A Poem

I'm about to leave work
I can't wait to
You know
Just
Push through those doors
Today I spoke to a colleague for five minutes about things I hate
And this is the distilled version
in no particular order

Richard Hammond
Smug twats
Poems
People who watch rugby
People who call football soccer
Dead chickens (Scousers beware)
The Glazer family
Top Gear
Afternoons
Carling
St George Flags
People who appear on Newsnight
Girls in gangs
That Boots Christmas Advert
All Christmas adverts
Phrases
Manchester United Ticket Office
Wembley
England fans
K-Swiss trainers
The Daily Mail
The Express
Twilight
Men who refer to themselves as blokes
Blogs
Fedex
ciddy
laptops
most kinds of cheese
chinos
trying to write stuff
living in London without money
christmas lights
x factor
loads of other things.

So...bored and I copied most of these out of UWS. (United We Stand)

A long break and new films

It's been well over two weeks since I last made an appearance on the blogosphere and much of my spleen needs venting. I'm sure I've been missed. We seem to have hit the most boring part of the year, as people begin to obsess about Christmas and complain bitterly about important things like impending bank bonuses, two Irish simpletons with gravely misjudged conceptualizations of what constitutes a legally permitted hairstyle and the Prime Minister's apparent failure to master basic handwriting/spelling skills. 'Hip Urbanites' and media commentators now appear to be taking two contrasting approaches to the doomed month of December, either foaming at the mouth because large retailers have started the annual round of mind numbing commercials even earlier than usual, or (if they listen to Capital FM and shop in BHS) going weak at the knees for terrible ceremonies involving a band called JLS switching on city centre Christmas lights. The whole thing has become so turgidly formulaic that, as Charlie Brooker noted in his oh so witty Guardian column, even the offending advertisers themselves have started to mock the misery of a 'consumer' dominated Christmas by sneering at the poisonous destruction of festive 'meaning' with cringe worthy attempts at irony.

Where I work (sorry intern) I have had the pleasure of listening to two separate celebrations of wasteful, pointless celebratory illumination. Firstly there was the Oxford Street 'Christmas Carol' extravaganza, starring the cast from Robert Zemmics' new 3D take on Charles Dickens' seminal fable, who led roughly ten thousand complete tools in the world's largest collective rendition of 'Come All ye Faithful.' As this reminded me of that sickening T-Mobile karaoke wankathon advert filmed in Trafalgar Square over the summer, the less said about it the better. To annoy innocent people like me even further the powers that be shut Oxford Circus tube station for the evening so all the carolling fuckwits could retreat back to their miserable suburban bungalows in relative safely whilst enjoying the resolutely Autumnal weather conditions and thus disrupting my commute back to North London by a full thirty minutes. Ba Humbug and all that.

The other celebration of shitness and wasted electricity came only a week later as neighboring Carnaby Street was invaded by what looked and sounded like a troupe of sorry individuals who clearly thought they were getting 'groovy' in a new Austin Powers film. There were the crass, inexcusably faux 'Swinging Sixties' blowup decorations, the rock songs that middle aged men suffering from alcoholism or terminal disease in Richard Curtis films always seem to adore and a compare who sounded suspiciously like DJ Dr Fox. I say sounded because I was sat in my office having to endure the forced bonhomie whilst conjuring offensive images of all the dipsticks cavorting in front of Soccer Scene without considering the distinct possibility that they were almost certainly wasting a precious few hours of their sorry lives by lowering themselves to such iniquitous indignity.

Anyway on an equally angry note I went to see Harry Brown last Thursday and was forced to endure two hours of tedious, right-wing harping, which lacked any semblance of actual research or intelligent dissection of what is clearly an incredibly important but complex issue. We've seen the horrors of 'Hoodie Britain' evoked many times before, in recent films such as 'Adulthood' and 'Eden Lake' stereotypes were accentuated to the detriment of plot and effective characterisation. What we get here is more of the same, coupled with a refusal to answer difficult questions with anything but violence and retribution.

I should state now that Harry Brown starring Michael Caine is not totally woeful. Telling the story of an elderly war veteran meting out his own brand of violent justice to a gang of teenagers terrorising his London estate, it uses the uniquely grim light of an exaggerated urban dystopia particularly well, and builds a profound sense of oppression during the tense opening quarter. Whilst Caine is controlled and graceful, managing to retain a sense of believable pathos the plot sadly looses direction and honesty, tarnished by a poor script, lack of budget and ridiculous, 'so over the top they become comedic' villains.

My primary problem with the film was its refusal to move beyond fantasy and conjecture and actually provide some form of imaginative insight. The young men wreaking havoc on this miserable corner of the city are all shown to have endured difficult, damaging childhoods. The primary charlatan (played by the very talented musician Ben Drew aka. Plan B) is the son of a violent gangster whilst one member of his 'crew' has clearly been a victim of horrific sexual abuse from a young age. Having created these detailed and harrowing back stories however, the writer and director choose simply to ignore them; Caine's victims are blown away in a hail of bullets without remorse or regret. This ethos is distinctly troubling, in that the origins of antisocial behavior are initially identified, but then dispelled in favor of violence and a style of retribution lifted straight from the Old Testament.
What Harry Brown seems to be prescribing is the absolute condemnation of British children who have grown up under the 'protective' arm of New Labour. Brought up in a state that has chosen to cloak its poorest residents in the damaging swaddling cloths of easily accessible welfare, by single mothers living out miserable lives addicted to drugs, the world of Harry Brown uses broad brush strokes to tar a whole swathe of the population, salivating at the sight of Michael Caine destroying the tainted products of broken homes it depicts with such voyeuristic delight.
Not intelligent, not enjoyable and inherently negative, Harry Brown underlines the continued failure of the British Film industry to confront an issue that resonates well beyond the front cover of The Daily Mail.

Nick Griffin and other idiots

Last week was a bad one for British Politics. The hysteria and gimmicky 'water cooler' gossip surrounding Nick Griffin's appearance on Question Time, was like Obama fever all over again, only this time the vast majority of media commentators mindlessly rushed to voice their disgust and impertinent anger without actually bothering to address the events of Thursday night with any basic sense of proportion.
Lets be certain about one thing: Nick Griffin is a complete and utter catastrophe, and his appearance on QT merely underlined what a thick fucking bag of spanners the twat really is. His semi deranged giggling and idiotic gurning, that fucking terrible hair cut, his wonky eye, muddled arguments that made about as much sense as The Sun rushing out to condemn him the following day and a proficiency for public speaking that makes Chelsea's Joe Cole sound like an eloquent sage, everything about the man suggested that he is still coming to terms with being the odd child everyone took turns to bully at school.
But whilst Griffin succeeded in little more than suggesting he's one raisin short of a fruit pudding, those up against him, and I include 90% of the audience in this, were even worse. Endless questions directed at the BNP leader began with comments alluding to personal disgust which were then applauded and cheered by the kind of people who knit their own porridge and live semi permanent Yurts somewhere in Islington. Jack Straw, supposedly an experienced elder statesman and a highly rated public speaker was representing the current incumbents of 10 Downing Street, but chose to read a complete load of toss from a fucking script. Bonnie Greer was deliberately positioned next to Griffin in a cringe inducing act of political pantomime. I could go on for hours ranting about the BBC's lack of judgment, that young twat in the Newcastle shirt who asked the first mind numbing 'question' (How the fuck does he represent London) and the fat, bald cunt (clearly a BNP fanatic) who started moaning about about British jobs for British people, but I won't. They were all foolhardy idiots in their own way and the only people who emerged unscathed from the mess were David Dimbleby; who has a knack of reducing those of a self important bent into stuttering blunderers, and the man who rose above the follies of the mob and asked an intelligent and cutting question about the government's refusal to address the problems associated with uncontrolled immigration to arch blatherer Jack Straw.
As Mathew Paris argued rather well in his Times column the saddest thing about last Thursday was the sheer stupidity of it all. The BNP have an incredibly narrow agenda solely based around hatred, race, nationalism and bigotry. What they don't have are coherent policies regarding the central concerns of modern Britain: the economy, the environment, technological revolution and scientific advancement. Why didn't the BBC and the audience challenge Griffin on these kind of issues? He would have looked like a spare prick at a same sex wedding had someone questioned him on the BNP's environmental agenda, approach to the Free Market or the arguments surrounding embryo research. Instead we had nothing but a stream of rhetorical, phlegm flecked diatribes; whose sole purpose was to elicit the foolhardy racism that Griffin is already famous for. Just as James Delingpole wrote in the Telegraph last week, the kind of people who appear to have a coronary at the mere mention of the BNP are as singularly stupid and emotionally driven as those they claim to hate. With the supposedly liberal left there is no analysis or argument, just loud wails of outrage and shock that achieve the princely sum of Fuck All.
Anyway as expected the ensuing twenty four hours saw the entire viewing public suddenly morph into experienced political commentators eager to display their disproportionate disgust by writing things like: 'Nick Griffin is horrible' as their Facebook status. Brilliant, full fucking marks, its like the whole class ganging up on the weirdo who smells of piss and stabs girls with his plastic protractor until he does something suitably quirky and then over much mutual backslapping reiterating to one other what a freak he is. Ultimately the whole process just reflects very badly on the general public.
Oh well never mind, what could be worse then having to sit through an hour of indignant Guardian readers and simpletons berating a man who looks like Hitler crossed with Uncle Fester from the Addams Family? Hmm well watching that pile of filthy, work dodging shite from Anfield Road beating us at the home of dole scrounging, murdering filth was pretty fucking terrible, I can tell you. I'm still trying to get the bitter taste out of my eyes.
Until next week, tootle pip!

