Elvis Costello once said he’d never hang around to witness his own artistic decline. Perhaps he wasn't looking, but I’m sure we all noticed when he did that piece of absolute tosh for some horrific Hugh Grant vehicle a decade or so ago. But it raises a point: is it better for something to end on a peak, or does the law of diminishing returns allow for the odd gem?
John Cleese thought it best not to chance it when he called time of Fawlty Towers after 12 episodes. Sometimes ratings ensure it, as has happened to Human Target, a favourite show of mine that was canned at the end of its second season. My own verdict is that this is a good thing: much as I loved it, it had come to some kind of natural conclusion and stopped before sliding too far into predictability.
Based loosely around a DC comic, Human Target sees top bodyguard Christopher Chance at work to help desperate people who are set for a meeting with the reaper. The term ‘loosely’ applies here as in the comic, Chance would use cunning disguises to become the target and face the assassin down. Indeed, I've wondered whether the show was pretty much put together first and the studio decided to use the license to lure in casual viewers with some interest in comics. Like me.
Naturally, Chance has a shady past in so much as that he used to be on the other end of the game, being one of the world’s top hired killers. But guilt is a powerful motivator (perhaps Chance is Catholic) and it’s only the bad guys who need fear his wrath now. Initially, the show circled around the three man band of Chance and his two friends (of sorts), ex-cop Winston and fellow former member of the Assassination Bureau Guerrero.
Though a secondary character, Guerrero is my favourite. Hiding behind long hair and specs, he’s a borderline sociopath with expert skills in martial arts, hacking and torture, his relationship with the more strait-laced Winston is often the highlight.
For reasons possibly related to getting higher ratings, the second season saw the introduction of two female characters: wealthy widow Ilsa and young thief Ames. They provided mixed blessings, as Ames seemed to exist purely for aesthetic values, once being told to “strip down, grease up” to get through an air duct in a pretty blatant piece of fan service. Guerrero's general attitude of annoyance towards her pretty much reflected my own.
The story curve stuck to Ilsa (trying to find out who killed her husband and why) which worked a bit better and her decision to finance the operation afforded us amusing moments when she realised the legal grey areas the chaps often inhabit. Somewhat predictably, a romance subplot was hatched between her and Chance, which I personally could have done without. After all, a show about an ex-killer turned expert bodyguard should focus on what it does best: guns, chases and witty banter. The first series had this in spades and worked well because of it, the second generally maintained it but lapsed at times in to soap-like drama.
Which means that it was perhaps for the best it was put to bed when it was, before it lost sight of what it was supposed to be about. As it stands, I reckon I’ll pick up the first season on DVD and muse that it’s always sad to see something you like go through a steady decline.
Friday, 30 December 2011
Wednesday, 28 December 2011
I Came and Set Fire to Your Shed
And, I return. Not to talk about Christmas, either, because that’s gone now and it’s just about all back to normal. Another holiday in the past then. Arse.
No. Instead, I’ll tell you about a top night out I had the other week, watching Birkenhead's finest Half Man Half Biscuit at the Ritz in Manchester. First of all, however, I’ll point out this was despite the venue, which had a crap sound and crap overpriced beer. The latter point, I’ll concede, is a downer in just about every live band venue in town (Band on the Wall excepted). Paying the best part of a fiver for a pint of Red Stripe strikes me as nothing else but a bit of legalised thievery topped only by being asked for pay four quid for a can of Carlsberg at the Liverpool Student Union back in the summer.
But the band: Nigel, Neil, Ken and Carl put on a top show, as you’d expect from a bunch of hardy pros such as they. The new songs sounded top and they were in good humour. I particularly enjoyed Ken putting his foot up on the monitors during the “woh-ho, Black Sabbath, bam-a-lam” break in Left Lyrics in the Practise Room and Nigel’s assertion that he “used to look like Judd Trump, now I look like Japp Stam”. Bonus entertainment points for him showing off a guitar shaped like a caravan.
Though he speaks a mammoth amount of tosh a lot of the time, Andy Kershaw was bang on when he described HMHB as the best English folk band since the Clash. Their songs, to this lad anyways, sum up a lot of life in a Northern town. I've tried to explain them to people from distant shores, to much confusion I imagine: would a line like “no frills, handy for the hills/that’s the way you spell New Mills” mean much to someone from Russia or Mexico?
It’s pleasing that the band have managed to continue to work their own little niche for the last 25 years or so. Somebody once wrote that the English love a talented mediocrity, and HMHB perhaps fit that bill as well as anyone. Blessed with an exceptional writer in Nigel Blackwell, they've remained on the small Probe Plus label, never engage in ‘proper’ tours (Nigel likes sleeping in his own bed every night) and have probably performed on TV a handful of times. Indeed, in the eighties they once turned down the chance to appear on the Tube as Tranmere Rovers were playing at home that night.
