A few words on 2009
A few words on the subject
A few words on the subject
The collected
ill-informed drivel
of
Richard Asplin
A few words on 2010
A few words on 2011
A few words on what the goddam hell's been going on for Chrissakes
Friday 30th Dec 2011
Well then
I think it’s pretty fair to say it’s been a frankly slapdash year in a-few-words-on-the-subject world, readers, and you’d agree with me there, I’m sure. What began in a flourish soon tailed off into sporadic guff that popped up, unannounced in you inbox like some sort of Viagra advertisement and then, like a Viagra user, hung around a bit too long to be of any use to anyone and then returned to its normal embarrassed silence.
A brief count, as it’s Friday afternoon and I’ve cock-all else to do frankly, tells me that there were but twelve short posts in 2011 between Jan and April, two in September and then naff all else for the rest of the year. 14 comments in a year more packed with news and scandal and debate and riots and recessions and global conflict and phone-hacking mischief than the last decade’s Newsnights put together.
So I throw myself at your mercy like an adolescent. Why? Where have I been? What on earth have I been doing for twelve short months? And how can it have actually been twelve months since we greeted 2011? And what does this bode for 2012?
So first some excuses.
2011 has seen me taking a qualification. Yes indeed, despite thinking that all things academic were now...well, academic, my employers encouraged me with pats on backs, punches on arms and the threat of contract termination to embark on a little thing called a CIPD, which those in the HR and training profession will know is the “Chartered Institute Of Personnel Development.”
A word on the CIPD and institutions of a similar whatnot:
Perhaps you belong to one? Perhaps in your chosen field of career there is a pompous, red bricked, gowns and mortars, gold-seal, stuffy Hogwarts of an “Institute” that encourages you to get letters after your name and spend a fortune on an “industry recognised” qualification so you can say your CV can be puffed up? Well the CIPD is just such an austere bunch and, like most of these self-appointed peer-groups, exists it seems to do 2 things:
1. Collect outrageous annual subscription fees.
2. Send a monthly magazine out for you to put straight in the bin.
Anyhoo, for all that, they’re still the peeps one needs to get onside if one is going to make any recognisable headway in the world of staff training (or “learning” as for some reason it’s now being called in the CIPD magazine I just put in the bin).
So that’s been 3 hours a week plus a couple of hours homework on top of that which has kept me away from afewwordonthesubject since May.
I don’t know why I feel I need to explain myself like this. I have had precisely 2 entries in the ole’ guest book asking about my absence, so I am aware you don’t much give an arse. And why should you. But anyhap, on to my other excuse:
The Fixer! Dan Dan Daaaaaaaah!!!
Yes indeed dumplings. Just when you thought it was safe to go back on your iPhone...
Let me explain. A number of months ago, doesn’t matter how many, let’s say 4, I was contacted by my literary agent, a splendid fellow by the name of Phil.
Splendid fact: This marvellous peice of art which the smarter and more erudite and cultured among you will be familiar with was painted by Phil’s brother. So. There you are.
Meanwhile, back at stately Wayne Manor...
So Phil tells me he’s been approached by a new publishing venture who require a comic-crime novelist. That’ll be me, then.
This new project is entitled “Box Fiction” and it is essentially a rather splendidly excellent idea. Here it is:
Why not release short stories, week by week, that take about 30 minutes to read, that can be enjoyed on one’s iPhone or laptop on the commute, in the same manner one might tune in to a 30 minute TV serial?
So this is the premise.
The smart folks at Box Fiction know that there are people out there who are already hooked on certain series and who would, like, for def’ want to know what happened after the TV show ended. So what’ve got hold of is the original writers of the hit TV show “Silent Witness” to write new episodes in the short-story format.
But being a clever bunch, they’ve also created some original series too. Which is where I came in.
So over the last 4 months I’ve been working with Box Fiction and creating an 8 part comedy crime thriller all about an ex-mobster living in London, hiring himself out as “an emergency service” to the London underworld.
Which brings us to “The Fixer.”
It’d be grand if you’d take a look at it. The first episode is available now as a free download (or to read on the website). You just have to log in with your email address and bob’s yer uncle. If you got a kick out of Gagged or Conman, or if you ever wondered what the character “The Wolf” from Pulp Fiction might have got up to when he wasn’t cleaning cars and drinking coffee, then this is for you.
Follow the link here. It’s only a 30 min read. Be great to have some feedback.
Anyhow, that’s what I’ve been doing with my spare-ish time since we last spoke, which is the reason it’s been so long since we last spoke. “The Fixer” will take up the next 2-3 months of my time, as will my CIPD qualification. But y’know what? I’ve missed you guys. I have, really. I’m gonna try and stay in touch more in 2012. Unless the Mayan’s were right. If so, erm...been nice knowing you.
That’s it for 2011. See you on the other side. I’ll be in bed with an Alka Seltzer I expect. Why not join me?
Love to all
Rx
I thought it would be the right occasion to drivel out some ill-informed self-righteous gufferoony on the subject of all things resolutionary, as this is traditionally the time of year when thoughts turn to such self-improvement projects.
