraid:

http://www.igizmo.co.uk/articles/reviews/1207-films-bronson

Atheist Bus Campaign Debate Changes Gear

2009-02-05T09:39:00.007Z

It seems that that over 150 (overruled) complaints to the ASA regarding the atheist bus campaign was insufficient to stem a growing sense of indignant outrage growing in the hearts and minds of various UK christian groups who continue to get all in a tizzy about the heathens and their dark and disturbing claims surrounding the unlikely existence of a ‘God’.

And so, in order to vent this rupturing spleen of spluttering incandescent bile, three separate christian groups intend to launch ripostes on up to 300 buses across the capital.

One, The Trinitarian Bible Society proclaims thus from its online pulpit: “At its last meeting the General Committee of the [Trinitarian Bible] Society agreed to spend £35,000 on a poster campaign on the buses in London to display the text, 'The fool hath said in his heart, There is no God'”

Another (my personal favourite), comes from the Russian Orthodox Church. It states, somewhat recklessly, the more conservative of us might think, “There IS a God, BELIEVE. Don't worry and enjoy your life.” Which, upon reflection and when I really think about it, makes me feel strangely comforted and warm inside…

And, never one to miss an opportunity for a media sound byte, the Christian Party’s Rev George Hargreaves has jumped on the buswagon and is planning - in a bus lane near you - the following message: “There definitely is a God. So join the Christian Party and enjoy your life."

I advocate and vociferously believe in free speech, democracy and the right for people to believe in just whatever the bally hell they want to no matter how unsubstantiated, narrow-minded, inarticulate, safe or unimaginative that belief may be. I also swear by the right for people to discuss, debate and disagree amicably and reasonably with each other.

I also believe that the original adverts (still running round my neck of the woods) are a great example of this freedom; actively encouraging people to engage with a cerebral and interesting subject; one that is often beyond people’s comfort zones; one also more likely to, however fleetingly, wake them from the fug of the soap opera opiate induced coma.

However, my appreciation of this right to express myself also extends to encouraging deep within me, a more base and childish desire. One quite simply of one-upmanship. That is simply to beat the 150 people from christian groups who balked at the damnable insouciance of the “There Probably is No God” lot and complained to the ASA.

And so, from the ASA website I give you:

"Before distributing or submitting a marketing communication for publication, marketers must hold documentary evidence to prove all claims, whether direct or implied, that are capable of objective substantiation"

And whilst it is highly unlikely that the complaints will be upheld and the adverts removed (though what a hoot it would be if they were), I still would enjoy imagining the ASA exec pouring over the wording “There IS a God, BELIEVE. Don't worry and enjoy your life” and fretting about issues of substantiation.

Therefore I meekly offer this link:
http://www.asa.org.uk/asa/how_to_complain/complaints_form/

and ask that we double the complaints tally. Let’s wait for next week, register our gentle mockery and move this forwards some more…

the interests of impartiality, some further reading for you:
http://www.trinitarianbiblesociety.org/
www.christianparty.org.uk/ ]

Snow joke attack

2009-02-02T14:09:00.001Z

93 Feet East presents The Winter Kicks. Review

2009-01-28T11:24:00.024Z

And so it was, once more, that a Tuesday - as virtuous and honest a school night as you are likely to find – saw me not ensconced comfortably in the front room of my warm and loving bat cave, but outside another east London venue in the mizzle; drinking fizzy pish, smoking a cigarette and preparing to watch live music.

93 Feet East was presenting Winter Kicks with another three bands playing in the main hall. £3 earned me my stamp and we were ready. Well, ready in the 'slightly late' sense of the word arriving, as we did, already 3 pints of your finest Czech pilsner to the good to be confronted by the middle of an energetic set by French act King of Conspiracy.

This was a band of contradictions – a livewire front man; preening, leaping, gesticulating – set against a bassist so statuesque, so resistant to any form of movement other than the skilful wanging of his fingers, that even when a full diving headbutt executed by his compadre landed (deftly, in time to the 4:4) in his chest he remained steadfast and resolute.

KoC were upbeat and had a solid, hard indie/punk feel. Rhythmically they were excellent. Lyrically and vocally they lacked sparkle, though – some of the energy seemed to dissipate whenever he concentrated on the mic and not his lead. Good effort, though, and all the encouragement I needed to get myself to the bar for more fizzy pish courtesy of the wife.

Next up, Circlesquare = artistic [borderline precocious?] Canadian. Moody and melancholic; an ambient melange of melody and image – an effect bolstered by dual projections either side of the stage. This, a band playing strangely elegant muzak, whilst the double barrel video of a bar scene unfolds: A quarrel between two young women escalates into violence, fisticuffs and hair pulling; the scene in slow motion and in sepia as relentless as the accompanying vocal. Another track plays, electronic, to the endless, seamless vision of a stark fluorescent road tunnel.

Interesting stuff, no doubt, though it clashed stylistically with the mood resonating from the previous band. Perhaps this would have been more effective in a more downbeat/electro line up.

And so it was, all too quickly, we were off; back out into the mizzle with our ears ringing with these echoes of ‘promises broken and potential squandered’; our pockets empty of all but a few shrivelled fibres of tobacco; headed east for home, late for bed...

Big Chef Takes on Little Chef review

2009-01-22T09:43:00.010Z

Breaking current affairs down in to its base components, I think it’s fair to say that only two things of note really happened this week. One was the inauguration of the 44th President of the United States. The other was the story of how (and to what extent) a Michelin starred chef could transform the waning fortunes of that bastion of British roadside eating: Little Chef.

