Saturday, 28 July 2012

Bunch of leftie crap

This is the view of several commenters in the Daily Mail today. Referring, of course, to the opening ceremony of the Olympics.

One of them said: "It was alright. Saved by Macca at the end. I think Andrew Lloyd Webber should have been involved."

Ah. Freedom of speech is marvellous and I do love the fact that I live in a country that more or less encourages it. But it also serves as a reminder that so many people are just a waste of cells.

It appears their main problem with Danny Boyle's ceremony was its inclusivity, and in particular, its lengthy tribute and appreciation of the NHS.

A Tory MP even tweeted, in among his attacks on its left wing bent, the ceremony should have included Shakespeare. It's possible, I suppose, that he didn't understand that Branagh, in his guise as Brunel, was quoting from The Tempest which, last time I checked was written by Shakespeare. It's also possible he's an.ignorant cocklord.

Danny Boyle was the reason I watched the ceremony. I was really intrigued to see what the hell he was going to do with it. I haven't been shy to register my disgust and cynicism at the abject commercialism of the Games. The constant harping on about it and the bizarre choices of torch bearers didn't help.

And I can't say I wasn't massively cynical when it started. The theme, which was something about Britain and the seemingly twee hobbiton-like pastoral village scene at the start didn't help. Wiggins seemed to rather half heartedly ring the bell to kick it off before shuffling off stage in manner of uncomfortable teenager.

So far, so blah.

Then Boyle's way of telling the history of the industrial revolution, the rise of capitalism culminating in the forging of the rings blew me away. It was beautiful, moving, visually astounding, well acted, fabulously performed by people who weren't performers, and technically fabulous. And I don't care that I've written a load of gushing hyperbole because it deserves it. Branagh clearly loved every second of it, like his entire life culminated in this moment of standing on a replica of Glastonbury Tor, booming out Shakespeare to a billion people. And Boyle included so many things I love: Blake, Shakespeare, Elgar...

I loved the inclusion of the kids from Great Ormond Street. In fact, I loved the inclusion of all the children throughout. And children freak me out normally. I loved the NHS bit, particularly as a lot of the dancers were actually NHS staff. I loved the music bit. Could have done without the Mr Bean bit. For the first time ever I thought the Queen was a bit cooler than I initially thought, although the sight of her picking her nails, obviously bored to death while the athletes parade went by was a bit shit. It is her only job to look vaguely interested, after all. Philip was most definitely asleep at one point, although maybe they drugged the old twat to temper his temptation to make him make any racist 'jokes'.

I adored the fluorescent doves on bikes bit, not least because a friend of mine was one of them. It was stunning.

And I actually had a little tear in my eye at the end, with the beautiful lighting of the torch sequence. I just saw that the seven young athletes only found out a week ago that they were going to be playing that part. The torch itself was fucking incredible and made me gasp.

To be honest, I was almost relieved when Macca came on to bore everyone to death with a shit rendition of the ubiquitous fucking Hey Jude. Can't help thinking Boyle didn't have much choice about that bit. But at least the saggy faced uber bore saved me from totally losing myself in a most unfamiliar feeling of, well, I think it was probably, uh, pride. Of being British. I honestly can't remember the last time I even felt a hint of that. And I was pleased that they pulled it off with such style and panache and genuinely included so many members of the public, from the construction workers who built it to all those children who will carry the memory of being part of something so epic for the rest of their lives.

I hope Cameron and various slimy Tories really appreciated the NHS bit especially. It is genuinely one of the best things about Britain, and we are so lucky it's there. For as long as it lasts, of course. But I expect he also thought it was 'leftie crap' in his empty, corrupt soul.

Danny Boyle is actually a bit of a genius. Shame he didn't have a finger or two in the Jubilee shite. I might have been persuaded to give a tiny shit.

Thursday, 26 July 2012

My fragile world is crumbling...

... I just don't know what to do. I'm not sure how much I can take. It's just bad news over and over again.

Heidi and Seal. Johnny and Vanessa. TomKat. And now... now I have to suffer through the heartbreak and trauma of R-Patz and K-Stew? Nothing, and I mean NOTHING could have prepared me for this horror. I can't take anymore. I can't sleep, I can't eat. How could she do this to me? To us? To everyone across the world who loved them and believed in them?

