Battle-Scarred Galactico

Posted on June 11, 2009 by The Ed

It’s a funny thing, this working-your-notice lark. It just doesn’t seem right: I haven’t had a row in the office for ten days now. I’m not saying I’m walking around with a bloody great smile on my face ( I do have an image to maintain) but through a system of calm meditation, deep breaths and mantras I have, so far, been able to keep the lid on it. “It doesn’t matter anymore, it doesn’t matter anymore” I chant to myself as the next idiot lines up to make my life a misery. So with half a skip and a third of a jump and smidge of how-do-you-do, I inch my way towards my goal of getting out of here. Walking around, trying not to to engage in anything too heavy, with that thousand-yard stare usually adopted by characters in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest, or by Charlton fans at 4.45 every Saturday afternoon. I feel drugged. I feel distant. I feel detached. I feel thirsty.

To be honest, most of the chaps (and chapesses) around here are all-round good eggs, and welcome to marry my sister (or brother) any time, if indeed I had a sister and I knew where my brother was. Yes there are a couple who I would gladly insert an Hewlett-Packard inkjet printer into, but by-and-large they are top people. If I’m frank, this is where the similarities between me and Christiano Renaldo end. I’m not sure he’s gonna leave too many friends behind, and he’s been detached from anything that doesn’t directly concern him and his ego for years—not just since this morning. Wayne Rooney will be treating himself to an extra pie-and-a-grannie Happy Meal as he looks forward to next season when he realises that someone might actually pass him the ball. Let’s hope Wayne manages to get in just one more stamp to the goolies before the Portuguese ponce departs.

ronaldo_move_0610

There are obvious differences, of course: I’ve not been poached for £80m to join another team, for starters. No! Not even close, honest—even though some might say I’m worth it (others differ). My remaining weeks here will involve what to take, what to leave, what to transfer to my old office to my new one. Obviously I won’t be stealing from my present employers, but there are a few things here I own, have bought or have been given that will be just as useful in my new life—so bollocks! There’s a leaving drink to sort out, of course, I doubt if Ronaldo will have one of them. If he does, do you reckon it’ll be down his local boozer, with him stumping up 50 quid for ham sarnies (just in case there are women there) ? No, nor do I. I bet he’s not worrying, either, if there’s any way he can get Chas n Dave to play at the pub to give him a right good knees-up for his farewell.

Yes, I do hope I’ll be a little more missed from here than Ronaldo will be from Utd. I would like to think I haven’t upset quite as many colleagues over the eight years I’ve been here as he has in his term in Manchester. (okay! no-one count em up). We’re obviously two highly-skilled professionals and have rightly gleaned many awards and plaudits from our peers. But whereas he is and big-headed, self-centered, selfish, earringed, one-trick-pony little arsehole, I have never worn earrings.

Everyone would get a little bit grumpy after 8 years in the same job ? Trouble is, I was like that after the first fortnight.

It’ll Never Stand Up in Court

Posted on June 8, 2009 by The Ed

Was Carradine killed by kung fu assassins?
Yahoo: Mon 08 Jun 11:17 AM
David Carradine was killed because he was investigating kung fu crime lords, his family have suggested. The Kill Bill star, 73, was found dead in a Bangkok hotel room last week, with a rope tied around his neck and manhood. While Thai police initially suggested it was a sex act gone horribly wrong, the actor’s family have claimed that he was killed for investigating secret societies in that area.

The lawyer to Carradine’s family, Mark Geragos, was asked on Larry King’s US chat show if the Kung Fu star was “interested in investigating and disclosing secret societies?”
To which, Geragos replied, “Absolutely. And so there is a suspicion that if there was some foul play, that may be the first area they should look.”
Geragos has also revealed that the actor’s family have urged the FBI to investigate Carradine’s death.

First up, the answer to that headline is : No

Secondly, if I ever end up dead, and my body is found next to a copy of Wisden and I’m wearing a mink glove, please do not call in the FBI to investigate my death. I am not investigating any secret societies in the Blackheath area, and the only contact I have from Asia is the delivery bloke from the Golden Dragon who never fails to add free prawn crackers to my weekly delivery.