One man (spurred on by outpourings of goodwill and optimism) is tasked with mediating and pacifying intensely militant factions. He has to extricate himself from multiple conflicts. He’s to deal with the enormous, crushing weight of expectation – to effect lasting, positive improvements; to change, damn it.

And the other guy? He's the Commander in Chief of the USA.

Over the last three evenings we have witnessed acclaimed gastro alchemist ‘Charlton’ Heston Blumenthal attempt to re launch the ailing Little Chef chain. I say ailing because the branch we focus on, Popham, is about as tired and soulless as you might imagine. Your own personal private hell where you are doomed to sit on a broken chair, next to a relentlessly drizzling and grey a road eternally eating cold syrupy pancakes and mechanically separated frozen sausages. FOREVER.

I thought the selection of Heston from the current smorgasbord of cyber-celeb-chefs to do the whole “reinvention” ting - normally the preserve of old crinkle face himself - was an interesting one. Indeed, once Heston had been in introduced to the politico CEO Ian Pegler, I thought this choice was genius as it became immediately clear that Pegler wanted all of Blumenthal’s creative wizardry but at no cost to the bottom line. It was to be Blue Sky. It was to be miracle time in Popham.

Cheston thinks he better taste the menu first and so sits about ordering the entire menu. It’s not very good. His first attempt at an update consists of Lancashire hotpot with Oyster (traditional, apparently – just not for the people hurtling through Popham, it seems) and a sorbet with his trademark alchemic frozen nitrogen-esque smoking effect. Hilariously, all this hocus pocus simply lacks the sparkle that Pegler was looking for even explaining he expected certain flavours to ‘last longer’. Back to the drawing board for a visibly put out Blumenchest.

We then encounter an entirely unnecessary middle section where Hesto wants to secure the services of a real Little Chef employee. To be trained and then to train. The inside man. And, despite the only ‘innovations’ to the making of the breakfast were to use good ingredients, brush a herbed oil on the tomatoes and some more on the fried eggs, it is fair to say that she was a bit slow on the uptake, bless her.

After her nonchalant walk out, we then enter the final third. Breakfast is proven finally to be a success and the Pegler, in a spectacular back track, agrees with the distinctly-lacking-in-4D-technicolour-whizzbangetry menu that Blumo comes up with.

The show could have been two episodes – the entire section with our LC breakfast guru before quitting was flabby and unnecessary. In fact, it probably could have been just one 90 minute film.

Despite this it seems that, against all odds, Charlton has potentially set Li’l Chef on the road to possible redemption and a national roll out of his just quest for change.

And that other guy, that President fellow…? We're just going to have to wait and see...

Cupid Mistake

2009-01-21T15:05:00.009Z

Funny. The Perrry Bible Fellowship. Go look.

Doomsday (2008) Review

2009-01-19T13:41:00.006Z

It was when the squaddie “Spoonie” Witherspoon had been taken to pieces by a family of werewolves in Dog Soldiers (2002) when I realised Neil Marshall was about to be added to my Christmas card list. For, when a senior officer asks of the whereabouts of recently deceased private Witherspoon he receives only the droll, Wachowski invoking reply: “There is no spoon...”

Now, whilst it’s true that I’m pretty much a sucker for homage – the subtler and more obscure, the better – I did also appreciate the fierce wit and the gore splattered and pretty skilful set pieces that frequented DS; all the more impressive given a budget at the leaner end of the scale.

The Descent (2005) continued the theme; tight and funny ensemble script and then a steady increase (descent, if you would) into claustrophobia and fear. So I was looking forwards Doomsday (2008) which was yet again scribed and helmed by Mr Marshall. And thankfully, I wasn’t disappointed.

A killer virus, Reaper, has developed in Scotland. Facing contamination across the whole of the UK and the world, the London based government makes the decision to create a massive impenetrable fence along the original Hadrian’s Wall - sealing in forever the virus, the threat of global catastrophe. And 5 million ever so slightly irate Scots.

Twenty odd years pass. A survivor of the quarantine earns is a member of a law enforcement unit in London. She's Rhona Mitra; she's tough, she's taciturn and she turns out in tight fitting leather. This is a Good Thing. Of course, no self respecting virus stays cooped up forever and soon enough Reaper pops up Darn Sarf. A panicking PM and his sinister sidekick decide that the only solution is to send a crack team, headed by our girl Major Eden Sinclair, back over the wall to locate the work of a doctor who was working on a cure in a Glasgow hospital and who was left behind.

And so, off they pop - a team of soldiers with a medical expert in tow. First stop is Glasgow and a tense search operation through the labyrinthine halls and corridors of a Victorian hospital. From the design of the APC's that the teams arrive in, to the military tech speak ("Check your corners, people") there's consistent nods to Aliens; the bug hunt, the ratcheting up of suspense, the inescapable sense of imminent blood letting. When the action starts we're flung relentlessly into a pitched battle (complete, of course, with automatic rifles using the same SFX as the M41A Pulse rifle) between our plucky Englishman and an army of cyber punk NeoGoth head-the-baws from Paisley.

The battle and the subsequent capture and escape are all pretty breathless, and, in some instances charmingly ropey (the drivers of these “indestructible” APC’s, for example, are susceptible to being hit in the throat by a well targeted spear chuck – hardly the level of tech you’d take into a mid 21st century warzone) and this section is all Escape from New York. Kills, when they happen tend to be humorous (check out the BBQ scene) and rather… splodgy. This is also a Good Thing.

