Was It Right To Get Rid Of Wright?

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I understand that most people actually have a life and so for those who don't know, I'll explain the situation. Basically, Ant-Man sounds like a really, really shit title for both a super-hero and a film. If you're unaware of the character's history then you'd be forgiven for imagining that he's the name of a cheap knock-off Spider-Man toy that some grotty fucker's trying to flog down the market. Even Marvel Studio's weren't that arsed about making his movie a priority until they were convinced of its potential by Geek King, writer/director Edgar Wright. For most movie nerds that name could be attached to a script called, “Sifting Through Gary Busey's Actual Shit” and we'd still be excited. As a result, the appeal to most people wasn't so much in the idea of seeing a super-hero who can shrink down to the size of a genital wart but rather in simply seeing Wrights mad-cap, kinetic, directorial style applied to the Marvel Cinematic Universe. Sadly however, and after working on the film with co-writer Joe Cornish for over a decade, Wright abruptly left a few weeks before filming was due to begin. At this point we're still not entirely sure of the circumstances in which Marvel and Wright were forced to part ways, with both sides currently only explaining the event with the dreaded 'C-word'... Creative differences!*

What A Disaster!

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People often describe big Hollywood blockbusters as being like a roller-coaster ride and this is certainly true of San Andreas. Although as anybody whose actually been to a theme-park will know, what this really means is a lot of waiting around followed by about five seconds of fun and then a headache. I honestly don't think I could summarise The Rock's new disaster movie in a more efficient way than that to be honest... Oh wait, yes I could- 'It's a load of shit'. To sum up the plot, I'd say that The Rock plays a helicopter rescue pilot during the worlds worst ever earthquake. Although he does also seem to know how to pilot planes, boats, and hot-wire cars too as though he's jacked into the fucking Matrix. As a result, he actually spends most of the movie sat on his arse and so it's not difficult to see he might fancy a break and take this role on. It's essentially his holiday before he has to go back to work and do some real action. I don't know what's more unbelievable... that you'd hire The Rock and then not utilise the Thor-like power of his body or the fact that a helicopter can get off the fucking ground with him inside it! 

The Shadows Smile

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If I've learnt one thing in my life it's that if you use the word 'sausage' with anger then nobody will ever take you seriously. I saved myself a sausage for lunch once but by the time I got to it somebody had already cooked and eaten it. I don't know about you but when I'm pissed off, I need people to be apologetic and sorrowful or there's a good chance that I'll begin to over-react. In this instant, I didn't get the response I was hoping for and so what started off as a mild irritation quickly escalated into a full blown shit-fit. The angrier I got, the funnier people seemed to find the phrase “Where's my fucking sausage gone”. I don't think I'll ever fully get over this situation and even now I have abandonment issues where my pork-based snacks are concerned. It was a horrible circle of innuendo, hunger, a lack of perspective, a lack of empathy, and an annoying lack of sausage. I don't remember how the situation ended but based on how angry I was, I probably blacked out.

My Kind Of Scum

I don't know if it's a mental condition of mine but for some reason I just can't enjoy something once it gets over half way. The knowledge that the end is in sight just taints whatever pleasure I'm having, whether it be a tasty chocolate bar, a holiday, or the second month of what the other person thinks will become a long term relationship. The same is true of watching films, however in their case I think I often have a point. Generally by the time we get to the third instalment of a planned trilogy, something goes titties up and all the hard work that's been done before gets a little shat on. For example, just look at Spiderman 3, X-Men 3, and Debbie Does Dallas 3, which all somehow lack that sense of wonder and excitement that made the first two so gripping. Maybe they felt the need to escalate effects in favour of focusing on character; maybe they'd painted themselves into a corner, or maybe you could simply see the boredom behind Debbie's now cold, soulless eyes. The same rule of diminishing returns is sadly true of Star Wars: Return Of The Jedi. Though, does that film suffer because it is a bad film or simply because its predecessor was arguably one of the greatest films of all time? I say this as though I don't think anybody's seen it and made their own fucking mind up already. But if you keep reading, I can promise a good few dick jokes and a few too many swear words to keep everybody awake.