It never ceases to amaze me what people are doing to themselves (and others) in the comfort of their own homes or hotel bedroom, and indeed how many of these deviant sexual practices end up in someone snuffing it. It’s true that I do experience some arousal at the sight of a cover-drive, or a leg-spinner plying his trade at The Oval, but I’d like to think that whatever the degree of excitement I thrash myself into, I would pull up short, as it were, of coming to a sticky end.

MP Stephen Milligan’s body was found in rather embarrassing circumstances after his apparent penchant for electric flex and satsumas had done for him. But, again, there are those who believe he was the victim of foul play. I’m sorry but if I’d murdered someone, I think I’d be getting away from the scene of the crime soonest, rather than dressing up the corpse in stockings, relieving the kettle of its lead and raiding the fruit bowl. And anyway, did they run out of bananas—the pervert’s friend???

You can’t legislate for what people strap onto and insert into themselves to get their kicks, and anyone who says you can deserves a good spanking. I remember Carradine had to put his wrists on a red-hot bowl every week while Kung Fu was on, so presumably his pain threshold was higher than most. Please leave us with the image of him in that ridiculous bald wig, as well as the memory of his nasty bastard Bill. If he happened to like a little bit of how’s-yer-father, that’s his funeral.

Anyway, must dash—Australia vrs Sri Lanka is on the telly. Oh God!!! Quick Nurse, the screens! It’s happened again.

263985~David-Carradine-Posters

True Colours

Posted on June 3, 2009 by The Ed

Smiling Assassin

Has the Gonk finally done for Gordon? On the day when even the corduroy-clad hacks at the Guardian are calling for the PM’s resignation and just a day after The Home Secretary (sic) bravely ran away from office to spend more time with her old man’s porn ficks, the thieving ginger dwarf timed her moment to perfection and jumped ship just 24 hours before the government faces meltdown at the polls, throwing the reshuffle into chaos. Surely now it’s time for Gordon Brown (texture like dung) to man the barricades as No10 is rapidly morphing into Rorke’s Drift. Trouble is, not only are the Zulu’s coming to get him, but his own men (and women) are sharpening their bayonets and waiting to catch Lt Brown off his guard. The 4ft 10 (that’s about 6 cms tall for our European readers) has, as Michael White of the Guardian put it “stabbed him in the front”, and has left him mortally wounded, hemorrhaging in front of the opposition at this afternoon’s PMQs. I can hardly bear to watch. Lord Haw Haw would have been proud of her. Let’s hope she doesn’t have an accident on that motorbike.

There is no doubt that GB is a deluded, sad little soul, who’s totally misjudged every other decision he’s had to make since seizing office from Blair (who first introduced us to Smith and Blears). VAT, Gurkhas, Youtube etc etc. the list goes on. Perhaps his worst mistake was employing all these parasites and fraudulent arses around him, people who can steal taxpayers money, look the camera in the eye and tell the nation they’ve done nothing wrong. Well he’s paying for those mistakes now. He doesn’t seem particularly nasty or evil, just misguided, misbriefed and mistaken. His inability to gauge public anger over the expenses row was astonishing. It smacked of arrogance and has left him with little or no respect in the country.

Hang your head

So the gruesome twosome have sunk their fangs into his buttocks, kneed him in the goolies and buggered off just before he demoted them. Gordon may as well lock himself away with a bottle of scotch and a service-issue revolver. The headline in the Metro this morning read “The Blair Babes are Revolting” They certainly are.

When in Rome, Roam as the Romans Roam

Posted on May 27, 2009 by The Ed

Sleep ok last night, did you? No, nor me. I’m so excited. Hey, you too? Not long now and the match will be upon us. It has all the potential to be a classic. Two teams going at each other hammer-and-tong, let’s just hope it lives up to all the hype. Anyway, before all the excitement of The Ashes is upon us we will have to busy ourselves with lesser pastimes. There seems to be an awful lot of re-born Man Utd supporters around me recently and it’s been very difficult to get through ten minutes in the office today without someone asking “where you watching the match tonight?” (answer: in the office—I’m working). The excitement is tenable—not that there’s a Mancunian in earshot— but everyone seems to be stirring themselves up into a frenzy, convincing themselves that this is gonna be a classic.

Well perhaps.