Phase 2 sees us escaping from the urban areas and into the wilds as our remaining searchers approach a castle known to be frequented by the doctor they seek. Before they can reach it however, they are picked up by some rather ominous looking fellows on horseback. It is clear that, around this neck of the woods, things are quite literally going to go mediaeval and Mad Max on your ass.

Malcolm McDowall pops up as a megalomaniac ruler of a band of folk holing up in a Scottish castle – living the back to basics lifestyle of a time circa 14th Century Europe. So unmoved is he by the request for him to share his knowledge of a “cure” for the virus, that he immediately rules that everyone be killed. This culminates in a fantastic sequence betwixt the demure Major and a huge masked marauder in a fight to the death in a walled pit. Beautiful woman prevails in brutal hand to hand combat. Brilliant.

All our plucky heroes need do now is escape the castle, locate a top of the range Bentley and then safely get back to the wall without being stopped by the (now fully motorized) band of punks from Glasgow. This final section is possibly the ropiest action sequence; at one point it is clear the cars are travelling at 10 mph. However, yet again, a series of satisfactory exits for our ne’er do wells makes up for it.

This pretty much sums Doomsday up. Suspend you disbelief a wee bit and sit back and enjoy. It’s what I did.

And, the moral of the story: Scotland is fucked. But, hey, with England saved, political opponents brought to heel and a new, leather bound leggy leader for the Glasgow punk brigade, maybe it’s all looking up after all.

And Rhona Mitra? Would…

Treatment Analysis.

2009-01-15T11:57:00.023Z

SCENE: INT. Office complex, somewhere in the City of London. January. The flourescent lights burn incessantly and a Sametime conversation begins...

Mark Temple/...

check this out:
http://www.sean.co.uk/a/journalism/careers.shtm
11:25:36 AM

Mike Sharkey/...
nah. i've changed my aspirations: http://www.mysheffieldjobs.co.uk/Jobsite/Jobs/1179420/Sewage-Treatment-Analyst-Jobs-In-Sheffield
11:36:03 AM

> is time to down size
11:36:13 AM

> a career nearer the bottom...

11:36:30 AM

Mark Temple/...
l ol

11:36:41 AM

Mike Sharkey/...
man; my dream job....! if only i had the experience :(
11:42:42 AM

Mark Temple/...

11:43:49 AM

Mike Sharkey/...
analysis. mmmm
11:44:14 AM

Mark Temple/...
jobs in Sheffield suck
11:44:33 AM

Mike Sharkey/...
and another thing: £11k a year making pizzas and kebabs? these people are the lifeblood of the system, man - the folk that fuel the engine room. they should be on, like, at least £15k
11:45:04 AM

> jobs in kebab shops suck
11:45:19 AM

> i feel an article coming on
11:45:33 AM

Mark Temple/...

11:45:34 AM

> found my job!
11:45:38 AM

> teaching people in Lancashire how to be beautiful
11:45:46 AM

>it's a challenge
11:45:47 AM

> but I'm willing to give it a go
11:45:52 AM

>jobs in nelson rule
11:46:05 AM

> other interesting jobs coming up...
11:46:30 AM

11:46:40 AM

11:46:47 AM

Mike Sharkey/...
who says there's a recession on?
11:47:13 AM

> plenty of jobs
11:47:18 AM

> article idea: "jobs for the [city]boys - how a buoyant service industry jobs market will see us through the financial services meltdown"
11:49:17 AM

> 1100 words
11:49:30 AM

> 3 interviesw with tyre technicians: "farquar didn't really adapt too well at fiist"
11:49:49 AM

> ...says dave
11:49:53 AM

> "but he really dug in and got to grips with all things a tyre tech should"
11:50:14 AM

Mark Temple/...
this one here still wins though...

11:52:43 AM

> hey dave, does this look brown to you?
11:53:02 AM

> yeah, looks brown
11:53:04 AM

> cool, how about this one, does it look brown?
11:53:16 AM

> yeah, looks brown
11:53:19 AM

Mike Sharkey/...

and this. does it smell of shit to you?
11:53:42 AM

> yeah, smells of shit
11:53:47 AM

> cool, how about this one, does it smell of shit?

11:54:06 AM

> yeah, this one smells also of shit....

11:53:47 AM

Boris on Bush. One Bungler to Another

2009-01-13T16:43:00.011Z

thanks to mr t

A toy story...

2009-01-03T22:24:00.001Z

Festive Cross Eyes

2008-12-31T20:41:00.001Z

Funny.

2008-12-18T11:42:00.001Z

http://xkcd.com/168/

Fenchurch. AW09

2008-12-16T21:51:00.003Z

PR girls. Some might say the scourge of modern journalism. And, hey, I might agree. Though, having found myself going out with one of them; certainly not when in earshot of the wife.

My problem with the PR girl is neither their ability to manipulate the news agenda to their own capitalist ends, nor with them simply doing the job of a lazy journalist. No, it is her innate ability to persuade me to attend the latest launch of somebrandorwhatever as they show off their next bundle of overpriced clobber to an awaiting clamour of media luvs that does it for me.

And so, last night - as cold and frosty as it was - I found my self at the Russian Studios, Dalston, for the AW09 launch for Fenchurch. And I was sold on one feature and one feature alone: Vino. Lots of it.

Admittedly; arriving late didn't allow me too much time to make a fair appraisal of the trends for middle of the road Britain next year. A situation compounded by the aforementioned opportunities for gratis boozing. And whilst I’m sure that a small percentage of those present had some legitimate stake in the entire enterprise; designers, models, Fenchurch-corporate-whore types; I’m also under no illusion that a fair majority were there only for the [extremely lovely] roast chicken and roasted sweet potato taster bowls. And the wine. Going toe-to-toe with a room full of well dressed strangers to bag that final glass of red kind of gives you that impression.

