The Word Cloud

When I was fourteen and my sister Eleanor thirteen, we travelled with our elderly aunt and uncle to Jersey: an exotic addition to our limited holiday experiences. It was one of only a handful of times we’d stepped foot in a hotel, and we felt grown-up in our double bedroom. The hotel was hundreds of years old: a converted coach-house with history in its rough stone walls. On entering the room, a painting of a ballerina on the wall who bore an uncanny resemblance to me instantly fired our teenage imaginations.
We were allowed a glass of wine with dinner - though I can’t blame the night’s events on this indulgence. Back upstairs, we settled down into our unfamiliar beds, high on the illicit thrill of watching TV from beneath a duvet. It grew late, our film ended, and we turned our backs to each other to go to sleep.
Lying in the dark, the indefinable notion occurred to me that something was in the room with us. I’ve never been able to define it: the closest I can reach is ‘a feeling’. Like knowing someone’s watching you, with no way of explaining how. I felt we were being watched, and I felt it from the foot of our bed. Eleanor fidgeted beside me, I knew she wasn’t asleep.
 
“Elle.” I whispered.
 
“Yes?”
 
“I don’t want to creep you out, but can you…feel something?” I felt ridiculous, melodramatic. I thought she’d laugh at me.
 
She sat up and turned the light on.
 
“There’s something at the end of the bed and I hate it.”
 
Each of us was terrified. Each of us knew the other was terrified and tried to show she wasn’t terrified in order not to scare the other even more. Reluctant to leave what felt like safety, I forced myself out of bed and turned on every light in the room, and in the ensuite bathroom. I turned on the television, and found another film.
 
“If you go to sleep, Elle, I will kill you. I’m not staying awake in here on my own.”
 
2am. 3am. We were exhausted, but too afraid for the vulnerability of sleep. We watched programmes we never knew existed. Finally I heard Eleanor’s breathing deepen, and realised to my horror I was alone. Leaving the TV on – there wasn’t enough to distract me from whatever it was that had so scraped our girlish nerves, I chose a mix CD of upbeat songs. Plugging myself into my portable CD player, I turned the volume up and tried to forget myself.
 
Waking up with an earphone digging uncomfortably into my temple, I realised it was morning. Our fears seemed absurd in the rays of the next day. A knock on the door heralded our dignified aunt.
 
“Did you sleep well?”
 
“Not a wink. Our room’s haunted.” It was a long shot, but I tried the truth.
 
“What nonsense!” The truth failed.
 
“Not really – but it’s terribly noisy. We really didn’t sleep at all. We’ll have to change.”
 
On the next night, we slept in room with a landscape painting of wonderful blandness, and no indescribable feelings to it at all.

Ah. It is good to be back! This contains the complete gamut of vitriol, profanity and un-tempered anger that you should, by now, be used to from me. It's complete rubbish so don't bother reading it. Thanks for getting this far and increasing my tick counter by one... you may go home now. No... really... you should...

Well, don't say I didn't warn you...


Britain’s First Political Debacle (Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr. Please, for the sake of my sanity, imagine that "debacle" is struckthrough an editable option on this bloody site that doesn't work. EVEN IN SODDING CHROME! Gaaaaaaaaaah.) Debate

Why is it that I feel I’m no longer voting for what I want but against what I don’t want? I’m increasingly looking at the lesser of two (or three) evils. Is it just me or is this just wrong? Take the recent plunging depression that was our first “live” (can you call it “live” when the audience were quite obviously stuffed and mounted – if not physically then at least metaphorically – hmmm?) TV debate…

