Only thing I'm saying about tonight.

Crazy Ruggers!

Lovely lot the Maori's, as long as you don't piss them off. Essentially a warrior race their entire social structure is based on kicking the utter shit our of each other/anyone else. Kinda like Scotland without the hear attacks.

I'm a football fan through and through, I admire the grit of rugby but prefer the skill of football. Nevertheless this still scares the utter shit out of me. I'm not sure if I'm more impressed at the Haka, or the Welsh lads ability to lookslightly miffed, rather like they're stuck in a particularly long queue at Woolworths.

Funny Games.

What?

So I've been busy, working hard to become indispensable so the credit crunch doesn't rape me of my disposable income.

Anyway I bought Funny Games on Sunday, I'd heard quite a but about it but just hadn't gotten round to buying it.

Brilliant, absolutely, unequivocally brilliant.

Without going in to too much detail this is the most amazingly self-aware film I've ever seen. It's unashamedly art-house but never in a patronizing pseudo-congratulatory manner. This is a film that leads you in pretense through the motions of a 3 act Hollywood-by-numbers thriller but then takes great pleasure upsetting genre conventions to disrupt the plot and take the audience straight out of the narrative with a sly wink and a vicious squeeze around your jugular. As soon as I realised my celluloid preconceptions where being toyed with, I became hyperconscious to the films structure and critical message.

There’s a key scene when, your fragile preconceptions of how western narrative should proceed are rewarded, but then immediately "rewound" taking away our relief and our catharsis. Having a look at reviews and comments I can see why people get so pissed off at this scene, because it robs them. It takes away the vicarious revenge we want from these types of films and leaves us with questions.

It's the only contemporary film where an audience really does invest time and play a particular role in, even if it is to remind them that they play no role at all.

Awesome, self-referential, thought-provoking film.

"So much stress for politeness sake" -paul

Don't you know that I could use somebody...

somebody like you.

Giggle.

Go on, I fucking dear you not to laugh.

Hahahahhahahahahhahahahahahaha!

Ahhh... the proliferation of user controlled media content.

You'd think it known that you are to trust Wikipedia as much as you'd trust Glitter to babysit your niece, apparently not.

I picked this up from the b3ta newsletter this week and just had to pop it in here for safekeeping.

Man City, fresh from their corporate whoring to the Arabian peninsular have drawn a little known Greek team in the UEFA cup named AC Omonia. As result of the fact no one knows sod-all about this little Feta cheese eating outfit B3tard "Godspants" popped on to Wikipedia and added on this little factoid:

"A small but loyal group of fans are lovingly called "The Zany Ones" - they like to wear hats made from discarded shoes and have a song about a little potato."

Now, that's pretty funny, definitely not as funny as what Mirror writer David Anderson did with said factoid.

http://www.mirror.co.uk/sport/football/2008/09/18/new-look-manchester-city-side-begin-their-uefa-cup-campaign-in-earnest-115875-20741334/

Now that is some infinitely funny shit, let me quote:

"Despite City's raised profile, they must make do with the UEFA Cup this season and Hughes will not tolerate any slip-ups against the Cypriot side, whose fans are known as the 'Zany Ones' and wear hats made from shoes."

What? Nothing about the little potato song?

Something tells me "Mr David Anderson: Lazy Arsed Hack" will be going back to proof reading horoscopes.

Right.

I took a neuropsychiatric test and realized that I don't have a mental illness after all.

I have five.

Ciao!

Aye, So I've just returned from a two week jolly to Italy, a land supposedly full of football crazies, Joe Pesci lookalikes and characters that will tuck you into bed with a horses head should you refuse their particularly attractive offers.

So I've done all the long haul travelling malarky, cheated death in numerous far flung countries and have amassed a suitably large number of kerazy stories that can be exaggerated to death without substantiation, since the countries concerned are so random that no one really gives a shit. Early this year I got thinking that I've not really experience Europe too much, I'm not talking waking up with a muscular transvestite in a Benidorm hostel, neither am I talking about going with "The Lads," to Ibiza and drinking Beer till the music becomes cool and I become attractive. I'm talking about capitals that are so important in the chronicles of human ancestry that without their development life would be completely inconceivable, and as far as I'm concerned right on the top rung of this ladder of antiquity is Italy.

Romans eh, arguably a one of history's most triumphant people, and simultaneously one of the most nefarious. Slavery, religious persecution, corruption and buggery, they stampeded through history like Barrymore at Wet&Wild leaving an indelible print that would echo in epochs far into the future.

Christ, anyways I absolutely loved it, the men, when they weren't trying to have sex with my girlfriend where a friendly lot who loved a good laugh and a good drink. The food was fantastic, the weather is incredible and the country is generally very, very clean. The Italians seem incredibly proud of their country, not only that, of their history. Instead of following the usual capitalist progression rule of thumb that is "knock it down and build it better" they go out their way to have their history resplendent for all to see, and what a history that is.

I took about 400 photos and would have happily taken 400 more, from the Ponte Vecchio and Duomo in Florence to the Colosseum and the Vatican I had a permanently etched smile on my mug. The highlight for me was between the amazing tranquility of Lake Garda which, far from being forced felt beyond picture perfect, and the biggest church in Christendom, St Paul's. You can probably tell from other articles on here that I'm not religions greatest fan but even Satan himself would find it impossible not to be in awe of human artistry on it's grandest scale. 2000 years of human history, 2 centuries of tears, death, hope and love practically exudes from the marbel-work of the most auspicious building I have ever seen, and I've been Celtic Park.

Anyways here's a few of my favorite pics taken from my own Italian Job.

