Chocolate For Breakfast

Good evening dear readers.  Reader?  Lionel?  Anyway, with another year over and a spare few minutes I figured it was a perfect opportunity to return to my neglected blog.

2012 proved to be somewhat of a whirlwind for me and the second half has sped by with me scarcely noticing.  Last time we spoke I was 6, 000 miles away from home in South Korea, hot but happy.  Today I’m sat at home, hot and contemplative.    I think if I tried to detail all I’ve been up to this would need to be broken down into volumes so I’ll keep it fairly vague.  Where to start though?

I guess, as I’ve mentioned it already, “home” would be a good place to start.  Last year saw four places lay claim to this title and thus I’ve been left feeling a little like a nomad, although that may just be the terrible beard.  From Cheshire, to Korea, to the West Midlands and to the Netherlands, it’s fairly safe to say that I’ve been all over the ruddy gaff.  With the first two well documented and the third less than exciting let’s skip straight to the fourth.

After a year of what essentially amounted to getting my shit together I finally embarked upon my journey to become Vince Panther MA.  As if going back to university as an allegedly mature student wasn’t enough, I also chose to do so abroad.  No part of this endeavour has been easy but I’m determined to soldier on.  I came perilously close to letting this opportunity slip through my fingers and exist forever as a “maybe one day” idea.  However, I chose not to let it.  With the help of both the beautiful lady in my life and Public Enemy I somehow find myself the other side of my first semester at university since 2009 and half way towards achieving what, up until very recently, was unthinkable.  The days leading up to my departure were some of the hardest I’ve had in a long time.  I’m not ashamed to admit that I was terrified.  Whilst I would never claim to have the courage levels of a certain Little Toaster, I do usually cope quite well with stuff, so this knocked me sideways a little.  The day of my flight was a battle against my stomach, my eyes, my brain and my feet and when I lay my head down on my, quite frankly rubbish, pillow in my new home that night, I had a million thoughts racing through my head and I was scared.  Four months later, I’m not scared any more.  I’m surprised I managed it, even shocked, and I may even allow myself a slight sense of pride.

In a curious piece of ordering on my part, allow me to enlighten you with my biggest, most exciting news of the year, and indeed, my entire life.  The girl I have written about on numerous occasions, the one mentioned above, the one who has been there for me from the very moment I met her, my perfect woman agreed to become Mrs. Panther.  I could carry on for a mighty long time about how incredibly happy and lucky I am to have her and for this to be happening but, as I’m sure listening to me gushing isn’t top of your to-do-list for today, allow this little guy to demonstrate for me.

Ahh yeah.

 

By sheer coincidence I’ve just realised how much better that gif is when listening to ‘Push It To The Limit’ from Scarface.

Now I’m back home in merry old England, free from university work (if I pretend I don’t have to do it, then it doesn’t count), I find that I’ve come back to reality with a bump.  After a few months of feeling oh so intellectual and contemplating what makes a just society, the semiotics of cinema and Spinoza’s account of the state of nature I find myself now tackling the real questions in life such as “why does it matter if the curtains are closed or not?”, “how often can the woman over the road possibly wash the windows in order to less than subtly spy on the neighbours?” and “does putting spare cuttings of carpet underneath things really look better than the tiny dents they would leave?”  All massive queries, I’m sure you’ll agree.  I guess it can’t always be top-level prattery.

All this should give you some idea as to how excited I am about 2013.  It looks like things are finally falling into place and I may start to become a real person soon.  Maybe.

Long Time, No Speak

Good evening everybody.  How are we all today?  Yes, it’s me again, back from the dead.  Or holiday to be more accurate.

As those of you have visited before will be aware, I’ve been living in South Korea (with a short trip to Japan) since May.  I intended to write regularly about my experiences and adventures but I guess everything kind of got away from me a little and I realised that if I was sat writing about it then I wouldn’t be out experiencing things.  I know I could have done it when I got home but I didn’t go half hearted on the experiencing, I was a sleepy man.

So how would I describe my last few months?  I may well go into more detail at a later date given a bit more time but as a general statement, and in no way an exaggeration, they were the best 3 and a bit months of my entire life.  I saw, ate, visited and lived so many weird and wonderful things that I couldn’t begin to make a comprehensive list.  It all passed by in an amazing and bloody strange blur.  I think the thing that really hit me as strange was when everything became normal (that makes sense right?)  It wasn’t until I stopped to think about where I was that I remembered that actually, yeah, this isn’t very much like home at all.