If I were to gamble, I would bet that all three candidates were slightly less annoying than the idiot that hosted it, marginally less annoying than the wet and wuss-y way we presented a pathetic and perverted UK version of an American political debate with all the fire and fervour of an arthritic grandmother knitting her last pair of booties for a great-grandchild she’ll never see (not because she’s blind but mostly because, despite still only being in her forties, she’s three minutes from the pearly gates due to her current NHS hospital incumbency for an in-growing toe-nail and the odds of her surviving MRSA, C-Diff, Nora and incompetence shorten in logarithmic proportion to her length of stay (one inpatient stay = ~3 minutes give or take a miracle or two)), nowhere near as aggravating as the crass and unnecessary “introducing of the questioners” (“And now we have a Jew1sh schoolboy with a serious speech impediment or a silver spoon deeply embedded within his small intestine (having bypassed his sphincter post-birth) who is going to ask a deep and meaningful question” – is it going to be on education by any stretch of the imagination…? Is it? Is it? Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! It is! How abso-fucking-lutely amazing! On “quality” of learning no less! To be honest; fair play to the lad, he had some balls – which arguably he probably didn’t have by the end of school that day. I must admit I was on the edge of my seat to see if he could raise the bar on this garbage by asking “when can I be a milk monitor again?” but he disappointed me with some trite twaddle about schoolchildren being over-examined and under-taught (very clever, I’m guessing you wouldn’t be one of those would you?) and I fell back into the comfort of my couch-potato pose – only now with a bad back due to the exertion of keeping my slim frame erect (chortle) for the nano-seconds of interest I had) and, I bet, comprehensively less rage-inducing than the fact that not one of those pompous posing prats are remotely capable of recognising, let alone fixing, the complete shambles that is the politics in their own sceptic aisles.

With an incompetent incumbent bumbling along with platitudes and empty promises, repeatedly rolling off “improvement” figures (completely missing the point that we don’t want “improvement” in immigration and crime, we want a sodding cessation) like someone rejected from The Hammer House of Horrors for being too slimy/creepy,  I felt at odds trying to consider the alternatives when he was standing next to (but not too close) a suit-shaming oxygen-wasting weak-kneed wannabe with a penchant for “reaching out” by sharing personal introductions to “the people” (“last week I met a black man who was disgusted about the state of immigration…” OH. MY. GOD. A black man complaining about immigration and the state of the nation! What is the world coming to? It’s almost as if he had a right to mention it! (please note the heavily sarcastic overtones – I am not being racist, unless my white-man-speak-with-head-up-own-arse viewpoint is racist in which case… bring it on whitey – I am galled that we are considered so stupid as to think that Cameron talking to a black fellow (with an opinion on immigration) is supposed to make us sit up and take notice. It was patronising, pathetic and pissed on my evening well and proper.)

What is it with our current political rejects? Who gives a shit who you’ve met?! Stop telling us about who you’ve met! Start telling us about how you (not your spin doctor) are personally ashamed of the morally bankrupt politicians that you call “friends and colleagues” (Yes ALL of you – you may not have dipped your fingers in the pie but I’m damned sure that someone close to you did, so when is the last time you considered (and acted upon) the adage “All it takes for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing”, hmmm?), how you fear for your life every time you walk down the street at night, how you have been bloody burgled sixteen times by the same arrogant, educationally bereft scrote from three streets away who happily taunts you with his collection of ASBO’s (he only has to add “kitten drowning” and he has the full set – I always said it was a mistake allowing Top Trumps to produce the ASBO paperwork) and is smart enough to wait until your insurance policy has paid out and you’ve replaced the telly he nicked last week with a nice shiny new one that he is going to nick next week – a lesson he picked up from his brief sojourn to that all expenses paid holiday camp (don’t get excited, “don’t drop the soap in the shower” is a fallacy – it’s easier to have a full and consummate relationship in prison than it is in a conservative backed bed and breakfast, whether you are straight or not) that is our “over-crowded” prisons. (as Nick Clog – the “where’s Wally” equivalent in politics – only it’s actually called “who the fuck is this Wally, again?” – pointed out) But no; no, you want to wheel out some “looky-feely” dross that no-one (except of course the poor schmuck you cornered for political kudos) cares about.

