So, the Oscars have been and gone for another year. This blog is really to share my thoughts on the happenings at he 81st Academy Awards. I’ll start with two of the only three categories I really cared about this year. Best Actor in a leading role, somewhat predictably has gone to Sean Penn. Now, I don’t massively have anything against Sean Penn, except his self righteous nature, and a propensity to ham it up. I don’t think he deserved and Oscar for Mystic River, and I will own up to having a soft spot for Mickey Rourke winning this year. Yes, I am a wrestling fan and therefore maybe am a little predisposed toward Aronofsky’s film, however I honestly believe Mickey Rourke gave a career redefining performance as Randy ‘The Ram’ Robinson. Mickey Rourke may have scuppered his own chances by agreeing to be involved in Wrestlemania, but he also isn’t one of the favourites of the Academy. Rourke, by his own admission, has fucked his life up something rotten, and I just think it would have been the right thing to do to reward such a brave choice, pulled off with such aplomb.
Never mind. I, and many others, appreciate you Mickey Rourke!
The second category I cared about was Best Supporting Actor. In this category, the Academy at least got it right. Many thousands of words have been written to praise Ledger’s performance, and I don’t want to dwell. In a film filled with stars, and giant explosions, and in a genre very rarely recognised, Heath Ledger pulled off one of the great performances of our times. His Joker was unnerving, vulnerable, memorable and a true sociopath. It is hard to create a character who is so overtly close to the edge, without actually going over it. It is a fitting tribute to a cracking actor.
The final category I cared about is the one I always care about, Best original Screenplay. I do feel in this category that the best script doesn’t always win. For my money ‘In Bruges’ was the best script I have heard in a long time, Foul, funny, and full of heart. It was a script I would love to have written, full of memorable characters, great lines and a genuinely moving ending. It was a very un-Hollywood film. Where else but a Colin Farrell film could you hear lines such as ‘Two manky hookers and a racist dwarf’? For that line alone it should have won. But still, it got my vote!
These are the regular injustices that happen at the Oscars. But yet every year I get my hopes up that they will pick the right films, performances and scripts. At least this year they got one of them right. Roll on next years award season.
For Mickey Rourke, Heath Ledger and ‘In Bruges’, I offer a new feature of the blog…the Shooter Salute.
Monday 23 February 2009
Friday 20 February 2009
Stupidity...
Okay, so I’m fairly certain I’m not the first person write about how stupid customers are, but I have my own twopence worth of rant to have!
Now, I run a shop, selling toys, gifts, games and random things. In the window are such items as Sticklebricks, Etch-A-Sketch and Emu puppets. However, this still leads people to come in and ask us for things. We are keeping a running tally…currently the list includes but is not limited to:
Wills
Lightbulbs
Paper Tablecloths
Doilies
There are many others but these struck me as the most ridiculous. Seriously, who sees a giant poster in the window saying ‘Retro’ in big dayglo multicolours, and thinks ‘I wonder if they will arrange my last living wishes’? What bit of your brain is misfiring? Seriously, I can’t think of any place less likely to deal with grieving relatives than us. What the hell is wrong with you people? For a will, go to a lawyer! For lightbulbs go to a hardware shop. For toys and random things, come and see me!
Now, I run a shop, selling toys, gifts, games and random things. In the window are such items as Sticklebricks, Etch-A-Sketch and Emu puppets. However, this still leads people to come in and ask us for things. We are keeping a running tally…currently the list includes but is not limited to:
Wills
Lightbulbs
Paper Tablecloths
Doilies
There are many others but these struck me as the most ridiculous. Seriously, who sees a giant poster in the window saying ‘Retro’ in big dayglo multicolours, and thinks ‘I wonder if they will arrange my last living wishes’? What bit of your brain is misfiring? Seriously, I can’t think of any place less likely to deal with grieving relatives than us. What the hell is wrong with you people? For a will, go to a lawyer! For lightbulbs go to a hardware shop. For toys and random things, come and see me!