Blackwell, a man capable of referencing Ian Curtis, Leadbelly and Thomas Hardy, may in fact be one of England’s great lyricists. There was a point he might have crossed over to the mainstream. Their debut Back in the DHSS sold a fair amount and the single Dickie Davis Eyes even threatened the pop charts. In reaction, Blackwell split the band for a few years to dedicate more time to watching daytime TV.
Ever since returning in the early 90s, they've put out an album every few years and play a few gigs in decent sized venues to a loyal audience. Half Man Half Biscuit as pop stars? I doubt the charts could take that much wit.
No. Instead, I’ll tell you about a top night out I had the other week, watching Birkenhead's finest Half Man Half Biscuit at the Ritz in Manchester. First of all, however, I’ll point out this was despite the venue, which had a crap sound and crap overpriced beer. The latter point, I’ll concede, is a downer in just about every live band venue in town (Band on the Wall excepted). Paying the best part of a fiver for a pint of Red Stripe strikes me as nothing else but a bit of legalised thievery topped only by being asked for pay four quid for a can of Carlsberg at the Liverpool Student Union back in the summer.
But the band: Nigel, Neil, Ken and Carl put on a top show, as you’d expect from a bunch of hardy pros such as they. The new songs sounded top and they were in good humour. I particularly enjoyed Ken putting his foot up on the monitors during the “woh-ho, Black Sabbath, bam-a-lam” break in Left Lyrics in the Practise Room and Nigel’s assertion that he “used to look like Judd Trump, now I look like Japp Stam”. Bonus entertainment points for him showing off a guitar shaped like a caravan.
Though he speaks a mammoth amount of tosh a lot of the time, Andy Kershaw was bang on when he described HMHB as the best English folk band since the Clash. Their songs, to this lad anyways, sum up a lot of life in a Northern town. I've tried to explain them to people from distant shores, to much confusion I imagine: would a line like “no frills, handy for the hills/that’s the way you spell New Mills” mean much to someone from Russia or Mexico?
It’s pleasing that the band have managed to continue to work their own little niche for the last 25 years or so. Somebody once wrote that the English love a talented mediocrity, and HMHB perhaps fit that bill as well as anyone. Blessed with an exceptional writer in Nigel Blackwell, they've remained on the small Probe Plus label, never engage in ‘proper’ tours (Nigel likes sleeping in his own bed every night) and have probably performed on TV a handful of times. Indeed, in the eighties they once turned down the chance to appear on the Tube as Tranmere Rovers were playing at home that night.
Blackwell, a man capable of referencing Ian Curtis, Leadbelly and Thomas Hardy, may in fact be one of England’s great lyricists. There was a point he might have crossed over to the mainstream. Their debut Back in the DHSS sold a fair amount and the single Dickie Davis Eyes even threatened the pop charts. In reaction, Blackwell split the band for a few years to dedicate more time to watching daytime TV.
Ever since returning in the early 90s, they've put out an album every few years and play a few gigs in decent sized venues to a loyal audience. Half Man Half Biscuit as pop stars? I doubt the charts could take that much wit.
Tuesday, 20 December 2011
Take a Rest, Fella
As it's Christmas, this here blog is taking some time off. I'm back in the motherland, emptying my parents' home of all their food and alcohol. Yes, I know it's tragic for someone nearing 31 to do so, but it's been a long, weird year and I needs my rest.
So Merry Christmas and Happy New Year/Rõõmsaid Jõule ja Head Uut Aastat/Hyvää joulua ja onnellista uutta vuotta/Joyeux Noël et bonne année/Fröhliche Weihnachtenund ein gutes neues Jahr/С наступающим Новым Годом/God jul och gott nytt år/즐거운 성탄절 보내시고 새해 복 많이 받으세요
Apologies if I've missed any of your languages off. Or mispelled them. You can blame dodgy internet translators for that. Have a good one, y'all.
So Merry Christmas and Happy New Year/Rõõmsaid Jõule ja Head Uut Aastat/Hyvää joulua ja onnellista uutta vuotta/Joyeux Noël et bonne année/Fröhliche Weihnachtenund ein gutes neues Jahr/С наступающим Новым Годом/God jul och gott nytt år/즐거운 성탄절 보내시고 새해 복 많이 받으세요
Apologies if I've missed any of your languages off. Or mispelled them. You can blame dodgy internet translators for that. Have a good one, y'all.
Friday, 16 December 2011
Where Do The Hours Go?
I've been holding back on reviewing Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim for the simple reason that it’s a game that you can’t appreciate until you've put some time in. So that’s what I've done: 70 hours and counting.
