I never ask you for anything - mainly because I have grave doubts about your actual existence - but if you could see your way clear, in your possibly fictional omnipotence, to making the new Batman movie as good as it's cracked up to be and not a heartbreakingly awful piece of bobbins I would be eternally grateful. I am prepared to give up kebabs, Battlestar Galactica and internet pornography for this to happen, which might give you some idea of how much I'm invested in this movie. Thank you.
It's out on Friday and I'm as excited as a kitten in a cotton wool store. The last time this happened, with Batman Begins, and the finished product turned out not to be the greatest superhero movie ever committed to celluloid I was crushed. Gutted. Devastated. I've watched it many times since and now like it fine, but after that first viewing I was bereft. I swore then that I would never again become so het up over a comic book movie because it's just not healthy... but here I am again, three years later, in exactly the same position. Mr Nolan, Mr Bale, poor dead Mr Ledger, please don't let me down. I couldn't take the strain. I beg of you.
Monday, 21 July 2008
Tuesday, 1 July 2008
Answer The Question!
Hooray, says I, for New Zealand TV. If you want my full, unvarnished opinion I'd have to say it was shit - the very first time I turned on a television in New Zealand I was confronted by Jack Duckworth's glum, pug like visage, staring at me across the oceans from the snug of the Rover's Return - but with one little silver lining, namely their news, which is great. News reportage is New Zealand is an object lesson in how to make a very -a veeeeeeerrrry - little go an extremely long way. Since life in New Zealand is largely free of the wars, terrorism, disease and government corruption that is such a feature of life in other parts of the world the hard working news hounds of the land have to extract the maximum amount of dramatic news coverage from the bare minimum of interesting events.
Take today, for example; I watched the New Zealand Minister for Education (possibly. I think) get comprehensively savaged by a Kiwi Jeremy Paxman, a verbal mauling that ended with a glorious ten to fifteen second shot of the minister struck dumb in front of the camera - sweating, shaking, jowls a-tremble - and completely unable to answer the question put to him. The director must have been loving it, and Kiwi Paxman almost definitely had a boner squirrelled away there under his desk. Luckily the interiew was being conducted via satellite, otherwise Kiwi Paxman would most likely have vaulted said desk, ripped his fly open and started teabagging the minister live on air. It was masterful stuff, great to watch for those of us who like to see governments discomifted in any way possible.
And why? What had the minster done to deserve being disembowelled on national TV? Nothing much, really. There's a school somewhere that's been allowed to fall into a pretty shocking state of disrepair. That's it. Not good, but the 45 minute dossier it is not. But I like that, especially compared to Britain where the people cower in their hovels lest bombs and bird flu strike them and their families dead. I think it makes for a happier populace.
Take today, for example; I watched the New Zealand Minister for Education (possibly. I think) get comprehensively savaged by a Kiwi Jeremy Paxman, a verbal mauling that ended with a glorious ten to fifteen second shot of the minister struck dumb in front of the camera - sweating, shaking, jowls a-tremble - and completely unable to answer the question put to him. The director must have been loving it, and Kiwi Paxman almost definitely had a boner squirrelled away there under his desk. Luckily the interiew was being conducted via satellite, otherwise Kiwi Paxman would most likely have vaulted said desk, ripped his fly open and started teabagging the minister live on air. It was masterful stuff, great to watch for those of us who like to see governments discomifted in any way possible.
And why? What had the minster done to deserve being disembowelled on national TV? Nothing much, really. There's a school somewhere that's been allowed to fall into a pretty shocking state of disrepair. That's it. Not good, but the 45 minute dossier it is not. But I like that, especially compared to Britain where the people cower in their hovels lest bombs and bird flu strike them and their families dead. I think it makes for a happier populace.
Wednesday, 11 June 2008
And Now, Sports.
NZ Farcelona 2 - Doddering Old Geezers - 17.
The Wellington Indoor Five-a-Side football league witnessed a clash of titanic proportions last night as NZ Farcelona, the ANZ bank collections team, took on a group of senior citizens only inches away from the cold embrace of the grave. And lost. Badly. It was only the Farce's second game and by God did it show - we were less of a football side than a men's synchronised running in circles team. To make a bad situation worse our opponents, who - as the scoreline suggests - beat us pretty fucking comprehensively - had a combined age of approximately 463. Some of them had white hair, actual white hair, and their immense victory was soundtracked by the gentle squelch of half a dozen colostomy bags. Despite their venerability, however, they were very much a force to be reckoned with, pinging in goals from all angles and distances while we of the Farce ran about aimlessly, collided with each other and, in one extreme case, started to cry.
