Thursday, 27 May 2010

See Some Grown Men Cry


No, not them, as they are foreigners and their feelings don't count...


And neither am I talking about this guy, as I am not utterly convinced he's a grown man and he's a fictional character. What I am talking about is the footy manager legend that is José Mourinho and Italian mentalist centre-half Marco Materazzi.

For those of you that don't know, Mourinho won everything with F.C. Internazionale Milano this season and is now off to those bloody greedy, hording bastards Real Madrid, leaving behind an absolutely gutted Materazzi.

Watch the two men, share their pain and weep with them...

Wednesday, 26 May 2010

Tall, Elusive, Pig-Ignorant Dark Haired Girl Falls Hard For Deformed But Spunky Midget Man. They Embrace, It Looks Like Death, No One Was Saved. What The Deuce? (An Explosion Of A Romantic Novella, Stolen In Homo-Homage From Jake Chapman Of All People)


(What follows does so under the beneficent gaze of Jeffrey Archer...)


(Not that Jeffrey Archer you douche bag...oh never mind...)

It all began with the lover that ended up being cast off (not a euphemism for a sex act) making all sorts of amazing promises to his bride-to-be with the dark do and such was the sheer force of these magical promises that her booby-trapped anatomy belched into his arms with the violence of an overdue autopsy.

Love was surely in the air, indeed, she emitted the following outburst right down his ear canal:

"I love you with all my heart, lungs, pancreas, spleen and kidneys!" she bled, right over him and I mean all over him. He left her to it, to mull it all over and this left a window of opportunity, about the right size for a short bloke full of spunk. So pretty small then.

Afflicted as she was with faith in all matters human, not yet introduced to the cruel dildo of reality that would come crashing right into her valve of inferior vena cava and fuck it right up. This dildo took the form of a deformed midget who, bless him, was actually quite nice if not a little bit loopy.

His mastery of Meatphysics left her all at 6's and 7's, so much so she was all at sea and all of a bother and hot under the collar. This was the midget, after all, who could explain Christians to Dinosaurs, who then, often as not, ate the tedious bores and laughed in the face of their poxy Christ. And by that I mean the Dinosaurs.

"If looks could kill you'd be fucking mincemeat."

Indeed.

Moved by love and the artistic spirit wriggling inside her (again, not a euphemism for a sex act), the tall, elusive girl does a whole series of drawings. This is a selection of her series of drawings and these are drawings, not photographs and anyone who says otherwise is dead meat!


Then there is the bit in pink, the bit in pink that was proper it was.

FUCKING LOCUST! FUCKING HUMAN STAIN! FUCKING SUFFOCATOR OF THE FUCKING CREATIVE FUCKING PROCESS!

Domestic bliss however does not ensure, due to a comedy of errors and a failure to be true and honest with each other and express your feelings in an open and forthright manner. It all gets so forced, esp. when the jilted lover returns to the scene to find his now and soon to be ex-girlfriend mincing about with a midget, that jovial countenances become so distorted that painful, rictus grimaces threaten to give birth their own bloody skulls through their own widely dilated lips.

There is then a sex act...or what that earlier, I may have used a euphemism and not flagged it...oh what the hell...

Add to this the raft of pickled babies mooning down with cheerless washed-out eyes and it paints a pretty grim picture.

In-laws play dress-up, making a sexual fetish of Auschwitz.

That's a tremondously tall order for a vagina!

Fuckface echoes Chlamidya, all nonchalant and au fait.

These days it's all about navel gazing queers shambling around in the remains of the conventional novel, stories about stories about stories about stories about stories about stories about stories about stories about stories about stories.

By the end of it, she has her unborn child ripped out of her guts and stolen by the feisty midget and dies in a pool of her own mess.
("I can't believe he thieved this."

"So?"

"So?"

"All is stolen."

"That is a pretty fucking lame excuse.")


An Epilogue

The lover that was cast off, presumed dead by all and sundry, is actually the victim of a terrible series of invents which include but do not exclude: Flunitrazepam, a field in Slovakia and a midget with a wooden butt plug/hat stand.