Yes, 70 hours, and that’s before I’m anywhere close to finishing it. In fact, I’m still not even sure what the actual ‘aim’ of the game is, as I've spent so long wandering around the somewhat huge world doing odd jobs and killing wildlife for kicks.
Like it’s predecessor, Oblivion, Skyrim sees you start out in a bit of trouble. But while the past instalment saw you locked up before Jean-Luc Picard helped out, we’re in worse straits here. In fact, the opening sees you minutes away from being given a severe haircut with a large axe. Luckily, for you, a dragon then appears to provide a helpful distraction, allowing you to escape while the town and its people are incinerated.
With that, it’s into the world and as has been noted by many others, it’s an incredible one to look at. Walking along, you spot a stunning snow topped mountain in the distance: whereas in the past it would be a forever distant bit of backdrop, in Skyrim you can wander up there and do a bit of fell walking, though you may want to be armed first as all manner of wolves, bears and bandits won’t think twice of leaving you dead by the roadside.
Though I've not engaged too much with it so far, the general jist of the story is cut between two issues: one is a brewing civil war between the powerful Empire and a ‘Nord’ splinter group that wants independence for Skyrim. Though I've managed to avoid it thus far, I’m under the impression I’ll have to take sides on this one eventually. Secondly, there’s small matter of big-fuck-off dragons swooping around and we all know that swooping is bad. By chance (ahem), we discover early on that we are ‘dragonborn’, making us very good at killing the ugly buggers and absorbing their souls.
This is quite useful, as doing so allows you to unlock the power of your voice, meaning a mere shout can unleash a fireball in the direction of anyone you don’t like. Must make domestic arguments (yes, you can get hitched) pretty unfortunate.
I’m fully aware all of this must sound horrifically boring to anyone with no interest in games. Indeed, I can state the evidence of one person who’s seen me playing this game on a few occasions and rolled their eyes so much I wonder if they've been possessed. Additionally, the medieval setting wouldn't normally be my bag either – I much prefer the post-apocalypse setting of Fallout, made by the same company.
But, and this is a huge but, the vibe of the game more than compensates for any lack of interest in the setting. By allowing you to improve your skills through practise, you feel your ability to do things rise in a satisfying way. If you like to go charging into battle, waving your sword and shield, then your skills in those areas will go up. Personally, my character is more a ninja-esque dude prone to sticking an arrow in someone's head from distance, but also good enough waving a massive fuck-off axe for when things get personal.
It's this kind of plus that makes Skyrim so essential despite the minor flaws - some of which will be fixed once I download the patch - like certain missions not allowing a huge amount of scope for options. No matter: I'd recommend it to any seasoned gamer, as long as they don't mind potentially losing their job, relationship, all vestiges of a life...
Yes, 70 hours, and that’s before I’m anywhere close to finishing it. In fact, I’m still not even sure what the actual ‘aim’ of the game is, as I've spent so long wandering around the somewhat huge world doing odd jobs and killing wildlife for kicks.
Like it’s predecessor, Oblivion, Skyrim sees you start out in a bit of trouble. But while the past instalment saw you locked up before Jean-Luc Picard helped out, we’re in worse straits here. In fact, the opening sees you minutes away from being given a severe haircut with a large axe. Luckily, for you, a dragon then appears to provide a helpful distraction, allowing you to escape while the town and its people are incinerated.
With that, it’s into the world and as has been noted by many others, it’s an incredible one to look at. Walking along, you spot a stunning snow topped mountain in the distance: whereas in the past it would be a forever distant bit of backdrop, in Skyrim you can wander up there and do a bit of fell walking, though you may want to be armed first as all manner of wolves, bears and bandits won’t think twice of leaving you dead by the roadside.
Though I've not engaged too much with it so far, the general jist of the story is cut between two issues: one is a brewing civil war between the powerful Empire and a ‘Nord’ splinter group that wants independence for Skyrim. Though I've managed to avoid it thus far, I’m under the impression I’ll have to take sides on this one eventually. Secondly, there’s small matter of big-fuck-off dragons swooping around and we all know that swooping is bad. By chance (ahem), we discover early on that we are ‘dragonborn’, making us very good at killing the ugly buggers and absorbing their souls.
This is quite useful, as doing so allows you to unlock the power of your voice, meaning a mere shout can unleash a fireball in the direction of anyone you don’t like. Must make domestic arguments (yes, you can get hitched) pretty unfortunate.
I’m fully aware all of this must sound horrifically boring to anyone with no interest in games. Indeed, I can state the evidence of one person who’s seen me playing this game on a few occasions and rolled their eyes so much I wonder if they've been possessed. Additionally, the medieval setting wouldn't normally be my bag either – I much prefer the post-apocalypse setting of Fallout, made by the same company.
