Cuckoo

An actual quote I heard on BBC Breakfast this morning: “Of course, there will be no Jimmy Savile trial...because he is dead...” Quality investigative journalism right there. Speaking of the BBC, I actually have something positive to write about the organisation today, and can sum it up in one word: Cuckoo. Wait – I haven’t gone mad (yet). Cuckoo is the name of a new BBC 3 sitcom...that’s actually funny! Gasp!

BBC sitcoms are usually something I avoid like the plague, simply because they are, in the main, about as funny as testicular cancer. Boring, tired old writing, predictable ‘jokes’ and a lead character played by either Lenny Henry, Nicholas Lyndhurst or Martin Clunes. Yawn. It’s ‘safe comedy’ written by middle aged, middle class blokes aimed at middle aged, middle class women (see, most of the ‘jokes’ are usually at the expense of the bungling father-figure in these sitcoms).

In a stunning break from the norm, Cuckoo tells the story of a middle class, 2.4 children family living in suburbia. Everything seems fine, until the daughter returns home from a pre-university gap year with a bloke she met whilst travelling. Thing is, this bloke is a new-age hippy type called Cuckoo and is totally at odds with everything the head of the household stands for. True, it sounds like the most formulaic dross you’ve ever heard, but it is saved by the outstanding comedy talents of both Greg Davies (the big guy who plays the teacher in The Inbetweeners, the Deputy Mayor from We Are Klang and general top-class stand up comedian); and the American comedian/actor/singer/songwriter Andy Samberg, who you may remember from that epic Lonely Island song I’m On A Boat. No? Here:



The premise is that Greg Davies’ father character thinks that Cuckoo is several leagues below the kind of guy his daughter should be shacked up with. Cuckoo doesn’t believe in working for a living, constantly spouts incomprehensible pseudo-philosophy and generally acts like a bit of an arse. He’s Swampy the eco-warrior crossed with every annoying wanker you’ve ever known. And the clashes between the two, with the rest of the family caught in the middle, are fantastic. The best episode thus far though, involves the accidental ingestion of ecstacy pills and the ensuing embarrassing ‘high dad’ shenanigans. Fucking brilliant. The first few episodes of Cuckoo are available on BBC iPlayer and I really recommend giving this series a watch. 

Another new(ish) TV prog I’ve enjoyed recently is the new series of Red Dwarf. It’s been a long time coming, and isn’t made by the BBC (we have that old stalwart of the Top Gear repeat Dave to thank for this), and I’ve only seen episode 1...but I was pleasantly surprised and actually laughed out loud several times. It’s too early to say whether this will be as good as the older series (except the series 7, which was shite), but things are looking good going off first impressions.

Wake Up Call

Hmm. Trying really hard to think of something positive or mildly humorous to write about, but it’s proving difficult. This probably because all I can actually think about is sacking my job off, stashing all my meagre possessions in a self storage cube and then fucking off travelling for a while. I should never have bought that Lonely Planet guide to Thailand last week. Just looking at the pictures of bustling cities and tropical island paradises has ignited within me a desire to leave this cursed place far, far behind...at least for a few months. 

This desire probably wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t hundreds of miles away from most of my friends, girlfriend and family, and have virtually no social life whatsoever. At least if I was in Thailand or some other far flung exotic idyll, I’d have a whole new culture to explore, new things to see and be able to discover a whole new country. Which, I’m sure anyone reading this would admit, is way, way better than being stuck in a tiny, unfriendly, run-down ‘city’ in the west of England, where it does nothing but rain incessantly and nothing ever, ever happens. In case you wondered where I’m living at present, it’s a place called Gloucester. And I’ve grown to despise the place in the few months I’ve been here. 

Understand that I only moved here to be closer to my job (as described in a previous post), and at first I found the place to be quite alright, if not spectacular. The ‘city centre’ has quite a few places of historical interest, including the oldest timber-framed medieval building in (I think) the world, an impressive cathedral, various ruined priories and blue plaques everywhere you look. There’s some serious history knocking about – even the street layout in the main shopping area is faithful to how it was back when the place was a Roman citadel. The thing is, Gloucester must be one of the most run-down places I’ve ever been to. Apart from the historical sites, there is very little else to recommend about Gloucester and I really regret moving here from a city as impressive as Bristol. Being a Mancunian and all, I have a certain image in my head of what city life should be like – having a social life, places to go, things to do...all things that since moving to this particular ‘city’ have all become glaringly absent from my existence. 