 

One of my holiday snaps.

One thing I never quite got used to was the level of celebrity you acquire just by being obviously foreign.  As you may well imagine, Korea isn’t the obvious tourist destination for many (it totally should be though.  Quite honestly, it’s unspeakably awesome) and so non-Koreans are few and far between.  Add in some height, fair hair, blue eyes and some Englishness and you’ve got yourself some instant fame.  This hit me hard when I got home and I was back to not being special again.  Stupid reality.

Turning 24 whilst away provided me with one of my best “this is weird” moments, of which I’m not lacking.  My birthday was a lovely occasion with presents, delicious food and drinks with new, firm friends.  Things got even more awesome when the three of us remaining got chatting to some Korean chaps (remember what I said about fame?) after a challenge to a game of beer pong.  The game never materilised but what did was being dragged through the deserted streets of Seomyeon to a street cart where we were treated to BBQ, beer, soju and chocolate cakes.  Why?  Because it was my birthday and Koreans are bloody lovely.  We sat and watched the sun come up with our new friends, not paying a penny for the pleasure.  Best birthday ever?  Not half.

No brief summing up of a life enriching experience would be complete without an awesome highlight.  Something that truly changed the course of the rest of my life.  I’m not talking about being one of those clowns who gets back to the airport in a straw hat and baggy trousers insisting that that’s who they are now because they’ve experienced true culture.  You know who you are.  Clowns.  No instead something unspeakably wonderful happened to me on my travels.  One lovely evening I finally plucked up the courage to ask the girl of my dreams to marry me.  Even better, she agreed to become Mrs Panther.  The time we spent apart showed me that I absolutely cannot imagine ever being without her and that I want to be with her for the rest of our lives.  This is the only part of the last few months that has yet to fully sink in.  Wedding pretty much planned, talk of weddings commonplace, even seeing the ring on her hand still hasn’t quite hit home that the most perfect woman I could ever hope to meet wants to be with me forever.  I still question her decision to associate with me at all though so perhaps this is understandable.  On a side note, I am working on her actually becoming Mrs Panther but this doesn’t seem to be progressing as well as I’d liked.  Apparently my real surname is better.  A man came dream though.

I already grow nostalgic of my time away.  Even every day things seem so much more mundane.  It’s a country of endless charms, delights and horrors.  Every day is sure to provide you with at least one moment of “aww, bless ’em”.  I would return to Korea in a second.  Not just because that’s where the future Mrs Panther is (maybe if I say it a lot, she’ll get used to the idea), it’s not one thing I could hope to put my finger on.  It’s everything.  One day I’ll definitely be back, just to check in and see if it’s still its adorable self.  One day, but until then Korea, thank you.

Food, Glorious Food

Going out for something to eat in Korea is very often a hit and miss affair.  When you walk into an establishment it’s not always clear whether you’re going to end up with a haircut or a live octopus.  However, needs must so perseverance is necessary, with varying results.

On the whole, food here is delicious.  The prevalence of barbecue restaurants never fail to excite the appetite and they quite often offer the ability to cook it yourself making me feel both full and manly in one tasty go.  Just the other day I ate myself stupid on beef and rice for about £3, something by no means out of the ordinary.  This also satiated my desire to eat a meal sat on the floor in the traditional style.  Less than five minutes in when realising I couldn’t fit under the table and my leg had gone to sleep I quickly fell out of love with tradition and began rolling around the floor like a child.  Fried chicken and beer gaffs are ten a penny and it’s not hard to see why.  They’re the best partnership since Cannon and Ball.  Quite why this insanely good mix is yet to make it home I have literally no idea.

Affordable meat and seafood restaurants are something this country does very well indeed but this is obviously not the full picture.  It’s not uncommon to see watermelons for sale for upwards of £20 and chocolate peanuts costing the best part of a tenner.  That’s of little real consequence though, when it costs so little to eat like a king who needs enormous melons?…..stop giggling.

The weirdest thing I think I’ve eaten so far on my trip were the silk worm larvae.  They smell utterly repellant and taste average at best.  Somewhat similar to beans in texture except beans don’t explode, spraying their innards everywhere when you bite into them.  All in all, not really worth it.

The market…ahhh the market.  Home of all sorts of wonders at rock bottom prices.  Mounds of garlic, delicious fresh doughnuts, more kimbap than you can shake a 3 foot long dried tentacle at, the possibilities are endless.  Living in Busan there are a plethora of seafood stalls offering all manner of marine life I’ve never seen before and plenty I wish that was still the case with.  Looking at you penis worms.