Okay, well let’s not start off on the wrong brogue. You’re right, you’re right, to be honest, December is more the season of resolutions. December, after all, is a comforting and cushioning 31 days from January so there’s plenty of room for outlandishly optimistic good intentions and a month’sworth of smug “it’s-gonna-be-a-whole-new-me”-ness that requires no actual effort. I for one am much fuller of plans for myself, my career, my hobbies, happiness and health in December than I am in January when one is rather forced to put one’s money where one’s mouth is. Or rather, one’s nicorette patch where one’s arm is. Or one’s Reeboks where one’s Uggs were. Or...of for fuck’s sake, get the idea.
But this matters not. For I didn’t ramble on in my irritating fashion about resolutions in Dec when it would have been amusing and topical. I, like the daily Metro, prefer to come at these things a good 24 hours after everyone else.
So. You made any then? Resolutions, I mean? Got any plans for twenty the twelfthty, as I, right now, have decided it would be punchably maddening to refer to it as?
I suppose I should get it out of the way to increase the impending schadenfreud that right now, as I write, I am knee deep in a cosy level of resolutionary smugness and achievement that can only possibly end badly. Right now, as I sit here in front of Tim Burton’s “Charlie & The Chocolate Factory” in a room twinkling with fairy lights, it’s six thirty. I have got up, gone shopping for all sorts of good-intention ingredients (bananas, all bran, Pantene conditioner, dental floss and other suchamacrap), come home and breakfasted, exercised and tidied up. There have been press-ups and sit-ups and body-mass-index measurements and a 1.5 mile run, all wrapped up in no cigarettes whatsoever.
It is far, far too early to call all this pride-before-a-fall posturing a real achievement, I know. As I only got up at 1.30pm, I have pretty much just managed 5 hours of pious preening which I now pass-off as a almost Buddhist amount of selfless zen one-ness. Which may not seem very much to you. Mainly because it isn’t. But...
Wait. The oompaloompas are about to sing a song about Augustus Gloop. Be back in a second...
Marvellous. That Danny Elfman, wot a guy. If you’re not familiar with his work, try sampling some of these lovely delights.
Anyway, sorry, we were talking about my smug, self-righteous January the first new year’s self-satisfiedness. How long can we expect this to last? Absolutely no idea. Although am happy to open a book on it. I’ve done all this before (the no drinking, no smoking, exercising, flossing, healthy breakfasting schtick) and it’s rarely been sustainable beyond a couple of months. But we’ll see. And you all get to say “I told you so” when the whole thing goes boobs-up and I wake up covered in hash-browns in a skip full of vodka bottles and Camel Light stubs with my upper set of dentures missing.
So let’s take a quick look at this whole resolution whatnot and see if we can’t pin it down while nobody’s looking, steal its dinner money and kick it in the goolies once and for all.
Yes, I said goolies.
Drinking: By which I mean booze, rather than quitting actually consumption of all liquids. This is a popular one, I know. I don’t think many people ever resolve to actually quit for good. Take the pledge, as the Catholics like to put it. Do they? My experience is that the full quittage is reserved for those with medical issues. Most of us simply choose to temper the stuff. Perhaps a harmless deadline (not on a weekday) or a forced detox (not in January). You ever done this? I have an odd all-or-nothing attitude to the grape, the grain and its evil cousin the grouchy morning headache. Having attempted abstinence it only took me about 10 days to realise that, take the booze out of a work drink, and you’re just staying late in a weird meeting with no etiquette or agenda.
Personal note: Will stick with abstinence in January and see what happens.
Prediction: Within 10 days the Dean Martin line: “I feel sorry for tee-totallers. When they get up in the morning, that’s the best they’re gonna feel” will be my catchphrase. As will “what?! We out of Alka Seltzer again?!”
Smoking: Well this one’s different. As someone who can put away between 20 on a regular day, 50 on a night out, has 2 before breakfast and always smokes them in pairs, I have come to realise this: Ultimately, it wears off. The habit, the routine, the standing-in-the-drizzle, the dwindling amount of change from the daily £10 note. One also tires of the coughing. And the resultant hawking of nasty chest stuff into hankies and tissues and kerbs. But one has to wait to be bored of it. It’ll come eventually, for some very quick, for others after years. But it will come. If you try and quit before this day, you won’t. That’s not quitting, that’s just taking a long break between fags.
Personal note: Haven’t had one for (let me check) 24.5 hours. Which don’t sound like much. But it is. Will see how I get on. Boredom and restlessness and desire for a 10 min break from whateverthehellI’mdoing will be my weakness.
Prediction: First time I’m pissed, I’ll fall off the wagon. Or first time I’m bored. Or angry. Or upset. Or alone for a few hours. Hmn.
Exercise: They say, people who say things, that rigorous physical exercise is very, very good for mental health. And having attempted some form of running about the place, sitting up, pressing up, chinning up and whatnot, I am inclined to agree. There truly is, and this is annoying, nothing to really beat that feeling of completed exercise. Compare it to the easier and more obviously “fun” sitting about with the curtains drawn watching telly and eating toast. Less sweaty and hard work, for sure. But what I get, and may be you do too, is an accompanying feeling of listless fatigue and achey can’t-be-botheredness that almost inevitably leads to a nap. In fact I tried to sit down with an HG Wells in a warm room 2 days ago, cracked open the book and didn’t even get to the end of page 1 before I had closed it over my chest, kicked off my shoes and decided to “rest my eyes.”
Personal note: For me it’s about energy levels, rather than longer life. When I’ve exercised before, I’ve been more awake. So it’s a return to my British Military Fitness course. Managed 20 weeks last time I tried it. Let’s see how we do this time.
