I Am Livid

For those of you who don’t listen to the podcast (I know you’re there) the Christian Bale segment is now up on Youtube, mainly because I wanted to play around with the features of iMovie in iLife 09.

Watch it below. Or don’t, it’s up to you…

I go to the cinema quite a lot.  I had a student job as a projectionist, so I’ve always had a fascination with the Big Screen.  But we are in a recession, so every penny counts, and I am not as flush as I used to be.  So, when my friend Amy mentioned she had borrowed a moody copy of the newly-released film, The Curious Case Benjamin Button, I suggested a few of us get together to watch it on my newly installed cinema system.  Though technically illegal, I was pretty confident that I could do a deal with the senior officer to grass her up to save myself having to do any serious hard time.

We were joined by the Fat Jim’s and settled in to watch a movie that has been nominated for numerous awards.

I knew full well that Amy had only selected this film because Brad Pitt was in it.  I am not stupid. She once said that the only reason she would kick him out of bed would be to shag him on the floor.  This led to a little game for Fat Jim and I to play during the film, a film in which Brad Pitt starts really old, and gets younger.

We called it, “Would you fuck him yet, Amy?”

She seemed to think that this game was sick, for merely suggesting that she might shag a bald, ninety year-old, arthritic Brad Pitt.

It was still a sick game when he was eighty-five. “You wouldn’t kick him out of bed, you might break a hip.” I helpfully pointed out.

It turned out however, that SHE was the sick one, as she would “probably” have sex with a seventy year-old Brad Pitt.  The fucking septuagenarophile pervert!

We had reached the point where Brad Pitt had got down to about sixty, and Amy was all agog, when the sound went off.  The picture was fine, but the sound disappeared.  I tried cleaning the disc, playing it in my Xbox 360 instead, fast forwarding it to a different chapter.  Everything.

It was simply a shit forgery.

I suppose I should be grateful for this stark reminder that counterfeit films are not as good as the real thing, and that they put cash directly into the hands of the drugs trade (though I think it’s fair to say a large number of actors and film execs put their cash in exactly the same place, so my watching moody films merely cuts out the middle man).

In hindsight I am pleased the sound failed when it did, as I have no idea what sort of frenzy Amy would have been in had Brad ever got to twenty-five.

I am stood at the bar in Paddington station with half an hour to kill till my next train.  I may not have mentioned it much, but I am not drinking during January, so I have the embarrassment of ordering a mineral water to look forward to.  I am sure my liver is thanking me.  Silently.  And with nothing outwardly noticeable.

The middle-aged man in front of me at the bar looks familiar, but I can’t place him.  This is annoying because I am good with faces.  Rubbish with names, but great with faces.  Very often I will see some obscure actor on TV and point out that he was previously that guy in that show about the thing, you know, the one with the woman in it.

He orders a Guinness and some nuts.  As the barman finishes pouring his pint he says, quite generously in my opinion “…and take one for yourself.”

“Thanks, what sort of drink are we talking about?” queries the barman.

He is surprised at this question, as am I.

In the olden days people would regularly tip the barman, and “have one yourself” would mean take a few pence, or “two bob” as my Dad says.  Not any more, clearly.

The man shrugs his shoulders and looks at me.  This is when I recognise him.

“I didn’t realise that offer would be a negotiation.” I point out to the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on the BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors.

He chuckles and says to the barman, in uncertain tones, “Three quid?”

“Thanks very much.” concludes the barman.

He goes off to his table and I take my refreshing and healthy, yet completely unsatisfying, mineral water to a nearby table.  I take out a book and begin to read, with just twenty two minutes to kill.

A few minutes later, the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on the BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors asks me if I would mind keeping an eye on his bags whilst he goes for a cigarette.  Of course, we are both in the entertainment industry, technically, so I feel it would be churlish to refuse on the grounds that he has been on television.  I agree, but point out in tones that show I am also in the entertainment industry, that my train leaves in fifteen minutes, so I can only wait that long till he returns.  I would not miss my train for him, even though he is the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors.

