Starting from…… Now

You know when you were younger, and you’d play the “see who can stop talking the longest game”? …. No….. Anyone? Well I do. Basically you would announce the challenge, start it, one of you would talk and then they’d say ” I didn’t mean that, lets start again….Starting from…… Now!” Then one of you would talk again…. so starting from….. Now…. and so on and son on, never seeming to finish the game, instead constantly denying failure until you move on to some other distraction.

Now, either you will have read that and thought, “yep, I know exactly what Will is talking about there”, or you’ll be thinking that I am a bit of a loser whose parents could’ve done with buying him a games console rather than leaving him to play the No Talking game. Whichever way you have reacted, the reason I mention this childhood game, is that I don’t seem to be able to shake it. For this is how I live my life.

I seem unable to focus on one thing and follow it through to conclusion. Instead, I jump from idea to idea. I am gonna get fit, starting from….. Now. I am gonna read more books, starting from…..Now. I’m going to stop watching so much TV, staring from. You get the idea.

I look at others around me, and see them move on with things. Stick to things. Progress with things. They seem to have a plan, and be able to stick with it and follow it through. To see there ideas blossom and bloom into what they desire and to move past the minefield of distractions on towards the open fields of fulfilment that await on the other side.

How?

How do they do it? Did I miss a day in school where they sat you down and told you how to negotiate the shit in life and move on. Did my mum neglect to tell me. Why can’t I seem to do what comes so naturally to others, and why do I feel like my life is constantly starting from….. Now??

The Joy of Car Travel…

Now, due to the nature of my job, I have to do a bit of travelling (that’s boring, “in the car” travelling, not exciting, “I shat myself on a bus journey through India” travelling). I sometimes quite like it though.

Car journeys can be fun on occasion. You can rediscover an old album, or shout vehemently at the conservative MP on the five live phone in. But most of the time it is not fun.

Those of you who have ever been in a car with me (or know me in general) know that I am not the most patient driver/person. In my mind, I am the best driver in the country, if not the world, and the other plebs on the motorway around me are obstacles whose sole purpose is to get in my way and slow me down.

Now that is proabably not the best attitude to approach distance driving from, but  have to work with what I’ve got…. and keep it real.

In the past, I have been known to admonish people who drive too close behind me, by staring into the rear view mirror and moving my finger, in a sort of “naughty you” way, like you might do to a dog. I regularly stare out drivers who pass me in a way that I don’t like, and on several occasions I have pulled alongside people who nearly cut me out and driven at the same pace as them, purely to frustrate them and teach them a lesson. I have even kicked motorway crash barriers in frustration of breaking down.

That’s the thing with me you see… I am about four hundred times harder in the car than I am in real life. I have had one “fight” in my life. I avoid conflict. But in the car, I welcome it. I even instigate it, if I feel that another driver needs to be taught a lesson.

I am also about four hundred times more psychotic… I create little songs in the car. Songs of frustration. The most memorable being the song I created whilst driving round the second multi-story car park we had visited in Chester that morning, after an hour of looking for somewhere to park the frigging car…The song was called “Oh My Fucking God!” The lyrics were quite simple, you just repeat the title of the song over and over again. But what made it difficult, is that you have to do this whilst straining to sing like a seven year old girl. It was quite hard to get through three parts of the song without feinting, but it was really rewarding when you managed it.

In the last week, I have driven to Glasgow and back in a day;  To Bristol, then Cardff, then back in a day; as well as my usual commute to Chester every morning. I have stared at 16 drivers with hatred in my eyes; Flashed my full beam at 2; Been threatened my the driver of an X5 for doing the wanker sign at him… he was. But, I can still look out at my car, and wait for that perfect journey. The one where no one gets in my way. The one where I am let out on a junction by a thoughtful motorist. The one that comes around once in a blue moon… Maybe the next one?

Quentin Tarrantino – The Catalyst

One of the worst things about modern society, I find, is that technology has butchered the art of conversation. Situations that would previously have been filled with some sort of spoken word, have been replaced by awkward fiddling with mobile phones, looking at fake texts in a bid to avoid the possibility of connecting with another human being.

It sort of does my head in, but I am also guilty of it too. It’s easier to fumble about with a mobile, when you are in a lift with a stranger, than it is to strike up some sort of rapport. I mean, nowadays, you seem like some sort of mental, if you just start talking to someone. Whereas looking at fake texts is the epitome of normal behaviour.

Last night, however, I had a rare experience. I had a conversation with a stranger, and neither of us were awkward or weird or anything. The catalyst for this social anomaly was Quentin Tarrantino.

Having just sat through QT’s new film, I was standing around by the exit for a little while waiting. Then, this guy kinda sidled up to me and stood just across from me by the door with his girlfriend. He raised his eyebrows, and in response I did a sort of blowy outy cheek thing.

