I'm immediately faced with a slight problem when it comes to writing this rant about the Daily Mail. See, when I initially wrote out my list of 50 things that I hated I was not working as a respected broadcast journalist - I was merely a gawky stand-up comedian with a distinct lack of jokes and some daft tattoos.
OK, I'm still that as well.
But because of my journalistic integrity I'm not allowed to really cut loose and let you know what I think of the Daily Mail. All I can do is present you with the facts - and as it is sadly Britain's second most read newspaper facts seem to be quite easy to find.
I feel I must point out that although the Daily Mail is clearly aimed at Conservative voting middle England, it does rather hilariously think that its a deeply respected broadsheet newspaper. If you want proof of this, read its society columns or entertainment reviews. I can wholeheartedly assure you that the average hyper conservative, anti-everything Mail reader is not likely to be interested in the slightest in opera or the latest French art-house film. And lets be honest, if that film has any nudity in it then we'd be looking at a very negative review from the Mail anyway.
So then, facts.
1: The Daily Mail has a clear editorial stance. For example, it is not only anti-EU but has at least one article a week harking back to what it sees as glorious bygone days for Britain where we invaded other countries and claimed them for ourselves. Ironic, that. The newspaper is also pro capitalism and pro monarchy - which wouldn't be problematic if the paper didn't make such an issue of denying any other alternatives like a teenager denying any other form of music exists outside of what they like. It's childish, negative journalism blinkered with jingoism and xenophobia. Allegedly.
2: My mum used to read the Daily Mail. One day I flicked through it and on the front cover it had its usual moral panic outcry choice for the day. On that given day it had a massive "exclusive" about the number of Bulgarian people that would move to the UK following their admission to the EU. Which begs the following question:
How did the Daily Mail know this? Did they comduct a survey in Bulgaria to see how many people wanted to move to the UK? You can only presume so, unless they have some kind of magic crystal ball with which they can predict the future.
(By the way - their vision of the future allegedly involves slavery being brought back and abortions being performed solely in alleyways in Whitechapel)
Anyway, in that VERY SAME edition of that paper they had a massive feature in their travel section. This crowed about how the newer, larger EU was of benefit to everyone in the UK because we could buy proper overseas at a massively reduced rate. Where did they recommend? Of course. Bulgaria. Thus ensuring that their readers could help drive up house prices in another country. Hypocrites. Presumably all of their readers who did buy property in Eastern Europe took British flags to claim the country as their own.
3: This is a newspaper that ran (on 16th July 1993) the tasteful headline of "Abortion hope after gay genes finding", showing that the paper is quite for abortion - but only when it fits its own remit of being distinctly homophobic.
4: The Mail is very good at mobilising its readers to complain about anything and everything - even things that they may not even have read, watched or listened to. See the Russell Brand / Jonathan Ross / Andrew Sachs controversy, which was as much to do with the paper's hatred of the allegedly left wing BBC than it was defending the honour of an innocent girl. Oh no, hang on. A burlesque dancer. No, wait. A goth stripper who shagged a famous bloke in order to say that she had.
5: I shouldn't need to recount the vile column from Jan Moir from 16th October this year, where she was incredibly poisonous and spiteful over the death of Stephen Gately in what has to be one of the most homophobic and nasty pieces of so-called journalism ever written. How ironic that a newspaper that calls for so many people in a year to be fired from their jobs once they mobilise their complaining army that she should still somehow be in a job. 25,000 complaints - the record ever recorded for a newspaper article - and she's still got a job.
6: Even more nauseating is the fact that Richard Littlejohn works for the same newspaper. The man who has been named by such a well-to-do pillar of the community as Nick Griffin as his favourite journalist is paid £800,000 per year for his "hard work". Shall we see some of his greatest hits?
i) He once suggested that the police should use flamethrowers against "militant homosexuals".
ii) He has constantly lied about the benefits that asylum seekers can claim - often quoting hundreds of pounds per week. When journalist Johann Hari put it to him that the actual proven figure is £37.77 it became quite obvious that Littlejohn hadn't bothered doing his research. Hari often criticises Littlejohn - whose response is to say that Hari fancies him. Hmmm.
iii) On writing about the Rwandan genocide he stated: "Does anyone really give a monkey's about what happens in Rwanda? If the Mbongo tribe wants to wipe out the Mbingo tribe then as far as I am concerned that is entirely a matter for them." Classy.
iv) On December 19th 2006 Littlejohn's response to the Ipswich prostitute murders was to descrive the victims as "disgusting, drug addled street whores".
All of this got me thinking. The Mail can't just write what it wants in regular stories for fear of criticism of its already slight grasp on journalistic integrity. But it can employ columnists to write whatever hate-filled garbage that they choose on a weekly basis.
Hmmmmm.
Well then, as a broadcast journalist myself I can't state how I truly feel about the Daily Mail as that wouldn't be at all correct.
I can, however, employ a columnist to take over at this point of this rant to talk about whatever he chooses.
So then, I hand you over now to my guest columnist - James Littlemann.
"Hello there, dear reader.
The Daily Mail, eh? What a bunch of cunts. With aspirations far in excess of the limited brainpower of their readers and employing such imbeciles as Jan Moir and Richard Littlejohn it makes my blood boil. I would rather be fellated by a rabid polar bear with a coldsore than be caught reading that newspaper.
If you scan any random issue of the The Mail you will find at least one coded mention of "Enoch Powell had a point, you know". It's usually written within their letters page. Or by Littlejohn. The papers attitude to homosexuality is as blinkered and retarded as that of a twelve year old boy living in a village in Devon. Only difference is that child can be educated. There is no turning the Mail around.
The average Daily Mail reader lives in a small house surrounded by unkempt animals. Their lounge has a Union Jack taped to the wall and on top of their ancient television set (which only gets BBC1 and ITV - too much filth on the other channels) there is a framed photograph of Margaret Thatcher. Across the mantlepiece are framed photos of a miner getting punched by a policeman and two of their four grandchildren. They don't care for the other two - one grandson once played with a Barbie doll and the other speaks French.
The average reader would still have a job but they were fired for deciding to put a large sign reading "ARBEIT MACH FREI" above the entrance to their place of employment. They claim benefits but it's ok because they're white.
In the next election they're not voting conservative as Cameron is a bit Blairish, but that nice chap Nick Griffin seems like a good bet. After all, he loves Richard Littlejohn.
Littlejohn earns £800,000 per year. Horrific homophobe and bigot Jan Moir earns around £100,000. Its nice that in delicate financial times that the Mail can afford to pay these figures. Luckily they recoup a lot of these by selling "exclusive" tat to their senile and infirmed readership who are too drunk on propaganda and morphine to say no. Important things like portraits of the Queen and Dambusters coins, available in monthly instalments.
I will go on record now as saying that if you can find me £50 for the train ticket to London that I will happily save the Mail this money by hunting down Moir and Littlejohn. I'll no doubt find Littlejohn in Soho, sat in a coffee house pretending to shake his head and be disgusted by all the gay men - when we all really know that he's merely as repressed as Cliff Richard. And I'll happily stab the bigoted fuck in the face so he can't have a state funeral in a glass coffin - like he no doubt thinks he's entitled to after two failed TV programmes and a few failed books. Cunt.
Then I'll hunt down Jan Moir. I won't do anything to her. I'll merely threaten her and record her trying to backpedal out of her opinions once again, like she has to when faced with any opposition. I'll then play them via loudspeaker outside of her own house until she doesn't know what her opinion is anymore and she's locked away in a padded cell, screaming to herself about the power of twitter and how unfair everything is.
Of course, the Mail still won't fire her and she'll have a column showcasing her bizarre, insane views. It will be slightly more readable than her previous efforts. Even though often she'll use no vowels.
Then I'll burn their offices down."
I'd like to thank my guest columnist there. What refreshing views. Nice to see someone say what we were all thinking.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Monday 23 November 2009
Wednesday 21 October 2009
25: People Blowing the Paper Bit of Restaurant Straws Off
I have a temper. It takes a lot to push my buttons enough to make my face crimson and my blood boil, but there are certain little things that you can do to guarantee that I'll become irate. Not just mildly miffed (in the way that middle class people feel the need to write a letter to someone) but proper testicle-dropping, teeth-grindingly irate. Some of the things that do this to me have already been mentioned in these little rants. Others include:
Insulting any member of my family or friends.
Moving my wheelie bin too far from my house because you think it's YOUR wheelie bin.
Calling the Police to tell them I've parked over your driveway when I haven't.
Knocking on my door to tell me to move my car when I'm parked on a public road.
Getting your solicitor to write me a letter about my perfectly fine back fence.
OK then, the main person to make me angry at the moment is my next door neighbour. In fact, his entire family. He's the only person in months who is capable with a sheer ham-fisted lack of social skills to make me want to commit actual murder. Of course, I didn't tell this to the Policeman when he came round. I find they frown upon that.
You know how people go on about the old days, when you could leave your front door open and how everyone in a street knew everyone's business? My mother always says that she wants a return to these good old days, despite her hating the people who live directly opposite her and not talking to any of her neighbours for the last ten years - unless you count saying hello whilst making an excuse to go back inside as a detailed conversation. I certainly don't want a return to those days either. You know what I want? A return to the apathetic late eighties, where everyone was wrapped up in their own business. People were depressed and had no prozac, people had no money but speculated wildly, every man was for himself and therefore no-one bothered getting to know their neighbours and better yet, this was in a time before anyone had a clue what legal rights they thought they had over fucking fences.
I will gladly wear a pinstripe suit, pink shirt, braces and red spotted tie every day if we can somehow bring this way of life back.
I would love to be a fly on the wall in my neighbours house every night. I see the blinds twitch every time my car pulls up (and I'll be honest, I've taken to pulling up with a screech of brakes with Metallica playing very loudly to make sure I see the twitch every night - they haven't invested in double glazing yet, presumably waiting to sue me for some reason). I'm sure that my very existence irritates them beyond all belief, in the same way that theirs bugs the heck out of me. I want to catch them outside in the dead of night measuring how close I've parked to their drive with a small plastic ruler that came in a special Snoopy pencil case in 1988. I want to have been in that very house the day they thought that a useful way for the Police to spend their time (in Barwell, for fucks sake, well known for its policing issues at present) would be to call them and complain (I imagine in a whiny tone that belies my neighbour blinking back tears of frustration) that someone had parked an inch over their driveway.
Where was I? Oh yes.
Anger.
When I was a child, Hinckley had a McDonalds in the town centre. I would go there for a treat every now and again. This became a virtually daily ritual when I was studying my A Levels and could drive - we would skip lessons and go there for breakfast. It was at around this time - and yes, I'm a late starter in this regard - that I discovered the joy of tearing the top bit of paper from a McDonalds straw, and then blowing the rest of the papyrus sheath in the face of a friend.
Ho ho ho.
The first fifty times, this was funny. It was always funny because I would be the only one able to buy a McDonalds every day (thanks to my burgeoning business selling pornography to my peers) and therefore the one most likely to have a straw. I would do it to an unsuspecting friend, they would jump and flinch, we would all laugh and so on.
After a while, I would carry on doing it out of a sense of duty but it really wasn't having the same effect as before. So I feel that I got out of that particular game at the peak of my career, with around 65 faces struck with paper and only my shoulder and right forearm ever struck in return.
Fast forward several years. I have graduated university and have been to Next for a job interview. After I leave their head office I go for McDonalds. I sit in a plastic booth in my suit, mulling over the events of the day. I'm very much in my own world when...
FFFFFFFFT.
I am hit in the face with the paper sheath from a straw. I look around me: Could this be one of my old adversaries taking revenge? It hardly seems likely. The only people within striking distance are a McDonalds employee (sullenly wiping down the life size plastic sculpture of Grimace), an old lady who upon further inspection is only drinking a coffee, and an 10 year old child who is staring at me, beaming.
I have been made humble by my prepubescent enemy.
At this point I find myself blinded by completely pointless rage. I should sweep the whole event under a metaphorical rug but I cannot. I look at my drink - I already have a straw. I could get up and get another straw to fire back but the whole charade would lack decorum. What do I do?
I do nothing.
Fast forward again several years. Any time that any person I know repeats the event of what I like to call "Black Tuesday" is met with my wrath. Pointless, childish wrath. Girlfriends, nephews, my own Father. All have been met with fist shaking and cursewords as they stare at me bemused. For to them, all they have done is have a mild laugh at my expense. To me, they have besmirched my honour with a slap in the face made from 95% recycled paper.
Recently I sat in a McDonalds drive through (I refuse to spell it "thru") with Amelia, my 6 year old daughter. Someone had taught her the skill of straw-sheath blowing. She giggled and smiled as the paper flew past my face and ricocheted on the drivers window behind my head. I laughed back. But I smiled at her with a grin that I hope gave away my true feelings:
If she wants a war, there will be a war.
I love my daughter more than life itself. But I know what will happen the second that her aim improves. I have already secured myself ten spare straws in the side pocket of my drivers door for that very second she comes even merely close to striking my visage.
She will face my papery vengeance, daughter or not.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Insulting any member of my family or friends.
Moving my wheelie bin too far from my house because you think it's YOUR wheelie bin.
Calling the Police to tell them I've parked over your driveway when I haven't.
Knocking on my door to tell me to move my car when I'm parked on a public road.
Getting your solicitor to write me a letter about my perfectly fine back fence.
OK then, the main person to make me angry at the moment is my next door neighbour. In fact, his entire family. He's the only person in months who is capable with a sheer ham-fisted lack of social skills to make me want to commit actual murder. Of course, I didn't tell this to the Policeman when he came round. I find they frown upon that.
You know how people go on about the old days, when you could leave your front door open and how everyone in a street knew everyone's business? My mother always says that she wants a return to these good old days, despite her hating the people who live directly opposite her and not talking to any of her neighbours for the last ten years - unless you count saying hello whilst making an excuse to go back inside as a detailed conversation. I certainly don't want a return to those days either. You know what I want? A return to the apathetic late eighties, where everyone was wrapped up in their own business. People were depressed and had no prozac, people had no money but speculated wildly, every man was for himself and therefore no-one bothered getting to know their neighbours and better yet, this was in a time before anyone had a clue what legal rights they thought they had over fucking fences.
I will gladly wear a pinstripe suit, pink shirt, braces and red spotted tie every day if we can somehow bring this way of life back.
I would love to be a fly on the wall in my neighbours house every night. I see the blinds twitch every time my car pulls up (and I'll be honest, I've taken to pulling up with a screech of brakes with Metallica playing very loudly to make sure I see the twitch every night - they haven't invested in double glazing yet, presumably waiting to sue me for some reason). I'm sure that my very existence irritates them beyond all belief, in the same way that theirs bugs the heck out of me. I want to catch them outside in the dead of night measuring how close I've parked to their drive with a small plastic ruler that came in a special Snoopy pencil case in 1988. I want to have been in that very house the day they thought that a useful way for the Police to spend their time (in Barwell, for fucks sake, well known for its policing issues at present) would be to call them and complain (I imagine in a whiny tone that belies my neighbour blinking back tears of frustration) that someone had parked an inch over their driveway.
Where was I? Oh yes.
Anger.
When I was a child, Hinckley had a McDonalds in the town centre. I would go there for a treat every now and again. This became a virtually daily ritual when I was studying my A Levels and could drive - we would skip lessons and go there for breakfast. It was at around this time - and yes, I'm a late starter in this regard - that I discovered the joy of tearing the top bit of paper from a McDonalds straw, and then blowing the rest of the papyrus sheath in the face of a friend.
Ho ho ho.
The first fifty times, this was funny. It was always funny because I would be the only one able to buy a McDonalds every day (thanks to my burgeoning business selling pornography to my peers) and therefore the one most likely to have a straw. I would do it to an unsuspecting friend, they would jump and flinch, we would all laugh and so on.
After a while, I would carry on doing it out of a sense of duty but it really wasn't having the same effect as before. So I feel that I got out of that particular game at the peak of my career, with around 65 faces struck with paper and only my shoulder and right forearm ever struck in return.
Fast forward several years. I have graduated university and have been to Next for a job interview. After I leave their head office I go for McDonalds. I sit in a plastic booth in my suit, mulling over the events of the day. I'm very much in my own world when...
FFFFFFFFT.
I am hit in the face with the paper sheath from a straw. I look around me: Could this be one of my old adversaries taking revenge? It hardly seems likely. The only people within striking distance are a McDonalds employee (sullenly wiping down the life size plastic sculpture of Grimace), an old lady who upon further inspection is only drinking a coffee, and an 10 year old child who is staring at me, beaming.
I have been made humble by my prepubescent enemy.
At this point I find myself blinded by completely pointless rage. I should sweep the whole event under a metaphorical rug but I cannot. I look at my drink - I already have a straw. I could get up and get another straw to fire back but the whole charade would lack decorum. What do I do?
I do nothing.
Fast forward again several years. Any time that any person I know repeats the event of what I like to call "Black Tuesday" is met with my wrath. Pointless, childish wrath. Girlfriends, nephews, my own Father. All have been met with fist shaking and cursewords as they stare at me bemused. For to them, all they have done is have a mild laugh at my expense. To me, they have besmirched my honour with a slap in the face made from 95% recycled paper.
Recently I sat in a McDonalds drive through (I refuse to spell it "thru") with Amelia, my 6 year old daughter. Someone had taught her the skill of straw-sheath blowing. She giggled and smiled as the paper flew past my face and ricocheted on the drivers window behind my head. I laughed back. But I smiled at her with a grin that I hope gave away my true feelings:
If she wants a war, there will be a war.
I love my daughter more than life itself. But I know what will happen the second that her aim improves. I have already secured myself ten spare straws in the side pocket of my drivers door for that very second she comes even merely close to striking my visage.
She will face my papery vengeance, daughter or not.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday 14 October 2009
24: Religion
A friend of mine once told me, in a very matter-of-fact way, that I will be going to hell when my time on Earth is through. This doesn't bother me in the slightest, as being a devout atheist (How devout? I believe in nothing at all WAY more than you do) the concept of hell is as imaginary and non threatening to me as the threat of me somehow being transported through time and space to the land of the dinosaurs.
And why exactly will I be going to hell? Take your pick, dependent on how crazy your religious choice is - we can cover everything from the serene buddhists all the way up to the hellfire and brimstone nutters in the Westborough Baptist Church in the USA - those lovely people that picket funerals of dead soldiers.
I'm divorced.
I've had sex before marriage.
I don't go to church.
I worship false idols (Josh Homme and the entire LCFC team)
I've kissed a man.
I'm friends with more than one homosexual.
I've stolen several things (a mars bar, a miniature keyboard and a Faith No More album from Hinckley library, to name but a few)
I may have masturbated once or twice.
I often take the lord's name in vain. I may have also taught my 6 year old to do so.
I once vandalised an RE textbook at school with several amusing speech bubbles. (My favourite, however politically incorrect, was the stupidity of putting a speech bubble between two starving boys saying "Oi, give us a crisp")
I honestly believe that if my neighbour had an Ox that I would strongly covet it.
I must quickly state that I have no problem with anyone who believes in any religion whatsoever. If anything, I admire you and I'm a bit jealous. There's no saying that what I believe in is right. If my friend was correct and I die and end up in the place filled with flames and stalagmites then that's my problem. Must say though, I vastly prefer to be warm rather than cold.
