Monthly Archives: August 2006

Angry, Nasty And Hellbent

I interviewed a film director one morning last week and then went to the doctor straight afterwards with an earache in my left ear.

As you do.

“Hmm,” the doctor mused, peering into my right ear thoughtfully, despite me telling her there was nothing going on in that lobe. “Nasty.”

“Oh,” I said.

Then she took a look in my left ear. “Hmm,” she muttered. “Angry.”

So now I have an unexplained infection in both my ears, items of my anatomy I’ve since nicknamed Angry and Nasty for easy reference. Angry has been very angry indeed but Nasty has packed his bags and left, as so he bloody well should after all the antibiotics I’ve been taking. The worst thing about this whole affair (other than the deafness and pain, obviously) has been the fact I can’t drink milk with the pills, so my coffee intake has suffered a calamitous drop-off.

Jayne no happy without her coffee beans.

I took a day off work to recover from my ear grumbles and the fact the pills made me sleepy (or that could have been the lack of coffee). To cheer myself up, I watched a gay slasher movie called Hellbent.

Yes, you did read that right: a gay slasher movie.

One of my friends thought I’d like it because a) it’s full of cute guys, b) it’s very funny and c) it’s got a kind of Supernatural vibe to it (two of the characters are a little reminiscent of Dean and Sam Winchester, except Dean and Sam Winchester don’t snog in Supernatural like they do in this, because they’re brothers and that would be all wrong and Wincesty. Urgh).

And my friend was right: I did like Hellbent. I freakin’ loved it! I thought it would be camp and stupid and fluffy but instead it was assured, fresh and utterly hysterical. It’s not really scary but it’s certainly different, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a horror film in which I’ve actually cared about the characters before. It has a twisted sense of humour too, best expressed by one of the actors on the DVD Making Of when he explains that the murderer is “the personification of evil. But hot evil!”

And how often do you watch a slasher flick which has four gay men (dressed as a cop, a cowboy, an S&M freak and a drag queen) mooning the killer?

Hellbent. Buy it now on DVD. If you don’t laugh like a drain, I’ll send the personification of hot evil round to see you with his scythe. That’s his scythe in the picture below.

Incidentally: movie serial killers chasing cute, half-naked men? There is no bad in that.



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Still Jumpin’…

The Rolling Stones are playing Twickenham Stadium again tonight.

I’m sitting here listening to them through my open window with a huge grin on my face but wishing with all my soul that I’d had a spare £200 to actually SEE them play this time.

Still… if I had a spare £200 I wouldn’t have spent it on tickets. They may be one of the greatest bands in the world but that’s a shitload of money for one concert. What a con! Especially when I can hear them from my flat…

Here’s what the traffic looked like when I got home from work today (this was taken from the footbridge over the A316 by my house). Guess which way the concert is?

Oh, and my local pub got in the spirit of things, didn’t they? Bless.


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Third Time Lucky

My third post of the day about The Rolling Stones. Excuse me if I’m boring you, but I have to announce that at 9.49pm tonight they played Sympathy For The Devil, one of my all-time favourite songs (I even want it played at my funeral).

And not only could I hear the ‘Woo woos’, I could FEEL them. As I sat and stared at the stadium from my living room window, the words bounced off all the buildings and trees and walls around me and smacked the air like some sort of religious mantra. They had POWER. The stadium itself glowed red and fiery and smoke hung over it like it was a lava pit.

Alright, so I couldn’t see what was happening on stage, and while I could hear Mick Jagger’s words, they weren’t crystal clear… but I’ve still just listened to him sing Sympathy For The Devil live in my own house. I’ll never be able to afford Stones tickets but this will do nicely, thank you.

Altogether now:
Woo woo!
Woo woo!
Woo woo!
Woo woo!

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The Rolling Stones are really loud.

I can hear them, alright. I don’t think anybody in Twickenham is able to hear anything else right now. And I’m in bloody Richmond!

I can hear Mick Jagger singing and somebody playing the harmonica.


This be very cool INDEED…

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You Haven’t Lived Until You’ve Seen A Guy On Stage Pretend To Be An AT-AT With Two Sink Plungers

I went to see The Reduced Shakespeare Company perform all six Star Wars movies in 20 minutes the other night.

Funny? Oh god, yes…

Before the show even started the Criterion Theatre was filled with Stormtroopers, a very convincing Darth Vader (who wagged his finger at me in a menacing manner; my bowels haven’t been the same since) and a huge array of Star Wars fans. The event was a one-off production put together by Sky to celebrate their upcoming Star Wars movie season: they’ve filmed it for their website, so check it out when it’s up, because The Reduced Shakespeare Company won’t ever perform it again.

And it’s diabolically funny. They acted out The Phantom Menace (using a South Park doll as Anakin), summed up Attack Of The Clones in a song, explained Revenge Of The Sith using a flip chart (‘Darth Vader = Evil’) and I don’t want to ruin the other films by giving anything away. Just watch the footage. It’s genius, I’m telling you! Genius!

