End of days, England flags, The Bad Lieutenant, Inception, MTV, Cannes and Tanquery Gin

Ok so it's been far too long since I last posted but times have been busy what with elections, Cannes and other interesting preambles to the summer.

As predicted United came a close second to Chelsea in the League. The ingratiating sight of public school boys, balding members of Combat 18 and no nothing idiots from the home counties swarming around West London after their subsequent victory over Portsmouth in the FA Cup final was riveting. That their recent success has come at the expense of minor issues such as moral compunction, sporting value and community cohesion is clearly lost on them.

Not that United are any different. Maybe we lack the nationalistic sentiment of the Rentboys and at least our success is built on foundations funded by fans rather than Russian petro-dollars but ultimately our clubs along with the likes of Arsenal and Liverpool have become playthings of Sky Sports and banal tools who've never set foot in a football ground before.

With our soul long since sold it was with a heavy heart that I attended my final home game at OT for the forceable future. The recent comments made by David Gill have hammered home the reasons why I am morally obliged to give up my season ticket. Along with his pay masters: the Glazers and gallingly Sir Alex Ferguson history will look back on summer 2010 as the final nail in the coffin of United as we once knew it. The club may continue for many years to come as a totally separate entity, providing economic riches for an American family living thousands of miles away in Florida and feel good fodder for Korean businessmen eagerly gathering in 24hr Seoul bars but the local community and ardent fans who supported the club through years of hardship have forever been cast into the wilderness.

On the subject of football who's looking forward to the World Cup? If by the World Cup you mean that football tournament going on in South Africa during the merry month of June, which sees England's population reduced to incoherent bigots, office idiots/women who've suddenly taken an interest in 'soccer', overweight white van drivers proudly sporting the free News of the World England car kits and endless montages of impoverished black South Africans playing football in local townships set to the Lion King score...then no I'm fucking not. If you are actually referring to the fact that come June a Manchester United player will almost certainly destroy England's chances of success (Rooney red card, Carrick own goal, Rio slap dash, Evra fighting, Nani winking ect...) then yes I fucking am. And because deep down I still love the ugly little cunt can it please be Carlos Tevez in the 91st minute to beat the 'Imperialist Enemy?'

Saw Hertzog's Bad Lieutenant last week. Nick Cage was phenomenal, the film itself was brazenly amazing, messy, chaotic, weird and compelling all at the same time. Best film of 2010, please check it out. Up this week The Killer Inside Me another film noir/American corrupt cop thriller this time from Michael Winterbottom: great name for a seriously good director (A Cock and Bull Story and 24 Hour Party People are two of the best British films of recent years.) Coupled with a gentle break during the World Cup during which time I can catch up with my Bergman/Fellini revision July is shaping up to be an exciting month for mainstream cinema for Christopher Nolan is back with Inception. Can not fucking wait.

Other than that I'm looking forward to spending a month at MTV towers, fucking off to Glastonbury for a crazy weekend and drinking plenty of Tanquery Gin (really, really nice stuff, can I get a free bottle for plugging it?) Ok so will be posting more frequently from now on, promise.

Stay safe people. X

i am hate

I went to see I am Love last week which was slightly disappointing. I'm a big fan of Italian cinema, especially the recent new wave of younger directors attempting to escape the shadow of Fellini, a fascist past and a dictatorial present. Recent highlights including Sorrentino's Il Divo and Garrone's Gomorra have underlined the determination of Italian filmmakers to confront political and social corruption whilst remaining true to the aesthetic qualities that have historically illuminated their nation's cinematic tradition. (A condensed version of Sight and Sound's lead article this month.)

I am Love was a detailed vision of wealth, human fallibility and the destruction of trust within a family unit set against the austere backdrop of contemporary Milan. That it was stylistically cold, clinical and exacting was not an issue in itself; indeed the strikingly singular atmosphere underlined the emotionless entrapment of a life endured under the auspices of Italy's super-rich but it also alienated the viewer from any realistic sense of empathy. I hoped for something more involving.

Nearly two weeks since I gave up all hope of the title coming to OT and a lot has happened. After beating ciddy in the 93rd minute (really quite sexually enthralling) and some other stuff going on United now sit a point behind Chelsea with two games to go. I still think we've fucked it though. All I really care about is getting the Glazers to die or at least fuck off...they won't though and I'm convinced the majority of United fans will stick it out at OT because they hold the club so dear. It's a tough habit to break.

So anyway not much else to discuss, Election stuff is stultifying, London stuff is just stuff and nothing has really grabbed my attention this week other than the nice weather and realising how good it is to drive a scooter around London. Till next time.

April blues, Skiing, St Moritz, and an election.

