Christian Bale’s recent blow-up on the set of Terminator IV (which I’m not going to post or link to because I adore inconvenience) seems to have scandalised a few people, but I actually found it quite endearing; it’s the first time I’ve heard the taciturn actor communicate with such emotion. (Psyche!)
But there’s something suspicious about it: why does he deliver the whole tirade in an American(ish) accent? Could it be that it’s a ruse? Possibilities are spawning in my head like the eggs of a particularly fertile spider, ready to hatch and devour my brain matter at any moment. Two of them (the possibilities) stand out in particular:
1) Bale, tired of being seen as a cold fish, manufactured the incident to make himself seem more "human". He will soon follow up with a full-on emotional breakdown, a brief period of convalescence and a tastefully low-key return to public life, after which he will create a charitable foundation to support sufferers of mental illness. Everyone will love and cherish him, and he will win an Oscar a year for the rest of his life, occasionally turning it down for reasons of modesty or to draw attention to the plight of Native Americans.
2) The widely disseminated recording of Bale’s outburst is actually a promotional tool for Terminator IV. The film is secretly an ambitious post-modern masterwork, whose creators aim to use it as a vehicle for examining contemporary attitudes to technology and its place in society. Bale, who is credited as John Connor, will actually play himself playing John Connor; the "story" will focus on his experience of the production process, drawing parallels between the Terminator universe and 21st-century western society. Its premier screening will coincide with the release of a computer virus that projects onto the monitor of every Internet-enabled computer in the world live footage of Bale being skinned alive, revealing that he was a robot all along. This will prevent people from accessing Facebook for half an hour, with cataclysmic results.
Showing posts with label Drivel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Drivel. Show all posts
Friday, 6 February 2009
Friday, 16 January 2009
Cocaine-negative cocaine habit
I was browsing pseudo-news items the other day and came across a razor-sharp insight into the world of substance abuse. Opera superstar Katherine Jenkins recently revealed that she dabbled with cocaine in her early 20s, just after her arrival in London from the Middle Ages (Wales). She quickly cleaned up when her career started to take off, but the experience was educational: apparently, coke made her feel temporarily “powerful”, but the highs were followed by feelings of depression and paranoia.
I’ve never sampled the drug in question,* ** but reading this revealing explanation of its effects struck a chord – it exactly describes my experience of day-to-day life! From this I’ve deduced that I have a cocaine habit, but it’s a cocaine-negative cocaine habit. This probably means that there’s some sort of anti-cocaine substance, produced naturally in most people’s bodies, which I lack for some reason. It’s just like Diabetes!
Alternatively, a friend suggested that I may have developed an Obelix disorder, whereby I’ve taken on the symptoms of cocaine use permanently, as a result of being dropped into a cauldron of the stuff as a baby. For those of you who don’t know your Asterix the Gaul, this implies that taking more cocaine will give me bona fide super powers, and yuppie super powers at that.
After a three-day blackout I wake up behind the wheel of a convertible in Central Square, smoking a cigar made out of rolled-up $100 bills. There are mobile phones strapped over each of my ears, through which the newly separated hemispheres of my brain are arguing about dinner reservations. I stop the car in order to check the boot for dismembered fashion models, only to find that I’m actually wired into the driver’s seat.
A bulge starts to develop in the crotch of my trousers, and to my horror it just keeps growing, without obvious stimulation. Finally, the material rips apart to reveal that my genitals have been replaced with an old-fashioned stock ticker; reams and reams of inked tape explode into the sky, bearing messages from somewhere deep down inside: ‘BAC 7.49, -0.83’; ‘MKTSTP 100, +100’; ‘C 4.09, +0.26’; ‘KLLMNW 100, +100’.
It's basically Wall Street as written and directed by David Cronenberg.
*Amendment - February 2009: Now I have. It gave me a mild headache.
** Amendment 2 - November 2009: I tried it again and it made me have anal sex with a man.
I’ve never sampled the drug in question,* ** but reading this revealing explanation of its effects struck a chord – it exactly describes my experience of day-to-day life! From this I’ve deduced that I have a cocaine habit, but it’s a cocaine-negative cocaine habit. This probably means that there’s some sort of anti-cocaine substance, produced naturally in most people’s bodies, which I lack for some reason. It’s just like Diabetes!