Stop slagging each other off, too. Tell us what you will do, how much your policies are going to cost, and make bloody damn sure that it’s what I want to hear. We’re not stupid; The only people who really think there is an “everyone’s a winner” policy are either in institutions or politics (and, therefore, should be in an institution.) I know that what I want has a cost, you know that what I want has a cost, hell even a five-year old knows that what I want has a cost – JUST TELL ME WHAT THE FUCKING COST IS! GAAAAAAAH! You want more bobbies on the beat? Fine, that will be a tax hike of 1p in every pound, thank you very much. An NHS service that doesn’t put you in fear for your life? (Do NOT get me started on this one – it’s a whole other blog, and no mistake) Fine, that will be 10p for every pound. Don’t want to pay that much? Fine; then put up with what you’ve got. You want our boys at war to have better equipment? Sure BUT YOU ARE GOING TO HAVE TO PAY! Oh and while we’re at it, fed up with pissing £40Million pounds a day (that’s £40 Million… A DAY) over to Europe just so’s they can tell you your banana’s are too bent and you’re sausages are too straight? Fine; well these are the consequences... etc. etc. etc. Still want to do it? Cool. Vote for Me.

And, in the interest of purdah (which is, as far as I can work out, a cross between purgatory, perjury and a veranda…but I may have got that wrong…), I am so not going to comment on the yellow teams stance in all this; on account I really, really, really, couldn’t give a shit. And besides, I forgot they existed until the debate and have yet to check ‘em out.

Although… I have begun trawling the (even) lesser known political parties in the vain hope I can find one that, whilst pandering to my extreme left/right/fence-sitting views, doesn’t intend to invade Poland and is not so chinlessly inept as to make me want to be violently sick every time I see their smug fizzogs everywhere reminding me, not just of what a prat I was voting them in, but also how achingly awful the situation is that made me choose to vote them in in the first place.

Who in the real world, seriously, gives a flying fuck about The House of Lords? Trident (although I always thought their chewing gum was tasty, albeit briefly)? Let’s ignore the crippling tax, the shockingly poor health service, the inept (and frankly horrifically unfair – unless you’re a criminal) judicial system, the racial clique that is the police force (and that includes the shadier characters…), the abomination of old peoples homes, the fact that, frankly, we are at war and no-one seems to understand the consequences or care that Britain just does not have the stomach for it anymore – well, not when it’s pandering to the bloody Americans, yet again, when (the nation of animal lovers that we are) we would probably rather send our troops to Africa to protect some obscure dinosaur of a creature that has musical teeth and nothing else going for it… but that might just be me (the war thing, not the musical teeth), or that any massively successful UK company on the global stage is bought up and then systematically asset raped and indebted by cartels and corporations who are inescapably profiteering and  incapable of continuing to run or manage them. No, let’s ignore all that and lose the next election on reforming “The House Of Lords.” Personally, I think they should leave the churches well alone… *cough* What? What? Did I not mention my familial motto; I, Ignoramus…?

And, on top of all that, when we chose to tune in to the political channel, we find that either the house of commons is completely empty apart from two geriatric duffers who either fell asleep during the last debate and have been left behind (ho ho ho, how jolly humorous) or possibly died and have been left to rot (“not my job”, “don’t we have a janitor chappy to do that sort of thing?”) and when the house is full it’s a mess of childish barracking, peasant-stall booing, and the generally pathetic behaviour that I wouldn’t even attribute to an un-fettered five years olds birthday party let alone the idiots that we are supposed to feel comfortable and confident in letting run our country and therefore, ultimately, our lives. Anyone familiar with the term “rising to your level of incompetence?” Well welcome to the top of the tree. Makes you proud to British doesn’t it?

And as for the language… I am a liberal fellow (my blogs are liberally sprinkled with profanities and abuse and naked ignorance) but I was shocked and appalled at the obscenities EzBird was throwing at the TV (stomping around the living room like a bear with a thorn in her paw). In the end I had to turn over to Have I Got News For You where they were contemplating the Political debate in a much more polite way.

So, in summary; the first ever live British political debate? I wasn’t impressed. Let’s not do it again, eh? Oh… too late.

