Richard Hammond's Invisible Demographic...

This is another TV-based quickie, I'm afraid. I know, I know, I'll do better next time, I promise. Anyhow, I happened to catch some of Richard Hammond's latest foray into science programming, following on from Richard Hammond's Engineering Connections and Richard Hammond's Blast Lab. I like Hammond, he's amiable enough and I enjoy his Top Gear exploits, but this new show of his puzzles me. In Richard Hammond's Invisible Worlds (do I see a pattern emerging?) we are shown all those amazing phenomena that are, as one might imagine from the title, invisible to the human eye... and for good reason, it turns out.

Ever want to eat food again? Then don't watch the piece about the romantic meal. Vinegar Eels, Cheese Mites and bacteria were the order of the day. How about public transport? Do people sneeze on it and you still use it anyway? Well don't, because those fuckers can travel a whole tube carriage at 100 miles an hour and contain what Hammond referred to as a 'payload' of bacteria and viruses (sneezes that is, not ill commuters). What about snow? Pretty, isn't it? Wrong, it's incredibly dangerous. When it settles it forms bonds and when a weak layer of snow loses its bonds we get a massive avalanche that can and will kill you.

Now, I didn't watch the whole programme. Perhaps there was a shot of a windswept Hammond at the end saying "don't have nightmares" but it strikes me as odd that there's an audience for this. It's one big Watson 'Them' tagline joke (complain to me, if you don't know what this is) of a show. I'm just off to scrub my epidermis off with a brillo pad and to disinfect the kitchen, see you tomorrow...

Bonfire of the Chancellors...

Right, there was a little bit of argy bargy last night between the three men hoping to be Chancellor come the General Election in May. It was clash of the titans time- Darling vs. Cable vs. Osborne. The Quiet Man vs. The Clever Man vs. The C***. Now, I was out so I didn't see it, but I have been told about it and done a bit of reading and I can safely say that it almost certainly went down something like this:

Krishnan Guru-Murthy welcomed the viewers to the debate and then handed over to 'veteran voice of the Octagon' Bruce Buffer to announce the competitors. "It is time!" Buffer roared into the microphone. "In the red corner, the reigning, defending UK Chancellor of the Exchequer, Alistair 'The Eyebrow Man' DAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRLLLLLLLLLIIIIIIIIIIIIIIINNNNGGGGG!" Buffer takes an enormous gasping inhalation. "In the blue corner, this man is a member of the Shadow Cabinet, weighing in with preposterous efficiency savings. George 'The Poshboy' OSSSSSBBOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRNNNNNNE!" Buffer's complexion is by this point that of a beetroot. "And finally. In the yellow corner, this man is a highly respected treasury spokesman, weighing in with Cassandra-like premonitions of the economic collapse. Vincent 'Twinkletoes' CAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAABLE!". Buffer then passes out and is dragged from the stage by two runners as Krishnan fires a pistol into the air to declare the debate open.

It gets pretty ugly, pretty quick, a flurry of combinations thrown by each economist. Cable has nothing to lose, he knows that despite the fact he makes sense he has no chance of election and goes absolutely crazy mauling Osborne. "George, last week you went round denouncing government supposed efficiency savings as complete fiction. You are now using these fictional savings to finance your tax cut." There's an intake of breath from the crowd and all eyes are on Master Osborne. "Your mum's complete fiction." He retorts (presumably). He then ticks off something on his notepad.

Darling smiles and opens his mouth. "Hold the phone!" Cable yells. "I'm not exactly dancing a jig over your policies either, Darling." The Chancellor looks crestfallen. "I'm sorry, love, but remember Osborne's National Insurance fiddling is complete bollocks." Cable pauses thoughtfully. "That's as may be," he announces, "but people don't trust your party now either."
"So," replied Darling flippantly, "it's not like you'll get elected anyway."

Cable's eyes were ablaze, he ran at Darling and tackled him so hard his hair turned white (oh, hang on...). Osborne looked for a cheap shot while Cable wasn't looking, but the old dog spun quickly and roundhouse kicked the Tory in the face, leaving his opponents in a bloodied pile. Wrestling the microphone from Krishnan, Cable pointed straight at the camera. "The Labour government led us into this mess... The Tories presided over two big recessions in office, they wasted most of the North Sea oil revenue, they sold off the family silver on the cheap. Now they want to have another turn to get their noses in the trough and reward their rich backers. The Liberal Democrats are different. We got this crisis basically right. We are not beholden to either the super rich or the militant unions!"

With that, he threw the microphone to the floor and tipped over the camera before walking back down the gangway to 'Stranglehold' by Ted Nugent. The curtains fell and a battered Krishnan wished everyone goodnight.

Well, I imagine it went something like that, didn't it...?

The Changing of the Clocks and The Missing Hour on the Wireless Or: British Summer Time My Arse

Well those buggers in Greenwich decided to fiddle with the clocks as they do biannually just to mess with my head (alright, that might not be the main reason but it works anyway) and now I find myself waking up late and not being able to get to sleep early enough. Damn you time, you manmade concept, you.

Last night I found myself getting progressively more awake as the night drew on. I had slept in for some time after an exceedingly long day travelling to Bath to watch the game against Harlequins and back on Saturday. It was entirely worth it though, as Bath grabbed a convincing three try victory with Olly Barkley lining up alongside Butch James for the first time this season and spawned one of the greatest sports headlines I've ever read in today's Guardian 'Bath Reap Barkley-James Harvest' (those born after 1970 see here). Anyway, I digress. I sat down in front of the excellent Wonders of the Solar System and watched Brian Cox (no, not that Brian Cox, this Brian Cox) explain how Jupiter affects asteroids and nudges them towards our planet in about 15 seconds and in a clearer manner than any school science teacher ever.

It's a remarkable show and Prof. Cox (think Jon Ronson, Alex James and Simon Armitage stuck in that machine from The Fly with Sir Patrick Moore) is a immensely knowledgable, enthusiastic host, with a good deal of charm and an uncanny ability to break down massively intimidating, complex particle- and astrophysics into understandable nuggets without resorting to hokey soundbites. Watching 'Wonders' is very much like watching a fireworks display, I find myself constantly 'ooh' ing and 'ahh' ing at the amazing vistas and the terrifying power of science. Cox sits beside a volcano in Ethiopia, indie-musician hair tousled by the wind (what the Prof would no doubt refer to as 'the beauty of physics') and explains how the magma bubbling to the surface in the pit of this volcano accurately represents what occurs on the surface of Jupiter's smallest moon, Io. Assertions that 'Wonders' could well be the 'Cosmos' of our generation are well-founded, I feel and Prof. Cox will no doubt ascend to the pantheon of great British documentary makers to join the Attenboroughs and Clarks of this world.

Well, several hours after all that excitement, at 1 in the morning I was still awake. I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth and turned the radio on (yeah, bathroom radio, what of it?) and caught the end of the shipping forecast (still don't know what it means, it could well be a big in-joke between all the fishermen and the Maritime and Coast Guard Agency). The continuity announcer then informed me that it was the end of programming. Yup, I'd stayed up so late that the radio had run out, how about that? Then they played the national anthem. Tremendous, why don't more radio stations do this? I bloody love Radio 4 for that (and for all the excellent comedy, not least The Unbelievable Truth which by happy coincidence starts a new series tonight at 6.30).

Eventually I made it to bed and listened to BBC 7. Poirot was on. There'd been a murder in France and Poirot was on the case. Interestingly all the French people spoke with perfect English accents, but Poirot maintained his comedy French accent, bloody Walloon. When I went to see my relatives in Flanders I noticed that although Agatha Christie was seemingly popular, Poirot was conspicuously absent. There's a healthy disrespect between the Flemish and the Walloons and was with this heartwarming reassurance that I eventually fell asleep.

I'm still knackered though and its now chucking it down, so congratulations on that British Summer Time. I want that hour back goddammit.

Friday Pictorial the Eighth - Arts & Crafts

After all that build up yesterday, here is the finished product. It's low budget kids arts and crafts, Joe, but not as we know it. What do you mean you aren't Joe?! Oh for fu... where's Joe?!