My main issue with religion is not the obvious one. The stereotypical thing to choose would be the fact that religion is seemingly blamed for every conflict in global history. While this is true on many levels, I'm always ashamed that most patriotic, jingoistic British people don't look in the mirror and blame the old days of Imperialism for the problems of the world on an even keel with religion.
The war in the Middle East is as much to blame on oil and America's mistakes as it is religious fervour from the Taliban. The troubles in Northern Ireland stem from the British Government occupying territory that isn't theirs to take as much as it is sectarian issues. World War Two was driven by an Axis of insane people wanting to take over the world, and the horrors committed by the Wehrmacht and the SS were driven by racism as much as intolerance for another religion.
Religion has a lot to do with the problems of today, but it's not the sole problem. In fact, if everyone followed the teachings of their relevant religion to the letter then we would have no war, would we? Pretty much all of them stress the whole "not killing" shit over everything else. Also, if everyone heeded the teachings of their religions then there would be no greed, no desire to expand territory, no mistrust, more diplomacy, more handshakes, more hugs, more tolerance.
The world is essentially fucked up because we're fucked up. People are greedy, scheming, manipulative beasts who want to achieve their own goals. I know I do. Apparently admitting that makes me some kind of satanist - well, it would if I believed in him as well. But I don't, cool as a dude with goat's feet would be.
My issue with religion comes from the fact that as a society we are getting pushed away by it more and more with each generation. We're smart people. We know that we're not all sinners. I've done plenty of stuff wrong but I'm still a good son, brother, colleague and friend. I go out of my way to help people. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, and I try my best to be. But in the eyes of the faith I was born into does this matter? No, not one bit. Because I was born a sinner, I've lived through sin and I'll die a sinner - because I'm not repenting anything I've ever done. All I've done is live a life. I may have made mistakes but I always learn from them - isn't that more important?
The way forward for religion is this: Find a universal belief system that everyone can adopt. Nothing too difficult to describe. Nothing too airy-fairy and open to misinterpretation. None of this "born sinners" rubbish.
We're all essentially born nice. Why not focus on that?
Let's form a new religion now, all of us. A new ten commandments.
1: We're all essentially nice people.
2: Treat people how you'd like to be treated.
3: If you make mistakes, learn from them.
4: Don't kill other people. I'm stressing this, but number 2 should give that away.
5: If someone has a different viewpoint to you, that's just human.
6: If your neighbour has an Ox, just stroke it or feed it grass.
7: Worship who you want, but don't force it on others.
8: Seriously, don't kill other people.
9: Don't feel the need to buy into something just to make you feel better. In fact, feel free to ignore this if it's clouding your judgement in any way.
10: Did we mention not killing people?
If only we could all agree to get along. Disband every religion and simply reverse the notion of being born into sin to that of we're all born nice and remain nice until we do something wrong. And let us all remember, if you do stuff wrong then karma gets you in the end. After all, who on Earth have you ever heard of being complete scumbags and getting away with it for their entire lives?
OK, I shouldn't have asked that.
Screw it. Forget my religion idea. Believe in what you want. I'll believe that when I shuffle off this mortal coil that I'll be buried and have my face eaten off by worms. At least I'll be getting some sleep.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
And why exactly will I be going to hell? Take your pick, dependent on how crazy your religious choice is - we can cover everything from the serene buddhists all the way up to the hellfire and brimstone nutters in the Westborough Baptist Church in the USA - those lovely people that picket funerals of dead soldiers.
I'm divorced.
I've had sex before marriage.
I don't go to church.
I worship false idols (Josh Homme and the entire LCFC team)
I've kissed a man.
I'm friends with more than one homosexual.
I've stolen several things (a mars bar, a miniature keyboard and a Faith No More album from Hinckley library, to name but a few)
I may have masturbated once or twice.
I often take the lord's name in vain. I may have also taught my 6 year old to do so.
I once vandalised an RE textbook at school with several amusing speech bubbles. (My favourite, however politically incorrect, was the stupidity of putting a speech bubble between two starving boys saying "Oi, give us a crisp")
I honestly believe that if my neighbour had an Ox that I would strongly covet it.
I must quickly state that I have no problem with anyone who believes in any religion whatsoever. If anything, I admire you and I'm a bit jealous. There's no saying that what I believe in is right. If my friend was correct and I die and end up in the place filled with flames and stalagmites then that's my problem. Must say though, I vastly prefer to be warm rather than cold.
My main issue with religion is not the obvious one. The stereotypical thing to choose would be the fact that religion is seemingly blamed for every conflict in global history. While this is true on many levels, I'm always ashamed that most patriotic, jingoistic British people don't look in the mirror and blame the old days of Imperialism for the problems of the world on an even keel with religion.
The war in the Middle East is as much to blame on oil and America's mistakes as it is religious fervour from the Taliban. The troubles in Northern Ireland stem from the British Government occupying territory that isn't theirs to take as much as it is sectarian issues. World War Two was driven by an Axis of insane people wanting to take over the world, and the horrors committed by the Wehrmacht and the SS were driven by racism as much as intolerance for another religion.
Religion has a lot to do with the problems of today, but it's not the sole problem. In fact, if everyone followed the teachings of their relevant religion to the letter then we would have no war, would we? Pretty much all of them stress the whole "not killing" shit over everything else. Also, if everyone heeded the teachings of their religions then there would be no greed, no desire to expand territory, no mistrust, more diplomacy, more handshakes, more hugs, more tolerance.
The world is essentially fucked up because we're fucked up. People are greedy, scheming, manipulative beasts who want to achieve their own goals. I know I do. Apparently admitting that makes me some kind of satanist - well, it would if I believed in him as well. But I don't, cool as a dude with goat's feet would be.
My issue with religion comes from the fact that as a society we are getting pushed away by it more and more with each generation. We're smart people. We know that we're not all sinners. I've done plenty of stuff wrong but I'm still a good son, brother, colleague and friend. I go out of my way to help people. My mother raised me to be a gentleman, and I try my best to be. But in the eyes of the faith I was born into does this matter? No, not one bit. Because I was born a sinner, I've lived through sin and I'll die a sinner - because I'm not repenting anything I've ever done. All I've done is live a life. I may have made mistakes but I always learn from them - isn't that more important?
The way forward for religion is this: Find a universal belief system that everyone can adopt. Nothing too difficult to describe. Nothing too airy-fairy and open to misinterpretation. None of this "born sinners" rubbish.
We're all essentially born nice. Why not focus on that?
Let's form a new religion now, all of us. A new ten commandments.
1: We're all essentially nice people.
2: Treat people how you'd like to be treated.
3: If you make mistakes, learn from them.
4: Don't kill other people. I'm stressing this, but number 2 should give that away.
5: If someone has a different viewpoint to you, that's just human.
6: If your neighbour has an Ox, just stroke it or feed it grass.
7: Worship who you want, but don't force it on others.
8: Seriously, don't kill other people.
9: Don't feel the need to buy into something just to make you feel better. In fact, feel free to ignore this if it's clouding your judgement in any way.
10: Did we mention not killing people?
If only we could all agree to get along. Disband every religion and simply reverse the notion of being born into sin to that of we're all born nice and remain nice until we do something wrong. And let us all remember, if you do stuff wrong then karma gets you in the end. After all, who on Earth have you ever heard of being complete scumbags and getting away with it for their entire lives?
OK, I shouldn't have asked that.
Screw it. Forget my religion idea. Believe in what you want. I'll believe that when I shuffle off this mortal coil that I'll be buried and have my face eaten off by worms. At least I'll be getting some sleep.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Tuesday 15 September 2009
23: Hulk Hogan
There comes a point in every life where you have to make a decision on what path to take. Just like Luke Skywalker turned his back on the Dark Side, or Adolf Hitler decided to become a mass-murdering cock with a natty line in moustaches. I once faced that choice. The decision to dedicate my life to the good, the worthy, the needy... or to be selfish, self centred and a little bit evil.
I remember the day I made that choice.
I was sat watching television in the lounge of my parents house. We had recently had an Astra satellite fitted, the precursor of Sky TV. What I really liked to do with this lovely analogue device was wait till my folks had gone to bed and retune it to the german channels where pornography could be readily viewed through slight distortion. One particular favourite was TeleKlub ("Der Kino Kanal") where the best in banned video nasties could be balanced out with ropey eighties porn. One excellent night was spent being scared by "Zombie Flesh Eaters" followed immediately with a wank - half out of terror, half lust - over "Sperma Spiele" which I'm led to believe means "Sperm Games". How would they even work? Unless they were having competitions to test muzzle velocity.
They didn't, as it turned out. Mainly just shagging.
Anyway, the day in question. I sat on my parents sadly-missed floral sofa, flicking through the channels. The satellite decoder made a very satisfying click as it thunked its way through the 16 channels on offer. I avoided MTV, as I was not yet of the age to have opinions on music. But I did stop on the sports channel. And there I watched my first episode of WWF Wrestling Challenge.
Wrestling was not that new to me. I had been forced to watch World of Sport by my Gran and her Husband (Dave) every time we visited them on a Saturday, with Dave always grabbing me in a wristlock and shouting "submit" until I cried enough for my Gran to yell at him and I would be sent to the paper shop to buy some sweets while they had a massive row. I did not like wrestling. I thought it was boring and hokey, with my parents always reminding me that it was fake.
But by 1989 - when my revelation occurred - the WWF was the talk of the playground. After my discovery of it I would go on to ridiculous levels of fandom for a good few years. Every morning we would recreate the in-ring action we had seen that weekend, swap stickers from our WWF sticker albums and do impressions of Randy Savage. Because he was the easiest to do an impression of. I even got a day off school once because my mate Lee knocked my fresh TB scar off, drenching my school shirt in blood (unbeknown to me as I was still wearing my Nevica ski jacket) with a well timed double ax-handle from his desk.
So I was already aware of the WWF thanks to the playground buzz. My friend Richard already had a lot of official videos that I wasn't really interested in until now. I watched the first couple of matches, my eye half on the action and half on the game of football taking place in my street between kids I didn't like. But then I heard the strains of Rick Derringer's "Real American" and out strode Hulk Hogan. He was the real deal, the superstar that all the other kids were talking about. The crowd went INSANE for him, every single man, woman and child getting to their feet to welcome into the arena not just a man, not just a wrestler but some kind of demi-god, superhero and action figure all rolled into one.
He spoke. He uttered forth phrases that drew squeals from the collected masses; Americanisms, references to saying your prayers and eating your vitamins and how he would vanquish his foe. None of this was contentious to me - I was an idealistic 11 year old boy. I knew I was an atheist and I wasn't a fan of sanatogen, but this was Hulk Hogan. He was already a legend. I knew that the talking was merely the precursor to him kicking some serious ass.
I forget who he was wrestling that day, but the match lasted about 30 seconds. I can sum it up for you as follows - and I know that this match was meant to be a squash match, but it's the sheer wooden nature of what transpired that offended me.
Hogan enters ring, tears off t-shirt. My mum brings me a cup of tea and shakes her head, saying "what a waste of a good t-shirt".
Opponent attacks. Hogan takes a small beating for a few seconds.
Opponent punches Hogan. He shakes his head, points his finger and shakes his head some more.
Opponent tries to punch Hogan. He blocks it and hits him back.
Opponent runs at Hogan. He hits him with a big boot.
Hogan bounces off ropes and lands a legdrop.
Ref counts to three.
Even though I'm 11 years old and I know that I should join the other baying thousands in smiling at his win, I can't do it. I go from seeing him as the legend people had falsely told me he was to seeing him as a balding, orange, overrated, wooden and pointless figure. What I had just watched was as fake as British wrestling. I had suspended my disbelief as I watched the other matches, but this? His terrible promo before the match and performance within it was as bad as those of Big Daddy, with kids trailing in his entrance and his one move. Horrible.
Luckily the next match was the Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase. And everything about him was amazing. His entrance music, his mean streak, his crispness in the ring. Next up was Randy Savage, a bad guy at the time. He leapt across the ring like a cat with bad intentions, desperate to hurt his opponent. These guys were good to watch. As I watched more wrestling I became even more enamoured with these bad guys - Ric Flair, The Big Boss Man, Jake Roberts, Curt Hennig, even the Honky Tonk Man. But it wasn't their superior skills that I enjoyed. It was the prospect of them beating Hulk Hogan. I couldn't bear the sight of him. When the Ultimate Warrior beat him for the WWF Title at Wrestlemania 6 I was agog with excitement, even if the Warrior was the most useless, steroid infested waste of oxygen that ever drew breath.
I lost interest in wrestling in around 1993, as I was 15 and it turned out that girls and drink held a lot more interest for me. In 1998 I got into it again, after accidentally seeing Mick Foley fall off the Hell in a Cell whilst channel hopping. I then spent my time researching who was still around, trying to get myself back into it. And lo and behold, I found that Hogan was still around - now trying to get on my good side by being a bad guy. It didn't work.
He was terrible as a good guy. As a bad guy he was even worse, not acting like enough of a coward, only expanding his moveset to include eye and back rakes and he took something that was earth shatteringly awesome (the Outsiders) and turned them into a joke that eventually destroyed WCW and indeed competition in wrestling.
And then when WCW died, he somehow parlayed his way back into the WWF fold, with fans cheering at his very presence like the mindless sheep that they are. They had Austin, the Rock, Michaels, HHH and so on to deify but they chose the Orange Goblin as their hero instead. All he did was make me hate wrestling once again, sapping my love for it that I had built up over the years. Now I only watch independent wrestling or the occasional pay per view because my joy has been so sullied.
But back to my revelation. That day back in 1989 I set my stall out. If everyone else thinks that one man is the highest possible power, the ultimate force and the real deal - in spite of all the evidence to show that he is hokey, fake, false and unworthy - then I can question it. I decided that day to ignore the cheers of the sheep and back the others, the black side of the coin, those whose opinions were reviled and whose actions were deemed unsavoury. And I have taken that idea on throughout life, driven first by my dislike for Hogan and then amplifying it to bigger ideas and more complex theories. And this is where I stand today.
And for all of my hatred for Mr Terry Bollea, I must thank him for something.
Because his existence seems to have made me a satanist.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
I remember the day I made that choice.
I was sat watching television in the lounge of my parents house. We had recently had an Astra satellite fitted, the precursor of Sky TV. What I really liked to do with this lovely analogue device was wait till my folks had gone to bed and retune it to the german channels where pornography could be readily viewed through slight distortion. One particular favourite was TeleKlub ("Der Kino Kanal") where the best in banned video nasties could be balanced out with ropey eighties porn. One excellent night was spent being scared by "Zombie Flesh Eaters" followed immediately with a wank - half out of terror, half lust - over "Sperma Spiele" which I'm led to believe means "Sperm Games". How would they even work? Unless they were having competitions to test muzzle velocity.
They didn't, as it turned out. Mainly just shagging.
Anyway, the day in question. I sat on my parents sadly-missed floral sofa, flicking through the channels. The satellite decoder made a very satisfying click as it thunked its way through the 16 channels on offer. I avoided MTV, as I was not yet of the age to have opinions on music. But I did stop on the sports channel. And there I watched my first episode of WWF Wrestling Challenge.
Wrestling was not that new to me. I had been forced to watch World of Sport by my Gran and her Husband (Dave) every time we visited them on a Saturday, with Dave always grabbing me in a wristlock and shouting "submit" until I cried enough for my Gran to yell at him and I would be sent to the paper shop to buy some sweets while they had a massive row. I did not like wrestling. I thought it was boring and hokey, with my parents always reminding me that it was fake.
But by 1989 - when my revelation occurred - the WWF was the talk of the playground. After my discovery of it I would go on to ridiculous levels of fandom for a good few years. Every morning we would recreate the in-ring action we had seen that weekend, swap stickers from our WWF sticker albums and do impressions of Randy Savage. Because he was the easiest to do an impression of. I even got a day off school once because my mate Lee knocked my fresh TB scar off, drenching my school shirt in blood (unbeknown to me as I was still wearing my Nevica ski jacket) with a well timed double ax-handle from his desk.
So I was already aware of the WWF thanks to the playground buzz. My friend Richard already had a lot of official videos that I wasn't really interested in until now. I watched the first couple of matches, my eye half on the action and half on the game of football taking place in my street between kids I didn't like. But then I heard the strains of Rick Derringer's "Real American" and out strode Hulk Hogan. He was the real deal, the superstar that all the other kids were talking about. The crowd went INSANE for him, every single man, woman and child getting to their feet to welcome into the arena not just a man, not just a wrestler but some kind of demi-god, superhero and action figure all rolled into one.
He spoke. He uttered forth phrases that drew squeals from the collected masses; Americanisms, references to saying your prayers and eating your vitamins and how he would vanquish his foe. None of this was contentious to me - I was an idealistic 11 year old boy. I knew I was an atheist and I wasn't a fan of sanatogen, but this was Hulk Hogan. He was already a legend. I knew that the talking was merely the precursor to him kicking some serious ass.
I forget who he was wrestling that day, but the match lasted about 30 seconds. I can sum it up for you as follows - and I know that this match was meant to be a squash match, but it's the sheer wooden nature of what transpired that offended me.
Hogan enters ring, tears off t-shirt. My mum brings me a cup of tea and shakes her head, saying "what a waste of a good t-shirt".
Opponent attacks. Hogan takes a small beating for a few seconds.
Opponent punches Hogan. He shakes his head, points his finger and shakes his head some more.
Opponent tries to punch Hogan. He blocks it and hits him back.
Opponent runs at Hogan. He hits him with a big boot.
Hogan bounces off ropes and lands a legdrop.
Ref counts to three.
Even though I'm 11 years old and I know that I should join the other baying thousands in smiling at his win, I can't do it. I go from seeing him as the legend people had falsely told me he was to seeing him as a balding, orange, overrated, wooden and pointless figure. What I had just watched was as fake as British wrestling. I had suspended my disbelief as I watched the other matches, but this? His terrible promo before the match and performance within it was as bad as those of Big Daddy, with kids trailing in his entrance and his one move. Horrible.
Luckily the next match was the Million Dollar Man, Ted DiBiase. And everything about him was amazing. His entrance music, his mean streak, his crispness in the ring. Next up was Randy Savage, a bad guy at the time. He leapt across the ring like a cat with bad intentions, desperate to hurt his opponent. These guys were good to watch. As I watched more wrestling I became even more enamoured with these bad guys - Ric Flair, The Big Boss Man, Jake Roberts, Curt Hennig, even the Honky Tonk Man. But it wasn't their superior skills that I enjoyed. It was the prospect of them beating Hulk Hogan. I couldn't bear the sight of him. When the Ultimate Warrior beat him for the WWF Title at Wrestlemania 6 I was agog with excitement, even if the Warrior was the most useless, steroid infested waste of oxygen that ever drew breath.
I lost interest in wrestling in around 1993, as I was 15 and it turned out that girls and drink held a lot more interest for me. In 1998 I got into it again, after accidentally seeing Mick Foley fall off the Hell in a Cell whilst channel hopping. I then spent my time researching who was still around, trying to get myself back into it. And lo and behold, I found that Hogan was still around - now trying to get on my good side by being a bad guy. It didn't work.
He was terrible as a good guy. As a bad guy he was even worse, not acting like enough of a coward, only expanding his moveset to include eye and back rakes and he took something that was earth shatteringly awesome (the Outsiders) and turned them into a joke that eventually destroyed WCW and indeed competition in wrestling.