But, and this is a huge but, the vibe of the game more than compensates for any lack of interest in the setting. By allowing you to improve your skills through practise, you feel your ability to do things rise in a satisfying way. If you like to go charging into battle, waving your sword and shield, then your skills in those areas will go up. Personally, my character is more a ninja-esque dude prone to sticking an arrow in someone's head from distance, but also good enough waving a massive fuck-off axe for when things get personal.
It's this kind of plus that makes Skyrim so essential despite the minor flaws - some of which will be fixed once I download the patch - like certain missions not allowing a huge amount of scope for options. No matter: I'd recommend it to any seasoned gamer, as long as they don't mind potentially losing their job, relationship, all vestiges of a life...
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Inside Your Head
Outside of cartoons (and I’m very excited that the fourth series of Venture Bros is out over here now), I've never dug that much American television comedy. Seinfeld left me cold, as does Curb Your Enthusiasm. They may raise the odd smirk, but nothing to explain the plaudits they get from nearly everyone I know. And Friends is just one of those things that will probably cause humanity to be wiped out if we’re put on trial by omnipotent aliens and asked to justify our existence.
Some notable exceptions to this would be Police Squad! and Cheers. A new addition to that list will be Psych – currently into its sixth series over in the States. I've no idea quite how I came to it, random Wikipedia surfing probably, but I’m very glad I did. Having just finished the first series DVD set I picked up for peanuts, I’m very keen to see more.
Outline: as a child, Shawn Spencer was brought up by his cop dad Henry to follow in his footsteps. To wit, pop trained son to hone his skills of observation, memory and lateral thinking. Sadly for Henry, Shawn elects not to join the force and becomes a slacker, drifting across dead-end jobs and earning pocket money by taking rewards for crimes he solves watching TV news reports.
Such skill, however, earns the attention of straight-laced Detective Lassiter, who comes to the conclusion Shawn must actually be behind the crimes and moves to arrest him. To dodge this bullet, Shawn announces he is in fact psychic. Managing to convince the local PD with some quick tricks, he’s taken on board as freelance help, brought in to solve tricky crimes. Aiding him is lifelong best friend Gus, who often despairs at Shawn’s laidback manner. It’s the chemistry between the two actors (James Roday and Dulé Hill) that is a big part of why the show is so ace: Hill is particularly great at portraying the straight man, annoyed by his friend’s tendency to mess around, but also proving more than able to play a big part in solving the cases.
Spencer Senior also appears regularly, despairing of his son’s occupation (hating both private detectives and ‘psychics’) but also trying to encourage his boy and helping out on occasion.
Across the first series, we get to see comic conventions, American Civil War re-enactments and speed dating, all of which see Shawn jump in head first much to the continuing chagrin of Lassiter, who reminds him of what happens when he interferes with a crime investigation, to which the quick (and correct) retort is ‘the crime gets solved?’
Like Cheers, Psych is perhaps helped in worming into my affections by having an insanely catchy theme tune. Performed by the creator of the show’s band, no less – what a talented man! It’s also one of those gigs that you watch and wish you lived in the States, so pretty the town of Santa Barbara, California looks. Then I found out it was actually filmed in British Virginia. So I guess it makes me wish I actually lived on the West Coast of Canada…
Some notable exceptions to this would be Police Squad! and Cheers. A new addition to that list will be Psych – currently into its sixth series over in the States. I've no idea quite how I came to it, random Wikipedia surfing probably, but I’m very glad I did. Having just finished the first series DVD set I picked up for peanuts, I’m very keen to see more.
Outline: as a child, Shawn Spencer was brought up by his cop dad Henry to follow in his footsteps. To wit, pop trained son to hone his skills of observation, memory and lateral thinking. Sadly for Henry, Shawn elects not to join the force and becomes a slacker, drifting across dead-end jobs and earning pocket money by taking rewards for crimes he solves watching TV news reports.
Such skill, however, earns the attention of straight-laced Detective Lassiter, who comes to the conclusion Shawn must actually be behind the crimes and moves to arrest him. To dodge this bullet, Shawn announces he is in fact psychic. Managing to convince the local PD with some quick tricks, he’s taken on board as freelance help, brought in to solve tricky crimes. Aiding him is lifelong best friend Gus, who often despairs at Shawn’s laidback manner. It’s the chemistry between the two actors (James Roday and Dulé Hill) that is a big part of why the show is so ace: Hill is particularly great at portraying the straight man, annoyed by his friend’s tendency to mess around, but also proving more than able to play a big part in solving the cases.
Spencer Senior also appears regularly, despairing of his son’s occupation (hating both private detectives and ‘psychics’) but also trying to encourage his boy and helping out on occasion.