I haven't played football in any capacity since before the heady days of Britpop and had only volunteered on the proviso that I'd get to be in goal, which at least involves less running about. Unfortunately, after the first three minutes saw me fish the ball out of the back of the net four times it was decided that someone with a bit more hand/eye co-ordination should replace me. Fair enough; I'm man enough to admit when I'm absolutely bleeding useless. And so I spent the remainder of the game attempting to win the ball off these soccer playing pensioners, only to have them nip round me with the panache of a young Georgie Best, hare off down the pitch and score another goal or two.
My personal high point: bodychecking someone's grandad and having him bounce off me like a pea off a drum. I'm sure I heard the gentle crackle of a splintering hip as he hit the floor but then he was up and away, seemingly unhurt. Golden generation, my arse.
The Wellington Indoor Five-a-Side football league witnessed a clash of titanic proportions last night as NZ Farcelona, the ANZ bank collections team, took on a group of senior citizens only inches away from the cold embrace of the grave. And lost. Badly. It was only the Farce's second game and by God did it show - we were less of a football side than a men's synchronised running in circles team. To make a bad situation worse our opponents, who - as the scoreline suggests - beat us pretty fucking comprehensively - had a combined age of approximately 463. Some of them had white hair, actual white hair, and their immense victory was soundtracked by the gentle squelch of half a dozen colostomy bags. Despite their venerability, however, they were very much a force to be reckoned with, pinging in goals from all angles and distances while we of the Farce ran about aimlessly, collided with each other and, in one extreme case, started to cry.
I haven't played football in any capacity since before the heady days of Britpop and had only volunteered on the proviso that I'd get to be in goal, which at least involves less running about. Unfortunately, after the first three minutes saw me fish the ball out of the back of the net four times it was decided that someone with a bit more hand/eye co-ordination should replace me. Fair enough; I'm man enough to admit when I'm absolutely bleeding useless. And so I spent the remainder of the game attempting to win the ball off these soccer playing pensioners, only to have them nip round me with the panache of a young Georgie Best, hare off down the pitch and score another goal or two.
My personal high point: bodychecking someone's grandad and having him bounce off me like a pea off a drum. I'm sure I heard the gentle crackle of a splintering hip as he hit the floor but then he was up and away, seemingly unhurt. Golden generation, my arse.
Wednesday, 28 May 2008
The Fun of Bulls
A couple of hundred K out of Wellington, halfway to Wanganui, lies the sleepy hamlet of Bulls. Yes, you heard me right. Bulls is a small place, claustrophobically so, the kind of place where you might initially receive a warm welcome before finding yourself mysteriously disappeared and reduced to cutlets on the town barbecue, soaked in special sauce. Maybe you might be the next donor to the mayor's special Belt of Nipples. Who knows?
We didn't stop, only passed through. But the fun of Bulls comes in spotting the pun-based japery the good townsfolk have indulged in to pass the long, lonely days out there in the middle of fuck all. To whit:
On the town gift shop: Collecta-bull.
On the police station: Consta-bull.
On the local branch of Subway: Submersi-bull.
And my personal favourite, the church: Forgiva-bull.
And many more. You've got to admire a town prepared to extract that much mileage from a pun, the dedication required to really get the most out of that sucker. Bulls, I salute you. From a safe distance, because Christ knows I'm not stopping there.
We didn't stop, only passed through. But the fun of Bulls comes in spotting the pun-based japery the good townsfolk have indulged in to pass the long, lonely days out there in the middle of fuck all. To whit:
On the town gift shop: Collecta-bull.
On the police station: Consta-bull.
On the local branch of Subway: Submersi-bull.
And my personal favourite, the church: Forgiva-bull.
And many more. You've got to admire a town prepared to extract that much mileage from a pun, the dedication required to really get the most out of that sucker. Bulls, I salute you. From a safe distance, because Christ knows I'm not stopping there.
Monday, 26 May 2008
Working For The Man
If there's anyone still out there, listen up. I'll have to be brief because I'm at work and surely can't have long before they come for me, with dogs and searchlights and lengths of rubber hose. Here's a summary of what's what.
1) I work for a bank, in an office. Strange, you might say, that I've travelled 11,000 miles to do exactly the same thing as I was doing at home but a brother's gotta eat, gotta pay the rent and that's all there is to it. There is, however, a strong possibility that I'm going to Hell. I dare say I'll see you there.
2) I spent last weekend in Wanganui (pronounced Wonga-nooey) and hereby declare it to be the Stourbridge of New Zealand. I was up doing the meet-the girlfriend's-parents thing, and very nice it was too.
3) Have now settled in to my new flat. My room smells of feet.
4) It's pissing down with rain. Apparently my life is destined to be eked out in perpetual winter. Am thinking of turning Goth.
5) My net access has been severely restricted, hence the lack of updates. but rest assured, my people: I'm still having a wicked time.