It's lampooning two very different styles of people. One is children's TV presenters and the other... well, you'll have to watch to find out. Stay tuned, kids, 'cause you just might learn something...



There's a bonus for fans of a now defunct radio item too...

Lights, Camera, 3rd Degree Burns...

Right, I've spent much of this morning filming tomorrow's Friday Pictorial. I know I must hide it well, but a rather large amount of work goes into the production of those videos and today I thought I'd give you a little insight into the world of filming the FriPic.

I'm a big believer in the Curb Your Enthusiasm approach. Each FriPic starts with an idea or concept (usually decided upon the day before filming) and is then riffed on in front of the camera by me. While I never write a script to learn, I do have to improvise every take without cock-ups that would shatter the illusion, which means 1 or 2 several minute segments finish abruptly with me swearing loudly and end up on the cutting room floor. It also means inhabiting the character and thinking like they do. Whether it be a Dan Brown parody, a lazy TV director or, as is the case tomorrow, a children's TV presenter. Of course none of the characters I play are all-round stand-up guys so this usually makes things more fun.

I'll give you a wee teaser, tomorrow's involves a grill oven, hence the title of today's post. I burnt my hands... several times. While one burn is simulated, there's one bit where I singe my hands carrying something from the grill but have to carry on regardless (I know, I'm a pro...). All the filming is done with a laptop webcam (budget, I know...) and this obviously throws up a few problems with framing shots, but until I can afford a proper handycam or better yet a handycameraman, I'm stuck with it.

Music duties are split between my own playing and compositions and appropriate incidental music (often used in the hope that you can't sue a man who works for a charity and makes no money whatsoever from his videos...).

So I come out of filming bruised, battered and burnt and cut everything together with credits, titles and transitions using the laptop before publishing the film to the computer and eventually uploading it. As dangerous, painful, controversial and downright offensive some of them are, they are a lot of fun to make and I hope you all enjoy watching them. If you've missed any so far you can catch up by clicking on the 'Friday Pictorial' label at the bottom of this page.

Massive Outrageous Headline...

Right this one's a bit of a two hander. Firstly, I will complain about the media. In the pub yesterday I noticed a copy of the Express with the headline 'Romanians Steal Man's House' another notch on the sordid bedpost of intolerance. There was a time when that headline would have been 'Man Steals Diana's House' but now it would seem that the Express has pushed aside its previous catch-all headlines for shiny new immigrant-based ones. A bold move, seeing as the Mail have had this territory pretty well covered for what seems like forever and yet the Express has seemingly snuck in under the radar and got away with it, but why?

Well, one logical explanation is that when the Mail does it, it's a bit like Nick Griffin doing it. Alright he might be a massive c*** but he's apparently forged a legitimate political career out of racial hatred and intolerance. When the Express do it, it's like a baglady wearing a Diana tea-cosy on her head and yelling toothlessly to all and sundry. Another explanation is that regardless of what the Express put as their headlines, all the jokes ever made about the paper will feature Diana headlines (you can check Mock the Week for proof if you like).

But everyone's been having a go at preposterous headlines recently, not just the redtops and tabloids. One of today's more ridiculous stories is in the Telegraph and reads 'Facebook linked to rise in Syphilis'. Again, this is one of those classic bits of sensationalism from the paper that last week published an article about the 'Large Hardon Collider'. Obviously logging on to FB doesn't give you an STI and, let's be honest, there's a good chance that a lot of the members (yes, I'm looking at you, ALL-CAPITALS MAN and n vwl grl...) already have something. The link between Facebook and Syphilis is apparently due to the social networking website making it easier to have casual sex, though I think they'll find that the easiest way to have casual sex is to go out and talk to a real person in real life.

As little as I do actually want to defend the website, it's not really its fault if its users go out and have unprotected sex with a relative stranger. Unless the Telegraph are lobbying for some kind of Facebook Mum App that reminds you to take a condom with you every time you log off, there really isn't much of a story here. I'm fairly certain that most users are aware that if they have unprotected sex with a stranger, it could result in Syphilis, babies and other sexually transmitted diseases...

Right, that's the first part done. Here's the second bit- I've spent much of the last 3 hours trying to remember a word. It's a word for a written law or statement... no, not an edict, written, remember?... It's a funny word, it doesn't sound like it should be what it is... it might be latin?... Anyon- hold the phone, affadavit, that's it! Affadavit.

That is all.

Guest Blogs... Because Sometimes I Don't Work Hard Enough...

Right, the blogs might have been a touch lacklustre recently, but that's about to change. I've been busy over the last few nights (old friends to catch up with, awards to be presented with, beer to be consumed in large volume etc.) but that's no excuse for neglecting the blog. People have questioned me about the awards and the answer is that they were simply academic (by which I mean they were for academia, not that they're irrelevant... and they were presented by Stuart Pearce, so have that...) and they were followed by copious amounts of alcohol as was today, for no real reason. So I apologise for that, also this is a slightly drunken, late night blog... meaning I might use the word 'cunt' and there might be boobs (very unlikely). Anywho, the lovely and talented Hoffi stepped into the breach to save the day.

Despite having university work to complete and a play to finish I somehow found myself with nothing to do this evening… ok, so I am feeling too lazy to do those things so I decided to hijack this blog space instead (with permission).

It was while writing the aforementioned comedy play for a local youth theatre group that I was suddenly stumped, I was midway through a joke when I realised that I was hurtling dangerously fast towards the ‘S’ word. I stopped and considered this a moment. The youngest actors performing this play would be fourteen was it appropriate to mention sex? And, not only to mention it but to have the words come from their mouths?

Here is the brief moment in the scene in question:

DASHER: What are you doing?

PANDA: Looking at Skud’s facebook page.

DASHER: Oh right, anything interesting?

PANDA: COW!

DASHER: What? What is it?

PANDA: Hi I’m Sarah Jordan and I like putting little xs and os at the end of my messages to other people’s boyfriends.

DASHER: Slut.

PANDA: Well, I’ll show her… (As she’s typing.) Hi Skud, I’ve thinking of you. I lo-like you so very very much. See you later. Kiss, kiss , kiss…

SKUD enters.

PANDA: Hug, hug, hug, SE- (She sees Skud) EEEX!

My mind is immediately cast back to when I was around fourteen. I remember watching Titanic with my mum and older sister I remember the following conversation after a particular reference was made in the film:

“Mum, what’s a prostitute.”

To which she replied, “It is someone who sells love.”

“Oh, that sounds like a nice job,” I innocently replied.

Of course my mum went on to explain further, my sister hiding her sniggers. I look back at this and know that it would not have been appropriate for me to be a play with jokes regarding sex in at that age.

However, I turn to facebook (surely a good place to gauge what is socially acceptable in the younger generation) and find fourteen year olds joining groups like ’50 things girls wish guys knew’ and the 50 things includes ‘There is no such thing as too much spooning.’ And ‘Just because you L the C doesn't mean we have to S the D.’ amongst other things. So, perhaps my rather innocent mention of the S word doesn’t seem so inappropriate in comparison.

I am beginning to feel a little middle aged and prudish now. The age of sexual knowledge seems to be upon us now. Indeed my sister, now a primary school teacher (year 5) tells me that several girls in her class have avidly been reading the Twilight Saga, including the last book that has sex as well as violence in the form of vampires biting through a woman’s stomach to get her baby out. (Yes… seriously- I wonder how that is going to happen in the film) Is this really appropriate for ten year olds?

Strangely, after deciding that it is fine to include the word ‘Sex’ and a few mild references to sexual things (I am aiming for sort of 12 certificate for this play) I have decided against including any swear words stronger than ‘arse’ and ‘slut’. Somehow swear words seem far less appropriate for this age group than sexual content. Indeed, I imagine I would get more complaints from parents if I used a stronger swear word than from making a mild sex joke. Notice the use of ‘Cow’ rather than ‘bitch’.