You may have also noted the use of apostrophes when I describe Gloucester as a ‘city.’ That’s because it doesn’t really qualify for such a prestigious moniker in my opinion. You can see from one set of hills to the other with the entire settlement in the middle, and the only high-rise building is the fucking cathedral! There is nowhere that can be considered an ‘upmarket’ area – the whole place looks like it was built in the 1960s and then just left to rot alongside the ancient structures. There are whole swathes of wasteland all over the place, and everything just seems riddled with decay. Old railway sidings full of rusty carriages, old red-brick industrial units with shutters permanently down and boarded up pubs with crisp bags, empty beer cans and leaves blowing around in doorways. Even the ‘new’ places, such as the quays, are just full of empty retail units. 

What I guess I’m trying to say is that Gloucester is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a ‘cosmopolitan’ city. There is no nightlife, no real social scene. I have tried to be social, going out to the few pubs...but who wants to meet people in pubs? The centre is absolutely full of chavs and tracksuit clad old men and people drinking cider at 2 in the afternoon. There are very few social activities to engage in here, other than drinking, so if you turn your back on that shit – you’re fucked. So you can probably see why I’m really desperate to get away from the place and return home where most of my friends and family are, and if it means giving up my job (which I have no real issue with, apart from the location of the building – i.e. Gloucester), then so be it. There will be other jobs. And there is Thailand. I just need to get the fuck out of this hole and start having a normal, healthy existence again. Watch this space.

I Shit You Not

Ok, I wasn't going to do this. But fuck it. What's the internet for if not exposing how vile, disgusting, repulsive and abhorrent human beings really are? Here's the deal. I rent a room in a flat. The other guy who lives here is also the landlord - he owns the flat. I find living where I do fairly OK for the most part...except for one thing. The landlord (who shall remain anonymous...for now) has a problem. A problem the likes of which I have never, ever encountered. Even after six years in the fucking navy:

Yes, he leaves these kinds of stains on the toilet roll. How? I really don't care to find out, but I must admit that it's a totally new experience for me. I have never encountered this kind of thing, so I'm a bit unsure of how to react to it. In case you can't guess, those stains on the inside of the communal bogroll are shit. Human shit. From his arse. On the communal bogroll. What. The. Fuck.

It doesn't even end there. Oh no. I'm constantly having to wipe the toilet seat to get rid of the strange brown stains that seem to appear at random. And one time I found a clod of faeces the size of a pound coin stuck underneath the seat.

Look at what I have to deal with. LOOK AT IT.

Taken 2: Far

Half a Guinness. Now.

Let me make this clear: I really enjoyed the first Taken movie. Actually, scratch that - I thought it was brilliant. It's basically an hour and a half of Liam Neeson doing a really shit American/Irish/who-fucking-knows accent whilst wandering around Paris beating the shit out of Albanians and rescuing his kidnapped daughter from a life of sex slavery. That's pretty much it. There are loads of really cool fight scenes, shoot outs, car chases...and to be fair, the story is perfect for this kind of mindless action movie. Liam Neeson is a man who possesses a very particular set of skills, he just wants his daughter back...or he will find you - and he will kill you. If you haven't seen this movie, get the fuck off the internet  and go find the DVD in a bargain bin somewhere. I'll wait.