You sicken me.

Of course, fish sale=fish death and this is something that you get forced into coming to terms with pretty quickly.  I can’t tell whether it’s a good thing or not that seeing the poor little guys meet their grisly end doesn’t bother me any more or not.  In a way it’s kind of good for them.  There seems to be a weird divide here between the treatment of animals as pets and animals for eating.  Obviously I’m not suggesting it’s odd that they don’t fry up their hamster when a bit peckish but rather a pet is pampered beyond belief, shaved into all sorts of weird shapes and died all the colours of the rainbow.  Animals as food stuffs though have next to no consideration.  Seeing literally hundreds of crabs packed into a tank, or turtles in a bucket, or fish swimming amongst dead friends is quite shocking so perhaps if they find themselves in this situation in may be best to get it over with.

The dispatching of said animals can also be quite brutal.  In a short space of time I saw a woman snap the head off a live fish which made a not inconsiderable noise.  I saw an eel have its head impaled by a screwdriver mere seconds before being skinned alive and perhaps worse was the fate that befell a pair of octopuses at the weekend.  Plucked from their tiny plastic prison cell to the screams of the child of the woman purchasing them, the seller proceeded to turn their heads inside out and detach something from something else that it seemed it very much needed to be attached to.  All well and good, not to mention horrifying, for the first one, but for the second this didn’t quite do the trick, it didn’t want to go into the bag but that’s sure where it was headed.  Peeling the thing off her arm the fish monger shoved the flailing creature in with the other.  At least she triple bagged it.  Better safe than sorry I guess.

Despite witnessing the scenes above I’m still rather fond of the odd dried sea creature (it’s very hard to tell what they are at that stage).  That is until whilst I was munching my way through one whilst innocently watching the football.  Whilst attempting to liberate a few tentacles I noticed a small bundle, I was intrigued.  What could it be?  My mind was racing.  Upon closer inspection I saw what the free gift was….a fucking beak!

The Gateway to Hell

Of course it can’t all be delicious but it is nearly always an experience so, horrifying secret discoveries aside, it’s always entertaining.  You have to take the rough with the smooth and so for every mentalist throwing dogfish at you, you’ll find any number of wonderful restaurants ready to serve up…something.

Culture Shock

My arrival in South Korea in mid-week gave me scarcely enough time to even begin to tackle my jet lag and prepare for a long weekend of cultural experiences but I did my best and slept away Wednesday and Thursday like a trooper.  Friday…well, Friday was just about as awesome a “Welcome to Korea” as my sleepy little self could have wished for.

I sleepily ventured outside to meet my girlfriend when she had finished work with the impression that we were going for a little walk with her co-teacher and then for dinner somewhere.  No problem I think, sounds lovely.  The first step was to get to the park where it was we were going to be walking.  Transport arrived in the form of the aforementioned co-teacher’s non-English speaking husband to whisk us through the rush hour traffic.  The language barrier obviously prevented him talking to the three of us but he did make it known that he would like his wife to tell me that I’m very tall.  I’ve heard this a lot in the last few weeks.  Said wife later commented that I’m the tallest person she’s ever met.  Just to clarify, I’m not that tall, 6′ 2″ at most but I am the tallest person I’ve seen for about a fortnight.  Height in Korea appears to gain you instant celebrity and envy, average as you think your own stature may be.

We arrive at the park a short while later with it soon becoming apparent that it was up a mountain.  Maybe not mountain but hill seems inadequate for the steep climb we were faced with.  Also the cable car we got to the top seemed to suggest that it was at least a ruddy great hill.  I digress.  The views of the city from our little capsule were amazing, I could finally see where it was that I had decided to live for the following months.  The peak was decorated by serenely quiet twisting trails, streams and cats.  It was round about now that it was starting to sink in that I now live in Asia.

After excitedly shouting “kitty!” every time we saw a cute little feline friend, no doubt convincing our guide that her colleague had made some questionable life decisions, we arrived at a Buddhist temple.  “Would you like to look?” I was asked.  I gratefully accepted.  Upon entering the small courtyard the group of monks sat talking were instantly drawn to us and apparently very interested.  I was slightly stunned by this.  I mean, you’re a Buddhist monk sat in a temple halfway up a mountain in the Far East.  I’m a scruffy bugger from the Midlands who has recently left a job in a call centre.  I think I know who wins the interesting battle there.  After smiling, making a hash of bowing, distracting a chap from praying and trying desperately not to launch into a rousing rendition of ‘Kung Fu Fighting’ it was time to continue Vince’s Culture Tour.  I ignored the 4×4 parked just behind the temple, I didn’t want my fledgling sense of spirituality to be crushed just yet.  Anyway, even those who shun material possessions need a sweet set of wheels.

