I have a confession to make. I saw King Kong a couple of weeks ago and... I didn't like it.
Working in an office of computer geeks who mostly worship the ground on which Peter Jackson thanks to his bladder-testing Tolkien epics, this is a dangerous thing to say. Its a bit like asking the direction to Mecca and unrolling a prayer mat anywhere near Dubya or his good ol' boys.
So where did this lavish film fail? Interestingly, I rather enjoyed the first chapter, before they arrived at the island. None of the characters were particularly appealing, but the film bumbled along happily enough. Maybe it was just that I hadn't finished off my Hagen Daas by that point. It all began to get tragic when the island appeared. This is where the Lucas effect kicked in.
"But what, Newly, is the Lucas effect?" I hear you cry. Its quite simple. This is where a director makes a film so wildly successful and popular that no-one dares to tell him that what he's doing at the moment is really a little bit rubbish. Hence nobody told Peter "Lord Of The Rings" Jackson that what he was churning out would embarrass a student film maker, and no amount of gloss is going to cover up the cracks. Instead they said "Its jolly good, Pete! And my, haven't you lost weight."
I shudder to think how many great low budget films got sacrificed on the altar of the big Gorilla.
Maybe next time he'll remake "Bad Taste". Particularly the bit with the chainsaw and the puke.
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Thursday, December 22, 2005
Supermarket Rage
I don't get it. It happens every year at around this time. The supermarkets get mobbed.
Now, way back when I was knee-high to grass-hopper and spent my time staring at arses and groins (actually, some things haven't changed as I've gotten older) British stores generally shut down for the christmas break. You really could find yourself in the situation where after December 23 you wouldn't be able to buy much of anything until January 2.
Not so any more. The local store is open 24 hours a day right up until the end of Dec 24. In fact, the only days its closed are 25 December and 26 December and I'm pretty sure we can all go 2 days without needing to restock on turkey, beer or badly made christmas pudding.
So why was it mobbed today? Trolley-rage reigned supreme in the aisles as people replaced their festive spirit with a murderous desire to buy as many boxes of Paxo and tins of Quality Street as humanly possible. Old ladies were trampled and small children bounced from trolley to trolley like balls of wailing snot in a giant pinball machine.
Get the picture?
I'm pretty sure I only thought: "What the f**k are you people doing???" rather than yelling it at the writhing throng. I'm sure I only thought it. Really.
My own festive purchase was a box of washing powder and a can of something to stop my nasty old trainers running away by themselves. Very christmassy, yes?
In other news, top kudos to The Sun newspaper for the following headline celebrating the marriage of Elton John to his partner David Furnish: "Elton Takes David Up The Aisle". Attaboys.
Now, way back when I was knee-high to grass-hopper and spent my time staring at arses and groins (actually, some things haven't changed as I've gotten older) British stores generally shut down for the christmas break. You really could find yourself in the situation where after December 23 you wouldn't be able to buy much of anything until January 2.
Not so any more. The local store is open 24 hours a day right up until the end of Dec 24. In fact, the only days its closed are 25 December and 26 December and I'm pretty sure we can all go 2 days without needing to restock on turkey, beer or badly made christmas pudding.
So why was it mobbed today? Trolley-rage reigned supreme in the aisles as people replaced their festive spirit with a murderous desire to buy as many boxes of Paxo and tins of Quality Street as humanly possible. Old ladies were trampled and small children bounced from trolley to trolley like balls of wailing snot in a giant pinball machine.
Get the picture?
I'm pretty sure I only thought: "What the f**k are you people doing???" rather than yelling it at the writhing throng. I'm sure I only thought it. Really.
My own festive purchase was a box of washing powder and a can of something to stop my nasty old trainers running away by themselves. Very christmassy, yes?
In other news, top kudos to The Sun newspaper for the following headline celebrating the marriage of Elton John to his partner David Furnish: "Elton Takes David Up The Aisle". Attaboys.
Wednesday, December 21, 2005
From the department of "Oh - My - God"
It seems there are some benefits of marriage to a blind man. The Ex continues to revel in the fact that the chap can't see anything. Unfortunately, sometimes she forgets that the rest of us can.
A couple of examples for you. One thats a bit "eww" and another that is even more so.
Example The First: "The Pebble-Dash"
The Ex: "May I use the bathroom?"
Me: "Sure"
The Ex was collecting First-Born. First-Born and I continued to play Snakes and Ladders; she cheating outrageously and me pretending not to notice. The Ex emerged and whisked First-Born off to wherever they go when they leave chez Newly.
As for the bathroom - it looked like The Ex had stood at the door and aimed. Obviously after a seriously hot curry the night before. Ew.
Example The Second: "Through The Keyhole"
The Ex: "May I use the bathroom?"
Me (warily): "Ok..."
First-Born was drawing a picture of herself and an impossibly thin stick-figure that I took to be me (she knows how to flatter, does that girl.) I remembered the events of the previous day and rushed from the lounge to shout "...and flush the toilet this time!" through the bathroom door... except that The Ex had failed to close the door. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.