And then when WCW died, he somehow parlayed his way back into the WWF fold, with fans cheering at his very presence like the mindless sheep that they are. They had Austin, the Rock, Michaels, HHH and so on to deify but they chose the Orange Goblin as their hero instead. All he did was make me hate wrestling once again, sapping my love for it that I had built up over the years. Now I only watch independent wrestling or the occasional pay per view because my joy has been so sullied.
But back to my revelation. That day back in 1989 I set my stall out. If everyone else thinks that one man is the highest possible power, the ultimate force and the real deal - in spite of all the evidence to show that he is hokey, fake, false and unworthy - then I can question it. I decided that day to ignore the cheers of the sheep and back the others, the black side of the coin, those whose opinions were reviled and whose actions were deemed unsavoury. And I have taken that idea on throughout life, driven first by my dislike for Hogan and then amplifying it to bigger ideas and more complex theories. And this is where I stand today.
And for all of my hatred for Mr Terry Bollea, I must thank him for something.
Because his existence seems to have made me a satanist.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday 9 September 2009
22: Ageing
I realised during my sojourn to Edinburgh in August that I'm getting old. I'm aware that I cannot stop the relentless march of ageing, but I kind of hoped that my natural charm would somehow keep it at bay for a while. I was wrong.
I've had to start wearing hats because my hair is falling out. Now, I can rock a hat pretty well. But I bought a brightly coloured trucker cap in Edinburgh and realised that, upon seeing my reflection, I am no longer a teenager and therefore look like Jonathan King or some other fucktard who is trying desperately to cling onto his younger years. Of course in my book, I'm trying to do that because I don't want to get old. He does it for quite different reasons.
I mistook a guy in the audience for a teenager. I genuinely thought he was 14, and it turned out that he was 25. That's quite a mistake to make. In retrospect, he didn't even look boyish. He just looked younger than me, and for some reason in my head I still think that I'm 20.
Even worse, one day I was sat with several lovely people in our Fringe hideaway of the GRV office. Loud music played downstairs. I found myself - with not one beat of my heart skipping to warn me - complaining that the bass drone from beneath the floorboards was "just a noise". Some of my younger chums stared at me. They agreed with me, it was a noise. But they are young and do not need to state this. They don't need to make the rest of the planet hear their irksome quibbles and complaints. Because they still have youth, and life is still rosy and good for them.
My rapid ageing puts me in somewhat of a quandry. How do I deal with this? I can go down two routes. I can grow old gracefully, or hold on, kicking and screaming, to my youth until I'm even more gap-toothed and a darn sight balder than I am now.
I don't know. I don't feel like a 31 year old. I certainly don't act like one. I still get really excited driving into tunnels. I buy Pick and Mix whenever I feel like it. I consider Weetabix topped with Jaffa Cakes as a nutritious breakfast. In the bath I will fashion my hair into a bubble-bath mohawk.
I was too sensible when I was younger. I had a "career" and a house at 22, married at 23, Dad at 25, divorced at 26. I started comedy at 27, so a large part of what I do these days is counteracting my sensible early twenties, where I would wear a suit to work and trawl around garden centres at the weekends. But at least my body was intact then, even if my sensibilities were more aged and mature. I had a full head of hair. My man breasts still only required a training bra. During Edinburgh I got out of breath doing part of my routine about me and drugs. I used to be able to run for ages at a time, what happened?
It's ageing, thats what. Not me becoming unfit through laziness, no way. Stupid ageing.
So then, let me examine my options:
1: GROW OLD GRACEFULLY
To do this I will need to do the following things.
a) Stop wearing brightly coloured trainers, preferring a sturdy brogue.
b) Avoid daft hats at all costs, especially for irony reasons. So no Stovepipe.
c) No more tattoos, ever. And cover the ones I have with swaddling.
d) Adopt a proper diet. No more scotch egg and mars bar dinners after gigs.
e) Get a proper job.
f) Consider getting an ISA.
g) First, find out what an ISA is.
h) Consider Take That as the forefront of British music.
i) Clean my car every weekend. Especially if it doesn't need doing.
j) Get dressed on my days off.
k) Buy some slippers. Not tartan. I'm not a monster.
l) Start to enjoy soup as an actual meal.
m) Watch football matches just to be disappointed.
n) List at least one Richard Curtis film as a favourite, replacing "Dawn of the Dead".
o) Abandon hopes to somehow become WWE Intercontinental Champion.
p) Start to view the TV as something to watch documentaries on, not just play games.
q) Stock up my freezer. Just in case.
r) Dream of DIY at night, rather than scoring the winning goal in the cup final.
s) Claim to prefer Vanilla ice cream to all the other flavours.
t) Ensure I exhale loudly after sipping tea or sitting down on a high backed chair.
u) Stop going to the cinema. No-one over 30 goes to the cinema.
v) Steam at least two meals a week, whilst wearing a self-satisfied grin.
w) Wear a tie to go to Sunday dinner.
x) Rate funerals as "good sendoffs" rather than sad events.
y) No longer listen to rap music, heavy metal, punk or electro. Or music.
z) Accept each birthday with a wry smile, knowing that dreading the onset of age is pointless and accepting my fate with the meekness I will only exhibit later on when I'm undoubtedly a dribbling fool in an old folk's home.
That's the first option. A quiet slide into my forties awaits. When I was a reckless twentysomething I couldn't see myself living past 40. You may think that is a frightening prospect, but I find the potential future of mowing a lawn whilst wearing rugged outdoor sandals and combat trousers on a damp September morning infinitely more terrifying than a premature death.
But there is of course option 2.
2: TRY TO HOLD ONTO MY YOUTH
This is the option that I seem to be taking my default, and failing at it. Sure, I still spend money on clothes that are best suited to a teenager and I own enough trainers to be classed as the Imelda Marcos of comedy. But when even my six year old daughter tells me that I'm old and embarrassing then it's probably time to throw in the towel. When I worked in a school I thought of myself as quite cool. I dressed differently to the other teachers, retained a sense of individuality and made a point of empathising with the kids. That said, when they guessed how old I was, what did they say?
42.
Now, if my daughter or nephews had of said that, then fine. Little kids always overshoot estimations. That's why you don't ever employ them as quantity surveyors in a washing machine warehouse. But 15 year olds? Come on. 42? And they LIKED me. They weren't trying to offend me. I went home from work that day and stared at my gaunt reflection in the mirror for far too long. You know what I mean - until the mirror starts spinning slightly in your head and the Boards of Canada start providing a soundtrack to the whole sorry situation.
I then decided to amp up the acting young. Which made me arrive where I am today, wearing a parody Run DMC T-Shirt I bought from a skate shop, stupidly low slung jeans and pink and green patent leather trainers. With video game girls tattooed on one arm, plans to have Ron Burgundy tattooed on the other and hare-brained plans to have a piercing just because I don't have one yet. With a lounge that looks like I won a competition in Nuts magazine, bursting to the seams with video games, films and a massive telly. With kitchen cupboards that have nothing more sensible than biscuits in them. With a job - my dream job - that I do full time, wearing a permanent grin.
So I think I have my answer.
It's not how old you are, it's how old you feel. And though my body may be falling to pieces and my forehead is starting to be as wrinkled as Abdullah the Butcher's, I'm not ready to be old yet. Or sensible. So my solution to my hatred of ageing is to take a measure akin to holding a pillow over my head and screaming "Lalalalalalala I'm not listening".
I shall merely stand here, smile, and hold up two fingers to the tireless march of time.
Fuck you ageing. I win.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
I've had to start wearing hats because my hair is falling out. Now, I can rock a hat pretty well. But I bought a brightly coloured trucker cap in Edinburgh and realised that, upon seeing my reflection, I am no longer a teenager and therefore look like Jonathan King or some other fucktard who is trying desperately to cling onto his younger years. Of course in my book, I'm trying to do that because I don't want to get old. He does it for quite different reasons.
I mistook a guy in the audience for a teenager. I genuinely thought he was 14, and it turned out that he was 25. That's quite a mistake to make. In retrospect, he didn't even look boyish. He just looked younger than me, and for some reason in my head I still think that I'm 20.
Even worse, one day I was sat with several lovely people in our Fringe hideaway of the GRV office. Loud music played downstairs. I found myself - with not one beat of my heart skipping to warn me - complaining that the bass drone from beneath the floorboards was "just a noise". Some of my younger chums stared at me. They agreed with me, it was a noise. But they are young and do not need to state this. They don't need to make the rest of the planet hear their irksome quibbles and complaints. Because they still have youth, and life is still rosy and good for them.
My rapid ageing puts me in somewhat of a quandry. How do I deal with this? I can go down two routes. I can grow old gracefully, or hold on, kicking and screaming, to my youth until I'm even more gap-toothed and a darn sight balder than I am now.
I don't know. I don't feel like a 31 year old. I certainly don't act like one. I still get really excited driving into tunnels. I buy Pick and Mix whenever I feel like it. I consider Weetabix topped with Jaffa Cakes as a nutritious breakfast. In the bath I will fashion my hair into a bubble-bath mohawk.
I was too sensible when I was younger. I had a "career" and a house at 22, married at 23, Dad at 25, divorced at 26. I started comedy at 27, so a large part of what I do these days is counteracting my sensible early twenties, where I would wear a suit to work and trawl around garden centres at the weekends. But at least my body was intact then, even if my sensibilities were more aged and mature. I had a full head of hair. My man breasts still only required a training bra. During Edinburgh I got out of breath doing part of my routine about me and drugs. I used to be able to run for ages at a time, what happened?
It's ageing, thats what. Not me becoming unfit through laziness, no way. Stupid ageing.
So then, let me examine my options:
1: GROW OLD GRACEFULLY
To do this I will need to do the following things.
a) Stop wearing brightly coloured trainers, preferring a sturdy brogue.
b) Avoid daft hats at all costs, especially for irony reasons. So no Stovepipe.
c) No more tattoos, ever. And cover the ones I have with swaddling.
d) Adopt a proper diet. No more scotch egg and mars bar dinners after gigs.
e) Get a proper job.
f) Consider getting an ISA.
g) First, find out what an ISA is.
h) Consider Take That as the forefront of British music.
i) Clean my car every weekend. Especially if it doesn't need doing.
j) Get dressed on my days off.
k) Buy some slippers. Not tartan. I'm not a monster.
l) Start to enjoy soup as an actual meal.
m) Watch football matches just to be disappointed.
n) List at least one Richard Curtis film as a favourite, replacing "Dawn of the Dead".
o) Abandon hopes to somehow become WWE Intercontinental Champion.
p) Start to view the TV as something to watch documentaries on, not just play games.
q) Stock up my freezer. Just in case.
r) Dream of DIY at night, rather than scoring the winning goal in the cup final.
s) Claim to prefer Vanilla ice cream to all the other flavours.
t) Ensure I exhale loudly after sipping tea or sitting down on a high backed chair.
u) Stop going to the cinema. No-one over 30 goes to the cinema.
v) Steam at least two meals a week, whilst wearing a self-satisfied grin.
w) Wear a tie to go to Sunday dinner.
x) Rate funerals as "good sendoffs" rather than sad events.
y) No longer listen to rap music, heavy metal, punk or electro. Or music.
z) Accept each birthday with a wry smile, knowing that dreading the onset of age is pointless and accepting my fate with the meekness I will only exhibit later on when I'm undoubtedly a dribbling fool in an old folk's home.
That's the first option. A quiet slide into my forties awaits. When I was a reckless twentysomething I couldn't see myself living past 40. You may think that is a frightening prospect, but I find the potential future of mowing a lawn whilst wearing rugged outdoor sandals and combat trousers on a damp September morning infinitely more terrifying than a premature death.
But there is of course option 2.
2: TRY TO HOLD ONTO MY YOUTH
This is the option that I seem to be taking my default, and failing at it. Sure, I still spend money on clothes that are best suited to a teenager and I own enough trainers to be classed as the Imelda Marcos of comedy. But when even my six year old daughter tells me that I'm old and embarrassing then it's probably time to throw in the towel. When I worked in a school I thought of myself as quite cool. I dressed differently to the other teachers, retained a sense of individuality and made a point of empathising with the kids. That said, when they guessed how old I was, what did they say?
42.
Now, if my daughter or nephews had of said that, then fine. Little kids always overshoot estimations. That's why you don't ever employ them as quantity surveyors in a washing machine warehouse. But 15 year olds? Come on. 42? And they LIKED me. They weren't trying to offend me. I went home from work that day and stared at my gaunt reflection in the mirror for far too long. You know what I mean - until the mirror starts spinning slightly in your head and the Boards of Canada start providing a soundtrack to the whole sorry situation.
I then decided to amp up the acting young. Which made me arrive where I am today, wearing a parody Run DMC T-Shirt I bought from a skate shop, stupidly low slung jeans and pink and green patent leather trainers. With video game girls tattooed on one arm, plans to have Ron Burgundy tattooed on the other and hare-brained plans to have a piercing just because I don't have one yet. With a lounge that looks like I won a competition in Nuts magazine, bursting to the seams with video games, films and a massive telly. With kitchen cupboards that have nothing more sensible than biscuits in them. With a job - my dream job - that I do full time, wearing a permanent grin.
So I think I have my answer.
It's not how old you are, it's how old you feel. And though my body may be falling to pieces and my forehead is starting to be as wrinkled as Abdullah the Butcher's, I'm not ready to be old yet. Or sensible. So my solution to my hatred of ageing is to take a measure akin to holding a pillow over my head and screaming "Lalalalalalala I'm not listening".
I shall merely stand here, smile, and hold up two fingers to the tireless march of time.
Fuck you ageing. I win.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Monday 24 August 2009
21: Coventry
It's not unusual for people to hate the nearest town to them - it's the cheap and easy staple of any comic to slander the next-door neighbour town whenever they're working at one venue and reverse it the next week whenever they're in the town that they've just slagged off.
Towns that I have slagged off onstage in my last ten gigs include:
Barnsley
Wakefield
Elgin
Welwyn Garden City
Marseilles
Chloride (It's in Arizona)
Montevideo
Fray Bentos
St Petersburg
Atlantis
I've honestly got no ill feelings towards these towns at all, but it's easy to slate the unknown. I've only visited three of these towns anyway - although I'll always be sad that I haven't visited Fray Bentos in Uruguay to see if they specifically farm incredibly gristle-bound cows.
Coventry is a horrible city. If you've never visited, don't. I can very quickly describe to you the main attractions to save you actually needing to ever take the trip up the M6.
THE CATHEDRAL - After the tragic events of World War 2, the Coventry cathedral (which was a beautiful Gothic structure) was rebuilt as some terrible angular nightmare, bearing resemblance to a comic book villain's lair.
THE TAPESTRY - There is a massive tapestry in Coventry. It's of the virgin Mary, I think. Who even bothers making tapestries?
THE TRANSPORT MUSEUM - Just to remind the people of Coventry that once upon a time they had a thriving industry.
That's it. Nothing else.
There is no real reason for me to despise Coventry so. There really isn't. It is completely unfathomable. I don't really dislike anybody. I'll take a gig anywhere and pretend that I am madly in love with any audience that makes even the slightest giggling noise in my direction. For I am a comedy whore. A joke-bearing slut. I'll take gigs in Coventry (and often have) but the only reason I dislike the city - despite it having a ring road shaped like a Scalextric - is merely down to the geographical proximity to the town I grew up in.
I don't mind the people. There seems to be a larger chav population than most towns but fuck it, I've been to Burnley. Just because the rustle of tracksuits against fake Ugg boots punctuates the darkest of nights with noise and vague sparks, it doesn't make it a bad place. The fact that it is one of very few cities to have an Ikea within the city centre doesn't irk me, neither does the platoon of idiots that shop there, treating cheap Swedish furniture like its the most amazing thing they've ever seen whilst dodging roaming gangs of townie scum who are trying to steal large stuffed snakes for little Tyreese or Chardonnay.
It's not the layout of the town really. Sure, the previously mentioned slot racing-esque road system is annoying, as is the way that you have to cut someone up (metaphorically, not literally, although it may help relieve tension) in order to enter any of their roads because no one has the manners to actually let you out. I don't think that it's the fact that they decided to build some of the ugliest buildings ever committed to concrete - I mean, who the fuck decided to make a structure shaped like an elephant? Seriously?
Football is a major driving factor in my likes and dislikes - the fact that I was once chased by a man with a iron bar in Portsmouth means that I'll never speak highly of the town. But football doesn't bother me that much, especially when the team in question doesn't really matter. What have Coventry ever done? Keith Houchen once scored a fantastic header in the FA Cup Final, but apart from that? Nothing, asides from the legacy of having a famous brown kit. That is literally the ONLY thing people remember them for. What else is there? Having a football ground with stands that are too high for people to even walk up?
It's not even the fact that it's bigger than Nuneaton but further away from me, closer than Birmingham but not as big or that it has a shopping centre with an outside escalator.
Can't even think of a reason why I hate it so. Silly geography.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Towns that I have slagged off onstage in my last ten gigs include:
Barnsley
Wakefield
Elgin
Welwyn Garden City
Marseilles
Chloride (It's in Arizona)
Montevideo
Fray Bentos
St Petersburg
Atlantis
I've honestly got no ill feelings towards these towns at all, but it's easy to slate the unknown. I've only visited three of these towns anyway - although I'll always be sad that I haven't visited Fray Bentos in Uruguay to see if they specifically farm incredibly gristle-bound cows.
Coventry is a horrible city. If you've never visited, don't. I can very quickly describe to you the main attractions to save you actually needing to ever take the trip up the M6.
THE CATHEDRAL - After the tragic events of World War 2, the Coventry cathedral (which was a beautiful Gothic structure) was rebuilt as some terrible angular nightmare, bearing resemblance to a comic book villain's lair.
THE TAPESTRY - There is a massive tapestry in Coventry. It's of the virgin Mary, I think. Who even bothers making tapestries?
THE TRANSPORT MUSEUM - Just to remind the people of Coventry that once upon a time they had a thriving industry.
That's it. Nothing else.
There is no real reason for me to despise Coventry so. There really isn't. It is completely unfathomable. I don't really dislike anybody. I'll take a gig anywhere and pretend that I am madly in love with any audience that makes even the slightest giggling noise in my direction. For I am a comedy whore. A joke-bearing slut. I'll take gigs in Coventry (and often have) but the only reason I dislike the city - despite it having a ring road shaped like a Scalextric - is merely down to the geographical proximity to the town I grew up in.
I don't mind the people. There seems to be a larger chav population than most towns but fuck it, I've been to Burnley. Just because the rustle of tracksuits against fake Ugg boots punctuates the darkest of nights with noise and vague sparks, it doesn't make it a bad place. The fact that it is one of very few cities to have an Ikea within the city centre doesn't irk me, neither does the platoon of idiots that shop there, treating cheap Swedish furniture like its the most amazing thing they've ever seen whilst dodging roaming gangs of townie scum who are trying to steal large stuffed snakes for little Tyreese or Chardonnay.
It's not the layout of the town really. Sure, the previously mentioned slot racing-esque road system is annoying, as is the way that you have to cut someone up (metaphorically, not literally, although it may help relieve tension) in order to enter any of their roads because no one has the manners to actually let you out. I don't think that it's the fact that they decided to build some of the ugliest buildings ever committed to concrete - I mean, who the fuck decided to make a structure shaped like an elephant? Seriously?