Ave that David Bailley ya snap happy bastard! This is Lake Garda, from high up, of course.

Another wicked photo of the Lake.

A fantastic picture of the Colosseum.

A picture of St Paul's. Amen.

Ummm, yeah. Normal service is resumed.

CLASSics: Deliverance.

Deliverance... the thin line between "civilization" and barbarism. It's about man versus nature, it's about survival, it's about self-preservation and it's about how we deal with traumatic events.

It's the age old story of men meet nature, nature bums men, men meet hillbillies, hillbillies bum men, men kill hillbillies, men hide in nature, nature kills bummed man.

Class:


Not Class:

Rec Turned Me Into a Wreck.

You know that bit in the Blair Witch Project? No, not the bit when the chick is crying and her nose is running like a squid sliding down a spiral staircase. The scene close to the end when the same snotty nose girl is hysterically running through the abandoned house and suddenly, for a split second, we see one of the other main characters silently standing facing into the corner of the room. As overhyped as the film was it's still one of my favourite "what the fuck was that!?" movie moments ever.

Well I've just finished watching one of my most anticipated films of the year "REC." This Spanish film is one of the recent dose of Shaky-Cam films that have been saturating cinemas of late. Though unlike its celluloid sister "Diary of the Dead" here we have a film that stays with you long after the last Spaniard has gurgled their final pint of the crimson stuff.

Being that entire film is utilised through the already tired POV technique, I kinda feel like I have to preface this entire comment with the statement that I hate this pseudo-artistic handy cam style that everyone seems to think brings realism to a story, when in reality is nothing more than a method of saving production costs. That being said, REC is an exceptional addition to this style. The tension of the story is built around people acting like people in an incomprehensible (to the characters) situation. A group of tenants and a few civil servants are trapped in a building by the Spanish Health Department without an explanation. Cue the zombies.

I love zombie films, there's something beautifully simplistic about the necessity to destroy your friends brain before he or she eats your head. As much as I adore them the problem I find with Zombie films is the lack of scares, most rely on the overpowering sense of dread that comes from a population sized army of corpses bearing down on you at the speed of a cow on Benalin. This is a problem that REC lacks and brings me nicely back to the last scene I described in Blair Witch. Thankfully our Spanish friends understand the menace a cinematic quick-cut suggestion can have on a subconscious mind racing to catch up with a horrific set piece. Toward the end of this mercifully short monstrous barrage there's a beautiful silhouetted scare just before the big "night vision" reveal, that had me reaching for the rewind button. It's so simply implied that it barely registers, but makes enough of a impression on your mind that you know something is terribly wrong, and this is so much more stirring than many of the in-your-face gore scares prevalent in today’s "torture porn".

Against my better judgement I've managed to find the scene in question, do your senses a favour and grab a copy of the movie, especially before the horribly turgid American remake is released.

R.I.P everything.

So that's Russia and the U.S at each others throats.

You'll get decent odds for it all kicking off round about 2012.

Bloody Mayans.

I Heart Music.

Me? I love music as much as Barrymore loves aqua bummery.

"So what kind of music do you like?"

It's a difficult one eh? I think most people find they don't have a definitive answer when it comes to their musical preference, sometimes when you look past all the trendsetting contrivances there's some obscure corner of your brain that just thinks, "yeah, that's cool." Of course there'll be a small assemblage of bands with a homogenous sound that will probably dictate a person’s taste, but as sure as Winehouse smells like fermented Giraffe piss, there'll be a copy of Michael Bolton's "Can I Touch You There" hidden away on a veiled Ipod playlist.

I'm an Eclecticist and a proud one at that. Like a drunken one legged clown in a minefield of musical ambiguity my sub consciousness hops around, every so often getting a limb blown off by an audio explosion. My Ipod content stands as a proud (and sometimes embarrassing) monument to 6 years of indiscriminate music accumulation and copyright rape.

A good indication of what really makes my sonic receptors glow is the music made by my favourite band, Bloc Party. I absolutely love their sound and apparent lack of direction they show with every new album. Like Glitter collecting his PC I always approach music from a familiar band with trepidation, but they've never disappointed yet and I'm definitely in their gang.

The last new material they brought out was a tune called "Flux" and was released as an EP. On the first listen I was in love and after 3 months of continuous play it had wrestled its way into my personal top 10. Flux cascaded with the usual tight guitars, insistent beats and looping vocals that Bloc Party have in abundance, what was new was an electronic manipulation only hinted at in their previous work, something which many mistook for overproduction. Imagine Megatron sexually abusing a synthesiser with Optimus Prime and the Autobots on vocals, all assembled into something tighter than Stephen Hawking’s sphincter... you ain't close.

So today I received a message from a friend telling me that Kele & Co are rush releasing their third album this Thursday the 21st of August. I sat in work really, really excited, and I asked myself, how can seemingly random waves made by air molecules vibrating lure a complete cornucopia of emotions from the human psyche?

At the end of the day I don't give a toss, I heart the infinite variety of melodic stimulation, I heart the random vibrations of air molecules, I heart music.

Looky Looky Likey Likey.

I'm back.

Yup, I’ve returned from my former country and new head of operations that is "Glasgae".

I planned to pen a little bit of what my thoughts were on this city that is simultaneously fucking scary and pretty cool. Today though I plan to get drunk and slide tackle a Swan, so here as an update are some lookalikes.

I watched "In Bruges" last night. Absolutely brilliant film and possibly one of the best I've seen this year. Half way through the excellent Colin Farrell karate chops a racist dwarf in the neck. The reason I loved this was as soon as the poor little blighter landed on his compact sturdy little arse, I realised that I also wanted to karate chop a midget.