Either way; the room was full, the bar was drunk dry, and I’m writing about it now.

Chalk that as yet another win for the PR girl. Bless 'em...

Way out West. The Pondites go Prospecting. Quaglino's SW1

2008-12-15T09:24:00.018Z

So, after a series of false starts we were go: UCE class of 2001 reunion dinner was back on the menu, boys.

Of course, no such event would be fit for purpose without a long and convoluted arrangement process. That the destination for our chosen chow down changed in excess of a 108 times is not surprising. That it ended up, as we entered those final, financially febrile last 12 days of Christmas at a restaurant smack bang in the middle of [good value, down to earth pricing] SW1 certainly was. To my debit card it was, at the very least...

Quaglino's, I was confidently assured [by a man not celebrated for his Knowledge of London Restaurants c. 1990 - 1997] was once a favourite restaurant of Diana Spencer. It was clear however that, in her absence, it would be up to me to see how the place was faring since it's heyday in the nineties. And it started quite badly.

The website spiel should have read: "Quaglino's. Inception 1929. Reinvention by Terence Conran: 1991. Attempts at decoration since: 0" as our senses were assaulted by stone human sculptures complete with heads sprouting red roses, and everywhere; the all pervasive wash of blue neon. Whilst the dining area, down a set of grand stairs was an impressive space, closer inspection of the black plastic chairs and white tablecloths (bladerunner blue courtesy of the neon effect) transported me back to '91 when my bedroom was bedecked in black and red and this was the pinnacle of cool.

But we weren't here to take notes on design.The food, it has to be said, was better than the decor. The starters were hit and miss - as much the service as the content. My fois gras was pretty insipid, and the scallops lacked bite. However, a steak tartare was full and feisty and a generous bowl of moules were rich, wholesome and, I was assured by my chum, delicious.

Overcome with a sense of festiveness, I opted for the whole roast partridge which came with a rich and fragrant liver toast and pickly red cabbage. The bird was well cooked and, served as it was to a man spurred on by his third glass of plonk, was reduced to a skeletal carcass in no time at all.
Steaks and Lamb for my companions were enjoyed, though the service appeared unable to sort a 'slapped on the arse' from a 'burnt to a crisp' and compounded their errors by serving two plates with the added embelleshment of a thick, opulent long black hair. The head waiter was quick to offer redress and did so with grace.

So: £45 each. Not bad nosh. And excellent company.

I just hope that it isn't necessary to go to the extremes of Ms Spencer in order to have to avoid going again...

Haiku

2008-12-10T09:25:00.006Z

Circling a blackhole
Black tights and ballerinas
To dive, to dive in

Guardian news Story - the inspiration

The pond. Winter. 13.24

2008-12-07T14:09:00.002Z

Clapton is good

2008-12-06T15:04:00.002Z

BM by night

2008-11-24T13:50:00.002Z

The Mental Health Revolution Will be Televised [?]

2008-11-13T14:24:00.008Z

The producers of Horizon programmes over the years have a long history of producing thought provoking and challenging work. Lest we forget that this is the programme that first brought the mind bending [are-you-seriously-positing-11-dimensions-I-only-just-got-my-head-around-the-concept-that-time-is-the-4th-you-utter-bastards?!?!] notion of superstring theory to the masses. The programme that as far back as 2001 pushed middle England to the edge with the revelation that some of the active ingredients in ecstasy use might negate some of the physical symptoms of Parkinson’s disease.

So you can understand that my interest was piqued on Tuesday night as the series returned with the programme titled “How Mad Are You?” (BBC1 9pm, 11.11.08).
The basic premise is this: From a group of 10 people, can a panel of ‘experts’ via observing a short series of tests and scenarios identify the five members of the group that are currently clinically certified as having a mental illness....?

.... Ah fuck it. 3 words. It was bollocks.

2008-11-05T13:51:00.003Z

Fox Force Farknash: Brand/Ross - the final word

2008-11-03T10:22:00.001Z

Fox Force Farknash: Brand/Ross - the final word

Moore Lunacy

2008-10-31T09:54:00.013Z

Charles Moore, one time editor of the Daily Telegraph and frequent commentator for The Spectator took great strides towards making a mockery of himself this morning on the final interview of the Today programme on Radio this morning.

Listen in increasing agitation to the way he blusters and bullies his way through the discussion, repeatedly lambasting the corporation en masse for the actions of two of it's contributors.

The fact that everyone accepts what a twattish, objectionable and very ill advised segment of radio Sachsgate was, and that the generally accepted consensus is that the BBC editorial process must be strenghtened, seems utterly lost on Moore who instead obsesses in childlike black and white terms as about the waste of public money and his objection to the enfocement of the licence fee.

As Brand himself says as published in today's Daily mirror,

“Perhaps when the licence fee is abolished we will realise what we had.”

Brand/Ross - the final word

2008-10-30T15:15:00.003Z

"I wish Brand had left that message on my grandfather's answer machine!"
Kay Large (age 65)
Teignmouth, Devon

http://www.guardian.co.uk/media/2008/oct/30/radio-bbc-brand-ross-sachs

It couldn't be summed up better, methinks.

Mini blizzard.

2008-10-28T22:54:00.003Z

What a difference 2 weeks makes. 16 days ago we sunned on Greenwich park. Last night we shivered in the bat cave. Now is the [long, cold, hard, utterley pervasive] Winter of our discontent?