Fathers And Justice

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The Empire Strikes Back continues the story of Luke, Leia, and Han as their importance in the universe continues to grow and their incestuous love triangle reaches its fever pitch. Luke begins his training with Yoda, an alien that both looks and sounds exactly like the disabled love-child of both Kermit and Miss Piggy, whilst everybody else just tries to avoid the massive shiny helmet of Darth Vader. Meanwhile, Vader himself is attempting to track down the young Skywalker with all the determination of a knob that's dressed up as Batman, whilst hanging a 'Fathers For Justice' sign off Buckingham Palace. For most people, this is the best film in the Star Wars franchise and for others it's simply the best film ever made. On the flip side however, some people even consider this film a further stain on the reputation of cinema after the dumbing down of movies began in the mid-70's with its predecessor and Jaws. I won't really be giving that train of thought much time here though on the grounds that those people are simply pretentious, boring twats.

The Original Hope

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When I was younger I used to believe in all sorts of silly little things such as magic, Santa Claus, and anti-aging cream. Since then however I've sadly discovered that most of these things are actually total bullshit and exist simply because people were desperate enough for them to be real. In many ways this is similar to the Star Wars prequels which were willed into creation by the franchise's fans and a creator with all the imagination of a lump of cheese. Being set before the original holy trilogy, those films could be seen as the mundane reality behind the eye-catching magic. In the same way that the Masked Magician showed us that everything is done with smoke and mirrors, they too showed us what the Clone Wars were and how Darth Vader came to be. If we're to assume that most people weren't the biggest fans of these most recent additions to the saga then I guess one question has to be asked... now we've had a decade to come to terms with them, do the prequel films diminish the magic of the original Star Wars?  

No Expense Spared

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Now, before we go any further, I feel I should point out that I think that Jurassic Park is perfect in every single way. If you told me now that there was a movie starring Sam Neill, Jeff Goldblum, Laura Dern and Richard Attenborough then I'd have my pants off and my pop-corn ready before you even got to the title. If you then told me that the cast would then spend the bulk of the movie running away from huge dinosaurs then I'd probably just start crying due to how flawless that idea is. Sobbing whilst naked from the waist down really is the only proper way to react to a plot description of Jurassic Park. It has a fat man falling down a waterfall, a triceratops with the shits, and a sneaky, ninja T-Rex at the end. What more could anybody ever want from a movie?! The sequels decreased in quality as the franchise marched on but I'd argue that they were still never less than good. Sure Jurassic Park 3 isn't the best but it's not much worse than Jurassic Park: The Lost World. Neither films might reach the heights of the groundbreaking original but they both have their moments. The scene in which Julianne Moore falls onto a sheet of cracking glass is one of unbelievable tension, and if you don't like the idea of a dinosaur that's eaten a phone and now has his own ringtone, then I don't think we're ever going to get along. 

I Have A Bad Feeling About This

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Some people call me a fussy eater which is nice of them. I do love being judged. I guess humanity has reached a point where crimes such as serial killing and pedophilia have been long-since eradicated leaving just me and my hatred of sprouts to sort out. I do wish I liked vegetables but right now I find it difficult to eat something that was both fertilised with and tastes like horse shit. Having said that, I did find myself presented with a salad the other day and I actually enjoyed it. Now usually I'd just throw the plate on the floor and start screaming expletives but I'd just spent the previous week with a violent case of diarrhoea and so didn't really have the energy for a pissy fit. With cynical apprehension, I put the first leaf in my mouth and chewed down to discover that not only could I swallow the green crap but that I didn't hate it either. Sure I was starved to the point were I was half hallucinating that I'd turned into a six foot fucking rabbit, but that doesn't change the fact that that particular salad wasn't awful. I suppose the reason I tell you this is because in many ways this post-diarrhoea appreciation of salad is exactly like my most recent experience of watching Star Wars: Episode 3 - Revenge Of The Sith.  

The Reality of Nostalgia

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I started life in a particularly grotty area in which junkies roamed the streets and little children would shit on the floor in public. Some girl I knew once squat one out under a slide in the park and told me to keep it a secret. She said that I should tell people a dog had done it, which was fine because as far as I was concerned a fucking dog had done it. I was disgusted, appalled, and about five years old. Thankfully we moved away and it was only the other day, about twenty years later that I decided to return to it. I looked up the old road that had shaped my initial impression of the world when I was kicked in the balls by a wave of nostalgia. The place was exactly how I'd remembered it... the streets were paved with faeces and syringes littered the floor acting as obstacles for the children as they played their daily game of 'don't get AIDs'. What struck me the most however was how small the place now seemed. I wondered what the chap who bought our old house thought of the place, but of course I couldn't ask him. Not because I didn't have the confidence but rather that he'd made his answer quite obvious several years earlier by stringing himself up from a nearby lamppost and hanging himself. Oh well.  