First-Born glanced up from her work as I hurried back into the lounge making gagging noises. "Mummy left the door open again, huh?" she said, not looking up from her drawing.
Sometimes a bit of temporary blindness would work wonders.
A couple of examples for you. One thats a bit "eww" and another that is even more so.
Example The First: "The Pebble-Dash"
The Ex: "May I use the bathroom?"
Me: "Sure"
The Ex was collecting First-Born. First-Born and I continued to play Snakes and Ladders; she cheating outrageously and me pretending not to notice. The Ex emerged and whisked First-Born off to wherever they go when they leave chez Newly.
As for the bathroom - it looked like The Ex had stood at the door and aimed. Obviously after a seriously hot curry the night before. Ew.
Example The Second: "Through The Keyhole"
The Ex: "May I use the bathroom?"
Me (warily): "Ok..."
First-Born was drawing a picture of herself and an impossibly thin stick-figure that I took to be me (she knows how to flatter, does that girl.) I remembered the events of the previous day and rushed from the lounge to shout "...and flush the toilet this time!" through the bathroom door... except that The Ex had failed to close the door. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.
First-Born glanced up from her work as I hurried back into the lounge making gagging noises. "Mummy left the door open again, huh?" she said, not looking up from her drawing.
Sometimes a bit of temporary blindness would work wonders.
Monday, December 19, 2005
Ice Ice Baby
"Navy SEAL? More like Navy Walrus..." was the comment from one of the chaps upon viewing Ice Cube's performance in the latest (and hopefully last) entry in the XXX film franchise.
Goodness me, the sight of a short, fat rapper kicking righteous bottom was something to warm the heart of all those with a slight weight problem. Although the decision to use stuntmen in considerably better physical shape than the star led to some slightly odd transitions: "Is that the same chap?"
Highlight of the film? Oh there were so many, but the tank chase in the bowels of an aircraft carrier is certainly top ten material. Especially when Ice (I hope he doesn't think thats too familiar of me) swung his tank around to dodge an oncoming shell. The boys could use some of those tanks in Iraq, you know.
Most signposted moment? As the star waddled through the corridors of the said aircraft carrier, he passed a door marked "Steam Catapult". Within half an hour he'd launched a tank across the deck of the carrier with the catapult in a kind of heavy-metal version of conkers.
Advice to the glittering stars of Hollywood: If Vin Diesel refuses to get involved in a film because someone read him the script and he thought it sounded a bit crap, its probably not the best vehicle on which to hitch your star.
Still, it was a gloriously bad film. Bad, but strangely hilarious. Unlike 'Doom', which was just bad. Really, really bad.
Goodness me, the sight of a short, fat rapper kicking righteous bottom was something to warm the heart of all those with a slight weight problem. Although the decision to use stuntmen in considerably better physical shape than the star led to some slightly odd transitions: "Is that the same chap?"
Highlight of the film? Oh there were so many, but the tank chase in the bowels of an aircraft carrier is certainly top ten material. Especially when Ice (I hope he doesn't think thats too familiar of me) swung his tank around to dodge an oncoming shell. The boys could use some of those tanks in Iraq, you know.
Most signposted moment? As the star waddled through the corridors of the said aircraft carrier, he passed a door marked "Steam Catapult". Within half an hour he'd launched a tank across the deck of the carrier with the catapult in a kind of heavy-metal version of conkers.
Advice to the glittering stars of Hollywood: If Vin Diesel refuses to get involved in a film because someone read him the script and he thought it sounded a bit crap, its probably not the best vehicle on which to hitch your star.
Still, it was a gloriously bad film. Bad, but strangely hilarious. Unlike 'Doom', which was just bad. Really, really bad.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Going Underground
I sighed. Contrasting nicely with the general down-at-heel and overall griminess of the London Underground was a huge poster cheerfully advertising Canada's Whistler ski resort with the assistance of an impossibly attractive woman and man perched on a rock high up on a snowy mountain; a blameless blue sky sparkling behind them.
I did New Year at Whistler last year. This year my plan is to spend christmas somewhere snowy. I had hoped to get into the Ice Hotel for New Year, but it seems you need your parents to make a reservation for you some time before your conception if you want a New Year's eve for a cost at anything less than the price of a small French village.
And so it is that I shall be taking my erratic driving to a cottage in France, a mere hop, skip and a jump from a resort called Saint Lary Soulan. I don't know who Saint Lary is, but his name appeals.
But, in the meantime, I must spend my days on the London Underground. I wonder what the architects of the warren-like tunnels would make of the fact that in this age of air-travel and space-craft, we Brits still feel the need to cram ourselves like sardines into Victorian tin cans.
Probably with not a small amount of smugness.
Another week or so and I'll be back in the snow, terrorising snow-boarders with ski-poles that double as kebab sticks for anyone unfortunate to get in the way of my usual out-of-control weebling down the slope.
Heh.
I did New Year at Whistler last year. This year my plan is to spend christmas somewhere snowy. I had hoped to get into the Ice Hotel for New Year, but it seems you need your parents to make a reservation for you some time before your conception if you want a New Year's eve for a cost at anything less than the price of a small French village.