Football is a major driving factor in my likes and dislikes - the fact that I was once chased by a man with a iron bar in Portsmouth means that I'll never speak highly of the town. But football doesn't bother me that much, especially when the team in question doesn't really matter. What have Coventry ever done? Keith Houchen once scored a fantastic header in the FA Cup Final, but apart from that? Nothing, asides from the legacy of having a famous brown kit. That is literally the ONLY thing people remember them for. What else is there? Having a football ground with stands that are too high for people to even walk up?
It's not even the fact that it's bigger than Nuneaton but further away from me, closer than Birmingham but not as big or that it has a shopping centre with an outside escalator.
Can't even think of a reason why I hate it so. Silly geography.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday 5 August 2009
20: Being the oldest person at music gigs
I recently went to see Kings of Leon with my Dad. I would class this gig as the biggest and most commercial that I reckon I've ever attended, with it being at the O2 Arena and all. You know what? It was very good indeed. Great support act (Glasvegas), great sound and great performance from a band that I tried for years and years to actively dislike. I just can't, because they're so talented and awesome and grrr. My Dad loves them so we attended together in a father-son type bonding way. Prior to the gig we ate Brazilian buffet food - which involves meat being brought to you on long knives by waiters. I made a dozen "pork sword" references in the first minute of our visit.
The good thing about attending gigs with my Dad is that I can guarantee that I'm not the oldest person at the show. Because I'm 31 and these things deeply bother me. The slight downfall of attending a gig at the O2 is that I have to sit down, pay a fortune for the right to attend and have to suffer the four types of fans that Kings of Leon seem to attract:
THE LOOKALIKEY - Late teen to Mid Twenties men who shop exclusively at All Saints and Top Man in their bid to look exactly like one of the Followills. All deep V necklines in charcoal with carefully coiffeured hair and a ton of necklaces. They only own the third and fourth albums. Own no trainers, only many pointed shoes.
THE GROUPIE - Women who fancy the Followills (usually Caleb). Dress in Top Shop's "I'm an Indie Whore" range - I saw one wearing an MC5 t-shirt with FUCKING GLADIATOR SANDALS and felt the need to ask her if she could name one MC5 song. Downloaded the singles "Sex on Fire" and "Use Somebody". Owns none of the band's albums.
THE SERIOUS MUSO - Wearing a band t-shirt - but crucially NOT Kings of Leon. Sonic Youth seemed popular. Lies and says he's there to watch Glasvegas only. Tuts when they play their biggest hits. Loudly requests an obscure B-Side to prove how much he knows about music. On the trip to the gig secretly listened mercilessly to the band's new album to ensure that he knew all the words.
THE CHAV - Heard "Sex on Fire" and liked it. Saw tickets on Ticketweb. Thought he'd go along in his tracksuit to see what all the fuss is about. Spends the first half of the gig pissed and screaming at the top of his lungs for Sex on Fire and (I genuinely saw this) Hey Jude.
Of course there were plenty of regular fans to balance out the above detritus, but you get the gist. I'm not one of those people however who decides to dislike a band merely because they become successful - after all, who on earth chooses to form a band to not sell records or fill arenas? They're living the dream, fair on them. It's just people that get my bile up. You might have noticed that.
Anyway, sometimes I'll go to gigs with friends and I'll clearly be the oldest person there. Due to the nature of much of the music I like, sometimes I'm not - Metal festivals are handy for me being able to blend into the crowd, as the bearded forty-something hordes come out to worship Thunder and Def Leppard. But more often than not, I'm the rogue old dude stood in the corner with people whispering about me. Ageism is rife in these parts.
You are probably thinking that the best way to deal with this is to throw myself headlong into gigs, whirling around the moshpit with my arms flailing and my face contorted into a grimace as the music takes over my very soul. I could do that, but I have my own solution.
To merely stand at the back of the gig, hands in my pockets, silently watching the music and the chaos pass me by.
Why?
Because then people see me and have to draw their own conclusions as to why I'm there. The youth of today are quick to judge and even speedier to leap to false conclusions. So I stand there and let them chatter amongst themselves, trying to work out why I'm there, like the proverbial rogue grey pube.
The best suggestions I've heard so far are as follows:
DRUG DEALER: It helps if you keep a coat on during the gig to pull this one off. Stare straight ahead at all times. Occasionally nod at a bouncer, so it looks like you've "paid them off". If anyone asks you for drugs, you have two options. You can either tell them that they won't be able to handle your "shit" with a sinister glare, sending them packing with a modicum of panic and dread; Or you can bring aspirin and paracetemol out with you and sell them at a vast profit margin.
UNDERCOVER COP: Every now and again just stop a youth and ask him what he's doing. Then let him carry on. Brilliant. Everyone will instantly believe you're undercover and you can then watch the gig undisturbed, with no circle pits of other childish shenanigans going on within a 50 foot radius of your location. Combine it with the Drug Dealer one too - start the first idea with some of the crowd, then the second part with some more of them and watch the panic spread.
MUSIC EXECUTIVE: Stand there watching the band and every now and then nudge the person next to you and say "I tell you, when they were recording this [INSERT LEAD SINGER'S CHRISTIAN NAME HERE] just couldn't get the harmony right, but listen to it now." Every now and again scowl as if you've heard a bum note or missed drumbeat. Ask people for their opinions of the band like you're conducting market research.
JOURNALIST: Take a notepad with you. A tiny one, like the ones you sometimes get in crackers. Every now and again take it out and write something down. Tut loudly from time to time. Allow yourself an ironic laugh or two as well.
THE MAN AT THE WRONG GIG BUT TOO SHY TO ADMIT IT: Every now and then nudge the person next to you and ask what the band onstage is called. Especially the headliners. Loudly wonder when The Communards Tribute Band is coming on. Keep looking at your watch and sighing.
BODYGUARD: Works if you attend the gig with others. Let them go off, but every now and then hold your hand to your ear, talk to yourself and then relay whispered messages to your friends. This is a bonus one, as your younger friends will have also entered the web of deceit. You win a pound from me every time you convince someone that you're trained in Jujitsu and your friends are all part of the Belgian Royal Family. And somehow are in Rock City Nottingham on a wet Tuesday.
You get the general idea. I'm glad I have this game, because I'm certainly not getting any younger. Neither can I bear the idea of stopping watching live music. But this occupies my time and keeps me from feeling too over exposed whilst bobbing my head to the music in a dreadfully out of rhythm fashion.
You could also argue that at 31 I should probably have retired from liking decent music by now and just become a Take That fan like every other poor fucking thirtysomething in the UK.
You could try that, but I'd ask you to grow up.
The good thing about attending gigs with my Dad is that I can guarantee that I'm not the oldest person at the show. Because I'm 31 and these things deeply bother me. The slight downfall of attending a gig at the O2 is that I have to sit down, pay a fortune for the right to attend and have to suffer the four types of fans that Kings of Leon seem to attract:
THE LOOKALIKEY - Late teen to Mid Twenties men who shop exclusively at All Saints and Top Man in their bid to look exactly like one of the Followills. All deep V necklines in charcoal with carefully coiffeured hair and a ton of necklaces. They only own the third and fourth albums. Own no trainers, only many pointed shoes.
THE GROUPIE - Women who fancy the Followills (usually Caleb). Dress in Top Shop's "I'm an Indie Whore" range - I saw one wearing an MC5 t-shirt with FUCKING GLADIATOR SANDALS and felt the need to ask her if she could name one MC5 song. Downloaded the singles "Sex on Fire" and "Use Somebody". Owns none of the band's albums.
THE SERIOUS MUSO - Wearing a band t-shirt - but crucially NOT Kings of Leon. Sonic Youth seemed popular. Lies and says he's there to watch Glasvegas only. Tuts when they play their biggest hits. Loudly requests an obscure B-Side to prove how much he knows about music. On the trip to the gig secretly listened mercilessly to the band's new album to ensure that he knew all the words.
THE CHAV - Heard "Sex on Fire" and liked it. Saw tickets on Ticketweb. Thought he'd go along in his tracksuit to see what all the fuss is about. Spends the first half of the gig pissed and screaming at the top of his lungs for Sex on Fire and (I genuinely saw this) Hey Jude.
Of course there were plenty of regular fans to balance out the above detritus, but you get the gist. I'm not one of those people however who decides to dislike a band merely because they become successful - after all, who on earth chooses to form a band to not sell records or fill arenas? They're living the dream, fair on them. It's just people that get my bile up. You might have noticed that.
Anyway, sometimes I'll go to gigs with friends and I'll clearly be the oldest person there. Due to the nature of much of the music I like, sometimes I'm not - Metal festivals are handy for me being able to blend into the crowd, as the bearded forty-something hordes come out to worship Thunder and Def Leppard. But more often than not, I'm the rogue old dude stood in the corner with people whispering about me. Ageism is rife in these parts.
You are probably thinking that the best way to deal with this is to throw myself headlong into gigs, whirling around the moshpit with my arms flailing and my face contorted into a grimace as the music takes over my very soul. I could do that, but I have my own solution.
To merely stand at the back of the gig, hands in my pockets, silently watching the music and the chaos pass me by.
Why?
Because then people see me and have to draw their own conclusions as to why I'm there. The youth of today are quick to judge and even speedier to leap to false conclusions. So I stand there and let them chatter amongst themselves, trying to work out why I'm there, like the proverbial rogue grey pube.
The best suggestions I've heard so far are as follows:
DRUG DEALER: It helps if you keep a coat on during the gig to pull this one off. Stare straight ahead at all times. Occasionally nod at a bouncer, so it looks like you've "paid them off". If anyone asks you for drugs, you have two options. You can either tell them that they won't be able to handle your "shit" with a sinister glare, sending them packing with a modicum of panic and dread; Or you can bring aspirin and paracetemol out with you and sell them at a vast profit margin.
UNDERCOVER COP: Every now and again just stop a youth and ask him what he's doing. Then let him carry on. Brilliant. Everyone will instantly believe you're undercover and you can then watch the gig undisturbed, with no circle pits of other childish shenanigans going on within a 50 foot radius of your location. Combine it with the Drug Dealer one too - start the first idea with some of the crowd, then the second part with some more of them and watch the panic spread.
MUSIC EXECUTIVE: Stand there watching the band and every now and then nudge the person next to you and say "I tell you, when they were recording this [INSERT LEAD SINGER'S CHRISTIAN NAME HERE] just couldn't get the harmony right, but listen to it now." Every now and again scowl as if you've heard a bum note or missed drumbeat. Ask people for their opinions of the band like you're conducting market research.
JOURNALIST: Take a notepad with you. A tiny one, like the ones you sometimes get in crackers. Every now and again take it out and write something down. Tut loudly from time to time. Allow yourself an ironic laugh or two as well.
THE MAN AT THE WRONG GIG BUT TOO SHY TO ADMIT IT: Every now and then nudge the person next to you and ask what the band onstage is called. Especially the headliners. Loudly wonder when The Communards Tribute Band is coming on. Keep looking at your watch and sighing.
BODYGUARD: Works if you attend the gig with others. Let them go off, but every now and then hold your hand to your ear, talk to yourself and then relay whispered messages to your friends. This is a bonus one, as your younger friends will have also entered the web of deceit. You win a pound from me every time you convince someone that you're trained in Jujitsu and your friends are all part of the Belgian Royal Family. And somehow are in Rock City Nottingham on a wet Tuesday.
You get the general idea. I'm glad I have this game, because I'm certainly not getting any younger. Neither can I bear the idea of stopping watching live music. But this occupies my time and keeps me from feeling too over exposed whilst bobbing my head to the music in a dreadfully out of rhythm fashion.
You could also argue that at 31 I should probably have retired from liking decent music by now and just become a Take That fan like every other poor fucking thirtysomething in the UK.
You could try that, but I'd ask you to grow up.
Tuesday 7 July 2009
19: Film Remakes
Let me ask you a theoretical question. Pick your favourite music album of all time. Got it? Hold that thought in your head. Think about what that album means to you, how much you love the lyrics, the orchestration, the production, its sentimental worth to you and so on.
I'll tell you what album I'm thinking about. Plucked at random, one of my favourite albums is "London Calling" by the Clash. It's a work of genius that still stands up to the test of time today.
Now then, for the sake of my argument, imagine that this brilliant slice of late 1970s British punk was merely re-recorded by the fucking Jonas Brothers. Contentious lyrics were edited out, simpler stuff was added in, production was bigger and boomier and so on.
That's madness, right? You don't take a musical work of art and attempt to remake it. A cover version is a one track tribute, but no-one is going to take your favourite album and Hollywood it up a bit to make it more palatable. No-one (well, Banksy maybe) wanders into art galleries and hangs up their kid's version of Dali's Persistence of Memory. It's insane.
If you look on Wikipedia you'll find that there are so many film remakes that they have to split the listings over several pages. There is no example of a remade film being better than the original. Why? Because the original film has the essence of the writer and directors vision, has the initial spark of creativity and above all else does not star Sarah Michelle Gellar.
To save you time I've decided to tell you the differences between original films and their remakes. No, no. Thank you.
ALFIE (1966) - Michael Caine stars as Alfie, a bit of a rogue who grows as a character during the film, passing a scathing commentary on promiscuous swinging London in the 1960s.
ALFIE (2004) - Jude Law is a cock. You watch the entire film praying that he catches a disease. Whilst Mr Caine talking to the camera in the original is cool, Law doing it is as toe curlingly annoying as when Lovejoy used to do it.
---
ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (1976) - One of the greatest action films of the 1970s. A stark, stylish take on both western and zombie film themes made for a pittance - thus adding to its grimy charm.
ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (2005) - They decide to change the enemies in the film to policemen (HA! GENIUS!) and Ethan Hawke is in it. And Ja Rule, who looks like Howard from the Halifax adverts. Watching it makes you feel like you're playing a terrible video game. It even has flash grenades in it. Do they even exist?
---
BEDAZZLED (1967) - Peter Cook stars as the devil. What other reason do you need to see this?
BEDAZZLED (2000) - Liz Hurley stars as the devil. What other reason do you need to rather set your face on fire than watch this film?
---
WILLY WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (1971) - The acid-drenched celebration of many a child's favourite book, represented in a way that is entertaining for both adults and kids. Gene Wilder is utterly convincing as the completely batshit loco Wonka.
CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (2005) - Unimaginitive retread that is too dark and grimy to be fantastical, of course because it's directed by Tim Burton and he's not familiar with what light is. Johnny Depp tries to out-loon Gene Wilder and just ends up looking like a camp man in a top hat.
---
DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978) - The greatest horror film ever made. Over two hours long and the prototype for a billion other cheap and nasty zombie films, none of which could get it quite right. Atmospheric, thought provoking and genuinely has you on the edge of your seat.
DAWN OF THE DEAD (2004) - Hang on a second. JUST HOW LONG HAVE ZOMBIES BEEN ABLE TO FUCKING RUN?
---
GET CARTER (1971) - Stylish, gritty, dark crime drama set in bleak, industrial Newcastle. Another amazing turn from Michael Caine, a man who knew no bounds in the late sixties / early seventies. Received criticism at the time for its decisively unhappy ending, but is now beloved by us all because we're in essence all heartless bastards.
GET CARTER (2000) - Wannabe stylish crime drama set in upmarket Seattle. Sequel friendly ending tacked on to the end (Carter doesn't die, basically). Stars Michael Caine. No, don't be silly. Not as Carter. They hired - get this - SYLVESTER FUCKING STALLONE. Jesus.
---
THE ITALIAN JOB (1969) - The best caper film ever made, bar none. Loads of quotable lines, a plethora of fine actors in the cast (yes, even Benny Hill), a character called Camp Freddy, stylish costumes, amazing cars (from the Mini to the DB4 to the Miura) and the best car chases ever committed to film.
THE ITALIAN JOB (2003) - No cliffhanger ending. A completely different plot. Doesn't matter if Ed Norton and Donald Sutherland are in it, it stars Mark Fucking Wahlberg. The longest BMW commercial you'll ever see - it's two hours of a glorified ad for the all new fat-arsed Mini, which you can only sucessfully drive if you're a hairdresser or an estate agent.
---
SEVEN SAMURAI (1954) - Samurais are awesome.
THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN (1960) - Cowboys are shit.
---
THE OMEN (1976) - Beautifully shot horror film with a stellar cast and an awesome gothic soundtrack that makes the film a zillion times more sinister.
THE OMEN (2006) - Poorly shot horror film made on the cheap in the Czech Republic. Doesn't stray too far from the original plot, so feels like a pirate DVD of the original with the soundtrack missing.
---
[REC] (2007) - Wonderfully low budget Spanish zombie film, shot as if it's been filmed with hand held cameras. Features a truly loathsome female central character who you eventually start to feel sorry for, even despite her vanity.
QUARANTINE (2008) - Firstly, why change the title? It makes the film sound like a brightly lit room containing a couple of German Shepherds that someone tried to smuggle in from Bulgaria. Also, how the heck did it cost $12 Million to make? I could have made it. And I'm a better actor than Jennifer Carpenter.
---
RINGU (1998) - Stupendously frightening, atmospheric Japanese horror film that spawned the rebirth of an entire genre in the Orient. Through ingenious filmmaking contains some of the most frightening sequences ever committed to film.
THE RING (2002) - Scary premise ruined by having Americans in the film. Naomi Watts? Come on. Manages to remake many of the Ringu sequences with four years experience and additional knowledge and yet do them worse. Made more money in its opening weekend in Japan than Ringu because the whole of the nation was watching the film and laughing at it as a collective.
---
ROLLERBALL (1975) - The film that the Commodore Amiga classic game "Speedball" was based on. Violence, a frightening image of the future, comment on society and classical music for a soundtrack.
ROLLERBALL (2002) - Chris Klein. LL Cool J. Rebecca Romjin. Annoyed yet? Wait till you hear the soundtrack, featuring P.O.D and Hoobastank. Even better, everyone's favourite fat-faced pop star - Pink - has a cameo role. The joy.
---
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (1974) - Possibly the finest independent horror film ever made. Cost a mere $140,000 and remains one of the most influential films of all time, inventing the slasher film on its own. The cheapness of the film adds to the illusion of reality.
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (2003) - Hideous remake with too much noise, gore, overacting, violence etc and nothing approaching the tension of the original. More to the point, the central "heroes" are American College kids. As soon as you see them you WANT them to die. You end up wanting to give Leatherface cake to sustain him in his long day of slaying.
---
TAXI (1996) - Nuts French caper film. Great fun.
TAXI (2004) - What, you mean the film was FRENCH? Can't have that. No way. Subtitles? God no. How about we cast Queen Latifah in it? Somehow? Hello? Hello? I think they hung up...
---
WAR OF THE WORLDS (1953) - First truly great stab at making an apocalyptic sci-fi film, using one of the greatest stories HG Wells ever wrote.
WAR OF THE WORLDS (2005) - Lots of explosions and Tom Cruise running round with Dakota Fanning, hoping that pairing him with a child that is playing the role of being his daughter will make us think he's heterosexual. Come on Tom, just admit it now.
---
What we've learned here is that there is no such thing as a good remake. None at all. It's like me reinventing cheese. I could try and do it, but it would just be runny and taste bad.
OK, that's probably not the best analogy. But you get the point.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
I'll tell you what album I'm thinking about. Plucked at random, one of my favourite albums is "London Calling" by the Clash. It's a work of genius that still stands up to the test of time today.
Now then, for the sake of my argument, imagine that this brilliant slice of late 1970s British punk was merely re-recorded by the fucking Jonas Brothers. Contentious lyrics were edited out, simpler stuff was added in, production was bigger and boomier and so on.