I can hear the snarling of Rottweilers and the clomp of jackbooted feet so I'll sign off. But keep reading. I'm still here!
1) I work for a bank, in an office. Strange, you might say, that I've travelled 11,000 miles to do exactly the same thing as I was doing at home but a brother's gotta eat, gotta pay the rent and that's all there is to it. There is, however, a strong possibility that I'm going to Hell. I dare say I'll see you there.
2) I spent last weekend in Wanganui (pronounced Wonga-nooey) and hereby declare it to be the Stourbridge of New Zealand. I was up doing the meet-the girlfriend's-parents thing, and very nice it was too.
3) Have now settled in to my new flat. My room smells of feet.
4) It's pissing down with rain. Apparently my life is destined to be eked out in perpetual winter. Am thinking of turning Goth.
5) My net access has been severely restricted, hence the lack of updates. but rest assured, my people: I'm still having a wicked time.
I can hear the snarling of Rottweilers and the clomp of jackbooted feet so I'll sign off. But keep reading. I'm still here!
Sunday, 27 April 2008
Call 1-800-GULLIBLE.
I was watching one of those mad evangelical Christian TV channels the other day, the sort where a perma-tanned, middle aged American gentlemen tries to convince you that the best way to do God's Will is to give over your credit card details as soon as possible. It was strangely fascinating, in a faintly disturbing way. The main thrust of the Evangelist's point seemed to run thusly: the first 10% of a person's income belongs to God. If you're fool enough to keep God's cut of your paycheck (here I'm imagining God as loan shark in a 70's blaxploitation movie, complete with the universe's funkiest pimp hat) then he'll curse the rest of your money and you'll generally have a shitty time of it. Therefore, you should get the tainted tithe out of your account as soon as possible, ideally by giving it to Mr Perma-tan.
Which is a really cock-eyed way of justifying a pretty sensible proposal. The world probably would be a better place if we all gave a bit of cash to someone who needed it more. Society would be fairer, people would be kinder. Birds would sing, Christmases would be snowy, Deadwood would never have got cancelled. But can't people reach that conclusion themselves, through thought and reason and the application of morality? Surely we should have got past the stage where we need to believe in God and curses in order to do the right thing? I can't get me head round it.
My hour of Televangelism did throw up one funny moment. Mr Perma-tan, with his pointy white collar and spray-on hair, was beseeching his viewers to pick up the phone and donate, to feel the hand of God moving in them, guiding them, ridding them of the curse that has held them back all these years (that'll be that pesky 10%. And did you know they take all major credit cards?). And he said 'Please, if you get an engaged tone, be sure to dial again.' Because that'd be right pisser, wouldn't it? If it actually happened and the Big Man filled you with his spirit, the full on religious awakening, and you picked up the phone for your conversation with the Almighty, only to discover that the cunt was dealing with someone else? It'd be head in the oven time and no mistake. Or you might decide to put all of your faith, belief and money somewhere else. I hear Oprah is very popular.
Which is a really cock-eyed way of justifying a pretty sensible proposal. The world probably would be a better place if we all gave a bit of cash to someone who needed it more. Society would be fairer, people would be kinder. Birds would sing, Christmases would be snowy, Deadwood would never have got cancelled. But can't people reach that conclusion themselves, through thought and reason and the application of morality? Surely we should have got past the stage where we need to believe in God and curses in order to do the right thing? I can't get me head round it.
My hour of Televangelism did throw up one funny moment. Mr Perma-tan, with his pointy white collar and spray-on hair, was beseeching his viewers to pick up the phone and donate, to feel the hand of God moving in them, guiding them, ridding them of the curse that has held them back all these years (that'll be that pesky 10%. And did you know they take all major credit cards?). And he said 'Please, if you get an engaged tone, be sure to dial again.' Because that'd be right pisser, wouldn't it? If it actually happened and the Big Man filled you with his spirit, the full on religious awakening, and you picked up the phone for your conversation with the Almighty, only to discover that the cunt was dealing with someone else? It'd be head in the oven time and no mistake. Or you might decide to put all of your faith, belief and money somewhere else. I hear Oprah is very popular.
My Current YouTube Favourites.
First, thrill to the inventive choreography of 'OK Go, on treadmills':
And don't stand up immediately after you've sat through 'Inoue Waka boob jiggle massage':
That is all. Interested parties (I'm looking at you, Glyn, Anthony) should try searching under 'Inoue Waka' where they will discover enough mental wanking ammunition to last them well into middle age.
And don't stand up immediately after you've sat through 'Inoue Waka boob jiggle massage':
That is all. Interested parties (I'm looking at you, Glyn, Anthony) should try searching under 'Inoue Waka' where they will discover enough mental wanking ammunition to last them well into middle age.
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