I love midgets; seriously they are absolutely fucking brilliant. Now I know this might sound slightly patronising and my "love" for these little people may seem like some sort of derogative view of what at its base roots is a medical condition, but in all honesty, they give me joy. Everytime I see one, my internal organs all start hugging each other and my brain turns into some kind of mushy happy glee yoghurt. I have some kind of unconscious need to grab one and squeeze him until he tells me how he gets money from the ATM. I yearn to have a dwarf buddy, I'd invite him to stay over and in the morning I'd sit at his bed quietly waiting for him to wake so I could wipe the sleep from his eyes and give him a collie bucky into the kitchen where a tiny cup of coffee is waiting for him... Decaf of course, as I wouldn’t want his tiny junked up little frame sliding from room to room as he desperately tried to lick all the wool jumpers we have. We'd talk about sport and the current issues affecting the verticly retarded demographic, and after we'd all go to the park to meet his tiny posse where like Gandalf, I would lead them on a merry adventure to the local H&M.

Anyway, the little Dwarf dude from the film looks uncannily like a tiny version of housewife’s favourite "Maaaatt Daaaamon".









Now everyones favourite Albino is still in the big brother and I know I kinda pick on him but to be honest if you're daft enough to go on a reality TV show your fair game for anyone. Well again Bec thought so and she called me to tell me he looked like a Weresheep from the Kiwi film "Black Sheep".












Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Bloc Party: A Weekend in the City.

Evening.

I've been away for the last week or so in Glasgow and I'm flying back out there tomorrow for another week. I did promise myself when I started this blog that I was gonna give it regular input or not at all. Therefore before I sit down and write a little exposé on the joys of Glasgow, here's another album review I wrote a while back.

It's early 2005, and I'm watching Keraang. Sitting through a brutal assault of rip-off British faux-Emo music and rock pretension. That all changed when Bloc Party's unapologetic sex anthem "Banquet" thrust it’s way into my consciousness with its unashamedly melodic chorus that dared you not to take notice.

And with that I bought "Silent Alarm" an album that was so under the radar, that not even the most optimistic music insider would have predicted it as a critical and commercial success. Yet it was, and still is, a benchmark of Original British Punk Nuveau (tm). Unlike anything ever heard, the album violated your expectant senses with an eclectic, archaic, varied yet strangely familiar set. From the haunting "Compliments," to the anthemic "Modern Love" it was the soundtrack to my generation and quite honestly unpigeonholable (tm).

Now, whether it be the bitter disappointment in the commercial anticipation of the Killer's "Sam's Town," or the bands legendary reticent attitude towards the media, their album has approached the stage with minimal interest. And does their scarcity of commercial posturing indicate an album without confidence? Quite the opposite, I believe that here we have a band so at the peak of their ability, so convinced of their music’s relevance that their shy almost taciturn approach to self promotion belies a dauntless belief in themselves. Many people hated Bloc Party on the merit of Kele’s sententious and abrupt disposition. An indication of a society in which the quality of bands music is measured by the listener’s ability to idolize, and live the Rock Star life by proxy.

But what of the music…?

My main critique of Sam's Town was that Flower and Co used everything at their disposal to make their sound different, yet Kele and Co have spent 2 years writing music that sounds identical to their first offering. Lack of originality can't be said when a bands sound is so incomparable to any other music that listeners have difficulty comprehending its genius. Again there is a mixture of atmospheric, anthemic and communicative music that makes their lyrical eccentricity a joy to listen to. This time they have a theme of city life running through the album, linking songs which are musically eclectic into clear social comment. From their first single "The Prayer," an ode to basically getting drunk and trying to pull, to the beautiful "Sunday," a lazy story of waking up hung-over, the album never loses focus.

If they keep up this high standard of original lyrical and current music, whilst retaining their reticent attitude toward media whoring, they could well be the new Jam.

Last year I waited 10 months to be disenchanted by The Killer's. This year I was waiting for nothing... long live Kele and Co's indifference to popular opinion

Football: The Real Showbusiness.

Like every Scottish schoolboy mine was a dream of footballing glory, not a dream of customised Bentleys inlaid with my shirt number, not a dream of pneumatic chested blonde skanks with a penchant for kiss and tell tabloid tales and not a dream of late night celebrity endorsed premier appearances with my haircut of the week. My dream like the love of my team was pure, it was to put on the Hoops and play for my boyhood heroes, but as with all childhood fantasies it was trampled by the marching inevitability of reality.

Like the majority of fans, I live the highs and lows of the Rolex wearing, Ferrari driving football star by proxy as a fan. Nothing compares with the sheer sense of pride felt standing with your fellow fans cheering for the greater cause of your team. The fact we invest so much time and money in my team gives us a deserved sense of ownership of our team and makes us take great stock in any current affairs even if they are involved in the layman’s minefield of club financial dealings.

It’s with this in mind that I’ve been thinking of the chasm that exists between the EPL and SPL. This omnipresent gap is a constant source of amusement for my southern brothers but never before has it been so wide. Celtic are one of the most illustrious clubs in football history. The first non-Latin club to lift the European Cup, we are one of the top 5 supported teams on the face of the planet, yet this year Portsmouth, a team who only recently lifted the FA cup (their second major Wembley final since 1939) have spent considerably more than us in the existing transfer window. No disrespect to them but it seems that teams outside the “Big 4” are having to spend a disproportionately huge amount of cash to justify their existence in EPL. Portsmouth recently paid in excess of £10 million for Peter Crouch, certainly not a world class player, what this does is push up the prices of “average” talents to astronomical levels. The sad reality of trading in this vastly inflated market is that the only target the likes of Portsmouth can really aspire to is a UEFA cup run, and the prize money, even if they were to win such a tournament would fall far below the amount they are spending just to qualify.