A month away, Barnsley, the 52nd BFI Film Festival and Komodo Dragons

Been away a while and feel bad about neglecting my blog and all three of my loyal readers. Well thank goodness I'm back. Anyway I have my excuses: work has been keeping me from doing much else during the week and yet another political party conference; this time the Conservatives up in Manchester, wiped me out for a couple of days. Politicians are an odd bunch, both the Labour and Tory party representatives were far more polite than other clients I have previously worked with and many seemed genuine, conscientious people . I won't start bad mouthing those who showed themselves up but there were a couple from both sides who are clearly nasty little fuckers, and some in quite high positions too. Then again, who would you rather have running your constituency? A friendly know nothing nob or nobette from the home counties who pays far too much attention to the Daily Mail and opinion poles or an oily, backstabbing shit with the intelligence and political acumen of Malcom Tucker (of The Thick of It fame) who has the courage to make unpopular decisions? Tough choices will have to be made in early summer next year.
Meanwhile back on planet football, after the inflatable mayhem at the Stadium of Light on Saturday, Liverpool are swiftly morphing into Manchester City circa 2007 (ie. a laughing stock undone by balloons) whilst City are seem to be basing their game around the example set by the Dippers circa 2008 (ie grinding out fruitlessly boring draws at the likes of Wigan.) United still look far from certain but are doing remarkably well considering some poor performances. Apart from finding out what Wazza and Coleen are going to call their first born later this week and the longed for moment when broadsheet journalists eventually cease talking absolute shite about England and the World Cup, I'm also looking forward to my first United away of the season next Tuesday, all the way up in Barnsley. 5800 reds will be there for a midweek Carling Cup tie against relatively local rivals in an unfriendly and passionately partisan town. With a low number of day trippers this is one for the die hards and should be absolutely fucking class.
Returning to the world of film; where the majority of my attention is currently focused, it is good to see that London, albeit for two and a half weeks only, has become the focus of the industry; as stars, directors, producers, studio execs and enthused crowds mingle in Leicester Square or down by the BFI on the Southbank for the 52nd BFI London Film Festival. I have so far taken in two of the gala premieres: Men Who Stare at Goats and The Road, whilst also enjoying another prominent release; A Prophet on DVD courtesy of the office. All three were great films, it was fun to do the red carpet thing on Thursda for MWSG starring a rather famous American actor called George. He was there in person and I am glad to say that it was a fun film about depression, mental disorders and war. Strange topics for comedy but this kind of stuff is always suitably close to the bone.
A Prophet was a French release set inside a grim prison. Moving, powerful, engaging, realistic and poignant, the tale of an illiterate Arab, the type of fellow that total cunt Sarcozy labeled scum a few years back, not only surviving but actually flourishing in an environment dominated violence and misery was heartwarming and honest. A must see on general release.
Finally The Road. If you have read Cormac McCarthy's 2006 masterpiece you need little introduction. If you haven't then get it, consume it and watch the film when it comes out next month. It's a damn fine effort from John Hillcoat (last seen directing Aussie Western The Proposition) but its Viggo Mortensen as 'The Man' and Kodie Smit-McPhee as 'The Boy' who steal the show. It's not perfect, and finds it hard to match the quality of the book, but its a beautiful film which nevertheless leave the viewer shocked, terrified and troubled. I will try to review it some time next week.
Finally just watched a program on BBC1 called Life. It's a ten part Wildlife series from that golden oldie nature god David Attenborough, and though I often view this kind of stuff as nothing but Sunday night fodder for lonely Estate Agents and those absolute chumps who used to be head boy at school, it was really rather good. The final part showed a number of Komodo Dragons (fuck off venomous Lizards) poisoning and slowly killing a Water Buffalo. They then tore it to the bone in less than four hours. These slithering reptiles could teach scousers, politicians and maybe even some of the unsavory types who feature in The Road a thing about cold blooded killing.
It's Liverpool at Anfield on Sunday. Fingers crossed they won't be turning us into metaphorical Water Buffalo as they did at O.T back in April. Till Monday, G.

Conferences, Enron, Double Pregnancies and The Godfather

Off to the Labour Party conference in Brighton this week in a working capacity. I'm looking forward to it, purely because I can sense many of the attendees will be going into alcoholic/painkiller/prescription drug meltdown. Also I hear Brighton is quite the place if you have a penchant for crap roller coasters, burnt Edwardian piers, Fat Boy Slim , gentrified coastal housing and rainbow flags wink wink, nudge nudge! I don't like any of these things so will stick to reading Wired indoors and drinking gin cocktails.

Wired is a fantastic magazine that is rapidly garnering an avid readership. Perhaps because it is so prescient it has recently entered the top three on my list of favorite mags (When Saturday Comes and Private Eye are one and two respectively) though this is nothing to get worked up about as I tend to change my allegiance to particular newsprint publications on a bi-monthly basis. Anyway Wired first piqued my attention because it appeared to discuss all those important things that the Economist mumbles on about; technology, science, business and culture, in a way that seemed genuinely innovative and involving. The fact that it is generally thought provoking and enlightening, even when the topics it tends to discuss (DNA manipulation, Cern, Twitter, Green technologies) tend to bore the fuck out of anyone with a vague social life, marks it out as special. It uses all kinds of interesting gizmos, graphs, graphics illustrations and faddy gimmicks to brighten the well written, easily accessible articles, whilst leaving the reader basking in the smug glow of someone who believes that they have actually glimpsed prophetically into the future. I'm looking forward to next month's edition explaining to me exactly how a woman who was already pregnant could subsequently get herself up the duff again only a month later, as some poor American girl was reported to have done last week. Actually really messed up.

Away from staying indoors with a technology magazine, I spent last Saturday watching Lucy Prebble's outstanding second full length play Enron which has sold out it's current run at The Royal Court. Also in attendance was Zachary Quinto (Sylar from Heroes, Spok in the new Star Trek) who I spied drinking a latte in the bar during the interval. Sick stalking! I was really bowled over by the play; a scathing fictionalized study of how hubris and greed transformed a small Texan energy supplier into a bizarre corporation devoid of assets, profits or any tangible direction. All it had was clever accountants and 'ideas.' I think Miss/Mrs Prebble has now become a new literary hero so watch out for a full length fawning dissection of the play over the weekend, along with my inexcusably late reviews of Inglorious and Rachel Getting Married.
On a final note watched The Godfather at the BFI on Sunday, in all its digitally remastered big screen glory. Perfect pace, incredible performances, iconic imagery, epic plot, stunning cinematography and emotional pull, it truly is one of the greatest films ever made.

Mickey Owen

Fuck me sideways, you couldn't really have written it any better could you? Unless you're a Bitter Blue of course. Five minutes into injury time, having just gifted City an equalizing goal after some exquisitely poor defending, and the little Welsh midget pokes home a truly memorable winner in front of the Stretford End. Cue pandemonium; delirious joy from United fans, salty fresh tears from the eyes of distraught Bertie's and Craig Bellamy running a full ten yards to chin a United fan who had waded onto the pitch. Fucking amazing scenes!

And all this stemming from the breezy right foot of a player who used to relish scoring against United at OT, who had once bathed happily in the adulation of the Kop and hoards of 'Ingerland' supporting numpties in the late 90's, an injury prone gambler who was almost universally shunned by United's support when he first arrived earlier this summer and perhaps most poignantly: a footballer who was deemed too greedy and too old by David 'Wheeler Dealer JD sports tsar' Whealan; Wigan's gregariously proportioned chairman.