Prediction: First sprained ankle, bad back, 3 uncancellable evening appointments in a row or spate of bad weather and I’ll be back smashing Pringles into my face and drinking bottled lager in front of Family Guy reruns.
Reading habits: I could list the amount of books I read in 2011 on the back of one of the books I read in 2011. Even if it was a small one. All I can recall was 2 Ira Levin thrillers that I really enjoyed. I know I read other things, but they don’t spring to mind. I suppose most middle classes feel that should read more than they do. Although I don’t know why, to be frank, as there is no evidence available anywhere that books are getting any better. As ever, in January, its tempting to think I might try and get round to all the classics that I never read before. But I know I won’t. Maybe the 20th Century classics? Y’know, all the crapola that people bang on about. Hell, I could try and get through the BBC Top 100? You remember that list? Trouble is the top 5 on the list are:
1. The Lord of the Rings, JRR Tolkien
2. Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen
3. His Dark Materials, Philip Pullman
4. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams
5. Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, JK Rowling
I ain’t doing Tolkien, and Rowling can sod off. I don’t know though. Might be a nice thing to try, rather than just reaching for a Charlie Brooker paperback every time I need something to distract me during a big poo, which is about as much as I manage these days.
Personal note: I’m going to have a go at picking from this top 100 list. But nothing with magic in it. Or anything aimed originally at under 16s. And nothing with any Captain’s fucking Mandolin in it. Apart from that? Bring it on.
Prediction: I will spend more time in 2012 re-reading Seinfeld scripts than anything else. Again.
Anyway, best of luck with yours, what e’er they are. Next time, I’m gonna share a few words on men’s grooming products. I got a lot for Christmas. I need help with their application. Is it balm, then moisturiser, then anti-wrinkle? Or moisturiser first? And does it matter? Or even work?
Until next time,
Love to all
Rx
A few words on rushing resolutionaries
Monday 1st Jan 2012
A few words on going completely balm-y
Sunday 8th Jan 2012
Well hello there fewwordsonthesubject-ettes, what the crikey is new with you, eh? I mean, eh? Look at us. I mean, c’mon, look at us. We’re barely a week into 2012 and what have to show for it? Not very much frankly.
For those of a stalkery nature, you’ll be aroused and excited to picture me here on Sunday morning at 10.45am, sat at my desk in the study with a cup of tea in a Superman mug.
Why so early? Well 3 reasons for this. (Oh by the way, many of you fit, outdoorsy, active and/or over 65’ers out there won’t consider 10.45am on a Sunday particularly early. The rest of you ker-razy party animals naturally will).
First, I wanted to go and buy some shoes. I know the type. Redwing engineer boots. You can get ‘em from “American Classics” on Endell Street in Covent Garden. So I got up early. But their webular site says they don’t open until noon-thirty. So arse.
Second, I can’t even go out at noon to get ‘em as we have an “Ocado shop” arriving betwixt 12-1pm. (That’s pretty middle class, isn’t it. An “Ocado shop.” For those who don’t know, this is a home delivery of groceries from Waitrose [poncy up-itself high-falutin snob-fest of a supermarket {if by snobby one just means clean and polite, which apparently I do. I have lots of parenthisis to end now. Do excuse me.}]).
And thirdly, I optimistically and in an ill-planned wave of bonhomie, good-cheer and endorphin rush Jimmy Stewartness, suggested to my lovely wife we gofor a pub Sunday roast at lunchtime. Which sort of puts paid to going shopping at 1pm when the Ocado man has “been.”
All in all, I’ve really managed to fuck up my Sunday morning. Anyway, slurp of tea and I’ll be back...
*slurp...ooh, fuck, too hot. Shit. Arse. Dammit.*
“A man wrote in to Esquire magazine and asked for some grooming tips. They responded with two suggestions. “Spell a few words wrong on facebook and pretend to know about Twilight.”
That, ladies and gents, was a hilarious joke about paedophilia. Nice, Rich. Nice. But it does bring me not-very-neatly to the subject of male grooming, a subject I wanted to bang on about until the Ocado man arrives.
Look, let’s get some things straight first of all. I do not consider myself a vain man. Okay? I mean not really. Not vain in a TOWIE, buff, fake tan, check-the mirror, capped-teeth, designer clothes poseur sort of way. I don’t. However, I do – and you’ll back me up on this – affect the air of a fellow who takes certain effort over his appearance. “Well turned out”, would be one phrase I’ve had jabbed at me. “Scrubs up well.” “Very natty,” is another one, etc.
In fact at the tail end of last year I was out having a cigarette when a van drove past, the driver rolled down his window and bellowed “Oi! Snappy threads!” at me before accelerating off. I don’t know what I like most about that story. I think it’s the anachronistic deployment of the term “threads.” People don’t say “threads” enough, for clothes. Just as they don’t say “the flicks” enough for cinema. Or “thank-you” enough when you fucking hold the fucking door fucking for them the fuckers.
My dapper dan, tailored, fancy shmancy, dress-up look however is not the daily effort or grind you might think. As it boils down to this:
a. Styling a quiff in the hair (4mins)b. wearing 1950s framed specs (no time at all)c. wearing clothes bought 2nd hand (not very much time either frankly as I only go shopping twice a year...more often if the Ocado man shows up.)But here’s what I’m getting at. The grooming. The grooming has got fucking out of hand. I don’t really know how, but it has.