Another fantastic example of this is the newly completed transfer of David Bentley to Spurs for a £17m fee. Bent has struggled to maintain his place in the English national side and, although a fantastic young English prospect is hardly setting the world of football alite. This year Spurs were knocked out of the UEFA cup by Eindhoven in their bid to reach the Quarter Finals. Although it pains me compare this to Rangers, a team who made it to the final of the same competition, and a team who so far have spent under £5m total in the current window.

Celtic, a team who have twice in the last two years reached the knock-out stages of the Champions League are consistently finding themselves outbid by lower yield English clubs. As a result of this greater reliance is being put on the Scottish youth structure and as a by-product we are now seeing a proliferation of young Scottish talent, creating a national side once again capable of competing in world football. Of course this is a pleasant side effect of self sufficiency, but in club football you cannot have sole reliance on youth academies without having significant funds to bolster your squad with experienced European talent. Barcelona are a fantastic example of the perfection of this scheme.

Now the greater the chokehold the “Big 4” have on the Champions League, this gap can only widen leaving the remaining clubs in the EPL no opportunity to reply not with results but financially. This monopoly is ruining the potential of the world greatest league. But what to do when transfer fees and player’s wages affect every aspect of the game right down to the corporate advertisement on the front of a fan’s season ticket. A possible solution, and one that would site mass agreement among fans, would be a cap put on both player fees and wages. How can a team justify the payment of £30m transfer fee, and £120’000 a week for playing a game. It’s a disgrace with such poverty evident in today’s world that such money can be thrown at something so ultimately superficial as competitive sport.

If such a cap was ever introduced it could only have a positive effect on the game, as it would prove who is loyal to the club, and not the pound. A perfect example of this would be if today’s “superstar slave” Christiano Ronaldo was at the top end of the wage cap (which he no doubt would be) and going to Real Madrid meant he would earn the same amount, would he show the same 'desire' to join them? In turn English clubs would need more emphasis on youth development as it wouldn’t be as easy to plunder clubs for their prized assets, and in time smaller clubs would be able to compete and develop at a higher level also.

Of course like most salaries in society the amount paid in relation to work is based up on yield efficiency. A sportsman such as Ronaldo can entertain a huge audience meaning huge productivity (especially with today’s TV coverage). A talent such as Ronaldo’s is so rare that of course he should be rewarded for satisfying a market demand of millions. But his is gift and subsequent greed really worth his touted fee of £70m? Compare that to Glasgow Rangers total market worth at approximately £95m.

In practice wage capping is ultimately very difficult to control as a player’s salary can be subsidised with bonuses and would become incentivised. Although there are ways around this with a no tolerance approach based on the US NHL blueprint it could work in reality. Of course though, with a wage cap this would make the EPL seem far less attractive to foreign players and be disastrous to the EPL’s distinction of World’s greatest football league.

Whatever the case English Football has reached critical mass and the sooner this self indulgent bubble bursts the quicker we can reclaim our beautiful game.

What. The. Fuck.

This would have been a lot less disturbing without the St Patricks Day Irish Jig music in the background.

The End is the Beginning is the End.

Enough of this introspective crap.

If, like me, you love your films, you might have noticed the trailer kicking about for the Zach Snyder directed Watchmen.



Zach directed the brilliant "Dawn of the Dead," remake, (seriously... running fucking zombies), and the love poem to the male physique that was "300." Both are class films that employed a unique visual style and narrative flair, that showed there was great things to come from this relatively young director.

Watchmen is an adaption of the titular graphic novel, one that I've not read but which is routinely described as "the greatest ever." The synopsis is an original take on Superhero cannon in that they are now an intrinsic part of everyday society, the fantastic twist is that the protagonists are not embowed with superpowers as such, (kinda like Fathers 4 Justice I suppose).

What really grabbed my attention with this trailer, (apart from the overuse of slow motion), is the fantastic use of the Smashing Pumpkins tune "The Beginning is the End is the Beginning." This was actually written for "Batman & Robin" the cinematic equivalent of a kick in the balls. It's ironic that from such a celluloid disaster should come such an EPIC piece of music. Not only does this song seems to fit this trailer perfectly but i think it actually carries it and gives it much more of an impact.

This song needs to be heard, give yourself an audio orgasm here.

The Beginning is the End is the Beginning.

So I've been sitting on my arse now for 9 days and the glory of paid procrastination is wearing thin.

What's funny is that I'm nearing my first anniversary of moving down to London and I'm again about to start a new job. Changing job when arriving in London was a necessity, this change is more an opportunity, the first real chance of forwarding my CV rather than using past job titles to maintain employment.

When I say an opportunity I mean it, having worked my rear end of since moving down I was awarded an educational to South Africa with a large well known travel company. While I was there I got talking to one of the Sales Executives and conversation turned towards the fact that being an expert at loud, confident bullshitting I'd be perfect for the role. It was a light conversation with no intent, I certainly wasn't sounding out any potential vacancies, I was just, y'know, shooting the breeze. Anyway when I got back said Sales exec gave me a call and asked me if I was interested in the job, I wold have been stupid not to say yes, especially as I promised my first job in London was always going to be a stepping stone.

So here I am, on the cusp of starting my second job in one year, albeit a job with much more responsibility and potential, one that should open up previously closed doors.

Vive La London eh?

It's a Kind of Magic...

Evening.

Just about to watch my beloved Celtic take on the might of Cardiff City in some nondescript pre-season cup and I've just clocked a look at Dougie Donnelly.