Right - now we've got that out of the way, I'll begin. Taken 2 is fucking wank compared to the first one. It's a step too far. The first movie was acceptable, even with it's slightly outlandish plot, because it pretty much just came out of nowhere. Taken just appeared and it was all leather jackets and bent Parisian cops and explosions...and just a guy trying to rescue his little girl. Taken 2 is pretty much the same...but it just feels a little bit old. They've taken (hehe!) the plot of the first movie, tweaked it slightly, and then shat out a half-arsed cash-in. Sure, there are fights, a few car chases and Liam Neeson skulking around in a leather jacket smashing people's faces in with iron bars...but it just feels so hackneyed. It's like the director thought "well, they liked this shit in the first one, so here's some more!" Well, prick - the first film at least retained a (admittedly very slight) grip on reality. It didn't involve the lobbing of grenades around one of the most heavily populated cities in Europe...with no repercussions. It didn't involve a chase scene that lasted 10 minutes and consisted of constantly repeated sound bites of Liam Neeson shouting "go...faster!" while his daughter squealed "I can't!" (she could - she's driving a fucking Mercedes). It didn't climax with Neeson pushing a bloke's head onto a coat hook. Taken 1 was an out and out revenge movie and for that I salute it. It doesn't pretend to be anything but. Taken 2 on the other hand has some pretentious crap about the father of the tortured child kidnapper from the first film (the guy rigged up to the mains by his knees) coming out of retirement to find and kill Neeson and his family. This is nonsensical on so many levels, but there we are.

I noted that several of the reviews I had read gave Taken 2 a pretty harsh time, but I put this down to the overly negative view most 'professional' reviewers have when it comes to anything that isn't shot in black and white with a Spanish soundtrack. Upon viewing it myself, I have to say that, even as an action film Taken 2 is below par. And the final scene? Don't get me started. Go and watch it yourself and tell me it's anywhere near as good as the first one. If you disagree, know this: I have a very particular set of skills.

Weekend Endevours

Went down to Bristol on Friday to collect my prize from the Heart FM competition I won after last week’s half marathon. The prize was £1000 in shopping vouchers for anywhere in Bristol city centre, and they could be split across five different stores. I did a little bit of research into which shops I might want to get vouchers for, but as I’m an indecisive twat at the best of times, I opted to get Cabot Circus vouchers. For those who don’t know, Cabot Circus is a new(ish) shopping mall in Bristol that is kind of like the Bristolian version of the Manchester Arndale, and is named after the famous Italian explorer Giovanni ‘John’ Cabot. He set sail from Bristol in the 1400s and is widely reputed to be one of the first Europeans to set foot on the American mainland. How thrilled his spirit must be to have a shopping centre named after him. So yeah, I got the vouchers as gift cards that could be used in any of the shops in the Cabot Circus complex. Before I could go off in search of 'stuff' though, I took part in a photo shoot for the local newspaper (The Bristol Post) and also for the Heart FM website where I had to hold a load of shopping bags stuffed with towels to simulate, er, shopping. Twas all very amicable, and I would like to thank the staff from Heart for the prize...even if the chance of any of them actually reading this dirge is miniscule. Off I popped then, to Cabot Circus. 

The first place I went to was H & M. I looked at the garishly hued men’s clothing department and quickly decided that I’d rather be tried as a 12^th Century heretic than wear any of their clobber, although I did need some new socks so I picked up a pack of 12 and headed to the cash desk. I handed over my gift card and the girl behind the counter just stared blankly at it. She tried to process it as a normal debit card and it wouldn’t work, so she went off to speak to a manager. After about 5 minutes, she came back and declared that the shop didn’t accept Cabot Circus gift cards. A little confused, I left H & M and went into Next, which was next door, funnily enough. I tried to purchase a pair of jeans...only to be told that they didn’t accept gift cards. Onwards I went, to the Apple Store, where I found a rather nice iPod armband running thingy. Tried to buy it...couldn’t because the little mobile chip and pin things that the Apple ‘geniuses’ carry around with them don’t accept gift cards. 3 shops...3 times I’m told that my prize is useless. I almost fucking exploded with rage at the guy. 

