Why is Manchester so much better?

I arrived on a train at 15.04, and was swept into the crowd walking toward the underground. Reflecting on this, I considered that I was not very comfortable going into a hole in the ground when I was on thirteeen on a camping trip, so why should I be happy doing the same now (with more people and no helmet).

People walk competitively when they're in the underground, contorting their bodies to fit through people's legs and get further underground quicker.

A few hundred metres and a few hundred seconds later, I contorted my own body (or did my best with my gargantuan Christmas load) into a small tube, putting my arms and my bags where space would allow.

And then I closed my eyes, returning to my music and the peace I had enjoyed not ten minutes previously on a much quieter train. And then somebody fell on me, and spilt their Fanta on my coat and bag. After he recovered (his Fanta, then himself), his shamed face appealed to my disappointed expression. I rolled over and comforted him, nothing to worry about I thought, a bit of soft drink, I enjoy having an Orange scent anyway. It was a blessing in disguise.

I knew however that my mild-mannered response would not ensure my survival in future. You don't fall over on tubes, not if you hold the bloody hand bar like every other sensible person. I should have told him to get a grip. Literally.

Returning to my flat, I can feel the emphysema developing nicely on my chest. Welcome back to London. Why is Manchester so much better? Is it the water?

do you have room in your suitcase? NO.

It's Saturday night, and everyone seems to be out doing something social, but i'm at home in front of my laptop listening to George Michael. But please, don't feel sorry (or worried), i'm very glad to be home alone with GM's dulcet pseudo love ballads, it's a perfect opportunity to sit back and relax and let George do all the talking. 

The solitude has given me a good chance to reflect, and get crabby about something that bugged me recently: 

I heard the following conversation at work yesterday: 

 Guy: "You're going to New York next week aren't you?" 

 Guy 2: "Yes! I can't wait."

 Guy: "Great. You'll have a great time. Hey, do you reckon you could pick me up a New York Knicks basketball t-shirt?" 

 Guy 2: "Err... yeh, err...where would I get one of those?"

 Guy: "Any nike sports shop I should imagine, i'll give you the money and everything, I mean, if you have room in your luggage?"

What the fuck is up with people asking others to get them shit whilst they're on holiday? THEY'RE GOING ON HOLIDAY. THEY'RE NOT YOUR PERSONAL SHOPPERS. 

I could understand if the person was going to Peru and they were in love with Peruvian wool sweaters and had recently lost their own a washing machine disaster, or if their grandma had a Macchu Pichu fetish and needed a fridge magnet before she snuffed it - but, honestly, a New York Knicks shirt? 

I work in a digital advertising agency, surely this guy had heard of e-commerce and one of the million websites he could have bought this shirt - 

SHIT, what d'ya know - three clicks from google I found this: http://newyorkknicks.shop.sportstoday.com/Dept.aspx?cp=1042_4643

Unbelievable. If you're reading this - please don't ask me to do your international shopping, unless it is a very detailed and country-specific request. 

four-way photo

This is a photo taken by Corinna Psomadakis using a geek chic cool new camera she had recently purchased which employs a 4 shutter googly eye camera which takes four shots (I think), one after the other, giving the impression of movement across time - a very interesting photographic concept.

It just so happens she decided to debut her new camera on a couple of douchebag jokers - that would be myself and my best mate Charlie. After we had both accidentally bought the same boxer shorts, and by complete accident had both worn them on the same day, we decided to highlight this fact and Corinna decided to document it.

The outcome, I think, makes for a great photo.

Corinna is trying to learn more about photography, and you can check out her shit here:
http://larbage.tumblr.com/

celebrity babysitting

Whilst out for drinks on Saturday night, I got talking to a good friend about her latest 'babysitting' job. It transpired that she is on the cusp of earning a babysitting job with a very rich family. The exact type of family who are rich enough to pay a babysitter to go on an incredible holiday with them just so the kids can have someone to play with. This is not the first time I have heard had a friend who has somehow found a family who will pay them about £20 an hour to raid their fridge and watch The Simpson's in HD. Cristina's mother has regaled me with many stories of her college days in Malibu CA, where she would assist her living by looking after the kids of the rich and famous.

What is it with you people? Where do you find these ridiculous jobs? Is there some website community for uber-wealthy families and eager wannabe-nannies that i'm missing? 

It's all too good to be true, and I want to know who is dishing out these bloody jobs, because I want one. And before you go judging me for wanting to look after small children as a hobby, spare a thought for the kind and gentle King of Pop, who made a pretty good name for himself doing exactly the same thing. 