Tuesday 17 February 2009
Blast from the past....
You know, when you meet someone, and you just know you will not get on? Well, this is a tale which goes back a few years now.
I met the woman, whose name shall remain hidden, I will call her BB, when I went to teach at a High School in East Kilbride. For my transatlantic viewers that is a small town just outside Glasgow. Which is in Scotland.
So, as a new teacher, I needed help and support from the head of my department. Did I get that? Did I fuck! From the moment I met her she was nothing but hostile towards me, even going so far as to tell me that no new male teacher had ever done well in that school. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? So, when, after a few months, I decided to leave the profession, it was with a happy feeling in my belly that I will never need to see BB again.
Until yesterday. Standing in my shop during half term, I look out of the window to see her shapeless form shuffling down the street. I ran to the window, thinking, was it her? No, surely not. What are the odds of her turning up in York and walking past my shop, almost exactly 4 years after I turned my back on helping children and focused on entertaining them instead? She had passed by the time I got to the window and I couldn’t be sure it was her. So I thought nothing of it.
Then today, as I popped out to the post office, there she was standing at the end of my street. Definitely her, 100%. How much did I have to stop my self from hurling things at her? Well, I will admit I struggled.
But anyway, there goes my rant….I hate that woman. And I don’t say that lightly. Most of the teachers in my department were really welcoming and friendly, helpful when I needed it, just not her. The male teachers put a little more effort in, one or two in particular were very good to me and I would like to thank them, even though they will never read this. But anyway, thanks Kenny and Alan.
Okay, maybe my rage has passed a little now…
Peace out!
I met the woman, whose name shall remain hidden, I will call her BB, when I went to teach at a High School in East Kilbride. For my transatlantic viewers that is a small town just outside Glasgow. Which is in Scotland.
So, as a new teacher, I needed help and support from the head of my department. Did I get that? Did I fuck! From the moment I met her she was nothing but hostile towards me, even going so far as to tell me that no new male teacher had ever done well in that school. What the fuck am I supposed to say to that? So, when, after a few months, I decided to leave the profession, it was with a happy feeling in my belly that I will never need to see BB again.
Until yesterday. Standing in my shop during half term, I look out of the window to see her shapeless form shuffling down the street. I ran to the window, thinking, was it her? No, surely not. What are the odds of her turning up in York and walking past my shop, almost exactly 4 years after I turned my back on helping children and focused on entertaining them instead? She had passed by the time I got to the window and I couldn’t be sure it was her. So I thought nothing of it.
Then today, as I popped out to the post office, there she was standing at the end of my street. Definitely her, 100%. How much did I have to stop my self from hurling things at her? Well, I will admit I struggled.
But anyway, there goes my rant….I hate that woman. And I don’t say that lightly. Most of the teachers in my department were really welcoming and friendly, helpful when I needed it, just not her. The male teachers put a little more effort in, one or two in particular were very good to me and I would like to thank them, even though they will never read this. But anyway, thanks Kenny and Alan.
Okay, maybe my rage has passed a little now…
Peace out!
Wednesday 11 February 2009
Camp Part 1
So I figure this blog is to be a flashback one. I had a big rant yesterday, today I feel like writing something a little more positive.
In the summer of 2001 I, along with an old schoolfriend, went to Camp. We flew to New York from Manchester, spent the weekend in New York and then took the Greyhound to Philadelphia. At the bus station we were to be collected by a representative of the camp. Well, Bobby and I stood at the entrance to that bus station for a good 3 or 4 hours. It was about 100 degrees in the midday sun, so we tried to spend as little time in it as possible. We spotted a group of girls who all had big bags like ours, also hanging around the entrance. They however were not avoiding the ridiculous temperatures. As we were to discover, they were Scottish, and there is one thing I know about Scottish women, they like a tan!
We got chatting to them a little, they were also waiting to be picked up, just like us. I forget all of their names but I remember Lucy and Katie were there, who I was to spend the summer with.