With that, I marched off to the customer information desk within Cabot Circus and told them that no matter where I went, none of the shops were accepting my gift card. The staff there were actually pretty helpful and explained that every store within the mall had signed up to the scheme and that they should all take the cards. With that, one of them went back to H & M with me, verbally bitch-slapped the staff behind the counter and made them ring the socks through (that were still on the counter where I’d left them 20 minutes earlier). Lo and behold, the card suddenly worked! I had some new socks! I thanked the woman who had accompanied me and she assured me that if I had any further problems using the gift card, that she’d be back to help. I had more problems with staff who didn’t know how to process the gift card, but they were generally overcome after several calls for management staff etc. In the end, I managed to get a few useful items including a new rucksack (for next year’s expedition to Thailand), a Lonely Planet guide to Thailand, a few T-Shirts and a few birthday presents for my niece. I didn’t spend the lot – how could anyone spend £1000 in a day?! I just got a few things I actually needed and bought a few presents for people. I still didn’t manage to get anything from the goddamned Apple Store though, as they insisted that their payment machines weren’t compatible with the gift card. Which kind of figures really – Apple and ‘incompatible with the mainstream’ go hand in hand. The thing that struck me was how many of the stores in Cabot Circus gave me crap and treated me like some kind of criminal just because I was using a gift card. They really need to sort that shit out as I’ve no doubt I’ll be the first or last shopper who comes into contact with untrained shop staff only to be told that particular stores don’t accept them...when in fact, they do. 

Saturday I was kind of dreading slightly, as it heralded the first proper long-distance journey on the Suzuki Goose. As documented here, the previous times I have taken it onto the motorway, it’s died on me. Granted, both times it was down to either having the fuel tap on ‘reserve’ or simply having no fuel, but like one of Pavlov’s dogs, I had become accustomed to associating the M5 with the spluttering and eventual packing up of the bike’s engine. I needn’t have worried though, as Saturday’s early morning trip down to Dorset went without any hitches at all. In fact, it flew by with alarming rapidity, thanks to the extra 100cc I now have at my disposal. The only things that were slightly unwelcome were the extremely cold wind and the mildly uncomfortable riding position of the Goose – it’s not really the kind of bike you want to be doing 200 mile journeys on unless you’ve got a well-padded arse. I don’t, so I was walking like John Wayne on arrival at my destination. Apart from that though – no problems at all. The bike itself is fairly tatty (what can you expect from a 20 year old machine?), but when it’s got enough petrol in, it runs like a dream and goes like greased lightning. Here are a few pictures I took of the Goose over the weekend: 

Saturday night involved a wedding party during which I discovered a taste for Gin and Tonic and Sunday was spent recovering from the G&T tsunami from the night before. Also saw the new Liam Neeson film Taken 2 on Saturday afternoon – next up: my rambling thoughts.

Happenings

It’s been a week since my last post. Thought I should update...so here I am. Competed in the Bristol Half Marathon on Sunday. It went as well as expected, in that due to the amount of running I do generally, it was a piece of piss. My time was around 1hr 28mins, which isn’t a pb (that’s 1hr 26mins which I attained at Sturminster Newton a few months ago), but to be honest, Bristol isn’t really the kind of ½ marathon you can realistically expect to get a personal best time at, simply because of the massive number of people taking part. There were about 14,000 competitors this year, and even though I started in the first wave, the mass of people all trying to run down relatively narrow roads lead to a lot of congestion. The crowd thins out about halfway round the course as people begin to tire, but by then the impact from the slow pace of the first half of the race has taken a good bite out of your overall time. It was a good event though, and just as well run (no pun intended) as last year, so maximum kudos to the organisers, the marshalls, and the army cadets manning the water/energy gel stations. Not that I used them – the last thing I wanted was water after suddenly needing a massive piss about a quarter of the way into the race. I held it for the remainder of the course and just made a beeline for the portable bogs after I crossed the finish line. I think my overall placing was 417^th, which when you consider that there were over 14,000 runners taking part, isn’t a bad result.

After the race, I took a stroll around Bristol city centre with my significant other. I do really like Bristol, actually. It’s not as big as Manchester or Birmingham, but it still has a proper ‘big city’ atmosphere. There are various districts with a distinct feel, there are loads of shops, bars, impressive historical buildings...it’s just a great city to visit and I’m a bit annoyed that I didn’t explore it more thoroughly when I lived there for a few weeks at the beginning of this year. I say ‘a few weeks,’ but it was more like two months, and during that time, I lived in possibly the grottiest house share I have ever had. It was in a district called Brentry on the outskirts of Bristol, right near the Cribbs Causeway M5 junction, so it was handy for shopping and getting on the motorway...but pretty dire for everything else. The house was this big old mansion type place that had been converted into flats, I and I rented a tiny room on the ground floor. I knew it was only temporary, but the meagre amount of time I spent there was pretty shit for two reasons – the house itself, and the housemates. 