Perhaps I was just a little too innocent back then (A thing that I would admit to) but I find it a little sad that more children aren’t like that today. I suppose by including such jokes I am only adding fuel to the already burning fire but once someone knows these things there is no way of unknowing them.

I might be showing my age here, but I don't understand what L-ing the C and S-ing the D are, though I suspect I wouldn't like it elaborated... oh no, wait, I think I've got it. Yeah, we can't say those things on here... That said, if being out of touch means that I don't have to read the explicit, preposterous Volvo adverts that are the volumes of the Twilight saga (being a heterosexual male also helps to prevent this) then that's ok by me.

If anyone fancies producing a couple of guest blogs, I'd be more than happy to put them up (you'd be suitable advertised, naturally) presuming they adhere to my rigorous community standards... erm, don't use the c-word unless you're me, don't incite racial hatred and don't use a picture of Nick Griffin unless the caption for the picture is the c-word.

Night night, Blogosphere. Sleep tight.

This Town Ain't Big Enough For the Both of Us...

Imagine the scene. It's 10pm in an East End Victorian pub, many are assembled awaiting the arrival of one man, so that the brawl can begin, but this isn't just any brawl- this is a Twitterbrawl. Everyone knows where they stand, no holds barred, all weapons, all fighting styles allowed, maximum violence, vulgarity and destruction expected. One thing is for certain, many will not leave the pub but just who is responsible for this waste of life. The man with the blood of hundreds on his hands is none other than comedian Tiernan Douieb.

Sure enough, the man himself arrives, punctual as ever and announces

Good evening. *strolls into pub, doffs hat. In hat is huge glove with spikes on it. Hits you all with it in the face* Duel? #twitterbrawl

and Hell is unleashed within the confines of a freehouse. In the midst of this madness it is hard to keep track of all and sundry (one must be alert for danger to oneself, first and foremost) however, alliances will be forged, severed limbs will be taken up and used as cudgels, traction engines will smash through walls and the brawl will, to quote fictional detective Gene Hunt, 'get a bit tasty'. I did endeavour to keep track of all the blows I received during this melee:

• Had a bottle thrown at me by flahr
• Had the brawlmeister himself, Tiernan Douieb, thrown at me by James Walker
• Hit in the face by a Cuban heel, a combination of Zoe Fell and James Walker again, to which I responded by throwing a whole Cuban (Victorian revolutionary Ignacio Agramonte, if you were wondering)
• Had bombs thrown at me by Tiernan (by way of the Time Traveller from HG Wells' 'The Time Machine'), after which I called in the Grenadier Guards to fight fire with fire. There was however a pay dispute which led me to exclaim
  

  @TiernanDouieb Hold on a tick. Right, the administration's a bit of a bugger. Have some Scarlet Fever *hurls ailing child*. #twitterbrawl

• Having died several times Tiernan Douieb returned as the Ghost of Christmas Past to show the brawlers terrifying visions of there misdeeds. Never one to back down, I replied with the following

  @TiernanDouieb I harbour fear for no ghost. Come hither, so I can administer to you a Dickensian drubbing. #twitterbrawl

• As punishment for firing Bob Cratchitt, I had Tiny Tim hurled at my face by the Ghost of Christmas Past. Still refusing to submit, I delivered what I considered to be my finest line of the night.

  @TiernanDouieb Scrooge, am I? That's it, I'm going to give you a bloody Bob CROTCH-hit. Arf. #twitterbrawl

• The hour allotted for the brawl had nearly expired and it turned ugly, Elephant Man ugly (this Victorian theme is still going strong). James apparently had a self-destruct function primed for 11 o'clock and Tiernan too had set a device to explode at the fateful hour. Taking wild swings I prepared to be immolated in a firewall of explosives and Scottish flesh but to my horror I found myself alive but terribly scarred. Determined not to take my chances with the surgeon I ended my life with my bayonet... or I would have done if some swine hadn't replaced it with jellied eels.
  

Just to recap-

Things I Had Thrown At Me

1 bottle
1 monarch (Queen Victoria)
1 comedian (Tiernan Douieb)
1 Cuban heel
3 bombs
1 ghostly Dickensian vision
1 Tiny Tim
2 massive waves of explosive destruction

Things I Threw Back

1 shoe-shine boy (kicked after shoddy Dubbin work)
1 lid (from a Mason jar of whoopass that I opened carefully)
1 lot of fisticuffs (thrown wildly)
2 monarchs (Princes Albert and Edward - I'd grabbed them by the sacks ((Coburg)) and threw them like a hammer)
1 Cuban (Ignacio Agramonte)
1 cloud of pipe smoke (coughed in Tiernan's face)
3 Grenades (All I could manage after the admin problems with the Grenadier Guards)
1 laboured pun-based kick to the crotch
1 Al Swearengen

So, as one might imagine, I'm still suffering a few aches and pains but much fun was had by all. Imaginative fatalities all round and a cracking hour of verbal fisticuffs from some of Twitter's finest unsung wits. If you fancy seeing how the entire affair played out, simply click on any of the hashtags in the quotes and you'll be able to see how it all went down.

Friday Pictorial the Seventh: Heroes

We can be heroes, so sang Bowie, but have you ever wanted your heroes to have less flying, shooting lasers out of their eyes and omnipotency and more steel cricket bats, denim bomber jackets and acid wash jeans? Well, then you might like the sound of my latest project 'Crucible'.


This is Tony Standforth- Sheffield born, steelworker, superhero. Standforth is 'Crucible', a member of a team of masked Military Intelligence operatives that tackle organised crime throughout the British Isles.


The team, led by the feisty Britannia (see below) find themselves moved from tracking elusive drug barons and gangland players to the hell of the Falklands War, an experience that will change every operative for better or for worse.

After their experiences of war the team soon crash headlong into their next conflict, the Miner's Strike and Crucible struggles with his split loyalties, his domineering coal miner father and the masks' association with increasing police brutality. Will he turn his back on his roots or rebel against his friends and the very government that employs him?

Set in Thatcher's Britain, 'Crucible' is a gritty, noirish tale of friendship, conflict and rebellion, all set against a background of New Romantics and bleak, British winters. It's Watchmen meets David Peace's GB84 and you followers are the first to get the details.

As a bonus here's a (very rough) concept sketch of the first panel from Issue 1 'To Cut A Long Story Short...'


As you can tell, I'm not much of an artist but I'm hopeful of attracting one to the project. That said, if by some miracle there's one reading this or any of you know one, direct yourselves/them my way and I'd be eternally grateful.

I'll try and keep you all posted with the details but I don't want to give too much away (you know what the internet's like with intellectual property...).

Have a good weekend, folks and I hope next week brings some bloody bloggable news stories, not like this week where sod all happened but the end of western civilisation on This Morning.

No Sex Toys Please, We're British...

We're all going to Hell in a handcart! Alright, we probably aren't, but This Morning's Sex Week is continuing apace and there is very, very little else to blog about really. It's been one of those weeks where there's frankly been a shocking lack of the annoying or amusingly preposterous in the news. Today's sticky wicket: Sex Toys. Yes, even the couples in the studio giggled at this one. Again Schofe and Willo bravely presented their way through such titilating devices as the 'Sqweel Oral Sex Stimulator' (absolutely unforgivable... spelling 'squeal' like that, whodo they think they are?!) As they went to the couples however, things began to fall apart. Most of the participants were patently uncomfortable discussing the facts, yet a small minority seemed almost smug at turning the air blue.

The next couple tested the 'Rampant Rabbit: Thruster Deluxe' which Holly had to interrupt with the name of (Schofield maintaining the pretense that he had 'lost the name on the sheet') and the 'Ice Vibe', a vibrating ice cube, as one might imagine. "So this is something you'd have to plan before, isn't it." Holly explained as if it was some device cobbled together whilst watching an episode of SMart or Fingertips. One of the testers brought up the issue of having the Ice Vibe in the freezer and the perils of children looking for their ice creams. The less said, the better presumably. The couples then dished out scores in the same way that one would evaluate a beauty product or some such other inocuous product on a daytime TV show. I can't quite put into words the bizarre element of watching TM's Sex Week, it's a very, very strange experience. One wrestles with embarrassment one second and then rushes to stifle childish giggles the next. Still if you fancy hearing Phillip Schofield say things like 'WeVibe' and 'Oral Sex Stimulator' while looking slightly mortified at the same time, you could be in for a treat.