Eventually, a car and a van turned up, bearing the logo of our camp Julian Krinsky Summer Camps. The logo, as I recall thinking, looked like a bastardised version of the AIDS awareness ribbon.
So, into the van we get, having met Tim and Trish, the head counsellors. And so began our summer…
More stories from camp will come, but needless to say, this was the start of both the most exhausting, and also the most enjoyable of summers.I made some great friends there, many of whom I am still in contact with, at least one of whom will be reading this.
In the summer of 2001 I, along with an old schoolfriend, went to Camp. We flew to New York from Manchester, spent the weekend in New York and then took the Greyhound to Philadelphia. At the bus station we were to be collected by a representative of the camp. Well, Bobby and I stood at the entrance to that bus station for a good 3 or 4 hours. It was about 100 degrees in the midday sun, so we tried to spend as little time in it as possible. We spotted a group of girls who all had big bags like ours, also hanging around the entrance. They however were not avoiding the ridiculous temperatures. As we were to discover, they were Scottish, and there is one thing I know about Scottish women, they like a tan!
We got chatting to them a little, they were also waiting to be picked up, just like us. I forget all of their names but I remember Lucy and Katie were there, who I was to spend the summer with.
Eventually, a car and a van turned up, bearing the logo of our camp Julian Krinsky Summer Camps. The logo, as I recall thinking, looked like a bastardised version of the AIDS awareness ribbon.
So, into the van we get, having met Tim and Trish, the head counsellors. And so began our summer…
More stories from camp will come, but needless to say, this was the start of both the most exhausting, and also the most enjoyable of summers.I made some great friends there, many of whom I am still in contact with, at least one of whom will be reading this.
Tuesday 10 February 2009
Parenthood In Todays Society
Now, I don’t want to come off all Richard Littlejohn here, but really. As a non parent myself, some of you will argue that I have no right to comment on the parenting skills of others, but I have never held any strong religious beliefs either but that doesn’t stop me from knowing that priests playing with little boys is not right!
Living in a city like York, which is a nice city, with beautiful settings and some lovely people, I can’t help but be dismayed by the appalling parental skills shown by some of its residents. Take for example, this demonstration of parental concern witnessed by me 2 days ago on a bus:
Father (sitting at front of bus to child of 3 or 4 at back of bus): Paris, sit down Paris. She is going to hurt herself. Paris sit down.
Mother: non committal grunt.
Now call me old fashioned, but when I was a child, I would have had to sit with my mum for that whole journey. Not once did the Father of said girl make his way up the bus to either retrieve his child or to sit with her. I can’t help but wonder whether Russell Howard is right, that ‘you should not be allowed to use your fanny until you can control what plops out of it’.
This example is just one of many I could highlight, but I am sure you will all have your own horror stories to share with the world. Now, having spent a lot of time working in the customer service industry it would be easy to argue I have become jaded to the world, especially to things like controlling your children. Working in a cinema, you see the best and worst of people, managing a toy shop you also see both. I will very briefly head back to the young family of the bus to touch upon the subject of naming your child. I hate to be snobbish but is that 3 year old going to thank her parents for naming her after Paris Hilton? I can’t think that she has been named after the city, because both parents gave the impression they had never been further away from home than a day trip to Flamingo land, except for 2 weeks in Torremolinos spent eating chips and drinking John Smiths. Or will little Paris grow up to be just as ignorant and forgive me, stupid as her parents. One can’t help but fear for her future.
