The world can be a terrible and dangerous place. There are so many different subjects to rally against, and it’s important for everyone to take their responsibility as a citizen of the world seriously and make a stand against the wrongs of humanity. For this heartfelt post I have decided not to comment on the perils of social injustice, or poverty, or corruption, or preventable disease or even the ever-spiralling descent of a generation into a world of crime and hopelessness. No, this post is about something else altogether. A little discussed and often over-looked subject; but one that needs bringing to the fore and talking about in an adult and constructive manner.
The second button. There, I’ve said it. The second button down on a man’s shirt. Not a suit shirt that you might wear with a tie. No, the more utilitarian casual shirt. The preserve of a gentleman’s wardrobe for many years.
The question I am asking is, what has happened to the second button down? It seems to have moved, but in the name of all that’s good and holy, why? Goddamit, why? It is now far too high, leaving a generation of men with the terrible conundrum of which buttons to leave undone and which to fasten. The top button, is there for nothing more than decoration. A mere Jason Orange in the world of fashion. No one fastens their top button, unless they are a serial killer or are a self employed IT technician. So that leaves the second button, but now it is too high, so if you only unfasten to there, you look like ‘serial killer lite’. Obviously this is no good, so the only answer is to unbutton to the outer reaches of decency with the third button. But now you are entering a whole new world, and it’s not a world for everyone. Now you are entering David Starsky world. If you unbutton to the third, you had better be damn sure you can carry it off. If you have the hairy chest and confidence of a 1970s detective from southern California then that’s all well and good, but if like me you don’t, you are left in a confusing no man’s land.
So what is the answer to this terrible problem? Do you take a chance, and try a little personality adjustment? Perhaps men up and down the country could try running along the beach very fast, or jumping across car bonnets, but there is an outside chance of looking faintly ridiculous. They could try the subtler approach of sitting with their feet on the desks, chomping away on doughnuts and winking at passing women, but I fear the ugly face of ridiculousness is still close at hand. What about sticking with the second button option and hoping that the serial killer look becomes ‘in vogue’? It’s an option, but not a good one.
The other possibility is that we rebel against the fashionistas, who are clearly having a laugh at our expense. We could set up our own shirt making franchise ‘Shirts for the ordinary man’. It might work, it could work. By God, let’s make it work. This is a call to arms (and body, neck, cuffs and collar) for a disenfranchised generation of men to take matters into their own hands and stand up and be counted. What may start as small band of brothers could grow into an army. An army can grow into a movement and through the powers of the collective spirit we can win. We can design a shirt with a correctly placed second button. A million man army marching down the streets of Britain with banners proudly proclaiming ‘I AM NOT DAVID STARSKY’ or ‘I AM NOT A SERIAL KILLER’. We can do it. We just need to believe.
Either that or we could just wear a T-Shirt.
Thursday, 31 December 2009
Wednesday, 30 December 2009
Tuesday, 29 December 2009
24 Days. 580 hours. 34,800 minutes. 2,088,000 seconds.
That’s the amount of repeats we are being subjected to this Christmas. That’s not over all the multitude of terrestrial and digital channels. Just the four main channels. 24 days of unoriginal, dredged up, bottom of the barrel entertainment to keep us enthralled over the festive period.
Years ago, this would be a golden time for British television. We would have a dry spell in the build up, but then we would be hit between the eyes with several big hitters of shows. It wasn’t just that they were big, but they were new. Fresh from the writer’s pen, a delight of good writing, big name actors and fine acting. What did ITV have to offer on Christmas day this year? An ‘All star Mr & Mrs Christmas Special’ followed by Inspector fucking Poirot. As for BBC2, they presented us with a cutting edge selection of Dad’s Army, Blackadder the Third, a Top Gear repeat and a couple of old men drinking wine and passing wind. Channel Four had a repeated documentary, a repeated Alternative Christmas message, a repeated comedian’s DVD for Christmas performance and a monosyllabic magician standing still inside a giant ice cube (Repeated from the year 2000).
In fairness, BBC1 had a new Royle Family and Gavin & Stacy, but that hardly passes for a night to remember. Why is it such a pitiful offering? Why are the major channels not making new and interesting programmes of note and merit? If you’re interested in the answer, there’s a very thought-provoking article here http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/2009/10/why-britain-cant-do-the-wire/ If you’re not interested in reading it, I dare say you could just as easily pass your time by turning on the old goggle box and relaxing to half an hour of One man and his dog, or a repeated twelve year old topical news quiz.