Fox Force Farknash: Dead Set (E4) Review. Warning: Possible Spoilers

2008-10-28T15:46:00.000Z

Fox Force Farknash: Dead Set (E4) Review. Warning: Possible Spoilers

Dead Set (E4) Review. Warning: Possible Spoilers

2008-10-28T10:58:00.011Z

Things have moved on in the worlds of the un-dead/fatally infected over the last few years. Since the fast paced reviosinism of 28 Days Later (2002), your typical self respecting zombie no longer heads for your jugular and an impromptu luncheon on your vital organs at a staccato walking pace. Remember those infected with Rage in Danny Boyle’s horror scenario? They positively motored at you – terrifying speed and red eyed and enraged gnashing.

The same, I’m pleased to say, can be said of the zombies that made an appearance in E4’s new series Dead Set (E4 10pm 27.10.08 and all week). They’re quick, they’re exceedingly effective at achieving a spectacular kill and they are as hungry for a plate of your slippy, steaming innards as any we’ve seen.

Penned by Charlie Brooker (co-scribe of Nathan Barley and a regular columnist for the Guardian) the programme focuses on the un-dead Armageddon taking place outside the media saturated - yet completely isolated environment - of the Big Brother house. What if, it postulates, the safe place you hole up in is being filmed multi angle, 24-7 for a voracious viewing public?

The answer is a very entertaining hour of TV.

We meet the action on eviction evening as the junior member of the production staff Kelly (Jaime Winstone) and her colleagues prepare for the live eviction show. There are already ominous signs that all is not well in the world as see fleeting glimpses of rolling TV news channels reporting riots and disturbances. But here, in the hub, all things are secondary as the fantastically arrogant producer, Patrick (played with fizz by Andy Nyman) focuses on the job in hand; an enjoyable inference that the hyper reality of one situation is significantly more important than the dangerous actual reality of another.

The housemates are all happily oblivious. The bickering, petty and intentionally mismatched personalities of all prior BB incarnations is lovingly recreated (Joplin, playing the elder statesman of the house, talks at length about his perceived responsibility to “make a difference” – to either disregard the medium of TV or to embrace it; to effect change from within. The response from the young female painting her toes next to him: “Do toes have bones?”).

Back in the hub, we see more of the underhand, cynical and vacuous elements of the Media. We watch as Patrick manipulates and connives to sway public opinion by editing the show to make his least favourite house mate appear sanctimonious. We also learn that even our heroine is not beyond the seduction of the media world, already having spent an evening having sex with another member of staff - a nod to the duplicitous nature of the business, mayhap?

Things really begin to crank up as the production team decide to go with the live show despite word from Channel 4 that they are possibly going to be pulled due to the escalating situation. Things come to a head nicely as we race toward the eviction, just as the blood letting begins in earnest. In a fantastically tense sequence as the gallery is overrun by howling creatures we have Davina interviewing the evictee oblivious to the carnage all around her and we have the piped screaming pumped into the BB house masking the real cries of terror and murder happening all around them.

I suspect more could’ve been made of this isolation of the BB house, but the final scene of the first episode is a great climax - the housemates waking up, still oblivious to all that’s occurred around them to realise that BB is no longer watching them. Their sense of isolation at its peak at the very moment it is broken by the arrival of Kelly escaping death by entering the BB house via the diary room.

Of course, she is met with media savvy nods and winks – a new housemate, “a new challenge”. But as the un-dead clamour at the door and one of the inmates attacked, the true magnitude of their situation comes home.

I suspect it’s going to be a pleasure to see this develop over the next 4 nights.

Vampire Weekend. Kentish Town Forum. 26.10.08

2008-10-27T12:51:00.002Z

1900. Saturday. Greenwich.

2008-10-27T12:50:00.008Z

A life of booze, parties and media folk. Bugger...

In Bruges (2008) Review. May Contain Spoilers.

2008-10-23T13:25:00.011+01:00

Colin Farrell. A name synonymous with mediocrity. An actor too often found playing characters so devoid of an extra dimension as to invoke catatonia (SWAT) or starring in movies so bad (Alexander) that his very appearance on screen grates violently at your senses like some sharp, jarring face grating machine programmed to remorselessly broadcast snippets of the Iliad at you in a faux Bronx accent as it simultaneously peels away your will to live…

Quite some surprise then, to witness Farrell play a believable, dare I say almost fully realised character in a film that most definitely does not in any way subject you to personal violence of the will sapping variety.

In Bruges (2008) is British director Martin McDonough’s first full length feature and, as before with his Oscar winning short film Six Shooter (2004), he is both scribe and helmer. It is this home grown platform which provides Farrell with a seemingly rather rare opportunity to break free from the mundane and serve up something a little more piquant.

Ken and Ray are hit men who arrive in Bruges at the behest of ‘Harry’ who has sent them there to hideout after a job which appears not to have gone quite to plan. It is clear from the outset, however, that such a baroque environment in which to lay low is no consolation to an irritable Ray who opines of Bruges from the off and repeatedly, “what a shithole.”

The fractious nature of their relationship forms the basis for some crackling and very funny dialogue as we witness this odd couple settle into their selected lodgings and taking in their surroundings. The central facet to their conflict being that Ken, played with brilliant world weary edginess by Brendan Gleeson, insists that they spend their time sightseeing much to the chagrin of his more culturally unsophisticated partner.

