Standin' On Their Own Two Feet

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The numbering system of the Ocean's films must be really confusing to anybody who hasn't seen them, with the logical assumption being that Ocean's 8 would be a prequel to Ocean's 11. In which case I feel I should warn you now.. Ocean's 8 doesn't involve Sandra Bullock and Cate Blanchett running into a sex-change clinic to alter their identities with George Clooney and Brad Pitt limping out in a dress a few hours later. Although I suppose retconning the original Ocean's movies to reveal the characters were actually a devious gang of transexuals would admittedly show some balls. Literally. Rather, this new film takes place after the previous three but focuses instead on Debbie, the sister of Clooney's original Danny Ocean. Debbie, played by Sandra Bullock, is also a con-artist and thief with the film opening in much the same way as Ocean's 11 did; with her being released from prison. I'm not sure how one family could independently create two con-artists but I'm now also a lot more suspicious of whatever the fuck Clooney and Bullock were really up to at the start of Gravity. And seems as this thieving bullshit apparently runs in the family I think I'll be watching Billy Ocean a lot more closely from now on too.

Clucking Hell

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When I was about eight years old I saw the Grim Reaper standing at the end of my bed as I was trying to sleep. I tried to convince myself that it was just the shadow from my dressing gown hanging off the back of my bedroom door, but as I lay frozen with fear I could see his arms moving back and forth, beckoning me. Obviously I screamed the fucking house down and as soon as there was a convenient ad break in her show, my Mum ran up the stairs to see what was the matter. This happened every night for the next few nights until my Mum eventually decided to solve the problem forever. Clearly her son was having some sort of nervous breakdown and clearly I was in need of some sort of therapist to help with the existential dread that I was so clearly facing. Anyway I was given a night light, told that the Grim Reaper was more interested in my Nan than he was me, and informed that I should stop acting like such a fucking pussy. I can't say I haven't seen death since because I'm pushing thirty now and so I see it every time I walk past a fucking mirror. But I still remember how frightened I was as I lay there not knowing what the shadowy figure wanted with me. The irony being that having discovered quite how much of a pain in the arse life can be, there are nights now in which I wake up and find myself annoyed not to find the hooded prick waiting for me.

From Capitalist To Naturalist

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John Hammond, the creator of the original Jurassic Park, was a fucking moron. He brings the dinosaurs back to life and decides that the best thing to do with them is to stick them in a theme park? Who thinks like that?! That's like being the first person to meet a martian and deciding that the best thing to do is to stick it in a lap dancing club and charge people to watch it jiggle its massive space tits. After spending a fortune on this park he then decides to try and run it with about five people after sending his own grandchildren out on a test-run. To make matters worse he has a big fat fucker in charge of security that he actively seems to hate and who seems dissatisfied with his work load and pay. Hammond literally may as well have handed his staff pictures of himself going nuts deep in the dinosaurs' egg-pooping-holes because it's seemingly obvious that he wants to be blackmailed and this way'll be safer for everyone else. Had all of this somehow worked out and the Park opened though, it seems that the dopey fucker had also built the thing on an active fucking volcano. I presume the exploding island that he bought must have been slightly cheaper than the other options of a nuclear testing site and an ancient Native American burial ground. Sadly for all involved, the creator of Jurassic World saw every dumb thing that Hammond did and thought, “Fuck it.. I reckon he was just unlucky”.

The Sound Of Silence

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I put a lot of thought into exactly when I'd go and see John Krasinski's A Quiet Place because people are noisy and I fucking hate them all. Horror movies are the worst type of film to see at the cinema because the posters for them might as well just read “All pricks are welcome”. Teenagers go in crowds to see them to show how brave they are to each other, accidentally get scared, and so to avoid seeming silly begin to openly mock the film to their gaggle of piss-giggling chums. My theory was that I'd likely be stuck with the largest number of fuckheads in an evening screen, with Friday and Saturday night especially being the cinema-equivalent of a bell-end's Mecca. As such I decided to go on a Sunday afternoon because who the fuck wants to spend that day relaxing to a sodding monster film? There are two types of 'Sunday people' with half the population spending it hungover and the other half praising God. Either way I figured I was safe. You can imagine my horror therefore when I opened the door to the screen and saw half of the fucking country sat and waiting for the film to start. I know I shouldn't think it when I go the cinema but I really did wish I'd brought a fucking axe with me.