Years ago, this would be a golden time for British television. We would have a dry spell in the build up, but then we would be hit between the eyes with several big hitters of shows. It wasn’t just that they were big, but they were new. Fresh from the writer’s pen, a delight of good writing, big name actors and fine acting. What did ITV have to offer on Christmas day this year? An ‘All star Mr & Mrs Christmas Special’ followed by Inspector fucking Poirot. As for BBC2, they presented us with a cutting edge selection of Dad’s Army, Blackadder the Third, a Top Gear repeat and a couple of old men drinking wine and passing wind. Channel Four had a repeated documentary, a repeated Alternative Christmas message, a repeated comedian’s DVD for Christmas performance and a monosyllabic magician standing still inside a giant ice cube (Repeated from the year 2000).
In fairness, BBC1 had a new Royle Family and Gavin & Stacy, but that hardly passes for a night to remember. Why is it such a pitiful offering? Why are the major channels not making new and interesting programmes of note and merit? If you’re interested in the answer, there’s a very thought-provoking article here http://www.prospectmagazine.co.uk/2009/10/why-britain-cant-do-the-wire/ If you’re not interested in reading it, I dare say you could just as easily pass your time by turning on the old goggle box and relaxing to half an hour of One man and his dog, or a repeated twelve year old topical news quiz.
Monday, 21 December 2009
Bank charges explained
The supreme court, in it's infinite wisdom, has thrown out the case for repaying unfair bank charges. Through another little film I put together through xtranormal, a leading bank manager explains exactly where the money goes.
(Note: This is a reposted and revised, less sweary version)
(Note: This is a reposted and revised, less sweary version)
Sunday, 20 December 2009
Saturday, 19 December 2009
Young, dumb and.....,well that's it really!
A delightful German teenager gets a little carried away when his computer doesn't play ball!
Thursday, 17 December 2009
Train chairman Q&A
A little film that I wrote and put together through xtranormal.com.
An imagined interview with a train company chairman. Any connections to East Midlands trains are not to be drawn from this.
An imagined interview with a train company chairman. Any connections to East Midlands trains are not to be drawn from this.
Wednesday, 16 December 2009
"I don't heart Lily Tomlin'
It certainly sounds like director David O Russell isn't totally in love with Lily Tomlin on the this out take. Still, a little motivational talk never hurt anyone. "Stop acting like a f*****g child!" That should do the trick.
Tuesday, 15 December 2009
Bankers and bum fluff
We are all wondering why the banking system is in such disarray? The country has lost all of its money, and the bankers are busy counting their six figure bonuses while the rest of us convince ourselves that shopping at Lidl and reusing tea bags is actually ok. ‘You know, like it’s been a really valuable experience and everything. It’s made me re-evaluate the meaning of money. I’m more in tune with what’s really important in life.’ Oh please, it’s been bloody awful, and we all know it. I don’t want to be counting the pennies or eating own label baked beans thank you very much. Yes family, health and a roof over our heads are the most important things, but quite frankly the ability to treat ourselves to a takeaway chicken tikka masala with all the trimmings and a nice bottle of wine, when the mood takes are pretty important to me as well. I know, I’m shallow. Good, I like being shallow!
However, we are all being assured the green shoots of recovery are staring to bloom and life will soon be back to some sense of normality within the next twenty years. Phew! This post is nothing to do with the champagne quaffing, bonus-busting bankers; that’s what the Daily Mail is for. No, this is for a completely different type of banker. This is for the ones who decided that the most qualified person to dispense financial advice in times of crisis, is a spotty faced, spiky haired twelve year old, who looks like he should be offering to clean your car for bob a job week. Honestly, I was called in by my bank a little while ago to discuss some personal banking matters. They were probably upset that my account was looking a little battle weary. I duly went in at the agreed time to my nearest branch, expecting to meet a steely eyed, middle aged bank manager who would wag his finger at me, and then set about offering me some well intentioned advice, garnered from his many years of experience. What I wasn’t expecting was to be sat in an open-plan area and have to discuss my most private matters with somebody called Wayne. Wayne, with his over sized suit, fluffy chin and acne pocked chin looked like he would be better suited to giving advice on how to get the best out of your conker performance, not how to live within your means to the bank’s satisfaction.