So this is an appeal (albeit a creepy one).

If you know a wealthy family / or are one,  are looking for someone who is great with kids, but better with a TV remote. Please tell them to get in touch. 

I won't touch diapers. Going rate is £10 an hour.

What happens now?

“It’s all over now, baby blue.” Words immortalised by folk singer Bob Dylan, but not true for Guus Hiddink, one of a handful of English football professionals still on the clock with the unfinished

business of this Saturday’s FA Cup Final to contend with.

 What about the rest of the footballers? At various points in the last month, they have finished their season-long shifts of physical torture. Now is their time for a well-deserved rest. All of the blood, sweat and tears of an English football season have finally come to settle on the hallowed turf. What happens now?

 Some of the most interesting things in football often happen when we aren’t looking – the things which Sky Sports doesn’t show. Who cleans the boots? How many pairs of fresh socks does Robinho need for every game? Who takes care of the ball boys?

 Football, from Liverpool to Luton Town, is a gigantic machine. It requires diligent minds and dedicated people behind every kick of the ball. You may not hear about them on the back pages, but it’s them we can thank for everything we love about football.

 The season may have all but finished for the footballers. And after Saturday’s game, the fans can also take their two month sabbatical and watch some Cricket instead. But in each and every football club in the country, armies of staff are already preparing. Cutting the grass of the training ground, drawing up new tactical boards and printing names on new football shirts. The football season never stops, it just goes quiet for a few weeks. 

Class of the Catalans - Champions League Final

Last night, in a smoky Irish pub in North West London, I watched a battle of champions. Kings in each of their countries, heroes amongst their people, it really was the fight of all fights. It's only football you might say, not worth romanticising. In this case, it deserves all the glorification we can give it. 

This was truly the biggest sporting stage in the world. The best players, from all countries and backgrounds, playing for the biggest accolade, in the most popular and widely followed sport in this planet's history. Unless dinosaurs played some form of shuffleboard we don't know about - it doesn't get much bigger than this.

And last night, Manchester United couldn't cope with the skill and craft of Barcelona. 

Alex Ferguson, manager of United for over 18 years, football sensei, could not overcome the tactical wits of a much younger Pep Guardiola, an infantile 38 year-old in his first year of management. And he can make no excuses - both managers have the same chess pieces in front of them. One manager's bishop may be stronger than the others, but the other may have a stronger castle - in the end they both have the best players in the world, it's just about how you play the pieces. 

For Barcelona, possession is 9/10ths of the law, and therefore you need to concentrate on stealing the ball from them to have any chance of winning. Ferguson employed his two most frenetic and hassling players, Rooney and Ji Sung Park, on the fringes of the game where they had no influence. 

Against Chelsea, Barcelona had already proven themselves to be frantic in defence, making mistakes under pressure and giving away costly fouls in the penalty box. Chelsea were unlucky not to have won at least two of four legitimate penalty calls. But where did Manchester United exploit this weak point? Where did they effectively dribble the ball into zones which would directly worry the fickle Barcelona defenders? In a game of this magnitude, even a world-class defender will do anything he can to prevent an opposition goal, even if it means the risk of giving away a penalty.

Manchester United may be champions of the Premier League, but this defeat will hurt Ferguson's pride more than any other. His wonder boys, with so much hope resting on their shoulders, were expected in February to achieve the unachievable and sweep all five major competition trophies. Now they walk away with just two. 

United will regroup, rebuild and Ferguson will dig deep and replenish himself for one final push. Before he does, he would be wise to take a look at the best team in the Europe, his conquerors. A team owned by their fans, who forego a lucrative sponsorship deal and donate their shirt to Unicef, whose players learn to play with pride and to play beautifully at all costs.

HOLIDAY!!!

As the world works itself into a big fuss over a maybe/maybe not pandemic to rival the 17th Century bubonic plague, I couldn't really care less.

It seems a shame that in plagues of the past, they were a little more creative with their name choices - the Black Death of the mid-fourteenth century striking fear into the history books and the schoolchildren who read them. This time around, someone almost jokingly decided to call it Swine Flu, almost as if Pig Flu might not have a serious enough ring to it.

Do you think they decided to name it swine flu because you can't regularly find 'swine' in restaurants and therefore people can blissfully continue to order pork casseroles and bacon sandwiches when they go out to eat? I have to admit, i'd be scared shitless right now if they had called it Sausage Flu.