Hooooowwwwww? It's just... tragic.

At least according to the army of Twihards venting their ill educated spleen at the poor little tart on Twitter and the like. She definitely fucked up here, didn't she? I think a lot of people have wondered at her meteroic rise to uber-rich A-list-dom considering the lass can barely act, only has one facial expression and seems permanently stuck in a role for stroppy teenager she once auditioned for. I've always though Kristen was OK, probably for the above reasons. I think I would permanently scowl if I had to spend my life pandering to obsessive freaks who can't distinguish fantasy from reality.

When did it become OK for fans to become so territorial and judgemental? It's like they think they own a piece of her and Robert Pattinson's souls. Assuming they have one, as they must have done some kind of deal with the devil. Probably on a casting couch.

But anyway, yeah, getting caught red-handed entwined with your much older, married director on camera probably wasn't her wisest move. Nor was the cringey statement she released shortly after the news broke. It was something along the lines of: "I love him, I love him" about Rob. That smacks of someone whose texts are going unanswered... Imagine the only way of communicating with your ex is through a statement to the world' press. Embarrassing shit.

The only person who is probably more embarrassed than her right now is the director dude. His wife, who is a beautiful underwear model by the way, is in the same film. Talk about shitting on your doorstep. What a doucheknob. His statement bangs on about how all that matters to him is his wife and kids... yeah, didn't matter to you when you were knee deep buried in your young starlet there now buddy did it, hmmmm? He's probably lost the sequel to Snow White, what with Hollywood being more judgemental than the Catholic church these days, and has probably lost his beautiful wife. Kristen's only lost someone with a head shaped like he should be immortalised on Easter Island and looks like he needs a jolly good scrub.

Last I read he's moved out of their lovenest and is refusing to speak to the Trampire. Hopefully she'll release another statement soon. I can't wait.

Wednesday, 25 July 2012

Instead I wrote this

Do you know what I love best about the world right now? I love the fact that I have just sat at York station for an hour because my train was delayed. It was delayed because of vandals at Tewkesbury apparently. And now I'm going to be at least half an hour late for my meeting.

I've been trying to look at things more positively as it seems to be the thing that people want me to do these days, and, you know, I'll give anything a bash. I mean, why not? It makes sense. If you don't stress about things and get angry and frustrated then you don't release all the hormones and adrenaline that make you feel like you could punch someone in the face so hard their eyes would go through the back of their skull. That makes a lot of sense.

So this morning I tried it. And I did pretty well to be fair. First, I was over half an hour early due to paranoid taxi drivers who insist it can take up to 45 minutes to travel a mile and a half. Then I bought an expensive coffee that tastes like rat's piss with extra milk. Then I got my ticket from a rather gnome-like man in the ticket room thing. It had been booked online, which I still think is really quite fancy, by the way. He greeted me with: "You won't be able to get these here I'm September."

"Um, sorry?" said I. I hadn't understood the relevance of this as yet. "Can I get them.here now?"

"Yes"

"Well, can we just deal with today then before I have to start thinking about where I get my prebooked train tickets to Sunderland in September? I might not be alive in September. Why are you banging on about September?"

Realising this was a little harsh I let him off with a weak smile and a nod. Finally I get my tickets and meander to the platform in fairly good spirits.

As I sat and contemplated why the woman next to me had chosen to go out in public wearing Crocs, I listened to loads of announcements about late running trains. "Aw, how frustrating for all those people waiting for the Newcastle train," I thought to myself charitably. And a bit smugly.

And then I realised that I was waiting for the Newcastle train.

Just before an expletive ridden rant ran through my head, I decided to chill. Relax. It's beyond my control and it's only 10 minutes late. I can still make my meeting.

Half an hour later I can feel my gorge rising. People are being all:"It's fine, we don't have to be anywhere, we're on holiday" about it while I'm panicking. A lot. I hate being late for anything, particularly meetings. Despite it not being in my control I immediately start listing the things I should have done to mitigate this situation. These include getting up at 5am to get a train and camping outside the offices at which I am due.

Ten minutes later I'm tapping the platform with my anxious foot and trying to keep a lid on my latent Tourettes on account of the children sitting next to me.

The train finally arrives. I get on. The engines go off.

If I was in a film, this is exactly where I would get up, smash the window, pull the emergency cord, jump off the train and run screaming into the wilderness screaming about how much I fucking hate everything.

