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

The Road, Green and Gold, Pimlico

After about 12 years of living in North London I have moved to Pimlico. It's nice.

Manchester United have secured a £500 million pound bond from various deluded investors. Seriously how people could have any faith in the Glazer's after their woeful tenure as our indebted owners is beyond me. Glad so see plenty of green and gold scarves at O.T on Saturday though, complementing the anti-Glazer chants and genuine venom now brewing amongst all parts of our fanbase, not just the clued-up hardcore who saw the proverbial shit hitting the fan back in 2005. I'm as guilty as anyone for continuing to purchase United tickets despite my reservations. I won't be renewing this June. If we had all walked away five years ago they wouldn't have lasted a season. Fair play to all the FCUM fans who have been proved right but I'm hoping to see more unity amongst our supporters now that we have a viable and highly dangerous target in our sights. And no Sir Alex I couldn't give a fuck what happens on the pitch whilst our club is systematically destroyed by these poisonous Yanks, so stop trying to placate both parties and do what's best for United, not you.

Mind you Wednesday is going to be (pardon the pun) 'massive' in more ways than one. Yes we are indeed playing for local pride against the 'Massives' who will be counting on their evil petro-dollars, delusional chairmen and mercurial players to carry them through to a (meaningless) final at Wembley and the possibility of their first 'cup' for 34 years. I'm not going to pretend that I'd rather beat them than Arsenal on Sunday though, this is serious shit and we simply cannot afford to loose. Despite their 2-1 victory in the 1st leg last week we totally fucking destroyed them off the pitch...two red flares smoked like medieval battle torches in our end during the darkened rendition of 'Blue Moon' and by all accounts we completely took the piss outside after the game. Can't see the blue shite doing the same thing on Wednesday somehow.

Ok, new review this week, first for a while. Saw the UK premiere of The Road last October at the BFI Film Festival and left feeling relieved that director John Hillcoat had not diminished the incredible power of Cormac McCarthy's novel. I wrote this 'reaction' as part of a job application over the weekend. Enjoy.

On a side note check out the newspaper coverage of Paris Connections, the film I am working on at the moment, which is a joint production with....wait for it....Tesco. Yes indeed. We are witnessing the future of film investment live. Possibly.

Until next time.

A long break, christmas, and a lament for football.

Happy New Year. 2010 the start of a new decade, new beginnings and perhaps the final nail in the coffin of New Labour. Worried. Excited. Couldn't really give a fuck. These are immediate reactions to a global obsession with the invisible boundaries imposed by new years and new decades, where people insist on casting a beady eye into the long forgotten past whilst contemplating a supposedly uncertain future.

Personally the "2000's" involved morphing from snotty little kid obsessed with naughty things into an immature man obsessed with other more interesting things like politics and shit yea!?! (I was 13 in 2000.) Go Obama! Not.

If I'm honest the last ten years was mostly about trying hard (for social acceptance) to get intoxicated as indiscreetly as possible (drinking, smoking, pilling, sniffing) ect. You name it I tried it as a motley teenager straining to gain credence with my peers. Along the way there was school, uni, sex, football, drum n bass, a growing appreciation of quality literature and a burgeoning love of film. Twinned with these fleeting flights of passion was a growing dissatisfaction with loads of things like the countryside, gillets, Top Gear, manchester city and scousers. I came to love the cities of Manchester, Leeds, Barcelona, Madrid, Rio, Buenos Aries, Sydney, Milan, Miami and New York, whilst sadly growing tired of London, albeit not of life.

The 'noughties' as many idiots have titled it was also a decade of varied fashions and musical tastes, in that I began it wearing Moshino jeans and DC trainers whilst rocking out to Slipknot and trying to steal cigarettes (deeply confused) and ended it wearing an expensive Barbour Mac and a pair of Nike Hi-tops, listening to Kraftwerk and sniffing plant feeder. (Fucked up.)

Shrinking the microscope of memory down a notch to 2009 many have proclaimed it the worst year on record. On a personal note it began well and ended badly. Traveling around South America, trekking in the Amazon, lying on 100 different beaches and living a life of general sluttishness was fucking top. Working as an unpaid intern, going off football, taking up smoking again, head splitting hangovers, worrying about serious stuff and never having money to spend on good clothes and summer festivals was totally shite. My main problem with 2009 though was the fact that it was also a year of lists. As a society we have become obsessed with 'listing', as if books, films, celebrities, sexual acquaintances and songs and experiences can be quantified in some sort of tangible manner. If I have to read another article celebrating the Top 100 films of 'noughties' or listen to a twat from The Guardian reeling of inane predictions for the 'teenies' I will be really, quite frankly, even more bored than I am now.

Yes indeed such is the extent of my present boredom (I've been given a half day because of snow) that I have once again taken up the pen and embarked on a journey of total pointlessness, by recording thoughts, feelings and lists of things I don't like in the guise of a poem, as a means of literary explanation. Yes my first blog for weeks.

Lots of things have happened since we last met which are of no interest to anyone: trip with United to Wolfsburg (strange), Christmas (tasty), New Year (messy), and some other stuff involving a much hyped and ultimately okish film showcasing revolutionary 3D technology and a student from Nigeria blowing his cock off trying to bring down an American passenger plane. An odd festive period to say the least.

But now I'm back, it's 2010, London is covered by snow, Britain has ground to a halt and I am bringing joy to the masses with amazing, regular weekly updates in the blogosphere. Next week: Leeds United (fuck), moving house (shit) and The Millennium Trilogy by Stig Larsson. And I promise promise promise I will try to do reviews. Not that any of you give a fuck! Muchos love adios.

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.