The room, as I mentioned, was fucking tiny. There was mold on the wall below a window that wouldn’t shut properly, so there was a constant cold breeze blowing in to accompany the incessant noise of a dog barking in a nearby garden. There was one toilet/bathroom that was shared by the four of us, but it was a game of chance actually being able to get in there seeing as one of the housemates insisted on taking hour-long baths (how fucking inconsiderate), whilst another had her lesbian partner staying over almost constantly. I had no problem with this, but it kind of grated when I wanted a shower or needed to take a shit and couldn't because a person who wasn’t even paying rent was using the toilet. indeed, I often had to use mother natures own water closet for a piss...but never dropped the kids off outside - that would've been a little too uncouth, even for a morally redundant urchin like me. On the subject of bodily functions, though, on one occasion there were drips of blood all over the bathroom floor. I was a little confused by this...until I saw the tampon packets in the bin and clicked. I almost gagged – and that happened on several occasions (the dripping of period blood all over the communal bathroom floor - not the gagging).

There was constant noise from the flat above (seriously, it sounded like they were moving a safe around...every night of the week) and the kitchen was a mess constantly, no matter how much I attempted to clean it. I even cleaned out the disgusting fridge...only to find it filthy again a week later. So in sum, it was a shit place to live, and the area itself was pretty crap – I had the petrol stolen out of my newly acquired CBF 250 after about two weeks of ownership. That isn’t to say I dislike Bristol – I fucking love the place. Clifton in particular holds a place in my heart as it’s just a cool area...but Brentry? No. 

But back to the point – I was walking around Bristol city centre and I spotted this red carpet with velvet barrier things around it, you know – like what they have at film premieres and shit. I went up to the girl manning it and she said it was a competition to win £50,000. All you had to do was approach the safe at the end of the red carpet and put in a random 6 digit number. Guess correct and walk away with the cash. I slowly punched in my date of birth with baited breath...and was confronted with the message that my combination was wrong. Dammit! On leaving the red carpet, another promoter asked if I’d like to enter some other competition and thrust an entry card under my nose. To be honest, I wasn’t even listening to her as I filled out the form – I was paying more attention to my girlfriend’s attempt to open the safe (which also ended in failure). I completed the card, and went on my way, not even knowing what I’d just entered.

Fast forward to yesterday. I get a phone call from somebody at ‘Heart’ (which I later discover is the local radio station running the competition I entered at the weekend), who excitedly tells me that I won! “Won what?!” I ask. £1000 in shopping vouchers to spend in Bristol City Centre! So tomorrow I’m going down to Bristol in order to collect my prize and have a publicity photograph taken. Weird how random shit just happens, eh?

Dreddnaught

One of the things most car drivers take for granted is the fuel gauge on their dashboard. I don’t have one on my current bike, due to the no-frills nature of the instrument panel. All I’ve got is a speedo, a rev counter, indicators, neutral and hi-beam icons. That’s it. No fuel gauge, no oil temperature...nothing but the basics. It’ll probably come as no surprise to read then, that on Monday afternoon I ran out of petrol. On the M5. It wasn’t a particularly nice experience, especially as I was overtaking a lorry at the time. There I was, thundering along at 80mph when suddenly the bike started to lurch and grumble, lost all power and started to slow down. Luckily, the motorway was fairly quiet so I was able to indicate into the outside lane and then trundle to a halt on the hard shoulder. I wasn’t actually aware of the reason for the bike’s reluctance to start up again (I just thought it was a re-occurrence of the problems I had a few weeks ago) until I opened the fuel tank and shook the bike from side to side. Empty. Great. I was two miles from the junction I was planning on coming off at so I had no choice but to push the Suzuki up the hard shoulder and up the ramp and then negotiate a bridle path before finding a petrol station. I filled up, and she started first time. So, if you happened to see a bloke pushing a Suzuki Goose up the M5 on Monday afternoon – that was me! 

