A Heartfelt and Revolutionary Introduction to Just Some of the Things That I Hate

I hate it when people disregard poetry. I hate it when people wear onesies. I hate it when people pay with pennies when there’s a huge queue. I hate it when people talk loudly, unnecessarily. I hate it when people don’t regard English as a proper subject. I hate it when people say that Shakespeare is boring. I hate it when people say that theatre is gay. I hate it when people say that Nicki Minaj is talented. I hate it when people say that they admire Lady Gaga. I hate it when people find X Factor entertaining. I hate it when people say that TOWIE constitutes good television. I hate it when people abbreviate television show names. I hate it when people haven’t heard of Blackadder. I hate it when people denounce something they haven’t heard, seen or read. I hate it when people say that swearing is unnecessary. I hate it when people don’t like The Muppets. I hate it when people aren’t aware of the original book certain films are derived from. I hate it when people associate Atheism with ignorance. I hate it when people don’t like films I adore. I hate it when people think that Nando’s is the greatest place on planet earth. I hate it when people think that comic books shouldn’t be read by a nineteen year old. I hate it when posh kids try and present themselves as common. I hate it when common kids try and present themselves as posh. I hate it when female comedians feel the need to go all feminist. I hate it when black comedians feel the need to pull the race card. I hate it when an anecdote doesn’t explode in public the way it did in your head.  I hate it when people walk agonisingly slow in front of you. It hate it when the same smelly old dude always sits near me on the bus. I hate it when girls do the duck face. I hate it when lads do the hench face. I hate it when I have to look at the appalling Disney pictures drawn on ice-cream vans. It hate it when people talk during films. I hate it when people eat in the cinema. I hate it when people use their phones in the cinema. I hate it when people don’t appreciate the intricacies of a film. I hate that I can’t sit in the cinema screen on my own sometimes. I hate it when people say that 300 is a great film. I hate it when people say that The Big Lebowski is not a great film. I hate it when people think Halloween is worthwhile. I hate it when people don’t like Christmas. I hate it when people don’t acknowledge that Last Christmas is the greatest Christmas song ever. I hate it when people don’t acknowledge that Driving Home for Christmas is the second greatest Christmas song ever. I hate it when people say that Fairytale of New York is the greatest Christmas song ever. I hate it when people try and squeeze into space that isn’t there on a commuter-packed train. I hate it when people have pictures of just themselves on their wall. I hate it when people make half hearted attempts at the buffet table. I hate audience participation. I hate it when people laugh at jokes they clearly don’t get. I hate it when people think that paintball is fun. I hate it when people don’t get sarcasm.

My Thoughts on Skyfall [No Spoilers]

Quantum of Solace’s release in 2008 garnered some pretty strong, and not entirely unfounded, critical reviews. Long-time Bond writing duo Neil Purvis and Robert Wade, although hitting on gold with their adaptation of Casino Royale in 2006, struggled to bring through the nuances of the character, plot and little extras that we have come to know, enjoy and expect of our Bond flicks. Essentially, it failed to achieve what the prying public looks for in a bond film in almost every aspect; from the insipid eco-warrior villain Dominic Greene, to the frankly boring Quantum organisation itself and the film’s plotting which left much to be desired. All in all, it looked and felt somewhat of a collection of deleted scenes from the Casino Royale archive than a fully-fledged Bond outing of its own.

            Of course the blame, if it can be called as such, cannot be pinned entirely on the writers. Quantum of Solace’s Director Marc Forster made the film look more like a modern Swedish crime thriller than a new-age Bond epic, something that, with what seemed like considerable ease, Martin Campbell managed to achieve with Casino Royale. Campbell, having taken the reigns on the debut of previous 007 incumbent Pierce Brosnan in Goldeneye, handled the project with an efficiency and splendid outlook which shone through on screen as a visually spectacular Bond for the 21^st Century – although the film is, ironically, placed before Dr. No on the Bond timeline.

            If Quantum of Solace achieved one thing however, it was to cement Daniel Craig well and truly in to the role of everyone’s favourite secret agent. Long gone were the cries of “Bond can’t be blonde” as Craig portrayed a grittier and more conflicted character with a side order of sophistication, sticking closer to the character that Ian Fleming created all those years ago that certain previous films, and actors, had failed to display.