Instead I wrote this.

Sunday, 22 July 2012

There's life in the old bat yet

The Dark Knight Rises is good. Very very good. Despite some overly lengthy punch ups and a really unconvincing death, it's pretty much worth the three-hour running time.

I read a fair amount of Bale-bashing these days. Various gossipy half stories about his bad temper and method acting muleishness, and of course, the video where he apparently acted like the king of douches, but I've always liked him. And not just because he's the sex. Because he is.

The first time I saw him was in Empire of the Sun and he was really, really good. I didn't think he was the sex then. Because he was 11 and that would be wrong. The final scene haunted me for years until I realised it was about Ballard who didn't  actually spent the rest of his life rocking in a mental ward. Bale managed to convey such horror and mental breakdown at what his character had seen and endured that I believed fully that he had been lost for the rest of his life. Pretty impressive for a child who hadn't had any acting lessons before the film.

I have a theory that in the UK we do child actors spectacularly badly. I mean, there are obvious exceptions but for every Liz Taylor there's a Daniel Radcliffe and for every Christian Bale there's a whatsername who played Hermione. The US seems to have a factory that churns them out. Rarely is a child actor with a major role in a Hollywood film as stilted, awkward and amateur as most of the cast of Harry Potter.

The next time I became aware of Bale was as Teddy in the version of Little Women that so woefully miscast Jo they chose Winona Ryder to play the plain, tomboyish, awkward star of the show. Anyone who read and reread these American classics as a child would never have put Winona in that part. But the rest of the cast was pretty spot on, particularly Bale as Teddy, the rich kid who thinks he loves Jo before realising that actually he loves her youngest, blondest most beautiful sister after all. What a shock.

I can't imagine it's the kind of role Bale would ever do now, but he was good. And, oh my days, didn't he grow up nicely? And then The Machinist and American Psycho. So he makes psychotic murderers and unstable 80s fantastists hawt.

It occurs to me that I may not have been reviewing Batman with an unbiased eye but fack it. I've heard loads of people saying they didn't like it, and yeah, the plot is shaky for sure. And Batman is basically sulky, grumpy and limping, Michael Caine is rheumy, tearful and oh so old, Catwoman gets stuck with all the cheesy one liners and keeps randomly snogging the Bat. Mind you, can't blame her for that. And Bane totally sounds like Brian Blessed in Flash Gordon, not so much menacing as like a camp Darth Vadar. And the ending was a bit silly. But I loved the French Revolution parallels and the unrelenting darkness of Nolan's Gotham.

And, frankly, it beats the shit out of  previous iterations. I mean, Batman Forever anyone?


Friday, 20 July 2012

A gap in the clouds

I'm generally such a happy go lucky type, with a keen eye for the positive side of every situ....Bahahahhahahaha.

Obviously, I'm not. I'm cynical to the point of psychosis and brutally realistic about the likelihood of almost everything going to shit. I don't like joining in things; I get angry with crowds of people (they're always so noisily and ostentatiously happy aren't they?); I get angry when people swallow too loudly and I hate it when people scrape their bowls with their spoon. You know? When they get to the bottom of whatever they're shovelling down their necks they bang away at the bottom of the receptacle like they will, any minute now, magic up some more yoghurt from the ether. Just STOP it. You idiot. You're finished. Done. Nothing left. No matter how much you scrape and scrape and scrape, it's never going to be worth the effort your expending and the annoyance it's causing other people. Namely, me.

Therapists, counsellors and friends have often extolled the virtues of concentrating on the given moment, thereby excluding all other worries, stresses or annoyances. Being in the moment is surely the answer to every mental ailment? For if you truly are just there and not thinking of the future, the past, the consequences, the mights, the things you could have, did have or want, then surely all that is left is peace of mind?

Rarely does this happen. I find it difficult. Right now, for instance, I was getting all carried away in that sentence and then got randomly pissed off with the boy next to me taking fucking aeons to eat his crisps and thus make me feel I am living the Quaver experience with him. I would make a very bad yogi. Or monk. Very bad.

But, just now, on the train, I looked out of the window at a beautifully intense sky, with clouds split by rays of sunlight. Just outside Derby and the sky looks like a Titian wet dream. It's stunning. Beautiful. Heartbreakingly breathtaking. And as I looked, the sun suddenly burst through the clouds fully and triumphantly and streamed onto my face. I closed my eyes and for five minutes I was not thinking about anything at all. And it felt great.