Alternatively, a friend suggested that I may have developed an Obelix disorder, whereby I’ve taken on the symptoms of cocaine use permanently, as a result of being dropped into a cauldron of the stuff as a baby. For those of you who don’t know your Asterix the Gaul, this implies that taking more cocaine will give me bona fide super powers, and yuppie super powers at that.
After a three-day blackout I wake up behind the wheel of a convertible in Central Square, smoking a cigar made out of rolled-up $100 bills. There are mobile phones strapped over each of my ears, through which the newly separated hemispheres of my brain are arguing about dinner reservations. I stop the car in order to check the boot for dismembered fashion models, only to find that I’m actually wired into the driver’s seat.
A bulge starts to develop in the crotch of my trousers, and to my horror it just keeps growing, without obvious stimulation. Finally, the material rips apart to reveal that my genitals have been replaced with an old-fashioned stock ticker; reams and reams of inked tape explode into the sky, bearing messages from somewhere deep down inside: ‘BAC 7.49, -0.83’; ‘MKTSTP 100, +100’; ‘C 4.09, +0.26’; ‘KLLMNW 100, +100’.
It's basically Wall Street as written and directed by David Cronenberg.
*Amendment - February 2009: Now I have. It gave me a mild headache.
** Amendment 2 - November 2009: I tried it again and it made me have anal sex with a man.
Monday, 29 December 2008
Commonly Cited Problems with the Game of Football and Proposed Solutions to Those Problems
PROBLEM: Mismatched teams make games uncompetitive.
SOLUTION: Adjust team sizes according to the quality of the players involved; a team might field 11 excellent players, 30 mediocre players or 100 rank amateurs. Squads featuring physically- and/or mentally-handicapped players would qualify for a points bonus.
PROBLEM: The traditional scoring system does not always reflect the quality of a performance.
SOLUTION: Introduce a new system, whereby points are awarded by panels of judges according to the aesthetic merit of a goal. Supplementary points may be earned through excellence in other areas of play: passes, tackles, throw-ins et cetera; kit-design, physical allure, exceptional violent conduct et cetera.
PROBLEM: There are too many football matches; following the sport is difficult, monotonous and time-consuming.
SOLUTION: Consolidate the games of each season -- domestic and international -- into an annual super-game, featuring every team in the world. This super-game will last for one week, and will be conducted on the surface of the moon; 'Football Week' will be a global holiday for all non-participants.
PROBLEM: Some people find football inherently boring.
SOLUTION: Replace all football viewing-- both televised and live -- with reruns of Will & Grace.
SOLUTION: Adjust team sizes according to the quality of the players involved; a team might field 11 excellent players, 30 mediocre players or 100 rank amateurs. Squads featuring physically- and/or mentally-handicapped players would qualify for a points bonus.
PROBLEM: The traditional scoring system does not always reflect the quality of a performance.
SOLUTION: Introduce a new system, whereby points are awarded by panels of judges according to the aesthetic merit of a goal. Supplementary points may be earned through excellence in other areas of play: passes, tackles, throw-ins et cetera; kit-design, physical allure, exceptional violent conduct et cetera.
PROBLEM: There are too many football matches; following the sport is difficult, monotonous and time-consuming.
SOLUTION: Consolidate the games of each season -- domestic and international -- into an annual super-game, featuring every team in the world. This super-game will last for one week, and will be conducted on the surface of the moon; 'Football Week' will be a global holiday for all non-participants.
PROBLEM: Some people find football inherently boring.
SOLUTION: Replace all football viewing-- both televised and live -- with reruns of Will & Grace.
Saturday, 27 December 2008
Those who forget the games of the past...
As I was clearing out my old room in my parents' house yesterday, I came across a historical artifact of unrivalled importance. That artifact was the 1994 WWII-flight-simulator Overlord.At first I failed to recognise the significance of this find; I thought: oh, here's another piece-of-shit DOS game from BAT (Before the Age of Terror) 7 for me to dispose of post-haste. Then I opened the box. Inside it there were nine 3.5" floppy disks -- six labeled 'SVGA GRAPHICS' and three labeled 'PROGRAM DISK' -- a little technical booklet, and a 228-page spiral-bound manual.
The manual is chock-full of historical information: tactical briefings; photographs from the D-Day landings; and quotations from notable military men such as Lt. General Adolph Galland of the Luftwaffe, Air Marshal J.E. 'Johnnie' Johnson of the RAF, and Major Robert S. Johnson of the USAAF.