Also tackled today was 'Infidelity: Can It Be Good?' to which the topic should have been an extreme close up of Schofield's face as he said "NO!" with a stentorian bellow. Sadly, they had a whole piece where agony aunt Denise Robertson (I'm awaiting the Denise Does Dallas special tomorrow with baited breath... although I may have made that up) met the founder of a dating website who believes that cheating can save marriages. I don't have any particularly strong feelings for gnosticism, but if that's the mentality, we're all going to Hell! I can't be sure but I'm pretty certain that marriages are saved by focusing on the issues present and working hard to keep it together, thus creating stronger bonds than ever before, instead of whoring yourself out to an interweb stranger...

I think This Morning have missed a trick here though. As I mentioned yesterday they are only able to show fully clothed couples making sex positions with no movement and simply showing a plastic toy wobbling around to demonstrate its action. Surely they should have instead employed those puppets from the Dolmio trailers that are bolted on before and after the commercial breaks. There's an old couple and a younger couple, they live in a Italian sex villa, they have access to food (kinky) and they almost certainly aren't anatomically correct. What could possibly go wrong? Don't answer that...


TYSIC Update

Well, exciting developments in the Ten Year Self Improvement Challenge. I have a new project to bolt on to my existing 10 year goals. A graphic novel. Wait, come back... they're not just for sweaty, bespectacled guys... they can tackle issues. This one tackles the issues of a bleak 1980s Britain and a team of masked Military Intelligence operatives with no discernable superpowers whatsoever. 'No superpowers?' I hear you cry. 'How's that going to work?' Well simply put, the aim is Alan Moore meets David Peace. It's Watchmen meets the Miner's Strike in a grim, mature noir about asbsolute power corrupting absolutely and one Yorkshire lad who won't forget his roots, even if it means turning on his former comrades and defying the very government that used to employ him. I'll keep you posted on the details. This is all copyrighted by the way...

Cultureballs...

Well what a triumphant few days it's been for culture. Whenever people start talking about Jedward I have a real Bernard Black "Oh God, you're still alive" cringe moment. I still cannot grasp how this patently rubbish pair of Ellen Page-faced, Paul Phoenix-coiffured pillocks are still carving out a career and enjoying popularity. A look at their twitter feed (appropriately titled Planet Jedward, because such preposterousness simply cannot exist on Earth) give you a curious insight into the maddening, surrealist nightmare than can presume only exist in the mind of Salvador Dali.

Happy St. Jedward's Day!

Who are these fuckers that they can collar a patron saint's day for personal gain. I suppose that St. Patrick's Day is the only day in the calendar in which one meets the criteria of drunkeness to be able to handle Jedward as a concept. What does seem apparent is that they have some kind of secretary to craft most of the tweets with the exceptions of those like the following:

Are record company dropped us today. We our devestated.

Speaking on behalf of humanity I can only say that we our sorry and offer are deepest condolences... or alternatively:

EDWARD WENT TO SLEEP LAST NIGHT WITH BUBBLE GUM! AND HE WOKE UP AND THE BUBBLE GUM WAS EVERYWHERE!

The ones with horrific grammatical inconsistencies or entirely in block capitals appear to be directly from the arse's mouth. The one that has to absolute take the biscuit however is this ridiculous Swiftian notion.

Yep, they have a pet kangaroo, a pet fucking kangaroo. Never has the domain Twitpic been more appropriate. What is this world they live in where you type entirely in block capitals, where the laws of grammar have no significance whatsoever, where one can own a marsupial as a pet? What is this bizarre fucking reverse-Orwellian hell? I almost envy them... almost.

Other victories for culture this week include pensioner sex on This Morning. Yup, it's sex week on the light daytime magazine show. Cue staggering professionalism in the face of extreme repressed childish giggling on the part of Schofield as he rattles through a link that wouldn't look out of place in a Tinto Brass flick, an embarrassed looking Holly Willoughby, tabloid outrage and a witty dismissal by Zoe Williams in the Guardian (I seem to quote her a lot, I think it's perhaps because she's so delightfully appalled by most of the topics I choose to blog about). Having sex problems? Don't worry because Dr. Chris Steele and Tracey Cox are here to listen to your dysfunctions, live on national television. I'll be frank, I'm not appalled really, though I am staggered that the 500 or so people that have complained to OFCOM (don't even get me started) seem to own TVs that can't be turned off and only provide one channel.

Among the topics tackled include toys in the bedroom (and I don't mean the Playstation), Tracey Cox's guide to sex positions and the tastefully titled "My Vagina Fell Apart After Birth". The Sex Position Guide was actually rather tamely hilarious, with a ludicrous X-Factor, Carl Orff (late of this parish - see Friday Pictorial: Sport) backed introduction, featuring rather amusing imagery and a sheepish (but amused) looking pair of presenters, followed by the aptly named Cox introducing two fully-clothed couples, one young and one not. Willoughby looked somewhere between righteous indignation, embarrassment and amusement as 'the Scissors' were demonstrated statically (no movement allowed pre-watershed, you see).

Culture is in the process of eating itself and soon we'll all be covered in homogenous reality/talent vomit, but until then we get to enjoy the last days of Rome as old people sex makes it onto daytime TV and the annual tradition of the 'St. Patrick's Day beating of Jedward with the Blarney Stone' begins. Happy hedonistic destruction everyone!

Using Chatroulette For the Powers Of Good...

That title may seem a tad anachronistic, but that's exactly what Merton, a self-taught pianist is doing. Cut through the cock and the weirdos and you'll find this jolly musical chap plink-plonking away in real time. To my shame I only discovered him yesterday and he only has one compilation video up. He's impressive, I'll give him that and he's seems to have broken the 'ones that scar people for life are the best ones' Chatrt mentality.

To see him improvising a song for each stranger that he's connected to is remarkable. Playing away like a mad internet Jermaine Clement, he makes canny observations about them a improvises songs from nothing. He's become a Twitter sensation and the video's gone viral - this could well be the beginning of a new internet meme and I for one would like to see more improvisational music there. Who knows what would have happened when I faced off with cat-stroking Bond villain had I had my trusty guitar in my hand (probably nothing, I imagine I still would have chickened out).

Anyway, this is another short one, I'm afraid. Largely because of an unholy trinity of me having new projects to work on (update in Thursday's weekly TYSIC section), not a great deal happening in the world and the Indian Premier League being shown for free on Youtube. There appears to be a big delay on the stream, but I'm getting sucked in nonetheless. Robin Uthappa just made an astonishingly quick 50, hacking away like an Indian Garry Sobers (resisting urge to make a 'holy slogging, Bat-man!' joke), before promptly getting out. "Those who burn twice as bright, burn for half as long" and so on and so forth...

Probably the Best Blog in the World... (Well, Arguably... Possibly... Maybe... Realisitically Not)

This will be a quickie (again, I know. Sorry). Occasionally the non-profit industry demands more of my time than this cynical blogroll. I also managed to get ill yesterday, so that scuppered my plans of being very awake today.

Advertising doesn't make much sense these days and it's only going to get worse. I know that this proclamation doesn't exactly make me Nostradamus, but it is all nonsense. Last week I talked about Jesus appearing in Marmite and how I found it odd that the Lord would choose to reveal himself to humanity in a product that willfully alienates 50% of its target market through advertising slogan alone. 'You either love it or hate it' - A slogan so popular that it has made the yeasty spread a watchword for divisive products and figures and yet, like Yorkie, it deliberately takes a stab at a core demographic and eliminates them from eligibility. Similarly it confuses those who don't have a strong opinion on the matter. Perhaps they should add a brief caveat or appendix to their slogan: 'You either love it or hate it! - if you don't have any strong feelings about it, then you probably hate it really...' Not quite so snappy though.

