Things Were The Way They Should Be

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Like going for a massage and finding yourself being tugged off before you leave, the end of Toy Story 3 was absolutely perfect. So why the fuck would anybody make a Toy Story 4? The trilogy had concluded with Woody and the toys accepting that their life with Andy was over as they watched him drive off into the distance. Where could you possibly go next? Does Andy come home as a paedophile, grab his old toys back, and use them to lure in the local children? Meanwhile in this scenario, his toys would have to decide whether or not they can reveal their true consciousness to intervene, whilst also coming to terms with the fact that the child they loved has grown up to be a monster? Because that's the only logical way that I can think of Toy Story 4 having anything interesting or new to say. Each of the three films have so far told the exact same story in that they're about one or more toys getting lost and having to find their way home. Meanwhile, there's an extra layer of existential subtext in there in which the franchise spoon feeds you the bullshit lessons of life. The first movie taught us that we're not unique or special, the second that we will be abandoned by the people that we love, and the third that finally, we will die. But if we remember that quote from pretentious wall painter Banksy, “you die twice. One time when you stop breathing and a second time, a bit later on, when somebody says your name for the last time”. This might present itself as being nothing more than a children's film but with Toy Story 4 it seems that it's time for Woody to experience his second fucking death.

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Fortune Favours The Dumb

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It took me so many attempts to get my drivers licence that, had I failed my final test, then I was genuinely prepared to claim the instructor had touched me on my 'no no parts' to blackmail them into passing me. I know that sounds terrible but they were failing me over such pedantic reasons that I started to suspect they were only doing it to fund their fucking Christmas party. As a consolation, I was told that the smarter a person is, the harder they find driving because people with a brain tend to overthink a situation instead of responding naturally. “Great”, I thought, “the world favours the morons once again”. First we weren't allowed free Pogs in our packets of crisps because some knobhead chocked to death on one and now I'm paying almost a hundred fucking quid a go because I signalled before checking my twatting mirror. Well, that was ten years ago, and although to be fair it has subsequently turned out that I am just a bit of a shit driver, it seems that the world is still looking after the idiots. This was meant to be the year that writer director Alex Garland had Annihilation, the follow up to his amazing directorial debut Ex Machina, released in cinemas only to find that idea shat all over by the kingdom of the fucking dumb at the last minute.

A Film About Depression?

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For me, Captain America: Civil War is one giant multi-million dollar metaphor for depression. The Avengers are being pressured into signing up to a contract in which they submit themselves to Earth's various Governments like a gang of gimped-up, pocket-holding, prison bitches. Tony Stark is all up for this deal having spent the previous few films allowing his post-tits-up guilt to begin to torture him as though his brain is hosting a party for a pencil-stabbing dominatrix and a naughty British MP on his birthday. Captain America however is slightly more dubious about signing up to a sinister organisation having been Deliverance-style fucked by the S.H.I.E.L.D/Hydra bullshit of his previous film. The two characters begin to bicker and fight with all of their various super-chums picking sides as though we're watching a gay couple's divorce take place in an exclusively camp fancy-dress shop. It's also worth mentioning that Bucky Barnes' Winter Soldier is a key player here with Stark wanting him captured and Cap attempting to protect him. Many people might wonder why Captain America is so hell-bent on protecting his clearly dangerous friend however if I was a seventy year old virgin then I reckon I'd also remain pretty loyal to a man with a pneumatic metal wanking arm.

Kids Need To Learn That Life Is Grim

If you're depressed about being a fuck up then it's probably Disney's fault. I'm not blaming the house of mouse for the fact that you're seemingly incapable of achieving happiness but rather that you consider it your own fault. Being the constant miserabilist that I am, I've taken to asking most people within my social circle if they're happy and the two most positive responses that I've had are “I'm in a happier place” and “I don't like this line of questioning”. Am I happy? No. I wake up every morning, rate my joy out of eight and then stick my head in the oven, on that gas mark and for that equivalent amount of minutes. Literally nobody will admit to being content because nobody actually fucking is, but in this world of social media we assume that everybody is swimming in an ocean of success whilst we're trying not to drown in a swimming pool of piss. People used to be worried that the grass was always greener on the other side but some days I can't help but feel it'd simply look better from six foot below.