“What did you think, then?” he asked. Now, 9 times out of ten, this would be a normal, run of the mill question between two strangers following a movie. But after the movie we had just seen, and the fact that he had a wide eyed look of sheer pleasure on his face, this question was really designed for one outcome. He wanted me to love it too.

I had loved it. It was insane, and brilliant, and a return to classic Tarrantino. What was not to love. It sparked a little conversation that went on to reference the back catalogue of his work, and even how Deathproof had been sadly overlooked and criticised, despite the fact that it was awesome.

I came away from the film, thinking how great it was, but also thankful that Tarrantino is around and making films. H’s a visionary. I know some people hate him,but even if you do, you’ll still talk about him. He provokes a response, and he can provide that spark for conversation and debate amongst friends and strangers alike. Fuck the middle of the road, give me something that challenges any day of the week!

PUN-ted out!! Our “Weekend” of Camping

Have you ever got that feeling that you’re not welcome somewhere? When you just know that you are not wanted. It’s not the best feeling in the world, is it? Well, I had that feeling last weekend, when my friends and I decided to go camping.

From the moment we pulled in to the camp site, I knew we weren’t welcome. It was like a scene from one of those old Western films where the hero walks through the saloon door and the piano music stops and everyone turns to look… waiting for something to happen.

There were eight of us on the trip, spread over three cars. As our friend, who had booked the trip, went over to pay, the rest of us stood around the cars waiting when we were approached by the guy who ran the site. He asked us how many were in the group, and he pulled a dissaproving face…. as if he didn’t know how many there were when he took the fucking booking….

He then went on to explain that, because of the nice weather, he had had a lot of families in, and it would be difficult to get us in. Imagine, going to a gig or something, to which you had booked tickets far in advance, only to be told on the door, “Sorry, we have had a lot turn up on the night, so we might not be able to let you in!” I was fuming…

Anyway, after a lot of persuasion, we had managed to come to a compromise. We were to pay for one of the two nights we had booked, and then, if we were good, we could pay for the second night in the morning. No problem.

That night, we had some drinks, and to get away from possible complainers, we went onto the beach and had some shennanigans (for those of you who know me, there is photographic evidence of this doing the rounds on facebook). We got back to the tents at around half two that morning, and most went to bed, while a few had some post beach drinks.

The next morning we went over to pay the guy, and he asked us how it went. It had gone well, so we paid up and off we went to light up the breakfast BBQ. But, not ten minutes had passed since we had paid, before the guy came over with the smuggest look on his face, “Don’t bother with that lads, you’re gone”. I mean, he was over the moon.

He told us that he had had three complaints since we had paid. Relating to singing at three in the morning. Now, I dont mind if we had been singing, I dont mind if we had been rowdy.In factm if I knoew I was there for one night, I would’ve sang about being rowdy… But we did nothing wrong, and still we were penalised. We were discriminated against. Foe being different to the families camping around us. Treated differently, for being different….

For the briefest of moments, I felt like Rosa Parks…

Susan Boyle… Reality TV Prozac

I watch far too much television. I watch far too much reality TV. But one thing I never watch is Britain’s Got Talent. I have caught it on the odd occasion in the past and found it bizarre, parochial, and maybe even more exploitative than X Factor. However, I did see a bit of last weekend’s edition of BGT, on the Sunday repeat, and the bit I saw was Susan Boyle.

The set up to Ms Boyle’s performance was typical Saturday night freak show fayre. Without wishing to be mean myself, she didn’t look great. She was wearing a weird dress, and had unbelievably bushy eyebrows. The music in the background was a sort of comic, trumpetty, Curb Your Enthusiasmesque little number. She proceeded to tell us that she was 47; the she was unemployed; that she lived with her cat; and that she had never been kissed…. I was getting angry watching it, feeling sorry for her.

When she got on stage, the judges looked cynical. She did a weird little hip wiggle when asked her age, and bizarrely said “and that’s just one side to me”. The audience then looked cynical. I got more angry watching it.

Then she told us all thar her dream was to be like Elaine Page. The judges and the audience looked cynical… I was fuming. Then she sang, and what followed was possibly one of the most heart warming, life affirming moment in reality TV history.

She was by no means the greatest singer I’ve ever heard, but she she was pretty bloody great. She sang a song from Les Miserables, I Dreamed a Dream. Watching her, I was fighting to hold back a tear, it was one of the weirdest experiences ever.

For those of you who haven’t seen it, and think I’m full of shit, here is the link:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=9lp0IWv8QZY

The fact that, at the time of writing this, it has been viewed by 5 and a half million people, says something for the clip. I thought it was superb, and I have watched the link again this morning, and smiled. Awesome!

Comedy Origins…

When did being from somewhere that’s slightly different from the norm, make someone funny?? I mean, when did that start??