Back in August many reds were quick to underline their total disdain for the player. Others swore blind that short of scoring a last minute winner against Liverpool in a European Cup Final they would never accept Owen as a United player, let alone the owner of our talismanic number seven shirt. After his dramatic introduction to the Manchester derby however the Welsh dwarf might just have cemented himself all but the most steely, anti scouse hearts of the Red Army.

I for one will freely admit that I was horrified by the signing of Owen; not because I thought he was a poor player, nor because of his past escapades with Liverpool and England. No it was the selfish disregard he seemed to have for players and fans at Newcastle that stood out. The stories of gambling debts and unreserved arrogance were thick on the ground amongst the Geordie ranks and Owen's attitude towards football had never appeared to involve anyone but himself. Equally his signing by Fergie highlighted a number of important issues regarding United as a club. On the one hand it confirmed that the Glaziers really are mired in the shit; selling your best player for £80 million and replacing him with an inferior product at a cost of precisely Zero pounds hints at an organization desperately operating in deficit whilst clawing back any sources of capital they can. It has also sadly emphasised Sir Alex's blatant disregard for fan rivalry and tradition. Given the choice between honoring the unwritten codes of United/Liverpool rivalry or taking a risky punt on an unproven star, Fergie takes the difficult option.

But oh how have I eaten my words. Humbled once again by Sir Alex and his footballing omnipotence I can do nothing but slink back to my desk to type out a drivelling apology to Mickey fucking Owen. What a hero!

Soho

For the first time in about nine months I'm back in full time employment. Monday morning is no longer reserved for Jeremy Kyle and staring mournfully at Sky Sports News in a pair of pyjamas. All those late mornings on Columbia's Caribbean coast only three months ago seem distant and vague, like a time when Manchester City resided in the third tier of English Football. Oh how the tables have turned!  The term 'employment' is also used loosely here as I'm working for free in that heady, intangible industry where people make films/TV programmes, hoping (well praying) that it will lead to something permanent and paid. Only two weeks ago United lost a competitive fixture to a club from a town smaller than Blackburn whose population could comfortably fit inside Old Trafford...so anything is possible.

                                Monday Morning style.

Anyway without naming specific names or companies (mine is actually very good!) I'm situated on the fringes of Soho; that thin sliver of central London synonymous with tacky sex shops, rainbow flags, excellent restaurants and members clubs full of whisky soaked/drug addicted writers/producers/actors complaining about the state of the business over lugubrious lunches and lines of coke on expenses. Well that's the myth anyway. These days everything is a bit more Pret a Manger than Quo Vadis and most people hanging around my locale have the suspicious aura of the desperate intern; all tight jeans and rubbish haircuts wishing they had got that boring job in finance so they didn't have to still live at home with their parents. Like me.

Soho Plugs

Talking about 'sad desperation' Saturday saw me take a trip up to White Heart Lane for Tottenham-United. I was prepared to exchange eighty hard earned pounds in return for an away end ticket from one of those truly despicable turds commonly referred to as a 'tout.' From my (sadly) extensive experience these 'men' are always uniformly hateful: scouse or wide boy cockney, dressed in a shit anorak and Velcro trainers, leering from the recesses of a gloomy ally with sets of teeth blacker than licorice and more disjointed than Portsmouth FC's starting eleven. They rarely acknowledge the anomalies of life that fund their seedy enterprise; the 'emotion' and 'passion' of 'proper' fans fuel their greed and they would gladly sell their grandmother for a mark up of 50%. Only 'touts' can claim to have more disdain for the paying customer than MUFC. They operate like ugly bands of trolls, a mobile phone constantly pressed to their ear, whispering sweet nothings to exec members of clubs like United; coaxing out precious away tickets and souls in return for 10% of the profit. Goes without saying that the snide cunts were demanding a ton for United's end and so ultimately it was a wasted journey, still it reaffirmed my absolute conviction that 'touts' lurk at the very bottom of the human gene pool; on the same level as petty thieves and wife beaters. 

'Two fackin' tickets to the premiere of Green Street 2 for a pony geez.'

Finally and most importantly of course, I saw two films this week (pilfered from the office) one shockingly bad, the other rather brilliant. How the Cohen brothers could go from directing No Country for Old Men to Burn After Reading is beyond me, but it really was a terrible load of shit (salvaged in part by Brad Pitt.) On the other hand Jonathan Demme's Rachel Getting Married was a brilliantly claustrophobic study of guilt, familial relationships and addiction stunningly carried by a mesmerizing performance from Anne Hathaway. Review will follow, along with a long awaited Inglorious Basterds appraisal.  

Fat cockneys, Notting Hill Carnival and a car journey of epic proportions.

Almost a week on from the 'horrific return to the dark ages of football violence,' as many sports hacks seemed eager to herald in their morally indignant press reports and hyperbole ridden columns and the whole tawdry affair has been pretty much forgotten. West Ham vs. Millwall we were told has always been a fraught fixture. Two rivals from the grim backwaters of East London, a history of fan on fan fisticuffs and a largely working class fanbase were supposedly the perfect preconceived conditions for the 'handbags at dawn' situation Sky News put on continual loop for most of Tuesday night. As some wiser journalists pointed out however, it was probably the questionable fictionalisation of hooliganism in terrible films starring Danny Dyer and Elijah 'I'm The Hobbit' Wood that led to the rather sad sight of teenage lads dressed in fake Stone Island running on the pitch, followed by fifty year old blobs of screaming flesh slightly resembling ordinary human beings but camouflaged by unbelievably bad West Ham tattoos on their gout inflamed legs. In the world of Nick Love's Football Factory this fixture is the ultimate titanic battle, the off field equivalent of Barca vs. Real; supposedly the two London teams with the hardest, most embittered followers all ready to get 'propa nawty' and throw bottles at one another whilst hiding behind a line of policeman. Sadly all they achieved were a couple of panicky Daily Mail headlines and a retired fireman in a serious condition after being stabbed by some chump, probably from the 'badlands' of suburban Essex. Though saying all that if this kind of posturing and conformity to ancient cliche helps scare off a few of the corporate flids who are rapidly sucking the life out of football then at least one good thing can come from the whole convoluted episode.

So this being a Bank Holiday weekend and all it was only natural that Notting Hill Carnival was hit, what with me being a Londoner short on cash with a passion for Jerk Chicken and loud Dub Reggae and less than favorable view of the Met. True to form it didn't disappoint, in fact it was an absolutely wicked day out with the highlight being the Sancho Panza stage which was playing distinctly Balearic beats. As the sound systems were shut down by 7:30 I was persuaded to venture to a house party nearby, and seeing a group of Nathan Barley esque twats heading into a ten story Notting Hill town house I supposed we had found our spot. Much walking up and down stairs ensued, recognising not a single other guest we began to question whether or not we were in the right location at all. Certainly pretty much everybody looked like a media graduate with a pad off the Fulham Road and our confusion was further exacerbated when a random guy tapped my friend on the shoulder and uttered the words 'Easy man good to see you here.' This from someone none of us had ever met. After an amusing episode involving a rather ravishing young girl spending ages in the toilet and us trying to guess whether it was a 'No. 2' or '2 lines' that were keeping her busy we decided to try and track down the right party. When said girl appeared to have locked herself in the toilet we concluded that it must have been Ketamine not Coke. So eventually we found the right party but we had a funny story to tell. Only in Notting Hill can one find a house large enough and with suitable levels of samey people to spend half an hour trawling through bedrooms and kitchens trying to find your mates.

Mind you I had an excuse for my questionable judgment. The day before I had traveled to Manchester and back for the Arsenal game with two fifty year old United fans driving the car. It was a day for deep introspection and personal reflection as I quickly discovered that coming close to pensionable age and continuing a vitriolic love affair with your football club does not make you a 'cool cat.' Equally playing Kasabian and The Prodigy at ear splitting levels whilst doing a double handed 'air' drum roll at the wheel of a 90mph car at one in the morning, does not lend fellow passengers a sense of safe security. There comes a time in every man's life when he just has to say no and give up on the joys of youth: the music, the football, the drink and the drugs and reconcile himself with growing old gracefully in the company of his dog and a wife who looks increasingly like a bag of spanners. These lads had yet to make that move. But they had some good first hand stories of United Euro aways; when men were men and football related violence was violent and United pulled off a lucky win against the 'Goona' fuckwits. So it wasn't all bad. Still it was like having a mirror put up to one's face and being warned: 'Keep going down this path son and by the time you're my age you'll be regaling some poor lad with tales of buying a roll over hotdog at Chelsea away in 2005 all to the sound of N-Dubz in the background.' Perish the thought! Till next time.

'Snarking' in the Loop.