Now you maybe thinking I’m being a bit harsh on the spotty faced urchin. Don’t confuse youth for inexperience, you might suggest, leave poor Wayne alone. But shall I tell you what pearl of wisdom passed through those youthful, whispery moustache covered lips. Shall I tell you? ‘Perhaps you could try spending a bit less money sir.’ I kid you not, ‘Perhaps you could try spending a bit less money sir.’ This was the best the world’s local bank could offer. Blimey, all the world’s financial ills solved with that one simple statement. It was as if a heavenly light had shone down from above, and bathed his gel-encrusted, spiky hair in a warm bath of genius. Maybe I could try spending a bit less money on my mortgage, or my water, gas, electric, council tax, car tax, train fare, child care or any of the other monthly bills that savage my monthly salary. Perhaps I could try spending a bit less on the food my family digest to stay alive, or the children’s clothes, which they keep annoyingly growing out of. Perhaps I could try spending a bit less on the enormous bank charges which this particular establishment insisted on taking out of my account for looking at my bank balance the wrong way. Or perhaps, this font of all knowledge, with his many years of real life experience, is worried that I am spending too much money on my gold leaf encrusted Osprey egg collection. Does he worry that I might be frittering away my hard earned salary on too many Rembrandts? Surely that can be the only reason older people go through their money. That’s what it is, his worldy-wise maturity, gained through years at the coalface have caught me out. He does indeed know better. From now on, I shall take his advice and spend less money wherever possible. I absolutely promise not to add to my chandelier collection. How’s that Wayne? Any happier?
Of course it’s not really Wayne’s fault; how is he meant to have the abilities to offer any real and constructive advice. It is the fault of the people upstairs, who decided that rather than have our Wayne sort through the leaflets that no one reads, or make the tea, he should be the face of the bank. In future when I’m called in to discuss my money matters, I think I’ll just send in my seven-year-old daughter with her piggy bank, and they can discuss it over a blueberry Hooch.
However, we are all being assured the green shoots of recovery are staring to bloom and life will soon be back to some sense of normality within the next twenty years. Phew! This post is nothing to do with the champagne quaffing, bonus-busting bankers; that’s what the Daily Mail is for. No, this is for a completely different type of banker. This is for the ones who decided that the most qualified person to dispense financial advice in times of crisis, is a spotty faced, spiky haired twelve year old, who looks like he should be offering to clean your car for bob a job week. Honestly, I was called in by my bank a little while ago to discuss some personal banking matters. They were probably upset that my account was looking a little battle weary. I duly went in at the agreed time to my nearest branch, expecting to meet a steely eyed, middle aged bank manager who would wag his finger at me, and then set about offering me some well intentioned advice, garnered from his many years of experience. What I wasn’t expecting was to be sat in an open-plan area and have to discuss my most private matters with somebody called Wayne. Wayne, with his over sized suit, fluffy chin and acne pocked chin looked like he would be better suited to giving advice on how to get the best out of your conker performance, not how to live within your means to the bank’s satisfaction.
Now you maybe thinking I’m being a bit harsh on the spotty faced urchin. Don’t confuse youth for inexperience, you might suggest, leave poor Wayne alone. But shall I tell you what pearl of wisdom passed through those youthful, whispery moustache covered lips. Shall I tell you? ‘Perhaps you could try spending a bit less money sir.’ I kid you not, ‘Perhaps you could try spending a bit less money sir.’ This was the best the world’s local bank could offer. Blimey, all the world’s financial ills solved with that one simple statement. It was as if a heavenly light had shone down from above, and bathed his gel-encrusted, spiky hair in a warm bath of genius. Maybe I could try spending a bit less money on my mortgage, or my water, gas, electric, council tax, car tax, train fare, child care or any of the other monthly bills that savage my monthly salary. Perhaps I could try spending a bit less on the food my family digest to stay alive, or the children’s clothes, which they keep annoyingly growing out of. Perhaps I could try spending a bit less on the enormous bank charges which this particular establishment insisted on taking out of my account for looking at my bank balance the wrong way. Or perhaps, this font of all knowledge, with his many years of real life experience, is worried that I am spending too much money on my gold leaf encrusted Osprey egg collection. Does he worry that I might be frittering away my hard earned salary on too many Rembrandts? Surely that can be the only reason older people go through their money. That’s what it is, his worldy-wise maturity, gained through years at the coalface have caught me out. He does indeed know better. From now on, I shall take his advice and spend less money wherever possible. I absolutely promise not to add to my chandelier collection. How’s that Wayne? Any happier?
Of course it’s not really Wayne’s fault; how is he meant to have the abilities to offer any real and constructive advice. It is the fault of the people upstairs, who decided that rather than have our Wayne sort through the leaflets that no one reads, or make the tea, he should be the face of the bank. In future when I’m called in to discuss my money matters, I think I’ll just send in my seven-year-old daughter with her piggy bank, and they can discuss it over a blueberry Hooch.
You're not alright Jack
This is an audio of Jack Palance doing a voiceover. He is not overly enamored with the direction he receives.