A lot of comedians come from Ireland, but the good ones don’t tend to use the fact that they come from Ireland to derive the laughter. Increasingly it seems that, simply saying “I come from South Wales, listen to me say things in a funny accent”, or “I am from Iran, how odd is that?”, qualifies people as comedians.

Surely the funniest comedy comes from empathy and understanding of the world. The best comedians can relay stories or outline situations or theories that we can, either directly relate to or have opinions on, in a way that unites the audience. Perhaps they are united by shared experience, or the collective realisation that the comedian has exposed something that they had not previously noticed.

However we are increasingly presented with comedians who seem to highlight the differences between people.  Rob Brydon is one such comedian. I like Rob Brydon, I think Marion and Geoff is a work of art, but his stand up seems to consist of a string of “I’m Welsh, isn’t that amusing?” jokes. The Welsh sat nav is the worst example of this… It’s just fucking sad!

Omid Djalili is the worst perpetrator of all though… He has made “I’m Iranian, don’t you know” his fucking forte, and seems to have spawned a whole host of followers who have used this as their way into comedy. I don’t think it’s enough, to just sit on a comedy panel show, or stand on a stage and say “I’m different to you” and wait for the laughs… It’s borderline racist.

Then we have the idiots Horne and Corden. Granted the majority of their comedy is derived from knob gags, and fat jokes, but there is one sickeningly homo-phobic stereotype in the middle of their shows. “I’m Gay, isn’t that hilarious?” No it fucking isn’t!!!!

Are we so concerned with being politically correct that we feel we have to laugh…. Give these comics a sort of pity laughter?

Gorging myself on DVD TV!!

First of all, I just want to say hello, and welcome back to anyone who reads this thing, and to those of you who haven’t read before, I hope you enjoy!

So, I had surgery on my ankle on Friday and I have been at home recovering since. I am bored out of my mind and I am using this boredom as the kick up the backside I’ve needed for a while to get the blog back up and running again. The amount of stuff I’ve suppressed over recent months had been getting on top of me somewhat!

I think I may have gone fully mental in the last few days, had it not been for the DVD Box set. Now, I am a TV addict, as those of you who have read before will know. I love all sorts of TV, from high class drama to the lowest of the low reality TV trash, but nothing beats American drama.

There are not many things I enjoy more than peeling off the cellophane wrapper from a new DVD box set of the latest yank series. The Sopranos, The Wire, Entourage have been but a few such American gems that I have devoured on DVD. Then there are the slightly more guilty pleasures like 24, which, whilst in no way less entertaining, hardly carries the artistic merits of a work of televisual art like The Wire.

I do split American drama into two distinct categories. There are “the meals”, into which The Wire would fall, which are rich and textured, and seem to provide you with the sense that you have gained something from experiencing them/ They are fulfilling, like watching a good play, or reading a book.  Then there are “the snacks”,like 24, which provide you with a more instant hit of pleasure. You won’t get that same sense of experience from a snack, as you would a meal, you essentially know what it will be like and that you will not be full from it, but nevertheless it’s still fun to eat.

Over the years, I have passed on certain meals. Meals that looked a little too filling or perhaps a bit different from things I have enjoyed before. I have also steered clear of certain snacks, opting for the tried and tested or put off by the strange packaging perhaps.  But I am willing to admit that I may have been wrong, and I am more than open to trying new things. So, in recent months I have been catching up on things I have missed.

Lost was first. I slagged this show off for so long, it looked awful. But I wanted to see what I was missing, and so I borrowed the DVD Boxset and devoured the dirty little snack in no time at all. I couldn’t wait to get home from work to rinse another 3 or 4 episoes a night. I watched the whole of Lost, (at least where we’re up to now) in about three weeks.

The first few seasons were great. The twists and turns were still just about plausible enough to keep me wanting more. But by then end I was tired and bloated and the only reason I kept watching was to finish. It was if I had bought a multipack of Lost crisps, and the sell by date was coming up, I had to eat all my Lost crisps before they went out of date, no matter how bored I was of them. I now know that Lost crisps are best bought in one packs, I must finish watching Lost on a week to week basis. I am still not enjoying my snacks as much as I did at the start, but at least the weekly hit is somewhat more managable.

Lost is not quite as sugary a snack as 24, it takes itself a little too seriously, and perhaps it thinks it’s more of a subsitute for a meal than the dirty little snack it truly is. When I eat me some 24, I still want more straight after, just like I did when I first devoured season one in a weekend. Never the less, I did enjoy Lost for a while there, so if anyone can recomend any other snack TV for me, then I’m willing to give it a try…

Got to go now, as I’m just about to start a meal… Battlestar Galactica has just arrived on DVD! I’ll let you know how it tastes!

War on Talkers!!!!

When did it become socially acceptable to talk in the cinema?