That's madness, right? You don't take a musical work of art and attempt to remake it. A cover version is a one track tribute, but no-one is going to take your favourite album and Hollywood it up a bit to make it more palatable. No-one (well, Banksy maybe) wanders into art galleries and hangs up their kid's version of Dali's Persistence of Memory. It's insane.
If you look on Wikipedia you'll find that there are so many film remakes that they have to split the listings over several pages. There is no example of a remade film being better than the original. Why? Because the original film has the essence of the writer and directors vision, has the initial spark of creativity and above all else does not star Sarah Michelle Gellar.
To save you time I've decided to tell you the differences between original films and their remakes. No, no. Thank you.
ALFIE (1966) - Michael Caine stars as Alfie, a bit of a rogue who grows as a character during the film, passing a scathing commentary on promiscuous swinging London in the 1960s.
ALFIE (2004) - Jude Law is a cock. You watch the entire film praying that he catches a disease. Whilst Mr Caine talking to the camera in the original is cool, Law doing it is as toe curlingly annoying as when Lovejoy used to do it.
---
ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (1976) - One of the greatest action films of the 1970s. A stark, stylish take on both western and zombie film themes made for a pittance - thus adding to its grimy charm.
ASSAULT ON PRECINCT 13 (2005) - They decide to change the enemies in the film to policemen (HA! GENIUS!) and Ethan Hawke is in it. And Ja Rule, who looks like Howard from the Halifax adverts. Watching it makes you feel like you're playing a terrible video game. It even has flash grenades in it. Do they even exist?
---
BEDAZZLED (1967) - Peter Cook stars as the devil. What other reason do you need to see this?
BEDAZZLED (2000) - Liz Hurley stars as the devil. What other reason do you need to rather set your face on fire than watch this film?
---
WILLY WONKA AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (1971) - The acid-drenched celebration of many a child's favourite book, represented in a way that is entertaining for both adults and kids. Gene Wilder is utterly convincing as the completely batshit loco Wonka.
CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (2005) - Unimaginitive retread that is too dark and grimy to be fantastical, of course because it's directed by Tim Burton and he's not familiar with what light is. Johnny Depp tries to out-loon Gene Wilder and just ends up looking like a camp man in a top hat.
---
DAWN OF THE DEAD (1978) - The greatest horror film ever made. Over two hours long and the prototype for a billion other cheap and nasty zombie films, none of which could get it quite right. Atmospheric, thought provoking and genuinely has you on the edge of your seat.
DAWN OF THE DEAD (2004) - Hang on a second. JUST HOW LONG HAVE ZOMBIES BEEN ABLE TO FUCKING RUN?
---
GET CARTER (1971) - Stylish, gritty, dark crime drama set in bleak, industrial Newcastle. Another amazing turn from Michael Caine, a man who knew no bounds in the late sixties / early seventies. Received criticism at the time for its decisively unhappy ending, but is now beloved by us all because we're in essence all heartless bastards.
GET CARTER (2000) - Wannabe stylish crime drama set in upmarket Seattle. Sequel friendly ending tacked on to the end (Carter doesn't die, basically). Stars Michael Caine. No, don't be silly. Not as Carter. They hired - get this - SYLVESTER FUCKING STALLONE. Jesus.
---
THE ITALIAN JOB (1969) - The best caper film ever made, bar none. Loads of quotable lines, a plethora of fine actors in the cast (yes, even Benny Hill), a character called Camp Freddy, stylish costumes, amazing cars (from the Mini to the DB4 to the Miura) and the best car chases ever committed to film.
THE ITALIAN JOB (2003) - No cliffhanger ending. A completely different plot. Doesn't matter if Ed Norton and Donald Sutherland are in it, it stars Mark Fucking Wahlberg. The longest BMW commercial you'll ever see - it's two hours of a glorified ad for the all new fat-arsed Mini, which you can only sucessfully drive if you're a hairdresser or an estate agent.
---
SEVEN SAMURAI (1954) - Samurais are awesome.
THE MAGNIFICENT SEVEN (1960) - Cowboys are shit.
---
THE OMEN (1976) - Beautifully shot horror film with a stellar cast and an awesome gothic soundtrack that makes the film a zillion times more sinister.
THE OMEN (2006) - Poorly shot horror film made on the cheap in the Czech Republic. Doesn't stray too far from the original plot, so feels like a pirate DVD of the original with the soundtrack missing.
---
[REC] (2007) - Wonderfully low budget Spanish zombie film, shot as if it's been filmed with hand held cameras. Features a truly loathsome female central character who you eventually start to feel sorry for, even despite her vanity.
QUARANTINE (2008) - Firstly, why change the title? It makes the film sound like a brightly lit room containing a couple of German Shepherds that someone tried to smuggle in from Bulgaria. Also, how the heck did it cost $12 Million to make? I could have made it. And I'm a better actor than Jennifer Carpenter.
---
RINGU (1998) - Stupendously frightening, atmospheric Japanese horror film that spawned the rebirth of an entire genre in the Orient. Through ingenious filmmaking contains some of the most frightening sequences ever committed to film.
THE RING (2002) - Scary premise ruined by having Americans in the film. Naomi Watts? Come on. Manages to remake many of the Ringu sequences with four years experience and additional knowledge and yet do them worse. Made more money in its opening weekend in Japan than Ringu because the whole of the nation was watching the film and laughing at it as a collective.
---
ROLLERBALL (1975) - The film that the Commodore Amiga classic game "Speedball" was based on. Violence, a frightening image of the future, comment on society and classical music for a soundtrack.
ROLLERBALL (2002) - Chris Klein. LL Cool J. Rebecca Romjin. Annoyed yet? Wait till you hear the soundtrack, featuring P.O.D and Hoobastank. Even better, everyone's favourite fat-faced pop star - Pink - has a cameo role. The joy.
---
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (1974) - Possibly the finest independent horror film ever made. Cost a mere $140,000 and remains one of the most influential films of all time, inventing the slasher film on its own. The cheapness of the film adds to the illusion of reality.
THE TEXAS CHAINSAW MASSACRE (2003) - Hideous remake with too much noise, gore, overacting, violence etc and nothing approaching the tension of the original. More to the point, the central "heroes" are American College kids. As soon as you see them you WANT them to die. You end up wanting to give Leatherface cake to sustain him in his long day of slaying.
---
TAXI (1996) - Nuts French caper film. Great fun.
TAXI (2004) - What, you mean the film was FRENCH? Can't have that. No way. Subtitles? God no. How about we cast Queen Latifah in it? Somehow? Hello? Hello? I think they hung up...
---
WAR OF THE WORLDS (1953) - First truly great stab at making an apocalyptic sci-fi film, using one of the greatest stories HG Wells ever wrote.
WAR OF THE WORLDS (2005) - Lots of explosions and Tom Cruise running round with Dakota Fanning, hoping that pairing him with a child that is playing the role of being his daughter will make us think he's heterosexual. Come on Tom, just admit it now.
---
What we've learned here is that there is no such thing as a good remake. None at all. It's like me reinventing cheese. I could try and do it, but it would just be runny and taste bad.
OK, that's probably not the best analogy. But you get the point.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday 1 July 2009
18: Strawberries
Ah, Wimbledon fortnight. When the entire country pretends to like tennis and we're treated to endless images of the middle classes and aristocracy munching on strawberries in their little enclave in south-west London.
I don't like strawberries. Saying this to most people causes them to stare at me like I've got a conjoined twin stuck to the side of my face, and said twin is spreading messages of hate with its little reedy voice. I imagine it wouldn't have a brilliantly developed voicebox. But I don't like them. I would go as far as saying that I despise them. I hate their taste, their texture and the fact that they look like obese raspberries.
For the record, I also hate raspberries.
My mother took around 25 years of my life to be able to accept that I don't like strawberries. In her very British way, me saying this is akin to me denouncing the joys of roast beef and yorkshire pudding or suggesting we join the Euro. Before she accepted the fact, I dare say that she would have been able to accept the news that I was - lets say, a transgendered serial killer - in a much more calm and orderly fashion than she did my refusal of strawberries.
Before you imagine that I'm ok with strawberry flavouring - in the same way that tomatoes are evil to eat on their own, but ketchup is a staple of my diet - I'm not. As a child I would be the only kid who would leave the pink part of the neopolitan ice cream to fester in the bottom drawer of the freezer, the only one to turn down trifle, the only one to eat the yellow and green Opal Fruits over the red. Fuck off, they're called Opal Fruits. Starburst sounds like a godawful 1970s nightclub in decadent New York.
Thing is, I like puddings. Love them. I sport an impressive set of man-breasts thanks to this lust, and have an ample beer-gut despite never really having drunk beer. This is the result of years of cake, pies, biscuits, sweets and ice cream. Why, just the other day I stopped on the way back from a gig for ice cream. At 1am, nothing entertains petrol station staff more than a heavily tattooed man trying to decide what frozen treat is easiest to eat whilst driving at 90mph.
It's a Maxibon, by the way.
At this time of the year though I have to hold back from the desserts because everyone serves up strawberries. If I was on Come Dine With Me this week (and lets be honest, a boy has to have dreams) I would inevitably be offered up strawberries, or summer fruit suprises, or strawberry pavlovas, or some other hideous concoction that makes a mockery of fruit and all of its joys.
There are only a few fruits that I approve of:
Bananas - The rolls royce of fruit. I could actually overdose on them. Not green ones though. If you like them anything other than slightly blackened then you're a freak.
Oranges - For which to make mandarin cheesecake and orange jelly. And to flavour calippos.
Lemons - For to flavour sprite.
Limes - For to also flavour sprite.
Apples - Mainly pink lady ones, because I'm classy.
All other fruits can go away. All berries can, to be frank, fuck off. Stupid sickly, tart little beasts with their horrible gritty seeds and disgusting texture. I don't care one jot if I can go to a godforsaken field in Somerset and pick my own, nor if they provide one of my five alleged portions of fruit and veg a day - a law in itself which was, like Valentines Day was invented by Hallmark, dreamed up by the Munch Bunch. Strawberries aren't healthy if you cover them in sugar and cream. Although you can tell how working class you are dependent on what topping you put on your strawberries. Use my sliding scale below:
POSH
Mascarpone and champagne
Double cream
Single cream
Squirty cream
UHT cream
Several creamers stolen from a coffee shop
Dream Topping
Fussell's Condensed Milk
SCUM
Another thing. Where to people get off putting a single strawberry on top of something as wonderful as a chocolate cheesecake (served in an individual glass ramekin) as some kind of obscene garnish? No thank you, sir or madam. It's like decorating a fine Fruits De Mer with a sea urchin, or a beautiful rabbit shaped blancmange with dead woodlouse.
Finally, if I ever find the person who invented strawberry jaffa cakes then I will thrash him until an inch of his life. Until his brain is revealed, like said cake's smashing orangey bit.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
I don't like strawberries. Saying this to most people causes them to stare at me like I've got a conjoined twin stuck to the side of my face, and said twin is spreading messages of hate with its little reedy voice. I imagine it wouldn't have a brilliantly developed voicebox. But I don't like them. I would go as far as saying that I despise them. I hate their taste, their texture and the fact that they look like obese raspberries.
For the record, I also hate raspberries.
My mother took around 25 years of my life to be able to accept that I don't like strawberries. In her very British way, me saying this is akin to me denouncing the joys of roast beef and yorkshire pudding or suggesting we join the Euro. Before she accepted the fact, I dare say that she would have been able to accept the news that I was - lets say, a transgendered serial killer - in a much more calm and orderly fashion than she did my refusal of strawberries.
Before you imagine that I'm ok with strawberry flavouring - in the same way that tomatoes are evil to eat on their own, but ketchup is a staple of my diet - I'm not. As a child I would be the only kid who would leave the pink part of the neopolitan ice cream to fester in the bottom drawer of the freezer, the only one to turn down trifle, the only one to eat the yellow and green Opal Fruits over the red. Fuck off, they're called Opal Fruits. Starburst sounds like a godawful 1970s nightclub in decadent New York.
Thing is, I like puddings. Love them. I sport an impressive set of man-breasts thanks to this lust, and have an ample beer-gut despite never really having drunk beer. This is the result of years of cake, pies, biscuits, sweets and ice cream. Why, just the other day I stopped on the way back from a gig for ice cream. At 1am, nothing entertains petrol station staff more than a heavily tattooed man trying to decide what frozen treat is easiest to eat whilst driving at 90mph.
It's a Maxibon, by the way.
At this time of the year though I have to hold back from the desserts because everyone serves up strawberries. If I was on Come Dine With Me this week (and lets be honest, a boy has to have dreams) I would inevitably be offered up strawberries, or summer fruit suprises, or strawberry pavlovas, or some other hideous concoction that makes a mockery of fruit and all of its joys.
There are only a few fruits that I approve of:
Bananas - The rolls royce of fruit. I could actually overdose on them. Not green ones though. If you like them anything other than slightly blackened then you're a freak.
Oranges - For which to make mandarin cheesecake and orange jelly. And to flavour calippos.
Lemons - For to flavour sprite.
Limes - For to also flavour sprite.
Apples - Mainly pink lady ones, because I'm classy.
All other fruits can go away. All berries can, to be frank, fuck off. Stupid sickly, tart little beasts with their horrible gritty seeds and disgusting texture. I don't care one jot if I can go to a godforsaken field in Somerset and pick my own, nor if they provide one of my five alleged portions of fruit and veg a day - a law in itself which was, like Valentines Day was invented by Hallmark, dreamed up by the Munch Bunch. Strawberries aren't healthy if you cover them in sugar and cream. Although you can tell how working class you are dependent on what topping you put on your strawberries. Use my sliding scale below:
POSH
Mascarpone and champagne
Double cream
Single cream
Squirty cream
UHT cream
Several creamers stolen from a coffee shop
Dream Topping
Fussell's Condensed Milk
SCUM
Another thing. Where to people get off putting a single strawberry on top of something as wonderful as a chocolate cheesecake (served in an individual glass ramekin) as some kind of obscene garnish? No thank you, sir or madam. It's like decorating a fine Fruits De Mer with a sea urchin, or a beautiful rabbit shaped blancmange with dead woodlouse.
Finally, if I ever find the person who invented strawberry jaffa cakes then I will thrash him until an inch of his life. Until his brain is revealed, like said cake's smashing orangey bit.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Tuesday 23 June 2009
17: American TV Casting
Every now and then I'll go and audition for some TV work. I'm by no means an actor (many days I'm barely a comedian) but I always pop along, well prepared and all, and try my best to get the job and the sweet, sweet money that goes along with it. Because I want to buy a campervan.
As you may have noticed, dear reader, I've not been on TV yet. Which gives you an inkling of how these auditions have been going. In my head it's not just down to me narrowly missing out after putting in my best effort (if I'm having a positive day) or being beaten into last place by a plethora of infinitely more talented people (all other days). Oh no. It's also down to my advanced age.
I'm 31 years old and started doing stand-up when I was 27. I like to think that I have the comedy age urse, in that most comedians tend to look younger than their actual age. Problem is, I feel daft lying about my age. I guess that I could tell a slight fib-ette and claim to be 27 or 28, but I'm a rubbish liar at the best of times. I glow bright red and emit pheremones that may as well be a siren above my head screaming "AWOOOOOOOOOOOOGAH! THIS MAN IS A LIAR!".
But even if I could get away with telling a slight lie here and there, if you inspect me closer I'm clearly knocking on a bit. My hair is falling out, steadily. At the back, which is irritating in the extreme as I don't know how well I'm hiding my thinning pate on a daily basis. I can't grow a beard thanks to the skin medication I was on when I was a teenager (I can't sweat through my face either, which is bizarre) so that helps the youthful feel - if I grow a moustache I look like the token 14 year old you knew at school who had been wanked off by the sweaty fat girl who worked at the chippy, played truant and had an off-road motorbike. Every school had one of those chaps, I've checked. With their faint little grey top lip hair that would every now and then get scorched by a rogue spark from the cigarettes he'd nicked from his gran's welsh dresser.
The facial hair issue is however one mere peak in the variety of pitfalls that affect my face. If you look at my tired, sunken eyes then you'll see that I am a man that has not slept for around 17 years. And my forehead is as grooved and furrowed as a freshly ploughed field. All of this gives the impression that my face is some kind of cut-and-shut, with everything below the nose a healthy 19 years old, everything above the nose is around 62.
Of course, none of this would matter if I was American. Because lets be honest, I could get cast as a nine year old in pretty much any show in the states if I tried. The whole cast of Dawsons Creek? In their late twenties when playing teenagers. Beverley Hills 90210? Some of them were in their thirties. You know that kid in Two and a Half Men? He's actually a woman in her forties.
Actually, that could be Bart Simpson. I forget.
Then add in the fact that apparently no-one in the USA is fat or ugly, according to their TV shows. The cast of Friends, for example - all of them good looking thirtysomethings, somehow living in amazing digs in one of the most expensive places on earth despite the fact that none of them seem to have particularly decent jobs. Well, except Rachel who became a merchandiser by wandering into an office one day. Because that's how that shit goes down.
If Friends was an accurate reflection on American life then where is the ethnic diversity? More to the point, the size diversity? It should have been cast like this:
RACHEL - Raised in a trailer in Alabammy. Working as a waitress with occasional lapdancing duties as she wants to create a better life for her kids, especially since her babydaddy went away. The "Rachel Cut" would not be a greasy ponytail, slicked back as harshly as possible during the day, and a crude wig at night so people don't recognise her. Has eyes that could tell a thousand sordid stories if only she could actually motivate herself to do so.
PHOEBE - Has to live in a hostel because her holistic therapy business / handmade jewellery stall actually makes so little money that she's resorted to selling crystal meth to kids at new-age music festivals. A confirmed Wiccan, she only meets men through the Internet. Several have scammed her out of her savings, despite her protestations that they're the one. Current beau is a farmer from North Dakota who has made his own human skin costume from the carcasses of the women he's killed.
MONICA - Massive. So fat that she needs a mobility scooter to get around, and the merest glimpse of her thighs is enough to make you push your meal away, should you be eating anywhere near her at the time. Hasn't worked in years, shares a 15 by 15 foot room in Staten Island with Rachel and an infestation of cockroaches. And Rachel's kids when they're not in care. And bedsores.
ROSS - Monica's brother. Religious nut, he joined a cult a couple of years ago and is close to getting Monica to join. Rail thin, thanks to his parents ignoring him and spoiling his fatter sibling. Works at a Wal-Mart in New Jersey where he hopes to be assistant manager one day. 48 years old.
CHANDLER - Only friends with the others because he feels he has to be, he has a middle management office job where he sits and wonders where it all went wrong. Secretly gay, he has joined the Ku Klux Klan to try and purge his own confusion through violence towards others. Doesn't use sarcasm, because he's American and therefore doesn't really understand it. Has been married 6 times, the most recent of which was to a stripper he met. She left after two days, taking all of his posessions.
JOEY - Wanted to be an actor but is cripplingly untalented. So instead of blundering into jobs he's reduced to working as an escort and as he gets older and more desperate, into prostitution for anyone who comes along - all so he can afford to stay in NYC.
So yeah, that would be how I would have written friends. And I know it wouldn't have made it that funny, I'll admit that. But just a touch of realism is all I ask for. I love the USA and have spent a lot of time there, but the lack of humility and honesty that the Americans have bothers me. I'm proud to be British, but I'm also aware that I live in a country with a vast amount of problems and that nobody is perfect - least of all myself.