I had the great misfortune to watch the first leg of Barcelona vrs Chelsea, one of the dullest, spiteful and nasty performances I’ve seen on a football pitch for a long time (and I’ve seen Dartford Ladies Under 12’s), so I’m not getting my hopes up. The Law of Sod will apply: If I watch it, it’ll be crap, if I don’t it’ll be The Game of the Century. Either way, I’m far too interested in the Lions and The Ashes to really give a toss. Now THAT’S proper sport.

I was in the pub last night, for just the one, when a conversation struck up between a few lads beside me.
“So what are we ‘aving for us tea later then? Caaaarbonaaaaara, Tapaaaas or Cooorry, and if you say Cooorry I’ll fooking kill yer.”
The Henry Higgins in me led me to deduce these were not from round these here parts. My guess was they were from some part of Mancunia. The conversation continued: “Ah could ‘ave fooking killed that little bastard in that coorry house laast night. ”
It emerged that these lads were down south on business (something involving a hod, I’ll wager) and had been involved in a lively discussion over the bill in one of the local curry houses (see previous rants). The bill had arrived with the service charge included. They paid it but vowed never to return, with the obligatory two fingered salute as they left the premises. I leant over and told them that they didn’t have to pay it (that’s right, isn’t it?) and they could scrub it out and pay the balance. If they wanna give anything, give a cash tip to the waiter. It’s discretionary—a bit like a Government Minister’s tax bill.

I hope I haven’t spun them an urban myth and I’m right about all this. They were a nice enough bunch of lads and I wouldn’t like to think I’ve sent them into a row when they visit The Cactus Pit, DeNiros, or any other of the wittily-named eateries in the village. Mind you, they didn’t look like the kind of blokes to shy away from a row.
“Where you watching the match tomorrow, lads? Utd should romp it, eh?” I offered by way of ingratiation.
“Fook off yer fat bastard” they retorted, almost as one.

City fans.

Tomorrow belongs to the BNP

Posted on May 14, 2009 by The Ed

Pic:FreeFoto.com

How am I expected to keep up with all this? Truth is, I just can’t. Andrew MacKay and Julie Kirkbride, Elliot Morley and John Maples etc etc etc: You win. I shall revert to rants about cricket and rugby and booze and the police and shopping and gardening. Anything really other than MPs’ expense claims. You lot are much funnier than me on this anyway. The only thing that won’t be funny is that people are going to be so off-pissed with the major parties that the rascists and the loonies will gain ground at the ballot box next time round. You fraudsters and scheisters should hang your heads. And I’m sure they’ll be lots more like you along any minute.

I was once hauled up in front of the beak—a particularly nasty, petty editor— who questioned my claim for a lunch with a friend on another publication who’d helped me/us on a really big story. He’d passed me phone numbers and details without which we couldn’t keep up with the then breaking news. Partly because of his help we looked sensational when we published. I took him out one afternoon and I treated him to a curry and a pint in a local restaurant. The bill came to 70 quid, 35 of which was treating myself (I wasn’t gonna let him eat alone).
An ex-colleague once tried to claim for mileage of 40 miles for a round-trip from Canary Wharf to The Millennium Tent in Greenwich. I wondered if he’d gone via Heathrow? Claim refused. Another ex-colleague tried to put her weekly visit to the hairdressers on expenses. Her ruse was discovered and she was shown the door. I’ve been using my own camera for and at work for 6 years now as I was refused funds to claim the cost of buying it, even though my job requires one. (Guess what’s coming out the door with me when I leave?). That’s ok—it’s dead money, but I was miffed at the time. There are always swings and roundabouts in the whacky world of expenses. All trades and professions deal with this. Some we win, some we lose.
Point is, even those jolly journos who are masters of the Dark Arts of dodgy expense forms, the Shakespeares of the blank-receipt have been left open-mouthed at the scale and brazenness of the Commons’ Claims Chronicles. They’ve been out-Shakespeared and want their pound of flesh. Well they’re getting it now, by the moat-load. But if you listen very carefully you’ll hear the unmistakable sound of the BNP and UKIP Nazis marching in tight formation into Brussels and towards a council chamber near you as the undecided are conned by their rhetoric. Not so funny any more, is it?