For the last few years April has been an enthralling month for United fans. Successful European campaigns, three League titles and hot spring afternoons getting pissed before FA Cup semi finals were the norm, so it was only a matter of time before it all went 2006 again. To a certain extent Untied have ridden their luck in recent years, Sir Alex has somehow kept the ship afloat with astute signings and powerful leadership (of course helped by the immense influence of Ronaldo and more recently Rooney) but if most Red's are honest with themselves it is hardly surprising to see our season heading down the metaphorical shitter before the end of May.

The history books will record this season in green and gold hues, for it has been marked indelibly by the mass opposition to the Glazer family, precisely five years too late. Whilst Rooney's form has been exceptional United have rarely looked like the team that cruised to the ECL final last year and it's not simply down to the absence of Ronaldo. As a team we have suffered from prolonged periods of injury and a complete lack of cohesion, whilst certain players have not risen to the challenge of performing consistently for a club addicted to success. My final year as a season ticket holder and regular match goer until our present owner's are ousted has felt like a prolonged goodbye tinged with regret. Following United in recent times has been fantastic, but looking back to the initial take over it is difficult to escape the fact that fans such as myself were closing our eyes to inevitable disappointment.

Even if we do bounce back next season a tangible part of our club will have been sacrificed. Swathes of longtime Reds have been forced to turn their backs on Old Trafford, with ticket prices and new-comers systematically destroying the last semblance of atmosphere and community that once defined our club. Even aways are now infested with AIG shirt wearing mongs and clueless Koreans armed with video cameras and I-Phones. Sad times.

Luckily I missed out on attending the Chelsea, Bayern and Blackburn debacles because I was off galavanting in the Swiss Alps a la Tyler Brulee (editor of Monocle who writes a bizarre column for the FT describing his insane St Moritz lifestyle.) Whilst I didn't meet him out on the slopes I did get the chance to do some sun bathing after long mornings of smashing up the powder. (Snow that is.) I also ate far too much Rosti; a fucking amazing dish made out of grated potato fried in egg. Switzerland may be the insular banking capital for the world's shiftiest cunts but it is without doubt, a very fine place to spend Easter.

Back in England summer is looming. Long evenings spent getting fucked up in beer gardens and general stupidity await. It's scary how fast the British public metamorphose into denizens of warmer climes the moment the clocks come forward. Pasty legs, goose pimples and awful clothes define our approach to the merry month of May. In better news Tit-Monday is just around the corner. More of that next time though.

Come May 6th we will apparently have the most important election this country has faced since the 1970's. Should be fun, though sadly the British public is faced with rewarding absolute failure or electing a group of brainless tools into power. Neither will be good for democracy and neither will drag Britain out of its present slump.

Till next time...

Back in London, meeting Eric the King and feeding plants

Been a while...but it has been a busy time since my return to civilization at the beginning of March. The film in Paris got wrapped and we had a farewell party. It was safe especially when Dita Von Teese turned up. Sadly I spread myself too thinly among the gallic ladies on the crew and ended up catching a taxi from Pigale back to the hotel with two hookers and a gram of coke. Or maybe not.

A highlight of my time in Paris was watching Shutter Island in a packed cinema brimming with French tension. Despite the mixed reviews I thought it was an excellent film accentuated by a first rate script, intelligent cinematography and Scorcese's usual brilliance.

Anyway so back in blighty and the honeymoon was over within a week. It's weird but whenever I leave England I quickly begin to pine for completely mundane aspects of British culture: draught beer, 'breakfast tea,' nice road signs and sarcastic self-deprecating humor. Even if I'm chilling out on a Brazilian beach or skiing in the Alps I clutch to a surreal, fictional image of London as some kind of urban paradise, surrounded by rolling green hills and genteel suburban towns.

Anyway since then life has been a haze of football, methedrone and green and gold...in that order. Events at Old Trafford have taken a bizarre turn with the world and his mother donning the colors of Newton Heath and rallying to oust the Glazers. Whilst the banner dropping and scarf twirling are all well and good I sadly remain unconvinced about our chances of victory. Since David Beckham wrapped himself in the colors of rebellion the protest has just felt wrong. Thousands of idiots continue to wear shit AIG shirts and fork huge sums of money on pies and luke warm Bud from the concourse at half time whilst sporting the G & G scarf. It's a bit like voting BNP and reading the Guardian.

Anyway I'm of the firm belief that the Glazers will hold onto United for the forceable future, throwing a couple of transfers Fergie's way over the summer to placate angry fans. They've already frozen season ticket prices for next season and encouraged members to join the fictional 'Waiting List.' If United end up doing well in Europe and winning the League again which looks likely, I don't expect a mass exodus of fans from OT. I for one won't renew but that's for financial reasons as well as moral.