“Namaste, bitches”

After merrily winding our way back to the road we were informed that “going for dinner” in fact meant “you’re guests of honour at a barbecue at my sister’s house”, or so I like to think.  We were certainly made to feel very welcome visitors.  Even this lady’s daughter visited and brought a friend to eat with the foreigners.  Over the next few hours we ate, drank and ate some more.  I made solid friends with two middle-aged Korean men who barely spoke a word of English between them but knew enough to say how handsome and brave I was.  Quite where they got this from I’m not sure but they had sat drinking soju for at least three hours so maybe that had something to do with it.

Incredibly well fed and watered, a few new Korean friends and a big bag of soy bean sauce the richer, we were accompanied back to the train station.  A few jokes were shared about how I looked like a bodyguard for the women accompanying me.  I love Korea.

In one incredibly eventful evening I feel my cultural horizons were expanded far more than at any point in my life so far and way beyond what I would have imagined less than a week beforehand.  After my first week I could have travelled home safe in the knowledge I had seen, eaten and experienced more than many of my friends ever will.  Every day I feel 100% vindicated in my decision to quit the first proper job I’ve ever had and exchange life in the North West of England for the Far East.  Whether it’s the change of scenery, pace or even just temperature I couldn’t be happier to be as far away from home as I’ve ever been and cannot wait for the next time I find myself thinking “oh Korea, whatever next?”

Oh…the culture shock?  Nothing more than the amazement of how awesome this country is.

I Know You Got Seoul

So after what seemed like an eternity of waiting and travelling I finally arrived in South Korea.  It still seems a little weird to be here, the obvious differences between here and home seem to be preventing it sinking in to any great degree.  Consider this the start of a change of direction for my posts.  For a while at least we shall put the gripes on the back burner and focus on my awesome adventures in Asia.

Somehow I’d failed to appreciate how far 6, 500 miles is and how long 28 hours is.  Not sure how, but I did and so I wasn’t too fussed about the journey I was about to undertake until just after I checked in and realised that I had 3 hours left until my plane took off and I was already bored.  Having never flown by myself before I realised at this point that I had quite a challenge ahead to stay occupied.  I thought it might be a good opportunity to spend a bit of time inside my own head but when all I could think was “bored, bored, bored”, I wasn’t exactly the best company.

Still, two flights and a stopover in the phenomenally warm and busy Middle East, I arrived in one piece.  Now came the tricky bit, getting a train the entire length of a country whose language I have a command of sufficient enough to demand Frosties and squid.  Apparently once at the airport all I had to do was get someone’s attention and say “Seoul” until I was kindly pointed in the right direction.  I didn’t have total faith in this plan and couldn’t help but think that I would be wandering round yelling Seoul so much people would start to think that I was the caucasian second coming of James Brown.

“I gat get da traaaaaiiin….huh!”

Lo and behold I did eventually make it to the city I’d heard so much about but never imagined I would ever see content in the knowledge that I was a mere 3 hours away from my final destination.  A tad more awkward battles with language barriers and a bit of help from some lovely locals I got settled in on the most comfortable train I’ve ever been on.  Leg room and seats that leant back almost enough that they may be described as “pimp”.

The shortest of all of my journeys of the previous two days brought more cultural differences to the fore.  Every time one of the train staff entered or left the carriage they would face all the passengers and bow.  The first time I saw the ticket inspector do it I honestly thought he was just rearranging himself but as he did it more and more I realised that this was just normal polite practice.  That or I really didn’t want to get too close to him.

As the countryside flew by in the night and I counted down the stations I knew it wouldn’t be long till I could get some food, rest and a hug.  I thought every station had to be mine, not least because I didn’t understand the announcements, but eventually it was and my mammoth journey came to an end with a delicious bowl of beef stew.  I’ve already had some amazing experiences in the two short weeks I’ve been here and I cannot wait to have many more over the next few months.

Pasties, Politics and Publicity Stunts

Like many people I watched the recent unfolding of Pastygate with great intrigue.  The news that the government are considering putting up tax on hot food that would hit pasty lovers hard.  On a not very interesting side note, I had a pasty today and thoroughly enjoyed it.  I was feeling a little delicate.