But the American TV people would love nothing more than to kid us that everyone lives in a vast house, has an amazing job, brilliant and interesting friends, a dynamic social life, they all weigh below the national average and everyone has a ton of free cash to throw around.
Probably for the best that I'm only too old for TV jobs in this country then. In the USA I'd fail on a zillion levels...
As you may have noticed, dear reader, I've not been on TV yet. Which gives you an inkling of how these auditions have been going. In my head it's not just down to me narrowly missing out after putting in my best effort (if I'm having a positive day) or being beaten into last place by a plethora of infinitely more talented people (all other days). Oh no. It's also down to my advanced age.
I'm 31 years old and started doing stand-up when I was 27. I like to think that I have the comedy age urse, in that most comedians tend to look younger than their actual age. Problem is, I feel daft lying about my age. I guess that I could tell a slight fib-ette and claim to be 27 or 28, but I'm a rubbish liar at the best of times. I glow bright red and emit pheremones that may as well be a siren above my head screaming "AWOOOOOOOOOOOOGAH! THIS MAN IS A LIAR!".
But even if I could get away with telling a slight lie here and there, if you inspect me closer I'm clearly knocking on a bit. My hair is falling out, steadily. At the back, which is irritating in the extreme as I don't know how well I'm hiding my thinning pate on a daily basis. I can't grow a beard thanks to the skin medication I was on when I was a teenager (I can't sweat through my face either, which is bizarre) so that helps the youthful feel - if I grow a moustache I look like the token 14 year old you knew at school who had been wanked off by the sweaty fat girl who worked at the chippy, played truant and had an off-road motorbike. Every school had one of those chaps, I've checked. With their faint little grey top lip hair that would every now and then get scorched by a rogue spark from the cigarettes he'd nicked from his gran's welsh dresser.
The facial hair issue is however one mere peak in the variety of pitfalls that affect my face. If you look at my tired, sunken eyes then you'll see that I am a man that has not slept for around 17 years. And my forehead is as grooved and furrowed as a freshly ploughed field. All of this gives the impression that my face is some kind of cut-and-shut, with everything below the nose a healthy 19 years old, everything above the nose is around 62.
Of course, none of this would matter if I was American. Because lets be honest, I could get cast as a nine year old in pretty much any show in the states if I tried. The whole cast of Dawsons Creek? In their late twenties when playing teenagers. Beverley Hills 90210? Some of them were in their thirties. You know that kid in Two and a Half Men? He's actually a woman in her forties.
Actually, that could be Bart Simpson. I forget.
Then add in the fact that apparently no-one in the USA is fat or ugly, according to their TV shows. The cast of Friends, for example - all of them good looking thirtysomethings, somehow living in amazing digs in one of the most expensive places on earth despite the fact that none of them seem to have particularly decent jobs. Well, except Rachel who became a merchandiser by wandering into an office one day. Because that's how that shit goes down.
If Friends was an accurate reflection on American life then where is the ethnic diversity? More to the point, the size diversity? It should have been cast like this:
RACHEL - Raised in a trailer in Alabammy. Working as a waitress with occasional lapdancing duties as she wants to create a better life for her kids, especially since her babydaddy went away. The "Rachel Cut" would not be a greasy ponytail, slicked back as harshly as possible during the day, and a crude wig at night so people don't recognise her. Has eyes that could tell a thousand sordid stories if only she could actually motivate herself to do so.
PHOEBE - Has to live in a hostel because her holistic therapy business / handmade jewellery stall actually makes so little money that she's resorted to selling crystal meth to kids at new-age music festivals. A confirmed Wiccan, she only meets men through the Internet. Several have scammed her out of her savings, despite her protestations that they're the one. Current beau is a farmer from North Dakota who has made his own human skin costume from the carcasses of the women he's killed.
MONICA - Massive. So fat that she needs a mobility scooter to get around, and the merest glimpse of her thighs is enough to make you push your meal away, should you be eating anywhere near her at the time. Hasn't worked in years, shares a 15 by 15 foot room in Staten Island with Rachel and an infestation of cockroaches. And Rachel's kids when they're not in care. And bedsores.
ROSS - Monica's brother. Religious nut, he joined a cult a couple of years ago and is close to getting Monica to join. Rail thin, thanks to his parents ignoring him and spoiling his fatter sibling. Works at a Wal-Mart in New Jersey where he hopes to be assistant manager one day. 48 years old.
CHANDLER - Only friends with the others because he feels he has to be, he has a middle management office job where he sits and wonders where it all went wrong. Secretly gay, he has joined the Ku Klux Klan to try and purge his own confusion through violence towards others. Doesn't use sarcasm, because he's American and therefore doesn't really understand it. Has been married 6 times, the most recent of which was to a stripper he met. She left after two days, taking all of his posessions.
JOEY - Wanted to be an actor but is cripplingly untalented. So instead of blundering into jobs he's reduced to working as an escort and as he gets older and more desperate, into prostitution for anyone who comes along - all so he can afford to stay in NYC.
So yeah, that would be how I would have written friends. And I know it wouldn't have made it that funny, I'll admit that. But just a touch of realism is all I ask for. I love the USA and have spent a lot of time there, but the lack of humility and honesty that the Americans have bothers me. I'm proud to be British, but I'm also aware that I live in a country with a vast amount of problems and that nobody is perfect - least of all myself.
But the American TV people would love nothing more than to kid us that everyone lives in a vast house, has an amazing job, brilliant and interesting friends, a dynamic social life, they all weigh below the national average and everyone has a ton of free cash to throw around.
Probably for the best that I'm only too old for TV jobs in this country then. In the USA I'd fail on a zillion levels...
Monday 15 June 2009
16: Robbie Williams
Apparently, the Robbie Williams song "Angels" is one of the most popular choices in the UK for people to have played at both their funerals and as the first dance at their weddings. I can't think of anything worse. I have made a request in my will to be cremated as "Straight to Hell" by the Clash plays, as that is surely where I'd end up if there was such thing as a god and the afterlife.
Proof that there isn't a god can be shown through the constant success of Robbie Williams, an untalented wastrel from Stoke who has somehow sold hundreds of millions of albums despite no-one ever actively admitting that they like him. There are hundreds - if not thousands - of more talented singers and songwriters performing in pubs all around the UK this very evening, the only difference between them and Mr Williams is that he was in a boy band and parlayed himself into the position of "lovable joker" in said band by the means of doing a sub-par Vic Reeves impression on Live and Kicking a few times in the early nineties.
The worst thing about supporting my beloved Leicester City is not, believe it or not, the fact that we yo-yo up and down between divisions with a similar action to a harlots undergarments. Oh no. It's the fact that before every home game, at around ten to three, we choose to play "Let Me Entertain You" and every time I hear it I die a little inside. It's not a rousing rock anthem, it's a fat bloke in a Kiss costume pretending that he's a rockstar. Shall we see how many rock star credentials Robbie has?
MUSICAL SKILLS - How many instruments can Robbie play? That's right, none at all. Even I can play "Frerer Jacques" on a recorder.
SONGWRITING - For years he got Guy Chambers to write his songs. Then he fell out with him and his star fell. Coincidence? Of course not.
LOOKS - Simply do the McDonalds test with Robbie. For those not familiar with this - imagine that you're in a McDonalds and an unfamous Robbie Williams is serving you, without his stylist making him look presentable in the morning. Would he still be considered attractive by the fucking 3AM Girls? No, he wouldn't. (This idea works for girls too. See Von Teese, Dita)
COOLNESS - Iggy Pop can be in an insurance commercial and he's still cool. Lou Reed can have his best song (about heroin, for chrissakes) taken by the BBC and he's still cool. Iron Maiden are all 70 years old and still exude rockstar cool. You could put Robbie Williams in a solid cold Rolls Royce, flanked by Pharrell Williams and Snoop Dogg, dressed in finest chinchilla and sipping Cristal from a diamond encrusted pimp cup. He'd still be the same hairy fuck from Stoke with the charisma of a concussed Ostritch.
ECCENTRICITY - To be a true rockstar you need to be a little bit bonkers. The odd stint in rehab does not make you insane. Biting a head off a dove at a record company meeting ala Ozzy Osbourne gives you the legendary level of eccentricty that a true rockstar requires. Going UFO spotting with Peter Andre (the sliced white loaf of popstars) does not make you kooky in the slightest.
PERFORMANCE SKILLS - Ever heard Robbie sing live? It's like listening to a throat scraping on a sealion whilst it gargles a seawater and lemon juice cocktail. I may be exaggerating slightly here, but he's not a great singer. Nor showman. I'd rather watch Shane Ritchie on "Don't Forget the Lyrics". And I'd rather peel my own penis with a rusty ice cream scoop and feed the shavings to a rabid vole (whilst flagellating the bloody stump with a shoelace studded with drawing pins) than watch that. I'm just saying.
Now, I'm aware that Mr Williams does a lot of good things for charity. If I was wearing one, I would take my hat off to him for that. I personally bear him no ill will whatsoever. The bile and teeth-gnashing that comes from me because of him stems from me being a music fan and his "fat dancer from Take That" era of him hanging out with the Gallaghers summoning the end of Britpop and a return, for a few years at least, to godawful pop music in the charts and fluffy, insignificant pop singers claiming they had rock credentials. Oh yeah. I'm looking at YOU, Avril Lavigne. Kelly Clarkson. The Killers. Admittedly, they did things the other way round and went from decent band to godawful art-dance-wank-noise.
Apparently Robbie's next album is due out this year. He's worked with Mark Ronson and Trevor Horn. So it'll be vastly overproduced, full of horns, one no doubt "cheeky" cover version and will sell billions. And I'll cry myself to sleep at the state of this country.
My favourite Robbie story comes from his massive Knebworth gigs a few years back. He got The Darkness to support him and they blew everyone away. Now they've split up and Justin Hawkins is in rehab. Coincidence? Or has Robbie used his alien contacts to destroy anyone more talented than him...?
Of course, you could point out that I'm merely a jealous 31 year old comedian, who is penniless and non-famous. And that this hate-filled rant is merely my jealousy spilling out onto the page.
And you'd be right, dear reader.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Proof that there isn't a god can be shown through the constant success of Robbie Williams, an untalented wastrel from Stoke who has somehow sold hundreds of millions of albums despite no-one ever actively admitting that they like him. There are hundreds - if not thousands - of more talented singers and songwriters performing in pubs all around the UK this very evening, the only difference between them and Mr Williams is that he was in a boy band and parlayed himself into the position of "lovable joker" in said band by the means of doing a sub-par Vic Reeves impression on Live and Kicking a few times in the early nineties.
The worst thing about supporting my beloved Leicester City is not, believe it or not, the fact that we yo-yo up and down between divisions with a similar action to a harlots undergarments. Oh no. It's the fact that before every home game, at around ten to three, we choose to play "Let Me Entertain You" and every time I hear it I die a little inside. It's not a rousing rock anthem, it's a fat bloke in a Kiss costume pretending that he's a rockstar. Shall we see how many rock star credentials Robbie has?
MUSICAL SKILLS - How many instruments can Robbie play? That's right, none at all. Even I can play "Frerer Jacques" on a recorder.
SONGWRITING - For years he got Guy Chambers to write his songs. Then he fell out with him and his star fell. Coincidence? Of course not.
LOOKS - Simply do the McDonalds test with Robbie. For those not familiar with this - imagine that you're in a McDonalds and an unfamous Robbie Williams is serving you, without his stylist making him look presentable in the morning. Would he still be considered attractive by the fucking 3AM Girls? No, he wouldn't. (This idea works for girls too. See Von Teese, Dita)
COOLNESS - Iggy Pop can be in an insurance commercial and he's still cool. Lou Reed can have his best song (about heroin, for chrissakes) taken by the BBC and he's still cool. Iron Maiden are all 70 years old and still exude rockstar cool. You could put Robbie Williams in a solid cold Rolls Royce, flanked by Pharrell Williams and Snoop Dogg, dressed in finest chinchilla and sipping Cristal from a diamond encrusted pimp cup. He'd still be the same hairy fuck from Stoke with the charisma of a concussed Ostritch.
ECCENTRICITY - To be a true rockstar you need to be a little bit bonkers. The odd stint in rehab does not make you insane. Biting a head off a dove at a record company meeting ala Ozzy Osbourne gives you the legendary level of eccentricty that a true rockstar requires. Going UFO spotting with Peter Andre (the sliced white loaf of popstars) does not make you kooky in the slightest.
PERFORMANCE SKILLS - Ever heard Robbie sing live? It's like listening to a throat scraping on a sealion whilst it gargles a seawater and lemon juice cocktail. I may be exaggerating slightly here, but he's not a great singer. Nor showman. I'd rather watch Shane Ritchie on "Don't Forget the Lyrics". And I'd rather peel my own penis with a rusty ice cream scoop and feed the shavings to a rabid vole (whilst flagellating the bloody stump with a shoelace studded with drawing pins) than watch that. I'm just saying.
Now, I'm aware that Mr Williams does a lot of good things for charity. If I was wearing one, I would take my hat off to him for that. I personally bear him no ill will whatsoever. The bile and teeth-gnashing that comes from me because of him stems from me being a music fan and his "fat dancer from Take That" era of him hanging out with the Gallaghers summoning the end of Britpop and a return, for a few years at least, to godawful pop music in the charts and fluffy, insignificant pop singers claiming they had rock credentials. Oh yeah. I'm looking at YOU, Avril Lavigne. Kelly Clarkson. The Killers. Admittedly, they did things the other way round and went from decent band to godawful art-dance-wank-noise.
Apparently Robbie's next album is due out this year. He's worked with Mark Ronson and Trevor Horn. So it'll be vastly overproduced, full of horns, one no doubt "cheeky" cover version and will sell billions. And I'll cry myself to sleep at the state of this country.
My favourite Robbie story comes from his massive Knebworth gigs a few years back. He got The Darkness to support him and they blew everyone away. Now they've split up and Justin Hawkins is in rehab. Coincidence? Or has Robbie used his alien contacts to destroy anyone more talented than him...?
Of course, you could point out that I'm merely a jealous 31 year old comedian, who is penniless and non-famous. And that this hate-filled rant is merely my jealousy spilling out onto the page.
And you'd be right, dear reader.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Wednesday 3 June 2009
15: The Music Press
For many years it was all I wanted to become a music journalist. I wanted to be at the forefront of music news and opinion, the first to listen to the newest albums and impart my thoughts on them to the masses. Stood on the front row at not just the biggest and the best gigs, but also at the obscure, to shape the up-and-coming trends and sounds by relaying what they meant to me with the joyous power of words.
Then something happened to me. I realised that the music press existed merely to mock us all. The other day I picked up a copy of Kerrang at the train station and thought I would spend my journey to Bristol reading it. It took me 15 minutes to read pretty much every word in it and realise that it wasn't a bastion of hard-rock journalism, instead it was one step above a comic, full of teenage opinion and writers trying to dumb down their skills to appeal to 12 year old Paramore fans and people who only know who Led Zeppelin are because Fearne Fucking Cotton has a t-shirt with their name on.
I thought back to when I would religiously read the NME and Melody Maker, before they merged into one terrible, childish tome. I would read what was written and so many of my opinions on music were shaped by their editorial policies. I would like bands who were completely shit, purely because they were recommended to me by the NME writers. I would hate bands based on who they had chosen to slag off that month. I would get into entire genres of music, almost obsessively, because they had decided that particular style was "in". I dare say the bastards were partially responsible for the way I dressed.
A later rant will deal with Student Music Chauvanism, but the music press are to blame there too. The music press make plenty of twentysomethings and teenagers claim that they like much more obscure music than anyone else, purely because they're armed with a music rag or two under their arm. Bollocks. I thought that when I was a teenager and when I was a student. Let's examine the evidence:
Teenager - Favourite bands were The Clash, Green Day and Ash.
End of Uni - Favourite bands were still The Clash, DJ Shadow and Blur.
Not exactly tiny little artists, right? And the only reason I liked DJ Shadow was because the NME told me to. It took me to my mid twenties to realise I can like whatever the fuck I want, even if it's as disparate as Elton John, Girls Aloud and Gallows. But way back then, I thought I was better because I'd selected what was cool to enjoy. Not simply because I heard something and thought "wow".
Let us not forget, the NME have put Robbie Fucking Williams on their cover in the past merely to shift units. And they've come a long way from the serious publication that mockingly allowed a young Steven Morrissey to rant about the New York Dolls back in the mid 1970s.
I was thinking of bands that the NME tried to get us to swallow but no-one ever did. They do this from time to time, as if to test our resolve as listeners and to see if we're merely just following the herd because they tell us to. I can only think of a few past coverstars that they've failed to get the British public to actually like on a massive scale. I mean, bands like Oasis and Embrace (especially the latter) had massive press merely for being wankers, way before anyone ever heard their music. Don't even get me started on the NME's cool list each year, which seemingly thinks that smack is the key to coolness, rather than my innocent youth where it was merely wearing shades indoors.
So yeah, bands the NME failed to get us to like - off the top of my head.
Bis - how awful were they? Pinnacle of their career was recording the theme to the Powerpuff Girls.
S*M*A*S*H - Ah, the legendary "New Wave of New Wave" movement, loosely translated from journo into English as "we've ran out of wanky genre names".
Campag Velocet - Seriously, in the mid 1990s they never shut up about them. Name one song. I dare you.
Gay Dad - I remember hearing that several members of said band used to work for the NME. Really? Well, that's a massive surprise.
What I like is how you can follow the cycle of a bands career based on how the NME reports on them. Pick any remotely successful band from the past few years and all of them have the same 5 stages of their career as recorded by journalists.
1: THE BEGINNING
A band is doing quite well, well enough to be signed by an Indie label - so that makes them well and truly on the radar already. Nevertheless, the music press (and probably Jo Whiley) will claim them as their discovery, citing some reference two weeks prior where the band was mentioned in their gig listing page. A small pictorial will follow. If the press gets an inkling that this band is becoming popular, they'll then move to phase 2.
2: THE ASCENT
Said band is doing ok, with one minor chart hit. The album comes out. Even if it's awful, it will get at least 7 out of 10 as the magazine hedges its bets and decides to not piss off the band, just in case they become the next Oasis and hold a grudge. The band get pushed to high heaven. The lead singer ceases to have a first name, being pictured on the front cover and referred to by his first name only, like a Brazilian footballer. No-one can remember his surname, as no-one ever really knew it to start with.
3: THE PLATEAU
Band work on their difficult second album, which will be a massive letdown but still score higher in terms of reviews than their first, merely because thousands of extra pounds have been spent on the production of it. It will sell very well indeed, coupled with wispy pictorials of the band and fluffy interviews containing no substance whatsoever. Some letters will be printed in the letters page slagging off said band to test the water for stage 4.
4: THE DOWNFALL
Band release third album. Is actually their best yet, as they have matured musically - but press choose to slag them off mercilessly, making them the butt of "jokes" wherever possible and using their bandname to prefix the word -esque whenever they feel they need to make a negative point about another band, or compare another band at stage 1 or 2 in a favourable light. Band sell millions anyway, and don't give a fuck about the music press. Massive tour goes amazingly well. Move to stage 5.