Now, time was, a gentleman’s spongebag contained the following 4 things ONLY:
A toothbrushA straight razorA combA shaving brush That was it. From Bertie Wooster to James Bond, that was all a fellow needed. Soap and whatnot would be used from the hotel or guest bathroom. Comb would be rinsed under warm water and hair parted. Done.
If I was to go away for the weekend – and again, I repeat, I don’t consider myself particularly narcissistic - I would have to take not 4 items, not 6 items. In fact. Let’s count them. Starting from the top:
1. Pantene “repair and protect” shampoo.
2. Pantene “repair and protect” conditioner.
Okay, so that’s fine. I treat my hair badly, I don’t want it to fall out. I wash and condition it. That’s 2.
3. Kiehl’s bath and shower “liquid body cleanser”
Which is just a fancy men’s shower gel. That smells nice. So that’s 3.
4. Kiehl’s “facial fuel” energising facewash.
Right, so now we’re getting down to it. I have to assume that the ingredients in the facewash are different to the body cleanser. I have to. Otherwise I’m being an idiot. In fact, I’ve got them here next to me for this little exercise so I’ll see what the difference is. Stand by...
Okay, well fuckadeedoodah. Apart from two things (water & glycerine) they both have very different ingredients. For the face, the nice lab coats at Kiehls recommend Ammonium Lauryl Sulphate. But of course what sort of sick-headed nincompoop would put that on his body? No no no, for the body it’s better to use Sodium Laureth Sulphate. Obviously.
Now I don’t know if anyone’s getting scarred or damaged by putting ammonium on their chest and sodium on their forehead, but I for one am not taking the risk. So there, we have 2 other bottles.
Where were we? Oh yes, 4.
So out of the shower now and we’ll shave:
5. Gillette “Fusion” razor
6. Wilkinson Sword shaving soap
7. Crabtree & Evelyn badger hair shaving brush
See, we’re up to 7 now. Okay, I will admit that the shaving soap bowl and brush are kind of old fashioned. I’m sure there are plenty of decent foaming gels and suchamalike in futuristic blue and silver canisters that do the same thing. But hell, it’s like tea from a china cup. It probably doesn’t taste that much different to tea from a Styrofoam take-away cup. But it’s the ritual, isn’t it. A small pleasure.
But a question here. I’ve already washed my face in the shower using the Kiehl’s “facial fuel” energising facewash. Was that right? Wash face then shave? Or should one shave and then wash?
Coz now I think about it, I’m just washing a load of bristles and then cutting them off and slooshing them down the sink? (Not all of them. I like to leave some around the basin to irritated my spouse). Better to shave before the shower? I need advice here, people.
But anyway, rinsed face of excess shaving foam (hot water or cold, here? Any ideas? Warm is nicer but cold is more invigorating. Should I be thinking about my “pores” here? And what are “pores”? And is that the right way of spelling it? Do I want them open or closed? And which one opens/closes? Hot or cold? Logic seems to suggest that cold water would close them, and warm water open them. But now I’ve shaved, how do I want them to be? Help.
So now I’m dripping in front of the mirror and it begins to get complex. The following three things are looking at me:
8. Kiehls “Facial Fuel energizing moisture treatment for men.”
9. Kiehls “Abyssine Cream + SPF 23 Anti wrinkle defence cream with survival molecules and Corellina extract”
10. Kiehl’s “eye alert energy booster”
I mean where to even begin here? I’m nearly 40 so I don’t think an anti-wrinkle cream is too poncy, especially for a 30-a-day smoker and a heavy drinker and a night owl. I don’t want to wake up at 45 looking like Jack Palance’s scrotum. Or at it, for that matter.
So in what order do I do these? Moisturise all over the face, then dab the Abyssine cream on would-be-wrinkly areas, then apply soothing under-eye balm to purple bags? What are the would be wrinkly areas? The eyes, right? But that means I’m moisturising, then anti-wrinkling and then energy alerting the same two inches of skin. Can it cope?
See, my ever helpful wife suggested that, just because I have all these tinctures and posits and lotions and potions, it doesn’t mean I have to apply them all. “Just special occasions, or when you think you need them,” she says.
Well I have huge bags under my eyes every fucking morning, mainly due to our boxed set ooh-just-one-more midnight lifestyle. And defending myself from wrinkles on special occasions? It’ll be a bit bloody late then, won’t it? It’s not fucking Tippex.
Sigh.
So now the teeth.
11. Oral B Electric toothbrush
12. Colgate
13. Listerine mouthwash
14. Oral B flossing tape
I hate the flossing thing. I fucking hate it. Now THAT’s a “special occasion” bit of grooming. No way that’s morning and night twice a fucking day. It’s SO BLOODY AWKWARD. Especially looking in the mirror. Fingers in mouth, fingers out of mouth, twist it here, twist it back, why is it not...? I’ve got it backwards, hold-on...
Hateful.
So you’d think I’d be done, right. 14 items in the sponge bag? Oh we’re barely starting.
15. Sure roll-on anti-perspirant deodorant.
Now I’ve tried the sticks, the roll-ons and the sprays and it’s roll on for me. The thing with the spray is, when do you know you’re done? And where do you stop? I mean, I’m quite a perspirey fellow. The only reason I don’t coat myself all over is that I can’t reach all over. But if I had a spray? I’d be doing my lower back, my shoulders, all over the place.