            If Quantum of Solace was the foundations, Skyfall, our latest Bond adventure, sees Craig and Director Sam Mendes plonk a bloody big house on top of it. It’s been a film four years in the making, a set back with financial issues on the part of MGM meant that production had to be simultaneously halted whilst the relevant funds were acquired. Production, at least in any official capacity stopped. However, in recent interviews both Craig and Mendes expressed that although the official go-ahead had not yet been given, they continued to discuss and prep their ideal film nonetheless. The film that was to become what is hitting screens across the country from 26^th October.

            Craig and Mendes, both of roughly the same age and background were, if promotional interviews are to be believed, ideally suited to working together (in fact, rumours flew around that Craig asked  Producers to Bring Mendes on board initially). They both approached the film from the same angle, wanting to include certain features that they felt had either not been included, or not been explored in enough detail in recent films. Mendes is recently quoted as saying “I put my all into this film. Everything I wanted to put into a Bond film, I put into this.” And it shows.

            The film has found the balance between a modern day action-adventure and the traditional elements of the Bond franchise that have been laid to waste in recent years; most notably the inclusion of gadgetry. The original Quartermaster Desmond Llewellyn, having appeared in more Bond films than any other actor (17) died in 1999 leaving the reigns to John Cleese to uphold the role for only one film. The producer’s decision to not include gadgets and a Q was somewhat of an inspired choice alongside a new, grittier Bond when the franchise was rebooted with Casino Royale. Skyfall however brings back arguably one of the most beloved characters from the franchise and Ben Whishaw plays it brilliantly, providing a teenage whizz-kid kind of character who introduces himself to Bond in a way that presents himself as his intellectual equal, or superior, but still in some ways maintains a youthful naivety to the service that adds an additional element to this classic character. The scripting of this introductory scene goes someway to exemplifying how much this film is informed from previous adventures as when Q leaves he says to Bond “please try to return these items in one piece,” a brilliant call-back to the classic line spoken by Llewellyn on so many occasions before.

            One of the main stuttering points in Bond films of late has been the lack of a villain we as an audience can really sink our teeth into. I have already mentioned the lack-lustre Dominic Greene but even Piece Brosnan’s arch nemesis’ left a lot to be desired. Of the last six or so Bond films only Sean Bean and Mads Mikkelsen as Alec Trevelyan and Le Chiffre respectively made much of an impact. Here is where that changes. Anyone having seen Javier Bardem in his Oscar award winning role as the maniacal Anton Chigurh in No Country for Old Men, will understand just how good he can be applied to a villainous character and his performance in Skyfall as the vengeful Raoul Silva has left critics calling for a further Oscar. He plays it camp; he plays it cool, he plays it in every way you could possibly want from a Bond villain. Cries that he could be the best Bond villain of all time are cries that I find hard to dispute. If not the best, he’s certainly well up there.

            The other notable performance is Judi Dench as M. It had been well documented that Skyfall really was Dench’s film and that much is certainly true. Delving into M’s past allows the writers to bring in a certain amount of sentimentality without over stepping the mark, much like the film as a whole. There is an air of the sentimental running throughout but it doesn’t compete for the audience’s attention alongside the big spectacular action sequences, they both allow each other to breathe. This is, again, where Mendes has the balance just right. Dench’s performance is truly spectacular and she proves, where she hasn’t always been allowed to before, that the role of M belongs to her. She’s strong, witty and although she’s always had an edgy sense of humour, it has been played upon more thoroughly in this script than ever before.

            The production design is beautifully modern, the locations allow the escapism of the traditional Bond film to shine through, director of photography Roger Deakins provides a spectacular array of visual images and Thomas Newman’s score provides an excellent backdrop for the scenes to breathe in. By using the bond theme carefully throughout to highlight particular moves or scenes, Newman gives the atmosphere of a proper Bond adventure proving that he was the right man to score it after he was hired in favour of David Arnold.