Here's an excerpt from 'Overlord: The Campaign -- The Prelude'
The Allies, at the beginning of 1944, had a measure of numeric and technical superiority over the German forces. However, the upcoming 'invasion' of France required some sort of surprise as the whole operation could still end in catastrophe. Elaborate security precautions were thus taken and a comprehensive deception plan was worked out.
More work must have gone into this manual than went into the game itself. By way of comparison, the background for 2002's Medal of Honour: Allied Assault takes up one page.
Anyway, as I was saying, I'd intended to throw the game away -- no one's played it in over a decade, after all -- but now I'm concerned that I'd be committing an act of cultural vandalism; a bit like chucking out an original copy of Tacitus' Histories or the Domesday Book.
More work must have gone into this manual than went into the game itself. By way of comparison, the background for 2002's Medal of Honour: Allied Assault takes up one page.
Anyway, as I was saying, I'd intended to throw the game away -- no one's played it in over a decade, after all -- but now I'm concerned that I'd be committing an act of cultural vandalism; a bit like chucking out an original copy of Tacitus' Histories or the Domesday Book.
Thursday, 10 July 2008
*
I haven't written a blog for the best part of a week, so, despite the facts that 1) I have nothing to say, and 2) nobody reads this, I have. Written a blog. This one*.
If you've got this far, it means that you've eluded my recursive-loop trap, congratulations. Now you've proved your worth, the real word-brilliance will commence:
It is six-fifty-eight AM.
I have not slept; after a few hours in bed I gave up on that prospect in order to write a prog-rock song on my digital piano. Only time will tell whether this was the correct course of action.
Last night I watched the movie Chinatown for only the second time. Although it is a fine work, I don't believe that it deserves its reputation as the "greatest kung-fu comedy of 1936." Jack Nicholson's moves are all pretty ropey looking, if you ask me, and the one-liners are few and far between. Having said that, the scene in which he gets his left nostril sliced open by the director, Roman Polanski, is a veritable laugh riot. Legend has it that this incident was not originally included in the script; it was a fortuitous ad lib. Back in the '70s, when Nicholson was at his peak, he used to wander around at night with a small camera crew, looking for opportunities to do some 'real' acting. He would barge into people's houses and pretend to be a cuckolded husband, stumbling in on his wife and her lover in flagrante delicto. He would get into fights with young punks and then beat them senseless, crying "Why did you make me do this, Jonny? Do you think me a monster?!" with tears streaming down his face. He would sleep with hookers and pretend that they were his tender beloveds, then he would go home to Anjelica Huston and claim to be a door-to-door pornography salesman, whereupon he would attempt to sell her the footage. This would crack her up, apparently.
One night, early in the filming of Chinatown, Nicholson and his crew were hanging around outside Polanski's fortified compound, taking it easy after a hard day's work. Suddenly, Nicholson got the idea to break into the director's private skate park (he could have been the Tony Hawk of his day, if he'd got his priorities right) and steal some dirt from the ground; apparently he had this notion that he would start an anonymous blackmailing campaign as a prank, sending letters in which he would claim to "have the dirt on you, you Polack dwarf." However, after scaling the chainlink fence that covered the perimeter of the park, the actor was confronted by two men: a security guard and Polanski himself. Nicholson did not recognise the director, who had been wearing a World War II gas mask for the duration of the shoot, in order to raise money for a charity that dealt with respiratory ailments. Polanski realised this, and decided that he would play a prank of his own, by threatening to cut off his star's nose. Unfortunately, he had not counted on a recurrence of his Situational Parkinson's Disease, which was triggered by the prospect of his being exposed to violence, causing him to slip at a key moment and actually mutilate Nicholson's face.
The next morning, Polanski arrived on set with a heavy heart, thinking that he had derailed his own project, but he found that Nicholson was actually delighted with the whole incident ("Just about the best goddam acting I ever done!"), and that he was determined to get the footage into the film. The director, scarcely able to believe his luck, immediately concurred, and conceived a new scene based around the incident. By an additional stroke of fortune, later scenes, some of which had been filmed prior to that fateful night, already featured Nicholson wearing a bandage on his nose. This had been intended all along, and the response that he gives in the film to one person who asks about his injury was originally supposed to be sincere. The shaving response, that is, not the other one.