We learn that Ray’s frustration and building resentment is not, as may first appear, simply the result of an irrational hatred of mediaeval architecture. Via flashback, we see that Ray’s first ‘hit’ – the murder of a priest – was completed successfully, but only at the expense of an innocent life. Farrell handles the inner conflict of a man deeply wracked with guilt attempting to come to terms with his actions with pathos and lashings of black, black humour.

Back to Bruges, we are awaiting a call from Harry, played by Ralph Fiennes, to instruct them further. And when Harry’s telephone call comes he confirms to Ken that the deadly mistake of the younger man can not go unpunished and that the responsibility of meting out the terminal sentence will fall to him. In a nice counterpoint to Ray’s constant bemoaning of the city, Harry thoughtfully explains that he decided to send them there for a few days holiday so that Ray “has something nice to remember”. Before he dies.

And hereby is the crux of the film. One man attempting to come to terms with his actions through a series of avoidance tactics – the woman, the drugs, the dwarf – and Ray, his mentor; the father figure forced to make a choice between honouring his responsibility to Harry, or sacrificing it all to offer Ray (by this time suicidal as he recovers from an all night class A bender) a second chance.

By offering the chance of escape to his partner; depositing him on a train out of Bruges and thereby completing his betrayal, Ken awaits the arrival of Harry Waters to deal personally with the matter of broken honour. Fiennes downplays the more psychotic elements of Waters’ character. This is no Don Logan of Sexy Beast, all bristling violence and affronting menace, but a gentler play – a powerful and vengeful man reduced to puzzlement by the decision of a previously trusted friend.

Well, I say friend. During a lively exchange in the square (“You’re a cunt, Harry”) it becomes clear that respect is business based rather than mutually earned.

A twist of fate brings Ray back to the fateful city for the dénouement and the final chase and the gothic closing scene once more focus on the issue of living by a code; a set of values, and asks questions about the nature of redemption. Do you deserve a second chance? Can forgiveness be earned? Who decides morality?

And, to paraphrase the often incredulous Ray, why fucking Bruges?

Indeed, the backdrop of the frozen ancient city – awash with Christmas tourists oblivious to the bleak realities of the criminal underworld - provides a fine setting for the tale; this is northern Europe in winter – crisp, misty, enchanting. The actors also veritably lap up a delectable script and deliver pitch perfect and frequently funny and pathetic performances.

Even Farrell. I know: Somebody press the reality switch, please.

Some more. Day 3

2008-10-14T21:14:00.004+01:00

Day 3. Again.

2008-10-09T11:23:00.004+01:00

Day 3

2008-09-29T12:10:00.003+01:00

£2 and and hour late. But it's the principle innit?

2008-09-15T17:45:00.006+01:00

email complaint to National Express East Anglia
Sent: 15.09.08 17.48pm:

Dear Sir/Madam

Complaint: 08.10am Service: Clapton to London Liverpool Street

Upon arriving at Clapton Station in good time for the 08.10am train to Liverpool Street I paid via my Oyster card the fare of £2 of your English pounds. Bargain.

When the train arrived, the passengers already on board were already so crammed spectacularly into every available nook on the carriage that it was impossible for both passengers wishing to alight at Clapton to disembark, as it was impossible for passengers wishing to board.

This led to low key yet widespread scenes of distress and anger as people had to, yet again, enter into their daily round of barging fellow commuters out the way.

Now - I feel I must point out that I like close, preferably gyrating, personal contact with exotic strangers before 9am on a Monday as much as the next man but, needless to say, I was unable to get on the train.

Putting this down to merely a one-off I, and many other passengers unable to board their chosen train (upto 40 people, perhaps), gamely waited for the next service (08.28am).

Alas, I have to report, that it was a carbon copy repeat performance of the 08.10am.

The poor, caged, trapped and desperate commuters on the train were taking the brief opportunity of the opening doors at Clapton to gasp like suffocating wildebeest at the cool morning air.

Needless to say, I was unable to get on the train.

So. I accepted defeat, left Clapton station and endured the usual 50 minute drive to Liverpool Street on a bus. I was late for work to the tune of 1 hour.

This upsets and angers my boss.

I'd love to know who mismanages your schedule and why insufficient train carriages are put on at peak times.

I'd also like my £2 English pounds back - How will you reimburse me?

Yours faithfully

Another view from The Pond

2008-09-09T16:35:00.003+01:00

Back door vista from bedroom at new gaff

A view from The Pond

2008-09-09T16:05:00.003+01:00

Front door vista at the new gaff...

Dinner. Last Night. Pig style.

2008-09-04T15:04:00.001+01:00

Birthday Dinner Mediocrity: Bangalore Express

2008-08-26T13:46:00.034+01:00

I'm sure that others have experienced and shared in my predicament. Absolutely sure.

And when I say 'sure', what I actually mean is 'hope against hope'. This way at least my vast and unending inadequacies as a loving and caring boyfriend, purveyor of fine food and wine and as general member of the higher order primates might not be so highly conspicuous to the rest of the planet.

I believe it was a much loved Great Aunt who, whilst eulogising - yet again - the finer points and idiosyncrasies of arachnid power and responsibility, once said:

"With great birthday weekends, Peter, comes the need for great birthday dinners." *

And so it was with thoughts of these wise and strangely pertinent words that I set about ordering the table to celebrate the birthday of my beloved girlfriend.

Now, I do have some previous convictions when it comes to the rap sheet of booking said tables. Some failure - Le Cafe Anglais. (Roast Kid: aka 'Skeletal Carcass'). Some success - Noor Jahan (FACT: inflation proof prices, credit crunch fans) and this always instills a modicum of nerviness to the arrangements.