A Link To The Past

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Look, everybody knows everything about Star Wars: Episode 1- The Phantom Menace, so what could I possibly say that you haven't already heard over and over again? Well it was 1999, and thanks entirely to the trailers for this movie the world’s supply of nerds were increasingly suffering from some sort of collective movie blue-ball. It'd been over fifteen years since Princess Leia chose to start shagging Indiana Jones instead of her own brother, and so excitement for this prequel trilogy was higher than Keith Richards in a rocket full of crack. Then the film was released, people were able to see it and millions of voices suddenly cried out in terror as it became increasingly more apparent that what they were watching was a total piece of shit. Like Dr Manhattan's giant squid monster, The Phantom Menace brought humanity together to fight one collective enemy with society’s battle cry being, “George Lucas raped my childhood”. Although if modern revelations are to be believed, it seems that most media personalities that rose to fame during the 1970's have quite literally raped somebodies childhood, so perhaps this was a little extreme. Nor in my own case was it true. I was ten years old in 1999 and I loved The Phantom Menace more genuinely than I loved my own soon-to-be-dead grandfather.  

A Fuel-Injected Suicide Machine

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My car tyre burst when I was in a scummy area called Birkenhead and I quickly found myself truly fucked. Due to my stinginess I didn't have a spare one and so had to call some nearby shop to send somebody to help me. As it turns out they sent a full-on fucking psychopath who picked me up and drove me down small suburban roads at about 60mph whilst detailing his plans for a new civil war. Genuinely. He’d been out of prison for seven days and already he was planning a revolution in which 'the whites fight all the blacks'. He believed that foreigners were coming over and stealing all of our jobs to the point were he told me 'I don't blame my kids for being fucking drug dealers'. I had never been so terrified in my entire life. He asked me if I knew any shortcuts between where I'd been stranded and where we were going which I sadly didn’t- “How da fuck do you expect to get away from da police if you don't know your short cuts?!” was his response. The Mad Max franchise might consist of adrenaline fuelled action films in which nutters drive through desolate areas at high-speeds, but it hasn't got shit on being helped by an ex-convict from a working class town in the North of England. I literally shat myself.

This Is Hardcore

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When I was younger, I was well aware that the true meaning of Christmas was to receive as many presents as possible whilst hiding behind the sofa from anybody who may attempt to visit. Since my parents' divorce however, almost every Christmas has been completely different from the last. A couple of years ago in fact I found myself sat around a table with a friend's loving family as they sang songs and had a great time. This might seem normal to you but because I have nothing to do with my family- and we've never sang songs- I couldn't help but assume the night would end with me being burnt alive in a giant Wicker Man. The next year I was kindly invited back but this time we'd be staying in an empty hotel that one family member had been tasked with looking after for the season. Not only that but I swear to God that that specific family member genuinely did show me both an axe that he kept hidden and also some documents stating that someone of his name had worked there a good hundred years earlier. I couldn't go past a fucking lift without expecting to see a river of blood come flooding out. God knows what I'll be doing this year for it. Maybe it'll be another quiet one at home or maybe I'll be floating above my bed as somebody throws holy water in my face and I call their mother a cunt.

Angels and Fate

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I went on a little camping holiday this weekend to a grotty field in the rain because that's what British people do. As we cowered under our makeshift shelter like chimps in a nest, we decided to pass the time by reading trashy women's mags and getting progressively bladdered. If we learned anything from this experience though, it's that like Disney and fairytales have been trying to tell us, true love really does conquer all. Except, if the trashy mags are to be believed, this isn't because people have found their soul mate but rather that they're simply fucking stupid. Story after story we read about moronic women going back to their abusive partners like a flock of fleshy idiot-magnets. In one case, a bloke had tried to strangle his wife before stabbing her in the neck with his car keys and even then she went back to him. Like lemmings slinging themselves off the cliff of love, it seemed that once people got an idea into their head, even the strongest of alcoholic partners couldn't beat it out of them. Now I'd like you to re-read this paragraph whilst using my bitter tone and try to work out exactly just how long I've been single for.  