Also, let this be a lesson to you: never underestimate the power of the petrol gauge. To be fair, I’ve had the bike for a few weeks now, and the only time I’d actually put any fuel in it was when I put a fiver’s worth in...erm...a few weeks ago. So I’ve only got myself to blame really. Small engine bikes are so fuel efficient, you almost forget that they actually require fuel, and without the gauge on the dash screaming ‘put some petrol in you dick!,’ it’s easy to forget. Furthermore - Suzuki Gooses (Geese?) are heavier than they look, so pay attention to your petrol level, fellow non-gaugers.

It wasn’t all bad though – my faith in humanity was restored slightly by the number of other bikers who pulled over to ask if they could help. When I told them I was out of fuel, most of them offered to take me to the nearest petrol station...but then we realised I had no petrol can and that it would require going back down the motorway to the next junction and coming back up on the other side in order to get back to the Suzuki. So I just resided to push it. But to those helpful fellow motorcyclists, I say thank you: you just don’t get that kind of assistance when you drive a car. 

I went to see the new Judge Dredd film the other day. I had high hopes for it, seeing as I’m quite familiar with the comic-based version of Dredd. Back in my early teens, 2000AD was one of the many periodicals I would waste my mum’s child benefit money on (or, if I happened to have a paper round for that particular month, my own money), so the Dredd character is one I have a particular interest in. When I actually sit and think about it, 2000AD and the various ‘Tharg’s Future Shocks’ spin-off comics were probably my first real exposure so science fiction, so you can see why I was really rooting for this new movie to be kick ass. I love the whole setting of the franchise – the huge, dirty mega cities, the idea of a no-man’s land outside the city walls, the dystopian lifestyle depicted within said walls. It’s like Blade Runner and 1984 rolled together, but with a bit of dark humour thrown in for good measure. 

The first Dredd movie didn’t do particularly well at the box office, but I still think it’s a pretty decent film (even if Dredd/Stallone does take his helmet off). I reckon the reason for that film’s lack of success was that the whole Judge Dredd thing was/is a British comic strip and American knowledge of it in the early 1990s was pretty limited. I’m guessing most people in the US had no idea what the fuck Judge Dredd was meant to be when the Stallone version launched. What? It’s a courtroom drama? Set in the future? With Rambo in it? I’ll pass, thanks. 

So the latest take on the Dredd universe? Well, it’s pretty fucking good to be honest. I wasn’t sure what to think when I heard that Karl Urban had been cast as the main man, but his performance was outstanding. And his chin/grimace is more ‘Dredd’ than Stallone’s could ever be. The storyline is fairly basic – Dredd and a new recruit (Anderson) get called to a homicide in one of the city’s vast tower blocks (remember the ‘block wars’?) and discover a massive drug manufacturing plot. The drug lord behind the operation then locks the block down and orders her gangsters to flush the Judges out before they can shut her down. It’s a simple story, but set in this world, it’s enough to power an entire movie. I don’t know what it is about Karl Urban, but he just ‘does’ Dredd so fucking well, and the gore and slow-motion effects blend perfectly with the firefights and humour. Don’t get me wrong – this isn’t a comedy, but there are a few laugh-out-loud moments along the way. 

The only slight criticisms I have of the movie are the lack of character exploration of Dredd himself and the lack of exploration of Mega City One. Remember in the previous movie how the whole thing kind of hinged on Dredd’s past – the way he was cloned, had a long-lost brother and all that shit? And then there were the sections with the flying Lawmasters that showed you more of the city? There just isn’t any of that in this new one. I suppose this just sets up the possibility of a sequel where we get to see more about Dredd’s past and more of the city, so it’s not all bad...but I was left wanting more from the storyline. Also – where was the fucking ABC warrior?! More ABC warriors in the sequel, please. 

