Me (as if you need to know)

To have a wild stab in the dark, you may at this moment be thinking about cheese. You almost certainly are now. And so I shall reveal an interesting fact relating to two interesting things (i.e: me and cheese):

I hate cheese.

It's not a popular opinion, I know. But am I to be chased to the ends of the earth by slobbering cheese-hounds? I do not believe so.

It's often a problem that people don't understand the difference between a complete lack of interest in a product and an allergy to it. The helpful tits up at wherever the heck science happens have helpfully nommed an allergy to cheese (and relating foods) as an "intolerance", instantaneously making all those with said allergy sound like racist old men.

Anyway, enough about cheese and my ill-founded logic. I'm currently writing my first fully-fledged novel Thyme. Plot synopsis: There's this rich guy. Shit blows up.

Aside from that (and for my adoring fans) I'm writing a short story called Rust, which I assume will come out like any sf story would come out were it written my someone who'd done an incredibly minute amount of research.

No rest for the wicked (or the slaves - sorry guys!), off I go to keep my keyboard warm and frantic. In a bit.

Why I'm so great

As you may or may not be aware, the film The Other Guys is not yet available to watch in cinemas. So how have I seen it? Did I do it with the amazing magical energy gushing from every pore of my body?

No.

The film, unfortunately, is yet another buddy road or "bromance" (i.e: the tale of two men's friendship as they sale lovingly into the abyss) mixed with a cop drama spoof (a little bit like Hot Fuzz).

While it lack's Hot Fuzz's down-to-earth element, The Other Guys is pretty much a hit in my book. Most of that type of comedy (usually featuring Rob Schneider) end up being so unfeasably shit that one finds one self attempting to choke on one's popcorn and/or drown in one's jumbo coke.

A refreshing relief, then, that there are some very funny moments packed into this box-office hit-to-be. Which is, if a little bit rauchy, generally a good time. Even Steve Carell manages to pull through with a bit of dignity, despite his inexplicably heightened British accent.

One particular fragment sticks in my head which I will now share with you for no reason, it features the hardest of the duo doing some incredibly decent ballet, which he later reveals he learnt sarcastically, in order to show the kids who actually did it how queer they were.

Wow, I imagine my description of the movie will seriously put you off. I mean look at it. Take a look. Gross, huh? Well whatever, it's your choice. Why should I care? Why do I care? Who knows? Who the hell even cares?

So the pope, huh. What's that all about? The Pope. Who is this man? Obviously he's the pope. But why?

Well to be honest I don't know, but does it matter? The whole idea of Christianity seems to me like it should have been shoved out by politics ages ago. Yet people insist on believing in something they can't see, or taste or hear. Something they can only feel at the back of their brain, as the matter buzzes and lights coarse and dance, killing their logic as the lights grow to form towering blocks of colour and thought and love and noise, until it seems as though the world might really be a little ball floating in a magical world, crafted by a loving old man with a long white beard and an unshakable homophobia. Then if you're me reality sinks in and you realise you've been sat on the toilet for three hours and that there's nothing magical about shit-stink and a toilet-seat print. And if you're the Pope you decide you'll get on a plane and fly about the world, shaking hands and being happy and damaging the environment and being happy and kissing babies and praying and oh isn't life wonderful?

But then there's me, and there's the Pope. So who's to say who's right?

The Inbetweeners

Hey, this'll spice things up! I'm writing the first half of this post having not seen the first episode of the latest (3rd) series of The Inbetweeners, but the second part having actually seen it. So, before it starts, I've just time to go into my current feelings about the series so far as if that were in some way relevant.

Simon Bird (now seen in such other shows as The King is dead and, erm) is of course the protagonist in the titling show, and also its narrator. While his voice is somewhat like the noise I imagine an elephant would make when revelling in its own flatulence, I find that I can often relate to him. He's therefore one of the good bits of the show. Put him in that section. If you like sections, or something. You NAZI!

The other three are pretty interchangeable (not that I haven't done my research! Don't doubt me! Love me!) obviously they're completely different and contrasting characters - which in part I think takes from the realism, though I realise that mainly the show is trying to be "a bit of a laugh" more than a sincere drama, but it helps to have a ground when you're taking off, you know? - I think that the actors portraying them have either been told to act their character incredibly over-the-top to pantomime proportions, or is really shit.

The plot is basically the most reliable humour aspect. Like Peep Show it generally ends up with everything turning out really shit for the hard-working boffin, and great for the slack-jawed idiot, a cruelly accurate caricature of real life. Oh, shit it's on.

I must admit fans, that I accidentally fell asleep during the show, (waking up for just long enough to catch a few advert then drifting silently back to noddyland) and so have had to watch the show on 4od this morning. A tiring exercise I'm sure you agree. Anyway, it struck me that the episode was fairly amusing, in the way that most of such shows are (i.e: cringe-factor dialled up to 300, everybody fucks up big time.) And so I take back anything distasteful I wrote in the first part and thereby cancel out my entire post. So that means you just read...nothing...again. Congrats readers. Sorry for being such a lightweight.

The light shining off my...

Balls of Steel

for those of you unfamiliar with the show, I shall explain it: Several gilded ponces wriggle their way onto a set, their heads jiggling with self-admiration, tongues waggling feverishly in their skulls, and strike a pose upon a large sofa beside their ginger side-kick, who ceremoniously engages in a festival of ring-licking the likes of which TV has only seen in such shows as "Dragon's Den" or "The X Factor" or "Insert reality TV show here".