After ten minutes I begin to worry.  Cigarettes do not take that long to smoke, surely?  Perhaps it is an elaborate ruse, and Al Qaeda have taken to disguising themselves as the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on the BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors in order to trick innocent commuters into guarding their as-yet-unexploded incendiary devices?

I briefly consider checking his bags for explosives.  On the plus side, I could be declared a hero for not falling for Al Qaeda’s latest campaign, and saving many, many lives.  On the downside, I could be charged with attempted theft and make it to somewhere around page seven in next week’s Heat magazine.  “Top Blogger attempts to steal from the guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on the BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors.” would make a headline I would never live down.

I decide to wait it out.

After fourteen minutes I pack up my things and put on my jacket as I prepare to leave for my train.  The guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors has not returned.  I feel he is taking our entertainment-industry camaraderie a little too far.  It is possible that by leaving his bags unattended I could inadvertently cause a security alert, but technically that would be his fault and I much prefer the sound of a Heat headline reading, “The guy who plays that nurse in that thing in the hospital on BBC that is a bit like ER but with uglier actors causes security alert by leaving bags unattended.”

My mind is made up, I will leave the bags.  As I take my first step towards the exit he returns.  He thanks me politely and I make my way to my train, at which point I remember that he plays the character Charlie in Casualty.

There are some people who claim they can see into the future.

There are some people who claim to have seen their own destinies mapped out before them in the stars.

And now it appears that there are people who can see their own futures, in alarming detail, whilst deciding on an appropriate title for their new books.  You might need to click on the image to get a look at it in all its glory (a little bit of back-combing and that monkey could be his partner in crime).

Honestly, sometimes this shit just writes itself.

Osama Bin Laden has nineteen (19) children.  That was the first alarming thing that struck me after I read this article.

Osama Bin Laden has had sex at least nineteen times.  Which I am sure you will all agree is pretty impressive for someone who has spent a large proportion of his adult life in a cave.  I live in a vibrant tourist town and I have only just struggled to reach double figures (that is a joke, my struggle to reach double figures ended ages and ages ago).  This news does seem to make one statement though; to all those people who say we should, “Make love, not war”, old Osama seems to have proven that the two are not mutually exclusive.

His son is seeking asylum in Spain, I’m not sure from what, but having the world’s most unpopular Dad (Clinton’s worst selling mug) is probably quite high on the list.

Getting out from under your fathers shadow can be a tall order, I imagine.  Especially if your father is famous, or should I say, infamous.  It must also be tough for Osama himself, having his son that fails so spectacularly to live up to expectations.  I suppose it is a bit like Alan Carr’s Dad who was a footballer, and then a football manager, the stereotypical man’s man.  A camp comedian was probably not high on his list of hopes for his infant son.

The fact that Bin Laden Jnr. is a confirmed pacifist must have hit Osama very hard indeed.  He would probably have preferred it if he had announced he was gay and wanted to perform stand-up.

“Dad, I abhor violence of all kinds.  I am committed to a life of peace.”

“Are you sure?  You’ve not given terrorism a proper go yet.  How can you say you don’t like it if you’ve never tried it?  It’s a bit like Spinach when you were a kid, and look how much you like that now!”

“No Dad, I want to live in the West and meet a visually impaired fifty-something that I can grow old - well, oldER - with.”

“Won’t you try blowing up just one infidel?  Just one?  For Daddy?”

So while debate rages about whether to admit Bin Laden Jnr. into Spain, let us not forget his heartbroken father crying himself to sleep in a cave somewhere.

Radio DJ and television presenter Jo Whiley has given birth to her fourth child, a baby girl.

In their infinite wisdom, her parents have decided to call her Coco Lux.

Let us just think about that for a minute.

When Coco Lux gets older and has her own family, they will be greeted at family parties with the call, “Here come the Coco Lux Clan!”  Whereupon all the black people will run and hide.

Why would you give your child a name that sounds like a stuttering racist? Unless of course you were a closet racist yourself?  We can only assume the names “Aryan Race” and “Apartheid” were considered a little too ‘in your face’, and that Coco Lux was deemed to strike the right balance between subtlety and a strong white supremacist message.