Wake up there big man!

[Insert Vincent Price's bit from Thriller right here and now]

Tuesday, 25 May 2010

I Bought Eva-Jane a Garden


Life is very, very good at the moment.

For Eva-Jane's recent birthday I bought her a new garden, or more accurately, paid for some landscape gardeners to work their magic on our foul-smelling swamp of an outdoor space; that was infested with various nefarious creatures, waist-high weeds and a mish-mash of nasty plants being slowly destroyed by ever present bastard-ivy.

They worked wonders and we now have a very swish looking modern garden, nice and simple but very contemporary for our limited gardening skills, or in my case, a serious loathing of working in the bloody garden.

Having said that, I have spent every waking hour, when not busy with acting and auditions, building fucking garden furniture and sheds and have the war wounds to prove it.

But it is worth it, as we now have a beautiful garden to compliment our wonderful home.

Good stuff.

Add to this the continued work as Kirky for the BBC (meeting Alicia Keys and Jools Holland), as well as the prospect of recent work being (at last!) seen on the Tele and a cracking audition for a great new play (that I really hope I've got), life couldn't be much sweeter.

All I need now is for England to win the World Cup and next door's dogs to stop trying to break through our brand new fence panels (I have invested in a special device to ward off dogs, foxes, cats and squirrels that emits a distressing noise to the aforementioned beasts. My only question is, how come I can bloody hear it?) and life will be perfect.

Friday, 21 May 2010

Daft Racist Moved His Comedy Gold...AND I FOUND THEM!


Following on from yesterday's post, I have managed to track "Arrylad" down, who has now changed his moniker to Lee B'stard and moved to the Hooligan Central YouTube channel, where he can be seen spouting his horse shit.

Textbook.

Highlights of the hilariously stupid short film are, aside from the delusion that America is watching and the anti-Communist twat is wearing a T-Shirt with Cuba on it...

"Okay, never been to America, okay, only people I know from America are on the Internet, okay."

"9/11, the most horrific thing that has ever happened in this world."

"I'm Islamophobic right, if I see somebody in a burqa, I have a fit, falling on the floor convulsing."

"It's not Islamophobic to not want your children to be blown up on a bus to school, right, or beheaded on the Internet, right."

"You Americans should be fucking ashamed of yourselves."

Here is the video in all it's glory:



And you can see what Dramatic Cat thinks about that...



Have a grand weekend.

Thursday, 20 May 2010

Daft Racist Provides Inspiration For Possible Comedy Character


The bigoted twat pictured above is "Arrylad", a daft racist who, up until quite recently, had an unintentionally hilarious YouTube channel, where his expletive ridden rants against Jews, Blacks, Muslims, Marxists and Communists were available for all to see.

Unfortunately, as I blog, they have been withdrawn and the channel closed down, perhaps because he was providing so much amusement for normal folk and he got upset at this (the delusion that he speaks for some silent majority, rather than a bunch of daft racists), or for inciting racial hatred and being a hate-speech bigot, either way, it's a sad loss for satirical purposes as they had to be seen to be believed.

If you didn't catch them, the gist was, you were either with him or a nobhead. Simple as that.

The ignorant loon was an alleged spokesman for the incredibly funny English Defence League (defending England against whole heaps of stuff but mainly Muslims) and it's bastard and ever so slightly shit off-shoot, the Welsh Defence League.

I mean, nothing says patriotism like hiding your face behind a shoddy balaclava (why are this passionate racists so cowardly?), using a St. George’s flag as a tablecloth and plonking a cheap can of lager on it, right?

I briefly experimented with a character called Big Dave who was in the English Defence League and with this goon providing free material, I think it may definitely have legs.

Tuesday, 18 May 2010

Letters Home From Vietnam

"The trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised and we shall be changed...Oh, death, where is thy sting, where thy victory? If God be for us, who can be against us?"
Not too long ago I finished reading the utterly excellent "Dear America: Letters Home From Vietnam", as part of my continuing education into that particular war and the lives of the soldiers in it.