If anyone is interested I have decided that I like my politics like I like my religion; flavourless. I don’t want to be red or blue (or yellow). What I want is more police on the beat, better NHS, free education, a good defensive military force, lower taxes, cleaner streets, funnier television, fewer crimes, an acre of land for everyone, to work for a space agency that launches from Kettering (I like to be home for 5pm as EzBird gets my tea ready) and, most importantly, I no longer want to be ashamed of my politicians.

Not too much to ask is it?

 

Sigh

Ez

I feel it’s only right, It’s only fuckin fair to write a poem for my favourite poet extraordinaire A man of many words Fired in quick succession Sharp, loud and witty this guy can teach us a lesson Coming from Salford someone near the Quays brought up on drug abuse Heroin’s not a disease Trademark drainpipe jeans Fitted black suit jacket Big hair and sunglasses Man, this guy’s a racket I watch him in amazement Can’t believe he’s still alive Fuckin this and Fuckin twat His wise words will surely survive Around in the days of Punk He was older than a few Not aged a day since though Back then I thought he was 102 John Cooper Clarkes a star I’ve put him on a plateau No one else belongs up there He really is my fuckin hero

See, there I was busily beavering. Then I just looked in here for a moment and zam, I'm a waster once again. So, words for the currently un named; as per Minxie's blog.

I have one to get started - collective noun for a group of bankers celebrating their bonus payments:

A Morgy.

Over to you guys. Make me smile

TWICE this week I have been to a comedy show and EACH time I ended up sitting behind/in front/next to some complete nutter who laughed ridiculously LOUD at every sodding joke.  I love comedy and I love to laugh but too often I have had my night hindered by someone who sounds like a Hyena on speed.

If they’re not laughing then they are clapping with all the force they possibly can, just so everyone in the room knows that they got the joke.

The first night we were all packed in like ants around a sugar bowl, the night started off pretty well until the compare introduced the first act, and I thought I may lose my sense of sound.  A woman resembling far too many big brother contestants, painted orange with what can only be described as a BIG WIG screeched out the highest pitch laugh I have ever heard, unfortunately her mate didn’t sound much better either.

The second night it was a man and a woman.  They arrived late and spoke OVER the first few jokes regarding what kind of curry they were going to have after the show.  They then proceeded to shout ‘Genius’ and clap 5 times after every punch line.  

I wish these things just happened at comedy shows but there are a bunch of places where this occurs, for example...

Where does the weirdo on the bus sit?                                       

Next to me

Who does the pervert in the nightclub aim for?       

Me

Who does the drunken man in the bar want to talk to?         

Me

Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like this happens to them?

 

 

She stands, with head held high,
arms outstretched.
Silver skeins of sanity
unfurl like curling ribbon
to fall in a puddle
on the street far below.
Steel and concrete do not feel pain,
sentiment won’t hold her back,
all love tastes of betrayal.
She takes a deep breath
of car-polluted air,
closes her green eyes
and steps, smiling, into the sky.

My plan was to watch L'Aventura this week, which got a rare terrestrial TV showing, but I forgot to tape it, which was very annoying as I haven't seen it and I was hoping to write about it. But it's too late now and so I'm falling back on a largely unknown silent film called The Penalty.

The team of director Wallace Worsley and star Lon Chaney (my favourite actor by the way) is best known for 1924's The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Chaney's protrayal of the Quasimodo is still definitive (even better than Charles Laughton's later talkie version) and one of the greatest characterisation's in film history. There are some other strong performances in the film (notably that of Patsy Ruth Miller) and some clever effects and spectacular moments. That said it is still a deeply flawed film; the adaptation from Hugo's great but miserablist novel is unbalanced and Worsely's direction is leaden and occasionally laughable.

The fact is that Worsely was absolutely the wrong choice for director, he had no experience with the epic and was an 'economic' choice by Universal studio. But he was not a bad director, as evidenced by The Penalty.