Without offending those poor souls who have contracted this unfortunate condition and suffered its effects, i'm still completely fearless. Why? Because i'm off on holiday.

I've heard you can get great deals to Mexico right now, but i've decided to go a little further afield. The longest flight i've ever taken - 14 hours spread across two flights. The west coast of America here I come.

I'm too excited for words. I've not had a holiday in ages, have been working hard across various jobs for nine months, trying to make life work in London on a shoestring. Finally, I can take a couple of weeks, see a bit of the world I've never seen before, take some photos and eat some delicious food (swine excluding).

Will keep you updated with some photos and stories along the way. It's time to become an American. If I meet Obama, that would be crazy. But goal number one right now - a regular streetside corndog and a budweiser, as soon as I step off the plane.

My local Pub

Just had a Saturday morning session at my 'local'. It's a great thing to be able to say that you have your own 'local'. The phrase refers to the pub that's about two minutes from your front door, and even though it's probably tacky as hell, and the seating is moth eaten, there's a sense of pride you wear each time you go in there.

I can only imagine it's a bit different in America. If you don't live in a big city, they seem to have a problem putting drinking holes on every street corner in the suburbs. It must have something to do with their kids having such lovely white teeth.

To say "i'm off to the local" has three great implications:

1. It officially means you have your own abode, a place where you live, with neighbours and some annoying lady who peeps through her curtain. It's your area, your home, and that's great.

2. This sense of ownership is a step up on the adult ladder. You're no longer 12 years old and saying "i'm just off to my local....street corner to hang out on my bike". Now you can drink beer and not orangeade.

3. It's nice to go somewhere that's not your home, but that you still feel at home when you go there. If that makes sense?

A proper old man's pub, named after an American wooden-hulled ship - the oldest commissioned ship in the world today. The clientel is bizarre. Some bloke goes in with a sort of silver chain wig on and wears a leather jacket, but seems completely normal. A bloke with a pony tail runs a poker game on Sundays and Mondays in the upstairs bit. There's no quiz machine, no jukebox, none of that post-modern drinking apparatus that seems to be the habit of a new generation of young hedonists. Just simplicity.

Plad chairs. A straightforward selection of lagers and bitters. A few mixers, and the classic triumvirate of crisps - ready salted, cheese and onion and salt and vinegar. People go there to enjoy a drink and maybe if they see someone they recognise, they exchange a few words.

Greeks have something similar with the Taverna - the Hellenic "local". In the villages and suburbs, you'll see men playing backgammon, sipping away on a mythos, gossipping in between dice rolls.

The local is a great way to tie together a community, and a fantastic excuse to go drinking on your own. If you have a local - get in touch and i'll come round for a pint.

To Do: Visit the Local more often.

The Darkness - what a band. Remember? Just me?

I love music, but i'd never clearly say that my tastes were ever consistent, refined or educated. I like what I like, and tend not to listen to anything which might reasonably be caught in a grey genre area. I'm not a genre person either - I like bits of lots of different things.

Basically - like religion - my taste in music is one of life's great mysteries. Faith is required.

And it is with great faith that in around year 2002, I devoted myself to the most cringeworthy band ever to have topped the charts - The Darkness.

They were a sort of mock 70s guitar-worshipping band that produced an album of pure mock-rock. A sheep could have written better lyrics, and the riffs (???) were so unnervingly tacky that the whole mixture, when combined and strapped with leather jeans and tatoos of snakes, produced a result that was not far short of a miracle.

I loved it like i've never loved any band before - one jam after another. I bought two t-shirts at two gigs I went to. The first time I saw them live was with my friend Chris Parrott. It was a dank, cold December night in Manchester, and Chris and I met up at the pub around the corner from the Carling Apollo, for our little music man-date. If we hadn't been so clearly obsessed by The Darkness, we'd have been ashamed that we were the only two people amongst our friends that saw a bizarre attraction in these jokers.

They enjoyed their fifteen minutes of the fame, and i'm glad that I was at the front to watch it unfold and then fold back up again.

Strangely, I'm sat in a coffee shop and one of their heroic ballads came on, so I just had to sit down and write myself a little trip down memory lane.

This blog post is to all those people who like a band for some very bizarre and unexplainable reason. Nobody else gets it, even though you wish they really did. Many years later, when you've matured and lost the t-shirt, you might look back on that obsession with a smile, knowing that you loved a band nobody else did - they were yours and they were brilliant.

