Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Tuesday, April 25, 2006
I did not enjoy this film
Then there was the plot, which I can only describe as "all over the fucking place", in that way film directors have where they think they are being genius - cutting and chopping from this scene to the next - one minute you are in the Gulf - then you are in Virginia with the CIA, and then back you are in some shithole being roughed up by a man, and all the while there are terrorists here and there and everywhere - pakistani ones and arabs and all sorts. And half the film is in Farsi and the other half is in arabic and then there is a bit with american accents and the sheikh or something sounds like Julian Clary. No - it was a great pieced together jigsaw of multi-lingual shit.
Some people like their films to jump about with the cameras cutting here and there and zooming in and out. Well fine, but for people like me, who are not keen on mucked-about-with filming, those casting directors could make it easier for the viewers to follow the plot, by choosing actors who look reasonably different to one another.
In most American cop dramas - or spy/political dramas, the casting couch person follows the simple "Wog,Wop/Chink/Arab,Honkie" rule, whereby each frame of the film will feature one person with very dark skin, one medium coloured person and one paler customer. Not only does this make things all politically correct and more representative of a multi- cultural America, but it also helps people like me (who find it difficult to follow films) to tell the main charcters apart. This Syriana thing, despite having the potential to fulfill just that film-casting criteria - with its exotic locations, jihad training camps and down at heel CIA operatives living in the more cosmopolitan suburbs of the city -failed dismally. They dressed all the rich arabs in dish-dash(teatowels on heads/white dresses) and chose actors who looked identical to one another, and then jumped from one scene to another with lookalikes, frame, after frame, after frame. And my husband won't allow me to talk in films, so every time I opened my gob to ask "is that the oilman of the year or the one that used to be in the CIA and now is a consultant?" he told me to shut up. I hate Syriana, I could not tell you the story if you paid me a million pounds and I am glad they all blew up in the end.
Sunday, April 23, 2006
From our royal correspondent, Oscar Independent-Television-News
What life are we supposed to be celebrating? I don't think her life has given her an ounce of pleasure. Just a lot of tedious fretting about duty and decorum and wearing toothpaste-coloured hats. Everyone went on and on after Margaret died about the tragic waste of a life and the true love thwarted and all that, but she lived in the Caribbean, had plenty to drink and got plenty of dick, so I think on balance she had the better life. can you imagine what it must be like sharing a bathroom with Prince Philip?
The kind of people who get all emotional about the queen would get all dewy-eyed about anything. They're the ones who organised a petition when Heinz said they were planning to do away with salad cream. Or fret about red squirrels. Or the architectural heritage of Swindon. They channel all of their emotional energies into caring about institutions and animals and abstract ideas. Show them a Liberian child with AIDS and they'd run a mile. They like the Queen precisely because she isn't a person, and they don't know her and they never will, and she will never let them down by doing anything individual or messy or exacting.
Wednesday, April 19, 2006
I fucking despise it
And have you noticed how one gayer who writes a newspaper column will coin some shithole phrase like "achingly hip" which is a disgusting, foul and putrid term, making monkeys out of old people with sore joints? And once one cunt has said it, then they are all at it, I promise you. One week it will be some middle aged woman going on about how her teenagers are sometimes mildly rude to her and she will suddenly come out with it: "We spent saturday afternoon at the achingly hip "W" brasserie in West ten" and then there will be some weedy man trying to get a ride by writing a column feminizing himself by making self deprecating comments about how much of a dork he is, in comparison to other men in "achingly hip" sunglasses, and then there will be their token angry man, who bangs on about something tedious like war, or peace, or politics, or religion causing problems around the world, and he will mention some grunthole activist: "as at home rasing awareness amongst the achingly hip set, as among the leather patched elbows of academia". Fucking cuntholers. And then the next thing that happens is that the woman's section of the paper( the fucking worst bit of all,just one large unwashed perineum), will use the phrase on every single page "Coral -the only lipshade for the achingly hip" "Be achingly hip with this month's must have - the parasol", or "Badger Baiting - the achingly hip way to meet a man". And do you know what? I am so incredibly generous spirited, that I actually don't mind these people using the same expression over and over again in different publications and thinking that they are awfully original, that is fine by me. The problem I have is that the way that "column-speak" leeches into real society, instead of staying in the trumped -up, typed, nonsense- universe created by inadequate writers on their tube to work. No, real people think it is okay to talk as if they are writing one of these shithouse streams of arse - and it is not okay, it is wrong, natch.
Monday, April 17, 2006
The beautiful rhythm of the world
Whenever something happens in the world - something happens somewhere else to balance it out. This can be seen most clearly with the circle of life, like in that gay cartoon the Lion King. The old lion died - and then his son rode a female lion and they had a cub. Quiet often people, as well as lions, see that life balances itself out in some way. One day you might get fired - but then you get a golden handshake - so you can pay a gypsy to firebomb your ex boss' house. Hippies call it karma, other people go on about Yings and yangs, but it is essentially the same thing - a balance. Most recently I have noticed the trend of the ying and the yang in people and their identities. On the one hand you have the people like my parents, shredding away and peering over their shoulder to make sure there are no clones following them around and then at the opposite end of the scale you have identity whores - just fucking dishing out all manner of information about themselves to all and sundry. I got an email from a man the other day and at the bottom was his work number, his phone number, his mobile number and his address. I am never going to ring him up - let alone pay a visit to his house and yet he just whacks that information on "just in case". And I know another man who attaches his CV to every message he sends from hisd computer - a CV which not only tells me that he can program people neuro linguistically - which makes me feel dirty just for looking at the CV - I might have been "got at", but it has a selection of photographs of him on it too - sort of weird photographs - not of his cock or anything like that but photographs like he has done a catalogue shoot - in fishing jumpers and then in his suit and another one with a whole load of people at his work.
Tuesday, April 04, 2006
Ball Bag is Fucking Nails
The biggest problem I have with "abroad" after their fucking disgraceful breakfasts, is the hard liquor they serve. I am no fan of consipracy theories and yet I have this feeling deep down, that all this:"have some of my local, special firewater that is brewed from a strange grain or the stone of a fruit", is a way of slowly killing people from countries who like to drink beer. And then I made another link: People who drink very strong alcohol made from stones and old grains, like genocide. And the degree to which they enjoy genocide, is reflected in the prevalence of the hard liquor across society - and the level of preference for the hard liquor over milder alcoholic drinks like wine or beer. Take Germany, for instance - officially "clean and serene" from their killing addiction, they still can't be described as being out of the genocide woods. And what do they like drinking every now and again? Jagermeister - a killer's drink. And the Japanese - who just can't fucking help themselves from killing everyone they run into, and even enjoy killing themselves, swill back gallons of that revolting warmed up floor cleaner Sake - which is a fucking abomination. And what about the chinese with their killing rooms and shooting people for nicking a loaf of bread? They love their nasty Bai jou - and they have all types to suit your wallet. The Chinese street sweeper might have a little bottle of cheapo Mao Tai (which tastes like antifreeze)in the pocket of his suit, the top brass chinese politburo cunt will have a bottle of stuff that costs a hundred quid (and tastes like antifreeze). Murderers, all of them. And then there is Yugoslavia, where people couldn't kill each other fast enough. They drink that fucking awful stuff made out of plums.
Monday, April 03, 2006
Which Do You Want First?
By the way, which do you lot want first, the good news or the bad news? The bad news is that many people don't like our new colour scheme, the good news is we don't give a shiny shite what you fuckers think and we are surprised you don't know that by now.
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