On a similar note, I had a family in my shop just a couple of weeks ago, I had to laugh. Now, again, I am in no real place to judge, but it is my humble opinion that couples who are both over the age of 45 should not really be reproducing. Certainly not couples who both dress entirely in tweed and would be more comfortable herding sheep. At that age, you run the risk of your children getting to be 20 and having their parents have to move in with them, what sort of life is it for a young boy to want to kick a football around with his dad, only to not be able to in case his dad’s hips go? Coupled with these factors, they have a tendency to name their children things like Angus and Millicent. People so ill suited to parenthood that they insist a child not spend his pocket money in a toyshop, or Waterstone’s because, and I quote, ‘You can buy it online when we get home for less money’. Yes, you can, but that is the kids pocket money, in five years time he will be spending it on 20/20 and Blue Nun. Take advantage of the fact that he wants to buy a book at all, not making him wait till Amazon deliver it in a weeks time. Let him read it today and expand his horizons. Let the kid have fun, life is shitty enough as a grown up that he doesn’t need to have his natural enthusiasm for life stifled out of him at 8!
Living in a city like York, which is a nice city, with beautiful settings and some lovely people, I can’t help but be dismayed by the appalling parental skills shown by some of its residents. Take for example, this demonstration of parental concern witnessed by me 2 days ago on a bus:
Father (sitting at front of bus to child of 3 or 4 at back of bus): Paris, sit down Paris. She is going to hurt herself. Paris sit down.
Mother: non committal grunt.
Now call me old fashioned, but when I was a child, I would have had to sit with my mum for that whole journey. Not once did the Father of said girl make his way up the bus to either retrieve his child or to sit with her. I can’t help but wonder whether Russell Howard is right, that ‘you should not be allowed to use your fanny until you can control what plops out of it’.
This example is just one of many I could highlight, but I am sure you will all have your own horror stories to share with the world. Now, having spent a lot of time working in the customer service industry it would be easy to argue I have become jaded to the world, especially to things like controlling your children. Working in a cinema, you see the best and worst of people, managing a toy shop you also see both. I will very briefly head back to the young family of the bus to touch upon the subject of naming your child. I hate to be snobbish but is that 3 year old going to thank her parents for naming her after Paris Hilton? I can’t think that she has been named after the city, because both parents gave the impression they had never been further away from home than a day trip to Flamingo land, except for 2 weeks in Torremolinos spent eating chips and drinking John Smiths. Or will little Paris grow up to be just as ignorant and forgive me, stupid as her parents. One can’t help but fear for her future.
On a similar note, I had a family in my shop just a couple of weeks ago, I had to laugh. Now, again, I am in no real place to judge, but it is my humble opinion that couples who are both over the age of 45 should not really be reproducing. Certainly not couples who both dress entirely in tweed and would be more comfortable herding sheep. At that age, you run the risk of your children getting to be 20 and having their parents have to move in with them, what sort of life is it for a young boy to want to kick a football around with his dad, only to not be able to in case his dad’s hips go? Coupled with these factors, they have a tendency to name their children things like Angus and Millicent. People so ill suited to parenthood that they insist a child not spend his pocket money in a toyshop, or Waterstone’s because, and I quote, ‘You can buy it online when we get home for less money’. Yes, you can, but that is the kids pocket money, in five years time he will be spending it on 20/20 and Blue Nun. Take advantage of the fact that he wants to buy a book at all, not making him wait till Amazon deliver it in a weeks time. Let him read it today and expand his horizons. Let the kid have fun, life is shitty enough as a grown up that he doesn’t need to have his natural enthusiasm for life stifled out of him at 8!
Monday 9 February 2009
Mobile Phones: The Saviour of the Shopped Out Boyfriend
How many of us have stood kicking our heels in Miss Selfridges on a Saturday afternoon while the girlfriend looks at yet another pink thong or pair of boots? We have all been there. But now, thanks to technology, the phenomenon of the bored boyfriend is on the wane.
Now if you were to look around any high street retailer on a Saturday afternoon you will find the usual throng of women shoppers, but also men leaning on a clothing rack, mobile phone in hand. Whether he is sending a text message or just pretending to, he is no longer trying not to be embarrassed by the underwear section of Top Shop. With the advent of ever improving mobile phone technology, today’s man is more likely to be surfing the internet on his phone or downloading the latest hits than trying to look at other women without his girlfriend noticing.