I'm going to look up more often.

Monday, 16 July 2012

Pick up the FUCKING phone

What is with the cowardice of men today? And yes, before someone bangs on about how not all men are the same. I know. I know. I fucking know. It must just be all the men I have anything to do with in a datey way.

If you want to, I dunno, go out on a date with someone, bang on for the next few days about how amazing they are and how much you fancy them and can't wait to see them and then, on the morning of said date, text them with some tedious bullshit about how your ex magically got in touch over the weekend (during the five minutes you weren't texted said person telling them how ace they are) and all of a sudden you need to follow your heart and cancel the date then you are, it almost goes without saying, a fucking tool.

Likewise, if you want to go on and on at someone for months, convince them to spend their hardearned cash on a plane ticket to go out and see you in foreign climes and then suddenly magic up a girlfriend from out of nowhere at the last minute then you are, again, a complete fucking cocklord.

But if you decide to deliver these messages to the unlucky girl in question - and yes, yes, I do mean me - and you choose to do it by TEXT then you are a spineless fucking wankstain of a man who doesn't even deserve this blogpost.

A wet and jellylike shell of a man. A pathetic and embarrassing moistness of a man. I'm trying not to actively despise these men. But the more I meet in a 'dating' capacity, the more I am struggling to even believe that there are some out there who aren't just... awful.

I watch my friends, colleagues and acquaintances have relationships, seemingly without effort. I mean, obviously there are problems in all relationships. But they at least manage to get the fucking thing started.

I give up. Fuck 'em all. I'm going to become a Scientologist instead. I hear Tom Cruise is looking for a new beard. I could do that. He could pay for some lipo and botox and bam, good as gold. Actually, this might have legs...

Sunday, 15 July 2012

It has NOTHING to do with Scientology

You know that Katie Holmes? You know. She was, urm, thingie from Dawson's Creek. Joey. Joey from Dawson's Creek who spent years unfathomably lusting after Dawson himself. And talking in a really over analytical way. And apparently being prettier than the blonde one who was actually much better looking on account of not having that strange wonky eye and mouth effort.

Anyway. Her. A few years ago she very quietly, almost impercetibly, got together with Tom Cruise. You might not have noticed. They were very discreet. There was only that small sofa jumping episode on Oprah and the turning up to the Mission Impossible III (I think, could have been 1 or 2, I really can't be arsed to check) on the back of the tiny man's motorbike.

There were a few reports at the time, I seem to recall, about how Tom Cruise's Scientologist handlers/mates/devotees spent a while interviewing potential wives for the Biggest Heartthrob in Hollywood (TM). That's actually interviewing women to see if they want to be Tom Cruise's 'girlfriend'. Or 'beard' as other people might call it. Or just 'woman they desperately need to make Tom Cruise look as normal as possible'. Or 'slightly stupid and naive much younger woman who wants to be 'A-list''. Whatever that is.

And Katie, who had been all pretty and up and coming and doing a few shit teen films and engaged to a bland heartthrobbyish type for years, well, suddenly Katie Holmes was all over tiny Tom like a tramp on chips.

And for five minutes the world went: "huh?". And then forgot and did something else because who Tom is choosing to use as his tiny gay man beard isn't actually that interesting after all. Paparazzi pictures for the next few years showed an increasingly dishevelled, gaunt, old and depressed looking Katie being dragged around by an increasingly manic-eyed, ever-younger, suspicously thick haired tiny Tom Cruise.

She never failed to look like a shadow of her former self, and he never failed to look like a meglomanic, power-crazed, potentially dangerous crazed Scientology nut. Tom has been a devotee of the made up 'religion' that is Scientology since his first wife, Mimi Rogers (anyone remember her?) introduced him to it. Interestingly she selected him in a similar way to his selecting of Katie and possibly Nicole (far too classy for this utter freak, SURELY?). 

And he was propelled to super stardom in return for most of his money and what was left of his soul. He has also been told he is a very very high up Thetan. Which means that he apparently can move things with his mind and control the world. Or some shit. Other high up Thetans include John Travolta. I watched an interview yesterday where John Travolta was telling the interviewer that he could heal people and that anyone who was ill and came near him would be cured. He gave as an example, the fact that he once cured Sting of a cold.