If you've got this far, it means that you've eluded my recursive-loop trap, congratulations. Now you've proved your worth, the real word-brilliance will commence:
It is six-fifty-eight AM.
I have not slept; after a few hours in bed I gave up on that prospect in order to write a prog-rock song on my digital piano. Only time will tell whether this was the correct course of action.
Last night I watched the movie Chinatown for only the second time. Although it is a fine work, I don't believe that it deserves its reputation as the "greatest kung-fu comedy of 1936." Jack Nicholson's moves are all pretty ropey looking, if you ask me, and the one-liners are few and far between. Having said that, the scene in which he gets his left nostril sliced open by the director, Roman Polanski, is a veritable laugh riot. Legend has it that this incident was not originally included in the script; it was a fortuitous ad lib. Back in the '70s, when Nicholson was at his peak, he used to wander around at night with a small camera crew, looking for opportunities to do some 'real' acting. He would barge into people's houses and pretend to be a cuckolded husband, stumbling in on his wife and her lover in flagrante delicto. He would get into fights with young punks and then beat them senseless, crying "Why did you make me do this, Jonny? Do you think me a monster?!" with tears streaming down his face. He would sleep with hookers and pretend that they were his tender beloveds, then he would go home to Anjelica Huston and claim to be a door-to-door pornography salesman, whereupon he would attempt to sell her the footage. This would crack her up, apparently.
One night, early in the filming of Chinatown, Nicholson and his crew were hanging around outside Polanski's fortified compound, taking it easy after a hard day's work. Suddenly, Nicholson got the idea to break into the director's private skate park (he could have been the Tony Hawk of his day, if he'd got his priorities right) and steal some dirt from the ground; apparently he had this notion that he would start an anonymous blackmailing campaign as a prank, sending letters in which he would claim to "have the dirt on you, you Polack dwarf." However, after scaling the chainlink fence that covered the perimeter of the park, the actor was confronted by two men: a security guard and Polanski himself. Nicholson did not recognise the director, who had been wearing a World War II gas mask for the duration of the shoot, in order to raise money for a charity that dealt with respiratory ailments. Polanski realised this, and decided that he would play a prank of his own, by threatening to cut off his star's nose. Unfortunately, he had not counted on a recurrence of his Situational Parkinson's Disease, which was triggered by the prospect of his being exposed to violence, causing him to slip at a key moment and actually mutilate Nicholson's face.
The next morning, Polanski arrived on set with a heavy heart, thinking that he had derailed his own project, but he found that Nicholson was actually delighted with the whole incident ("Just about the best goddam acting I ever done!"), and that he was determined to get the footage into the film. The director, scarcely able to believe his luck, immediately concurred, and conceived a new scene based around the incident. By an additional stroke of fortune, later scenes, some of which had been filmed prior to that fateful night, already featured Nicholson wearing a bandage on his nose. This had been intended all along, and the response that he gives in the film to one person who asks about his injury was originally supposed to be sincere. The shaving response, that is, not the other one.
Saturday, 5 July 2008
I Was Once Cut Man to the Queen of England
Despite the government's recent change in policy regarding the acceptable size and weight of pollonium-equipped accoutrements, I am still clinging on to my old Sokolov 116 walking cane. The hip young-folk of Manchester - with their Dali moustaches, Paisley ties and pencil skirts -find no end of merriment in the spectacle of my generous frame ambling along Oxford Road at one or two AM, seeking out cigars and fine liquor. I have become a sort of roving landmark, and locals often point me out to visiting friends, giggling heartily into their home-knitted scarves as they do so. I find all this to be in poor taste, and if they come within slashing range, I often give them a good dose of radiation poisoning. Blighters.
Just last night, as I was re-buttoning my trousers after a particularly good whizz against a fine old oak, I heard someone approaching me from behind, tittering quietly. You've given the game away there, I thought, and I span around with my cane raised over my head, intending to give the interloper a good swipe. To my astonishment, the figure with whom I was presented was none other than a policeman, and a woman policeman at that. I barely managed to check my attack, and for a moment I saw a look of sheer, unbelieving terror explode across her face. This look, however, was quickly replaced with another: apoplectic rage. 'Sir!' she cried, 'put that stick down right now!' I was so taken aback by the situation, that I immediately complied, dropping the cane at my feet. 'Were you, sir,' she continued, 'about to strike a member of Her Majety's Constabulary?' I hardly knew how to reply. 'Madam,' I said, 'I am deeply sorry, I took you for a young stumplicker, out to cause me a mischief or more.' She did not respond to this, but bade me kneel down on the floor, which I did with some difficulty, owing to my girth. Once I had assumed this disadvantageous position, she moved around behind me and fastened my hands together with her handcuffs. She then proceeded to kick and punch me into a state of unconsciousness, in full view of a dozen or more onlookers, who gathered about us and cried out encouragements.