This I feel is a shame, just another case of technology removing a part of what makes us who we are. Now that the text message allows us to avoid the awkward stance and sly glances at the underwear, where are we supposed to bond? Remember seeing the episode of Father Ted where the priests get lost in the underwear section? That applies not just to priests, but to every other man, that fear of being left alone, with all those pants, women looking at you like some kind of pervert! These days the male of the species could probably use his phone to find a map of the shop on the net to help him out.
I recall, when younger, being dragged along to the shops with a girlfriend, only to spend my afternoon, hands in pockets occasionally nodding and murmuring appreciative comments. I bonded with other boyfriends, wordlessly, just catching the look in the eyes of the other guy made us feel like part of the same club. The occasional nod, a raise of the eyebrows, and the over exaggerated grimace are all common features of the man in a clothes shop.
Without these shopping trips, how are we to learn to relate to women, or even to other men? Without the training ground of the shops, how are boys supposed to learn that the correct answer to all questions posed by women is that they look great? And, how else are today’s young men supposed to gain the influence needed to enable them to then spend an hour wandering the dvd section of HMV without first spending time being the dutiful boyfriend?
The mobile phone serves to both entertain us during the shopping trip but also to distance us from our women. It makes it look like shopping is not an effort, like our patience is not something to be rewarded.
So while the new generation of mobile phones means that this generation of young men don’t have to stand around bored, it also deprives them of the ability to entertain themselves, or even of having to think for too long.
Now if you were to look around any high street retailer on a Saturday afternoon you will find the usual throng of women shoppers, but also men leaning on a clothing rack, mobile phone in hand. Whether he is sending a text message or just pretending to, he is no longer trying not to be embarrassed by the underwear section of Top Shop. With the advent of ever improving mobile phone technology, today’s man is more likely to be surfing the internet on his phone or downloading the latest hits than trying to look at other women without his girlfriend noticing.
This I feel is a shame, just another case of technology removing a part of what makes us who we are. Now that the text message allows us to avoid the awkward stance and sly glances at the underwear, where are we supposed to bond? Remember seeing the episode of Father Ted where the priests get lost in the underwear section? That applies not just to priests, but to every other man, that fear of being left alone, with all those pants, women looking at you like some kind of pervert! These days the male of the species could probably use his phone to find a map of the shop on the net to help him out.
I recall, when younger, being dragged along to the shops with a girlfriend, only to spend my afternoon, hands in pockets occasionally nodding and murmuring appreciative comments. I bonded with other boyfriends, wordlessly, just catching the look in the eyes of the other guy made us feel like part of the same club. The occasional nod, a raise of the eyebrows, and the over exaggerated grimace are all common features of the man in a clothes shop.
Without these shopping trips, how are we to learn to relate to women, or even to other men? Without the training ground of the shops, how are boys supposed to learn that the correct answer to all questions posed by women is that they look great? And, how else are today’s young men supposed to gain the influence needed to enable them to then spend an hour wandering the dvd section of HMV without first spending time being the dutiful boyfriend?
The mobile phone serves to both entertain us during the shopping trip but also to distance us from our women. It makes it look like shopping is not an effort, like our patience is not something to be rewarded.
So while the new generation of mobile phones means that this generation of young men don’t have to stand around bored, it also deprives them of the ability to entertain themselves, or even of having to think for too long.
Popping that cherry!
So, this is my blog...whether anyone will ever read it I don't know. I intend to use this blog to have a bit of a rant, express some feeling, maybe just comment on something that me smile. I don't know yet. I wasn't going to do this, however, quite a few people seem to want to read my blog, so I thought I had better write one.
There will be occasional themes, it may end up just being a random selection of thoughts. Bear with me!
Anywa, I gotta go to work now, so I will have a think and come up with something oh so witty and readable for me to write tonight.
Until then, peace out!
Steve
There will be occasional themes, it may end up just being a random selection of thoughts. Bear with me!
Anywa, I gotta go to work now, so I will have a think and come up with something oh so witty and readable for me to write tonight.
Until then, peace out!
Steve
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