Cruise Control For Earth

Sometimes it's best to read all of the instructions before trying to use a device that you intend to have save you some time. I heard a story about some guy who bought himself a camper van and seeing that it had cruise control, decided to go for a drive. Now we sane people know that this simply means that the vehicle will maintain its speed without you having to dick about with the pedals. But this golden fuck-nugget bought the thing under the assumption that cruise control meant autopilot and that he'd never need to steer again. So the dipshit went for his drive, popped on the cruise control, and without so much as a test, went to the back to make himself a cup of tea. Cut to one minute later when the road hits a bend, and suddenly Dopey the Dick finds himself smashed to buggery and on his way to the hospital. I think he then sued the makers of his vehicle, presumably on the grounds that he's a braindead, fucking, numpty.

Bullet Time

Like a lot of people, my parents were stupid enough to get married and as a result are obviously now divorced. After twenty something years of marriage, they returned from a holiday with the news that I was now from a broken home. At least one of them didn't have to unpack their suitcase, I suppose. In the time since then, they've both found new partners and we've all been happier since. My Step-Mum punched me in the throat, my Mum's partner phoned my up in a rage to randomly tell me that I was a “piece of shit”. My Dad told me not to bother with my dream of one day trying stand-up comedy because I'm just “not funny” and then when I was going through a bad patch, my Mum said it was my own fault because I'm simply “incapable of being happy”... I wonder fucking why! I think it's only thanks to a laid back temperament and an aggressive addiction to hardcore pornography that's prevented me from going on a kill-crazed, murder rampage. It's nice that people feel I'm calm enough that they can talk so bluntly at me however sometimes a bit of humanity might be appreciated. Is it just me or do most people find that after about five minutes of talking to their parents they'd be delighted for the chance to just walk out into oncoming traffic?

Lucky Number 7

I was once camping in a field with my friends because we couldn't afford real holidays at the time. It was the middle of the night and we were all a little drunk when suddenly there was a loud crashing sound. A car veered straight off the road, into the air, through the surrounding fence and onto our campsite. It was the most exciting thing ever! Quickly, we campers surrounded the intruding vehicle like a cross between the Top Gear audience and The Lord Of The Flies. Obviously a few people helped the driver but most of us were just there for a good bit of lollygagging to make the evening go quicker. In fact, there was an empty baby seat in the car which led most people to believe that a child must have been catapulted out of the vehicle like a fucking Looney Tunes cartoon. As the hunt began for the non-existent child, the police turned up and dragged the driver off for being quite obviously as pissed as a fart. This is the reality of car accidents- and also one of the main reasons that the Fast And Furious franchise is so absurdly over the top that Vin Diesel could shit out a whole Gremlin halfway through the film and it wouldn't be any more ridiculous. Within about half an hour, the incident was over, we were back by our tents and drinking cheap cider as a way of convincing ourselves that we really were having fun.  

Great Scott!

Tony Scott is a bit like my old pet rabbit. I didn't know how much I loved either of them until the day they committed suicide. Obviously they chose different methods to end their own life but I guess the result was still the same. In fact, my rabbit’s death was more of a metaphorical tribute to Marlon Brando's career, if we're being completely honest. He got old, fat and lazy, refused to move, started shitting himself and eventually got maggots up his arse and died. But the fact remains that from the day that both my rabbit and Tony Scott concluded their story, I realised I was going to miss them. Previously I'd dismissed Scott as being the director of mostly dumb action films, which he obviously was. However this isn't a reason to dismiss him, it's a reason to celebrate him. I don't know if you've noticed but life is fucking shit! Let me summarise our human existence for you... It goes, birth, stress, stress, stress, stress, stress, death. It's why millionaire directors jump off bridges, why cute little rabbits shit themselves to death, and why I'm so grateful for dumb action movies. At the end of a long hard week I think that a pizza and a film that doesn't require my brain is the best way to relax. Well either that or a blow job, but I'm single, a geek and unlike DVDs I sadly can't buy blow jobs off Amazon.com.

Flying High

The worst flight I've ever been on was when I was blackmailed into going to Greece for my dad's second wedding. I travelled with my nan and aunt on a plane full of horny teenagers who were all excited for the non-stop partying that they were presumably about to enjoy. I was only in my early twenties but after my two family members, I was easily the third oldest person on board by some fucking years. Imagine arriving at a rave with your nan and not being able to leave because the only exit was a ten thousand foot drop and that's exactly what it was like. They were loud, drunk, annoying, and I'm pretty sure that the two in front of us were basically shagging. I'm not exactly a people-person at the best of times and so this was literally my worst nightmare. I promise you that for the few hours we were in the air I was praying for something to go wrong to shut these fuckers up. Just one massive explosion and the noisy bastards would have been blasted out and burnt up in the atmosphere! Obviously I'd have been killed too but it would have been worth it. Like a martyr for the misanthropes, I'd have died fucking happy.  