As it is, rubbity rub rub under each pit and then a bit of a twirly curly on the chest. Which I know is absurd, because if I really wanted to stop myself sweating in an unsightly way, I’d rub it all over my face, hands and nose.
By the way, Sure For Men is in a grey red and black bottle. Because apparently it’s still 1986.
Anyway. Wandering about waiting for that to dry so underwear and trousers on. Not shoes, because I’ve still got clomping about to do and my wife is asleep. Off to the study.
Door shut, chair over to the mirror.
16. Hairdryer
17. Comb
18. Hair brush
19. Dax “Wave and Groom” hair wax
20. Shockwaves “Styling Steel” hair gel
21. Shockwaves ultra strong power hold hairspray
I mean, c’mon. 21. Twenty fucking one? Do you realise this is EVERY BLOODY MORNING? Why? Becuase if I skip any of these fucking things, some smarty arse Mc Arsey arse will look at me and say "you all right Rich? Heavy night? Looking a bit rough?"
And anyway, you have to put wax on the hair before you blow dry it otherwise it collapses. And you have to mix wax with the gel on the front and sides otherwise you get hold but no shine. And you have to spray the lot because it’s fucking January out there and I have a long commute and there’s no way it’ll stay in place otherwise.
Wash hands of assorted gelly waxy crap, shirt and tie and tie clip and jacket.
And shoes.
And one last check in the mirror before we...
Shit.
22. Nail scissors
For the nose. I’ll be 40 in November and men around this age will tell you this is a daily thing. Nothing grows faster than men’s nose hair. And as much fun as it is, when you’re alone in the house, to pinch a cluster between thumb and forefinger, yank them out with an eye-watering squeal, give them the once over looking for anything alien and/or impressive (usually 1 that is 4 times longer and 9 times thicker) before balling them up and shoving them in the ticket pocket of your jeans / in a tissue / down the back of the sofa, it's better all round to trim in the morning.
So that’s that kids. 22 items into the bathroom, 22 items out again. And as I say, I honestly don’t consider myself a particularly vain young man. But on reading this, perhaps it’s time to admit something about myself?
Hell, you’re a mixed bunch, why don’t you decide. Comments on this bizarre and time consuming ritual are welcome. Guys: Is this just me? Ladies: Am I essentially, tedious clichés aside, just a homosexual? Is this any better/worse than what you dames go through? Am I looking after myself or just being a big old gay ponce-a-ma-doo?
Your call.
That’s it. I’ve only got 2 hrs before lunch so I’d better get in the shower now and crack on...
Love to all
Rx
A few words on identities and like, totally ohmigod like share options? Whatever.
Saturday 14th Jan 2012
Hello
Well I’d better get this done before it escapes me. It’s Saturday lunchytimeish (noon) and I’m in the study with my second cup of coffee. (Are you meant to clean or replace filters in home coffee machines? You probably are, right? I’ve never changed the filter on mine. Ever. And I recall buying it when I was drinking a lot of coffee while writing my second book. Yes. That’s right. So I’ve been using the same filter since 2003. Mmm. Hygenic. Tastes all right though. I’ll wait til I’ve been using it for a decade then I’ll definitely get a new one. Probably).
Anyhap, was flicking through The Guide and digesting my All Bran and the telebox was showing me an episode of a new Channel 4 US comedy “New Girl.”
DISCLAIMER STARTS: I know this is not a show for me. Okay? I know this. This is a show for teenagers. My “take” or “opinion” or “view” on this 25-frames per minute West Coast kooky hip-fest could not be less relevant to the world. On the other hand, however, that’s never fucking stopped me before. DISCLAIMER ENDS
The set up, or “premise” of the show as we say in tellyboxville is that a young kooky single girl moves in with some guys. That’s it. That’s yer premise right there. It stars professional doe-eyed size zero kookmongering indie-darling clumsy ditz-cracker Zooey Dachenel.
“Zooey”.
Yes.
Anyhow, if you haven’t seen it yet: well done. If you have, then you’ll agree with me. If you haven’t but you want to, then you can avoid the tiresome trouble of watching the show and pining for a lost 30mins of your life by simply repeating the following phrases:
“Oh my god / like, whatever / get over yourself / duh / my bad / did I say that out loud / like, totally / oh puh-leese / I’m outta here, girlfriend,” while playing basketball in your loft style apartment.
It’s like the last 10 years never happened. Like, totally.
Anyway, just wanted to mention that. How the devil are you, munchkins? Me, not so great. I have been laid low by a horrendous sneezy-snotty-coughy-phlegmy-shaky crapness which has pissed me off something rotten. It has meant:
1. I have been off work for 2 days, sleeping, moaning, being grouchy and blowing my nose a lot when I have lots and lots to do at work. So now I’m behind. And annoyed.
2. This was not how starting the new year in a refreshing detoxy “no cigarettes, no alcohol, better diet, regular exercise” was meant to impact me.
UPDATE: My name is Richard (“Hello Richard”). It’s been 13.5 days since I had a drink. And 13.5 days since I had a cigarette. Everyone is asking me if this is a temporary “January” thing or a full-time lifestyle change or what. And the answer is, dear readers, I haven’t got a clue really. The tee-total thing is definitely going to last until Jan 31st, at which point I will simply have a drink if I want one. The smoking thing? Well, it seems fucking ridiculous to quit fags for 30 days so I guess that’s a permanent thing (or at least, permanent until I get too pissed to care and slur “oh juss one ain’t gonne hurt isss it, hic...” and chain 30 in a row).