Monday, 14 December 2009
Pachelbel Rant
Following on from the musical rant of Dave Carroll, here is an equally entertaining musical tirade from comedian Rob Parovian. He tells how much he hates playing Pachelbel's Canon in D on the cello, and it's far more amusing than it sounds.
Friday, 11 December 2009
A Hunter with a movie executive in his sights
In 2001 notorious author Hunter S Thompson sent a letter to his production executive. The rather angry note concerned the adaptation of his novel The Rum Diary. Progress had been slow, and this had left Mr Thompson a little miffed.
HOLLY SORENSON / Shooting Gallery / Hollywood / Jan 22 '01
Dear Holly,
Okay, you lazy bitch, I'm getting tired of this waterhead fuckaround that you're doing with The Rum Diary.
We are not even spinning our wheels aggresivly. It's like the whole Project got turned over to Zombies who live in cardboard boxes under the Hollywood Freeway... I seem to be the only person who's doing anything about getting this movie Made. I have rounded up Depp, Benicio Del Toro, Brad Pitt, Nick Nolte & a fine screenwriter from England, named Michael Thomas, who is a very smart boy & has so far been a pleasure to talk to & conspire with...
So there's yr. fucking Script & all you have to do now is act like a Professional & Pay him. What the hell do you think Making a Movie is all about? Nobody needs to hear any more of that Gibberish about yr. New Mercedes & yr. Ski Trips & how Hopelessly Broke the Shooting Gallery is.... If you're that fucking Poor you should get out of the Movie Business. It is no place for Amateurs & Dilletants who don't want to do anything but "take lunch" & Waste serious people's Time.
Fuck this. We have a good writer, we have the main parts casted & we have a very marketable movie that will not even be hard to make....
And all you are is a goddamn Bystander, making stupid suggestions & jabbering now & then like some half-bright Kid with No Money & No Energy & no focus except on yr. own tits.... I'm sick of hearing about Cuba & Japs & yr. Yo-yo partners who want to change the story because the violence makes them Queasy.
Shit on them. I'd much rather deal with a Live asshole than a Dead worm with No Light in his Eyes.... If you people don't want to Do Anything with this movie, just cough up the Option & I'll talk to someone else. The only thing You're going to get by quitting and curling up in a Fetal position is relentless Grief and Embarrassment. And the one thing you won't have is Fun...
Okay, That's my Outburst for today. Let's hope that it gets Somebody off the dime. And if you don't Do Something QUICK you're going to Destroy a very good idea. I'm in the mood to chop yr. fucking hands off.
R.S.V.P
(Signed)
HUNTER
HOLLY SORENSON / Shooting Gallery / Hollywood / Jan 22 '01
Dear Holly,
Okay, you lazy bitch, I'm getting tired of this waterhead fuckaround that you're doing with The Rum Diary.
We are not even spinning our wheels aggresivly. It's like the whole Project got turned over to Zombies who live in cardboard boxes under the Hollywood Freeway... I seem to be the only person who's doing anything about getting this movie Made. I have rounded up Depp, Benicio Del Toro, Brad Pitt, Nick Nolte & a fine screenwriter from England, named Michael Thomas, who is a very smart boy & has so far been a pleasure to talk to & conspire with...
So there's yr. fucking Script & all you have to do now is act like a Professional & Pay him. What the hell do you think Making a Movie is all about? Nobody needs to hear any more of that Gibberish about yr. New Mercedes & yr. Ski Trips & how Hopelessly Broke the Shooting Gallery is.... If you're that fucking Poor you should get out of the Movie Business. It is no place for Amateurs & Dilletants who don't want to do anything but "take lunch" & Waste serious people's Time.
Fuck this. We have a good writer, we have the main parts casted & we have a very marketable movie that will not even be hard to make....
And all you are is a goddamn Bystander, making stupid suggestions & jabbering now & then like some half-bright Kid with No Money & No Energy & no focus except on yr. own tits.... I'm sick of hearing about Cuba & Japs & yr. Yo-yo partners who want to change the story because the violence makes them Queasy.
Shit on them. I'd much rather deal with a Live asshole than a Dead worm with No Light in his Eyes.... If you people don't want to Do Anything with this movie, just cough up the Option & I'll talk to someone else. The only thing You're going to get by quitting and curling up in a Fetal position is relentless Grief and Embarrassment. And the one thing you won't have is Fun...
Okay, That's my Outburst for today. Let's hope that it gets Somebody off the dime. And if you don't Do Something QUICK you're going to Destroy a very good idea. I'm in the mood to chop yr. fucking hands off.
R.S.V.P
(Signed)
HUNTER
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