A treat for all of you. Ladies and Gentlemen - The Darkness. RIP.

Doubt (Film Review)

You probably wouldn't be convinced to see this film by the trailer. Words like 'depressing', 'blue', 'want', 'to', 'kill' and 'myself' would be conjured in your mind. And you can't be blamed. Here's the logline: An embittered battle between a Priest and a the Principal Nun of a Catholic school in 1960s America rages amidst allegations of the Priest's sordid relationship with one of the boys.

Woopee. Who's in that one? Jim Carrey?

No. In fact it's Big Phil 'Serious Face' Hoffman and Meryl 'Give Me Any Role' Streep. Two big names, and the expectations of their performances are high. It's with little surprise and much annoyance that the release of this film coincides with Oscar season. But then again - given the subject matter - I would hardly expect a June release - summertime movie this ain't.

So what's the scoop? Does it deliver? It doesn't i'm afraid.

It has a very strong feel of small-time about it. The scale of the drama and the setting (the camera hardly steps outside three or four locations in the school) restrict this film from producing any truly engaging and worthwhile emotional reaction. There are a few scenes of considerable length which clearly are devoted to the actor's talents as performers. But this is an adaptation from an original stage production - and it feels very much as if that is where it should have remained.

This is very much an actor's film, with Hoffman and Streep (and to a lesser extent Amy Adams) commanding all our attention. And when they make their appearances, the film begins to feel bulky and the story is apprehended at the precise moments it should be moving forward. This is a feature of the stage play, where the time and space is given to the actor to stop the action for a few minutes to marvel us with his airs and graces. It is not, unfortunately, a luxury of the cinema.

And this is my main problem with 'Doubt'. And it was my main problem with 'Capote' also. I can admire and applaud the skill and profession of the screen actor, but I hold some reservations about whether or not the film works.

Plus, "Priest accused of molesting a small child, Nun takes offense, big shouting match occurs" - is this not an episode of Eastenders?

To Do:

Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona (Film Review)

What a wonderful film this is. And isn't.

The short and tall of it for you - Vicky and Cristina, two young Americans (early 20s) escape for a summer in Barcelona, staying (as we all do) with wealthy ex-patriots who now own wonderful villas on the city's outskirts. Sexual and emotional exploration abounds, most prominently for Vicky and Cristina (although not at the same time) with sultry Catalan artist Juan. Juan's ex-wife, Marie-Elena (Pen Cruz) joins the fray, resulting in more sexual exploration for Cristina (this time, at the same time).

Not even in Almodovar have I seen a director who can handle the Spanish scenery so beautifully. The easy, siesta lifestyle of the people in Barcelona and Oviedo is brought to life to such a great extent, that I left the cinema feeling very jealous of the various lunches and dinners and balmy summer evenings the characters enjoyed. At times, perhaps I felt as if the director was so enamoured by the locations that he filmed a travel documentary rather than a movie - but even so, it's nice to see Woody Allen getting out of New York for once.

His neuroses didn't travel with him - which i'm grateful for. Normally, in Woody Allen films, one character is set up as the neurotic, self-analysing protagonist who fails at almost everything until the last five minutes of the film - normally, Allen is rather good at this caricature himself. With 'Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona', there is a set of characters altogether more composed. Scarlett Johannson's character, Cristina, is so aloof that if the aeroplane had landed in Russia, I doubt she'd have noticed or minded.

Javier Bardem's character is artistic to the extent of being a bit fucking annoying, and despite his rip-roaring and sultry attitude (he looks as if he's acting whilst sleeping) - I can't help but think his character to be one-dimensional.

Penelope Cruz - the little firecracker extraordinaire - puts in a blinding performace (the only one) as ex-wife turned lunatic Marie-Elena. Darting between Spanish and English like bullets from a gun, she is charged and energetic, a true emblem of a fiery Spanish culture where the heat and the passion mix like gunpowder and the naked flame.

This is a film about love. But not in the typical rom-com sense, nor love in the sense of that poor Indian girl Kevin Costner grows to love in 'Dances with Wolves', not love like email love between Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in 'You've Got Mail'. This is pure Dionysian love, ripping the heart in pieces, the type of thing that Greek poets talk about and Greek Gods fought about. We can't really put our fingers on it, it's nothing tangible. But somehow - Woody Allen has tried to, and only those that know about it will really know what he's talking about.

For the rest, it's a great video about Spanish culture - with some pretty attractive people in it.

See it.

To Do: Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona.