Surely Mr Travolta must be questioning this, along with Scientology's vetoing of pharmaceutical medication, after the untimely death of his 16 year old son. A son who had a history of seizures and, when he was two and a half was diagonised with Kawasaki Syndrome, a vascular illness that leads to inflamed blood vessels.

Scientology apparently wasn't able to help there.

When Katie Holmes gave birth to what must surely be the most photographed child in all of the known world, she apparently had to do it the Scientology way. That is without medication, pain relief or making a noise.

Still, the word from Tom Cruise's spokesperson was that Katie had fully embraced Scientology and was enthusiastically being audited. Some would call this brainwashing. Meh. Tom-ay-toe, tom-ah-toe.

And then suddenly, Katie Holmes played a blinder. Out of the apparent blue she slapped the Tiny One with divorce papers. And a demand for sole custody of Suri. And 11 days later Tom capitulated. That's eleven days for him to give sole custody of his daughter to Katie. This is the guy who apparently had  his and Nicole Kidman's adopted children so brainwashed against their mother that they no longer speak or spend time together. The man who has sacrificed all normality and, well, pride, for the Church of Scientology (or the ramblings of a mediocre schlocky SciFi author, as normal people prefer to call it).

So basically Katie must have some proper shit on Tom Cruise. Shit that he really doesn't want to come out in any kind of court of law. What could it possibly be?

Just after he released a statement saying that he is shocked and saddened and yadda yadda, his lawyer released a statement saying that whatever people might think, this whole thing has nothing whatSOEVER to do with Scientology. OK? NOTHING. AT ALL.

I don't think it's a coincidence that Katie's dad is a top flight lawyer and that her very Catholic family seem to have helped her plan her escape. She's now living in New York and has enrolled Suri into a Catholic School. Which looks very much like a final "fuck you" to Tom and his 'church'. Scientology likes to get 'em young and starts 'auditing' children at a very young age. Lucky escape for Suri. She now just has the normal future of a celeb child to look forward to: drugs, drugs, a well publicised breakdown, wedding, divorce, drugs, short-lived film director's career and a singing career. Beats the living shit out of Scientology.

Which, of course, this has NOTHING TO DO WITH.



Wednesday, 11 July 2012

The obesity solution

Recently Fatman began displaying some disturbing characteristics. He went from stuffing one bowl of food down his fat mouth to scarfing three bowls a day. At the same time he developed something that he's never been in possession of in the five years I have known him - he suddenly had a waist. And a figure. He started preening and sucking in his fat cheeks when he passed a mirror. My little fat cat had single-pawedly discovered some kind of miracle. He had found a way to triple the quantity of food he sucked down and  yet lose weight.

And as he usually resembles a furry gut on legs, this was big news in the Hender/Fatman household.

Fascinated, I started to compliment him on his weight loss and dreamt of a future where we would write the new diet bestseller. He would teach me his secret and I too would be able to ingest vast quantities of food, while retaining my shiny coat and getting thinner every day.

No more obesity. We had found The Cure.

And then my friend mentioned that perhaps he had worms.

Oh.

The next day, almost as if they had heard our conversation, up they came. Now Fatman is often sick. It's a cat thing. Fairly regularly they make a noise that sounds like they're being turned inside out against their will. It's an unholy, disturbing noise, sort of like they're choking, coughing and puking at the same time. Usually, after an awful lot of this out will pop some kind of revolting hairball and they go back to licking their bits.

So I didn't take much notice when the familiar noise started.

Some time later I thought I better go and deal with it. And was greeted with what looked like a pile of vermicelli in curry sauce.

Fatty had just barfed up his big diet cure.

Sigh.

One treatment and a few days later his ever-expanding football belly tells me that all is right with the world again.

And the only cure for being a fat cat is to cultivate a worm infestation. Probably more fun than the Dukan diet though. Might give it a whirl.

Oh, it's you

Street urchin/middle class vagabond/inexplicably chirpy kid accosted me as I was leaving work again.

He ran over from the other side of the carpark, all freckles and bowl hair cut and childish joie de vivre. And then he said: "Oh, it's you." in a slightly disappointed tone.