            Skyfall then is classy, witty, funny and full of traditional Bond nostalgia, yet very aware of the time in which it is set. Before seeing it I read that Mendes was unsure as to whether he would direct another Bond film, even after the press screenings a fortnight ago received such favourable reviews. Having now seen the film I can perfectly understand why he would have doubts. Skyfall screams of a film that has had its Director throw everything he wanted to do at it, and it is all the better for it. For Mendes to direct another might be a mistake; it may well be the definition of ‘quit while you’re ahead.’ He needn’t worry for now though. Skyfall is not only Craig’s best Bond film, it might possibly be one of the best Bond films of the last 10, 20, 30, 40 or, dare I say it, 50 years. Happy birthday indeed Mr. Bond.

Amy Childs and the Lost Phone of Perspective

We all knew that this day would come but you just can’t really prepare yourself for it when it does. It’s the kind of thing your parents and grandparents have strove to prepare you for since the day that you crawled helplessly into the world. Since you opened your delicate newborn eyelids. It pains me to even write this, but here goes: Amy Childs has lost her phone.

I kick myself everyday for even being aware of who this poisonous fleshwaste is. I hope everyday that some new piece of information that I learn will push my knowledge of her useless existence out of my noggin. On a daily basis I can fail to recall passwords, where I left my pen or where my keys are, but still remaining, untouchable, is my knowledge of who Amy Childs is; fake, deplorable, abhorrent, detestable, obnoxious, heinous, revolting, ghastly, grim and grisly, Amy Childs.

I can safely say that my hatred for this plastic sack of air has very much peaked this evening when she tweeted a total of thirty-one times in two hours, all in capitals, that someone had stolen her phone. A number of retweets from pathetic “fans” (of whatever it is she does that one can be a “fan” of) were also thrown into the mix; people who were expressing their “disgust,” “annoyance” and, get his, “utter devastation” at the events that had befallen the Warlock on the day in question.

Now for someone like Childs, who evidently has to fill her day tweeting in capital letters to make her feel like her life means something, this activity cannot go without sympathy from us, the normal folk; us who go about our day with purpose, with a vigour for life; to our jobs, schools and universities, to learn, to help others, to rebuilt our stricken economy and to make the world a better place. Sympathy we must give, except for today.

Today is only one day after Mark Bridger has been arrested for the murder of five year old April Jones, who still remains missing. We can all sympathise with losing an item dear to us but I’ll bet not many can understand just how stricken it must feel to have lost a child. I certainly can’t and I hope to goodness that you cannot too.

Caution must be exercised and perspective must be engaged. We have all lost our keys, lost our phone and sure we’re annoyed, upset and damn right frustrated. A simple tweet or a Facebook post to vent ones anger is perfectly natural and normal in this age of technology, but thirty-one capitalised tweets crying out in anguish across to the whole of the Twittersphere because you’ve lost a 4” set of electronics encased in plastic? Please.

The diehard Childs “fans” will feel that she has done no wrong and the sad fact is that even after all of this they will harbour no hatred whatsoever. She will not lose fans, she will not gain fans and her public image will remain intact and unharmed. It’s the sad fact that accompanies each modern day ‘celebrity,’ and it’s the cross that us normal folk have to bear as it’s something we will never be able to change. 

A Short Post on Being Ill

 Say goodbye to my family and friends for me, I’m dying. No really, I am. My complete inability to tolerate real pain or hardship for more than a few minutes is, granted, one of my many faults but this “cold” is very much the viral form of Lucifer himself. On day one I got just about half an hour’s worth of sleep and the following days, well, not much more than that. I have a headache, earache and am producing more mucus than I thought was humanly possible. Today I literally looked like special effects gunge was pouring out of my nose (form a queue ladies) and I thought I must have been giving birth to alien out of it. Either that or I’m secretly the next mutation in human evolution and I’m so advanced that it seems far too farfetched to be true. That one. I pick that one.