Of course, other famous advertising slogans include:

The Swiss Army Knife - 'Believe it or not, but with just these few utensils you can kill the entire Swiss Army'.

and

George Foreman Grill – 'Should you need to grill ex-heavyweight champions of the world, there really is no finer tool'.

Although I may have made those up. Another baffling long-running slogan is Carlsberg's 'probably the best beer in the world'. For some reason putting 'probably' in front of an inexplicable, false boast allows you to get away with it. As one might glean from that, I'm not a big fan of Carlsberg, I'm more of a bitter man... by which I mean I prefer say Greene King IPA, Brains or 6X (hope my free cases of all of the above are in the post...) and not that I'm a resentful person (although I am that too). I mean 'probably the best beer in the world' is a silly claim to make, they might as well say 'Carlsberg is fucking excellent and all the other beers are crap... probably'. I hope that a fine lager beer such as Kronenbourg pick up the slogan 'arguably the best beer in the world' just to spice up the competition a bit.

What happened to the classic slogans, like Nike's 'just do it' (because sex sells... and yet Volkswagen's 'think small' still made it into the hall of fame...) or 'happiness is a cigar called Hamlet'? These were brilliant slogans with TV ad campaigns to match. Hamlet's legendary ads are up there with the Cadbury's Gorilla bashing out In the Air Tonight and Guiness' high concept surf craziness... and a Russian meerkat explaining the difference between comparison websites and small desert mammals (although it doesn't work quite as well put like that). Today's ad campaigns tend to be odd and as unrelated as humanly possible to the actual product they're selling. Microsoft's new 8 second demo ads are hilarious, especially the man explaining how to clear you browser history so that 'your wife doesn't see the surprise jewellry you ordered for her', because obviously that's why most people delete their browser history...

Ads don't seem to rhyme these days either. While 'Um Bongo, Um Bongo. They drink it in the Congo' is unlikely to shift units in this age (for different reasons than it being an odd rhyme... What do you mean racism? I was talking about it being called the Democratic Republic of Congo now...). If anyone can think of a recent, decent rhyming slogan be sure to comment and I'll prepare to stand corrected. There also seem to be a lot of actors paid to lie about their personal experiences of products, which surely has to be against EU legislation on advertising. Long story short, bring me the head of Barry Scott.

For some reason I think I would quite like to see the slogan 'Um Bongo, Um Bongo. They drink it in the Democratic Republic of Congo'. How times change, eh?

Friday Pictorial the Sixth

Alrighty then. The Friday Pictorial returns for a sixth time, not quite sure what that makes it- Friday Pictorial, Friday Pictorial II, Friday Pictorial With A Vengeance, Live Free or Friday Pictorial... I guess it runs out after that. Anywho, this one's a long 'un, 10 minutes on the nose all told. So crack out the popcorn and knuckle down to a lesson about nature... and television.

Unlucky For Some...

Watching daytime TV can throw up a number of questions: "Where did it all go wrong?", "Why didn't I do better in life when I had the chance?", "How can I have eaten all the Ben & Jerry's this quickly?", "How has Dick van Dyke retained his medical licence? He's too preoccupied with solving crime that he can't possibly dedicate enough time and thought to the medical care of his patients." and "Why the fuck do people still live in Cabot Cove or Midsomer? The entire population of those two places has been culled about three times over."

This isn't a dig at people who watch it, you understand - I am one of those people asking all these questions, especially the last two. Whether it's daytime BBC soap Doctors - which veers from snappy, witty dialogue and homages to Hitchcock to the downright preposterous and melodramatic - or Channel 4's Coach Trip- in which a group of appalling people are herded onto a coach with a Union Jack emblazoned on it, just so the European types know exactly where to direct their complaints - I've seen 'em. Coach Trip is a hidden gem of a show really. Imagine a Shearings (other coach companies are available) populated with the most infuriating and morally vacuous people in the country travelling around the world, while arguing and voting each other off and you're some way to grasping the pitch. Comedy writer David Quantick provides a wry commentary, but the real star of the show is tour guide Brendan. He breaks up fights between the tourists, he does accents while reading out the location to which they are heading and he has a wonderful camp, world-weariness about him. He is, needless to say, wasted on the Coach Trippers.

Indeed, I can't help but feel that a major draw of programmes like Coach Trip and Come Dine With Me is enjoying the misfortune of other people. There is a certain catharsis in witnessing the mishaps, derisible remarks and idiocy of other people and there's a decent argument that it is this Schadenfreude which makes shows like that so successful. Similarly if one looks at quiz shows such as the BBC's Alexander Armstrong-fronted, reverse Family Fortunes quiz 'Pointless'. As good as one feels when they score a pointless (an correct answer not given by any of the 100 people asked before the show), we would settle for simply being better than the contestants. We revel in their stupid mistakes and it makes us feel more intelligent. Whether it's worth sacrificing one's integrity on a gameshow for the greater good of public enjoyment remains to be seen.

The internet too has made a fortune out of Schadenfreude, so many websites simply showcasing the idiocy of other people receive millions of hits. Forgive me for reliving yesterday's experiences, but I wonder what happens when (and it must happen from time to time) two wankers come face to face (maybe that's not the right phrase...) on Chatroulette. Instead of assuming that they instantly 'next', I fancy that there is a moment where both freeze, wracked with existential doubt, staring impotently at the abyss (i.e. the other internet masturbating nuisance) and it stares back into them. Instantly faced with an equally immoral, disgraceful deviant they rethink their lives entirely, re-evaluating the decisions and failures that led them to grimly bash one out over a shocked stranger on a webcam. They close Chatroulette, pull their trousers on and head out to make the world a better place. This is highly unlikely, but I can't help but feel that the world would be a better place if it was true.


TYSIC Update

Well, we're a week into the Ten Year Self Improvement Challenge and I'm as cynical as ever, however I do have ten years in which to remedy this, so I'm not too worried yet. As for the writing goals, I have a very raw first draft of my sitcom pilot, though it could well take ten years for me to produce a rewrite that I'm happy with. I managed to pile through the fog of writer's block and finish a chapter last night (well... at 1.30 this morning...), however so much of the novel remains and it only gets tougher from here. I've also picked up a side-project writing sketches for a play, so that one's a bonus. Provisional plans to go to Ireland are in place, but yet to be acted upon - Canada and the French Riviera remain pipedreams for the present. I'm no closer to voicing a video game character (not entirely sure how to go about getting into it) or writing a song that I'm happy with - what with all the writing projects, music has been put somewhat on the backburner. Still, there's another 9 years and 51 weeks to go. Wish me luck...

Self-Sex, Lies and Videotape: The Chatroulette Story

Ok, I'll come out and say it: on the face of it, webcam wankery website Chatroulette makes The 120 Days of Sodom by the Marquis de Sade look like a tasteful study of uptight, prudish types. It connects you to a stranger via webcam and allows you to have a conversation, many of which would appear to consist of "Oh my God, stop doing that! Next! Next!" as you frantically scramble for the F9 key to skip yet another masturbating sexual deviant.

I first became aware of this new phenomenon when my Twitter accomplices began mentioning it and I duly sought out some information about this unusual venture. Being me, I searched the Guardian website, which fortunately had a fair few articles and editorials about this craziness. One showcased a film by New Yorker Casey Neistat which takes an amusing look at the facts and figures surrounding Chatroulette. Another by respected columnist Zoe Williams about venturing innocently onto the site and being shocked at the depravity of the average internet user. Needless to say you can only learn so much by reading, so I decided, in true Jon Ronson style to take the plunge and see for myself. Going in alone with chances of being severely mentally scarred, I decided to see what this seedy website would hold for a cynical blogger. I'm basically Donal MacIntyre.