Great article published two weeks ago in The Times Saturday Mag on the rise of the 'Snark' in our cultural landscape. It was largely condemning the media commentators, political hacks and Private Eye satirists for their snidey, sarcastic brand of humor as well as their constant diatribe of 'in-jokes' that people outside of London's media-centric circles supposedly don't understand. One example cited was The Eye's referral to individuals involved in extra-marital shenanigans as being "engaged with 'Ugandan Affairs" though I thought this was a poor choice on the part of Hugo Rifkind who penned the essay.
Now personally I'm a great believer in 'Snark,' it is rightly the leading style of rhetoric in the condemnation of public personalities and erring politicos in this country and is a far more interesting and vibrant form of glib public discourse than the usual guff cooked up by the red Tops and Lads magazines that presuppose a level of knowing on the reader's part that would embarrass a nine year old from Burnley. (Sorry but I hate that glorified BNP voting town/Alistair Cambell supported football club right now for obvious reasons.)
I find that the magazines/writers I most enjoy reading: The Spectator, Private Eye, Red Issue Football Fanzine, United We Stand, Charlie Brooker, Craig Brown, James Delingpole ect employ large smatterings of 'Snark' in their musings on the world and its insanities and this not only makes them enjoyably rude but also gives one an agreeable sense of separation from a world where people actually think Richard Curtis writes funny films and that Sky Sports has had a positive impact on English football. I would argue that instead of alienating the reader 'Snark' actually allows them to nod their fatigued head with happiness; safe in the knowledge that at least some brave souls haven't subscribed to this bizarre, bland culture of free-sheet newspapers, Danny Dyer films and Tracy Emin beds.
As well as all this it was a fascinating article because it highlighted just how powerful the use of 'Snark' can be when used correctly. (See Sir Alan Sugar's litigation against Quentin Letts another serial abuser of 'Snark.') Someone somewhere once said the 'pen is mightier than the sword' or something along those lines. Now tell that to a disgruntled Iraqi poet or a whimsical drug dealer on the streets of Baltimore (a la The Wire) and they would tell you to shove your pen back up you're metaphorical 'sword' and fuck off. Lets face it that's one phrase that's about as realistic as Burley beating United in a competitive fixture. On the other hand a quote such as: 'The Snark is mightier than reasoned argument or balanced judgment' makes much more sense and underlines everything I've been trying to explain.
One writer who loves a bit of Snark is Armando Ianucci (is that how you spell it I'm lazy today?) From Partridge to The Thick of It he presupposes the viewer's encyclopedic knowledge of everything from politics to popular culture, Norwich to shit rock bands and Julie Andrews to Bond Films. And he does it fucking well. Having just ordered 'In the Loop' his scathing satire on Blair's decision to invade Iraq with White House hawks, I'm looking forward to watching Malcom Tucker, Armando's fictional Scottish spin doctor and general cunt, tell someone he is going to 'Punch them into a prolapse.' Or something similar. What a character and what a film, it almost makes me want to become a 'Spinner' or failing that a useless 'Civil Servant' just so I can enter this strange labyrinth of political intrigue, bumbling ineptitude and inventive use of swearing.
You see, this film is a great example of 'Snarking' and its positive influence. It subtly and poignantly ridicules the incredible idiosyncrasies of modern Britain, a country effectively run by the editor of the Daily Mail, Rupert Murdoch and a couple of slimy political spinners ie. Mandleson, by delving into areas of political and popular life that have hitherto been ignored. I know precisely fuck all about English government, the electoral process ect. but I still 'get' Armando's humor. It's as much about the delivery as the content which is why 'Snark' is good and 'Snark' is right. End of. Till next time.

P.S Check my review of 'Inglorious Basterds' over the weekend.

The Big Kick Off

Two weeks since the last post and three live games attended, each one a separate microcosm of English football and each one somehow both heartening and depressing at the same time.
First up was Chelsea in the Charity Shield. I tried to make a point of not buying a ticket directly from the club having attended a truly woeful tie against Portsmouth the following year; never has following United seemed so distressingly hollow. Anyway come a drunken weekend and the fact United would be playing up the road against the odious Rent Boys and I gave into temptation, heading up to Wembley Way still pissed from the previous evening and eager to get my first 'dose' of United since January 2009. What can be said about the Charity Shield that has not been said before? Thousands of fans hailing from the home counties wearing both Chelsea and United colors. A unabridged cross section of fuck wits, jester hat wearing numpties and hyperactive children drinking far too much Pepsi. People with about as much connection and love for their clubs as they do for a night at the cinema. An inconsistent referee, a cunt of a man in Ballack and a wonderful injury time equalizer from the Spud Faced Nipper to silence the braying clowns waving their stupid fucking sticks of celery. People taking a friendly Charity games very seriously. Basically a day of mostly downs turned occasionally by the odd surprising up.
Pre-match we found ourselves outside the famous Torch pub, which incidentally United always seem to get these days, drinking a couple of cans. A reworking of the Carlos Tevez song portraying him as 'a money grabbing whore' was appreciated and passing rentboys were summarily abused without exception. Personally I quickly returned to a state of incoherent pissedness which in turn resulted in me lobbing a couple of half empty beer cans into various Rent Boys on the concourse up Wembley Way. They appeared to be quite angry, an emotion reflected by the three mounted police who grabbed me out of the crowd two minutes later. A swift bollocking and a fearful apology later and I was handing a crisp twenty to a friendly Red for a face value seat up in the gods. All in all a mixed bag of a day out that taught me one invaluable lesson: piss in the can before you throw it at a hated rival/enemy.
Next up a rather surreal day out in the midlands for Peterborough-Sheffield Wednesday. Having promised my younger brother (who is a Wednesday fan) many moons ago that I would take him to a game as a birthday present, he persuaded me to take a detour en route to Manc for a visit to the Posh.
My previous trip to this strange town stuck between East Anglia and Leicester culminated in me throwing up for twenty minutes of the first half during a pre-season friendly between United and the aforementioned club. Sometimes all this drinking just gets too much. Anyway more sober and less excited I enjoyed a KFC and a swift pint in the away pub (truly a shocking establishment that took a good half and hour to serve ten cusomers) and then it was onto the Moyes End Terrace with the 2000 or so other Wednesday fans for 90 minutes of 'Leeds Scum' chants and fairly boring football. Observations: fantastic ticket price of £14 for a student and £17 for an adult, opportunity to buy away tickets on the gate, a good loyal Wednesday away following with the usual mix of dour old men, fat middle aged men and designer clad, drug taking young men dreaming of emulating Danny Dyer in a 'Football Factory' style ruck. Also Championship football ain't great, terraces should be brought back to every ground in the UK, Posh fans are shitter than most and the wonderful discovery that Leeds are universally despised as a nasty, scummy club supported only by sheep shaggers, sister fuckers and BNP activists.
Lastly but by no means least Manchester United's opening day at OT against newly promoted Birmingham. £36 for my ticket, and a stadium as resolutely silent as ever, though Strettie Tier 2 where I have moved this season is still standing and still loudish at times. Rooney and Berbatov look good, as did Darren Fletcher, John O'Shea and Evra. Foster made a nice save and Owen fucked up a one-on-one. Birmingham should stay up. By far the best entertainment however was provided by the plebs waddling around the ground proudly sporting their new Chevron emblazoned home shirts. Owen 7 was a dishearteningly common feature, as were slogans such as 'United 18' 'Fact 18' 'I 8 Scousers' and 'Cunt 1.' Ok I understand wearing the shirt is one way of proclaiming you're love for the club ect but why not invest in a T-shirt with United on, or a subtle polo shirt with the crest or just a fucking bar scarf for fucks sake, why spend a small fortune on an ugly piece of nylon covered with sponsors including as the odious AIG and then waste even more money plastering official premiership badges on the sleeves and getting some idiotic 'hey look at me' load of shite on the back? Kids up to the age of twelve are the exception but after that it should be nothing but the odd scarf, t-shirt or wooly hat.
So two weeks of differing emotions, surprisingly good value tickets and the Vermin loosing on the opening day. But then again so did United back in 1996 before going on to win the domestic double with 'kids' and making Alan Hansen look like a twat. It's going to be an interesting year, I just hope it doesn't involve too much of Alan Shearer on MOTD or people wearing stupid clothes. Til next time.

Bad Blogging, a trip to Greece and the Massives.

Fair fucks to the lad who wrote a comment below my last post, it was on reflection a badly written and faintly boring article but then again the title of my blog might give the game away. Will try to do better this week. 

Managed to swap London for seven days in Greece on the spiritual Ionian island of Zante, an absolutely beautiful place with proper food, shimmering seas and cloudless skies. Stayed in a quaint villa with my family but we were informally connected to a bizarre beach club called the Peligoni, which is a kind of Eton on sea. The entire complex was run in a similar manner to a boarding school: staff who were all suitably plummy and universally hailed from the home counties were like prefects trying to control consistently pissed lawyers, doctors, bankers, lords and their trophy wives whilst their teenage offspring chased down their craftily hidden Marlbro Lights with bottles of neat Ouzo. It was an entertaining time. 