Whichever one is true this man flu feels like it’s set to stay forever and I see no logical explanation to determine why that my not very much be the case. In fact, inbetween the last paragraph and this, I had to stop to blow my nose take a sip of tea. You would think that with my new found time moping around the house in rather loose fitting trousers and hoodies drinking tea and trying to taste food that I would have no excuse for not completing Uni assignments. Well, you couldn’t be more wrong. Make no bones about it, I tried, I really did; yesterday I sat down to read Little Women for my American Literature module and got about one sentence in before the text on the page actually started to make me feel dizzy. Books, my literary friends, reducing me to a blabbering wreck of ridiculousness, taking away a form of dexterity I possess that I’m actually proud of. The computer screen hurts my eyes, I can hardly squeak out a whole sentence and I’m loathed to waste food by eating something I can’t even taste – my piece of toast this afternoon might as well have been a brillo pad. All in all my past couple of days have been pretty damn awful. Pause for another nose blow. 

There isn’t an awful lot more that I could venture to say on the matter. I’m ill, that’s all there is to it. Of course I appreciate that you might not care and quite frankly more fool you for clicking the link or reading thus far, I hope you get what I’ve got – this mutated super man cold flu thing – then you’ll care. Until then dear readers, friends and comrades, I’ll see you on the other side. If I make it. 

"Cold Beer One Euro": Tales of Barcelona (Part I)

As I sit on my bed electronically penning this blog the skyward view outside my bedroom window is far from enticing. On any normal day the view of a dreary British summer evening; a sky enveloped by ominous grey clouds, would be ever the acceptable norm. At this point in time however it only seeks to give me a slap in the face. The reason being that on Saturday I returned from a ten-day trip to Benicassim and Barcelona on my first ‘Lads Holiday’ with, if you know them or not, Joe, Jake and Dorsett.

          Undoubtedly some of the best days I’ve experienced on this earth; gaining stories, catchphrases and memories that I’ll take, excuse the morbidity, to my grave. Ah, surely now you understand my reticence at the Great British weather. So much happened throughout the course of this trip that inevitably I’ll forget to include some events that no doubt I will be reminded of when I put this out, but what follows is a collection of some of those stories. It’ll be full of inside jokes and jokes that’ll make no sense unless you went but, y’know, so what.

Part One: “You Want Buy Weed? Coke? Meth?”

If any of you reading this have ever watched the film Planes, Trains and Automobiles you’ll have some sense already of the magnitude of transport we had to use to get to Benicassim. We had decided in advance not to book train tickets for when we landed in Spain, mainly because we were flying with Ryanair, but also because I had tried to negotiate the Spanish train website before we left and there was no option to change the language to English.

          Anyway, long story short, and somewhat inevitable, we arrived at the train station for 12 noon only to be told that all the trains up until 8pm were booked up. We deliberated for a while, too pumped up on adrenaline from arriving to really be bothered particularly, before deciding to get a taxi for the 2-hour drive to Benicassim. And yes, it was expensive. I won’t tell you how much. It was at this point however that we stumbled upon a gentlemen and a scholar by the name of Rob who became our inherent brother in arms throughout our festival experience and who, if he is reading this, can only be congratulated for sticking with us through thick and thin and providing us with so many laughs. Cheers Rob.

          Through some kind of Spanish miracle we eventually arrived in the lovely little town of Benicassim and were dropped off at the bottom of a vast dirt track next to a go-kart course and a makeshift bar. We were directed up the path and were told to go and check-in at the very top. The heat was much more intense than in Reus where our flight had landed and lugging two heavy and mightily awkward hold bags and hand-luggage wasn’t a welcome addition to the trip itinery. On our way up the main arena we witnessed a lad spewing up his morning dose of beer and immediately knew what kind of thing we’d gotten ourselves into. Yes. A good thing indeed.

          Our plan was to dump our bags at the campsite, unpack and erect (calm down) our tents and then go off to get some beer-based supplies, which sounded like a decent plan on paper, but turned out to be a little more complicated in practice. The main problem being that after the morning we had had, the campsite felt a million miles away. Sweltering and sweating our proverbials off, we arrived at the campsite entrance only to be told that first we had to exchange our tickets for wristbands. Only then could they grant us entrance into the site. With unimpressed but surprisingly upbeat groans we returned to the main entrance to check-in and walked back up the campsite (a walk that got quicker and less annoying with every trip).