On Sunday after the 2-1 victory over the dirties/bin dippers/vermin I 'found' Sir Eric Cantona having a fag outside the Manchester Hilton. I calmed my rapidly pulsating heart and walked over the the great man to ask for a photo. The combination of a come down and a strong desire to avoid being a twat meant that we exchanged only a few minor pleasantries, and I successfully resisted the temptation to hug my childhood hero and start singing "Let's raise a drink, a drink, a drink..."

Talking of come downs, Methedrone is suddenly all over the news. It's been implicated in the tragic deaths of a number of young adults and as usual the media have jumped onto a metaphorical band wagon of clueless outrage. The number of Reds taking a bag of 'Meeow' to games is now a depressingly common sight...instead of thousands of pissed up lads striking fear into the hearts of adversaries now all you see are balding men stumbling around gurning like idiots and falling over.

All jokes aside however I'm not so sure about 'meow.' Despite the views of reasoned organs such as The Economist, The Guardian and even The Spectator I would argue that drug prohibition works on the basis that it drives up cost whilst forcing quality down. As the recent Methedrone craze reveals, the moment a substance that costs less than a pint and is cleaner and purer than anything you can get illegally, becomes freely available all hell breaks loose. I've seen lads emptying packs of the stuff into water bottles and watched mates get through so much that it actually stops working. I've dabbled myself but because I'm a wise old sage it was never in huge quantities. Basically we humans can't be trusted, as creatures we are compelled to get as fucked as possible on any substance that distorts our psychological perception of reality, hence why all recreational drugs should be outlawed with immediate affect and Saudi Arabia's special brand of justice meted out to those who continue to flout the rules. Maybe.

Big week ahead what with a CL quarter final in Munich and Chelsea on Sat. I'm off skiing for Easter so am missing both games, but will be watching from afar with bated breath. Im thinking of booking a trip to Seville for the 22nd May...with a train to Madrid a definite option...but let's not get ahead of ourselves. Yet.

three films, paris, milan, boredom

For the first time in three weeks I have a few spare seconds at work. Since I can't spend this time watching You Tube clips of Shaun White tearing up the 2010 Winter Olympics or listening to Rinse FM podcasts my only options are Redissue, The Guardian website and Blogger.

Another great result on Wednesday despite a relatively average display. I love Italy and have a great respect for AC Milan supporters who have always shown solid backing for their team whilst mixing well with United fans. Can't help but feel slightly deflated however, five years ago a victory at the San Siro would have felt amazing, but without wanting to appear spoilt the whole Champions League format now feels staid and repetitive. With the same teams, the same city's featuring every year much of the mystique and allure of European competition has been extinguished by overly long group stages and the dominance of top clubs. The premier European competition has created a gulf between the haves and have nots in domestic leagues and UEFA should focus more on spreading the financial rewards throughout European football.

Last night I watched three films because I'm a boring fuck and had nothing else to do whilst waiting for my washing. The Hughes brothers' Dead Presidents was an evocative portrayal of New York in the 60's and 70's highlighting the effects of the Vietnam War on black soldiers returning to their increasingly fraught neighborhoods. Ridley Scott's American Gangster clearly riffed off the themes explored in the movie, and Chris Tucker's performance as a syphilitic junkie was particularly intriguing. Think Rush Hour crossed with Boys in the Hood, with a sprinkling of Apocalypse Now.

Next up was The September Issue, a documentary charting the creation of Vogue Magazine's most important publication of the year, coming as it does in the wake of various fashion weeks heralding the transition of Summer to Winter. This was more a character study of the notorious editor Anna Wintour than a serious analysis of a magazine's inner workings, and in many ways it played well. Wintour herself was portrayed as a deceptively ironic version of her media self whilst her large band of sycophants and pretentious no-marks struggled valiantly to satisfy her starchy demands.

One telling line however, exposed the limitations of the entire project whilst also highlighting the narrowness of subject matter. Sienna Miller (who eventually featured on the subject's front cover) remarks on entering Vogue House: "This is like some kind of girlie heaven" and indeed, if you actually enjoy watching slightly nauseating women drinking Starbucks, folding dresses and getting angry with over hyped Italian photographers then you're either a twenty something female or two pennies short of an eight bob note. Ultimately The September Issue acts as a celebration of all things banal and petty, a fashionistas dream, in which a host of drama-queens and annoying feminists flit between a series of iconic cities, deluding themselves into believing the fantastical web of lies it is their job to spin.

Finally, and because I'm in Paris, it was La Haine. Perhaps the antithesis to The September Issue, this was the second time I had watched the hard hitting French snapshot of life in a Parisian 'hood.' Some of the scenes in the film continue to blow the mind, especially the aerial ride out of an estate window, over a courtyard and then soaring up towards the city skyline set to KRS-One remixed with Edith Piaf. Director Mathieu Kassovitz apparently used a hot air balloon to achieve this mesmerizing shot, which if true is an extremely cool method of moving between separate dimensions and environments.