Tropic Thunder (Film Review)

Various people have told me this film is "funny as shit", a phrase loaded with ambiguity, which i've regularly used without thinking anything of it. Back in the day (another phrase I use casually as if I fought in a war or something) - I used to watch any film - good, crap, funny as shit, shit as funny - absolutely anything. Now, time is precious, and so when I sit down to watch a film, I want some slim hope that this comes well recommended and i'm almost certain to like some of it.

Tropic Thunder certainly fits that bracket. Big coveted names star in this film (Black, Stiller and Downey-Junior). A stock of comedy talent that, despite a few hiccups along the way, have at some point in their career delivered with some great laughs. Why can't they do it again?

Well they do. Sort of. A few gems. A few hiccups. It's all the same and it all cancels itself out.

Jack Black is perhaps the funniest of the three, giving a frantic performance as a heroin-addict star with the sort of tourettes comedy that can offer be startling and genius. Stiller is standardly good, even though he carries a few jokes a bit further than they can be stretched. I think its baffling that Robert Downey Jnr should get an Oscar nomination for his role, it's funny for a bit, but he goes overboard on the accent and becomes at times a bit of a blur.

I could go on about how the concept of this film is really interesting and could have been taken a lot further. And how the film treads a little to close to the line of out-and-out parody (i.e. Scary Movie et al). But I won't because there's only one more thing I need mention.

Tom Cruise. What the hell was he thinking? He gives a fantastic cameo as a hotshot Producer, and dons a bald head and the most ridiculous fake chest rug i've ever seen. They must have shaved the coat of a grizzly bear to match this up.

If anything, this movie shows Tom Cruise in a light which he's never seen in all his dark days as scientologist and Spielberg's action lovechild - I'd recommend seeing the move purely for this reason. To be honest with you, it's funny as shit. Make of that what you will.

Haircut Saturday

There's a lot of stuff I need to blog about right now, so expect a fair few posts over the next couple of days.

Firstly though, it's Saturday morning and first on my To-Do list was a hair-cut. The foppish, Hugh Grant look just doesn't suit me, and if I don't have it short enough to scruff it up with some product, then I look at least 30 years older than I am.

Secretly (or not so - this is a blog after all), i've been looking forward to this haircut all week. Why? Ben - the new hairdresser that I chanced upon when I first moved into my new flat in Pimlico.

Let's just clear something up from the start - i'm using the term Hairdresser - when in fact this is the most ridiculous term ever. Ben doesn't dress my hair, he doesn't arrange clothes for it, or select a hat to cover it up - he cuts it.

Nor is Ben a Barber. This term crosses the line between some Chavtastic shop with a revolving Red and White beacon on the shopfront and an old-style boutique where they do wet foam shaves. I'm no chav and i'm no Gentleman. I am a man, and Ben - good at what he does - he cuts my hair. He is my Haircutter.

So - Ben, such a great guy. I knew i'd found my best haircutter ever, because he's a massive football fan. I'm really paying him for a half-hour chat about football, and that's probably what he is charging me for. He's such a nice guy that he'd probably cut my hair for free.

Ben has some really insightful stuff to say about football. He reckons that the time has past when there was a real stock of Galactico players - the Kluiverts, Davids, Romario, Bergkamp - the great Nike school of players. They've all disappeared, and Ben is right. He also has some interesting stuff to say about Arsene Wenger's managerial style (Ben is an Arsenal fan), and we laughed together about hapless Spanish fool Rafa Benitez.

The time passes effortlessly, and before I know it, my hair is shorter and I feel great for having chatted about football for half an hour.

You see - this is what Cristina would call a Bromance, a slightly unorthodox case because it also transcends a professional boundary. Two guys, get together to chat about things which women might not understand. It's a wonderful thing. I can't talk to Cristina about football, but I can pick from various other topics (moisturiser, celebrity gossip, dolly parton and booty heels). So I need this mano-a-mano bond. And I don't mind paying for it if I have to. Even if it is with my hairdresser, or haircutter, or...well, whatever.

To Do: Grow hair quicker.

The Times on a Saturday - read this if you read that!

Every Saturday, absolute top of my "To-Do" list is to buy The Times newspaper, maybe cook up a bit of breakfast, sit back with a glass of pulped orange juice, or tropicana, and read the paper and associated magazines.
Pure English.
Pure Saturday.
Pure bliss.

And for all of those of us that are not lefty or righty enough, but like our news given to us roughly somewhere in the middle - are we not all aggrieved at the new layout of The Times on a Saturday?