“I’m as mad as hell, and I’m not going to take this anymore!” Peter Finch—Network

We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat

Posted on May 6, 2009 by The Ed

Captain Quint: “Japanese submarine slammed two torpedoes into our side, chief… Just delivered the bomb, the Hiroshima bomb. Eleven hundred men went into the water. Vessel went down in twelve minutes. Didn’t see the first shark for about half an hour. Tiger. Thirteen-footer. … Very first light, chief, sharks came cruising, so we formed ourselves into tight groups… you know, kind of like old squares in a battle like you see in a calendar, like the battle of Waterloo, and the idea was, shark comes to the nearest man and then you start pounding and hollering and screaming. Sometimes the shark goes, sometimes he wouldn’t go away… I don’t know how many sharks. Maybe a thousand, I don’t know how many men, they averaged six an hour.
On Thursday morning, Chief, I bumped into a friend of mine, Herbie Robinson from Cleveland. Baseball player. Boatswain’s mate. I thought he was asleep. I reached over to wake him up. Bobbed up, down in the water just like a kinda top. Upended. Well, he’d been bitten in half below the waist…Noon the fifth day…a Lockheed Ventura saw us, he swung in low… and three hours later a big fat PBY comes down, starts to pick us up…
So, eleven hundred men went into the water, three hundred and sixteen men come out and the sharks took the rest, June 29th 1945. Anyway, we delivered the bomb.”
Robert Shaw, Jaws

When the Good Ship Printjournalism was torpedoed just off the coast of Profitability thousands of journalists went into the water and huddled together in tight groups, clinging to the lifeboats of the online editions. Not too long after first light the sharks came cruising. The guys on the outside pounded and hollered and screamed and sometimes the sharks would go away…sometimes they didn’t. One by one journos were picked off and sank to a watery grave. There just wasn’t room for everyone in the lifeboats.

Steady as she goes, Number 1

Similar stories of carnage are commonplace across hundreds of professions—shops and stores are shut down while the company continues trading online with a fraction of the staff. Tens of thousands of workers in small factories, dispatch depts, counting houses, accounts offices and production lines have been let go as technical advances in web transactions and processing speeds have left many redundant. Business and Commerce have caught a cold before, but this is a pandemic.

We can’t walk around with hammers like 21st Century Luddites; We can’t uninvent the wheel or even the web—not that anyone wants to—we just need Baldrick’s Cunning Plan and the nouse to navigate the way ahead. The way we work and live is changing so fast that those of us still shooting film and playing 45s are often taken by surprise by the mp3 generation, but we can (and do) sit, watch and marvel at the little bits of the New World we manage to understand. I know how to work an ipod, for example, and I’m aware of Google (and who he plays for). If it wasn’t for Tim Berners-Lee‘s pretty smart idea you wouldn’t be reading this. The web can also be entertaining.

But there’s plenty of collateral damage in this Guerre du Gigabyte. Those once-merry stokers belowdecks on HMS Old Media are having to rethink and retrain as the ship is holed below the water line and the lifeboats are manned by a new breed of young whizz-kids and tech-heads. Some of the old seadogs are lucky enough to have been thrown an oar and asked to keep rowing— trouble is there used to be three-times the men manning the rollocks. Some are asked to row, steer and chart a course all at the same time. Shore leave gets cancelled or reduced as the Admiralty hasn’t left itself a full ship’s compliment. The few who are left keep schtum (on the whole) for fear of being tossed overboard. Many of the others already in the water were hit by the Credit Crunch Tsunami before they had a chance to get their Mae Wests on. Many a bloated and battered body of an ex-journo has been washed up on the shores of the world’s job centres.

Having spent too long in the water, survivors emerge bloated and wrinkly

Newspaper and magazine publishers invest more and more cash into their online vessels while barely pumping the bilges of their old, ailing craft. They tell us that one day soon the advertisers will change tack, buy some ads (online or in print—we don’t mind) cruise over in their big, fat PBY and fish us out of the shark-infested waters of recession, but I see no ships. Til then we’re surrounded by friends and colleagues bobbing up and down in the water, having been bitten in half below the waist by an HR missive, or a redundancy notice. Sooner or later someone will realise they can’t leave the tiller in the hands of the Unable Seamen and Very Petty Officers, the green and the graceless. But I fear by the time that it dawns on them all the old hands will be enjoying their grog in Davey Jones’ Lock-in.