Faced with the now infamous two cam box interface I hesitated for a second, wondering just what awaited me on the other side. I composed myself and clicked 'New Game' (rather disturbing that the site's creator opted to call a conversation a 'game'...) and got ready to face the strangers. Out of a brief straw poll of 10, I encountered 2 wankers (1 more cleverly concealed than the other), 4 midriffs (because faces are yesterday's news), 3 basically normal (ahem) people just looking for a chat and this man:

He certainly wins the award for most entertaining stranger I encountered. I wish more of the Chatrouletters chose to stroke a cat instead of something else. He glanced at his TV occasionally, while keeping a tight grip on the cat. "Hello." He said. "Nice cat." I replied. "Thanks." He glanced at the TV again. There was a pause that seemed to last an eternity and, faced with the unsettling grin of this cat-toting, Bond villian-esque stranger, I nexted.

I have to say that the wankers didn't seem very committed. As soon as they're faced with a man they invariably skip within a nanosecond. The more interesting strangers were the normal guys, the non-sexual deviants: along with Bond villain, I also found Hatman, who just wanted a friendly chat, two Jewish men arguing in their kitchen (sadly I wasn't quick enough with the print-screen on that one) and one girl who was more interested in finding her best side for the webcam than dodging weirdos.

Chatroulette owes a debt of gratitude to last year’s flavour of the month Omegle, which carried the marvelously optimistic slogan ‘talk to strangers!’. Despite being a predecessor of Chatroulette, Omegle has one distinct advantage over its webcam-based competitor – On Omegle you can take people’s word for it that they’re having a wank, you don’t have to see it with your own eyes.

It has provided a huge amount of scope for internet japery and some are very clever and funny indeed. Similarly the greatest riposte I have seen to it has to be this marvellously droll domain name. Naturally some people abuse its powers, but others use it for creating mirth and merriment and that is surely to be admired.

Chatroulette has, as one might imagine, been compared to Russian Roulette (presumably in the sense that even if you survive, you’ll be so traumatized that suicide is still the only option). Opinions about the service vary from the classic "awful, depraved etc." to more mixed feelings. "There is something magical about Chatroulette if you can ignore all the masturbators and the rest," reflected Neistat, who shot a video chronicling his experiences on the site. Pretty big ‘if’ there. Any ‘if’ that’s followed by ‘you can ignore all the masturbators’ probably isn’t worth paying much heed to.

That said, there was something about Bond villain and Hatman, a certain humility to them. They were genuine. They weren't perverts, they were just lonely chaps looking for a little conversation. There is no doubt that it is a scary service to use and in many ways it is far scarier to be sincere and look for someone to have a friendly conversation with than it is to display yourself to a stranger from crotch downwards. I had no problem handling the deviants and masturbators, many didn't have to stomach to help me with my blog, but when faced with someone who was just looking for conversation, I found it harder to chat. When faced with Bond villain I froze after an opening gambit and I regret that. I wish that I had tried harder at a conversation and seen if I could have plumbed the depths of this website and got into the mentality of the normal user, because past the surface of wankers there are sincere, friendly people, half a world away or maybe just down the street, who just want a chat.

Very Briefly...

A quickie.

It's another one of those days where not much is happening. At time of writing, the most shared story on the BBC News website is this. 'Family Sees Jesus in Marmite'- because naturally if the Lord wished to appear to us mere mortals he would do so in the dregs of a jar of yeast extract, or on a slice of toast or in a sunspot, sending dozens of Thai citizens blind in the process. Nothing says 'Lamb of God' or 'omnipotent superbeing' like appearing in Marmite. Jesus, you either love him or hate him (I think the church rejected this official slogan).

In other news, two 'bottled ghosts' sold for £935 at auction in New Zealand. Stored in holy water by an exorcist, the two ghosts had been bothering Christchurch resident Avie Woodbury. "I would get things like the jug boiling itself, touching on the back of my neck, voices from other rooms, and items going missing then turning up in weird places," she said. "The dog was mental, he wouldn't go into certain rooms." You can't make this stuff up. People often accuse me of being too cynical, but in a world where Jesus returns in a Marmite lid and ghost presse retails for a cool £935, can you blame me?

I'm hoping some real news turns up sometime soon, but I'm not banking on it. Tomorrow will see some hard, undercover investigative journalism as I enter the terrifying world of Chatroulette. You have been warned.

Live From Hollywood, California. It's Very Early on Monday Morning...

Last night a little award ceremony took place in the Kodak Theatre. Hollywood's glitziest and trashiest turned up to have little statues thrust upon them and there to meet them on the red carpet were all manner of appalling, fawning sycophants ready to illicit no productive information at all. If anything, it seemed like Sky's Angela Griffin had just written a letter to the Make A Wish Foundation saying "please let me go to the Oscars and get a little bit too excited about all the celebs, love Angela". The red carpet nonsense went on for about 3 hours before eventually the nominees began filing into their seats. Even then we didn't get underway (many of them too busy blowing air kisses at each other presumably... or getting the night's drinks if you're George Clooney or Morgan Freeman, both of whom had so much faith in winning the Best Actor gong that they were permanently soused for the entire evening). Finally, everyone was in their places and the 82nd Annual Academy Awards was about to get underway.

And so the festivities began. The nominated actors and actresses lined the stage with mindless grins. What would take place after last year's all singing, all dancing Hugh Jack-man led affair? Well, Doogie Howser M.D. then did an all singing, all dancing number in a shiny tux. Come back nominees, all is forgiven. Then Martin and Baldwin take the stage- what Doogie (also Barney from How I Met Your Mother) called "the biggest pair since Dolly Parton" to a mild embarrassed titter. Watching Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin is like watching Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin; Steve Martin's probably got more money but you know he wishes he was Alec Baldwin. They hit their straps with a gag about the pair donning 3D glasses to look at James Cameron and followed up with Martin quipping "there's that damn Helen Hirren" with Baldwin correcting him "That's Dame Helen Mirred". Haha. To be fair, they were doing a fine job. Martin returning to comedy hosting after a brief spell as an American folk musician and Baldwin off the face of the highly successful Tina Fey sitcom 30 Rock (and the less successful It's Complicated with Oscar nominee ((obviously not for that movie)) Meryl Streep). I should point out that regardless of how good and likeable Baldwin is in anything, I still just think of Team America, "Arec Barrwin" and "I can't upstage Alec Baldwin, he's the greatest actor in the world".

Seeing as that nice Mr. Murdoch had taken my televised Oscars away I followed the ceremony on 5Live and on the Guardian Liveblog written by critic and columnist Xan Brooks. The Liveblog was mightily entertaining, Brooks fully aware that only a handful of people would stay up until the small hours to read about millionaires receiving accolades. He has a healthy sense of derision for both the ceremony and the celebrities... and even the idea of liveblogging itself, I would suggest. He's up there with Paxman in the pantheon of journalists who 'don't really give a shit about their superiors'. There were some magnificent ethereal tracts during the night, one of my early favourites referring to T-Bone Burnett and Ryan Bingham winning Best Song.

"Incidentally, isn't "Ryan Bingham" the name of the character that George Clooney plays in Up in the Air? All of a sudden these Oscars are starting to blur; the line between fiction and reality warping and breaking down. Next I'll be wondering if T-Bone Burnett was actually the name of the seductive, lingerie-wearing muse that Penélope Cruz played in Nine. Already I'm starting to believe that it was. The best bit of that entire film was the scene in which T-Bone Burnett writhed on that four-poster bed and stuck his bum in the air."

He christened the first award of the night (Best Actor in a Supporting Role) the 'No Shit Sherlock Award', which predictably went to Christoph Waltz who has (rightly) won all of them since Cannes last year, I think. It is however the end of a remarkable season for Waltz and his five star turn in Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds. Before Basterds, Austrian Waltz had lost his faith in the acting profession and now he finds himself with every top gong going and a darling of Hollywood. A touching story and a well-deserved oscar for a tour-de-force performance.

We'd be here for days if I was to attempt to list all the awards, so if you simply desire the cold hard facts, check here. Naturally there were some set pieces from Hollywood's most popular comedians. Ben Stiller presented the Best Make-Up award to Star Trek while trussed up in full Na'vi gear to a begruding smile from Avatar director James Cameron, after which the Best Adapted Screenplay award is presented to Precious and not In The Loop... rather unfairly. Still don't understand why exactly In The Loop was considered to be an adapted screenplay and not an original screenplay. @LloydWoolf suggested that:

People seem to think it counts as being adapted from The Thick Of It. Like when the On The Buses gang went to Spain.