Is this protest of one or have I got a following?

The Times has a beautiful paper on a Saturday, which I consider to be far better than the famed Sunday Times. The latter is a bulky, overwrought waste of paper with sections for every walk of life (Travel, Driving!!, Money, Life & Style!!!, Country Walking, Origami). We don't need all of these things and we certainly don't read them. Instead, we need all of the best bits condensed into one easy newspaper, giving us a slice of the news pie which we haven't been able to scoff during the week. That's what a Saturday paper is. Or at least, should be.

The Times had a great thing going on with their Saturday magazine. ALL of my favorite columnists - Giles Coren, Bob Crampton, Kate Muir - they were the super team or journalists - the J-MEN if you will. And it was all so cool - great words with great pictures backed up by sublime art direction.

Now it's all gone, and my Saturday morning newspaper pleasure has gone into the shredder with it. They've changed the font and the layout completely - giving it an overall stench of (cough cough) Guardian. A lot of my friends and their families are Guardian readers - there's something wonderful and hippy about the liberal fonts of a Guardian arts & film supplement. There's nothing wrong with it - it's just an acquired read. Instead, I need something in between the stoic Telegraph and the whimsy Observer, something serious but which doesn't take itself seriously.

That was The Times. But all it takes is a font change, a three-column layout preferred over a two-column, and black and white portrait pictures for each journalist so we know just how they artsy they look. Not even Coren and the J-MEN can save this mess.

Does anyone know what i'm talking about? I feel as if i'm on my own with this one.

Slumdog Millionaire (Film Review)

There were high expectations surrounding this film. Edgy and youthful director Danny Boyle, face like a spade, previous credits include Trainspotting, The Beach, 28 Days Later - looks like a Brit made his way into the Hollywood cool club.

Fair enough. Let's all give credit where credit is due. I know i'd like to be there. But alas i'm not, so i'll keep my critical sword sharpened and my bitterness at an arm's length, and proceed with this review.

As it turns out, Danny Boyle definitely does deserve his place amongst the cool club, and so does Slumdog Millionaire. A fantastic cast of young and old actors perform brilliantly in this love story set across the slums of India. The Slumdog himself (Dev Patel) is put through his paces on a show of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire, and he keeps getting the questions right despite not having received any education whatsoever. How does he do it? Well that's the story folks. Each question prompts a flashback to a moment in his turbulent life in which the answer reveals itself.

Great scripting and brilliant acting. The images are rich with the colours of India; died cloths being hung to dry, the earthy reds of building sites and the misty sunset behind the Taj Mahal. The editing carries us forth at blistering pace, and we get an espresso style shot of Indian culture across various class bandwidths.

However - here comes the knife - I can't help but wonder if this film is getting plaudits at the moment for a style of filmmaking it borrows from an even longer tradition of Bollywood filmmaking in India. Perhaps an industry and method of cinematography which hasn't until now been recognised by the major award bodies. But in Slumdog Millionaire, it receives the right amount of 'Westernisation', to bring it to the attention of the judges who hand out their golden statues.

This - and this only - is my complaint. But perhaps it is not substantial enough to merit me criticising this film too heavily, and maybe Slumdog will sheer in new international audiences for Bollywood filmmaking. Maybe.

Let me put the sword away however, and celebrate a good film when I see one.

Here we have a fast-paced, historical action love comedy story. There's a bit of everything in there, but it's not necessarily a film for everyone. You need to like all of these things to truly enjoy this film. You need to like the moments when you cringe, when you laugh, when you breathe a sigh of relief and when you feel you could cry because of the injustice you're seeing on the screen. If you're not into all of these things at once, Slumdog isn't for you. If you are, there's a real treat waiting for you at the cinema.

To Do: Watch more Bollywood.

TV Review: 'The Diary of Anne Frank'

Write the following down on your "To-Do" list - Watch The Diary of Anne Frank

I must take my hat off to the BBC for a thoroughly enjoyable drama series. Before I heap further praise on the programme itself, i'll take another hat off and bow it toward Geoff Breton, my friend from school who plays Peter Van Daan in the show. A cracking perfomance and it's good to finally see Geoff getting the praise and airtime he deserves because he's a bloody good actor.

If you haven't seen or heard of this dramatisation, the basic jist is a fleshing out of the actual text of the diary itself, using (I think) the diary itself to form a voice-over narration from Anne.