Thankfully there are still some Captains willing to hand out commissions but there are not nearly enough lifejackets to go round. The Fleet has been scuppered after nearly 300 years of ruling the waves while across the journalism’s seven seas newspaper after newspaper takes a hit and goes under with all souls lost. Anyway, we delivered the bomb.

Farewell and adieu unto you Spanish ladies,
Farewell and adieu to you ladies of Spain;
For it’s we’ve received orders for to sail for old England,
But we hope very soon we shall see you again.

Winter, spring, summer or fall….

Posted on May 5, 2009 by The Ed

Van Gogh didn’t cut off his own ear. According to German art historians, he made up the story to protect his friend Paul Gauguin who cut it off with a sword during a fight.

Years ago, me and my old flatmate Mickey Flynn had a punch-up while trying to stand upright on a mattress on his bedroom floor. I was punching him on the the nose and he was smashing me round the head with a squash racket— taking turns to deliver our blows: whack, ping, whack, ping. Lots of claret about but I don’t remember any sword being involved, any more than I remember what the fight was over. I know it would have been Guinness-fueled as our off-licence didn’t sell Absynth at the time. Bloody hurt though.

gal_douglas_kirk_5
I suppose it’s the nature of friendships that sooner-or-later they involve full-blown rows. Most of us don’t reach for the Wilkinson, like Gauguin apparently did, but history is littered with mates who have fallen out: Julius Caeser and Mark Anthony; McBeth and Banquo; Mike and Bernie Winters— all friends and brothers who fell out, with varying degrees of violence.

I suppose here you’d expect me mention the jaw-dropping in-fighting within the Labour Party at the moment, with former friends and colleagues lining up to have a swing at Gordon Brown (texture like sun). Hazel Blears, Charles Clarke and David Blunkett—all chums and workmates who’ve reached for the squash racket and swung at the PM over the past few days.
Well I’m not going to mention that. Politicians, especially this lot, can never really be expected to remain loyal to anyone but themselves, and what goes around comes around—Gordon did his share of mud-slinging when his old mate Tony was dragging his feet leaving office. I have to say I did chuckle in amazement when Blunkett said Labour should avoid any more “self-inflicted” wounds. That’ll be D.Blunkett MP—the man who resigned twice over a couple of bouts of brazen naughtiness.

It doesn’t really matter, to be honest. Just a few weeks after GB‘s G20 triumph when he was set to save the world, his own little world seems to be collapsing around him in a whirlwind of bad judgement, bad luck and bad company. Half of me thinks he’ll be glad to get shot of the job and let the Party opposite pick up the pieces of the train wreck. It ain’t gonna get much better in the foreseeable future, whatever his (present) mate Darling thinks, so maybe the best thing might be to let the other mob have a go for a while, and hope they take the blame for some of it. On the other hand, dear old Gordon waited so long for his stint in the limelight he’s almost certainly reluctant to leave the stage.

Never a frown with Gordon Brown

There’s another chilling factor to consider. Blair won a landslide (Thing’s can only get better) because there was a huge part of the electorate who’d forgotten or never knew what a Labour administration was like. in 1997 the memory of Callaghan’s shambles was a distant memory to most, an entry in a history book to others. We’re about to witness something similar next year: There are people who will vote next year who would have been very, very young when Thatcher, Normo Tebbs, Aitken, Archer, Tarzan, Lawson et al had their snouts in the trough and led the single-most arrogant and wicked Government this country has ever seen. You think THIS lot are bad? Those Tories were Masters of Evil. Money grabbing, crooks who viewed the ordinary voter with staggering contempt and disdain. So when the landslide happens at the polling booths next year, which bar a miracle it surely will, we’ll be faced with one, two maybe three terms of that lot before the voters forget enough about Gordon and his feckless buffoons to vote Labour in again. That could be 15 years of Cameron. 15 years of Theresa May and Liam Fox. 15 years of George Osborne. Time to hand out the cutlasses