Yes, we may fool ourselves into believing there's a difference between reality TV and the other category but behind every fact there's a story right? And as a feature of many of these "stories" there's generally some kind of massive, crooning wanker being inexplicably adored by thousands of people. A fact of life, TV, and basically every single format you care to mention. Take Gok Wan, for example, the rude anagram-cum-fashion guru. Guru? Guru?! Who is this man? Calls himself a "Guru" just because he can match up colours and look gay enough to make any butch man uncomfortable? Obviously if you google the word "Guru" you'll find the dictionary definition on Wikipedia, which upholds C4's decision to use said word. 1-0 Gok Wan, you got me.

But heck, who cares about me and my ongoing battle with fashion, I mean Gok Wan? You could be reading about flowers or puppy dogs, or even better, less conflicting, obtuse views on fashion, on Jess Phoebe Dolby's blog at www.themodekid.blospot.com

Scott Pilgrim vs. The World

(I'm told) I tend to write best when infuriated by some outlandish error, or just generally pissed off. So if you're of such an opinion, you may want to skip this post altogether. At the end of it, though, I might have a little snipe about buses.

Having kept you on your toes, let's move into the review. Here I'm at a dilemma. I'm not sure whether to do those second-person, deeply insulting reviews I'm so famous for, or simply to review the film, as I have done with several others. If I was anything of the writer I think I am, I'd invent a new method. Anyway...

So there you are, you're young, you're free, the world is your oyster! But there's a problem, you're a total freak.

I don't mean a profitable freak, like you have twelve balls or shoulders for eyes. No. That would be great, from your perspective. You're just one of those freaks made so famous by the american film industry that people would think your condition commonplace. You, sir, are a nerd.

So what's in it for you? You ask yourself. Nothing, is the short answer, the long answer being thousands of films. You see, nothing pays more in the world of cinema than having the taste of a regular, pencil-sucking, joystick-rubbing, brain-on-a-twig.

Having in half-hearted attempt to use my often neglected hyphen-key, I seem to have made nerds seem a touch homosexual. Which puts me in a sticky situation (There I go again!) in that I have to now announce myself as one.

Yes, gasp if you wish, break down and cry. I admit it. I've come out (dammit, Robbie!) of my den and into the cold light of truth. I'm one of them. One of the people you'll see walking past like rewired penguin-robots. The crippled, stepped-on, metaphor-of-society. The bottom rung, or at least the penultimate rung. The one just before the homeless. That, is me.

I try to break free occasionally, but it's set into my brain forever (I wont do my parents the dishonour of saying its in my blood.)

Jeeeesus! Get a tissue and go home, point-dexter.

Aaanyhoo, what I'm trying to say is that there are lots of films out there for the socially inept, and Scott Pilgrim vs. The World is one of them. It's more than that, really. It's what one of us people would vaguely, foggily remember as they sat up in bed and inspected the growing stain on their trousers (yes, some of us wear trousers to bed, okay?!)

I would say, on reflection, that about half of the film is made up of fast, funny dialogue, combined with comic-style visual gags, and modern-day slapstick. The rest of it is like the essence of comic-book fighting, or at least the mutant hybrid offspring of a comic-book and a joke book. (I know joke-book jokes are shit, but I was referring to, like, good jokes?) Which is reflective of the writing team: Michael Bacall, Edgar Wright, both writers of excellent previous comedies, and Brian Lee O'Malley, writer of the original comic-book series.

All in all, incredibly entertaining, with more than several laugh-out-loud moments. A definite must-see for any social outcast such as my self (check the self-pity-o-meter...now) and for anyone else who hasn't lost touch of their inner teenager.

9.0/10

Today Robbie missed his bus by three minutes, which apparently begged the question: "Why are the bastards never late when you need them to be?" His viewpoint was unfounded and will therefore be struck from the record.

An apology

Looking back over my previous post, I realise that much of my writing mainly features grumpy, petty complaints and arse-gags. Neither of which, I imagine, make for light, entertaining reading. I am very sorry.

I'm also sorry for how few and far between my post have become, this being down to the fact that I am in the process of writing my second book, which is extremely tedious and time-consuming, and probably pointless (the writing, not the reading! (Buy my book!)). Aaanyhoo, I'm sorry, you're sorry. Let's be friends again.

To make up, here's the a mini film review I began to make during my time in france:

Oh golly, it's Robbie! And today he's going to be informing you on his latest actions abroad whilst also lately reviewing X-men Origins: Wolverine.

Contrary to what you might imagine, the origin of an ex man does not document the life of a sexually confused woman. Get it? Ex MAN? As in the X-men? Sex change? Whatever, my genius is wasted on you. It does however follow the life of Hugh Jackman's Wolverine through his never-ending Canadian life, diplayed during the credits via endless exciting footage of him in various famous wars throughout the previous and current century, all involving him using his super bone claws, accompanied by his brother(Liev Schreiber), who also has bone claws, but for variety, marvel put them in his FINGERS! This being wolverine's original famed brother "The Jackal" featured in the original (and later) comic book series. What I love about watching this film, is not the bloodless gore, the attention-seeking "special" effects, but the development of Wolverine's character. I kept thinking of it as Hugh Jackman, his experiences. What he had to go through before he was finally cast in X-Men. As it turns out, he had to go through quite a lot of killing and knobbing and slicing before we even got past the credits. I would also point out th

That's where it ends. And for the life of me, I can't remember what I was going to say. Probably some ridiculous, nonsensical, statement in bad taste. Something awful, like: I wonder if the Pakistan floods are God's punishment for the cricketers' terrible misconduct.

Obviously I would never say that. It's a tragic event, not to be mocked until at least eleven years after it's over. But if you have any other suggestions as to what I may have been about to say, please send them in to: bobbo11.c@gmail.com or just post them below as a comment.

Yours self-disgustedly,

Robbie