Surviving Jude Law
It’s only a matter of time people – months if we’re lucky, days if the Gods of Fate and Cheekbones have any say in the matter – before Jude Law attacks us all. I’m ready. I rate my chances as better than one in three of living in a post-Jude Law apocalypse as a leader among the mutants, revered for my fine head of hair, adored because of my almost fully-functional genitalia, and tolerated despite my annoying cough that won’t shift. But what about you? Are you doomed to die in the initial onslaught? Could you do more to prepare? Jude Law Attack Tactics Combat may be inevitable and victory dangerously far out of reach but history tells us that battles have been won and lost in an instant and I’ve come to trust what history says especially since it helped me find my car keys that one time. Knowledge of what Jude is likely to do when attacking – and he will attack – might just give you a metaphysical crowbar with which to lever open the metaphorical doorway leading into the allegorical corridor just off the very real instant that swings the fight. It’s not much, and a real crowbar might be better, but it’ll have to do. Jude Law won’t spend much time taking in the situation as he prefers a blitzkrieg style attack so you have to be ready to defend the moment you see him. This assumes you’ll see him. Detailed analysis of his fights to date shows that he is as equally like to come at an opponent from behind as straight on and the margin of preference for tunnelling under and eating the feet of an enemy rather than dropping from a ledge with hooks in his hands is statistically negligible. If you are "fortunate" enough to witness a head-on approach by Mr Law then you can typically expect him to adopt the classic crab position; feet and palms on the floor, body raised to the heavens, head upside down. While this might slow you or I down Jude can move with lightning speed in this position and many experts suspect there is a psychological element to this choice of body shape, carrying with it a genetic memory of giant spiders attacking early neanderthals perhaps. This theory does seem borne out by witnesses to his preference when launching a rear assault on a victim when he is decidedly more likely to flail his arms in windmills and scream like a girl. The Jude Law Crab Attack gives him a number of advantages in a quick fight. He’s a smaller target, naturally, and...
Road House
How was your Christmas? Did you get everything you wanted? That’s great. I got World Peace. No batteries though. Never mind. I also got Road House on DVD. Road House. Patrick Swayze film. On DVD. Yes, that’s right. Yes, you may feel jealous. Okay, stop feeling jealous. Instead, feel dread as I dissect this classic piece of movie history in lieu of writing anything more appealing. Road House is directed by Rowdy Herrington with aplomb – and, in parts, two plombs – and no, I’d never heard of him either. Apparently he also directed Gladiator. But not that Gladiator. The one with Cuba Gooding Jr and Brian Dennehy. No. Me neither. I’d guess Dennehy was a bad cop though. So what’s the story? Patrick Swayze plays Dalton. Dalton is not just a bouncer: he’s a famous bouncer! Possibly even more famous than the most famous bouncer you can think of. Go on. Really think of a famous bouncer. Well, Dalton is more famous than that. And he’s the second best in the business. The bouncing business. As our movie starts Dalton is doing what bouncers do at a little place called Band Stand, a club popular with the tone deaf and those afflicted with no natural rhythm that turns its nose up at DJs and other modern contraptions and only allows live country rock bands. Permed hair is big and cowboy hats are common so we know without being told that this film is: made in the 1980s, set in Incestville, U.S.A., going to make us cry at some point. Standing at the end of the bar with arms folded, scanning the crowd, being watched by a mysterious stranger wearing one of those string ties that cowboys wear and which look kinda cool in a "kinda cool on anyone but me" kinda way, bopping his head up and down very, very nearly in time with the song being massacred on stage, Dalton’s superior bouncing sixth sense suddenly starts to tingle. That smashed glass sound! The money slammed on the table! The knife! The kick! The woman on the floor! It can only mean Bouncer Warning Alert Amber! But Dalton’s the second best in the business and his bouncers soon have the matter in hand. And then they let the angry man go so he can stab Dalton in the arm. Perhaps if they’d been trained by the best in the business they might not have done that but who can really tell what goes on in the magical world of Bouncerdom. Our angry man tells Dalton he’s always wanted to "try" him and I think it’s a sentiment we...