Good luck Coco, I think you will need it.

They say that we should all take responsibility for our actions.  Keeping them secret is bad for the soul, and the ‘wrong thing to do’.

Sometimes you have to be a big man and own up to previous indiscretions.

Which is why I am amazed at the furore surrounding Russell Brands brave admission to Andrew Sachs that he had sex with his grand-daughter.  That takes balls.  Even more so to do it on national radio.

Admittedly, he needed the moral support of a good friend and fellow broadcaster to do the actual confessing itself, but that should not detract from the effort on his part.

Would the 20,000 or so people who have complained to the BBC rather he had lied?  The BBC has already been in trouble over misleading it’s viewers and listeners, so the public should make up its mind.  You can not have it both ways.

These 20,000 truth-haters have now ensured that both Jonathan Ross and Russell Brand will find themselves on the Sachs Offenders register, whose only previous occupant was a moustache wearing Torquay hotelier.  It is a shame.

I understand that Ross took his suspension after his refusal to read the following statement:

“I say sorry, unreservedly, and regret my rude, randy and rotten remarks. I did not intend the worry or embarrassment derived from my remarks.”

UPDATE: I have just learned that Georgina Baillie, Andrew Sachs’ grand-daughter, about whom this whole sorry affair began, has decided to take action.  So ashamed is she by the embarrassment caused to her grand-father, and so offended by the publicity granted to her by a brief dalliance with Russell Brand, she is taking the only action she can, and is removing herself from the public eye whilst hoping this whole sorry affair will die down, sooner rather than later.  And she has found just the person to help her in this quest. Max Clifford.

The internet is massive.  Absolutely massive.

I do not think there has ever been an accurate headcount, but I will bet that there are literally thousands of people on it.  And of those tens of hundreds, I have just one request.

Please, please, please write to Ringo Starr asking for a signed photograph.  We only have a week in which to make this request, as after the 20th October he will be ignoring all requests.

This means we only have six days for everyone on the Internet to get their Ringo Starr autograph.

You might think this is a petty practical joke in response to a public figure’s egotistical dismissal of his fan base, but it is not.  It is a serious request, and I will now explain why.

Ringo is now 68 years of age, and though Sod’s Law dictates he will inevitably be the last Beatle to die, he can not go on forever.  When he finally relinquishes his grasp on this mortal coil, there will be a stampede for items bearing his name.  This booming trade will lead to profiteering by ruthless criminal elements, and much like the moody DVDs at your local market, it could end up ’supporting terrorism’.  Which is a bad thing, mostly.

The only way to ensure that this black market does not thrive upon Ringo’s demise, is to ensure that every man woman and child on the planet already owns a Ringo Starr autograph.

Of course, in order to write to Ringo Starr we need an address for him, which is not on his website, for obvious reasons.  So, if anyone knows how to get hold of the correct address to use in the next six days, please leave it in the comment box below or email it to me, as you could be helping us BEAT THE TERRORISTS!

Songwriters tend to have a knack for understanding exactly how their target audience is feeling.  This uncanny ability to create songs that speak directly to us, as if we wrote them ourselves, can lead to global meagstardom for the talented few.

There are exceptions of course, like when Gary Glitter asked us if we wanted to be in “his gang”, but that was his fault for not being explicit about what being in his gang entailed.   Then again, I guess he would not have been invited on Top of the Pops if he had sung, “Do you wanna be in my gang of kiddy fiddlers?”, mainly because it scans really badly and there’s not much that rhymes with fiddlers.

So I was intrigued to listen to new pop-sensation Katy Perry’s recent chart-buster, “I kissed a girl”.  The song has become something of a worldwide hit, and so it clearly resonates with the youth of today.

The chorus begins, “I kissed a girl and I liked it.”

OK Katy, I am with you so far.  I too have tried it, and felt much the same way.  I would perhaps have said something stronger than ‘like’ but let us not get hung up on that.