Across the first series, we get to see comic conventions, American Civil War re-enactments and speed dating, all of which see Shawn jump in head first much to the continuing chagrin of Lassiter, who reminds him of what happens when he interferes with a crime investigation, to which the quick (and correct) retort is ‘the crime gets solved?’
Like Cheers, Psych is perhaps helped in worming into my affections by having an insanely catchy theme tune. Performed by the creator of the show’s band, no less – what a talented man! It’s also one of those gigs that you watch and wish you lived in the States, so pretty the town of Santa Barbara, California looks. Then I found out it was actually filmed in British Virginia. So I guess it makes me wish I actually lived on the West Coast of Canada…
Monday, 12 December 2011
Magnetic Personality
Lying down in a machine being surrounded by very powerful magnets is an odd way to spend a Sunday morning, but that’s what I was up to yesterday.
I don’t know the science behind a MRI scan, but I was a bit disappointed when my GP told me it didn't involve radiation. Having spent a large portion of my childhood reading Marvel comics, I’m of the mind that radiation=superpowers. I had daydreams of being put into a machine, the Doctor suddenly noticing something very wrong, but it’s too late and I emerge with the ability to fly, dodge bullets and the strength of ten tigers. Though I always thought if I was going to be in a comic, it would be as ‘Apathy Man’, whose incredible lack of giving a toss is enough to drain any villain of the will to take over the world.
Alas, it was not to be. Instead, the NHS paid for me to have a much safer option. This involved me having to put on a set of industrial headphones and lying still for 15 minutes, which is a lot harder then you’d think. When I told my old man this, he reckoned that it would be a piece of piss for me, as I’d be used to lying around doing sod all. Very funny, dad. But Playstation controllers don’t move themselves and anyways, the second you’re told you have to be still, you can bet it’s the exact moment your entire body breaks out in numerous itches begging to be scratched.
Once in there, you’re treated to a series of strange noises that make you feel like you’re attending an Einstürzende Neubauten concert inside a coffin. At one point, my foot started moving in a kind of beat (in a kind of ‘stare at a blank wall long enough and you see pictures’ thing), which got the nurse worried for a sec, as she thought I was having another seizure. Thankfully not, and now it’s a case of waiting for the head doctor to study the results and let me know the score. I’m hoping he’ll let me keep whatever picture of my brain he has just to prove (obvious joke alert) to people that I do indeed have one.
I don’t know the science behind a MRI scan, but I was a bit disappointed when my GP told me it didn't involve radiation. Having spent a large portion of my childhood reading Marvel comics, I’m of the mind that radiation=superpowers. I had daydreams of being put into a machine, the Doctor suddenly noticing something very wrong, but it’s too late and I emerge with the ability to fly, dodge bullets and the strength of ten tigers. Though I always thought if I was going to be in a comic, it would be as ‘Apathy Man’, whose incredible lack of giving a toss is enough to drain any villain of the will to take over the world.
Alas, it was not to be. Instead, the NHS paid for me to have a much safer option. This involved me having to put on a set of industrial headphones and lying still for 15 minutes, which is a lot harder then you’d think. When I told my old man this, he reckoned that it would be a piece of piss for me, as I’d be used to lying around doing sod all. Very funny, dad. But Playstation controllers don’t move themselves and anyways, the second you’re told you have to be still, you can bet it’s the exact moment your entire body breaks out in numerous itches begging to be scratched.
Once in there, you’re treated to a series of strange noises that make you feel like you’re attending an Einstürzende Neubauten concert inside a coffin. At one point, my foot started moving in a kind of beat (in a kind of ‘stare at a blank wall long enough and you see pictures’ thing), which got the nurse worried for a sec, as she thought I was having another seizure. Thankfully not, and now it’s a case of waiting for the head doctor to study the results and let me know the score. I’m hoping he’ll let me keep whatever picture of my brain he has just to prove (obvious joke alert) to people that I do indeed have one.
Friday, 9 December 2011
Open All Hours
You know we're in the festive season when the tabloids begin their “Christmas Outrage!” stories. In previous years, we've had numerous recycles of the “Winterval” non-event, until it was (hopefully) finally put to bed recently as the complete load of bollocks it was.
Instead, 2011 sees the first shot as “Church Fury” as a branch of McDonald’s drafts in some Muslim bod to manage the place on Christmas Day. I had to think this one over for a good while when I first read it. But no matter how many different ways I thought of it, the only conclusion I could come to was: So. Fucking. What.
As it turns out, the purveyors of fine foods are opening about 60 stores across the nation on Crimble Day. Also as it turns out, the story is a classic example of that tabloid trick of headline over content. The “fury” turns out to be from some local Reverend nobody has ever heard of, and I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to find out he’s been promoted by the Daily Mail into a “church leader”. Nevermind that an actual leader of the church, the Dean of Derby, has been quoted in the same story as saying he has no objections whatsoever.