QUESTION: Oh when oh when can I stop worrying about this crap? Answer me, people? When? At what point does one simply settle down and look in the mirror at one’s face, hair, clothes, job, lifestyle, stomach, attitude, habits and soul and agree that one is finished. One is done? This, this person at the mirror, is now who one is? Did our parents go through this constant re-evaluation? I am tired of deciding who I’m going to be this week every time:
a. I get a new hair product
b. I buy a new cut of suit
c. I decide on a new hobby
d. a significant calendar moment happens (new year / birthday / whatever)
Can’t I just settle down? It would appear not. Do I wear snappy ties and drink Martinis and listen to swing and smoke filterless cigarettes from a silver case? Or do I wear a beat up leather jacket and red-wing engineer boots and play rockabilly guitar and buy Eddie Cochrane vinyl? Or do I get some smart pyjamas and brillantine my hair and read classics and get an early night? Or do I sling on an old tee with something like “Brooklyn Dodgers” written on it and go running and shoot hoops and drink juice and get my teeth straightened and get broad shoulders and row crew and live long? I DON’T FUCKING KNOW. And I’m MEANT TO KNOW BY NOW! JESUS CHRIST PEOPLE! I JUST WANT TO DECIDE AND SETTLE AND BE THAT AND STOP HAVING TO DECIDE EVERY FUCKING MORNING.
Okay, so, calm, calm, calm.
I mentioned, I believe (can’t be arsed to check) that I was going to embark on some quality reading this year. Did I say this? Pretty sure I did. Anyhow, so far so good. I printed out the BBC BIG READ Top 200 list I cut n pasted from some webular site onto a word doc. I then deleted everything I had read already. (Thirty eight. Not that many really)
I then deleted everything that was aimed at under 16s (another 38. Sorry Jacqueline Wilson)
And then deleted everything that I knew I was never ever going to fucking read ever due to there being faeires, witches, elves, goblins, orcs, dragons or similar fighting-fantasy guff in it. (Another 18. Mostly Terry Pratchett to be honest).
Now I’ve made some pretty odd decisions in editing this list. Decisions that don’t really hold up to any kind of scrutiny.
Why, dear reader, for example, have I dismissed “Dune” and “The Hobbit” because they’re silly and fantasy and made-up and couldn’t happen. And yet have kept such realistic titles as “Dracula” and “War Of The Worlds” and “Day Of The Triffids?” Any logic here, people?
No. None. So best not to think about it. I can cope with a novel written in 1897 about a supernatural man who drinks blood, but a 1965 book about giant sand worms and duelling interstellar spice-wars is “cobblers.” Just ignore me.
So, neatly edited down, I printed this off and tripped off to the very polite staff at Waterstones in Kingston and purchased 4 books to start me off.
1. Pride & Prejudice – Jane Austen
2. Birdsong – Sebastian Faulks
3. War Of The Worlds – HG Wells
4. Kane & Abel – Jeffrey Archer
War Of The Worlds – HG Wells
Fucking brilliant. And NOT, before you say anything, because all the way through I was imagining Jeff Wayne’s music going “dan-dan-daaaaaaaaaah, dan-dan-dahhhhhhhh!”or Richard Burton’s voice.
But sort of that.
Anyway it’s great. Genuinely exciting. And considerably better than the Speilberg/Cruise movie. Which takes a long time setting up Cruise as a crane worker, foreshadowing him taking over a fighting machine in the climax...and then he doesn’t. Thus rendering the first 5 minutes as uttely pointless and misleading a characterisation to rival Nicholas Cage’s Beatlemania in “The Rock” which pays off at the end by him quoting...Elton fucking John.
Kane & Abel – Jeffrey Archer
I have absolutely no idea why I was pretty much unable to put this book down. On the surface, I could not have been less interested in something Dan Brown called “the ultimate tale of sibling rivalry.” (Dan Brown shows his now famous grasp of language here. They’re not actually siblings. They’re just two blokes, Dan. You twit). I also know very little about Mr Archer apart from this:
He has a posh penthouse on the Thames full of expensive art and often has folk over for shepherds pie and champagne. I have NO BLOODY CLUE why I know this.
He is disliked by almost everyone you can think of.
He went to prison for, I think, perjury? Something about lying about brown envelopes and prossies. (Ahh, it’s nice to see the word “prossies.”)
He once stole the twist (a-ha! It’s not his girlfriend! It’s his cat!) from another short story writer and I think had to pay her. Or something.
His first book “Not A Penny More, Not A Penny Less” was made into a 1980s TV drama, complete with lots of shoulder pads and champagne corks and luxury yachts and casinos and sort of “Howards Way” style glamour. Watch the opening titles here (subtitled in Japanese but you can ignore that) to see why the 1980s were so wonderfully exciting.
NOTE: It also has one of those excellent “sing the title to the theme tune” theme tunes like “The Sweeney.”)
So that’s everything I knew about ole JA. But there’s his book in the top 200 of all time faves and according to the copy I picked up in the store, it sold a million in the first week, 2 million in a month and 30 million to date. So I gave it a whirl.