As good an explanation as any. Geoffrey Fletcher collecting the Best Original Screenplay gong choked up at the podium with an entire 45 second gap to fill. "I'm drying up." He said. That was the best he could do? Jesse Armstrong had promised a Sieg Heil if In The Loop had won. Fletcher was ushered off the podium and Steve Martin boasted "I wrote that script for him." All the while The Hurt Locker was picking up awards like the Greeks throw plates and before long we had arrived at the customary dance number. Dance routines. "What would Oscar night be without a big, razzle-dazzle dance routine?" mused Brooks "Probably 10 minutes shorter and immeasurably more satisfying." More gongs went the way of HL and it led Avatar 4-3. After what seemed like an eternity, Kate Winslet arrived to present the Best Actor award which was, as one might imagine, won at the fifth time of asking by heavy favourite Jeff 'always the Dudesmaid, never the Dude' Bridges who raised his statuette to the rafters, a-whooping and a-hollering. Tremendous.

Would Sandra Bullock do the unthinkable and win both the Razzie for Worst Actress and Oscar for Best Actress in the same year? The day before at the spoof awards ceremony, Bullock had, to her credit, turned up to accept the ignominious gong with a truckload of DVDs of 'All About Steve', the much-maligned romcom for which she had sealed the award. However The Blind Side, yet to be released over here in Blighty had American critics falling over themselves like drunks in a ball pit and, sure enough, Sean Penn read out her name for the win. "Carey [Mulligan]" she said, "your grace and your elegance and your beauty and your talent makes me sick". A reminder that Bullock is actually a rather funny lady, if only she'd shown us that in All About Steve then she wouldn't have picked up the Razzie.

Then it was time for the big ones. Was there to be a repeat of the Baftas, where Cameron was basically out of his seat when the Hurt Locker was named Best Picture and he slumped back, face like thunder. Avatar had been touted as the main contender until the British Academy foisted praise upon Bigelow's effot and the Iraq bomb-disposal movie (no hard-sell needed for this one...) made a late surge for the main prize of the evening. First there was the skirmish, Best Director. Streisand took the stage. "The time has come." She said ominously. "Katherine Bigelow!" became the first woman to take the Best Director gong... ever. The Best Picture statuette was brought to the stage. The tension was palapable. Hanks tore open the envelope like a child at Christmas (this may be an exaggeration) and announced that The Hurt Locker had won. Cameron, face like a slapped arse, clapped unenthusiastically as he simmered gently beneath the surface and we had reached the end of another Academy Awards ceremony. "This show was so long that Avatar now takes place in the past," quipped Martin. He wasn't lying.

Friday Pictorial the Fifth: Based on Real Events

Ok, here's the fifth Friday Pictorial or FriPicV, if you want to be one of those guys. It marks the FriPic debut for my Key-influenced poetry (Twitter followers will know what to expect). Here's the long awaited Poem 36, based on an incident I witnessed exactly a week ago.



Here's today's fact: The book I'm brandishing in this is History of the Peloponnesian War by Thucydides (again all the words I say in the Pictorial are just coming from my brain).

TYSIC...

Ok, some of you may be wondering what this seemingly random string of letters entails. Well, it's an acronym for Ten Year Self Improvement Challenge- an iniative started by comedian Mark Watson to make the world a better place (one could even say substantially better) that begins on this very day, March 4th. TYSIC is rather appropriate for me, given my recent worries about the old midlife crisis.

In case, you're wondering the midlife crisis is continuing apace. Today I spent an hour in the garage of a well-known car manufacturer, I won't name names (why does this sound familiar...?), let's just call them, say, Boyota. They were performing some engineering to stop my car's accelerator from inadvertantly killing me. 'Good, what's wrong with that?' you might be wondering. Well, it meant sitting there watching Animal Park in dodgy black and white, fetching various caffeinated beverages and reading the newspapers strewn across the glass tables, while thinking things like 'this is taking a long time, maybe I should say something. Probably wouldn't reflect well on me if I said something...' etc. It couldn't have been more mid-life crisis-y if I'd had a pipe and slippers.

Driving home there was more cause for concern. I heard the best string of 'Non-Stop Oldies' on the Steve Wright Big Show ever - classic after classic- the Kinks, the Who, Derek and the Dominoes (you haven't lived until you've crept through a rural village blasting 'Layla' at full volume to frightened and bemused primary school kids), James Brown, Otis Redding. A stellar line-up. That definitely makes me old, doesn't it. Arse.

Actually this would be a good time to slot in some careless, uninformed analysis of the current BBC cuts situation. The idea of BBC 6Music being forced into closure seems to have a lot of people up in arms. I do occasionally listen but I couldn't call myself a regular (not since the days of Russell Brand moving to Radio 2 anyhow), however I can see that its closure would effectively snuff out thousands of exciting new artists hopes of reaching their audience. I'm told that 6Music has access to every record produced from 1960 onwards (unverified) and to wipe out such an extensive library seems a little odd to me. I'm reliably informed, by many people of greater influence, importance and wealth than myself, that we must do something about it, so let's stick it to the man... or something. A quote I see a lot with regard to 6Music is that it caters for those 'too old for Radio 1 and too young for Radio 2'. Well I was 'too old' for Radio 1 when I was about 13 and at no point was I ever 'too young' for Radio 2, no matter how uncool that makes me. I'm not ashamed about it, I'm not here to preserve my already ailing 'street cred' otherwise I wouldn't have waxed lyrical about today's Non-Stop Oldies selection.

All of this is why I figured it might be time to thrust myself into the Ten Year Self Improvement Challenge. A lot can happen in 10 years (hopefully), so I'll have to draft a list.

1. Finish my sitcom pilot script, plus series outline and character bios. I would give you some information about it, but I'm still convinced that Whitehouse and Higson stole the idea for Down the Line from me... the house may well be bugged.
2. Write a song that I'm actually pleased with - musically and lyrically.
3. Voice a video-game character - this is just a dream I've always had, don't really know why. I've been told I have a good voice for such things and I did meet Steve Blum once, he seemed a jolly nice chap.
4. Finish my novels and aim to get them published - There's two on the go presently, neither approaching completion at this stage (just as well I've got ten years to do it in)
5. Go to Ireland, Canada and the French Riviera - these are the destination-y kind of ones. I know some people say Nepal or Bolivia, but I'm better off in places where I can't get debilitating wasting diseases.

Those are the five main points, but I suspect others might creep in. Notice there's no 'get a decent job' etc. on here. I figure that I don't have time for that if I'm already at my midlife crisis. I'll try and keep you loyal readers posted with regard to my successes or otherwise in the TYSIC and if anyone else fancies joining in, it's a great way to try and improve your life/prospects/chances of furthering the human race etc.

Good luck, fellow TYSICers, see you on the other side.

Midlife Crisis...

Right, I'm not sure, but I think I could well be having a midlife crisis (meaning that I'll live to the ripe old age of 36 - my lucky number, but obviously not that lucky...). I arrived at this conclusion today after returning from the bank. I hate banks, especially my bank. I won't name names, let's just call them, say, Lloyds TSP. It all stems back to July of last year, whereupon I entered my local branch to exchange some Pounds sterling into Euros and walked out with a new current account that costs me £8 a month! That's £100 a year! (give or take) £100! I very rarely spend such an amount of money on anything, let alone an intangible vault within which to keep my other money (which is disappearing by the second thanks to this draconian £8 surcharge).

After much wrangling I was told that the account would be closed, but there was a payment earmarked, so I would have to wait for it to go through and (this was the point where I realised my youthful exuberance had been fully syphoned away) I simply accepted that. No questions, no arguing with the young lady cashier (though I suspect she would have been fully unprepared if I had set my rant to 'stun'). Instead I went home and listened to a playlist (another hint that I could be having a midlife crisis) Jackson Browne, Nick Drake, Toto and Journey. Mellow songs from mellow songwriters. I'm also the kind of person (hint number 3) that says things like "on I Won't Hold You Back, Lukather's guitar licks sound like the raw emotion of the dying human soul". So I wasn't prepared to argue with a bank clerk, I listen to mellow music and I'm a poor man's Paul Gambaccini- futility, folk/soft rock and pretentiousness do not a crisis make, right? Wrong. This morning I woke up with a sore back. This is just plain ridiculous I must be at least 50 years old.