It is a collection of letters from a US military personnel that documents the war from the inside-out and it is a harrowing, powerful read that can't help but make the reader transfer his or her thoughts to those that currently serve in Iraq and Afghanistan...never mind the other brewing conflicts around the globe.

After each letter, which may be of the most mundane sort, or uplifting, or terrifyingly gripping, or just plain heartbreaking; you then discover the outcome for the author: whether KIAWIA, MIA or currently working as a deckhand on a tugboat, or a financial manager for Pacific Bell. This acts as the punctuation and I found myself, as the end of each letter approached, rushing to discover what happened to the writer, hoping that, against all the odds they made it. Often they didn't.

The worst are perhaps those written by new fathers to their new children, not yet met, opening up their hearts with love for their not yet seen children, only to discover a piece of shrapnel ended any chance of father meeting son, or daughter meeting father.

The book goes on to be riddled with passages that level you, whether it be the words of Johnny Boy...
"I want to hold my head between my hands and run screaming away from here. I cry too, not much, just when I touch the sore spots. I'm hollow, Mrs Perko. I'm a shell and when I'm scared I rattle. I', no one to tell you about your son. I can't. I'm sorry."
Or the hard-edged rhyming funnies of PFC Thomas F. Smith...
I love my flag, I do, I do
Which floats upon the breeze
I also love my arms and legs
And neck and nose and knees

One little shell might spoil them all
Or give them such a twist
They would be of no use to me
I guess I won't enlist

I love my country, yes, I do
I hope her folks do well
Without our arms and legs and things
I think we'd look like hell

Young men with faces half shot off
Are unfit to be kissed
I've read in books it spoils their looks
I guess I won't enlist
Or the POW that survived some 6 years in captivity, writing fevered letters to his wife and family and making lists of what he would do if he was ever released, to only kill himself 4 months after being set free.

Amongst all the stillborn children, breastless women, old men stumbling in the dust, soldiers looting bodies, cookies from home, burning houses to the ground, pigeon-breasted fantasies, disowned veterans and dead best friends, there is this truth:
We are your sons, America
And you cannot change that
When you awake
We will still be here  
The last word both here and in the book is given to Eleanor Wimbish, in a letter to her son, as she visits that deep, black gash into the earth that is the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial...
"Dear Bill: Today is February 13, 1984. I came to this black wall again to see and touch your name and as I do I wonder if anyone ever stops to realize that next to your name, on this black wall, is your mother's heart."

Friday, 14 May 2010

Robert Mugabe Has a New Best Friend!


As the two mentalists meet, allies in being utterly wacky and killing people who dissent, a firm handshake is shared, a handshake seemingly supervised by a Jew. Mahmoud Ahmadinejad hides his loathing of the Jew well behind a rictus smile. Mugabe grins inanely, not being too sure what a Jew is.


With the Jew still loitering in the background, soon to be shot, Mugabe and Ahmadinejad double up on the handshake, making it a virtual hand sandwich. However, smiles quickly fade as the clamminess of the anti-Semite's skin upsets the mad old African ballbag, who keeps his "claws of death" (as he named them) in tip-top shape. The alliance of lunacy is in the balance...
  

Embarrassed by his clammy palms and realising the bat-shit crazy old loon is literally slipping from his grasp, Ahmadinejad throws caution to the wind and moves in for the reach around and embraces the mentally unbalanced honky-hater. Smiles all round as Mugabe loves this kind of man on man shit and anyway, the Arab makes him feel tall.


A quick change of suits after the successful (if slightly wet) handshake and full on cuddle, leaves the two dictators in a confident and sartorially smooth mood, so much so, that the two unlikely gays hold hands and prance about an airport where Mugabe has all the whites shipped out of the country and blames everything on the British.

Thursday, 13 May 2010

John Cleese Meets Brad Pitt




On Friday morning I had a casting for a huge acting job.

On Friday evening I had a recall for the aforementioned huge acting job.

On Saturday morning I found out that I got the huge acting job.

On Sunday morning I flew out to Prague to begin work on the huge acting job.

On Wednesday evening I got back from filming the huge acting job.

This is where I've been at, so to speak.