“The taste of her cherry chapstick”

I must be honest here and say that I tend to avoid snogging girls with overly chapped lips, but each to the their own I suppose.  Some people get off on amputees, so in the overall grand scheme of things chapped lips is relatively normal.  Whatever floats your pretty little boat.

“I kissed a girl, just to try it.”

Fair enough, but there really is no need to defend yourself or your actions.  It’s not like you injected smack or anything.  I am not sure if kissing a girl is a gateway sexual deviancy but it might be best keep a close eye on your cravings from now on.

“I hope my boyfriend don’t mind it.”

Right.  This is where I think you are a little bit off the pace here Katy.  If you are going to go around experimenting by kissing other girls, the one person on the entire planet who is NOT going to mind, is your boyfriend.  If you had said, “my Mother” or “my Pastor”, then I could understand your concern.  As it is, I doubt you even got to the second verse before your boyfriend had you on the phone to invite your ’special friend’ round for dinner, whilst simultaneously texting the word “BINGO!” to all of his mates.

If she believes she did wrong then she has clearly lost touch with the planet’s entire male population.  Which is a lot of potential customers.  I think she should strongly reconsider her planned follow up single, “I won’t lez it up because no men will buy my album if I do.”

We were on our way back from one one of Cornwall’s most famous golf courses, when Ickle suggested we should stop off somewhere for dinner.

“Padstow is just down the road,” he said, “Rick Stein has got a quite famous fish and chip shop there?”

Ickle’s record that week for suggesting activities was far from impressive, but I quite like fish and chips, though I do not like celebrity chefs.  It was a dilemma, to be sure.  My argument that any celebrity chef opening a fish and chip shop is clearly going to be doing so not for Michelin stars, but just to make a shit load of cash fell upon deaf hears, and so off towards Padstow we headed.

We were surprised to find that there was a small sit-in area at his chip shop, I suppose to give us the faintest illusion of being in a restaurant.  We stood in the queue and waited for a table.

And waited.

At about ten to nine we had finally reached the front of the queue.  A waitress came over to us and I began handing over my order.  She immediately interrupted me.

“I’m sorry.  We close at 9pm, so I don’t think we’ll be able to seat you now.”

“What?  We’ve just queued for quarter of an hour!”

“Sorry about that.  You can still get a take away?”

Faced with with having nothing to eat, or having fish and chips in the car, we joined the take away queue,  which moved only marginally quicker than the sit-down queue.

“I’ll have cod and chips with mushy peas please.”

“We’re out of mushy peas.”

Out-fucking-rageous.

What sort of chip shop runs out of mushy peas?  A really fucking shit one, that’s what sort of chip shop runs out of mushy peas.  One that is more interested in ensuring massive profit margins and minimising potential waste than serving it’s customers.

I picked up a can of Coke and headed to the till with my tiny box of cod and chips.

“That’ll be £9.20 please.”

“£9.20? Are you sure? I mean, I know I’ve been queueing for quite a while, but inflation in Cornwall is hardly at Zimbabwe’s levels is it?”

“Urm, right.  That’s £9.20 please.”

I sat fuming in the car whilst eating my ridiculously expensive tiny dinner and vowed not to listen to any of Ickle’s ideas ever again.  Unless he suggested going to the pub.

I note with interest that the authorities in South Africa are looking to legalise prostitution for the duration of the World Cup in 2010.

I think this is a bit premature on their part.  Firstly, England have yet to qualify, and even if we do, there is no guarantee that Wayne Rooney will make the squad.

There is a lot to be said for selling your soul to the devil.  Look at the success of odious ginger dwarf Anthony Worrall Thompson, you can not tell me that hasn’t come without the help of Lucifer himself.

Not only has he opened a ‘Grill’ nearby (which incidentally has had some of the worst word of mouth reviews I’ve ever heard) but he has now opened another shop a few doors up the road.  I guess his new shop could best be described as a delicatessen.  I have not been in, obviously.

“Have you seen AWT’s new place up the road?” asked my friend Amy.

“No.”

“It’s great, they’ve got loads of fresh food in there, lots of delicious treats.”

“Right.”