Plus there was the added bonus of seeing the guy wearing a Darth Vader mask on stage flipping V signs at the guy dressed as Darth Vader in the royal box. That took some bloody nerve!

The Stormtroopers milling around the theatre were a cocky bunch, too, telling people off and occasionally throwing someone against a wall and frisking them. Fantastic! Nothing like getting into character, eh, guys? My mate Biddy would’ve loved to have been there – she’s got a thing about Stormtrooper armour. I’m sure she’s not alone, actually, but they’re a bit too shiny for my liking. I like their guns, though, and their crackly little computerised voices. Though two of them chased me at one point and that wasn’t nice. *coughs*

Changing the subject totally, on the train home the train driver made a fuzzy announcement over the intercom: “This train is fully crewed. I repeat, this train is fully crewed.” A couple sitting behind me couldn’t make out what he said and were puzzling over it, so I turned to them and explained, “He told us the train is feeling crude.”

And they flippin’ believed me.


(Not as funny as the conversation I heard on the bus the other night, after we drove by two guys dressed as Smurfs outside a nightclub. A girl behind me cried, “I just saw two Smurfs!” Her friends looked out of the window but the blue furries had gone, so they spent the rest of the journey trying to convince her she’d imagined it as she got more and more frustrated. It would have been soooo easy to pipe up and say I’d seen them too… but I was having too much fun listening to her suffer!)

Finally… the Rolling Stones are playing Twickenham Stadium tonight. I can hear them doing a soundcheck right now as I’m typing, though I can’t make out any words. If I open my lounge window later, and if the wind’s blowing the right way, I should be able to hear them better. Fingers crossed!

Just a few “woowoos” from Sympathy For The Devil will do nicely, guys!


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The Name’s Bond. John Bond.

First off: Happy Birthday Gold Anne! Hope you have a great day!

And moving on… I’m a fan of a Canadian band called Moxy Fruvous. Never heard of them? Yeah, no one else has, either, unless you’re from Canada. They’re fun, they’re sweet and I don’t even know if they’re still together, but I have a few of their albums and really like ’em.

I was listening to their 1999 album, Thornhill, a few nights ago and it got me thinking. Y’see, the CD I own has an autographed sleeve. It was sent to me by my friend Mike after he spotted it in a charity shop (in Portsmouth, I think) and he decided to fork out a couple of quid on my behalf, which was bloody nice of him. (Incidentally, if ever I added up all the CDs Mike’s sent me over the years I’m sure it’d be half my collection, so I owe him big time.) The fact the CD has signatures all over it is an unexpected Brucie bonus and I’m really chuffed with it… except…

It’s signed to a guy named John Bond. Two members of Moxy Fruvous have written “Cheers John!”, another has scribbled a little picture for him, and the fourth has drawn a speech bubble and written inside it, “I know John Bond.” All of which implies that Moxy Fruvous knew this guy, though it’s hard to know how well.

So how come this CD ended up in a charity shop in Portsmouth?

Why did John Bond decide to abandon it?

Did he just wake up one morning and decide he didn’t like Moxy Fruvous any more? Did he emigrate and have a huge clearout? Did he know the band really well and have a falling-out? Or did he just not give a toss about tossing Thornhill?

Whatever the reason, it vexes me. I feel my CD has been unloved and unwanted, from the second it left the hands of Moxy Fruvous until it plopped through my letterbox from Mike.

At least it has a happy home now. But I’m still vexed. Poor Moxy Fruvous.


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Plane Crazy

A little ripple of September 11th passed over us today. Terrorists. Planes. Explosives. Thankfully, the police stopped death raining from the skies in the next few days (according to some reports, the attack was that close) and the culprits are in custody.

Hopefully. As a London commuter there’s a little, nagging voice wondering if a few bombers are still out there, armed to the teeth and only now realising it’s far easier to blow up a train than a bloody great aircraft which X-rays you before you can board it.

Happy thoughts.

I knew something was wrong when I climbed out of bed this morning: everything was too quiet. I live on the Heathrow flight path, 20 miles from the airport, and a plane thunders over my house every one minute and forty-eight seconds (I’ve timed them). This morning… I missed the rumbles, but I couldn’t quite put the lack of noise together with a problem until I turned on the TV.

Every single damn time I step outside my front door, the first thing I do is look up at the sky. There’s always a plane flying overhead. Always. Sometimes they’re so low I feel like waving to the passengers, wondering if I’d be able to see them wave back. It’s part of life; you don’t live where I live without feeling an affinity for the giant metal beasts roaring above you. I stare at them constantly, through my windows or my kitchen skylight or from the train as I travel to work. They’re always there, completing their pilgrimages to and from Heathrow, worshipping the clouds and splitting the skies with their engines.

We don’t know exactly what those bastards had planned, but it looks as though they were going to blow up six transatlantic airliners.

Possibly right over my kitchen skylight.

Would these idiots still get to Paradise to if we flew them to 20,000 feet and unceremoniously shoved them out of a baggage hold? I’d love to find out.


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