Since the disastrous budget, the Tories seem to have made gaffe after gaffe and so they are in some desperate need of trying to shake the age-old image of being out of touch toffs.  Where do politicians turn to leech popularity?  Celebrities of course.  This time, curiously, someone suggested Shaun Ryder.

I love Shaun Ryder, his infamous antics would probably make for an interesting listening and I enjoy his music.  If tickets to the Mondays weren’t so steep I’d go and see them in a few months time but with saving up for travelling and what have you, that idea had to be put to bed.

You can see the logic of this move, get a man who embodies the rock n roll lifestyle who won’t scare the kids like Keith Richards and get him to plug your cause.  We’ve seen it before and we’ll see it again so it’s no major surprise I guess.

Ryder isn’t the only one involved though.  Other celebrities such as Claudia Winkleman, David Tennant and the painfully unfunny David Walliams have been roped in to peddle the big lie.

Ryder’s first move was to promote a tshirt with Dave’s smug face tucking into a pasty accompanied by the words “We’re All Eating This Together”.  A clever play on George Osbourne’s recent quote but rather than talking about pasties, it seems more apt to assume that “this” is a load of bullshit and I, for one, don’t fancy eating it.

We’re not all in anything together.  More and more of us are becoming left to deal with “it” but with the help of this Tory government rolling back the years of social progress, the toffs are being spared the cold grip of reality.  They are systematically destroying education, health and any other public right we’ve enjoyed for so many years.  This business over the pasty affair is tedious and clearly isn’t a class issue.  However, what it has done is got people talking about class again and to realise that it is still very much a real divisive force in this country.  I was discussing the other day with my Cool Aunt Judi this matter and we agreed that now, more than any time in recent memory, the gap between those at the top and everyone else is widening with alarming speed.  Despite being an educated man (officially, I still let myself down every now and again.  I somehow hit myself in the unmentionables earlier, I didn’t really need that) I find myself in the new working class, a recent development where those who slipped through the net find themselves performing menial tasks, left behind because I don’t have the right tie.

It’s easy to think that class isn’t an issue any more, that we rid ourselves of that problem and that we live in a wonderful, level society but it simply isn’t true.  Stories like this make class at the forefront of politics and it’s a battle the Tories are doomed to lose time and time again.  They are out of touch, elitist toffs and everyone can see it.  They’re now encasing this bitter truth in pastry and cramming it right down our throats.  It’s been obvious since the outset but people just seemed to sleep walk through it with bewildering levels of apathy.  It’s a shame that it took such a ludicrous story to wake people up but at least it has and now maybe people won’t eat this anymore.

The celebrity shimmer only further enhances the toffee nosed reputation of the government.  It doesn’t fool anyone.  Paying shed loads of money to get celebrities to sing your praises doesn’t exactly scream in touch.  Much like all other attempts at looking down with the kids,  this one will fizzle out in no time when people get sick of convulsing in sheer embarrassment at watching over weight, middle-aged men in suits listening to some phat beats.  As a lad I spoke to the other day said, you can’t polish a turd but you can roll it in glitter but we all know what lies underneath.

Runcorn of the Dead

As I sit on what quite possibly is the world’s loudest chair, I look around to survey where I have found myself.  I am sat in a large square room which looks like it was designed with one eye on 1984 and the other on an institution.  The inhabitants of said room appear to lend a lot of credence to my theory.

Today, for reasons beyond my control, I find myself in Runcorn.  Until now it is a place I have never visited and I can fully understand why.  I’d heard the tales but laughed them off as I have so many others that preach similar warnings.  The town I grew up in is one such place but this really is something else.

I had rather a pleasant journey on the way here; a taxi from my door courtesy of the company through the lovely Cheshire countryside. “Perhaps this won’t be so bad after all”, I think.  I’m not one for superstition but, on reflection, it was rather apt that the fare for my taxi came to a nice round £13.

Granted shopping centres are never the most inspiring of buildings but I’m beginning to wonder whether I died in the night and that I am in fact in purgatory.  People roam the hallways with their children until their misdemeanours are deemed to have been repaid.  I can’t be in hell, that’s where immoral people go and immorality requires a certain amount of self awareness.  I have the unrelenting feeling that I don’t belong.  Maybe it’s because I dressed myself this morning, maybe it’s because I have a full compliment of fingers, toes and teeth or maybe it’s because I’m worried they can smell fear.