However, being particularly organised this year and demonstrating a fierce cunning and subtlety rarely witnessed, I had managed to book a table - virtually at least (via a well known online medium utilised by a large amount of outlets) at a place I knew the wife was going to enjoy. Furthermore, I knew I wasn't in trouble for attempting to blow the deposit of the new flat on dinner. Splendid.

Anyway. The Bank Holiday Monday and the resulting closure of chosen hostelry meant that there were some fairly large obstacles to the elements of my plan (wine, dinner, wine, chat, wine, footsie, bed). Indeed, a hastily located alternative was required...

Step in Bangalore Express.

This is the team from Chelsea’s award winning restaurant The Painted Heron and their aim is to “bring you high quality approachable Indian cooking in a bright, modern and informal bar”.

The small premises robustly shout ‘modern’ – clean lines and an unfussy finish. The décor confirms the express element of its name without also being instantly reminiscent of the lack of quality that other fast and speedy [almost exclusively poor] outlets convey. It is the large section of double tiered seating that grabs the attention, however. I defy anyone to not instantly feel 5 years old and wanting to race up the stairs to take in some sub continent cuisine on the top bunk.

Still, furnishings are one thing, and fine food quite another.

Being somewhat boffins (I won the great spice ‘ground down’ Mortar & Pestle Championships in ’04 – I was immense…)* of the art of spice and all things curried, the wife and I are pretty hard to please and whilst the express menu is great for those people who might not have experienced ‘the Indian’ that often, we felt immediately that it restricted our experimental urges and tied us down to what was, when broken down, quite a limited menu.

So. We chose a selection of the Tandoori oven roasted dishes – small plates – to start as the selection was preferable to the tapas version. The chicken tikka was solid enough and packed a suitable tangy and creamy punch. The flavours on the lamb that I tried marinated in mint were also sound, but it was the quality of the cut of meat that had me concerned.

The lamb had none of the stringy sinewy quality of a prime piece of lamb (or preferably mutton). In fact, my worst suspicions were aroused by it’s uniformity so much so that I suspect (though have no proof to back up such conjecture) that it was poor quality produce that likely came from frozen (depsite some cryptic references to sourcing quality produce, rarely using frozen food etc).

Things barely improved for the main. I couldn’t resist the idea of mixing the calzone style pizza concept with a filling straight from the sub-continent (curried lamb and split peas). The plate arrived and was a monster though I must report the same worrying issue with the quality of lamb. I can, however, heartily recomend the spicing involved in the punchy, have-a-go-if-you-think-you're-hard-enough upstart that was the curried split pea sauce. Alas the chef had runied this by creating a pizza base too thick and giving it a good 5 minutes too long ruminating in the oven.

My highly revered missus tackled the chicken breast in a medium masala with some fritters and spinach rice. These choices forced upon her as we entered the 'express' part of the menu. In effect, if you want a standard curry dish then you can have 4 dishes and you can have 'em 4 ways. And that’s it.

Perfect for the time watching traveller. Not so great for us curry munching enthusiasts of originality. And about as average an end result as might be expected from anything with "Medium Masala" as a description.

So. Chalk that one up on the "Must Do Better" wall. Only 360 odd days till the next birthday and the next birthday meal. Am hoping the next year affords me many opportunities to do a Sam Beckett and put right what once went wrong.

But it won't be at Bangalore Express....

* not true

Grim Up North? A Typically Gentle, Refined and Understated Northern Rebuttal

2008-08-14T11:48:00.002+01:00

“We argue for a much more hard-headed analysis of the potential of towns that are struggling and an acceptance that at least some of them have little prospect of offering their residents the standard of living to which they aspire. Towns that were once in the right place at the right time, may now well be in the wrong place at the wrong time, severely restricting their ability to attract jobs.”[i]

I love the timing of this. It warms the cockles of my heart to know that when the Tories get back in (as looks increasingly likely unless GB removes his opposable digit from a major orifice, regains control of his house and begins to generally act like a leader able to win the next election) they will still be prone to the same procedural and administrative gaffes that have, until recently, become the favourite trick of the incumbents but which helped bring the Tory reign to it's knees in the mid nineties.

Yes, on the very eve that DC embarked on a tour of nine marginal seats in the north west [God's own country, no less], Policy Exchange – a right wing think tank preferred by the Tories at their Millbank HQ, announced its latest paper. Unfortunately for Dave it was a paper roundly condemning the efforts to regenerate northern towns and suggests quite openly that a mass migration south should be encouraged for the greater good of all the unwashed tykes struggling to scrape together a few lumps of coal and some dripping arguing that,

“If you remain where you are, then your chances of being unemployed are higher and your wages will be lower than if you move to a place that is better located for the modern economy.”[ii]

The temerity of the paper knows no bounds. As it builds massed ranks of evidence over its 60 plus pages it remains careful to offer redemptive caveats by the time the conclusion rolls around:

“No one is suggesting that residents should be forced to move, but we do argue that they should be told the reality of the position: regeneration, in the sense of convergence, will not happen, because it is not possible.”[iii]

How benign and deeply, profoundly anthropological of the authors to take time out of their busy and important schedules to deign to point out the deeply unfulfilled, hum drum and ultimately worthless reality of our positions north of the Watford Gap.

How awful that position is, and how thankful my northern brothers and sisters and I are to our esteemed academic cousins from the south for pointing out a possible route to salvation – the M6 or M1 southbound or by grabbing desperately at the coattails of a London bound Pendolino.