Away from the madness of Zante all kinds of fucked up things have been taking place back in Manchester. It's been some time since I've alluded to anything 'football' and frankly this summer has been a particularly tedious one as soulless clubs like Real and City, blinded by delusion and ambition, have destroyed the last vestiges of morality and parity that might have remained in the game. Watching the Barcodes getting thrashed by Leyton Orient and playing to 16, 000 fans at St. James' against Leeds has been welcome relief. The thought of those two clubs playing in the Third Tier of English football in a years time is a beguiling prospect.

Despite all this embittered angst I actually couldn't be more excited about the forthcoming season, primarily United's game against City in mid-September. United fans have for a long time laughed at City's bitter resentment fueled by our success and wearily ignored their constant stream of lies and claims that our entire support hails from south of the M25, knowing full well that the majority of those who used to walk down Kippax Street hail not from Manchester but from Stockport. Their actions this summer however, especially that fucking poster of Tevez in the centre of town, has merely highlighted everything that is wrong about their club. Fuckheads like Gary Cook, City's chief executive and definitive cunt, can't resist petty sideswipes at United, building upon the misconceptions and blatant untruths dreamt up by the hoards of desperate loosers gloating from over the wrong side of the M60. As a result City are made to look stupid, Sir Alex who has little time for local rivalry and fan division at the best of times is forced to remark on City's 'small time attitude,' and most importantly this year's Derby promises to be nastier, edgier and more passionate than anything for years with the exception of the 50th Anniversary game two seasons back. Fingers crossed City keep their shenanigans up because without them the following season would feel about as hollow as Gary Cook's skull.  

Oasis, rain, being jobless and Bungalow 8.

Ok so a pretty bizarre week of mixed experiences and emotions. On the one hand the early summer sunshine that spread through most of June has now given way to hail storms, grey skies and general misery. Add to this the fact that getting a proper job is almost impossible at the moment and you can understand why I'm pining for the sunny beaches of Columbia and Miami, instead of the utterly shite place that is a recession hit London in the middle of an utterly miserable July. On the other, more positive hand I had some pretty good nights out on the town last week to get over these mid-summer blues! (Is there such a thing or am I just a depressive fuck?)

So firstly the action packed night that was Oasis at Wembley last Thursday. Despite the fact that I have never seen them live previous to the gig, they are possibly, actually no definitely, my most favorite of bands, despite the fact that both Liam and Noel support Manchester City and have been known to make rather disparaging remarks about their red neighbors. In short I had been looking forward to this night for about two months and it didn't disappoint. 

There were inevitably various shit aspects to the day: I was hungover, there wasn't much sun, beer inside cost £4 a pint and the crowd was generally full of cunts from Hertfordshire who kept singing 'OASIS, OASIS' like moronic plebs who thought going to a concert was akin to going to watch England play football. Despite these disappointments it was without doubt a fucking class day out, with a few pleasant surprises along the way. Perhaps the biggest was Wembley itself, which proved to be a far better concert arena than atmospheric football ground. Having only previously attended the new version of our National Stadium for last season's Charity Shield encounter with Portsmouth, which proved beyond doubt that United's support contains some of the world's biggest tools, I was not really holding out much hope for an evening of atmosphere and passion. That afternoon back in August had to be one of the most disappointing of my life, forced to watch a terrible game of football in a soulless concrete bowl, sat next to a middle aged couple from Watford dressed in replica kits and some bizarre red and white jester hats. 

Oasis could not have been more different, for a start we were standing on the pitch itself, which was absolutely bloody brilliant as being stood right in the middle of a 90,000 stadium is always going to be awe-inspiring, whatever the occasion.  Then there were the warmup acts, amongst the best rock bands in Britain today; namely The Enemy and Kasabian. Now I'm definitely no kind of expert when it comes to indie music or whatever people choose to call it, but if there was one thing to admire in both of these acts, it was the laddishness and thuggery they exuded.  Their attitudes and stage presence go hand in hand with the very essence of a form of masculinity that in many ways feels slightly outdated, yet much missed in the Brave New World of Coldplay, Razorlight and god-help us the Blur reunion. Both The Enemy and Kasabian mirror the best elements of early Oasis, with their Stone Island Jackets, Madchester haircuts (a la Ian Brown) and great anthemic tunes which all run along the lines of getting really fucked up on a combination of booze, drugs and pretty girls. They got the crowd going, the cups of piss and random shoes flying around and generally made sure that by 8:20pm when Oasis took to the stage, everyone was absolutely buzzing. 

So then the headliners themselves. From the frankly mental opening rendition Rock n' Roll Star, which basically ended up causing a vast mosh pit with lads jumping on each other and kicking fat birds in the face right through to the soulful rendition of  Champagne Supernova it was everything you wanted from an Oasis concert and more. Yes there were a few sound problems, yes some overeager cunt almost ripped my Armani leather jacket (never wearing that on a night out again!) and yes maybe there were slightly too many people but the general consensus was: 'Fucking Yes what a night, still the best band in the world!' 

So anyway Thursday over the following night saw me and a few mates manage to get into Bungalow 8 in central London. I only mention this because the guy who got us in had to be the biggest fuckhead ever, a fact illustrated by his ridiculous fucking fringe and his insistence on telling his mate: "Last night was propa messy!" It's a general rule that anyone who says that must a) Be a flid who was bullied at school and b) Someone who actually likes Skins and c) Thinks the painfully forced 'lingo' characters use in the show should be reproduced in real life conversations. As for the club itself it was nice but full of high class hookers, snooty, hatchet-faced promoters and bald lads wearing trendy clothes. But I'm not having a go, cos I would like to go back!

So all in all a boring week made good by Oasis and a twat who liked Skins. In the words of Liam and Noel: 'You gotta roll with it!'

FILM REVIEW: THE FALL dir. Tarsem

This week I'm introducing a new blog feature to tie in with my passion for film and overtly critical disposition, the first of what I hope will be a long series of online Film Reviews. More often than not I will try to focus on contemporary releases; hopefully not involving Transformers, Hugh Grant or anything to with Sarah Jessica Parker, but there might be the odd oldie or a minor film from a few years thrown in along the way. 

Before I begin and in much the same style as that whacky kook Rafa Benitez I believe I should state a few facts. Firstly I'm not a film snob and I like big budget blockbusters that are actually good and not purely aimed at becoming a season tent pole that studios use as an excuse to make a lot of money. In the same way I can't stand 'arthouse' independent films that wallow in mediocrity, pretension and weird sex scenes. 

Secondly I'm not here professing in any way to being an expert. I know comparatively little about film compared to many, and my tastes are far from broad. But I feel that I have watched and read enough about the medium to offer worthwhile critiques of films I feel passionate enough to write about. 

Thirdly I hope this is the last time I ever write using a numbered list as its really not a very enlightened way of writing and feels a bit too Daily Mail for my taste!

So anyway, the honor of becoming the subject of my very first online review is bestowed upon the surreal, inspiring, multi-faceted, somewhat confusing, far from perfect second film from the enigmatic American/Indian director Tarsem Singh, known publicly simply as Tarsm. Entitled 'The Fall' it is a visual masterpiece that has effectively been twenty years in the making and establishes its creator as one of the most inventive and insightful cinematic directors around, due to his astonishing use of natural landscape and  artful blending of physical reality with a sort of semi-mythic magical-realism. In short it is a compelling and thoroughly original film, worthy of much more interest and praise than it has hitherto received from audiences and reviewers alike.

Ostensibly, perhaps the most important and interesting aspect to this film is its visionary creator and director rather than the script, the story or the actors. Tarsem is quite simply a maverick, a figure who has distilled every ounce of his incredible skill, vision, passion and artistic flair into creating a highly personal labour of love, and a sonnet of sorts to the arresting natural beauty of his native India. In a refreshing departure from the gluttony of many powerful figures in the upper echelons of Hollywood he financed the film largely using his own funds and created a deliberately socialist style of cast and crew remuneration by paying everyone involved in the film equally. Whilst his background in producing adverts for Nike and Coca-Cola, to name but a few, might seem more Michael Bay than Ken Loach it is clear from the very outset that this is a film about as far removed from convention as a priest who doesn't have a penchant for children and alcohol. 