I ask this question because it seems that each time I go to the cinema nowadays, my experience is ruined by some dim witted twat canister in my vicinity, who deems it necessary to hold a conversation with his or her equally toss brained companion at full cocking volume.

Personally, I go to the cinema because I love film. I love watching films on the big screen. I love the sense of shared experience. I even love the popcorn, the overpriced sweets and the over sized cokes. I read Empire’s website all the time, and I get excited about new trailers and upcoming movie releases. I am film nerd!

But it seems that there are some people who go to the cinema, merely for something to do…

I suppose this is fine. I can appreciate that, not everyone has the passion for film that I have, and that for some, the cinema is a place to relax and switch off for a couple of hours… That is fine. But don’t ruin it for those of us who actually like being there for the films by talking. Not only is it ridiculously annoying, it also fucking ignorant!

If you want to talk, go to a bar or a cafe. Do not go somewhere were people have to pay attention to what’s going on, or your meaningless, mindless drivel of an excuse for a conversation may distract them.

Annoyingly, there seem to be no rules of etiquette in play here. It’s ridiculous. Some people seem to think it’s perfectly acceptable to comment on   action in the film at regular conversation volume… It isn’t acceptable! Others sit in groups of four or more, and literally shout across the row to each other throughout the trailers, and sometimes even the opening minute or so of the film… That isn’t acceptable.

The most annoying though, are the people who repeat what’s just happened on screen out loud. Again, this would be fine if they were whispering it to the person they were with, but they don’t they say it OUT LOUD… “He just shot that guy!”…. DID HE???? I MEAN I SAW IT WITH MY OWN TWO CUNTING EYES, BUT CAN YOU JUST CONFIRM IT FOR ME IN SPEECH FORMAT SO THAT I’M 100% SURE THAT’S WHAT OCCURRED!

So I will suggest some rules of play if I may? My rules would be that talking is permitted before anything starts to happen, during the adverts, and during the end credits (only after they have been rolling for ten seconds).

And let me make it clear that by “adverts”, I mean the ads for products that come on before the TRAILERS… Silence must be practised during trailers for upcoming features, and for the main feature itself. Now, are those rules to complicated? Too much to ask? I think not…

AAAARRRRGGGGHHHH!!!!

Why, oh why, can I never sleep on Sunday nights? I’ve tried going to bed early. I’ve tried going to bed late. I’ve even tried fucking Ovaltine…. But nothing works. I lie there all night, aching for the peace of slumber, but nothing ever comes.

It means that Monday mornings are a minefield for anyone who has the bad fortune to be in my vicinity. This morning I threw some clothes on the floor; punched a door; kicked a traffic cone and overtook a pensioner illegally by entering the island surrounding a roundabout.

Now, I can be grumpy at the best of times. In fact, those who know me would say I’m grumpy all the time.In the car I’m particularly bad, and I seem to be getting progressively worse as time rolls by. I also get annoyed at watching football. When Liverpool lost to Tottenham last month, I smashed our TV controller, and sulked for an hour, despite having company, before cheering up at the prospect of drinking copeus amounts of lager. However “Monday morning Will” scares the shit out of me.

I constantly worry that I’m going to have a heart attack before I turn 30. That constant worry is only punctuated by the ridiculous fits of rage that only serve to heighten the worry even more. It drives me mad. I can only cling to the hope that, if I can solve this Sunday night sleeping conundrum, a more serene me is just around the corner…. Cos if it’s not I’m gonna go fucking mental!

I’m Sorry Captain…. But Unfortunately You Are a Twat!

Last time I wrote on here, I wrote a post about a guy who changed his name. I was quite mean about him, and I called him a twat.

Well, I actually got a comment off a girl claiming to know this guy, and rather than post it on here, I am ashamed to say I deleted it…. In anger I might add, not because I shun all forms of criticism. I can’t remember the comment word for word, but basically the girl in question thinks I am jealous of this guy, and all the attention he’s getting, and that I probably wish I would have thought of changing my name to something that wacky first. She finished her comment by saying that “Captain is actually a really nice guy”.

Now I have obviously never met this chap and I am sure he is nice enough. He’s probably never done anyone any harm, and there are definitely hundreds of thousands of people who are much more vile and horrible out there. I have no problem with this guy….  Other than the fact that, even when defending him, you now have to refer to him as Captain!

That is fucking mental.

It’s not funny; It’s not clever; It’s just fucking mental.

Believe it or not, I don’t wish I’d thought of it at all. If anything I wish that he’d never thought of it. I wish he’d stayed John, or whatever his pissing name was in the first place. I feel sorry for the poor twat, who is now instantly unemployable, instantly unattractive to women, and instantly (and quite rightly) thought of as a twat by any sane person who hears his ridiculous story!

And as for the attention argument… I’m much happier with the attention I receive from posting mean comments about people I’ve never met on a blog read by about 4 people…. Have that!