And so it is that I shall be taking my erratic driving to a cottage in France, a mere hop, skip and a jump from a resort called Saint Lary Soulan. I don't know who Saint Lary is, but his name appeals.
But, in the meantime, I must spend my days on the London Underground. I wonder what the architects of the warren-like tunnels would make of the fact that in this age of air-travel and space-craft, we Brits still feel the need to cram ourselves like sardines into Victorian tin cans.
Probably with not a small amount of smugness.
Another week or so and I'll be back in the snow, terrorising snow-boarders with ski-poles that double as kebab sticks for anyone unfortunate to get in the way of my usual out-of-control weebling down the slope.
Heh.
Thursday, December 15, 2005
The Trouble With S
My friend S has watched too many Kung-Fu movies. I know, I know - its hard to believe that such a thing is possible. I mean, when one is bored of Kung-Fu, one is surely bored of life. However, young S has reached the tipping point.
It happened just last week, as we were walking back from one of the many local curry houses to his car. Excessive beer consumption on my part meant that the Golf Of Doom wasn't an option. But I digress.
What happened was this: a group of kids (probably enjoying their first christmas of drinking) decided to give us some abuse. My approach in these matters is usually to laugh it off and walk on. S, on the other hand, took offence. The problem was that the kids were right - he does have a bit of a silly beard. One of those beards men grow to emphasise their jaw-lines. I, on the other hand, take great pride in my flab.
And thus it was that I found myself in the slightly comedy role of saying "Leave it, mate! They're not worth it!" as S balled his fists and adopted "the position."
All the way home, as we drove back, he muttered "I could have taken them all down. I'd have got 2 and the rest would have scattered. I didn't though - you looked a bit vulnerable and they might have gone for you. Next time though..."
Great. Thanks, mate. I prefer my "out-run the buggers" approach.
The Way Of The S indeed.
It happened just last week, as we were walking back from one of the many local curry houses to his car. Excessive beer consumption on my part meant that the Golf Of Doom wasn't an option. But I digress.
What happened was this: a group of kids (probably enjoying their first christmas of drinking) decided to give us some abuse. My approach in these matters is usually to laugh it off and walk on. S, on the other hand, took offence. The problem was that the kids were right - he does have a bit of a silly beard. One of those beards men grow to emphasise their jaw-lines. I, on the other hand, take great pride in my flab.
And thus it was that I found myself in the slightly comedy role of saying "Leave it, mate! They're not worth it!" as S balled his fists and adopted "the position."
All the way home, as we drove back, he muttered "I could have taken them all down. I'd have got 2 and the rest would have scattered. I didn't though - you looked a bit vulnerable and they might have gone for you. Next time though..."
Great. Thanks, mate. I prefer my "out-run the buggers" approach.
The Way Of The S indeed.
Wednesday, December 14, 2005
I Hear Dead People
This isn't a funny post... if you came here for laughs today, I suggest you check back tomorrow...
My day job involves working with trials of medicines before Joe Public is allowed to get his undeserving hands on them. As chief purveyor of bad taste, I often joke (when confronted by people who might instinctively think: "Medical Research = Torturing fluffy, media-friendly bunnies" before voting Dubya in for another term) that I kill humans, not animals.
The joke came home to roost last month (which is one of the reasons why I've been so busy.) A programmer introduced an error that could have killed someone. While recovering from that, the next week I got a call from a panicked helpdesk member that a doctor was trying to get medication for a chap currently in surgery, and couldn't access the system.
Neither incident turned out to be as bad as they first appeared. No-one got hurt.
But now I have nightmares.
Since I'm on-call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week I sleep with my mobile phone by my bed. Now, at least once a night I have the following dream.
I'm sleeping, and the phone goes off. Blearily I reach out, pick it up and answer it. All I hear on the other end of the line is people screaming. Screaming and screaming. And it goes on and on until I wake up with a start with that awful sick sensation that comes with not being sure if it all was a dream or not.
Career change, anyone?
My day job involves working with trials of medicines before Joe Public is allowed to get his undeserving hands on them. As chief purveyor of bad taste, I often joke (when confronted by people who might instinctively think: "Medical Research = Torturing fluffy, media-friendly bunnies" before voting Dubya in for another term) that I kill humans, not animals.
The joke came home to roost last month (which is one of the reasons why I've been so busy.) A programmer introduced an error that could have killed someone. While recovering from that, the next week I got a call from a panicked helpdesk member that a doctor was trying to get medication for a chap currently in surgery, and couldn't access the system.
Neither incident turned out to be as bad as they first appeared. No-one got hurt.
But now I have nightmares.
Since I'm on-call 24 hours a day, 7 days a week I sleep with my mobile phone by my bed. Now, at least once a night I have the following dream.
I'm sleeping, and the phone goes off. Blearily I reach out, pick it up and answer it. All I hear on the other end of the line is people screaming. Screaming and screaming. And it goes on and on until I wake up with a start with that awful sick sensation that comes with not being sure if it all was a dream or not.
Career change, anyone?
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