A Fish Out Of Water

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I was once working in a pub as four blokes in their mid-fifties were sat around ranting to each other about the problems with the youth of today. “You're in your twenties, aren't you” one of them eventually said to me, “I mean- you lot... I bet you can't even put your foot on this ceiling?!” There's a lot that you can slag my generation off for and so I'll admit that this criticism took me a little by surprise. “Obviously I can't”, I answered whilst pulling my best 'you're a fucking tit' face, “but I bet you can't either!” I don't know if people in his day found that walking around on their hands was a more efficient way to get around, but I was certainly intrigued by his declaration of, “actually... I fucking can”. “Go on then” I challenged, whilst excitedly preparing for the fact that on this shift I was about to get paid to watch on old man break his fucking back. It was at this point that the guy simply reached down to what turned out to be his prosthetic leg, popped it off, reached up, touched the foot against the ceiling and began to laugh. I know people don't like to hear it but sometimes disabled people aren't just victims. Sometimes disabled people can be knobheads as well.

Let's Be Frank

Frank starts in some fucking God-awful British coastal town where the beach is made out of broken rocks and the sky is constantly threatening to piss down. Life for Jon is predictably boring with his attempts at writing songs resulting in both unproductive brain-farts and well... shit. One day when out walking, he spots a man attempting suicide which, having seen the grottiness of the area, seems like common sense to me. Being both British and human though, Jon doesn't really worry and instead watches apathetically from the side in the vain hope that he'll suddenly be struck by some musical inspiration. Also, watching this breakdown with understanding nonchalance are the chap’s bandmates who are now in need of a new keyboard player. Jon plays keyboard. He joins the band... it's as easy as that. Sadly though, the band he's joined are so musically experimental that their sound is like listening to somebody angry fuck a dustbin and everybody except the lead singer hates his ginger guts. Oh, and just because that's not already enough of a set up for a ninety minute film, the lead singer is clearly fucking mental having made the common-as-muck life choice of permanently wearing a giant Frank Sidebottom mask on his head. Yep, it's another one of them... A film about the creative process as filtered through the deranged mind of a nutcase, hidden behind a papier-mâché symbol of musical old Madchester. God, I hate all the fucking clichés!