fbb4724d-fe15-b554-2de3-2d45daa4d49b

Just One More Question, Sir…

Posted on May 2, 2009 by The Ed

So I’m sitting in my garden, soaking up the rays while flicking through the papers, when I’m stopped in my tracks by an advert on page 12 of The Times. Dunno why, as I’ve always felt I don’t look at adverts. As any fule no, adverts are just there to make photos smaller in papers and magazines, or to give you something to doodle on while in morning conference. In these dark days of credit crunch and the collapse of the advertising industry, I suppose we should all thank Evans for small Murphys (some more than others) and embrace whatever adverts actually make it into print, and thus keeping us in the poverty to which we’ve so readily become accustomed, but I do fluctuate between annoyance and agnosticism when I see a dirty great Halfords or Waitrose ad where a perfectly good story, or even better, a photo should be.

howard-with-tash1

Anyway, I digress. So the offending item this time is a Samsung colour half-page ad for mobile phones. An attractive young couple grapple with each other next to insets of two mobiles, underneath the legend “Ourselves. Together” whatever that means. But something struck me about those words—they felt rather familiar. So off I popped to the wonderful web world of Wikipedia. Something in the back of my pickled mind led me to believe that Sinn Féin was a translation of just that: Ourselves Together. Was this electronics giant really a front for Irish Republicanism ? Would Chelsea soon be playing their matches in shirts emblazoned with Gerry Adams’ hairy boat ? As I should have known only too well after the week at work I’ve had, the answer was no. I was wrong. But only just.

Here’s the entry:
Sinn Féin:…The name is Irish for “ourselves” or “we ourselves”,[3][4] although it is frequently mistranslated[5] as “ourselves alone”.

Now given that around 64% of what’s on Wikipedia is a load of old cobblers, I still could be right. Wikipedia is about as reliable as a Jacqui Smith expense claim or an Ant n Dec phone-poll, so perhaps my memory has served me better than I think. Maybe not.

But where did I glean this little nugget of half-truth? Well I knew all those hours on the sofa would pay off in the end: It came to me that there’s an episode of Columbo where he investigates a murder of an Oirish (you should hear the accents in the show) republican sympathiser. The episode was full of begorrahs and to be sure, to be sures and ginger-haired young men, drinking whiskey and stout, wearing aran sweaters. The do-er is an Oirish wroiter who is undone by the fact he inscribes the inside cover of a book at a signing with Together Ourselves (I thought). There, I’ve gone and ruined the ending for you now, haven’t I? No matter— as it’s the wont of the series, you always know who the killer is during the opening credits and the fun is to be had by the in-jokes liberally sprinkled through each episode: his signature whistle of knick-knack-paddy-wack; his endearing habit of ‘just one more question, sir”; his battered Peugeot and the fact that Mrs Columbo is never ever seen on screen. Often she was mentioned in dispatches but the producers occasionally had fun with us by dangling the carrot in front of us that she was about to appear— but she never did. Mrs Columbo is one of man tv spouses who remain unseen: Dad’s Army‘s, Mrs Mainwaring; Rumpole‘s She Who Must be Obeyed; Arthur Daly‘s Er Indoors; Porrige‘s Mrs Barraclough to name a few. What a lovely way to be married— to an anonymous, faceless woman who’s never around. Perhaps that’s where I went wrong?

This old man, he played one...

Peter Falk’s shambolic detective never carried a gun, didn’t even have a truncheon (night stick, y’all) and always showed his badge as identification. Remember those days? The Wire it weren’t. If it wasn’t for his willingness to identify himself, and his lack of violent tendencies Columbo could have joined the Met.
It’s a chilling thought that had Big Crosby not turned down the part when he was offered it, the famous mac might have been replaced by a straw trilby and a pipe, and each case would have revolved around a golf course. Falk, of course, eventually made the part his own (it had been played by 2 other actors in the 60’s) and he became tv’s highest-paid actor for a while. Like Grandpa Simpson and his MacGyver I’ve been addicted to the show for years and was stunned to see one on tv the other day which not only hadn’t I seen before but in which the killer was neither Patrick McGoohan nor Robert Vaughn. McGoohan and Falk were best mates and not only did the former star of The Prisoner win two Emmys for his roles, he also directed quite a few shows. I know there are those who are horrified that USTV has remade The Prisoner starring something called a Jim Caviezel as No.6 and Dame Serena McKellen as either No. 2 or a number 2, it’s not clear. Why do they insist on doing this ? I’m not great fan of the original, but some things surely are sacrosanct ? I’m sure somewhere in managerial meetings within HBO or ABC there’ll be plans to remake Ice Cold in Alex starring Hugh Jackman, or Casablanca with Cate Blanchett as Rick Blaine. If I get a whiff that they’re tee-ing up Owen Wilson to don a scruffy raincoat and play LAPD‘s favourite homicide detective in something called Columbo: the Party-on Years I shall invite you all to join me in a violent bout of civil unrest. Together. Ourselves.