After I’d sat freezing my unmentionables off for a few hours, I decided enough was enough and proclaimed it to be dinnertime.  Surprisingly this was no issue once I’d fought my way through the amorphous, sweaty masses scrabbling over the pies (not kidding).  I ate heartily, I figured I needed my strength.  I went for a little wander in a bid to warm my cold feet and limber up should I need to make a swift exit.  I popped into Smith’s to have a little browse and to bask in the free warmth.  I firstly struggled to find the papers and could barely even see the book section.  The deserted aisles were cloaked in darkness, the dust lay thick on the floor and it would take a braver soul than me to venture in, lest I single myself out as one of them reading types.  It’s a similar story to tell in other areas of this marble labyrinth.  This place is awash with discount clothing stores, cheap food outlets and empty units.  Even the NHS has gotten the hell out.  Curiously the health food shop seems to have survived, although I am wondering whether it’s just a front and once inside I will be captured, imprisoned and burned inside a large wicker man, not unlike what happened in the Wicker Man.

I’m pretty sure I can outrun them.  Despite the excessive amount of sportswear, I doubt that these people could even spell exercise.  Ok, bad example.

I am patiently counting down the hours until I can make my bid for freedom…ah, sweet freedom.  It’s most certainly beer o’clock when I get home.  I’m incredibly tempted now but I need to keep my lucidity.  A number of the elders are gathering around me, silently watching my every move, their tartan baskets holding a world of secrets.

I’ve seen Dawn of the Dead, I know what can happen in places like this, and it looks like something terrible already has.  I’m on my own, entirely outnumbered and with no hope of a dramatic helicopter rescue.

The Film List: Paranormal Activity 3

A while ago myself and my girlfriend decided that we hadn’t seen enough films.  We felt that this could be easily remidied by putting together a list of films that we wanted to see, were told we should see or just felt like we ought to.  There are a mixture of high brow and low brow and hopefully over the coming weeks, or however long, I can slowly tick off these titles and maybe bring you a few of my musings on them, probably spoiling them for you in the process.

Now firstly I’d like to start by reassuring you all that my first inclusion is by no means one I would consider something I simply had to see or that I thought may be a classic or anything; I saw the second installment in the series the other day and thought I might give this one a bash.  The girlfriend flat out refused to watch it with me so I’d needed to find me a window of opportunity, helpfully provided by a trip back home to my Dad’s gaff.  Marvellous.  With it being dark out and me being bored of reading pointless trivia on the internet I put the film on, sit back and relax (well, as much as I could.  My arse went to sleep about an hour before I started watching it so I was distracted from the off).

Now, arse aside, I may not be of the right persuasion to watch this film.  I don’t tend to scare easily and ghosts are clearly a load of cobblers.  More importantly, however, having had a childhood watching You’ve Been Framed I think I’ve been programmed to think that anything filmed with a video camera is inevitably going to culminate in someone falling over.  I half expected Harry Hill to appear in the mirror in the bathroom.  So it’s safe to say I found the building tension difficult to subscribe to.

Anyway, the third of the Activities is intended to act as a prequel to the first two (something I wasn’t aware of so I felt like Jonothan Creek when I thought I’d pieced it together) and, as such, aims to give a bit of context to the whole palaver.  Now, as mentioned, the home made documentary vibe is intended to give the thing a greater sense of realism and, ultimately, make you do a bit more of a poo.  However this has worn rather thin these days and what started out many moons ago with that film Lionel Blair made about witches has now become rather cliche and unbelievable.  A further problem with this is also thinking up new ways of people finding excuses to rig up their gaff with video cameras.  Surprisingly it took until the third film to go down the “let’s do a bit of sex and I’ll film it” route (that’s probably why I’m not a screenwriter isn’t it?).  On top of Captain Pervert’s home CCTV we oviously need to be able to see the daily goings on of the poor terrorised couple and their children and so our bearded protagonist also carries round a camera with him.  Everywhere.  All the bloody time.  Obviously the plot has to stick steadfastly to this point otherwise we wouldn’t see a fat lot but this does mean you have to watch him reading a book and later on you find yourself watching a film where a man is watching a film.  Riveting.  The insistance of the camera also ultimately endangers the wally’s life towards the end.  I appreciate that you’re giving us an insight into your scary, scary troubles, sir, but I would forgive you if you put the camera down and got the fuck out the house.  Also, if you think you may encounter the forces of evil, put some shoes on.