The setting of the annexe lends itself well to five shorter 30 minute mini-dramas rather than a huge slog of 2 hours in which we might have started to get a little claustrophobic in our seats. I think this is a great way for the major British networks to start releasing their dramas. All too often we get a huge chunk of a crime drama dumped at 9pm on ITV and can't be bothered to invest two hours of our lives without promise of a good show. And once we're an hour into it, we've missed all of our alternative programme choices, and have to stubbornly stick it out to the end when we already know the muderer is the vicar who dodged the police questions after ten minutes and who claimed the crimson blood on the chalice was the wine of christ and how dare they accuse christ of being a murderer. Case solved.

If we get drama in bite-size, we can have a little taster, see if we want to taste more, and then proceed as we wish. Plus it's so simple on BBC iPlayer to make these choices when you need to.

If you haven't already - go to the iPlayer, and watch 'The Diary of Anne Frank' - it's fantastic and moving and for the first time in a while, i'm proud of the BBC for producing some world-class television.

I'm also pretty proud of Geoff. I guess he's probably got lots of girls coming up to him in the street now, saying stuff like "Hey, aren't you that guy from Anne Frank, can I have your number? Can I put it in my diary?" Which would be a sick joke for a girl to make, but he probably goes along with it. He probably gets free drinks and free Armani suits. He probably has an entourage now with drivers and cooks and everything. He probably has people blogging about him and telling the whole world that they know a famous guy from the telly.

Some people are just plain lucky. Others blog.

Crikey!! 'Austraila': Film Review

Rating :

Returning from an afternoon cinema trip to see 'Gone With The Wind 2', better known at the box office as 'Australia', my head was rushing. Papered across town with mixed reviews, some good, some bad, some awful; clearly this was a film that had split opinion.

It had not split me however. A genuinely good film I thought. Normally I can't stand Nicole Kidman. Her extreme-Englishness makes me want to throw a cricket ball at her head. Her forehead makes for such a large target that I should strike something. Plus, I partly blame her for ruining my saint-like appreciation of Tom Cruise, the once pearly-smiled likeable shortman of Hollywood turned scientological fanatic and destroyer of anything that's holy. BUT - this aggression aside, she was bearable for most of the 2hrs 45 mins.

Expect the dubious nods to Australian culture such as the token kangaroo, and the portrayal of the aboriginals in the film is bound to stir up some controversy somewhere. Although, I can't help but feel a fairer treatment is given to them than can be spoken of the cameo Greek actors in 'Mamma Mia!' - something I may not have noticed if I hadn't been dating a Greek girl for some time now - efharisto very much.

At this length you better make sure you keep some popcorn for the final stretch, at least to keep the Kidman-itis at bay. But I can't say I was ever bored by this film, or ever wished it would end. It was, in nature, an epic. Epics require a longer pitch. There is nothing quite so epic about a 90 minute Woody Allen comedy - humorous, rude, illicit - but not epic.

You may well disagree with me about Woody and his heroic sagas of life and love in downtown upstate, leftside New York. But, regardless, this is where I ask Pandora to open up her box - what makes a film an epic?

It's clear that we love epics. They are some of the most celebrated and awarded films in history. Ben Hur (1959) won 11 Academy Awards, a feat matched only by two other films, one of which was Lord of the Rings (2004), a great epic of the 21st Century. Various films have tried to make claims to join the genre.

King Kong (both 1933 and 2005) made valid claims. They are films with high production values, sweeping musical scores and an ensemble cast of bankable stars. But we can't honestly think for a second that an overgrown monkey on an overgrown building has the mettle to be an epic? It's just not realistic enough - it lacks believability. Now we enter difficult terrain.

What claim can Lord of The Rings or Star Wars have to be an epic? Answer: their fantasy world remains consistent within itself. The world of a hobbit or a jedi is alien to us, but natural to those characters. In films like King Kong (Jurrassic Park, Spiderman - all super hero films), the audience is asked to confront a world which is parrallel to their own, a realism they know and experience on a day-to-day basis, but which in fact contains a totally uncomprehendable fantasy element. Blurring this boundary between what they know and what they cannot possibly know defies believability for a filmgoer. As long as the filmic world remains consistent to itself, and does not offer the viewer a bit of both worlds, fantasy and reality - then credibility can be found in almost any type of epic.

The epic relies on this factor and a good many other things.