"I'm sorry, who were you expecting?," I replied. "Willy Wonka? Spock? Luke fecking Skywalker?"
Rattled I was, that my presence was deemed less than satisfactory by the local bloody neighbourhood rent-a-tyke. He looks like he should be advertising Birds Eye Peas in the 70s, so almost unbelievably wholesome is he.

I didn't actually say that to him, of course, not, in fact, being the wicked witch of the east. West. Whichever.

He proceeded to show me his new piece of tat, some kind of snap on cycling bracelet thing that has something or other to do with the Olympics, according to his excited babble. Of course it does, I mean what doesn't have something to do with the bloody Olympics right now? Every product I buy, from marmite to tampons is endorsed by, supported by or blatantly advertised-for-filthy-lucre by the Olympics, various media whore athletes or 'Team GB'. Let's just hope they do as well as Andy Murray, the England football squad and all the other mediocre yet overblown out of sheer desperation sporting heroes from our glorious summer of sport.

So we chatted, sort of, about the Olympics. As much as one can chat with someone who burbles on incoherently in manner of a six year old cokehead. Same self obsessed monotone, same inability to answer questions or actually converse, same boneheaded, dogged determination to finish his point. Add on 25 years and he's a dead ringer for most of my ex boyfriends.

I had to start backing away, while still chatting. Because, you know, I didn't actually want to spend my evening hanging out with Just William. We parted amicably though.

I wonder where he actually lives. Where he comes from. I'm actually starting to wonder whether anyone else can see him at all.

Wednesday, 4 July 2012

Hey lady, do you want to see my biggest kick?

An actual urchin said this to me just as I was leaving work. He actually scampered across the carpark clutching his football hopefully to his chest.

I looked warily over. I don't interact well with kids. They freak me out if I'm honest. My voice does this fake bonhomie thing when I talk to them. So determined am I to talk to them as equals and not be patronising, as this is what I imagine kids like, that my voice doesn't even sound like my normal voice to me. So christ knows what it sounds like to the kid. They're probably well aware that I'm trying to be their friend and therefore instantly hate me.

"Er, ok, but be quick. I want to go home."

Was that too harsh? It was true though. I had just escaped the office and was enjoying my first breath of freedom and, to be honest, I didn't really want to spend my precious evening time in the company of an aimless vagabond child.

So he kicked. I don't know if it was his biggest ever kick. And I can't say I was much impressed, but I said I was.

"That was ace," I trilled.

He looked at me sceptically. As if to say: I may be six but I'm not freaking stupid, lady.

I sensed the moment had passed. And it was getting s bit awkward. "Just watch the cars, yeah?" I muttered. And scarpered.

But I still felt a tiny warm glow in that I had interacted with a child and a) it had approached me, b) I had held at least two sentences worth of conversation, c) I hadn't said no when it wanted to show me something I was almost positive I didn't really want to see and d) I didn't make it cry.

These are all progress. Sprogged up friends, just give me another few years and I won't be secretly terrified of your offspring anymore. Probably.

Monday, 2 July 2012

Prometheus: stay bound

I have just watched Prometheus. I didn't realise it was a comedy. It was like watching an extended episode of Red Dwarf, complete with a Peter O'Toole impersonating Kryten.

My favourite bit was probably when the douchebag boyfriend was infected and Charlize flamed him for no discernable reason. (and yes, I get that she didn't want him to infect her ship etc, it just didn't have to be so overly dramatic. I was quite glad to see the back of him though. He was a right twat.) And then my second favourite bit was when the wicked witch was crushed under the falling house. Er. Ship. Oh, and the Caesarean was pretty cool. Although how on earth she did so much running around afterwards was ridonkulous.

My main observation though, is that fashions haven't changed much in 70 years. I'm pretty sure they'd have moved on a wee bit when it comes to sturdy outdoor clothing by 2094. They looked like they got most of their clothes from Millets circa 2010.

Fassbender was ace though and Guy Pearce looked like he was having an amusing time covered in the worst old-age make up since Benjamin Button. The whole 'father' reveal was utterly pointless and, well, they seemed to kind of run out of story but just kept going anyway.

The captain was a cliche, as was the dope smoking, weird-haired geologist. Mere cannon fodder in fact, as were most of the crew. Could they not have done more with the characterisation of the peripheral characters? Two of the crew seemed to be solely there to provide the wisecracks during the heroic self-sacrifice scene. It felt like Bruce Willis should have been present at that moment.