You know, I go away on Sunday, leaving behind a Labour government and I return home to discover that, like some errant, political idiotic child; in my absence you wankers go and formulate some awful, bastard-hybrid Con-Dem alliance, which means I will never, never fucking vote Liberal Democrat again.


So this is what I come back to...

*shudder*

For now, I've had all I can stomach of this political nonsense, I'd rather dwell on the personal positives, than the bigger picture bullshit.

I can't give too much away about what I've been up to, not yet anyway but I will hazard a guess that the finished product will be pretty spectacular and I had the very real honour and privilege of working with some very talented people during this shoot; including (but not excluding) the directorial legend that is Bryan Buckley, Vladimir the steady-cam op, Sophie the Production Assistant, perhaps the best 1st AD I've ever encountered in David and Jim and Joaquin the editing team. I could go on and gush about the DOP who looked like a Beastie Boy and the visual effects captain but I would rather just bask in what was a great time and another leap forward in my career.

As for the post title, when I was shooting some brilliantly bizarre scene late on Tuesday night, the DOP and director told me they felt I was and I quote: "John Cleese meets Brad Pitt".

I'll take that any day of the week...

Friday, 7 May 2010

The Official Blurred Clarity Post-Election Analysis

I'm depressed.

At least the BNP won fuck all, the racist scumbags and if Nick Clegg does a deal with the D-Cam devil, the Liberal Democrats will be dead to me forever.

Have a nice weekend.

Thursday, 6 May 2010

Things Should've Got A Lot Better?


Election day is upon us, so it only seems right to have a quick retrospective look at New Labour before the face of British politics is changed forever...again.

Like anyone with a heart, who was not a Thatcherite idiot-savant that is, the morning of 2nd May 1997 was a very good day. On the 1st May I had cast my vote for Vernon Coaker and for the first time since 1983 we had a Labour MP in an area with a long history of voting Tory. 



And what exactly have New Labour achieved in their long residency at Number 10?

Their numerous accomplishments remain, for me, dwarfed by the cruel debacle of the illegal war in Iraq and the humiliating period of 2001-07, where Tony Blair acted as some kind of toothy lap dog to the retarded, Ivy League, monkey king pretender to the world's most powerful country. Iraq looms large, mainly for the huge loss of civilian life, never mind the raft of US and UK military causalities and for what exactly? Talk of war crimes and illegality has faded it seems but in my mind it remains incredibly strong.

Iraq is the distorting lens that leaves much of what the Labour party has achieved looking asinine and pyrrhic but there is much there to celebrate. The social-morality landscape of Britain has changed a great deal, some of this may merely be down to humanity's progress but Labour enacted much legislation to enable positive social reforms for women, ethnic minorities and the gay community; civil partnerships were a thing of dreams for many but now are a crucial reality and a stepping stone to the end of discrimination as we know it. Labour must be thanked for such steps.

Of course, New Labour's vision for electoral reform has not gone as far as I would've hoped but they moved in the right direction, with the House of Lords in better shape and reform ready, the FOI act passed and devolutionary powers to Wales and Scotland. Northern Ireland and the current peace are also one of Labour's huge successes, although I do acknowledge it took numerous other parties, agencies and individuals to work together to achieve the situation we have now and although by no means perfect, I am old enough to remember the IRA as a very real threat on the UK mainland and acts of violence and terror a depressing and seemingly regular occurrence.

I am unashamed to say that, although I will not be voting for him, I believe Gordon Brown to be one of our finest chancellors and his stewardship of the UK economy and the measures he took created a far more equal society (the minimum wage being one of New Labour's finest achievements, along with the creation of an independent Bank of England), with a genuine effort to reduce poverty, consistently low unemployment and enabling a move away from crash and burn economics; rather spoilt admittedly by the global financial crisis.

The endless money pit that is our public services have also been transformed and heavily (perhaps too heavily) invested in, so that we are blessed with new schools, hospitals and facilities for social governance, such as Job Centres, Health Centres and Connexions Centres for young people. NHS waiting times have plummeted from 21 weeks under the Tories in 1997 to around 6 weeks as of now and previous lows at around 4 weeks in 2007.