The new James Bond is …
Colin Farrell said ‘No’ and when Colin says ‘No’ he means ‘No’ and I should ‘No’ as I once went drinking with him at a little bar overlooking the slopes of Mount Everest. We had an enjoyable time ordering Vodka Martinis, flicking the olives at a bunch of sherpas in a sherpa training camp for action butlers underneath our balcony seats, spitting out the vile cocktail, and chugging back manly beer instead from dawn until the early evening sunset. At that time I suggested that Colin use his powers of teleportation to travel to the summit of Everest and bring back some ice so that we could fashion an ice sculpture of a swan or a flower or some other girly crud and impress the young ladies of the Melbourne Young Mountaineering Ladies Troupe who had just arrived and seemed in need of bothering. Colin said ‘No.’ I suggested again. Again he said ‘No.’ I pressured him several more times. And he said ‘No’ on each occasion. Finally he grew tired of me, transmuted into flock wallpaper and, while the patrons of the bar were distracted by the sudden appearance of a distraught action butler/future sherpa wanting to know if anyone knew how to remove olives from ears, slunk up the staircase to his room. The important thing here is that when Colin says ‘No’ he means ‘No.’ Colin said he would kill me if I ever recounted this tale or the one with the transvestite lemur but I know he didn’t mean that because he’s fully aware that I’m protected by my Shield of Anti-Colin which I picked up during our trek through Morocco on the Quest For Colin’s Purse. In your face Farrell. Do your worst. So, Colin’s not going to be the next James Bond and Pierce isn’t going to rekindle his role. I think that’s a euphemism for masturbation but I’m not sure. Since the producers of the Bond franchise won’t bring back the best Bond ever – Timothy Dalton and I’ll murderise any one of you who disagrees – the search is on for "someone else." Luckily for you I’ve called in a few of my favours and optioned a few blackmails I’d been saving to see just who’s in the running and why they will or won’t be likely to be chosen. Arthur Bostrom In case you don’t know who Arthur Bostrom is there’s a handy website for Arthur Bostrom at the Arthur Bostromly-titled arthurbostrom.com. Arthur Bostrom. Arthur is most well-known for his role in the critically-acclaimed BBC comedy series ‘Allo ‘Allo. Some of the acclaims from critics included "Oh God, no!" and...
Chuck Norris
I’m half-Irish which means that certain character traits are mine to behold. I love bread and potatoes and consider any meal without them to be punishment. This means I can’t go on the Atkins Diet. I’m argumentative and always up for a fight if there’s one going. I’m also as stubborn as a mule. When I make my mind up on something there is nothing on the face of the planet that can get me to change my mind. So imagine my surprise when I was flicking through the channels yesterday and happened upon an informercial for the Total Gym. Okay, that bit isn’t that surprising so far but bear with me. It was a typical informercial: look what you get! look what it can do! look how it increases your sexual attractiveness to women! look how it wins Nobel prizes for literature! Occasionally, I’ll watch one of these things from start to finish looking out for unintentional funnies but at no point ever have I felt any compulsion to pick up the phone. But yesterday was different. You see, the Total Gym was being sold by Chuck Norris! As I watched I became convinced that I wanted a Total Gym. As I’ve stated before I can’t go on the Atkins Diet. More importantly, I wouldn’t want to go on any diet. Cut down on food? But … food tastes nice. Why the hell would I want to cut down on it? Madness! Which leaves just cosmetic surgery, mind transfer to a better host, and exercise as my only solutions to the problem we call "Mr Stomach." Cosmetic Surgery Have you ever seen liposuction being performed? I have. If you haven’t and have some idea that plastic surgeons perform microscopic miracles using high-tech surgical impliments, pristine gowns, nanobots, and machines that go bing! then prepare yourself for a shock. The patient is rendered unconscious using whatever method is covered by your health insurance/national health service (lullabies, cosh, plastic bag, Nytol, whiskey, gas, or injection) and an incision is made on the side of the stomach. Into this cut a long-handled wallpaper scraper is inserted. Here is where the surgeon’s skill is really used: it’s important to scrape away at the fatty buildup inside the stomach and not scrape away at anything else such as an intestine, a colon, or a testical. The scraping is not a gentle action. Think about using a wirewool brush to remove baked beans left in a saucepan over a hot weekend and you’re halfway there. The loose blubber is then vacuumed out using a Dyson cyclone cleaner after which the vacuum is sold as...