In some ways The Hunchback of Notre Dame re-inforces almost every bad stereotype about silent films; slowly paced, occasionally overacted, boringly shot. On the flipside, The Penalty defies all silent film stereotypes, it is violent and sexual, fast-paced and vital. It is also complete nonsense, the story of a man whose legs are amputated accidentally by a drunk surgeon who embarks on a quest for revenge and a leg transplant. In his spare time, the legless man (Blizzard, played by Chaney) becomes an underworld kingpin, running a sweatshop with ruthless efficiency. As I said; nonsense. But that doesn't mean that it's not well-written, let's be honest, Indiana Jones isn't exactly realistic, and Hitchcock's fabulous North by Northwest has a famously nonsensical plot; they're still vastly entertaining films.

Much of the entertainment in The Penalty undoubtedly comes from Chaney, his Blizzard is a brilliant villain, particularly when abusing his female workers; when he loses his crutches he pulls himself along the table, still bellowing his anger and lashing out at people. It's a tour de force performance and, as always, Chaney put himself through hell to get it, strapping his legs back so they appeared to be amputated at the knee. He ran like this and even jumped, landing (agonisingly one would imagine) on his knees. Between takes his legs had to be massaged to get the feeling back into them. There's little doubt that Chaney channeled his physical pain into this stunning performance.

There's a lesson to be learnt here; don't be afraid of a really bad, bad guy. So often writers give their bad guys a sympathetic back story that detracts from the threat that villain poses. It doesn't have to be one or the other. Blizzard is arguably extremely justified in his vendetta against the surgeon who maimed him, he has as sad a backstory as any, but he's still clearly psychotic!

The film is directed with economy by Worsley (who would direct Chaney another four times), it's short and to the point, never pasuing to consider the madness of the situation and so preventing the audience from doing the same. Instead it sweeps you along with it. And let's not discount the plot too quickly; leg transplants might be science fiction but this film was made in 1920, directly after the first world war, when the streets were full of amputees coming back from Europe. There may be a little wish fulfilment here, and it is at least a timely film.

The Penalty may not be as well known as a lot of other silent films but that is because we remember 'great' films, ones with meaning. The Penalty is one of the best pure thrillers of the era and is well worth checking out. Having said all that, it's a bastard to get hold of so good luck.

My pick of the week's TV is The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance, which is on Wednesday at 2.45 on Film4. It's one of the last of the John Wayne/John Ford collaborations but one of the best, starting the dissection of the mythology of the old west two years before Sergio Leone got in on the act and decades before Eastwood's Unforgiven. Besides, it's John Wayne, James Stewart and Lee Marvin in one film; that's value for money.

In all my years of travelling on business, I'm quite amazed that I haven't been affected by any major disasters before. So I'm taking my current predicament on the chin and accepting thatwww.nats.co.uk is going to be my favourite website for the foreseeable future.

My computer is my best friend, think about it, all our friends live in it.  So when it is attacked you want to protect it. You mourn the loss of daily interaction with the keyboard where your fingers play sensitively upon those keys. Your life or day is not the same.

This happened to me!  At 9.17  pm precisely on Wednesday I clicked on this pop-up. I was not thinking.  The pop-up told me that trojans and worms had attacked my friend and to click ' here'  to remove them.  This I did, wrong!

The 'security tool' disguised under a firefox persona was the virus .. damn .. it flew through programmes  like a dose of salts rendering them impossible to open.  Initially I was exposed to 40 trojans and numerous worms. By going into
add/remove I managed to reduce the quantities , then somehow the virus knew what I was doing and attacked.  I could do nothing, wherever I went there they were.  I could have cried.

Pulling out the internet access, I closed down and went to bed. Could I sleep? Could I heck, all I could see when I closed my eyes were worms slithering and trojans marching through my programmes and files.

This morning I took my friend to a man who knows about these things and explained my plight.  He has now joined the ranks of best friend after spending six hours of his time taking care and restoring my computer back to health.

So there you have it - Don't you just hate it when that happens?