As I've previously mentioned 2 of the big hints have been music based. I consider myself to be somewhat of an expert on music and I have frequently complained about modern music and how some of it is "just bloody noise". I'm sure that this is probably another factor of middle age. I like classic rock and Jeff Wayne's War of the Worlds. I'm essentially Ken Bruce. What hope is there for me?

As a man once called a younger, sexier David Mitchell (just by a friend, there wasn't a poll or conference or anything) I feel, like the great man himself, righteously outraged by many, many things that I suspect other people find to be merely trifling annoyances. I'd like to think that my comparison to Mitchell was to do with our shared rapier-like wit, however I suspect it has rather more to do with the fact that I am cursed with an underdeveloped jawline, quite like history and complain a lot. Mitchell is a hero of mine, as is Paxman, who did an excellent night's work yesterday (the expression as he says "I don't think so" is absolutely tremendous). Paxo is surely soon to be a national treasure. He has a healthy disregard for his superiors, he said 'fucking' on Newsnight and every Monday he puts 8 students well and truly in their place. Bravo, Mr. Paxman.

Will let you all know if I attempt to purchase a motorcycle or go travelling in central Europe. If that happens, then there is truly no hope for me. In the meantime, I'm off to listen to The Smiths and try and recapture some teen angst to flush out the middle aged malaise I'm currently experiencing. See you tomorrow, kids. If you have been, thank you for listening.

Working Title...

You know titles? A thing that you call another thing by? Difficult sometimes, aren't they? I've spent many an hour agonising over titles for novels, sitcoms, episodes, even these very blog posts. I'm rubbish at titles, which is why so many of these posts and even the title of the blog contain at least one elipsis (if not several) and extra little clauses thrown on the end. Perhaps the best, most concise title I've ever managed was for my Noel Edmonds Beat the Monkey rant - Get Your Hands Off Of Me, You Damned Dirty Ape... (and even that was far from ideal).

Titles are important, people say, they grab the readers attention and while it's true that say 'Lesbian Vampire Killers 2: Lez Harder' (thanks to James Walker for that one) would attract more attention than 'A Middle-Aged Man Assembling Ikea Furniture' (the next Coen Brothers movie), is there any correlation between quality of title and quality of content? Let's face it, there have been some shocking titles in the history of the arts. Take for instance embarrassing American dance movie You Got Served (what Mutant Reviewers referred to as the title that went up a hill and came down a national catchphrase- itself a reference to rubbishly-titled Hugh Grant measuring movie The Englishman Who Went Up a Hill and Came Down A Mountain). See also Snakes on a Plane (because screenwriters' laziness knows no bounds - they should have put that on the poster...), Phffft (a case where the NY Daily News review of 'Jack and Judy go wild' would have made a better title) and Mannequin II: On the Move (this one needs no explanation). The worst movie title of all time however is probably 1969's 'Can Hiernonymous Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happniess?'- Firstly don't name your protagonist a cross between a Dutch painter and a pubic wig, don't name the love interest after what I can only assume is some manner of dermatological disease and don't ask a bloody long question with the title! You're the fucking movie, you tell me if he can.

Music too has been plagued by naff titles, the special mentions here going to rapper C-Murder's (who as one would imagine is a convicted murderer) 'The Truest Shit I Ever Sang' (utter nonsense and reminds me of something I forgot to mention yesterday- I'll whack it on the end of this post) and Fiona Apple's 'When the Pawn Hits the Conflict He Thinks Like A King What He Knows Throws the Blows When He Goes to the Fight and He'll Win the Thing 'Fore He Enters the Ring There's No Body to Batter When Your Mind is Your Might So When You Go Solo, You Hold Your Own Hand and Remember That Depth is the Greatest of Heights and if You Know Where You Stand, Then You'll Know When to Land and If You Fall It Won't Matter, Cuz You Know that You're Right' (A bit like a John Hegley poem... if John Hegley had tried to be serious and was really shit at poetry. This is utterly pretentious, un-punctuated bollocks and wasted a good 10 mintues of my life typing it out).

There's already a perfectly serviceable list of Worst Book Titles Ever, featuring every Stephanie Meyer book and various others, so I don't feel the urge to try and top it. Why exactly titles are so hard I don't think we'll ever know, but there's far more bad than good out there in the world of naming, that's for sure.

Onto the thing I forgot to mention yesterday and it's the story of how the last embers of hope that I had left for the human race were extinguished in one fell swoop - As I left the station to come home a youth (complete with a hoody and everything) yelled "Right, where's the fucking pussy at?" I was as stunned as the other commuters. Swaggering, the youth strolled off with his friend before I had time to approach him and say either "excuse me, could you say that again, only, you know, even louder?" or "excuse me, do you mind, you know, being more of a cunt?"

One of Those Days...

Everything's a bit shit, isn't it. Don't worry, it hasn't taken me this long to work that out, but it seems to be one of those days where it applies more than usual. Now, this is nothing to do with the fact that it's St. David's Day, actually that's one of the day's redeeming features, I've just had a day where things have angered me more than usual.

Today I was in Bath. I made my way to Westbury station to buy a train ticket from an unhappy looking man to wait on a platform with various other unhappy looking people to get on a train filled with yet more unhappy looking people. That's what public transport does, nothing new there, but it very much set the tone for the day. The first straw came in HMV where I nearly shouted at a man for walking down the middle of the staircase. Now this may sound seemingly inocuous, however I was at the bottom of the staicase, attempting to get up it. He could see this and yet he actively attempted to stay in the very middle, leaving no room for passing on either side. Shocked and disheartened by his lack of consideration for others, I did what real British men do- I sighed very loudly and mumbled something to the effect of "some people, tch" before clomping noisily up the steps.

Strike number 2 came when I had an argument with a toilet seat. It was a wooden one, maybe pine (I'm not an expert on wood types) and it was one of those ones which refused to stay upright, meaning that I had to hold onto it all the while. What kind of arsehole would design a toilet seat that doesn't stay upright? It defies logic. A man's peeing ability is severly hampered if he has to focus on holding up a toilet seat at the same time.

I had time to mull over these events back at the station, where I watched a pigeon being chased by a woman. Ok, pigeons are often hate-figures, but they can fly and generally go about things with feathery dignity. I'm not sure what right we have to bother them, we are basically just apes in suits. My train of existentialist thought was ironically interrupted by my actual train arriving and I boarded to find a man heading up the aisles litter-picking. Litter-picking! That's what they made us do in school as a punishment, this was his actual job. I had a good mind to go up to him and declare "on behalf of the human race, I'm really sorry about how this has all turned out" but thought better of it... eventually.

Strike 3 was when I came home to find that this had happened. So that's a hat-trick of minor niggles that have burrowed into the angry centre of my brain. Normally this would all be fine- just little inconveniences- but today they have been elevated to the state of massive injustices against myself and my fellow humans.

As I say this has nothing to do with St. David's Day, I was in the Millennium Stadium on Friday being as Welsh as possible and on my feet applauding Shane Williams for that try. That said, a row full of cougars in front of me did try and ruin my (and all the proper rugby fans with me's) enjoyment of the game, by talking, drinking and generally getting in the way. If they just wanted to get pissed and talk about things that weren't really appropriate for the situation they could have done that in a cafe or another of those Sex and the City type places. The night was redeemed by the banter between us and the most French man in the world, who was seated across the aisle. In full beret and moustache, he was incredibly drunk, waving his tricoleur triumphantly and generally being very amusing, so if that's you (probably not) then kudos, sir.

On the plus side, I did walk past Danny Grewcock today and gave him a nod and a smile, as if to say "you're quite good at the old rugby, aren't you".