Whatever Floats Your Boat

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I think that a persons obsessions tells you a lot about who they are. Are you obsessed with football, fashion or kiddie porn? Meh... Then fuck it- we probably wouldn't get along. For me it has to be films with one particular highlight of my life being the year I spent alone watching three or four of them a night... anything to break up the crying and wanking I suppose. Anyway, during this time I basically face planted the world of cinema and learned as much shit as I could to help distract me from the great depression that is my life. As a result I learnt about a chap called Werner Herzog whose bleak outlook made my own darkness look like a warm puddle of piss in a vast ocean of grim. To be frank, I think that the guy is a fucking genius. For anybody unaware of who he is, I'll explain a bit more in a second but to set him up I have a little quote. You know the sheer beauty of the exotic jungle? Well, during the making of his film Fitzcarraldo, Herzog saw it a little differently, “Of course, there's a lot of misery. But it is the same misery that is all around us. The trees here are in misery, and the birds are in misery. I don't think they- they sing. They just screech in pain.” There is nothing that I want more than for Herzog to develop a second career as a zoo tour guide. Can you imagine it? “The Lion is suffering in his rusty man-made cage while the Kangaroo hops about with an ecstatic insanity... And the Orang-utan? Well he just stares into the abyss like a great ginger cunt”. Ah... A boy can dream.

Welcome To The Jungle

As I write this right now, we're at that time of year in Britain when the sun decides to briefly pop out. It's not fun though. I hate it! We only get about four days of summer a year and by day two I'm massively pissed off by it. I can deal with the cold by just putting on more layers but when it's hot, we're fucked! What am I meant to do to cool down? Ideally I'd be walking around with my balls out, ice-packs strapped to my head and my cock windmilling around as I attempt to create any form of breeze. What did you do on your one week of summer? Did you take the kids to the zoo? Or maybe lie out in your garden and read the latest piece of shit book that all the thick people have been raving about? Well fuck that because I had better plans. I stayed in doors, I closed the curtains and I forced my hungover friend to watch Rambo with me as he lay half dead on the sofa. Bring on the fucking rain, I say. Bring on the fucking misery.

The Ones On Who You Can Depend?

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For me, my true family are my friends. These are the people that I spend my time with by choice and not just because it's our dribbling Grandpa's last wish before he does us all a favour and kicks the bucket. Friends might be there when you're in trouble, but the real sign of closeness comes when a computer game causes you to engage in verbal abuse and nobody really cares. I had one friend tell me that he hoped that I'd die in real life and I told another to take his ugly tits and fuck right off. There was this one time when I accidentally went running down a sand dune at about two o'clock in the morning and, due to a combination of drink and gravity, I got carried away. Within seconds I was practically vertical and travelling at about two hundred miles an hour before the obvious happened and I began to fly. Tripping, I found myself hurtling headfirst into the darkness, using only my face to soften the fall and then sliding down the remainder of the way on my chest... What a knobhead! At the top of the dune were my friends who were clearly worried for my life. As I lay still at the bottom, I could hear two things from them... the first was their calls to make sure I was okay or at the very least still alive. The second was their attempts to breathe inbetween the mad fits of hysterical laughter having just witnessed my pretty decent impression of a sack of shit.

Crashing The Party

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I don't like sports, however that's not to say I have anything against sports movies- so long as they do something more inventive than spunk out the usual shit about being an underdog. Despite the obvious appeal of watching Stallone get his face punched in, I'm not a huge fan of Rocky however I'm certainly willing to turn my back on anybody that doesn't love Raging Bull. Of all the sports to have films about them, it seems like boxing is the most popular which I suppose is simply due to the dramatic ways in which people can get their mush fucked up. I thankfully haven't been exposed to that much crap but I did see Goal a little while ago and obviously hated it. Like football itself, I guess I just found it hard to feel much tension over some smug little shits ability to use his over-valued trotters to nudge a ball into a net. Obviously that's not a blanket rule and I'd always have an open mind but the general thing seems to be that sports films are better when they're about the player and not the game. With this in mind and considering what I said before, I'm surprised there hasn't been more films about racing cars. Are they even called 'racing cars'? Because when I read that back just then, it sounded like it was written by a child with learning difficulties... Fuck it- they're cars and they race so I'm not wrong to say it. Anyway, I'm surprised there haven't been more films about racing cars because they can have the same guff around them in terms of story but it's broken up by some high speed chases. I wouldn't ever watch F1 by choice but in terms of movies, I can't see anything unappealing about interesting characters being blasted around a track in a fuck off car that's using a rocket as a butt plug.