          The next hour was spent looking for a spot to set up, setting up and having a sit down to just refresh after the hectic morning. This sounds, all told, fairly simple but the lads will know there is no way of expressing with words how much of a nightmare that was in the blistering Spanish heat. But having said that, “we’re on ‘oliday!” (Inside joke #1).

          That done, to the shop it was. Cheap beer, cheap “food.” It is at this juncture however that the subtitle of this passage comes into play. Having been on the go pretty much all day we decided that we’d have a bit of a scran at a small cafe in Benicassim which, incidentally, we did not return to (there’s only so many times you can dodge suspiciously pink looking flecks of meat in a burger). Now I have a tendency on the odd occasion to go ever so slightly British or ‘go all Stephen Fry’ as it has now seemingly been redubbed. None so more than this occasion. Whilst we were eating, a Spanish man approached the table and within a flash had bent down to eye level with me, stared me straight in the face and before I really had time to clock him said

          ‘You want buy weed? Coke? Meth?’ Within literally two hours of arriving in Benicassim I had been offered Meth. Going into British mode I said:

          ‘Sorry? What?’ The offer was repeated and when I was sure what he had said I answered:

          ‘Oh, oh no, no thank you’ in an accent I have never used before and am likely to never use again.

          Needless to say, even on the first day, we had got our first holiday phrase which, even up until this day we haven't forgotten and unbeknownst to us would be the first of many. Many many.

The Plight of All Students

Waiting for the release of exam results is right up there with the diagnosis of pubic lice, the loss of a limb and being subjected to Nicki Minaj on the radio in a list of things that could be described as slightly more than a bit bothersome. Not least when those exam results are the sole indication of whether or not the last year of your life has been at all worthwhile. All that said, the other day I received my results for the first year of University. Through some sort of ancient witchcraft, I conjured myself up a 2:1, and quite a substantial one at that, making me, forever your blogging friend, a very happy bunny indeed.

          Sitting the relative exams for these particular results was no less strenuous than any other exams I had previously sat, in fact, actually slightly more. Now, I imagine most people would agree that one of the worst things about exams, bar the actual exam itself, is the head invigilator. Anybody who has sat an exam in any capacity before will know how power-mad the head invigilator is; they get to read out the exam rules, allocate other invigilating minions to particular spots in the exam hall and co-ordinate the dismissal of the students afterwards. These crazed, I.D. wearing super-dictators, you would think, could not get any more mental if they possibly tried. Think again. Because university invigilators get given a weapon; a tool of majestic supervision, a piece of equipment to aid them in their almighty task of telling students to stop talking. I talk of course, of the loudhailer.

          Christ they’re terrifying. Which brainiac thought that would be a good idea? Picture the scene: You’ve been sat in an exam room for one hour and fifty-five minutes; it’s a two hour exam. You look up frantically at the large sports clock suspended in front of you and will the minute hand to slow down from the seemingly rapid pace it has suddenly picked up. You are deep in concentration, trying to jot down, in any capacity, your final point; it’s the point that’s going to get you the first, it’s the point that’s going to give the examiner a hernia as soon as he reads it, it’s the point that even the great bard himself would congratulate, then, suddenly, your deep concentration is shattered:

         ‘YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES REMAINING. FIVE MINUTES REMAINING!’

          The noise reverberates around the hall, echoes in your ear and the point is lost. Goodbye first. Goodbye herniated examiner.

          This has happened in both of the exams I have taken in the large sports hall during my first year and blimey that loudhailer grabs you by the jugular. It seems to be the primary source of amusement and annoyance for everyone when they walk out (apart, of course, from exclaiming how badly they’ve failed) and long, I imagine, it will be so.

          My next blog, in case you’re interested, will come after my imminent holiday to Barcelona/Benicassim. If my anticipation serves me I would imagine I’d have enough stories to write an epic novel upon my return, so look out for that. And with that said I’m bereft of anything witty or clever to say to round this little scribble off, so go away. Ta.