Finally, let’s consider that there are people who have to work on Christmas Day – such as those in the emergency services – who might be feeling a bit Hank Marvin at some point. That they would want to eat at McDonald’s could be seen by some as a sign that they’re not mentally fit to work such jobs, but hey, it’s nice to have the choice.
Still, any excuse for readers to have a right good moan about the decline of Christian values and all that guff. As long as they forget that when they need some milk on December 25th and pop down to the local 7-11 which is open thanks to those nice people who don’t mind working that day. As for the Rockin’ Rev? Maybe he should chain himself to some railings outside the McDonald’s in question. Careful now.
(As an aside, it’s not even that much of a new thing. When I was a wee laddie in Whitehaven, the local petrol station was open 24/7, including Christmas Day. And my pop worked that day himself on several occasions, being on shifts. It was bloody frustrating having to wait till he got home around 3pm to open your presents, I can tell you.)
Instead, 2011 sees the first shot as “Church Fury” as a branch of McDonald’s drafts in some Muslim bod to manage the place on Christmas Day. I had to think this one over for a good while when I first read it. But no matter how many different ways I thought of it, the only conclusion I could come to was: So. Fucking. What.
As it turns out, the purveyors of fine foods are opening about 60 stores across the nation on Crimble Day. Also as it turns out, the story is a classic example of that tabloid trick of headline over content. The “fury” turns out to be from some local Reverend nobody has ever heard of, and I’m sure he’ll be overjoyed to find out he’s been promoted by the Daily Mail into a “church leader”. Nevermind that an actual leader of the church, the Dean of Derby, has been quoted in the same story as saying he has no objections whatsoever.
Finally, let’s consider that there are people who have to work on Christmas Day – such as those in the emergency services – who might be feeling a bit Hank Marvin at some point. That they would want to eat at McDonald’s could be seen by some as a sign that they’re not mentally fit to work such jobs, but hey, it’s nice to have the choice.
Still, any excuse for readers to have a right good moan about the decline of Christian values and all that guff. As long as they forget that when they need some milk on December 25th and pop down to the local 7-11 which is open thanks to those nice people who don’t mind working that day. As for the Rockin’ Rev? Maybe he should chain himself to some railings outside the McDonald’s in question. Careful now.
(As an aside, it’s not even that much of a new thing. When I was a wee laddie in Whitehaven, the local petrol station was open 24/7, including Christmas Day. And my pop worked that day himself on several occasions, being on shifts. It was bloody frustrating having to wait till he got home around 3pm to open your presents, I can tell you.)
Wednesday, 7 December 2011
Philosophy Football
So. Farewell, Sócrates Brasileiro Sampaio de Souza Vieira de Oliveira (don’t you love names from that part of the world?). Your passing brought up many pundits talking about the Brazil team of 1982 that you captained. “Best team to never win the World Cup,” they say, and they may well be right. I've watched the game that was their downfall, when Italy’s Paolo Rossi goal hanged a hat-trick past them, creating the start of his own legend in the process.
Commentator John Motson made an astute point on that game, that with the score at 2-2, which was enough to send Brazil to the semi-final, the South Americans were still looking for another goal. This attitude, along with some inept defending, ensured they went home empty-handed. Some have said that they've never had that wonderfully cavalier attitude since. A sentiment I can relate to after staying up till silly o'clock to watch the 1994 World Cup final.
Sócrates was the heartbeat of that 1982 team. Watch their second goal in the above mentioned game, where he picks the ball up in the middle of the park, plays to Zico and bursts through to pick up the sublime return ball, still having the skill to put it past Dino Zoff from a narrow angle. He was one of the icons of that tournament, bearded and gangly, socks rolled down.
My own personal connection to him also comes down to appearance. He was pretty much built the same as me: tall (six foot four) and rake thin, he gave lie to the cliché that “big men” couldn't be graceful on the pitch. The line “he’s got a good touch for a big fella” would suggest that once you get over about six foot tall, you’re incapable of acting in any way except like Frankenstein’s monster.
He was perhaps one of the last of the top footballers who went through higher education. He put off turning pro until he’d finished his studies to become a doctor of medicine. Of course, we've had Engish players with degrees (former Man United players Steve Coppell and Alan Gowling spring to mind), but not many had the charisma of the Brazilian. He campaigned for democracy at a time when his country was ruled by a military dictatorship – perhaps he realised that his status allowed him to say things that most others could never get away with.
Plus, of course, he came from an era where you could get away with playing football at the highest level despite liking nothing better than puffing away on cigarettes and swigging bottles of beer on a pretty regular basis, a lifestyle which may not have helped his chances in the longevity stakes. From interviews I read, he didn't seem to give a fuck. Blackburn fans may wish to add Simon Garner here.