As someone who used to work with young mothers, the impact of Sure Start cannot be underestimated, and neither should improvements to YOT teams and YIP projects and the transformation of the cranky and dusty old Careers Service into the young person friendly and focused Connexions.

And with regards to the industry I work in, let us not forget that the arts, dying under Thatcher and Major, has been rejuvenated, albeit with a clever and helpful dose of gambling money, which has marginally silenced the right-wing hectoring of what tax payers money is being spent on but rather, quite bizarrely, what gambler's money is being spent on...

In the minus column, aside from the crippling blow of Iraq, is the fact that when New Labour came to power in 1997 some 5 million 'working adults' were subsidised by the state and this figure remains unmoved today and for all the racist arguments of 'immigrants stealing our jobs', they have in reality filled a gap which UK citizens were unwilling to fill. The re-jigging of the benefits system has failed cut down on elements of institutionalised family state subsidy, whilst managing to demonise other claimants. A lose-lose.

A huge negative about Labour was their endless infringements upon human rights and civil liberties, under the overarching catch-all theme of the War on Terror (Copyright. Trademark. All Rights Reserved), which enabled them to pass some awful legislation that is only softened, in my mind, by the fact that Tories would've been far, far worse.

Another downside for me has been the explosion, under Labour, of bureaucratic middle-men agencies, the worst of which are the Regional Development Agencies, monoliths that entrap large swathes of government funding and then deal it out, whilst themselves costing a bloody fortune.

Finally and whilst speaking of bureaucracy, education is another sector I've worked in and has suffered terribly under New Labour. Whether it be the vulgar league table (a blight on many of our public services and a device that only ever leads to fixing the figures), SATS, paperwork of teachers and the ever increasing obsession with the GCSE as a measuring device for our children, whilst harder to measure subjects are sacrificed at the alter of 5 A-C's.

And the perverse, schizoid drive by Labour to increase participation in higher education by opening up glorified sixth form colleges as universities offering God awful subjects, whilst simultaneously bringing in tuition fees, swinging cuts to the grants systems and saddling graduates with huge student loan debts; is one of the biggest errors of its tenureship.

So yes, things should've have got a lot better under New Labour but let us not forget that they did achieve a great deal and more importantly, that the Conservatives would've been so very much worse...

HAPPY VOTING!



Wednesday, 5 May 2010

David Cameron Met a Black Man and Other Political Efforts

One day away from the election and I am slightly excited by what will happen on the 6th May, only slightly because as political as I am (and I am very, very political), our awful electoral system combined with a dire choice of political parties, has stunted too much rabid enthusiasm.

Not so many other bloggers and opinion makers about town, Tim Ireland has drummed up another lovely bit of home-made political video-theatre that not only uses the mighty William Shatner but also has David Cameron's head on a stick...



While Rich White re-acts to the impending election by utilising the omnipresent and utterly captivating words of human shaped legend Betrand Russell, which are as true now as they ever were in 1932...
"One of the impediments to successful democracy in our age is the complexity of the modern world, which makes it increasingly difficult for ordinary men and women to form an intelligent opinion on political questions, or even to decide whose expert judgement deserves the most respect. The cure for this trouble is to improve education, and to find ways of explaining the structure of society which are easier to understand than those at present in vogue. Every believer in effective democracy must be in favour of this reform. But perhaps there are no believers in democracy left..."
Weren't the debates and even, one might dare suggest, much of the last 50 years of politics, a happening within these very parameters, a political dumb show as the complexity of life is translated into ever more basic language, until perhaps, future elections will be confined to a series of grunts, crude images and rough sex? We can but dream of such a moment but we can be assured that human life is only going to get more complex, will our answer to this be to move progressively further and further away from the structures of the intellect and into gut feeling, speaking to the mythical 'man in the street' and sneering at genuine political jargon through the lens of anti-intellectulism?

Perhaps.