The basic plot outline is rather complex; riffing off ancient myths involving conquistadors, warriors and slaves and stories such as The Wizard of Oz, Tarsem uses the relationship built in a sweltering LA hospital, between  an injured stuntman and a young Latino girl who picks California's golden oranges for a living, to delve into the mysterious enigma of human imagination and the dangerous intersection between the world we inhabit in our dreams and the painful realities that bite when we wake from them.

Our stuntman hero Roy (Lee Pace) is trying to recover from a heavy fall off a horse, as well as a painful breakup from his actress lover, while the wonderful Catinca Utaru, playing Alexandra his young companion, is unwittingly learning to cope with the death of her father, as well as her plaster encrusted broken arm. In a bid to win her trust and eventually steal the dulling delight that is morphine for him, Roy creates a surreal fairytale that takes over the primary thread of the film.  Set in an anonymous but stunning realm it follows five distinct heroes, including a fantastic and highly stylized version of a young Charles Darwin, as they all try to avenge the murderous violence of the tyrant conquistador Odious. As his drug abuse and despair deepen however, Roy's tale, which at first seen through the eyes of Alexandra seemed so distant and magical, takes a darker turn; drawing characters from Roy's life into its depths and eventually threatening to spill over into reality itself. 

The truly special moments here arrive in the spell binding landscapes and locations Tarsem transports his five heroes to, through the potent imagination of Alexandra. From Butterfly Reef, nestled in the tropical sea surrounding Fiji, to Jodpurh the 'Blue City' of Rajistan, 'The Fall' utilizes over twenty of the world's most startling and naturally striking locations to create a fantasy that seems every bit as distant from physical possibility as the now highly ubiquitous and often tedious use of greenscreen to create bland landscapes and 'artistic' cinematography. 

Of course the film won't be to everyone's tastes, though no great work of art ever is. There are plenty of faults at the heart of 'The Fall' ranging from a definite imbalance between plot and style through to a lack of clarity and plausibility when it comes to determining Roy's increasing angst and despair before his sudden rejuvenation in the final scenes. Shot entirely in digital there will be many who pine for the depth and feel of ordinary film, but as far as I'm concerned the clarity of Tarsem's vision is clearly and perfectly captured by the refined quality of digital technology.

David Fincher and Spike Jonze, two of Tinsel Town's more inventive and interesting directors, both lent their support to this production and it is easy to see why. 'The Fall' is quite simply an assured and daring attempt to amalgamate the vast complexities of the human subconscious and imagination with the dull predictability of physical boundaries and personal suffering.   Despite its originality, pastoral beauty and vivid script however, 'The Fall' was only a minor blip on the Hollywood radar on its release in Autumn 2008. I can imagine that for its creator and visionary Tarsem, this is a point of minor importance. He has achieved something special with this film and so long as his audience feel the same way about his achievements as I do, then he will have succeeded in his desire to conjure intense emotion and passion for the art of storytelling as well as a deep affection for the succinct and startling magnitude of nature's greatest vistas. 

Please take my word for it and watch this film. 

Being nice

Ok so re-reading last weeks blog I feel slightly foolish, I sound really quite sour and embittered. So to all the people I have lambasted over the last few weeks I'm sorry for giving into the temptations of internet anonymity and acting like a Heat gossip columnist. This week I'm going to do three things: try not to swear, try harder not to criticize people and hopefully avoid mentioning Michael Jackson too much. All I will say is that as I completed my entry last week, news began to filter in about his death and I thought about making a joke. But I didn't. 

One group of people who still rile me are those incompetent, vain, vacuous individuals who continue to update their facebook status' with completely 'random,' highly tedious snippets of banal information. My favorite web forum: Red Issue, a place for United fans to congregate and get angry ran a brilliant thread on this particular group of numpties. Here is my favorite anecdote: "A 'mate' who i now actually consider to be a complete f***k keeps updating his facebook status with tales of shopping trips in Manc city centre. His new profile photo shows him posing with an empty Vivienne Westwood shopping bag and is coupled with a status reading: 'Andy has just spent £600 on T-shirts." What. A. Twat.

In many ways this continual obsession with publicising one's personal life is indicative of society's obsession with outward projection and the trappings of wealth and fame. I'm no hypocrite, I will gladly hold my hands up and admit that I use Twitter and write a self-infatuated blog which no one reads, but I think there is a serious problem with people living their lives and making decisions based on how it will look on internet portals. When we come back from holiday the first thing we do is rush to 'the book' and upload our smugshots. When we begin a holiday our first move is to find a computer and update our status: 'Celia is in Goa and dancing to psy-trance.' Really, are you? No your fucking around on a computer in an internet cafe without air-con. Or possibly on a blackberry.

Ah yes the joys of the 'crackberry.' That's another addition to my arsenal of networking tools since I've returned from South America!  And it is a pretty beautiful piece of technology, far snappier than the I-Phone in my opinion, though clearly a very different piece of kit. By far the most important feature of the berry is the Instant Messaging application, allowing you to Ping fellow 'crackers' and then begin a totally free exchange of meaningless Hello's, What are you Up too's and Let link up's. Brilliant and completely awful at the same time. 

So basically life is becoming an endless stream of twaddle, friendships are constructed through artificial technology and the world's most famous man died alone in LA pumped to the brim with pain killers, opiates and alcohol, only to be mourned through social networking sites and television channels devoted to the cult of 'celebrity.' It's all very J.G Ballard and Philip K. Dick but everyone seems cheerful enough and if I wanted to I could have written and posted this wonderful encapsulation of the post, post-modern world via my mobile! Happy days!

Until next week, General E!!xxxx

P.S Apologies to Georgie Greig, who I discovered today is in fact editor of the Evening Standard and no longer manning the desk at Tatler. My bad but I was away for 5 months. I'm sure however that he will still be forced into attending the awful summer season parties and wankathons and will probably end up having to watch Tracy Emin creating artwork out of her toilet after a night on the tiles. Oh to be a successful media man in 2009! 

Richard Kay

Well life in London has become pretty boring: work, run, pub and The Wire being the general order of things. In fact apart from various rumors involving footballers and failed drug tests, which may or may not come out in the press over the next week (YHIHF) my life has gone back to being unbelievably dull and monotonous, a bit like this blog! So anyway in a fug of angst I joined Twitter. I seem to feel a constant sense of panic that I'm missing out on modernity and technological revolution, so I start writing blogs and getting twittered up, living my life out in the technological stratosphere! Twitter is a good idea, in that you can, in many cases, stalk famous/talented people you admire/lust after and if they are sad enough to spend longer than 5 mins a week on it you can follow every boring meander of a day's eating, drinking and (in the case of Amando Iniucci) making amazing comedy television. The thing is its just like the application on Facebook where nobs write status updates like: 'Nick is feeling loose and eating apples.' Clearly as a general rule people who update their status pages on Facebook about anything other than football are generally fuckwits. All this suggests everyone on Twitter must be a flid, but ultimately they are not and its a lot less annoying seeing what Sven Vath and Newt Gingritch, to name but a few, are up to, than the class of 2002's prime wierdo is eating/fucking/watching/listening to. My first day enjoying 140 words of meaningless shite rather than writing a page of funny but lugubrious witticisms for my blog, saw me flicking through Twitter trying to find important celebrities and organisations that I either respect or despised. I found some heroes: Stephen Fry (Britain's most popular 'Twitterer'), London Electricity (wicked podcasts mate), Plastician (best dubstep dj in the world), The Guardian (beautiful champagne-socialist newspaper mostly read by guilty millionaires living in Hampstead and depressed teachers), Charlie Brooker (funny fucker) and of course FC United of Manchester. 

The original Manchester United went right down in my fucking estimations when they then immediately sent me a follower request from the fucking Megastore tweet pages. Truly they are a cancerous organization, and for me as a fan to say this is pretty depressing. Sadly a lot of other people I really hate had very 'unupdated' Twitter pages. I wanted to see how renegade flapjacks like N-Dubz, George Osbourne and Richard Littlejon manage to live with themselves. Do they eat normal food? Have friends? Ponder the reasoning behind their nasty characteristics? Or God forbid write blogs!?

One guy who really is a complete fuck and didn't even feature on Twitter was Richard Kay the Daily Mail columnist on all things royal, banal, petty, boring and cuntish. In a way his column is so nauseating its entertaining, and by the way the only time I ever see it is when my Grandma comes to stay and leaves her Daily Mail lying around. (Keep your enemies closer...blah blah blah!) Some might think Richard is a sort of soft and pointless target for my ire but this is a man who has for many, many years earned a very good living writing a completely shit column about minor royals and an odious 'elite' class of British people who go to Polo tournaments, have mental breakdowns and generally act like normal people would if they were inbred/worked in the city/went to an all boys public school or owned half of London. If anyone exemplifies the total drudgery and talentless baseness of modern, credit crunch Britain then surely it is this unbelievably boring shitebag.