l-r: Hanks, Aniston, Jackman and Ferrell

Because William Shatner

Posted on April 27, 2009 by The Ed

Whoever said “nostalgia ain’t what it used to be” was living in the past. Nostalgia, dear friend, is where the big bucks are. Everywhere you look there’s a movie or a tv show set in the recent past as that mythical beast, the Baby Boomer and his offspring, relive their youth. The new Star Trek movie is filmed in that stark, 60’s style of the original series. Ashes to Ashes— the follow-up to Life on Mars—is a tv show in which, from where I sit, the idea is how many Austin Princess‘s they can prang in any given episode (I don’t watch this load of old tosh, of course, but I’ve seen the trailers).

Last night the Beeb aired the story of George Best‘s relationship with his mum, and hers with a bottle of Sherry. The attention to detail was perfect, from the grubby state of the Belfast boozers, the thick wooly Man Utd shirts Georgie Boy wore, to the depth of the gusset on his dad’s trousers—could have got the whole team bus in there. Turns out that Mrs Best enjoyed a sharp single-or-three long before her son was lapping champers out of beauty queens’ navels. Who’d have thunk it?

George on the physio's bench. Hard tackle, presumably

At the weekend I watched the movie The Baader-Meinhof Complex: a rip-roaring romp of the 70’s left-wing German terrorist cell and their attempts to blow up the Fatherland, grow ridiculous facial hair and shag each other senseless. If you like your period drama with a lot of blood, guts and sideburns, this is the film for you, thoroughly recommend it.

On stage Mamma Mia, Jersey Boys and Grease are packing them in up West, and I’m sure I read the Pete Townshend‘s giving Quadrophenia the theatrical treatment for the first time. He probably had to do a hell of a lot of internet research for that one.

My influences were Lee Thompsoin from Madness and Ginsters Pies

Music fans also have plenty of old stuff to feed on: I’ve been watching Madness comeback concerts for nearly 20 years, me and thousands of balding, bloating clones, that is. Next month I’m going along to Brixton next month to see the Specials on tour, and I suspect the crowd will be of the same stamp: 40-something blokes reliving their past. The good news is Terry Hall now looks older than I’ll ever, ever be. I wonder if these bands care about the age of their followers? Are they looking for a new audience or content to take the money from the old fan-base? (Chas Smash looks as if he’s eaten a few dozen stragglers from Madstock). I keep force-feeding my daughters my old music (in scenes reminiscent of the IPCRESS File), but I fear they’ll be listening to McFlea and Justin Timberland the minute my back and ipod are turned.

Spandau Ballet announced they were reforming and to embark on a world tour, Duran Duran‘s attempts at similar last year kinda got off to a bad start when Le Bon forgot the words to “Hungry Like a Wolf” (I bet Chas Smash knows them) causing the bassist to throw a hissy fit and storm off stage.
I would include Chas n Dave and Status Quo in this list, but as you know, dear reader, they’ve never gone away and their careers go from strength-to-strength.
So it’s official: The past is here to stay and all the while us old fatties chuck money at them there will always be 70’s and 80’s band lining up to reform and tour again (though Mel and Kim are gonna struggle). So dust off your staypress, box jacket and winklepickers, dig out those legwarmers and bore another hole in that boogie-belt; slip into that cable-knit and wear that titfer at a jaunty angle: we’re gonna work til’ we’re muscle-bound in this ghost town and there ain’t no stopping us now cos we’re the wild boys. Or something like that.

To cut a long story short you look an arse

The Sharp Single

All Done

Category Archives: Movies