When I awoke the following morning, I found myself naked and tied to a chair in one of the abandoned buildings that lie on the outskirts of the city. My body had been completely shaved, and the words 'twat' and 'cock' had been smeared across my chest in a mixture of gold paint and human excrement. I eventually managed to free myself, only to discover that the building in which I had been placed was none other than the old lace factory on Tungsten Lane. I managed to gather together a few tattered souvenirs of this once proud establishment, from which I constructed a pretty decent looking three-piece suit. I put it on, and, my nudity thus concealed, set about looking for something to eat. Using the hunting skills I had developed during my time as a fugitive from justice in the Spanish Alps, I was quickly able to capture three plump rats, which I then used to concoct a simple but very edible stew. My hunger sated, I settled down on the dirty, peeling floorboards and began to compose a theory of being. Over the next two weeks, I worked most industriously, and by the time I emerged from the former lace factory, with an array of homemade garments tucked under one arm and a bag of rat meat for the journey home clutched in my free hand, I had completed my masterwork: Being Time and Time Being and So Forth.
Having secured an international publishing deal for the book, I am now on the cusp of becoming a celebrity philosopher of the first rank; clearly, what had initially appeared to be a traumatising experience was actually most fulfilling! My only regret is that, since my retreat boasted rats in such plentiful numbers, I got even fatter during my time there. I now weigh 476 lbs.
Just last night, as I was re-buttoning my trousers after a particularly good whizz against a fine old oak, I heard someone approaching me from behind, tittering quietly. You've given the game away there, I thought, and I span around with my cane raised over my head, intending to give the interloper a good swipe. To my astonishment, the figure with whom I was presented was none other than a policeman, and a woman policeman at that. I barely managed to check my attack, and for a moment I saw a look of sheer, unbelieving terror explode across her face. This look, however, was quickly replaced with another: apoplectic rage. 'Sir!' she cried, 'put that stick down right now!' I was so taken aback by the situation, that I immediately complied, dropping the cane at my feet. 'Were you, sir,' she continued, 'about to strike a member of Her Majety's Constabulary?' I hardly knew how to reply. 'Madam,' I said, 'I am deeply sorry, I took you for a young stumplicker, out to cause me a mischief or more.' She did not respond to this, but bade me kneel down on the floor, which I did with some difficulty, owing to my girth. Once I had assumed this disadvantageous position, she moved around behind me and fastened my hands together with her handcuffs. She then proceeded to kick and punch me into a state of unconsciousness, in full view of a dozen or more onlookers, who gathered about us and cried out encouragements.
When I awoke the following morning, I found myself naked and tied to a chair in one of the abandoned buildings that lie on the outskirts of the city. My body had been completely shaved, and the words 'twat' and 'cock' had been smeared across my chest in a mixture of gold paint and human excrement. I eventually managed to free myself, only to discover that the building in which I had been placed was none other than the old lace factory on Tungsten Lane. I managed to gather together a few tattered souvenirs of this once proud establishment, from which I constructed a pretty decent looking three-piece suit. I put it on, and, my nudity thus concealed, set about looking for something to eat. Using the hunting skills I had developed during my time as a fugitive from justice in the Spanish Alps, I was quickly able to capture three plump rats, which I then used to concoct a simple but very edible stew. My hunger sated, I settled down on the dirty, peeling floorboards and began to compose a theory of being. Over the next two weeks, I worked most industriously, and by the time I emerged from the former lace factory, with an array of homemade garments tucked under one arm and a bag of rat meat for the journey home clutched in my free hand, I had completed my masterwork: Being Time and Time Being and So Forth.
Having secured an international publishing deal for the book, I am now on the cusp of becoming a celebrity philosopher of the first rank; clearly, what had initially appeared to be a traumatising experience was actually most fulfilling! My only regret is that, since my retreat boasted rats in such plentiful numbers, I got even fatter during my time there. I now weigh 476 lbs.
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