So Dredd then. Worth a watch if you’re a fan of the subject matter, but also worth a watch if you’re a fan of the science fiction genre in general, as the pickings at the cinema are a bit thin on the ground at the moment...apart from Looper, which everyone is raving about. It looks intriguing from the trailers I’ve seen thus far...I just hope it doesn’t turn out to be Inception or The Adjustment Bureau all over again. Two films which looked fucking awesome...but turned out to be either incomprehensible bullshit (Inception), or a totally wasted opportunity (Bureau). 

I only really go to the cinema if there’s a film on that I really, really want to see (I think the last thing I saw was Prometheus The Dark Knight Rises), mainly because it’s so fucking expensive. Dredd was only showing in 3D so I had to pay for the glasses too, and even though Cineworld advertise Tuesdays as ‘bargain Tuesdays,’ I still ended up forking out nearly £9 for the pleasure. When I got into the theatre after all the fucking weirdoes watching Anna Karenina had cleared out, I found that I was pretty much on my own and had the entire cinema to pick a seat from. So I sat right in the middle so I could get the best view of the screen and optimum 3D viewing angle. No sooner had I sat down than these two fuckwits came in and sat right behind me. As soon as their asses touched the seats, they cracked open cans of coke, started rustling crisp bags and began a full-blown conversation at the tops of their voices. Fair enough, I thought – they’ll shut up as soon as the trailers start. They didn’t. They carried on talking – at full volume – right through the start of the movie and beyond. When one of them started kicking the row of chairs I was sat in, I turned around and looked at them. This was enough to shut them up...for about 5 minutes, and then they started again. I just got up and moved to another aisle, and even though I was far enough away from the pricks to enjoy the rest of the movie, I could still hear them from the other side of the auditorium during quiet moments in the film. Who does that? Who pays nearly ten quid to go to the cinema and then talk through the whole fucking movie? I was determined to find out. 

After the credits started to roll, I went outside and waited for these two fucktards to emerge from the cinema. Because of the lateness of the hour and the small number of people watching the film, I easily spotted them after about 3 minutes of loitering, and I approached. “Thanks for the running commentary,” I began, “I really enjoyed paying £9 to listen to you talk through the entire film.” One of them was quite big and I was expecting trouble, but he stepped closer to me and apologised. I didn’t want his fucking apology at that point, but I was glad I’d given them a piece of my mind, as most people today just let shit like this slide because they’re scared to open their mouths in case they get shanked. Not me. If someone threatens to shank me, I’ll shank the fucker first – in the eye. But that’s just how I roll. Anyway, this bloke started apologising whilst the other one was suddenly quiet. Turns out it was a dad with his mentally handicapped son. The son is on medication for his extreme ADHD and other mental issues and that’s why they were talking – it’s the only way to keep the son’s attention and stop him wandering off etc. I did feel a bit bad about jumping to conclusions and having a go at them without knowing the facts, but how the hell was I supposed to know? I can totally see why the guy took his son to the cinema at 9.30 if he has to talk to him through a showing...but why sit right behind the only other person in there?! Jesus. 

Last bit of overly geeky horse shit: I’ve finally discovered why I can’t play original Xbox games in my 360: the hard drive. You see, my 360 is one of the slim ones, but it’s the matte black 4GB version. I discovered, much to my dismay mere weeks after I’d bought it, that 4GBs of memory simply aren’t enough if you want to install games and demos etc on your system. So off I went to eBay and I got an unbranded HDD for peanuts, whacked it in, and hey presto – more space than I’m ever likely to fill! Winner! Alas, I’ve since discovered that due to the lack of a partition for the saving of original Xbox game files, this unofficial hard drive renders the console unable to load original Xbox games...so no Halo 2 or Outrun 2 unless I go and give Microsoft even more of my hard-earned for an official hard drive. And to that I stick two fingers up. 

It’s the Bristol half marathon this Sunday and I’ve already got my race number and timing tag etc. This’ll be the first race I’ve taken part in this year where I haven’t been totally smashed the night before, so I’ll be sure to divulge on here how I get on. Bearing in mind that all of the previous post night-out races have resulted in either personal bests (Sturminster Newton ½ Marathon) or podium finishes (Puddletown 3^rd and East Manchester 2^nd), I reckon it’ll be interesting to see how I get on.