The film progresses with more and more creepy goings on and the usual stuffy parent not believing the other one about it causing tension in the family dynamic, something worrying in itself.  Being centred around one house you are made to feel very familiar with your surroundings and are shown similar footage as each night progresses and you essentially build the anticipation for yourself which is arguably scarier than having it handed to you on a blood soaked platter.  I think this is actually a very good idea.  As you become used to nothing happening- BAM!  Jumpy bit.  However the flip side to watching a house where nothing is happening is that you’re watching a house where nothing is happening.  Imagine Through the Keyhole without Grossman’s nasal whine or David Frost asking which malevolant creature of the night lives in the cupboard in the girls’ room and you’re pretty much there.

The film does go to show that you can still get some cheap thrills out of some furniture tied to some string though and the bit in the upstairs bathroom did leave you wondering how they were going to get sort out their troublesome situation.  This, I would suggest, would be the only mildly tense part of the film.  Too much of the work of scaring is left up to the viewer so you would have to question why you would put the effort in, at which point you just feel like a bit of a weird voyeur in these people’s home.

The opportunity for further Creekesque deduction presents itself in the latter stages when Dennis reads his book and discovers a link between the scribbles on the cupboard wall and symbols used in some ridiculous occult ceremony.  Anyway, this comes to the fore later on when on his ill-advised late night barefoot wandering.  Whilst walking round Julie’s mom’s house with no lights on (as if you hadn’t worked yourself up enough you silly sod) he sees said creepy symbols adorning the walls.  A fishy choice of ornament I hear you cry, fishy indeed.  After stumbling round the place for a while and scaring himself with a lamp, the now cold-footed Dennis wanders across the porch through another door to be confronted with…a room full of occult mentalists led by the mother-in-law.  Oh Paranormal Activity 3, the old ones really are the best.  Anyway, after presumably liberally coating the rear of his pyjama bottoms with a stream of liquid fear, he proceeds to run around a bit more in the dark.  Genius.  If we’re sticking with the “it’s a documentary not a film” notion then do what anyone would do and turn a ruddy light on.  But no, energy-conscious Dennis faffs about a bit before ultimately meeting an undignified end.

With the main selling point of the film having already grown tiresome in previous editions it failed to produce any genuine sense of horror or anxiety.  The film suffers from a lack of suspense throughout building to a disappointing payoff.  I wasn’t expecting a classic from this but it really was a touch timid although it was nice that there was some background to the others, it did tie in rather nicely.  On the whole I would say it might be worth a go if you’re bored or have ran out of home movies of your own family members reading.

The Olympics

Six years ago, whilst still at school, I remember watching the announcement that London was to host the 2012 Olympics.  The tension before the decision was announced was palpable.  People present were on tenterhooks, myself and a few friends were gathered round the television, looking on at the grainy pictures being beamed into our youthful eyes.  All the campaigning, the lobbying, the hours and hours of work had come down to this….oh how we couldn’t give a shit.  Six years on, nothing has changed.

Now, I love sport, I truly do, but the Olympics has never really been my bag so perhaps I was never going to be too excited. However you’d think being older and wiser and having one of the biggest sporting events in the world come to our fair shores things may be a little different.  Alas, no.  Much like the beard I’ve been waiting for all these years, my enthusiasm for the Olympics has failed to grow.

Thinking back to that day in 2005, there was already a sense of “I wonder how we’ll make a balls up of this one” and everyone has been quick to pick fault with anything and everything to do with the games.  It’s almost become a sport in itself.  This may just be the same national spirit that rears it’s pessimistic head whenever we go into international competition; the one that waves off our brave boys to the World Cup with a smile before going to the pub to lambast world class athletes and correcting their obvious inferior technique.  Modesty is but a small step away from a bugger of a self-esteem problem after all.  It may however merely be the voice of experience.

With the cost of the games stretching into the billions, the finance side of things is always going to be a contentious issue for people.  Couple this with the current economic difficulties and you’re going to get people all in a fluster.  However, with admittedly by no means an expert opinion, I can’t help but think that putting billions of pounds back into the economy, creating jobs, redeveloping areas of London and encouraging an influx of overseas investment may not be such a bad thing.  Whilst people may not agree with the expenditure, I think most people would agree that hosting the games (whether interested in them or not) is a good thing for the country.  No, I can’t see the cost of the games as a problem.

