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?