Anyway, I'm acting in the film tomorrow so best be on my way, look forward to getting back on the blog once I'm home next weekend. Tootle pip...

the land of 8 euro beer and making a film

Am two weeks into my 25 day stint in Paris winging it as part of a film crew. Keeping things close to the chest...it's long a fuck but in some senses hugely rewarding. For instance I've got just enough time at night, before I settle in for three hours sleep, to watch an episode of Trailer Park Boys, a genius American television show that has somehow eluded my eagle-eye until now. It's pretty excellent and has restored my faith in the cynical capabilities of the pseudo-doc comedic style. It follows two faintly ridiculous petty criminals through the daily grind of getting fucked up in their Trailer Park. Particular highlights include a deputy warden who's always half naked, the mindless celebration of guns, crime and inebriation and the fact that the lead character is never without a crystal glass of rum and coke, even when robbing a supermarket for crisps and bananas. Watch it.

Anyway, so Paris eh...what the fuck is this city all about. Firstly, to dispel an unfair myth the people are actually pretty safe despite a penchant for letting their dogs shit everywhere. But more importantly a beer is 8 euros in anywhere half decent, they eat way too many carbs and the whole place just reminds me of a bland London. The weather is the same, the vibe is not markedly different, the buildings are slightly nicer...but honestly why women quiver at the very enunciation of those two syllables is beyond me. I'm writing this on Valentine's Day, just as thousands of men sit glumly on the Eurostar heading back to London through Kent, wondering why they parted with a weeks wages to service their better half in a two star hotel behind the Gare du Nord. Sickening.

Big week coming up, what with United off to Milano (a trip I've been forced to miss...will I ever get to the San Siro?) more film making and probably some other shite that's going to be interesting. On a side note, I'm reading 'The Longest Race' a blow by blow account of the Presidential Election in 2008. Both riveting and terrifying in equal measure it truly makes you wonder where the US of A is heading and how the people contending for leadership of the nation manage to find themselves in positions of such importance. Most of them make the Trailer Park lads look sophisticated.

Happy Days, Dad of the Year, trip to Paris.

Great week really. Wednesday night was something else. I've missed two games at OT that I shall forever regret: the night of the 50 Mibs when we beat Roma 7-1 and spent half an hour pre-match tossing full beer cans into their away following and now the Carling Cup Semi Final 2010. After a week of bragging and remarkable feats of public delusion (could Garry Cook make himself look like any more of a twat?) the Red half of Manchester reclaimed their throne from the blue pretenders. A truly excellent atmosphere at OT inspired a fantastic United performance, and it was all the more heartening to see swathes of Green and Gold scarves whistling around the Strettie after Wazza's 90th minute winner.

Closely followed by a terrific victory over Arsenal yesterday and United look focused and confident for the first time this season. I can't help thinking that the fruition of the Anti-Glazer movement is partly responsible for the improvement on the pitch: United fans have been galvanized and the thought of loosing to an economically buoyant ciddy on Wednesday was simply unthinkable. There will be dark days ahead, so it would be foolish to get giddy after two admittedly brilliant results, but it is heartening to see the likes of Rooney, Evans, Evra, Fletcher, Scholes, Giggs and dare I say it Nani, playing with pride and total commitment to the cause.

Two players currently in the public eye are Carlos Tevez and John Terry. Both have a taste for money (don't we all) and both have had tough encounters with United fans in recent times. Unfortunately one is a complete and utter cunt, the other merely a product of modern football. I've joined in with the fairly moronic anti-Tevez chanting this season, but despite his public spate with Gary Neville in the press and some superb performances against us in a lazer blue shirt, I still find it difficult to dislike the tenacious Argentinean striker. He was an excellent player during his short time with United and he scored some vitally important goals. It was the combination of Glazer induced debt and the worrying influence of his poisonous agent Kia Jorcabim (can't be bothered to look up the spelling) that precipitated his departure from OT in the summer and who can blame him for taking the rejection personally. Those United fans who have forgotten his performance in the 2008 Champions League Final in Moscow, merely confirm the sense that modern football fans are as fickle as they are thick.

On the subject of that epic night in the Russian capital 19 months ago, who can forget John Terry's treatment of Tevez during the fraught final minutes of extra time. Caught on a slow motion replay the Chelsea captain can clearly be seen spitting into the Argentine's face, hiding his mouth behind an upturned collar. Has ever such an insidious man walked on the football field?

As I write this I'm off to Paris for my first film shoot. Should be top.

Will keep you updated from afar. till then x