Right, they want differences? They’re
going to get them. First, stuff. Just how much stuff is it physically possible
for one person to have? I’ll tell you how much: A lot. But where can we store
all this stuff? What about the living room floor? Of course! The living room
floor. Genius. Try negotiating your way through our living room and my bet is
you’ll come out with some kind of disease or a broken limb, or both. It’s an
assault course just making a cup of tea. For months, in fact only just moved
today, was a bag full of god knows what. Clothes I think, but it could just as
easily have been a portal to Hades, I never had the guts to stare at it head
on. None of my stuff has even really been in the living room. The only thing I
ever had in there was a Big Bang Theory poster that pretty disintegrated as it
touched the wall. I swear that room is cursed.
Rugby balls. Rugby balls everywhere.
There were rugby balls in the washing machine once. What? It might not surprise
anyone who either knows me or has seen me that sport was never, is never and
will never be my strong suit. I love football; actually, correction, I love watching football, but playing sports?
Not so much. Again though, walking across the living room is like walking
across a rugby pitch: rugby balls flying this way and that way. But not just
rugby balls, rugby balls with names.
Rugby balls with names that get hugs. I forget what they’re called now but I
swear there’s some kind of family tree forming currently.
Excuse my seemingly incoherent trail
of thought, but I must move on to another point, an important point, before I
forget it. Quite apart from the fact that their interest in books was very much
set out initially as just textbooks and even them as a chore (quite a
difference there in itself), I must move on to films. Not so long ago I was sat
down by them and told to watch 300, a
film that I had heard a lot about and was intrigued to watch. Now I am a person
that likes a good Tarantino, a Nolan, a Mendes, a Coen Brothers’ and am not immensely
impressed by a film full of showy stuff for the sake of being showy; something
that, with a certain degree of inevitability, 300 was.
I set my stall out quite early; I
thought 300 did what it set out to do,
well: Provide two hours of gore, guts and violence in an unbridled, bloody
fashion. Now I’m not averse to gore, guts or violence (see point about
Tarantino), but only if it’s done well alongside a compelling story, good
dialogue, notable acting and an altogether decent bit of filmmaking. To say
that I didn’t like 300 in this house
however, turned out to be a big mistake. Never before have I disliked a film
only then to be asked whether or not my genitalia was still intact, or in fact,
if I had any genitalia at all. It was not my understanding that genitals and
films were intrinsically linked, except of course when Hugh Grant makes women’s
ovaries twitch by mumbling in posh.
So tidiness, sport, books and films:
that’s all I have for the time being and I hope that suffices. Apologies at
the singular nature of this post, I realise that it is very much for a select
audience; a select audience that will hopefully let it lie now that I’ve
written something about them. It might appear harsh but it’s deliberate, I know
they can take it and they won’t be arsed (you know who you are). For next time,
either part two of this, or something completely different. Let’s see how well
this goes down first...