Looking at some of the guff he has chosen to write about today (25/06/09) underlines the unbelievable amount of space his boring gossip wastes in a major national newspaper. Whilst innocent Iranian's are being shot in the streets of Tehran, the British Tax payer is being fleeced by its own government and Pakistan lies on the brink of Civil War with the Taliban this fuckhead is talking about John Nettles retiring from Midsummer Murders and Princess Michael of Kent air kissing Fergie at a charity bash. Seriously what the fuck?!!

The fact that many thousands of people obviously read and enjoy this pointless rubbish makes life feel a bit futile.  If you read and enjoy my pointless rubbish then that in part compensates for Richard's sad, lonely readers!

Until next week....mwah!

p.s oh and please could Wimbledon fuck, fuck, fuck right off...people in facepaint, women from the home counties screaming and loads of general cunts wondering around drunk on strawberries and Pimms, it is a cringeworthy event that seems to act as a magnet for people like Richard Kay and the tragic characters he stalks via his column. 

Tracy Emin, Jay Jopling, Nick Roeg and other people!

My title for this blog is in much the same style as one of the only other blogs I bother to read: 'Confessions of a Correspondent' Andy Mitten's highly amusing weekly updates on the 442 website.  As a United fan and founding editor of United We Stand, one of our better fanzines, Andy's job basically involves traveling between Manchester and his second home in Barcelona and writing various football related articles for Spanish and English newspapers. His average week might see him interview Lionel Messi for 442 at Barca's training ground before flying to Manchester for a mid-week champions league games, having a laugh with his good mate and United legend Paddy Cerrand, filling off some copy and interviewing David May for his new book on United in the 90's, before finally returning to Barcelona in time for their Saturday evening derby with Espanyol. As a result all his blogs have envy inducing titles like: 'Partying with Xavi, Rooney and Dennis Irwin in Tiger Tiger Manchester and shaking hands with Pele in Geneva.' 

Anyway I said last week I wouldn't talk about football so I won't. Since getting back from South America I have desperately been trying to get some money back in the bank and have rejoined the catering company that I have worked for on and off for about three years. Now this company, which will remain nameless, is one of those London based organizations that work the top end clients, think along the lines of big summer parties for the wealthier City firms and all those major celebrity wankathons like the Serpentine bash in Hyde Park and the Gorbachev Charity Ball where you get the cream of the cuntish crop rubbing shoulders together over plates of slow roasted Partridge and an endless supply of terrible Grey Goose cocktails invented by David Furnish. Regardless of the occasion theses events always seem to involve filling a room with aging rock stars, depressed hedgefunders, annoying Sloane Rangers, pretentious YBAs (who are mostly Old British Millionaires now), fawning media types, gay fashionistas and a generous sprinkling of random twats and hangers on, giving them good champagne, letting them hoover up as much coke as they can in the luxury portaloos and then forcing them into posing for pictures with Geordie Greig the editor of Tatler. Obviously pre-credit crunch London couldn't get enough of this kind of shite but this summer looks to be a lot more austere and many of my company's clients have had to reign in their budgets or stop their parties altogether.

So last nights job at the Luis Vuitton sponsored opening of Tracy Emin's show at The White Cube in SW1 was a good opportunity for both my company to make some much needed dollar and London's rich and famous to get their botoxed faces back in Tatler and the Daily Mail's showbiz column. Ok so it wasn't exactly the Bacchanal mash up I was hoping for, the White Cube can only hold about 120 people for a night like this and it was a faintly serious evening involving a dreary 45 minute talk from Tracy Emin on her 'work' but nevertheless I served drinks to some interesting people and drew a number of important conclusions from the evening. 

First and foremost lets deal with the woman of the hour: Tracy fucking Emin. Now I don't want to come across as some kind of internet nerd who uses the anonymity afforded by the web to snipe at the rich and famous but in this case I really must say that the woman is a complete waste of fucking space. For starters she looks like a fucking bag lady, and really for someone with as much money as her she could seriously do with a bit of plastic surgery. Also how has such a talentless person ended up doing as well as she has? Now I'm not a completely clueless twat when it comes to modern art and some of the YBA's are pretty good especially the Chapman brothers but Emin's show last night just seemed to involve some neon lighting and a lot of 'sexual angst combined with a latent fear of never being loved.' Nothing she seemed to be trying to say was in any way original, interesting or provocative it was just an expensive version of Now magazine. Also she was fucking miserable, fucking rude, wore a shit dress and generally acted like a complete cow. Someone should tell her to fuck off back to Margate.

Ok so who else can I have a pop at? Well actually most of the other well known faces were pretty interesting, even talented  characters and did nothing of much interest. Nick Roeg, the esteemed British director of seminal classics including Performance and Don't Look Now turned up, politely took a drink and then looked bored for the rest of the evening as he was forced to look at Emin's pictures and listen to her drone on and on. Others in the room included Dylan Jones the editor of GQ, Jefferson Hack the lad who knocked Kate Moss up, Ben Whishaw the acclaimed young actor, loads of fit milfs, loads of old rich men and Jay Jopling the founder of White Cube. He looked pretty depressed with life and complained when he couldn't get into the toilet. Oh yea Princess Michael of Kent turned up looking like she had had a pint of Botox injected into each temple and I wondered about asking her to banish Emin back to Kent but I doubt Princess Michael knows much of the Thanet area living as she does in Belgravia and she actually seemed rather enamored with the shite on display, so I decided against it. 

So that was about it, I still don't understand the point of these occasions, everyone looks either bored or upset, the whole process cost a fortune and you end up having to pose with Geordie Greig; who turned up late looking flustered and disappointed that he still had to sit through ten minutes of Emin babbling on about beds, lights, fucking and the artistic pain of looking like an alcoholic tramp. 

Until next time. 

Ronaldo finally fucks off and I renew.

Well the circus has thankfully drawn to a welcome close. It's been three years coming and the continual onslaught of press speculation every summer had run its course and tried my patience for the final time. Unlike many idiots who follow United I'm not going to criticize Ronny, he has been a great servant to the club and certainly one our greatest ever players; which is no mean feat when you look at the calibre of our teams down the years. What is clear from the whole affair is that money has probably ruined football forever, Ronaldo is still very young and very immature, Madrid are a despicable outfit bankrolled by the Spanish establishment who can't face Barca running away with the title next year and United are now effectively a selling club. Not that I feel pissed off or embittered by the whole situation!

Anyway most people expect United to sign one of three from Benzema, Ribery and David Villa, I on the other hand expect at most two forays into the transfer market for a cut price Valencia from Wigan and perhaps a new central midfielder. The rest of the 80 million will be 'deemed' unnecessary by Ferguson and will instead go to financing the £63 million debt the Glaziers ran up last year. Whilst I hope that in some part I'm wrong I would rather this awful scenario happened than for United to jump headfirst into an inflated transfer market and deny the promising youngsters we have coming through our ranks a place in the first team next year. Of course I want to retain the title, especially with Chelsea improving their squad and the Vermin remaining dangerous but if it required United copying Madrid and paying stupid money for bellow par players, the sense of victory would feel hollower than it did this season!

On an even more depressing note I have given into my pathetic addiction to United and renewed my season ticket, without even knowing if the club will move me as I have requested! I seriously think that this season will be my last under the Glazier regime, with continual price hikes and a rejection of loyal fans for new, moneyed day trippers I'm not holding out much hope for the atmosphere this season. Fuck it, at the moment football has lost any allure it once had for me personally, I can't help but hope that the whole system crashes and clubs are forced to rebuild from the bottom up. If this would get rid of the clueless twats who follow my club I would gladly sacrifice United's success for a couple of seasons (so long as the Vermin were also fucked!)

Anyway I'm focusing as much time as possible on my writing now so trying to forget about football is definitely a good thing to do. Stay tuned to the next blog to hear how an upcoming job interview goes. I have a feeling it will be amusing! And I promise not to talk about football! Maybe. 