And what a bizarre thing it is. Again, as I say, I ploughed through the thing in about 4 days, which ain’t bad going for a 545 page blockbuster. Have you read it? You probably have. Here’s the odd thing. NOTHING FUCKING HAPPENS.
It doesn’t. Honestly, I can’t recall a single incident from the book and I only finished it 2 days ago. 545 pages of two men’s lives and their intertwining struggles. And I can recall absolutely cock-all happening.
Oh, apart from buying and selling stock. There’s bloody loads of that.
Were the 1980s really like this? Stephen Fry & Hugh Laurie used to do a sketch set in this sort of high-flying 1980s business-world where it was all “goddammit” and “take over share options” and “old man Seagrove will never go for a merger,” and whatnot. You can watch them at it here. (If you’re under 30, you won’t know why this is funny. If you’re over 30, you’ll know this was pretty much what passed for exciting drama on LWT throughout the 1980s). Anyway, that’s the whole book. Men buying stock options and selling stock options back again and then ...well that’s about it. Then there are some beautiful women and some luxury yachts and such, until one of them drops dead. I won’t spoil it by telling you which one. (Kane).
So in theory it would be tedious and dull and moronic and dated and of no interest. And yet I ploughed through the fucker like it was . . . oh I don’t know. Something really pagey-turnery and better thought of. Robert Ludlum? Lee Child? Something like that.
What worries me is that, on the reverse of the book, the Washington Post says of Archer: “A storyteller in the class of Alexander Dumas.”
Now Alexander Dumas is also on my reading list for this year (Count Of Monte Christo) so now I’m worried that the Count spends 600 pages buying shares in Monte Christo Inc and floating them as preferential holding stock on the Dow Jones while drinking champagne with Kate O’Mara off the coast of Guernsey. I guess there’s only one way to find out.
Anyway, the day’s getting away with me now and Sebastian Faulks is a-calling. I’d better get through Birdsong afore the BBC adaptation comes along and ruins it.
Gosh, that was a lot of gibberish, wasn’t it.
Love to all
Rx
A few words on gigawatts, Dickensian dinner and Missions: Implausible
Sunday 22nd Jan 2012
Good morning or, y’know, like, whatever.
So, quite a few bits of nonsense floating about my addled noggin. None to be of any interest to you, naturally. Still, when has that stopped me before?
Quite.
So here’s a thing. There is a phenomena in the movie screen-writing business which goes by the term “refrigerator moment.” Now this has nowt to do with Indiana Jones climbing into fridges and being blown unlikely distances by atom bombs. Nor, Reitman fans, does it concern the contents of Signourney Weaver’s fridge, Zuul, Gatekeepers, Keymasters, Terror Dogs or Stay Puft marshamallows. (These are then only two famous movie fridge bits I can think of. I’m sure others exist. Shit, yes, that bit in Annie Hall where lobsters run behind the fridge. Oh, and that bit in Se7en where John Doe scrawls “Gluttony” behind the fridge in grease. Blimey. There are a lot of these when you put your mind to it).
Anyway, that was a pointless segueway (hmm, spellcheck has underlined that. Let me check it... What? Microsoft Word says it’s 2 words. Segue and way. Tch, piffle). Because a movie “refrigerator moment” is the point in a script that doesn’t make any sense. Drivel. Nonsense. Completely incongruous and illogical to plot or character or reality.
Okay, so you need an example...
Right, let’s say that bit in Back To The Future. Right at the end when Marty has to drive the Delorean down main street so he hits 88mph at precisely the time the clock is struck by lightning. So there’s lots of tension and excitement as he ploughs the car down the street during the storm and Doc is on top of the clock tower and the cable breaks and he slides down and the car is coming and it’s nearly at 88 and so on... Fuck it, you’ve seen the movie, you know what I’m talking about.
Well this is all very exciting and adventurous so we, the audience, are bowled along by it, jigging about in our seats and punching the air and generally enjoying one of the best motion pictures of the last 50 years. (Piss off, it is).
Because of this, we don’t stop to think about the logic of this particular scene. Such as.
1. Why does the car have to hit 88mph at that precise moment? Why not put the car a mile away and have it hit 88mph in its own time and then continue into town at a solid cruising 88mph round and round the town square until Doc is ready?
2. Why not put the car on a treadmill? Some kind of moveable walkway thing under the back wheels? Jack it up, rev it up to 88mph and leave it there, wheel spinning at 88mph, stationary, and take all the panic out of it?
3. That clock tower has no second hand. The fact the lightning strikes the tower at 10.04 is only known because that’s where the hands stop. But it doesn’t have a sweep hand. It clunks from minute to minute. Which means lightening could hit the tower any time between 10:04:00 and 10:04:59. Which, from a lightning point of view, is a fucking big window.
And so on and so on.
The idea is that the movie is so compelling, we haven’t time to stop and wonder about these things. But when we get home, we’ve talking about the movie, we changed into our indoor sweatpants and slippers, time has passed, we’re standing at the fridge looking from something for supper when we then go “wait a second...” and the silly or illogical bits of the movie strike us.
Refrigerator moments: An illogical plot point that is unlikely to register with the moviegoer until well after the movie had ended.
That took far far too long to explain. And now I think of it, I might well have already explained it in a previous post. I don’t keep track of these things.