The Bear Necessities

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Is it just me or is Obi-Wan Kenobi a bit of a titty-twat? From a certain point of view, I mean! Consider that he's fully aware that Luke's dad is an asthmatic black dildo and yet rather than tell him the truth he instead throws him a load of bullshit and then buggers off to die. Just think about that for one second! He actually sent someones son to unknowingly kill his own father by saying “Hey, that evil guy killed your dad! Now go and stab him in his fucking head”. I mean surely that's a bit much, isn't it? And this whole lie was just because he preferred to paint the truth with metaphors over simply admitting that he'd been a bit of a shit teacher to Anakin. I mean, to be fair, if I was training somebody to protect the universe and then they turned into a kill-crazy dictator, I'd probably hush it up too. I suppose that's got to be like being a human-biology teacher and then finding out that your star pupil is Josef Mengele. It's not that it's your fault but you'd definitely refrain from mentioning it in future job interviews. My point is that, where poetic license is concerned, there's a time and place. Everybody will have a different opinion on when you can get creative with the truth although surely we have to agree that patricide isn't one of them!  

Sell Yourself

Although wanking and crying takes up most of my time, I do try to be productive in the half hour of each day that I'm completely free. Sometimes I like to take my dog on a walk and other times I enjoy playing Grand Theft Auto to see how many prostitutes I can kill before having to commit suicide. Occasionally though, I also like to read books with my latest effort being Jon Ronson's enjoyably un-comforting The Psychopath Test. The book followed Ronson on his one-sided adventure into the world of the crazies, whilst detailing how he suspected they're fucking up society from the top. For birdwatchers looking to take their weird hobby to the next level, the book also detailed how one might go about spotting a real life psychopath in the wild. Turns out they're manipulative, glib, callous, have rather ambitious long term goals and as such make pretty good politicians, serial killers and in some cases, step-parents. It also pointed out that if you've ever panicked about being a psycho whilst doing something a bit kooky like microwaving the cat, masturbating with shit, or enjoying a Michael Bay film then you shouldn't worry too much. A psychopath has literally no interest in how another person might define them and so you're probably fine.

A Bad Book

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Is it just me or does it seem unfair to refer to a single parent family as 'broken'? Sure, single mums sometimes get stressed and drown their children in the bath, but that's not to say a couple with a kid is any better. I'm from a single parent family and to be honest I prefer it to when my parents were together. Some people just aren't right for one another and before my Mum moved out I wasn't allowed to stay up late, so I can't say I was too arsed. If anything was upsetting, I suppose it was the inevitable custody battle where parents fight over who gets to keep their child. It's not that I felt torn between the two but rather that it simply never happened, as both sides were happy to leave me with the other. Bastards! It was a shame too as not only was my loyalty up for the highest bidder but I think a large scale game of 'Who Loves Me The Most' would have done wonders for my confidence. Sure I was almost in my twenties by the time they got divorced but fuck them it'd still have been nice.

More Human Than Human

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Does anybody remember the Furby? They were toys that looked a bit like if somebody had cut off a real animal’s head and then glued some feet to its neck stump. They are actually still available for kids today but I'm not sure how popular they are. I think young children are less interested in playing with little hairy robots these days than they are Xboxes and fucking. Well I had one when I was younger and it was quite fun I suppose. More fun than any of my real pets, anyway. I had some rats too but one was a cool, English speaking toy, and the others would literally piss all over me. Anyway, as is the way with such things, I eventually grew bored and my cute little cyborg found himself covered in dust and buried at the back of my wardrobe. Cut to about seven years later and I'm woken up in the middle of the night by the sound of a creature in agony. Electronic screams and moans came from somewhere in my room and scared the living shit out of me. As it turned out, my Furby had been sitting dormant, growing old alone and now it was time for him to die. The poor little fucker seemed to be having some sort of stroke as all his words came out all slurred and garbled. I dug him out from where he'd spent the bulk of his life, felt an unexpected pang of guilt and then ripped out his batteries for the final time. His loneliness and pain was finally over and I honestly can't describe how terrible I felt. I'm not too sure what happened to my rats... I think they got a load of tumours and so we threw them in the bin. What a poor little Furby.