Now if you're English you probably won't know much about this physical embodiment of Serotonin, but all my Scottish compatriots will be well versed in his Troll like charms and gentlemanly taste in tweed tailoring.

I grew up listening to this man talk shite on Scotsport in a time when pundits were unashamedly biased alcoholics, and not a bunch of former footballers. Pundits, like a footballing version of Beadles dwarf hand, they hide their athletic inadequacy behind statistics and groin height wood-chip tables. Good old Dougie wasn't even a pundit as such, he just used to fill in space between the real pundits, filler, that's all he was good for.

Anyways, he gives me the creeps, he's got hair like dry Supernoodles and looks like he's gonna finger me at any given moment. Add to that the whole time I've been watching football, my entire 28 year life, he's been on the telly winking at me like a gypsy who knows when I'm going to die. I swear to God the fuckers immortal, hasn't aged a bloody day! Still, hard to age when you look like a bean bag with wire wool for hair.

Look at him... mocking me with his noodlyness.

I just don't like him.

Woe Is Me...

So I was offered a new job, and handed my notice into my old work.

My new job wanted me to start on the 4th August and My last day with my present work was the 8th August. I had some days holiday left thus my last day in the office was gonna be the 30th July.

Had a wee bit of a disagreement with my work over the weekend and thus I'll now be working my notice from home... yup just like Jack from Fight Club.

Nice work you might think, not really... I'm bored shitless.

I've got nearly 500 DVDs, an Xbox 360, a Laptop, (obviously), a shiny new mountain bike and a countless other time devouring amenities.

It's a bit sad that I'm so used to being a corporate slag that I've no imagination when it comes to dealing with my own spare time.

Still I did just get paid for watching Creep.

Arcade Fire: Neon Bible.

Right, here's a review I wrote for Arcade Fire's new(ish) album while I try to think off something to write. I've handed in my notice at work and it's difficult trying to think straight without breaking things.

Sometimes a band comes along who changes your outlook on music and makes you appreciate sound in a way you never thought possible. Arcade Fire is this band.

After mistakenly hearing Neighbourhood #1, I immediately secured myself a copy of Funeral. Before I knew it I was dancing along with instruments I’d never heard of, and singing along with lyrics I never understood. Like a cross between David Bowie and a drunken School band, they made me love music I, again, never even knew I liked.

It quickly became apparent that here we had a group of unhinged geniuses teetering on the precipice of musical ambiguity. Like some multi-instrumentalist Blofeld with a demented plan of world domination, they came hard, and they came fast.

With unapologetic bravado, they bashed critics over the head with an antique organ and rightfully gained plaudits for their majestic, grandiose and intimidating first album.

Now, with their sophomore album, Neon Bible, Arcade Fire tackle the thematic idea of religion in the same way Funeral took on the nostalgic tendencies of Life and Death. And, in much the same way, they have produced a coherent, cohesive work of absolute brilliance.

Moving from track to track, the album seems like one idiosyncratic piece of work rather than a loose assemblage of fragmented musings. At times, the multifarious assortment of instruments can make many of the tracks seem a little over-produced, but with a large band comes huge artistic input – and maybe this is to be expected but bearing this in mind, never does it become tired or clichéd.

The songs are consistently fresh and the experience visceral. When listened to whilst driving a Cadillac through the American Bible Belt at sunrise, or during a tired winter evening on your couch, the visionary ambition of this album cannot be denied.

Here’s to musical eccentricity. Here’s to Arcade Fire.

Why People Don't Walk Cats.

Kinda makes sense.

Relgion: If you know there's no answer to a question... why ask?

“The essence of Christianity is told to us in the Garden of Eden history. The fruit that was forbidden was on the Tree of Knowledge. The subtext is, all the suffering you have is because you wanted to find out what was going on. You could be in the Garden of Eden if you had just kept your fucking mouth shut and hadn't asked any questions.”
- Frank Zappa

My views on Religion are contradictory, almost hypocritical. I understand that the existence of religion even in today’s society is a necessity. Religion forms a strong moral foundation, conducive to the construction of a civilized and balanced society. Without a clear ethical compass to moderate human behaviour, civilisation has a tendency to decay into moralistic ambiguity.

I personally believe Religion is merely a self-defence/coping mechanism for sentient beings. When an entity becomes self aware the art of questioning as a form of self discovery takes over. And what are the biggest moral quandaries?

What is the meaning of life, why are we here and is there life after death…?

All incredibly profound, and ultimately unanswerable. The problem with this is that the human psyche is not able to deal with the possibility that all not all questions beginning with a “why” can be answered.

In addition to this, us as self-aware beings, (and most other creatures, bar Lemmings), have a strong instinct of self-preservation, as the only organism on earth that is aware of their own mortality, the notion of the afterlife is something that helps us better understand the inevitability of our own death.

Religion unfortunately is too infinitely complex for me to have a definitive belief. Most people who don’t assign themselves to a particular religious demographic tend to refer to themselves as atheists. For me this isn’t possible, I do believe in a God as such, but I certainly don’t belong to the dogmatic view of an all encompassing cloud hermit making kittens and Platypi, whilst dealing out life affirming information to people in their bedrooms. On the contrary, I believe that the physicality of our creator could be so abstract, so ridiculously fantastic that our self-important minds would never be able to understand it. Personally I find the ideology of an omnipotent force comforting, like an all knowing fatherly figure scrutinising my foibles.

I read once that, “atheism” started life as a pejorative description applied to anyone who seemed to be in conflict with the established idea of religion. It’s ironic now that this a term seized by anyone wanting disparity from religious canon. In the same way that this term is banded about religion is now used merely as an excuse, a placebo for a conscience in less rational people.