5: THE PHOENIX
Band has been doing great anyway, but with album 4 about to come out the press try to bury the hatchet (caused by themselves) by doing endless features about how the band are now legendary, bigger than Jesus and so on. Massive tour exceeds all expectations. Editorial in magazine cliams responsibility for the bands success. Somewhere, a kitten dies.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Then something happened to me. I realised that the music press existed merely to mock us all. The other day I picked up a copy of Kerrang at the train station and thought I would spend my journey to Bristol reading it. It took me 15 minutes to read pretty much every word in it and realise that it wasn't a bastion of hard-rock journalism, instead it was one step above a comic, full of teenage opinion and writers trying to dumb down their skills to appeal to 12 year old Paramore fans and people who only know who Led Zeppelin are because Fearne Fucking Cotton has a t-shirt with their name on.
I thought back to when I would religiously read the NME and Melody Maker, before they merged into one terrible, childish tome. I would read what was written and so many of my opinions on music were shaped by their editorial policies. I would like bands who were completely shit, purely because they were recommended to me by the NME writers. I would hate bands based on who they had chosen to slag off that month. I would get into entire genres of music, almost obsessively, because they had decided that particular style was "in". I dare say the bastards were partially responsible for the way I dressed.
A later rant will deal with Student Music Chauvanism, but the music press are to blame there too. The music press make plenty of twentysomethings and teenagers claim that they like much more obscure music than anyone else, purely because they're armed with a music rag or two under their arm. Bollocks. I thought that when I was a teenager and when I was a student. Let's examine the evidence:
Teenager - Favourite bands were The Clash, Green Day and Ash.
End of Uni - Favourite bands were still The Clash, DJ Shadow and Blur.
Not exactly tiny little artists, right? And the only reason I liked DJ Shadow was because the NME told me to. It took me to my mid twenties to realise I can like whatever the fuck I want, even if it's as disparate as Elton John, Girls Aloud and Gallows. But way back then, I thought I was better because I'd selected what was cool to enjoy. Not simply because I heard something and thought "wow".
Let us not forget, the NME have put Robbie Fucking Williams on their cover in the past merely to shift units. And they've come a long way from the serious publication that mockingly allowed a young Steven Morrissey to rant about the New York Dolls back in the mid 1970s.
I was thinking of bands that the NME tried to get us to swallow but no-one ever did. They do this from time to time, as if to test our resolve as listeners and to see if we're merely just following the herd because they tell us to. I can only think of a few past coverstars that they've failed to get the British public to actually like on a massive scale. I mean, bands like Oasis and Embrace (especially the latter) had massive press merely for being wankers, way before anyone ever heard their music. Don't even get me started on the NME's cool list each year, which seemingly thinks that smack is the key to coolness, rather than my innocent youth where it was merely wearing shades indoors.
So yeah, bands the NME failed to get us to like - off the top of my head.
Bis - how awful were they? Pinnacle of their career was recording the theme to the Powerpuff Girls.
S*M*A*S*H - Ah, the legendary "New Wave of New Wave" movement, loosely translated from journo into English as "we've ran out of wanky genre names".
Campag Velocet - Seriously, in the mid 1990s they never shut up about them. Name one song. I dare you.
Gay Dad - I remember hearing that several members of said band used to work for the NME. Really? Well, that's a massive surprise.
What I like is how you can follow the cycle of a bands career based on how the NME reports on them. Pick any remotely successful band from the past few years and all of them have the same 5 stages of their career as recorded by journalists.
1: THE BEGINNING
A band is doing quite well, well enough to be signed by an Indie label - so that makes them well and truly on the radar already. Nevertheless, the music press (and probably Jo Whiley) will claim them as their discovery, citing some reference two weeks prior where the band was mentioned in their gig listing page. A small pictorial will follow. If the press gets an inkling that this band is becoming popular, they'll then move to phase 2.
2: THE ASCENT
Said band is doing ok, with one minor chart hit. The album comes out. Even if it's awful, it will get at least 7 out of 10 as the magazine hedges its bets and decides to not piss off the band, just in case they become the next Oasis and hold a grudge. The band get pushed to high heaven. The lead singer ceases to have a first name, being pictured on the front cover and referred to by his first name only, like a Brazilian footballer. No-one can remember his surname, as no-one ever really knew it to start with.
3: THE PLATEAU
Band work on their difficult second album, which will be a massive letdown but still score higher in terms of reviews than their first, merely because thousands of extra pounds have been spent on the production of it. It will sell very well indeed, coupled with wispy pictorials of the band and fluffy interviews containing no substance whatsoever. Some letters will be printed in the letters page slagging off said band to test the water for stage 4.
4: THE DOWNFALL
Band release third album. Is actually their best yet, as they have matured musically - but press choose to slag them off mercilessly, making them the butt of "jokes" wherever possible and using their bandname to prefix the word -esque whenever they feel they need to make a negative point about another band, or compare another band at stage 1 or 2 in a favourable light. Band sell millions anyway, and don't give a fuck about the music press. Massive tour goes amazingly well. Move to stage 5.
5: THE PHOENIX
Band has been doing great anyway, but with album 4 about to come out the press try to bury the hatchet (caused by themselves) by doing endless features about how the band are now legendary, bigger than Jesus and so on. Massive tour exceeds all expectations. Editorial in magazine cliams responsibility for the bands success. Somewhere, a kitten dies.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Monday 25 May 2009
14: 30 year olds exhibiting playground homophobia
When I first wrote my list of hated things I scribbled down the list with all the speed of a Mexican mouse. With a pen. Well, a keyboard. You get the gist. Anyway, it does mean that some of the titles of these rants are not as concise as I would wish. So, this here essay applies to anyone aged 30 and upwards. Not just to those people within the 365 year confines of being 30. 366 days if its a leap year.
Lets set one thing out straight away. Homophobia in general is daft. I've been relaying the story of the audience member with the no-entry sign tattooed on his arse for about two years now. Worst part of that being that he generally saw NOTHING wrong with such a cackhanded choice of ink-based needle design on his posterior. Thing is, he was 15 years old. It doesn't make it ok, but it at least explains it.
Try working with kids. What you'll learn very early on is that the insult "gay" is the most common that you'll ever hear. I'll be honest, when I was young and foolish I used to do it. My tremendously nice and intelligent 9 year old nephew called me gay this afternoon for the apparent "crime" of wearing a flat cap. He could have called me a yorkshireman, but he chose to call me gay.
Thing is, he'll learn. It's not ok that he thinks it's acceptable to call me that, but when he reaches adulthood he'll be well adjusted and will thankfully learn. When I was in my early teens I didn't know anyone gay. I didn't understand a lot of things back then. I barely understood what I wanted myself, so the concept of understanding anything that was different to me was greeted with confusion and like everything I can't deal with (normally, life itself) twas also met with humour. I'm not proud of the person that I was back then, but luckily my parents would always punish me for being homophobic in any way. Because even though they used to beat me on a daily basis with drilled paddles, they couldn't bear intolerance.
I've got a lot of gay friends. To quote the person who would usually be making excuses for hidden prejudices, a lot of my best friends are gay. As I'm now a well raised and hopefully decent member of the human race, I don't think of them of being gay in the same way I don't think of my straight friends sexual preference. They're just my mates.
A former work colleague of mine once expressed his disgust - and I don't mean that lightly, he was genuinely crimson with rage - that one of my best friends is gay. I don't think anything in the workplace has ever made me as angry. In fact, my top five things-that-made-me-angry at work are:
5: The time I ate tainted corned beef in a sandwich.
4: People complaining about tax when they get paid. That shit happens.
3: The time I lost my picture of the the cashmere goat.
2: Hitting my head on the underside of my desk (I did it 63 times in 8 years)
1: The aforementioned homophobe.
Thing is, he broke out all the "backs to the wall" shit. That's the playground stuff that really makes me angry. And he was 38 years old. Let us take this person as a case study. His standard attitude upon meeting someone gay is to make that statement and others along the same lines. And why? The insinuation that he seems to make is that if he does not keep his back planted most firmly to the brickwork that he will become prey to every single homosexual man in the land. I would like to write an open letter to this person.
Dear sir,
In the same way that every woman walking the face of this earth does not want to place your greasy penis in any of their orifices, neither do any of the gay men. In fact, instead of you keeping your back to the wall maybe you could, in the future, keep your face to the wall and your cockamamie opinions firmly inside your narrow minded little fucking skull.
Lots of love,
Jim xxx
Lets set one thing out straight away. Homophobia in general is daft. I've been relaying the story of the audience member with the no-entry sign tattooed on his arse for about two years now. Worst part of that being that he generally saw NOTHING wrong with such a cackhanded choice of ink-based needle design on his posterior. Thing is, he was 15 years old. It doesn't make it ok, but it at least explains it.
Try working with kids. What you'll learn very early on is that the insult "gay" is the most common that you'll ever hear. I'll be honest, when I was young and foolish I used to do it. My tremendously nice and intelligent 9 year old nephew called me gay this afternoon for the apparent "crime" of wearing a flat cap. He could have called me a yorkshireman, but he chose to call me gay.
Thing is, he'll learn. It's not ok that he thinks it's acceptable to call me that, but when he reaches adulthood he'll be well adjusted and will thankfully learn. When I was in my early teens I didn't know anyone gay. I didn't understand a lot of things back then. I barely understood what I wanted myself, so the concept of understanding anything that was different to me was greeted with confusion and like everything I can't deal with (normally, life itself) twas also met with humour. I'm not proud of the person that I was back then, but luckily my parents would always punish me for being homophobic in any way. Because even though they used to beat me on a daily basis with drilled paddles, they couldn't bear intolerance.
I've got a lot of gay friends. To quote the person who would usually be making excuses for hidden prejudices, a lot of my best friends are gay. As I'm now a well raised and hopefully decent member of the human race, I don't think of them of being gay in the same way I don't think of my straight friends sexual preference. They're just my mates.
A former work colleague of mine once expressed his disgust - and I don't mean that lightly, he was genuinely crimson with rage - that one of my best friends is gay. I don't think anything in the workplace has ever made me as angry. In fact, my top five things-that-made-me-angry at work are:
5: The time I ate tainted corned beef in a sandwich.
4: People complaining about tax when they get paid. That shit happens.
3: The time I lost my picture of the the cashmere goat.
2: Hitting my head on the underside of my desk (I did it 63 times in 8 years)
1: The aforementioned homophobe.
Thing is, he broke out all the "backs to the wall" shit. That's the playground stuff that really makes me angry. And he was 38 years old. Let us take this person as a case study. His standard attitude upon meeting someone gay is to make that statement and others along the same lines. And why? The insinuation that he seems to make is that if he does not keep his back planted most firmly to the brickwork that he will become prey to every single homosexual man in the land. I would like to write an open letter to this person.
Dear sir,
In the same way that every woman walking the face of this earth does not want to place your greasy penis in any of their orifices, neither do any of the gay men. In fact, instead of you keeping your back to the wall maybe you could, in the future, keep your face to the wall and your cockamamie opinions firmly inside your narrow minded little fucking skull.
Lots of love,
Jim xxx
Wednesday 29 April 2009
13: People (normally younger than me) who make everything sound like a question?
I'm a child of the 1980s. Yes, I was born in the 1970s, when punk was at its highest of dizzying heights and Margaret Thatcher was about to be festooned upon us like a rusted T-1000 in a bouffant wig. But I'm a child OF the 1980s, because that's when I grew up. If your first childhood memory is not of He Man but of the Turtles, you're a child of the nineties. I care not one fuck if you were born in 1989, you were merely sent into this world in that year. You were not "Made in the 1980s" as your fucking Top Man t-shirt says. Your personality, likes and dislikes and sensibilities are shaped by your childhood and mine took place in the 1980s. The early part, admittedly. The bit where video games consoles were still made of wood and people queued round the streets of Leicester to see the stunning special effects of Ghostbusters.
Thing is, I'm the last of a dying breed. My generation (I reckon those born in 1982 and before) are the last bastions of hope for a rapidly vanishing tradition. A noble, thoroughly British area of etiquette that precious few youngsters subscribe to. An issue that is so simple in the very nature of its being and yet so far from being able to be saved that a billion Daily Mail readers cry into their Fruit 'N Fibre every morning to mourn its obvious passing, like the gradual decline of the Queen Mother - with her peanut teeth giving away the fact that the royal family were waiting uncomfortably long for her to croak, like a family eying up new dogs whilst their labrador limps past 87 in dog years.
I speak of course, of the tradition of talking without making everything sound like a question.
We've become so used to this that we never, ironically enough, question it. Well, normal people don't. I do. I sometimes imagine that I'm possessed by the irritable spirit of a Victorian diction coach, liable to crack people across the backs of their knees with the birch because they made the sentence "I ate a lovely orange yesterday" sound like a question by using the wrong intonation at the end of said sentence, the reckless mavericks.
If you just read the sentence about the orange and your voice went slightly up in tone at the end of it, you are going to hell. I can rest assured that you're younger than me and I can only sleep well in my bed at night knowing that my generation and those before me have wrecked the world beyond all belief for you to live in. The children may be our future, but they can't fucking speak properly.
Thing is, it is a basic fact of life that we imitate and mimic others. Mass media is such that we can watch whatever we want from across the globe at any time. Satellite television has a billion channels with nothing on, so they have to get the programming from somewhere. I could blame any country for this phenomenon if I chose.
It's not the UK, because we invented actual language, so my Dad says. Yeah.
It's not America, even though I'd love to blame them for something else. Their contributions to youth culture know no bounds. I would like to thank them in particular (via the means of me besting them in a Coal Miner's Glove wrestling match) for Dawsons Creek and the wonderful way that it has enabled the love lorn the world over to overanalyse relationships and talk in sentences that no-one would ever use in real life. An actual quote:
Dawson: God, I am so lonely. I'm 16 years old and I'm so hopelessly lonely.
Joey: Is that why you got drunk?
Dawson: Yeah...Jo, why did you break up with me and run straight to Jack?
Joey: Because he wasn't you. Look, it was never about looking for something better, Dawson. It was about looking for someone who wasn't so close to me. Where I could tell where I ended and he began. I mean, our lives have always been so intertwined that in many ways I feel like you partially invented me, Dawson. And that scares me so much. I need to find out if I can be a whole person without you. I need to find out if I can be a whole person....alone.
Dawson: Well, do it quickly, okay? Because....God, I love you.
Seriously, what the fuck?
Anyway, yes. I blame Australia, for so many reasons. The main one being that they can take it. If you know an Aussie, criticise him and her. Watch the look on their face. The wry smile. That's them thinking "Ha! Least I'm not British". While I'm awake at 6am writing this rant, every Australian I know is having a dream about how good he or she is at sport. Even if they're useless at it. They don't have egg and spoon races in sports days in Australia. No sack races. They do three-legged triathlons, and then the talented little fuckers run home afterwards so they can sprint to the beach and swim to Papua New Guinea.
Back to my point about the 1980s. In 1986, something terrible came to our shores from down under. No, not Yahoo Serious (Young Einstein came out in 1988).
Neighbours.
Until the people of Erinsborough appeared on our TV screens, I'm convinced that we spoke normally. You could point to the Americans and the way they talk (which has similar intonation) but I reckon they merely copied us. Because face it, we're cooler than Americans. But not as cool as the Japanese, because they have the whole Harajuku thing and Ninjas.
Over 5,500 episodes of Neighbours have been screened in the UK. My sister (three years younger than me) used to watch it every day. I remember the look of delight on her face when she'd had a day off sick and she rang her friends to tell them that she'd watched the afternoon version of Neighbours. The way she described the experience was akin to someone of my Gran's generation having a biblical vision of St Peter and the pearly gates. My entire school was addicted to Neighbours (and later on, to a lesser extent Home and Away). The only plotline I can ever remember getting interested in was when Todd (I think) got addicted to arcade games and they showed him playing Ghosts and Goblins in an arcade. You could tell he was a dangerous addict because he had on a long coat.
There is so much non question asking chicanery in one episode of Neighbours that I have to turn it off before my neighbours bang on the walls to ask me why I'm screaming utterly random-seeming sentences at my television, like a schizophrenic having a surrealist row with himself. There is no reason that we should pay any attention to Neighbours at all - it's not like the rules of Erinsborough have any bearing on real life.
RULE A: You'll probably work at Lassiters at some point.
RULE B: It's quite easy to become a journalist, so maybe try that.
RULE C: Or a teacher.
RULE D: No other forms of work are available.
RULE E: Unless you count being a sub par Matthau / Lemmon combo as a job (I'm looking at YOU, Harold and Lou)
MAJOR RULE: If you ever leave Erinsborough, you will AT THE VERY LEAST be terribly maimed. If you go into the forest around Erinsborough, you will definitely die.
The popularity of Neighbours was such that if you imported any Australian programme then people genuinely got excited. I remember the debut of Flying Doctors - my mum and sister had planned their evening for weeks. I went outside and there was no-one about. And that night, another 100,000 people made the sentence "I'm going to bed now" sound like a godforsaken question.
Australia - and indeed Neighbours itself - has given us so many great things. Kylie and her bottom. Dannii and her breasts. Stefan Dennis and "Dont It Make You Feel Good". The belief that any simpleton can have a number one record in this country. Angry Anderson. It's all good. Australia may have given us this habit, but we're the ones to blame for copying it so frequently and making it normal. Makes you wonder what's next though, what the next great cultural explosion is, the next best import to Aussie soaps.
I'd quite like the joy of Bollywood films to be a bigger part of British culture - they certainly deserve to be. If only because I'd love dull days to be brightened with dance routines and smiling.
I'm off now, hope you enjoyed this rant? Argh, now I'm doing it.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Thing is, I'm the last of a dying breed. My generation (I reckon those born in 1982 and before) are the last bastions of hope for a rapidly vanishing tradition. A noble, thoroughly British area of etiquette that precious few youngsters subscribe to. An issue that is so simple in the very nature of its being and yet so far from being able to be saved that a billion Daily Mail readers cry into their Fruit 'N Fibre every morning to mourn its obvious passing, like the gradual decline of the Queen Mother - with her peanut teeth giving away the fact that the royal family were waiting uncomfortably long for her to croak, like a family eying up new dogs whilst their labrador limps past 87 in dog years.
I speak of course, of the tradition of talking without making everything sound like a question.
We've become so used to this that we never, ironically enough, question it. Well, normal people don't. I do. I sometimes imagine that I'm possessed by the irritable spirit of a Victorian diction coach, liable to crack people across the backs of their knees with the birch because they made the sentence "I ate a lovely orange yesterday" sound like a question by using the wrong intonation at the end of said sentence, the reckless mavericks.
If you just read the sentence about the orange and your voice went slightly up in tone at the end of it, you are going to hell. I can rest assured that you're younger than me and I can only sleep well in my bed at night knowing that my generation and those before me have wrecked the world beyond all belief for you to live in. The children may be our future, but they can't fucking speak properly.
Thing is, it is a basic fact of life that we imitate and mimic others. Mass media is such that we can watch whatever we want from across the globe at any time. Satellite television has a billion channels with nothing on, so they have to get the programming from somewhere. I could blame any country for this phenomenon if I chose.
It's not the UK, because we invented actual language, so my Dad says. Yeah.
It's not America, even though I'd love to blame them for something else. Their contributions to youth culture know no bounds. I would like to thank them in particular (via the means of me besting them in a Coal Miner's Glove wrestling match) for Dawsons Creek and the wonderful way that it has enabled the love lorn the world over to overanalyse relationships and talk in sentences that no-one would ever use in real life. An actual quote:
Dawson: God, I am so lonely. I'm 16 years old and I'm so hopelessly lonely.