This brings us to the present, and the good Doctor’s expiration. We could do with more characters like him in the game, people who can construct sentences that don’t require “you know” placed in them somewhere. But maybe Sócrates was a one-off. If you’re a fan of football, check out clips of him and his Brazil side on youtube – talent like that deserves to be remembered.
Commentator John Motson made an astute point on that game, that with the score at 2-2, which was enough to send Brazil to the semi-final, the South Americans were still looking for another goal. This attitude, along with some inept defending, ensured they went home empty-handed. Some have said that they've never had that wonderfully cavalier attitude since. A sentiment I can relate to after staying up till silly o'clock to watch the 1994 World Cup final.
Sócrates was the heartbeat of that 1982 team. Watch their second goal in the above mentioned game, where he picks the ball up in the middle of the park, plays to Zico and bursts through to pick up the sublime return ball, still having the skill to put it past Dino Zoff from a narrow angle. He was one of the icons of that tournament, bearded and gangly, socks rolled down.
My own personal connection to him also comes down to appearance. He was pretty much built the same as me: tall (six foot four) and rake thin, he gave lie to the cliché that “big men” couldn't be graceful on the pitch. The line “he’s got a good touch for a big fella” would suggest that once you get over about six foot tall, you’re incapable of acting in any way except like Frankenstein’s monster.
He was perhaps one of the last of the top footballers who went through higher education. He put off turning pro until he’d finished his studies to become a doctor of medicine. Of course, we've had Engish players with degrees (former Man United players Steve Coppell and Alan Gowling spring to mind), but not many had the charisma of the Brazilian. He campaigned for democracy at a time when his country was ruled by a military dictatorship – perhaps he realised that his status allowed him to say things that most others could never get away with.
Plus, of course, he came from an era where you could get away with playing football at the highest level despite liking nothing better than puffing away on cigarettes and swigging bottles of beer on a pretty regular basis, a lifestyle which may not have helped his chances in the longevity stakes. From interviews I read, he didn't seem to give a fuck. Blackburn fans may wish to add Simon Garner here.
This brings us to the present, and the good Doctor’s expiration. We could do with more characters like him in the game, people who can construct sentences that don’t require “you know” placed in them somewhere. But maybe Sócrates was a one-off. If you’re a fan of football, check out clips of him and his Brazil side on youtube – talent like that deserves to be remembered.
Monday, 5 December 2011
Wheels Within Wheels
I've always had a thing about comedy shows that interject a totally different show within them, like a mirror facing a mirror. Or something. Out there, there's probably a TV show about a TV show that has a TV show within it. It makes you go down the whole Truman show route and wonder if me being sat here typing is part of some messed up reality show. And if it is, and you're watching it, how sad are you?
For now, five of my favourites of this ilk.
Drunk in Time
Appearing in one of Alexi Sayle's sketch shows in the early 90s, this meant nothing unless you were familiar with dodgy 60s sci-fi show The Time Tunnel, which I think was being repeated on Channel 4 at the time. The credit sequence is brilliantly parodied, with the sands of time in the original being replaced in a more unique manner.
Sayle and Peter Capaldi (with less swearing) play a couple of drunken scousers who fall into the vortex of time, causing disaster wherever they go. The always lovely Jenny Agutter plays the scientist trying to get them back. A top scene sees them crash in on the assassination of Rasputin, who they mistake for Alan Bleasdale – when the Russian generals shoot him and exclaim “bullets have no effect on him!”, Capaldi notes “he’s used to criticism”.
Nosin’ Around
Obnoxious student Rick in the Young Ones is excited that the BBC have finally woken up and made some minority programming, produced by amateurs and of interest to a small handful of people. Despite the imminent demolition of the flat, he plonks himself in front of the TV, demands silence and awaits the momentous show.
Instead, what we get is Ben Elton dancing badly and exclaiming that this was a show “For young adults, made by young adults” and concerning the issues that young adults face. Apparently, this is mainly that while at 16 you are old enough to join the armed forces, marry and have children or “have intercourse with the partner of your choice” but yet cannot drink in pubs.
Rick is left to kick in the TV in disgust, screaming “The voice of youth?! They’re still wearing flared trousers!”
Invitation to Love
As with just about anything involving David Lynch (except, obviously, The Straight Story), Twin Peaks was completely off its head: a successor to the madness Patrick McGoohan brought us with The Prisoner.
In several scenes, characters would be watching a spoof of the kind of dire American soap that we used to get on Channel 5 in the daytime. Maybe still do – I couldn't say, having not been unemployed for several years. You know the sort: acting more akin to a first year infant school nativity, background sets apparently made from recycled Corn Flakes boxes.