The only reason I bring it up is that, due to reasons that may or may not become clear, I found myself watching a movie on DVD this week to pass 110minutes. As I’d seen the movie a few times, my head was tuned to spot things that may have passed me by previously. And this is what I realised. Mission: Impossible (Brian De Palma, 1996) has fucking loads of refrigerator moments.
Fucking loads.
And I know I’m 16 years behind the times here (yes, 16 years. Fuckinell) but, y’know, you’ve got nothing else on at the moment otherwise you wouldn’t be reading this.
Oh, before I get on to listing bits in a sixteen year old action adventure thriller that don’t make a lot of sense, here’s something else:
Pan fried. Flame grilled. You know these phrases, right? They sprung up in the last 20 years to make our ordinary monotonous lives seem slightly more exciting. To make ordinary foodstuffs seem a little bit more haute cuisine. “Pan fried” mushrooms. Oooh, they sound nice.
Yeah. Okay, yummy scum scrum. But, how the fuck else are you going to fry them? On a Ford Escort? Fried means you put them in a hot pan. You wouldn’t ask your partner if they’d like a “pan fried” egg? You just say “fried egg.”
Same with “flame grilled.” That’s what grilling is. (Can you get electric grills? Hmm, not sure).
Anyway, I am oft on the look out for extra words that have been slid onto menus by twunts in marketing departments. “Oven baked” is another one. Where else were things being baked before this? In the cistern?
So I’m sat in a restaurant on Saturday afternoon and looking at the menu when I spot what I think is a classic example of this tarting up nonsense. “Sea Urchins” it says. “Sea Urchins.” So, being a punchable and unrestrained dickwit, I’m about to launch into some diatribe about “tch, obviously, sea urchins. Where else would they live, for chrissakes? In the car park? Why do they add the word sea? Tch, cor blimey, I dunno, country’s going to hell in a handcart, it’s a postcode lottery, PC correctness gone mad etc etc.”...
When it strikes me that if they just put “urchins,” then one might be ordering a small plate of finely sliced Dickensian workhouse employee or Victorian street-rascal.
So I didn’t say anything.
1. “As always, if you or any of your IMF team are captured or killed during this operation, the government will disavow all knowledge of the operation. Good luck Jim. This message will self destruct in 5 seconds.”
Really? So when Jon Voight, Emmanuelle Beart, Kristin Scott Thomas, Emilio Estevez and Ingeborga Dapkunaite are all killed in the opening mission, why does Tom Cruise immediately phone in to tell them? Surely the answer he would expect would be: “Impossible what? Mission who? Never heard of you. Fuck off.”
2. Ethan Hunt types the word “Bible” into the internet. He gets 126 hits. For fucks sake.
3. Emilio Estevez gives Tom Cruise a stick of gum – half green and half red – which, when mashed together form an explosive. “Come across a lock you can’t pick?” he suggests and hands it over. A lock you can’t pick? A lock? Cruise uses this gum twice. First time it causes an explosion so big it throws a grown man over a table, through a plate glass window into the street and causes a restaurant to explode. Second time, it blows up a fucking helicopter. Yeah, so if he’d found a lock he couldn’t pick and used the gum it would have blown the fucking building up.
4. Okay so here’s a big one. The whole movie is based on the tracking down of something called a NOC list. (Non-Official Cover, a comprehensive list of all covert agents in Eastern Europe).Okay, so far so good. The list is in two parts for safety. Code names and real names. The bad guys have 1 half and they want the other half. So my question is this.
So you have list of code names. Now this can either be code names, like The Badger, or Big Chief or The Jackal or Dangermouse or something. Which is going to be of no fucking use unless folks are wandering around Prague saying “hello, can I join your secret baddie organisation? My name is The Badger.” Which one has to presume they’re not.
Or it’s a list of code names like aliases? Geoff Stevens, Maude Enderby, Horace Whitworth. If it is, you don’t NEED the other half of the list. Just find the guy in Prague called Geoff Stevens and shoot him in the back of the head.
The other half, the corresponding list of “real” names is a list of actual agents. Ethan Hunt, Luther Trickle, Jim Phelps etc. This list will be of some help (as long as they all have facebook pages with their photos on). But ultimately none, as knowing the real name of a spy ain’t gonna get you very far if you don’t know who they are. And anyway, you don’t need their real name BECAUSE YOU’VE GOT THEIR FUCKING FAKE NAME ON THE FIRST HALF OF THE LIST YOU MORON.
(It’s possible I’ve misunderstood this point. If someone can explain it, please send a short explanation to afewemailsonthesubject@gmail.com)
6. Tom Cruise is suspected of being a mole, so he's disavowed by the agency. Okay, no problem. Good thing he can still boot up his laptop, stick his password in and still get a complete list of names and contact details of other disavowed agents (Ving Rhames, Jean Reno) to hire. Guys? You mioght want to revoke his password to your top secret organisation files now, y'know, he's a mole who's murdered his team, gone on the run and is working with an arms dealer. For Chrissakes.
5. The super secure black lockdown computer room that Tom Cruise has to dangle in to steal the NOC list? Heat sensors, motion sensors, retina scan, access code and key card. Right. But no CCTV camera? Christ. We’ve got a CCTV camera in the canteen at work.
C’mon people.
That’s it
Less pedantry and out of date know-it-all crapness next time, I promise. Coz I finished “Birdsong” by Seb Faulks and have started “Pride & Prejudice” and I want to talk about those.
See you in the funny pages
Rx