“That’s not the best bit either!”

“Oh?”

“No!  They cook big joints during the day so you can have freshly cooked meat sandwiches at lunchtime, and also a more traditional meal in take-away form in the evening.”

“OK.”

“Plus they do fresh bags of prepared ingredients so you can cook your own dinner at home, to match some of AWT’s recipes.  All the food is healthy, free from additives and I think there’s a lot of organic produce too.”

“So what did you buy?”

“Erm, some wine.”

So you see, when it comes to lining the pockets of AWT, there are some things even the Devil can’t do.

After licking our wounds (not a euphemism) due to the previous nights lack of success, we decided to try one of the islands other infamous hotspots. This particular club, Harbour Lights, had an unusual door policy. For the equivalent of about six pounds you not only gained entrance to the venue, you could also drink for free. All. Night. Long.

Despite several minutes asking, “Yes, but where’s the catch?” I could not find one and so we took our place at the bar to drink our body weights in Barbadian rum punch. This was a business model that would clearly not translate well in binge-drinking Britain.

After a short while we got talking to a couple of girls from England. Soon after, G went off to dance with his, and I was left to alienate the other one. I have always found it strange how being geographically accurate can sometimes be seen as offensive. Facts are facts, it is not like I was making stuff up. Technically I was correct, she was an “Essex Girl”. Not that the accuracy of my statement seemed to help. I may also have said something about arriving in a Ford Capri, my memory of the exact details is a little vague.

As the night/early morning began to draw to a close I noticed G and his lady friend in a three-way conversation with another young man. As per the previous evening, this young man, and his group of a dozen or so friends once again looked familiar. But I had been put on alert after the previous evening, and I was absolutely certain they were not footballers.  He would be fine.

G returned to the bar a few moments later.

“Fucking hell.” he began.

“What? Blown out again?”

“Yeah, this time by the Australian cricket team.”

I believe this is what is known as Karma. If you benefit from a free holiday to one of the best resorts in the world, you are destined to be unsuccessful in your pursuit of the opposite sex. I suppose this is why I always do well in Bognor Regis.

I am back, safe and sound. I am sure you were all concerned at my sudden and unplanned disappearance, but I am glad we have reached that point in our relationship where not one of you needed to email to check I was OK.

Which I was, you know, if you were wondering and not wanting to seem needy by sending an email to check that fact.

Barbados is nice, but I am pretty sure that this fact is not news to you, and I am certain none of you want to hear about what a brilliant time I had whilst I was there. Or do you?

You would probably like me to focus on things like how I selflessly helped out my mate G after his girlfriend couldn’t make it at the last minute, only for us to suffer gay jibes at the hands of his colleagues and their partners also on this work-related ‘reward’ holiday. And how this forced us into downtown Barbados on our second night in the hope of meeting “some girls”.

As with every other holiday destination around the world that I have visited, it did not take long before I made my way to the nearest Irish Bar, in this case a place called McBrides.

There, stood dancing gently to the band were two very attractive young girls. G and I put our plans in place and bought some drinks to take over and say Hi with (it was happy hour, we are not made of money). Then, we noticed two young men return from the bar with drinks for them.

Booo! They had selfishly taken their boyfriends on holiday with them!

“He looks very familiar.” I commented to G of the taller blond one.

“Really?”

“Yes, I definitely know him from somewhere. The TV or something?”

Then his friend turned around and I realised where I knew them from.

Now, there are very few times where I will admit defeat in pursuit of a woman without even talking to her. I generally like to be told to piss off first, as ‘you never know’. But when you are faced with the challenge of taking them away from two twenty-something Premiership and International footballers, even I realise my limitations. Plus I did not have the hour or so to spend wooing them with my sparkling personality.

We decided to leave Joe Cole and Nicklas Bendtner to it, though they were pestered by quite a few holiday makers. It made me realise that my decision to write this blog anonymously was the right one. I would not like to be hounded everywhere I go. It looks like hell.

We moved on safe in the knowledge that this was a once in a holiday experience and we could surely not get gazumped by professional sportsmen again.