A Letter To A Religious Nation

I have thought long and hard about whether or not to write a blog on the subject this blog entails. The large quote from the writer and dramatist Douglas Adams I include below goes some way to highlighting both my initial doubt and subsequent decision to write upon the subject of religion. Before I begin however, read and enjoy this fantastic quote:

“Religion . . . has certain ideas at the heart of it which we call sacred or holy or whatever. What it means is, 'Here is an idea or a notion that you're not allowed to say anything bad about; you're just not. Why not? – because you're not!' If somebody votes for a party that you don't agree with, you're free to argue about it as much as you like; everybody will have an argument but nobody feels aggrieved by it. If somebody thinks taxes should go up or down you are free to have an argument about it. But on the other hand if somebody says 'I mustn't move a light switch on a Saturday', you say, 'I respect that'. Why should it be that it's perfectly legitimate to support the Labour party or the Conservative party, Republicans or Democrats, this model of economics versus that, Macintosh instead of Windows - but to have an opinion about how the Universe began, about who created the Universe ... no, that's holy? ... We are used to not challenging religious ideas but it's very interesting how much of a furore Richard [Dawkins] creates when he does it! Everybody gets absolutely frantic about it because you're not allowed to say these things. Yet when you look at it rationally there is no reason why those ideas shouldn't be as open to debate as any other, except that we have agreed somehow between us that they shouldn't be.”

          I am an Atheist, and although I do not spend my days knocking on doors preaching (I choose the word advisedly) my non-beliefs and forcing others to adopt them for their own, I admit I am not entirely silent in publically airing them. And why should I? Religion is, somehow, the default position society finds itself in. Someone writes a tweet exclaiming their love for Jesus, someone else walks around with a Jesus tattoo adorning their arm, no one says a word. Someone writes a tweet exclaiming their non-belief or walks around wearing a t-shirt saying “God Does Not Exist” (which I don’t by the way) and society looks down upon them and berates them for expressing their thoughts. Something which, wrongly, does not occur in the opposite sense.

          I don’t believe in the existence of God, I also cannot see how religion is a force for good in the world. People claiming the Bible contains a blueprint for a successful moral compass have clearly not read it. There are countless examples in the Bible of tales that if we were to adopt them as morality guidelines, society as we know it would fall into disrepute. There is a rather large passage of writing by Professor Richard Dawkins in which he works his way through dismantling each and every one of the ten commandments. It is too long to reproduce here but I will give you a short snippet:

“Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy": this commandment is regarded as so important that a man caught gathering sticks on the Sabbath was summarily stoned to death by the whole community, on direct orders from God.”

          This in turn goes on to explain how the ten commandments lay no orders against rape, torture or the selling of one’s own children; acts that are rife during the time in which the bible stories allegedly occurred. We can only presume that God was fine with these things happening as long as everybody worshipped him and no one else. Of course, anything other than that would be barbaric.

          My final quote comes from, as ever, the eternally erudite Mr. Christopher Hitchens, the late hero of mine. One of his many splendidly phrased anti-theist quotes reads as follows:

“In order to be a Christian, you have to believe that for 98,000 years, our species suffered and died, most of its children dying in childbirth, most other people having a life expectancy of about 25 years, dying of their teeth. Famine, struggle, bitterness, war, suffering, misery, all of that for 98,000 years. Heaven watches this with complete indifference. And then 2000 years ago, thinks "That's enough of that. It's time to intervene," and the best way to do this would be by condemning someone to a human sacrifice somewhere in the less literate parts of the Middle East. Don't let’s appeal to the Chinese, for example, where people can read and study evidence and have a civilization. Let's go to the desert and have another revelation there. This is nonsense. It can't be believed by a thinking person.”

          But alas, my aim here is not to berate religion as much as I can, and guiltily love to do. No, it is simply to address this damning of non-believers expressing their opinions. Mentally I am a militant Atheist, publically however I haven’t the platform or the status to express my non-beliefs it seems to a willing public (something which I grasp and many religious people seemingly do not).

          My hatred of religion however isn’t, as some people would refuse to believe, on a personal level. People want to pray, that’s fine and no one including me can stop them even if they wanted to, which I don’t. My opinions are loaded more towards the institutions and central bodies of religion; I have no problem in people believing what they want to believe, I just want to be afforded the opportunity to be able to voice my opinion without getting both barrels every time I do.