Joey: Is that why you got drunk?
Dawson: Yeah...Jo, why did you break up with me and run straight to Jack?
Joey: Because he wasn't you. Look, it was never about looking for something better, Dawson. It was about looking for someone who wasn't so close to me. Where I could tell where I ended and he began. I mean, our lives have always been so intertwined that in many ways I feel like you partially invented me, Dawson. And that scares me so much. I need to find out if I can be a whole person without you. I need to find out if I can be a whole person....alone.
Dawson: Well, do it quickly, okay? Because....God, I love you.
Seriously, what the fuck?
Anyway, yes. I blame Australia, for so many reasons. The main one being that they can take it. If you know an Aussie, criticise him and her. Watch the look on their face. The wry smile. That's them thinking "Ha! Least I'm not British". While I'm awake at 6am writing this rant, every Australian I know is having a dream about how good he or she is at sport. Even if they're useless at it. They don't have egg and spoon races in sports days in Australia. No sack races. They do three-legged triathlons, and then the talented little fuckers run home afterwards so they can sprint to the beach and swim to Papua New Guinea.
Back to my point about the 1980s. In 1986, something terrible came to our shores from down under. No, not Yahoo Serious (Young Einstein came out in 1988).
Neighbours.
Until the people of Erinsborough appeared on our TV screens, I'm convinced that we spoke normally. You could point to the Americans and the way they talk (which has similar intonation) but I reckon they merely copied us. Because face it, we're cooler than Americans. But not as cool as the Japanese, because they have the whole Harajuku thing and Ninjas.
Over 5,500 episodes of Neighbours have been screened in the UK. My sister (three years younger than me) used to watch it every day. I remember the look of delight on her face when she'd had a day off sick and she rang her friends to tell them that she'd watched the afternoon version of Neighbours. The way she described the experience was akin to someone of my Gran's generation having a biblical vision of St Peter and the pearly gates. My entire school was addicted to Neighbours (and later on, to a lesser extent Home and Away). The only plotline I can ever remember getting interested in was when Todd (I think) got addicted to arcade games and they showed him playing Ghosts and Goblins in an arcade. You could tell he was a dangerous addict because he had on a long coat.
There is so much non question asking chicanery in one episode of Neighbours that I have to turn it off before my neighbours bang on the walls to ask me why I'm screaming utterly random-seeming sentences at my television, like a schizophrenic having a surrealist row with himself. There is no reason that we should pay any attention to Neighbours at all - it's not like the rules of Erinsborough have any bearing on real life.
RULE A: You'll probably work at Lassiters at some point.
RULE B: It's quite easy to become a journalist, so maybe try that.
RULE C: Or a teacher.
RULE D: No other forms of work are available.
RULE E: Unless you count being a sub par Matthau / Lemmon combo as a job (I'm looking at YOU, Harold and Lou)
MAJOR RULE: If you ever leave Erinsborough, you will AT THE VERY LEAST be terribly maimed. If you go into the forest around Erinsborough, you will definitely die.
The popularity of Neighbours was such that if you imported any Australian programme then people genuinely got excited. I remember the debut of Flying Doctors - my mum and sister had planned their evening for weeks. I went outside and there was no-one about. And that night, another 100,000 people made the sentence "I'm going to bed now" sound like a godforsaken question.
Australia - and indeed Neighbours itself - has given us so many great things. Kylie and her bottom. Dannii and her breasts. Stefan Dennis and "Dont It Make You Feel Good". The belief that any simpleton can have a number one record in this country. Angry Anderson. It's all good. Australia may have given us this habit, but we're the ones to blame for copying it so frequently and making it normal. Makes you wonder what's next though, what the next great cultural explosion is, the next best import to Aussie soaps.
I'd quite like the joy of Bollywood films to be a bigger part of British culture - they certainly deserve to be. If only because I'd love dull days to be brightened with dance routines and smiling.
I'm off now, hope you enjoyed this rant? Argh, now I'm doing it.
http://twitter.com/jimsmallman
Monday 20 April 2009
12: Psychics
I'd always like to presume that everyone walking the face of the Earth is essentially quite clever. I sit back and assume that if I'm on a train I can have a 43 minute conversation with the person next to me about topics as diverse as the cause of the recession, the vanguards of American literature in the 20th century and hog breeding. As human beings we have the ability to be incisive, thought-provoking, resourceful and witty.
And yet for all the wonderful gifts that evolution has given us, for all the immense thinking power wrapped up in every single person's brain, for the billions of electrical impulses that one special muscle utilises to drive humanity forward... there are still people that think that psychics have some relevance in the world today.
Why would you want to see the future? I don't. Everyone knows roughly which way that they're headed. If you've worked hard to get where you are then your life isn't really going to take a vastly unexpected turn. Lets say that you spent the last five years working at building up a florist business. If you want to know where it's headed then maybe look back at your records, establish some trends, draw up a well considered business plan and make some projections based upon that. Throw in some intangibles.
Don't go and visit someone who will toss together some generalisations and give you a vague conclusion that you'll then sit on and hark back to everytime something remotely good or bad happens. I would be impressed if a psychic, just for once, didn't throw out a "tall, dark stranger" prediction and instead predicted that we'd all die in a shower of razor sharp broccoli florets.
The same goes for anything else loosely based within the psychic world. Derek Acorah and his like are charlatans, one and all. You know anyone who has ever seen a ghost? No, of course you don't. Because they don't exist. How convenient that something that is allegedly so real cannot be seen by just anyone, nor heard, nor photographed. I've spoken to three different people who have met a drunken Derek Acorah and he's told them that everything he does is made up. Every last thing. He's a trustworthy as a broker at Lehman Brothers. Yeah, that's some fucking satire right there.
Mediums tire me out, especially those that are as believable as the orange faced televangelists in the states. I find someone healing another person by smacking them in the face more realistic than a man in a patterned jumper claiming to know the history of complete simpletons by the means of guesswork and generalisation. It's wrong to pray on the hopes and fears of generally nice people by claiming to be able to speak to their long dead relatives.
The list of people that can talk to dead people is not a long one.
1: Haley Joel Osment in "The Sixth Sense"
That is all.
Incidentally, if you decided to read this rant because you misread the title and presume that this is about physics, I apologise for confusing you. But I hate that as well. So, have this bonus rant:
No one uses the words mass or velocity after their GCSEs, fuckers. Stop trying to make us learn them.
And yet for all the wonderful gifts that evolution has given us, for all the immense thinking power wrapped up in every single person's brain, for the billions of electrical impulses that one special muscle utilises to drive humanity forward... there are still people that think that psychics have some relevance in the world today.
Why would you want to see the future? I don't. Everyone knows roughly which way that they're headed. If you've worked hard to get where you are then your life isn't really going to take a vastly unexpected turn. Lets say that you spent the last five years working at building up a florist business. If you want to know where it's headed then maybe look back at your records, establish some trends, draw up a well considered business plan and make some projections based upon that. Throw in some intangibles.
Don't go and visit someone who will toss together some generalisations and give you a vague conclusion that you'll then sit on and hark back to everytime something remotely good or bad happens. I would be impressed if a psychic, just for once, didn't throw out a "tall, dark stranger" prediction and instead predicted that we'd all die in a shower of razor sharp broccoli florets.
The same goes for anything else loosely based within the psychic world. Derek Acorah and his like are charlatans, one and all. You know anyone who has ever seen a ghost? No, of course you don't. Because they don't exist. How convenient that something that is allegedly so real cannot be seen by just anyone, nor heard, nor photographed. I've spoken to three different people who have met a drunken Derek Acorah and he's told them that everything he does is made up. Every last thing. He's a trustworthy as a broker at Lehman Brothers. Yeah, that's some fucking satire right there.
Mediums tire me out, especially those that are as believable as the orange faced televangelists in the states. I find someone healing another person by smacking them in the face more realistic than a man in a patterned jumper claiming to know the history of complete simpletons by the means of guesswork and generalisation. It's wrong to pray on the hopes and fears of generally nice people by claiming to be able to speak to their long dead relatives.
The list of people that can talk to dead people is not a long one.
1: Haley Joel Osment in "The Sixth Sense"
That is all.
Incidentally, if you decided to read this rant because you misread the title and presume that this is about physics, I apologise for confusing you. But I hate that as well. So, have this bonus rant:
No one uses the words mass or velocity after their GCSEs, fuckers. Stop trying to make us learn them.
Monday 13 April 2009
11: Racism
I'm quite ridiculously proud of being from Leicester. I have an oft-rehearsed line that I say onstage at most gigs where I mention that I love the city because it is "a vibrant, diverse place". And it is. I have never caught a whiff of the slightest bit of racial tension in my home city, and that's something that I'm chuffed enough about to even gloat just a little bit. I'm delighted to say that I don't have a single racist friend or acquaintance - although with my own sensibilities I wouldn't entertain anyone racist anyway.
When I say "entertain anyone racist" I of course don't refer to audiences. Because I have no choice there, I can't vet them all. Much as I like to say that I am cool with anyone's beliefs or ideals, if someone says something racist to me onstage I have a burning desire to smash them over the head with a chair. Not in a weak Lance Storm vs RVD way, in an awesome Rock vs Mick Foley way.
Ask any comedian what the most annoying part of his job is and you'll get one of the following answers:
Travelling. I kind of like it, but apparently being squashed into a Corsa with 4 other acts and travelling 300 miles to entertain 21 people in the corner of a pub isn't everyone's cup of tea. Personally, I find it preferable to a daily commute to a regular job. I get nostalgic for it if I have a week or so of travelling alone. The smell of 4 Ginsters sandwiches being eaten at once whilst dissecting each others sets is a joy to behold and the total sensual experience.
Heckling. I kind of enjoy it, but you do get the odd plank who doesn't know when he's beat. You'll knock them down and they keep getting back up, like a retarded version of Rocky, hitting you with funny noise after terrible homophobic putdown like he's trying to have a gazillion sequels made about his career.
Comments. One of my favourites is an inebriated audience member coming up to me - I reckon this happens once in every 5 gigs I MC - and saying "You're really good, you should be one of the comedians". I am one of the comedians, you fucker. Believe me, that shit is quite, quite rehearsed. I wish I was as off the cuff and spontaneous as I may appear. I'm not even spontaneous enough to consider buying flowers from a petrol station when I'm in a relationship in order to guarantee semi-grateful sex.
Suggested Jokes. I reckon this is the main annoyance for most comedians. Some dick comes up to you and tells you - or even worse, shows you a "gag" on his mobile phone - a joke of questionable content or taste and follows it with the required suffix sentence of "you can have that". The most I've ever enjoyed such an experience was when someone tried to give me an off-colour joke that I'd heard a million times and when they said the magic words I simply walked off. No smile, no comment, just a straight face walking away as their bemused voices trailed off into the night.
It's concerning the subject matter of this rant that makes me so annoyed at the latter of the four items above. 9 times out of 10 the jokes that get suggested to me by audience members are inherently racist. I understand that the sensibilities of people in small towns (such as Hinckley or Nuneaton, where I run gigs) are different to those in big cities - but that isn't an excuse to act like a bigot, or believe that you speaking ill of anyone from another race, or of another colour or religion to you is freedom of speech. Racism makes me physically angry. It's just beyond me as to why anyone would believe that anyone is inferior to anyone else. Why can't we just all agree that we're all pretty ace and that life is nice? I don't view my friends in terms of what race they are, sex they are, sexuality that they have chosen - they're my friends because I love them. Simple as that. And everyone walking the Earth has the potential to be awesome, in the same way that they could turn out to be a bit of a dick. The only discrimination that we should all adopt is that of being dickist - not tolerating some of the many halfwits who share the world with is. Which means conversely, that it is more than ok to be anti-racist if you're planning on being dickist.
If that makes any sense.
The closest I got into getting into a fight at a gig is based around racist joke suggestion. It wasn't in front of a 200 strong throng of stag and hens, it was in a country pub in front of 30 people. I mentioned where I'm from, and how proud I am of being from Leicester and how it saddens me to live in a more small minded town like Hinckley. They laughed in the wrong places and for the wrong reasons, writing their own jokes based around stuff that I consider anti racism and anti racist. So I curtailed that part of the set and went back to knob gags, as was my forte at the time. Still is. If I have a forte. Trusthouse Forte.
At the end of an okish gig a man came up to me. Seemed like a regular enough chap, about my age and at the gig with his wife. He did the old "here's one for you..." bollocks and proceeded to tell me some of the most vile, bigoted and racist "jokes" that I've ever heard in my life. I was remotely new to such an experience at the time and shook my head at them.
ME: Well mate, I use my own material... and to be honest your jokes are a bit controversial...
HIM: I thought you'd like them, being from Leicester.
ME: How so?
HIM: Well, you must be tired of them all.
ME: Them?
HIM: You know, the immigrants. Leicester's full of them.
ME: Have you ever been there?
HIM: No, never. Wouldn't like it.
ME: Why not?
HIM: You know, it's not an English city anymore.
ME: Why, has it been moved somewhere else?
HIM: No...
ME: I mean, I drove here from there tonight, and the last time I checked I drove in from the East Midlands.
HIM: I didn't mean that...
ME: I even drove past a flagpole and it had the same flag as the rest of England flying from it. Who'd have thought it?
HIM: It's just that I'm...
ME: A cunt? Yes. Yes you are.
You'd think it would be him that took exception to this, but it wasn't. It was his gin-soaked orange faced Mrs who decided to grab a bottle and pointed it at me. Not smash it, but point it at me, neck up, like an expectant penis. This was the lamest standoff in the history of time.
I should have just walked away, but I had to run in the end. I scrambled for my car keys in my pocket, readying them and shouldering my bag as discussions seemed to calm down.
ME: Sorry mate, but I have to ask why you're so racist.
HIM: I'm not racist. I've got loads of black mates.
(This is, of course, the get out clause of many a racist. Homophobes replace this sentence with "I once watched Will and Grace")
ME: So what's the problem then? The colour of someone's skin?
HIM: No...
ME: Because your Mrs looks like a fucking space hopper.
I ran then. And what I said with regards to her mandarin hue wasn't racist, because some of my best friends are spacehoppers.
When I say "entertain anyone racist" I of course don't refer to audiences. Because I have no choice there, I can't vet them all. Much as I like to say that I am cool with anyone's beliefs or ideals, if someone says something racist to me onstage I have a burning desire to smash them over the head with a chair. Not in a weak Lance Storm vs RVD way, in an awesome Rock vs Mick Foley way.
Ask any comedian what the most annoying part of his job is and you'll get one of the following answers:
Travelling. I kind of like it, but apparently being squashed into a Corsa with 4 other acts and travelling 300 miles to entertain 21 people in the corner of a pub isn't everyone's cup of tea. Personally, I find it preferable to a daily commute to a regular job. I get nostalgic for it if I have a week or so of travelling alone. The smell of 4 Ginsters sandwiches being eaten at once whilst dissecting each others sets is a joy to behold and the total sensual experience.
Heckling. I kind of enjoy it, but you do get the odd plank who doesn't know when he's beat. You'll knock them down and they keep getting back up, like a retarded version of Rocky, hitting you with funny noise after terrible homophobic putdown like he's trying to have a gazillion sequels made about his career.
Comments. One of my favourites is an inebriated audience member coming up to me - I reckon this happens once in every 5 gigs I MC - and saying "You're really good, you should be one of the comedians". I am one of the comedians, you fucker. Believe me, that shit is quite, quite rehearsed. I wish I was as off the cuff and spontaneous as I may appear. I'm not even spontaneous enough to consider buying flowers from a petrol station when I'm in a relationship in order to guarantee semi-grateful sex.
Suggested Jokes. I reckon this is the main annoyance for most comedians. Some dick comes up to you and tells you - or even worse, shows you a "gag" on his mobile phone - a joke of questionable content or taste and follows it with the required suffix sentence of "you can have that". The most I've ever enjoyed such an experience was when someone tried to give me an off-colour joke that I'd heard a million times and when they said the magic words I simply walked off. No smile, no comment, just a straight face walking away as their bemused voices trailed off into the night.
It's concerning the subject matter of this rant that makes me so annoyed at the latter of the four items above. 9 times out of 10 the jokes that get suggested to me by audience members are inherently racist. I understand that the sensibilities of people in small towns (such as Hinckley or Nuneaton, where I run gigs) are different to those in big cities - but that isn't an excuse to act like a bigot, or believe that you speaking ill of anyone from another race, or of another colour or religion to you is freedom of speech. Racism makes me physically angry. It's just beyond me as to why anyone would believe that anyone is inferior to anyone else. Why can't we just all agree that we're all pretty ace and that life is nice? I don't view my friends in terms of what race they are, sex they are, sexuality that they have chosen - they're my friends because I love them. Simple as that. And everyone walking the Earth has the potential to be awesome, in the same way that they could turn out to be a bit of a dick. The only discrimination that we should all adopt is that of being dickist - not tolerating some of the many halfwits who share the world with is. Which means conversely, that it is more than ok to be anti-racist if you're planning on being dickist.
If that makes any sense.
The closest I got into getting into a fight at a gig is based around racist joke suggestion. It wasn't in front of a 200 strong throng of stag and hens, it was in a country pub in front of 30 people. I mentioned where I'm from, and how proud I am of being from Leicester and how it saddens me to live in a more small minded town like Hinckley. They laughed in the wrong places and for the wrong reasons, writing their own jokes based around stuff that I consider anti racism and anti racist. So I curtailed that part of the set and went back to knob gags, as was my forte at the time. Still is. If I have a forte. Trusthouse Forte.
At the end of an okish gig a man came up to me. Seemed like a regular enough chap, about my age and at the gig with his wife. He did the old "here's one for you..." bollocks and proceeded to tell me some of the most vile, bigoted and racist "jokes" that I've ever heard in my life. I was remotely new to such an experience at the time and shook my head at them.
ME: Well mate, I use my own material... and to be honest your jokes are a bit controversial...
HIM: I thought you'd like them, being from Leicester.
ME: How so?
HIM: Well, you must be tired of them all.
ME: Them?
HIM: You know, the immigrants. Leicester's full of them.
ME: Have you ever been there?
HIM: No, never. Wouldn't like it.
ME: Why not?
HIM: You know, it's not an English city anymore.
ME: Why, has it been moved somewhere else?
HIM: No...
ME: I mean, I drove here from there tonight, and the last time I checked I drove in from the East Midlands.
HIM: I didn't mean that...
ME: I even drove past a flagpole and it had the same flag as the rest of England flying from it. Who'd have thought it?
HIM: It's just that I'm...
ME: A cunt? Yes. Yes you are.
You'd think it would be him that took exception to this, but it wasn't. It was his gin-soaked orange faced Mrs who decided to grab a bottle and pointed it at me. Not smash it, but point it at me, neck up, like an expectant penis. This was the lamest standoff in the history of time.
I should have just walked away, but I had to run in the end. I scrambled for my car keys in my pocket, readying them and shouldering my bag as discussions seemed to calm down.
ME: Sorry mate, but I have to ask why you're so racist.
HIM: I'm not racist. I've got loads of black mates.
(This is, of course, the get out clause of many a racist. Homophobes replace this sentence with "I once watched Will and Grace")
ME: So what's the problem then? The colour of someone's skin?
HIM: No...
ME: Because your Mrs looks like a fucking space hopper.
I ran then. And what I said with regards to her mandarin hue wasn't racist, because some of my best friends are spacehoppers.
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