The last word though has to go to Gary Younge, with his impassioned and perfectly wonderful diatribe entitled: "I hate Tories", something I can certainly get behind, especially sentiments such as these...
"Philosophically this is an impotent rage. I also hate them because for a long time they kept winning, and were able to convince more people than we could by appealing to their most base instincts. Because they managed to change the country in a terrible way and reconfigure the political conversation so that some of the more outrageous things they did are now orthodox. The memory of them and the prospect of them make me want to retch...
...Indeed the only thing that is really holding my interest at this stage: the one thing that would really make my Friday morning would be to see Cameron crushed and Osborne despondent. To see them miss this own goal and descend into bitter recrimination. To think that however bad things have become, they haven't got so bad that we would make that mistake again. This may be the worst reason for voting. But right now, after watching them all in the debates, it also feels like the only reason in much of the country (apart from where there are good Labour and Liberal MPs)."
Roll on Thursday!

Tuesday, 4 May 2010

My Thumbs Hurt...


This fine and slightly arbitrary Bank Holiday weekend (I mean, who celebrates Roodmas anymore?) I went away to my home town of Nottingham and hung out with a true comrade and brother, the legend that is Kirky.

Kirky is of course the man behind the moniker inspiration for my comedy creation, which is currently a work in progress with the BBC. Thankfully, I have not stolen any of the real Kirky's other traits for my character because, quite frankly, being a great host, a seriously brilliant cook, handsome and a pragmatic Pro Evolution Soccer defence lord are not very funny.

Having said that, he does seem to bring out the comedy character in me and after the creation of the eternal legend that is Yannis, we also developed a strange Jewish accountant (currently nameless, so any suggestions much appreciated) whose catchphrase was:

"Now when I say a woman, I actually mean a man."

Which may not seem much on paper but after three bottles of red wine and a bottle of sherry, it is both the scariest and funnest thing since Noel Edmonds' hair.

I digress.

We basically hung out, chatted in a manly way, ate fine food and played Pro Evo for two days straight, hence why my left thumb is a bruised mound of stubby flesh and I have a small blister on my left index finger. My right hand is healing nicely but I swear, I have never played a football game for that long, or with that level of intensity in my entire life but it has born some fine, fine memories.

I mean, who could forget the 11-0 over two legs drubbing that Lille OSC meted out to UD Alemeria, or the tight clash that followed (winner stays on) where Lille edged out FC Porto and the fall of Lille by a team that I can't remember as I was drunk?

Dour clashed between Boltan Wanderers and Benfica were interspersed with acts of giant killing, as Sparta Rotterdam edged out Ajax in an all Dutch classic. All good stuff until Newcastle United came along that is...

What happened is, whenever you lost, you get another team to play with at random, Kirky was Barcelona I believe and doing well with them as they are awesome and I went and got Newcastle, so obviously I was going to lose as Newcastle are a little bit shit...but no, I won 6-1 over two legs. 6-1! Shocking stuff.

I thought this was down to my skill and, heavily drunk, I also beat Kirky's England by a similar margin. We went to bed happy but very confused. Sunday rolled around and we pressed on and after an abortive effort at the Konami Cup, renamed the Carlton Cup and won by Liverpool who edged out my Celtic 1-0, we went back to random. All was going well, until Kirky got Newcastle, who then I could not beat with any team I was blessed with, for the fucking life of me.

I got mardy. Very mardy. It seemed the Gods were against me and constant defeats at the hands of an unbeatable team were killing my life force and enthusiasm for the game. Eager to carry on kicking my ass, Kirky suggested that he drop the unbeatable Shay Given and put an idiot in goal: I lost 3-1 but at least I scored, something that my AS Roma team and 23 shots over two-legs had failed to do. Then he offered that I could have any team, so I took on Milan, one of the very best and without Given and his two other best players (injury took out Duff and Kirky having swollen thumbs nad making a user error ruled out Martins) meant I won 4-2.

The Newcastle dragon was slain but it was a pyrrhic victory, brightened only when, with a full strength team, I pipped those bastard Geordies 1-0.

It was an empty and cold victory which took the shine off a fine series of battles which I would definitely want to repeat but with one rule, no one can be Newcastle United...