People must die, and always people we like. Characters must seek vengence, and get it, and finally lose it. There's almost always a developing love, enveloping into a kiss, sometimes a marriage, always a lovers' tiff. There are animals, weapons, water, land, blood, tears and laughter - all of these things and all other things. You see - the thing about an epic is that it has to have a little bit of everything. That's what gives it scale and power. That's why we like it so much.


In every way, Australia, Baz Luhrmann's new epic, fulfilled all of these things. It's a fantastic film and I recommend you go see it soon. Doubtless everything appears more epic on the big screen than your TV, so don't wait for it to come out on DVD, splash the cash. And if you can't do that, wait for Orange Wednesdays.


To Do: Watch more epics.

Where does Santa stay abroad? A HO-HO-HOTEL.

Christmas. Well, what can I tell ya?

Shopping was left to the last minute, as usual. Done in a haze, hazily done. Oxford Street. Saturday 20th December. Dad - check. Grandad - check. Nana - check. Cristina - check. Mum - too difficult to buy for, leave it - hope something will turn up.

Worked 22nd and 23rd. Met Cristina at Euston station on the 23rd to take a train which would take us northward to Manchester. We both arrived as if we'd packed for a 2 year stay in an unpredictable climate country. Finally get the bags onto a train, Burger King brown bag in hand to start us off with a classic Christmas food group.

On the way, we discuss other food groups. Cristina quotes Elf: "We elves try to stick to the four main food groups: candy, candy canes, candy corns and syrup."

I groan.

Tuesday 23rd. A fantastic meal of Christmas lasagne with parents, Grandpa, Cristina and best mate Crooky. Wine flows, chaos ensues, Mum asks me why i'm not a lawyer. Christmas has officially started. Excitement.

Wednesday 24th - Christmas Eve. Family trip to restaurant in Manchester, more meatball type behaviour of stuffing faces and boozing. Last minute shopping for Mum, in heavy and detailed consultation with my Dad - goes something like this:

INT. DEPARTMENT STORE - AFTERNOON.

Adam

Dad, do you think Mum would like this
make-up bag?

Dad
I just don't know son.
Adam
What do you think she wants?
Dad
She has everything son.
Adam
But I need to get her something.
Dad
I just don't know son.

Leave parents around 4pm, Cristina reminds me that tomorrow is her name day, which in Greece is more important than a birthday. She reminds me of this fact whilst holding my hand with a tight grip. This threat prompts an 11th hour shopping spree - purchase Legally Blonde and Legally Blonde 2 - ideal presents. Name Day shname day - taken care of.

In the cinema by 6pm to see 'Four Christmases'. 2 for 1 tickets - Oranges Wednesdays!!! I couldn't believe my luck. Deduce the fortune to be an early present from Santa - feel content.
Film is rubbish, dampers Christmas spirit slightly.

Too much alcohol and too much Italian food makes Cristina a bit nautious - she heads to bed early after I make her up a snackplate of cold meats and cheese. She loves this. From what I gather, her mother's snack plate is both famous and delicious. Feel good about recreating some snack plate spirit. This soujourn gives me a break to wrap the presents. Cristina comments that my bow-curling skills are too good and inappropriate for a man.

25th December. Wake up. Duh. Feeling great. Christmas morning!!! Not the buzz of being 6 years old, but still a good one. Cristina and I go through our stockings, fantastic and thoughtful presents on both sides.

Around 10pm, we head down to the lounge, joined by parents. Mum has decided to lavish Cristina with an array of pink themed gifts: slippers, shampoo, socks and bath robe. Parents don't disappoint - a fantastic spread. Mum opens her bluetooth handsfree in-car mobile phone kit - her look is pricelss. Thanks Dad.

Christmas Day breakfast at midday - a Christmas walk, and then Christmas Dinner at 6.30. We settle down on the sofa, boozed and bulging. The boardgames come out, SceneIt Interactive Movie Quiz. Dad becomes hugely competitive, Cristina joins him in this spirit and tries to beat hard on a tired mother and ageing Grandpa. They lose, Dad gets frustrated, but not disheartened. Mum asks me why i'm not a lawyer. Collapse in bed after one last inspection of Christmas presents.

*****

There was probably a lot more along the way. And it was all a bit of a whirlwind. I'm sure your Christmas was the same. A madcap dash to shop, eat, drink, unwrap and sleep. People say it's a great time for taking stock of where you're at in life. I think it all happens too quickly for that. But, it does give you a chance to take stock of those around you. Friends, family, cats, dogs, hamsters - everyone. In which case, I had a great Christmas, and would do it all again in a flash.

To Do: Christmas