Now don’t get me wrong, I’d love to believe that when I leave this mortal coil St Peter will welcome me with open arms. After shooting the breeze with Jesus, I’d have a drunken game of twister with Jimmy Hendrix, George Best and my Nana. The fact is that the more time I spend in this curious existence the less it makes sense. I was born into the Catholic fold, I knew my prayers, knew the order of the Universe and thought that I had it all figured out. Then as I matured, I found that I may have known the universe, but the Universe certainly didn't know me, and I began to feel alone. As a remedy for my insecurity I decided that I didn't want to believe, ignoring my fragile faith was easier than asking questions.

So where am I now, well I wish there was a God, but there's just to much unselective pain in this world. Any existence of a creator immediately casts a paradox over the human notion of responsibility. If God created us in his image then why are we to live this infinite soap opera of philosophical turmoil, wouldn’t the world be a better place if everyone knew what the hell was going on?

For most people existence can either be a decreed cause of events, contrivances and predestined conveniences, or just plain unbridled chaos. For me justification does not lie in religion but in experience.

I hope I'm right, or I'm in a lot of trouble.

Transform-A-Snack (or TAS to its friends)

"Transform-A-Snack is one of the UK's best selling ranges of 20p snacks . Choose from our amazing TAS flavours - all available at 20p : Spicy, Pickled Onion, Cheese & Onion, Saucy BBQ & Beef. There is also a Spicy flavour 6x20g Multipack - great for Spicy lovers!"

Or so Redmill would have you believe.

To be honest they're like the James Bond movies of the snackworld, completely shite but I love them all the same.

Anyway I was eating some today, trying not to make a delicious corn vehicle out of the seperate spicy components, when I noticed the comic strip on the back of the packet.

I quote:

"All is not well at the Transform-A-Snack factory.

"Captain Crunch? Come quickly. There's an intruder in the factory! I think it's the Baron..."

KA-BLAM!

In bursts the ghastly Baron Von Scoffalot.

"I've come for the secret recipe! And Captain Crunch can't stop me! Yak, yak, yak!"

Can Captain Crunch stop this villain? Will our hero save the day? Find out at www.transformas.co.uk now."

So yeah, Baron Von Scoffalot is a fat wanker who keeps trying to steal a secret recipe for some crisps.

Smart.

An Artistic Interpretation...

...of me being a prick.

Go to Limmy.com for the shorter, (and better), original.

Mondays Magic Lookalikes...

And here we are again, Mondays are never complete without me writing to myself in my readerless blog. Writing about something that, had I a huge mailing list, no-one would give a damn about anyway.

Still cynicism aside, this week we're a wee bit closer to home.

My life-friend Bazza told me last week that I look like Gok. That’s right, Gok the androgynous fashion messiah. A man with the skin tone of a embalmed corpse and the emotional detachment to match.

I'm well aware he makes women who resemble the contents of a washing basket feel good about themselves, and that’s all great. Whenever I've watched it though, I've always had this feeling in my stomach, that he's using women’s insecurities to push this fallacious caricature of himself down the throats of the viewing public.

Christ where am I going with this... fuck it, does he look like me or not?







Great ain't it, one of my best mates thinks I look like a pre-op transvestite. If that wasn't enough of a punch in the gut he told me I walk like him too. I flounce about like a I've got a broken bumhole... great.

Well Bazza, this ones for you.






Meeow ya bastard!

Seth Gecko....

One of the greatest cinema characters in history...

Carlos: So, what, were they psychos, or...

Seth: Did they look like psychos? Is that what they looked like? They were vampires. Psychos do not explode when sunlight hits them, I don't give a fuck how crazy they are!

Genius.

Whats the "Fascination?"

This is one of the first years that I’m not gonna be able to go T in the Park.

Sitting here, in work, avoiding eye-contact with customers, I was listening to Radio 1 coverage of what is surely now one of the biggest UK Festivals. Although the line up wasn't the best Balado had seen, I was genuinely starting to feel a little forlorn that I wasn't in a field getting drunk with my countrymen.

Well, I was until I heard that Alphabeat where there.

Alphabeat, seriously... what the fuck!?

Bunch of foetus-looking Danish pop monkeys!

Got Milk?

My neighbour is a mystery. He's an old fella - must be in his 90s but seems friendly enough.

Every day for years, he has always had just one bottle of milk delivered. Then, just the other day, there was two bottles stood outside his house. Nothing strange there but, the day after...three. Then four the day after that and then five.

This morning, as I passed his house there was 8 or 9 bottles stood on his step. I've no idea what he's up to, but I haven't seen him since he developed this intense thirst for milk.

I don't think it's doing him much good either - there's a terrible smell coming from his house.

Is it a Bird... is it a Plane...

Y'know I was reading an article over at Limmy's blog on Fathers 4 Justice today. Everyone's seen their shameless self-exploitation on the news, tying themselves to public buildings like retarded dominatrix's in ill fitting superhero costumes, brazenly seeking media attention for their pseudo-quest. Quite honestly they've gotta be the worst campaign group I've ever heard off.

Anyways, it got me thinking... what if Superheroes were real?

If we woke up tomorrow in a world were men in leotards were regarded as saviours and special constables could fly instead of walking around looking confused, I doubt there would be a collective celebration of their arrival. I reckon they would be viewed with the same suspicious eyes that Trainspotting anoraks are today. People everywhere would be asking... "Is the Hulk a Paedo!?"