Warriors, come out to play-ee-ay
So, Paramount will be remaking (that’s industry code for "not spending any time coming up with new ideas when old ones are ripe for butchering") 1979 classic – despite what my girlfriend says – The Warriors. Dear God, Please smite Hollywood, Sincerely, Mark. Here’s an article about it and here’s a quote from the article with some of my own emphasis: [The new and ruined] version will follow the outline of the first film — in which a gang leader is assassinated during a truce, and The Warriors, wrongly accused of the assassination, must make their way home through hostile gang territories — while updating the heightend (sic) reality of the original film for contemporary audiences Cold shivers should be on their way to you now. Let me know if you don’t receive yours. How can you make a film about gangs in any way contemporary when gangs aren’t a problem in modern life? Possible suggestions include: the Warriors, a "gang" of scouts selling cookies are wrongly accused of not helping an old lady across the road and must make it back to wherever the hell scouts go at the end of the day avoiding girl guides and busloads of foreign exchange students, the Warriors, a "gang" of stockbrokers are wrongly accused of insider-trading and must make it out of their skyscraper avoiding accountants, angry shareholders, evil corporations intent on takeovers, and cleaning women, the Warriors, a "gang" of peewee ice hockey players are wrongly accused of being rubbish and must make it through to the playoffs avoiding being beaten and any accusations that the film is The Mighty Ducks. We can’t know for sure until the "new" script is written (believed to be starting over the weekend, scheduled to finish on Monday) but some pre-production shots have been leaked already that might give some clues as to what a contemporary remolestation of the film might look like: Original – Cyrus addresses the gangs Remake – Barney addresses the gangs Original – the mysterious DJ keeping everyone up-to-date with current gang news and traffic reports on the hour. Remake – lolz txt...
I am not Jimmy Osmond
Anni wanted to see pictures of me. Anni is a deranged a dangerous person. I wouldn’t normally give such a request more than a passing thought before shooting it down in flames with a sharp and witty retort but … I have seen pictures of her and, well, I haven’t been updating as much recently and, well, hell, why not? The only problem is that there aren’t many photos of me and I’m terribly shy. We’ll have to do with some old pictures and a bit of artistic licence mixed with photoshoppery goodness if that’s okay. Here goes: I’ve had to watermark these images. I’d hate for them to get out and be mistaken for other people. Aged somewhere between 1 and 4 (I can’t tell how old kids are even when I’m the kid in question) and the only person in my household with a clean driving licence. Still got it. This early introduction to cars and jumpers with skiing patterns on them helped see me safely through the transitional period of puberty later in life and helps to explain why I couldn’t care less about cars (I own a Punto for Christ’s sake!) and why skiing holds no appeal at all. That picture above really was me. The picture below really – I swear – is me too. I wouldn’t make this up. Nobody would make this up. It’s hard to believe that I’m a fashion guru now, setting trends all over the place, advising Derek Zoolander on new looks, and helping Jean Paul Gaultier out when he’s stuck for wacky ideas when this was the start in life my parents gave me. Tartan from the MacShitstain clan in a delightful juxtaposition with horizontal stripes of red and blue: why, it’s a bloody miracle that nobody has tried to copy this look since the seventies! It’s possible that having the picture taken above is one of the reasons that from this point on there aren’t any of me without two fingers raised or my hand conveniently in front of my face. Or my life is a lie and I’m a robot with a badly-constructed past. Or it could be a coincidence. In any event you’ll just have to take my word for it that I simply grew to resemble Little Jimmy Osmond from this point onwards. For many years I looked just like the photo below: I refused to appear in colour. Extrapolating from this point we can see that I must still clearly bear some form of resemblance to the smallest of the Osmonds in big form. So you’ll have to use you imagination and picture...
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