Maybe they too hung up on the whole Engineer/Creator thing? And it most definitely smacked of being more concerned with setting up the sequel rather than actually being entertaining.

Plus I had to sit through the trailer for the Hobbit. Which appears to be another three hours of a hairy-footed midget chasing a ring through some countryside, complete with Gollum and Gandalph popping up like Brad Pitt and David Arquette doing cameos in Friends. Does the world need more of that? I mean, really? Just watch the million-hour long Lord of the Rings trilogy would be my advice.

I just quickly read the plot summary of Prometheus on IMDB to check whether my female brain had simply not understood the complex messages and storyline. Turns out it had. That really was the storyline.

Still, the cinema in York is only £3.80 to watch a film and it was probably worth at least a third of that.


Time to move on...?

I don't want to live my life like the Littlest Hobo. I don't like moving house. I would have stayed in my last place until the zombie apocalypse, or until I froze to death, whichever came first, if I hadn't wanted to leave Leamington.

And my house now is alright. It feels pretty much like home. And by that I mean it's covered in cat hair and knickers and hasn't been 'thoroughly cleaned' (my mum's emphasis) since I moved in. Her version of 'thoroughly cleaned' is washing down skirting boards and the like. Ridiculous. Next, she'll be intimating that I really should buy an iron.

But my eagle-eyed friend spotted something at the weekend that has caused great consternation at Chateau Hender-Fatman. A suspicious damp patch has appeared on an inner wall.

Now normally this would be an annoyance but not something that would overly bother me. I have been living in rented accommodation for long enough to know that wherever you go and whatever condition the house/flat/hovel appears to be in, a couple of months later a damp patch will just appear somewhere. If you're lucky, it's minimal and can be covered up with a handy picture. I favour kitschy catholic saints for this purpose. If you're unlucky then, just like me a few years back when I lived underneath the worst landlords known to man or beast (26 Portland Street, Leamington Spa, in case anyone's interested - horrible, horrible people), then you'll open a cupboard and everything you own is covered in green mould.

But this suspicious damp patch is situated around an electric socket. Which can't be good.

I put a call in to my letting agents first thing on Saturday morning. There was no response. I chased twice today and finally got a lady on the phone who said, and yes, I'm quoting: "The landlord knows about it and isn't going to do anything about it."

"Er, that's not really satisfactory Julie," said I.

"Well, what do you want me to do about it," says she.

"I'm sorry, I was under the impression that I was the tenant here. And as I'm paying the princely sum of £695 a month to live in this house and, furthermore, lady, every time you bastards send me an email I get charged for 'letting fees', I'd suggest that you do something as I'm not convinced that it's ok to have damp in an ELECTRIC SOCKET."

I paraphrase there for speed. I don't want to bore you all with my petty stories. Oh, hang on...

Anyway.

She begrudgingly suggests that maybe she could ask an electrician if it is, in fact, totally fine to have damp in the same area as a live socket.

In the meantime I swiftly consult my lawyer (a Mr Google,  very reasonable) who informs me that, nah, it's not OK to have damp in electricalness and that, nah, it's not OK for a landlord to just refuse to do something about it. One call to a surprisingly helpful Environmental Health team at York City Council later and I'm just in time to receive an email from Julie saying:

"Both the landlord and our electrician say that it's fine so we won't be taking any further action."

Once again with feeling.

"Julie, can you explain to me why it is that suddenly water and electricity do mix, to the extent that you are advising me to stick a plug in a fucking damp socket? Can you just explain to me how this has occurred? CAN YOU JULIE, CAN YOU?"

I screamed this in my head as I informed her that according to every other source known to fucking man, that it isn't safe and that my landlord is legally obliged to sort it the fuck out.

These are the reasons why I hate mankind. It's not war, religion or poverty.

It's fucking stupid fucking jobsworths who constantly take money from people and don't see why that means they should fulfill their contractual and legal obligations. It's people who try and convince you that, in the face of all known scientific evidence, that because they can't be fucking ARSED to sort out a problem, that black is white, night is day and water doesn't conduct electricity.

Well, fuck you Julie. I'm coming for you.

And in the meantime, I will have to look for somewhere else to live.

Balls.