With our nations oversensitive approach to sexual harassment these freaks would most likely spend half their time in court defending their novel, hands-on approach to law enforcement:

SPIDERMAN IN BREAST TOUCH SHOCKER
"Before I knew it my chest was covered in his wrist butter."

Again for all the benefits that come from having your entire genome spliced with a Wildebeest there's gotta be some drawbacks right? Does Spiderman ever get stuck in the bath, does Batman ever get caught in someone’s Barnet and has Wolverine ever ended up in A&E after having a drunken wank?

Imagine the incredible... the amazing... Dogman! The ability to smell criminals from miles away with his astounding superscent, then chase them down with his prodigious canine-stamina. To be honest, he's more likely to sniff your arse, then do a shite in your slippers.

And while I'm at it, for all the lucky bastards that get bitten by cool animals such as spiders and lizards there'll always be someone that gets bitten by Badger, or a cat with AIDS. "Look everybody it’s Salmonboy, with the ability to save people from drowning... well only if they're upstream, and the power to taste nice... smoked." I'm sure for all the people bombarded with Gamma rays that turn into a giant green monster, there'll be a few people whose only side effect is, well, Cancer.

Fuck it, maybe it would be brilliant, maybe the costumes wouldn't look gay as Christmas. I'll tell you though, if I was ever able to incorporate a superhero archetype into my life. If I was ever given the choice to be "Special," you know what I'd be?

The Invisible Man.

Yup, I'd be a super pervert.

Ma Cats Pure Dead Mental Ken!

Hink Yer Hard? Emmmm...... Naw!

Mondays Magic Look-Alikes.

Yes that's right, another readerless feature.

It's a funny thing the human face, everyone's got one, some people have two. Being a race that distinguish familiar people based purely upon recognisable facial characteristics I always find the concept of "lookalikes" hilarious.

From all the limitless possibilities of facial combinations it's unlikely that we'll ever find two people identical, (unless of course they're twins, or erm clones). Couple that with the individuality of personality it's just never really going to happen. Good thing too as we'd never be able to laugh at the hapless "lookalikes" found here. Most of them seem either completely bemused, or a disabled version of the person they are supposed to imitate.

So much comedy potential it's untrue...

The Lord Lucan that's not lucan himself.
The out of work Gary Glitter impersonator waiting for the bookings to come back in.
The nipples out audacity of Charley Dimock.
And lastly the brilliant David Seaman impersonated by the incredible Stephan Dicks, (seriously).

Anyways bollocks to the above, here's some of my own.

FEDENTINO.








Both have really big faces and a love of squinting.

DARNELL.







Now no, this isn't racist, this is Darnell beside an Albino Gorilla, both have gigantic gummy smiles and both are devoid of skin pigmentation. And no, I'm not having a go at albino's, I have loads of albino friends.

EWOK.








Staying with the Big Brother theme it's a lookalike straight from the imagination of George "Pelican" Lucas.

THEY TRIED TO MAKE ME GO TO REHAB BUT I SAID, NEIGH, NEIGH, NEIGH.








One's a flea infested, long faced hee-hawing nag, the others a horse.... pah.

I'm spent... any other suggestions, keep em to yourself.

I'm Gonna Get Stabbed.

Strolling along the information pavements this morning I came across this

Now you’d have to have been working as Mugabe’s PR Manager not to have been swept up in the current media obsession with knife culture. Not a day goes by without some kid dying from burst organs in a London hospital and the inevitable public backlash, and appeal for change. There’ll be a cynical knife amnesty followed by a protracted, reactionary statement from the judiciary system on the increased penalties for such behaviour. Didactic government rhetoric will add to the frenzy and before you know it anyone in the rough proximity of a “yoof” starts sweating like a dyslexic on countdown.

I’ve been stabbed; it sucked and not surprisingly, hurt like a bastard.

The Burberry clad disease that attacked me did so with a steak knife, and barring the mass introduction of chopsticks, knife amnesties are never going to work.

Excuses for this problem are banded about like allegations at a John Leslie pyjama party, and most of them are just redundant rationalization. A major reason being championed at the moment is that fact that alcohol is readily available to anyone who wants it. As far as I’m concerned this one just doesn’t wash. One of the Western World’s largest drinking cultures, Australia, has knife attack figures far below that of the social decline evident in British cities. Is it then a by-product of our pseudo-liberal culture that lack of respect has created a moral vacuum, which our disaffected youth is filling with their own paradigm of social responsibility?

Respect is certainly an important factor. The youth of today are riding high on a wave of apathy, where authorities committed to multiculturalism are undermining an entire generation of endemic Brits, robbing them of culture and leaving them with no role in modern society. It’s fortunate that today we have no great war, but it is precisely these major events that bind a country together and give a nation a sense of purpose, against the greater good, so to speak.

Again there’s the possibility that our country has always been this way, and it’s the modern day evolution of media saturation that sensationalises a prevalent problem. My history is sketchy but wasn’t there a mass stabbing at Bannockburn a few years back? And was the “gun culture” of D-Day symptomatic of that generation’s alcoholism?

A cynic by nature I don’t think there’s an answer to this current stigma unless considerable changes are made to this country’s grass roots. Compulsory National Service, Capital Punishment as a deterrent and the greater education in the dangers of knife carrying have all been sited as possible solutions. In my opinion, apart from employing a Battle Royale like situation, where gangs of Chavs are carted off to an isolated location to take part in a survivalist fight to the death purely for our Big Brother-esque viewing entertainment, I don’t think this problem will ever be truly eradicated.

Much like the “Gangsta Rap,” music that the UK gun culture is derived from and contributes to, knife violence unfortunately, is here to stay.

I'm gonna kick off like the world cup.