Bless their silly, pompous twattish socks.....

[i] Leuing, T, Swaffield, J. Cities Unlimited: Making Urban Generation Work, (Policy Exchange: 2008) p61
[ii] Leuing, T, Swaffield, J. Cities Unlimited: Making Urban Generation Work, (Policy Exchange: 2008) p25
[iii] Leuing, T, Swaffield, J. Cities Unlimited: Making Urban Generation Work, (Policy Exchange: 2008) p61

Morning attire

2008-08-09T05:14:00.009+01:00

More morning attire

2008-08-09T05:14:00.008+01:00

Bollard Hoodie

2008-08-06T17:04:00.003+01:00

Spotted in Dalston 4/8/08 First spot of a new phenomenom?

Pre Headingley Nerves

2008-07-18T14:03:00.003+01:00

So the second test at Headingley has kicked off and a shaky start that not even Pieterson can prevent (c Smith b Steyn 45) England 109-4.

As I am heading there tomorrow (in as yet undisclosable fancy dress) I will be unable to add my witticisms to the Grauniad's (always enjoyable) Over By Over commentary. Unlike during the 1st test that is...!

"Things To Enliven A Test Match That Is Drifting Towards A Miserable Draw In The Last Session On The Final Day dept. 'How about the Test is declared a mind numbing tie, but the teams have to have an impromptu match of Ten10 to allow a morale victory. In the nude,' suggests Simon Lampard. 'I'm reminded of a Sensible Soccer demo where the ball was replaced by a grenade that would, after a random passage of play, explode,' writes Mike Sharkey."

http://tinyurl.com/64scam (about 4 paragraphs up from the bottom)...

Ah. Recognition of genius at last.

Bring on Day 2. Looks like a long, hard day of bowling with our new secret weapon Darren Pattinson. God help us all.....

Photos of our misbehaviour at Headingley will be forthcoming....

King Lear. The Globe Theatre. London July 13 2008

2008-07-14T19:44:00.003+01:00

“O let me not be mad” pleads Lear to those sweet heavens, the stars and Jupiter itself mid point through the (rather long – 1hr 50mins) first half of King Lear at The Globe as the king inexorably descends ever closer to the precipice; the impending black hole of madness the result of him ceding control of the lion share of his land and money to his two eldest and most self promoting of daughters – an act based entirely and rather arbitrarily on who best orates their love for him.

And what feisty constructs his daughters are! Indeed, immediately upon learning of her fortuitous advancement Regan, the middle sibling, is transformed from a sweet and doting child waxing lyrically about her love and respect for the old boy into a sneering, snarling dervish and spends the remainder of the first half squawking angrily and pacing around the like some amphetamine junked hyena. Her elder sister Goneril fares no better, quickly instigating intrigue and deceit at every turn.

All too soon The Fool’s observation that the king made the huge mistake of becoming ‘old but not wise’ resonating astutely – a counsel Lear might have done well to listen to before the curtain call.

The increasing sense of frustration and befuddlement and barely concealed rage of the eponymous leader in the scene where the Regan and Goneril witter down his allowed retinue of knights from 100 to 1 in a fearsome tag team effort is delightfully observed by David Calder (who, it has to be said does a sterling job throughout of depicting a mans decline into insanity).

The conniving and vengeful bastard Edmund is richly presented here too though it is Edgar (the legitimate brother), particularly during his own descent into faked madness (“Poor Tom is cold”) who leaves more of an impression.

All in – ‘twas an excellent way to spend a fiver on a beautiful sunny day in the open air theatre. Yes, it might have been the heat in The Yard rather than the overarching drama of the tragedy unfolding before them that lead to three separate instances of ladies fainting dramatically to the floor – all Elizabethan in their fragility. And yes – I departed with a kick arse case of backache the result of standing still for over nearly three hours (cured by a pint of Harvey’s best at The Market Porter fear not).

Even so, I shan’t have a bad word said about my second trip to The Globe. For that way my friends, madness surely lies…

Millenium Bridge looking south - St Pauls to Tate

2008-07-13T20:39:00.004+01:00

The Globe. King Lear

2008-07-13T20:36:00.003+01:00

The king is about to be driven to distraction by his daughters. Ill deserving hags that they are...

Thames by Sunday eve sunset

2008-07-13T20:19:00.004+01:00

Post King Lear scene set

Luan Marie. All pensive and thoughtful and stuff...

2008-07-09T13:56:00.003+01:00

Je t'aime xx

Footwear Today - Mike Sharkey's Portfolio of work Volume I

2008-07-08T15:31:00.002+01:00

Damned shameless self promotion in the form of a collection of the best from a recent stint as editor of a trade magazine. All things feet, people...

Editorial introduction to April edition: http://tinyurl.com/63m5w8

Editorial introduction to May edition: http://tinyurl.com/55aua6

Editorial introduction to June edition: http://tinyurl.com/6m7rzz

Articles:

Review of a trade event including apprasial of styles and trends as well as interviews with vendors: http://tinyurl.com/5rdf6w

Critique on a pair of sports shoes with a difference: http://tinyurl.com/5d7yzw

Analysis and roundup of some innovations in the retail security market - scientific yet in plain english:
http://tinyurl.com/6cms8m

More technical terminology presented in an understandable way with no diecernable blinding with science; logistics in a changing marketplace: http://tinyurl.com/5fw7zv

Thanks for reading. Volume II to follow soon. Plus, as soon as I know my next random specialised subject, so will you.....

Sharks

Duck al' Orange

2008-07-07T18:54:00.003+01:00