However, Invitation to Love also played a role in predicting future events in Twin Peaks. A shooting, or when a character appears who looks exactly like a previously departed one. It put me off watching Coronation Street, lest I see my own life occurring a few days in advance, and I have enough bleakness going as it is.
History Today
A regular highlight of both the Mary Whitehouse Experience and Newman and Baddiel in Pieces, in which two stoical history professors begin on some dry topic before quickly descending into schoolyard insult throwing. Naturally, the term “that’s you, that is” soon became heard all across the nation as a put down: “see that Joey Deacon? That’s you, that is”.
There were also some other top lines, such as “see a pair of 3D glasses you might get free on the cover of TV Quick? That’s your new Ray Bans”. It was often suggested that the intense animosity between the two characters reflected the feelings between the two comedians. If so, it was no surprise that they stopped working together soon afterwards.
The Bureau
In the world of The Day Today, The Bureau is the BBC’s latest hit drama, in which Steve Coogan's Hennerty ruthlessly tries to maintain “a high class Bureau de Change” in the face of colleagues squabbling, being the victim of homophobic hate crime and committing suicide. The latter is so shocking, that Hennerty drops the bombshell that “I’m closing the Bureau. For 20 minutes.”
Though the show was a big hit in Italy, falling ratings back home ensued the cast were forced to tour the country, performing episodes on the back of a flat-bed truck. Is it only me that wishes Coogan had revisited Hennerty elsewhere in his career?
For now, five of my favourites of this ilk.
Drunk in Time
Appearing in one of Alexi Sayle's sketch shows in the early 90s, this meant nothing unless you were familiar with dodgy 60s sci-fi show The Time Tunnel, which I think was being repeated on Channel 4 at the time. The credit sequence is brilliantly parodied, with the sands of time in the original being replaced in a more unique manner.
Sayle and Peter Capaldi (with less swearing) play a couple of drunken scousers who fall into the vortex of time, causing disaster wherever they go. The always lovely Jenny Agutter plays the scientist trying to get them back. A top scene sees them crash in on the assassination of Rasputin, who they mistake for Alan Bleasdale – when the Russian generals shoot him and exclaim “bullets have no effect on him!”, Capaldi notes “he’s used to criticism”.
Nosin’ Around
Obnoxious student Rick in the Young Ones is excited that the BBC have finally woken up and made some minority programming, produced by amateurs and of interest to a small handful of people. Despite the imminent demolition of the flat, he plonks himself in front of the TV, demands silence and awaits the momentous show.
Instead, what we get is Ben Elton dancing badly and exclaiming that this was a show “For young adults, made by young adults” and concerning the issues that young adults face. Apparently, this is mainly that while at 16 you are old enough to join the armed forces, marry and have children or “have intercourse with the partner of your choice” but yet cannot drink in pubs.
Rick is left to kick in the TV in disgust, screaming “The voice of youth?! They’re still wearing flared trousers!”
Invitation to Love
As with just about anything involving David Lynch (except, obviously, The Straight Story), Twin Peaks was completely off its head: a successor to the madness Patrick McGoohan brought us with The Prisoner.
In several scenes, characters would be watching a spoof of the kind of dire American soap that we used to get on Channel 5 in the daytime. Maybe still do – I couldn't say, having not been unemployed for several years. You know the sort: acting more akin to a first year infant school nativity, background sets apparently made from recycled Corn Flakes boxes.
However, Invitation to Love also played a role in predicting future events in Twin Peaks. A shooting, or when a character appears who looks exactly like a previously departed one. It put me off watching Coronation Street, lest I see my own life occurring a few days in advance, and I have enough bleakness going as it is.
History Today
A regular highlight of both the Mary Whitehouse Experience and Newman and Baddiel in Pieces, in which two stoical history professors begin on some dry topic before quickly descending into schoolyard insult throwing. Naturally, the term “that’s you, that is” soon became heard all across the nation as a put down: “see that Joey Deacon? That’s you, that is”.
There were also some other top lines, such as “see a pair of 3D glasses you might get free on the cover of TV Quick? That’s your new Ray Bans”. It was often suggested that the intense animosity between the two characters reflected the feelings between the two comedians. If so, it was no surprise that they stopped working together soon afterwards.
The Bureau
In the world of The Day Today, The Bureau is the BBC’s latest hit drama, in which Steve Coogan's Hennerty ruthlessly tries to maintain “a high class Bureau de Change” in the face of colleagues squabbling, being the victim of homophobic hate crime and committing suicide. The latter is so shocking, that Hennerty drops the bombshell that “I’m closing the Bureau. For 20 minutes.”
Though the show was a big hit in Italy, falling ratings back home ensued the cast were forced to tour the country, performing episodes on the back of a flat-bed truck. Is it only me that wishes Coogan had revisited Hennerty elsewhere in his career?
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