There's only a few things that aggravate me in life, bad music, people without manners and the insistence that "blood is thicker than water."

Well you can add the current Big Brother to that list, bunch of self effacing, ostentatious, bullying cunts, well apart from Rachel, Kat and Rex.

And another thing the Darnell/Ron Pearlman dude, why does he always look like he's dribbling an invisible basketball.

Brilliant telly though.

Mentis Infirmus.

I was asked to pen a blog for the TTG, (travel trade paper), thus here, for your amusement are my neurotic ramblings...

Once they were Educationals, now they’re Fam Trips…

I’ve always found it ironic that in an industry that’s known for its tendency for unpredictable change, that the staple accolade of the overworked agent remains an expected “bonus” of our profession. Everyone’s had a customer wink wryly at and glibly comment that, “you must get tons of free holidays.” Far from seeming ungrateful I’d hardly imagine most customers would enjoy being taken on the tour of a hotels laundry room at 9am. Like most things in life our education comes at a price, and the old cliché rings true… there’s no free lunch.

With this in mind I was lucky enough to be invited to explore South Africa courtesy of Travel 2/4. Having not visited this country that’s had such a huge effect on how the world views racial equality I grabbed this opportunity with both grubby hands. What would I be doing… Who would I meet… whose corporate card would I be entertaining and which companies brochures would be destroying my return luggage allowance…? These important questions filled my head.

The outward flight was the usual collection of attempted ice braking and conversation of what to expect. As the flight wore on the boredom set in thus I decide to faint, which came as a surprise to everyone on the flight including myself. As I came to in the galley surrounded by concerned cabin crew I came to the realization that already this trip was full of new experiences, although that may have been the Oxygen talking.

I find that one of the great things about Fam Trips is that the vast majority of us are immediately flung together with a group of people whose only common thread is a shared profession. Like a microcosm of Big Brother, alliances are made, friendships are forged and from this ether the trip can be ruined or enriched. The great thing Travel 2/4 managed with this is that they by divided the “Mega Fam,” (their name, not mine), into smaller groups of 10. This gave better emphasis on teambuilding and allowed relationships to form organically rather than the pressure that comes from choosing friends from a large group.

I digress.

Our destination was the Isandlwana Battlefields, the location of the infamous Anglo-Zulu war of the late 1800’s. If you have no idea what I’m on about I’ll put everything into context…

“Zulus, sir. Thousands of them…”

Well, 4000 of them to be precise, everyone’s seen it, and thanks to a certain Mr. Rob Gerrard I lived it.

Rob is the Isandlwana Lodge’s resident Historian. He’s the man who has the sort of military background that makes Andy McNab seem like an overweight security guard and has an authoritarian voice that would make layby stand to attention. This type of voice lends itself well if you want to convince your men to fix bayonets and run into a hail of bullets, it also helps if you need to hold the attention of 10 travel agents.

Rob takes tours daily up into the battlefields but don’t make the mistake that his is a boring lesson on disremembered history. An extraordinarily passionate man, Rob has a voice that rolls and resonates as he manhandles history into the present moment. Listening to how the Zulu army engulfed the plain like a gigantic angry duvet I could almost hear them slapping their spears against their shields and could smell the nervous sweat, most likely coming from Rob’s captive audience.

Although his knowledge on the subject was without question, Rob clearly understood the role of drama in a story. Standing there, dressed like Indiana Jones at an interview he would frequently pause after a pivotal moment. On one occasion he dramatically slowed at a climactic point and let a silence hang in the air. My group uneasily shuffled their feet careful not to meet his intense gaze. With one fist in the air he bellowed out the Zulu war cry…

“Oooh Zutu!”

As his voice galloped across the arid scenery I half expected a huge spear to thud into my chest as the Zulu’s overran our position; by the look on my colleagues faces they were going down with me. As the story wore on my heart was racing and the hairs on the back of my neck were standing on end. You can probably tell by this piece that my attention span isn’t the greatest, but Rob had me by the throat and I was investing everything in his passion. As his story reached its sad conclusion Rob finished by making an emotionally honest plea about the way in which today’s British veterans are treated, and such was his humility that many the group were tearful, (apart from myself who was still mentally fighting off the Zulu hoards).

As we all settled down in the bar for a post-battle drink I reflected on my experience. I find that most agents think of Fam Trips as a necessity of our employment. We’ve become desensitized to the freebie nature of these opportunities that we have come to demand them instead of enjoying them. Sitting there trying to make conversation with Rob’s intimidating intelligence, I realized that I was truly blessed. Here I was, in South Africa, in the middle of an adventure that I would have never been given the opportunity to experience had I not been a travel agent. As Rob impressively devoured a large Scotch I realized that this would not only prove a useful experience in the confines of my office, but would provide a fantastic memory, which would stay with me even if my chosen profession didn’t.

Thus I’d like to raise a large glass, to the Zulu’s, Rob’s and Travel 2/4’s of this world… they were once called Fams, now finally they’re Educationals again.

Like anyone's going to give a fuck...

So yeah, with this I begin my blog,

Why do I need to arrange simple collections of symbols next to each other in a complex arrangement of words to anonymously announce to the world that I, Danny, have arrived.

I don't know.

You see this is merely an experiment on my part. I've gotten bored of hoarding my thoughts on Facebook in the hope that someone looks past the collated assortment of bawbag and straightened pube photos into my article collection.

And so dear reader, journey with me into the dark, chilling and remarkably comfy recesses of my personality.

Gasp at my expletive laden text, baulk at my childish understanding of grammar and laugh as I consistently use metaphors out of context, (you see what I done there).

Boo.