The Olympics provide an outstanding opportunity for everyone to club together, contribute and invite the world to a spandex laden spectacular.  Ok, perhaps I’m being a touch facetious but for those involved and inclined this is clearly going to be a very exciting time.  So what about those who wouldn’t fall into either of those categories?  How do we get them involved?  I say we, it’s clearly nothing to do with me, it’s down to a group of upper-class, out of touch suits that one can’t help but think have sat around some very large desks, asking each other “what’s down with the kids these days?”.  To which at some point someone ventured the answer “a snappy logo!”  Genius.  Ruddy marvellous.  I’m sure there’s literally millions of disaffected young people out there that have been praying and hoping that somebody designs a nice logo otherwise fuck it, sod your Olympics.  This really was (more or less) the reasoning behind the now infamous 2012 design.  (As a side note, whilst I said the cost wasn’t an issue, spending £400, 000 on a few spiky numbers is a bewildering decision by anyone’s reckoning; apart from the lucky git who lazily designed the piece of shit).  Anyway, tangent over.  Yes, the questionable design was indeed a way of engaging the youth of the country.  Politicians are notorious for having their fingers on the pulse of mainstream culture and by jove they’ve done it again.  Snappy design, that’s what kids want right?  Except it’s neither snappy (in fact, i shall reiterate; it’s a piece of shit) nor what kids want.  It turned out to be as cringeworthy as a 50-something MP donning a baseball cap (back to front, naturally) and maybe sitting backwards on a chair or something because, you know, that’s what ‘da yoot’ do.  At least this is the only instance where the public image of the games has fallen short of being spectacular.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet your mascots for the games- Frank and Beans.  Oh wait, no, Wenlock and Mandeville, how silly of me.  Yes I know it’s been said before and it’s all very childish but, come on, really?  Mascots whom could be legitimately described as one eyed monsters, whom are strangely phallic shaped and have strangely ball shaped objects for feet, what could possibly be laughable about that?  The names of the mascots I’m on board with.  It’s a great idea to reference the country’s Olympic heritage and it really is surprising that no more seems to have been made of it.  Why not have a lion for a mascot?  Traditional, instantly recognisable, loveable and distinctly less creepy than the metallic cock twins.  Surely logo and mascots aside we can’t have dropped the ball anywhere else can we?

What inspires people any more than a nice poster?  That’s right poster.  Somebody, somewhere decided it would be a good idea to ask some artists to design a series of posters to embody the spirit of the games.  Actually, that is a good idea I take it back.

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/gallery/2011/nov/04/olympics-2012-posters-in-pictures?INTCMP=ILCNETTXT3487

Ah.  Bugger.  In another instance of people in authority not having a collective ounce of a fucking clue what’s going on in the world let’s get Tracey Emin and a host of other contemporary artists to paint what the Olympic games means to them.  Like Emin & co when I think of the games I’m overwhelmed by thoughts of coloured lines, indeterminable blue messes and disembodied legs and I’m so excited to see people committing to canvas our emotions over the whole thing.  Now, as I’m sat listening to Heaven 17 over and over again for no discernible reason, I may not be in the best position to comment on taste but I don’t think I’m alone in thinking that coffee stains and whatever the fuck the 10th offering is might not be what we think of when we think top class sport.  Obviously contemporary art doesn’t have to be 100% loyal to it’s subject but I would have thought it would have been a pre-requisite that it not be fucking awful.  I have no artistic talent of note, I never have and, as much as I would like to, I never will.  I drew a dinosaur the other week and haven’t stopped banging on about it since but at least it looks like a dinosaur but for some reason I haven’t been commissioned for this exclusive collection of British art and design.  Maybe I’m too good, who knows?  Give some local kids a bag of potatoes, some paint, some paper and just let them go nuts, I’d give a shiny sixpence to anyone capable of spotting the difference.  Everyone will think it’s cute and that really is involving the kids.  How good would it be for a child somewhere to see their poster advertising the Olympics?  It would be amazing and genuinely heartwarming and nobody would care what it looks like.

The visual element of the Olympics is only part of the story.  I mean it’s an enormous part of it.  It’s the bit that most of the world will see, remember and judge.  I’m sure the actual sport will be of the highest anyone could hope for.  After all, it’s a gathering of the best athletes in the world performing what they can do like no other and I dare say there will be many a great victory over the course of the games.

Next July London will invite the world to visit for a fortnight that everyone can enjoy and enjoy you will if you don’t mind paying £50 to watch fencing and jubilant winkies.