Ok so I'm back in England after 5 months of traveling around South America. It feels fucking weird to be back, perhaps the strangest thing is sleeping in a comfortable bed with extended periods of darkness and silence, as opposed to spending entire evenings in hostels being woken up by drunken Irish and odd Germans.
Anyway I got back into normal life pretty quickly with a Sunday Roast and a quality pint before bed at 4 in the afternoon. The following day, a Monday, I went to a preview of 'Looking for Eric' directed by Ken Loach at the London School of Film followed by a Q and A with the producer Rebecca O'Brien. I'm pleased to say that it was pretty good, not fantastic but not shite. As a United fan and Cantona devotee I was impressed by the accurate depiction of nuanced fan culture and the true Mancunian spirit upon which Manchester United was built. A quick glance at the IMDB website depressingly reveals that one disgruntled viewer has labeled the film as 'awful' because in his eyes it wrongly depicts United as a working man's team. Its sad to say but today most people associate United with business, with greed, with Korean fans armed with cameras and with the death of football. To a large extent they are right. As Loach's film perhaps unwittingly reveals, the older generation of United fans, who stood by the club during the barren decades that were the 70's and 80's now can't afford to go. Traditions and passion have been replaced by corporate boxes and replica shirts, whilst many fans have finally decided to leave United to the cuntish Glaziers and their horrible grasp of basic economics.
Without wanting to ramble on for hours and sound like an angry grandparent 'Looking for Eric' was a film that really brought home to me the problems facing not just modern football and Manchester United but Britain as a whole. Many people of my generation (18-25) can't find solace and escape in the simple joy of going to a live football game. Everything has become so dominated by money, media hype and envy that young people today are blinded by the bright lights of wealth and glamor rather than the simplicity of being with your mates, having a sing-song and getting pissed. Of course there are many more important nuances to life than this but the point Loach is making is clear: priorities and culture has changed, where once the football fan was portrayed as a working class hooligan they are now more than likely to be a corporate free loader, munching on prawn sandwiches and drinking champagne.
Enough complaining about football, I'm currently weighing up the pro's and con's of renewing my United season ticket and I'm erring to ending the love affair and trying out some FCUM games next year. Until next week, GS. !!

Ok so a week after the debacle that was both my first drunken foray into the world of blogs and United's awful performance against Barcelona, I am pleased to report that I am fully recovered from the cruel intensity of absolute disappointment and hopefully sober enough to make coherent sense! Feel a deep sense of nostalgia today, tinged with excitement as I'm about to finish 5 months of traveling through South America and am currently making my last pit stop in the amazing place that is Miami South Beach before flying home to London in 2 days.
Anyway it was a pretty interesting last few days in Columbia as I wanted to make the most of everything the country has to offer in an extremely short amount of time. With 3 Dutch lads and a mate from Sheffield in tow we had some pretty exciting times up on the North Carribean coast in and around the very cool colonial town of Cartegena. To cut some long and probably fairly boring stories short we (in no particular order) visited a strip club/brothel with some of the most beautiful girls I have ever seen (we looked but didn't touch promise!), jumped in a volcano full of mud, drunk 21 litres of Rum between 5 of us in 4 days, watched Wolverine in a vast American style Shopping Mall (both were a total pile of wank) and generally behaved very badly!
The highlight of that last week however was not the incredible tropical vista that met our bloodshot eyes every morning and surprisingly nor was it the draw dropping beauty of Columbian women...no it was in fact a truly amazing man from Grimbsby. You see the morning we decided to visit the local mud volcano that I mentioned earlier, a young lad called Dan from the North East of England also decided to tag along. Considering he hadn't slept for two days, had been drinking pretty much consistantly for 48 hours and had clearly shoved enough coke up his snounty nose to floor Steven Tyler at the height of his 1980's pomp, this was probably not a good idea on his part. I will now take you through a detailed timeline of what ensued over the next 24 hours.
8:00 Everyone climbs on tourist bus. Atmosphere of quiet weariness, a bit like Manchester City's Wastelands on matchday. Broken by a strong Northern accent as Grimbsby Dan climbs aboard fag hanging out of mouth, large beer in hand still fresh and buzzing from a night on the tiles.
9:00 Dan has passed out after regaling our Columbian guide and the rest of the coach to 45 mins of Grimbsby football anthems. ie. 'We piss on your fish.' People finally able to relax.
10:30 Coach arrives at mud volcano, Dan is first off the bus wearing nothing but a pair of back to front Unbro shorts.
11:00 Time to jump into the mud. It's a bizzarre experience further enhanced by Dan bombing into it, nearly sinking and then shouting loudly about getting mud in his eyes.
12:00 Time to get out. In front of perhaps 50 Columbian school children and 100 tourists and locals Dan's shorts slip down his ankles as he climbs from the mud. Cue shocked horror and looks of total amzement from the kids as Dan instead of pulling them straight up does a couple of spins and puts his arms in the air Elvis style.
12:15 Local women take us down to a small lake to scrub the mud off, its not as dodgy as it sounds unless you include Dan asking one to 'Give him a nosh.' Luckily his Grimbsby vowels make about as much sense as his football chants.
12:45 Time to chill and enjoy the views ect and get some much needed water down our parched throats. Dan buys three beers and gets back on it.
13:00 Local women who washed us come looking for their 50p tip. Dan has spent all his money on beer and instead offers them this gem: "Hmm you wan't a tip...never eat yellow snow." Once again the irony is lost on them.
14:00 Reach a local beach where we have lunch. Dan throws up twice, orders three more beers which he pays for with a fake twenty peso note. Goes around everyone on our bus asking for a cig. Cue more football songs and a long, twiseted tale about him going all the way back from Global Gathering three years ago naked.
15:00 Back to Cartegenia we relax by the pool. Dan disappears for six hours.
21:00 Out on the local bar strip Dan is spotted. He is struggling to walk and is in the company of two Columbian tramps carrying a half-full bottle of Aguacaliente (Columbia's version of Ouzo.)
22:00 (Friend back at the hostel continues the story as we were elsewhere.) Dan returns to the hostel barely able to talk, walk, breathe or blink. He jumps on a sunbed and talks to himself for about twenty minutes.
22:20 Dan decides to go for a walk upstairs to the roof terrace. Trips back down the stairs, cutting the back of his head and knocking him out.
23:00 Local police arrive. Study Dan as one would study a creature in the zoo. One kicks him, the other prods him. Both agree he needs hospital treatment but they sure as fuck ain't going to take him.
23:30 Dan is put into a taxi to the hospital with a charitable American. They return thirty mins later because the hospital don't treat drunks.
00:15 Dan crosses the road and buys another beer. Comes back and drinks it lying in a hammock. Then proceeds to shit and piss himself simultaneously.
01:50 Dan is found by a member of staff babbling to himself in his own mess.
02:30 Member of staff has managed to get Dan out of his clothes and into a shower.
03:00 We return from town to see said member of staff cleaning shit off the bathroom sinks whilst a naked Dan is sprawled unconsious on a sunbed.
05:00 Dan is ejected from the hostel.
So that was the highlight of my weeks folks! After months on the South American gringo trail suffering the endless stream of English public school boys, European hippies, ex-Israeli soldiers and wierd old people I finally come face to face with a man who reminds me of what makes both Britain and package holidays to Ibiza so fucking brilliant. Now absolutely can't wait to get home and enjoy a whole seething world of Dans!!

My first Blog

Decided to start a blog today as I´m an aspiring writer and this is surely a major step towards achieving my various writing related dreams (scribbling Oscar winning screen plays and writing for Red Issue football fanzine) and gaining a avidly fawning worldwide audience who laugh at my amusing recollections and admire my thought provoking sentiments. Or maybe not! No the real reason I want to start this blog is frustration. You see I´m a man who likes to communicate in written form, it allows more time and calculation to convey complex points and arguments, and there are so many frustrating issues in this world that require careful consideration and analysis, that each and every person should start their own blog and instead of launching into contradictory monologues about the peculiar and personal things that fuck them off, which ultimately get them nowhere and often encourage some other idiot to launch into their own rubbish diatribe, they could portray their tawdry antagonisms in a far more sophisticated and useful manner. A bit like the Daily Mail Letters Page.
Hmm...the Daily Mail, now that is definitely something that frustrates me. The fact that such a badly written piece of shite can generate so much influence and retain so many readers is something that I find incomprehensible. It´s not so much that I hate what it stands for, rather its the fact that it reads like a really bad student newspaper written by a bunch of loony far-right nutters who feel threatened by the increasing number of disadvantaged racial minorities gaining a place on campus and disgusted at all the drinking and fornication the rest of their alumni seem to be doing.
Anyway I´m getting way ahead of myself here and I´m not about to launch into the kind of emotional, knee jerk idiocy that I so despise just yet. No if I´m honest I´m really starting this blog simply because I love writing and doing so in the public sphere is good practise! This is a shite intro but it conveys certain points! Just to add to your already clouded picture of me: I have a deep deep love for certain things...football (primarily MUFC), film, good journalism and designer clothes. On these and many more subjects I hope to touch upon in the coming weeks, months, years ect.
On a side note I´m currently in Columbia (yes the one in South America), Man United have just lost to Barcelona in the CL final and I am truly fucked off my head! I´m sure I will regret this come the morning...but at least I´m up and running!