Thursday, 27 February 2014

I Wuda split u anyway xx

So, after a brief hiatus where I was exploring other options, I'm back on internet dating. It's a laugh isn't it? I mean, it's something to do.

As I'm skinter than a skint thing, there's no way I'm paying for any of the posh sites, obviously. Guardian Soulmates? Knob off you lefties. After seeing your adverts every five seconds I'd rather die single than end up with someone like that.

So, good old OK Cupid it is. As the more interested (all three of you) may recall, I was banned from OKC due to rejecting some old perve in a way he didn't like. So I had to make a new profile. How tedious. But I did. And then I thought, why not add in Plenty of Fish to the mix?

Last time I looked at this site, it was the vilest of cess pits. Where those too chavvy to use OKC went to die. They have actually cleaned up their act a bit now, and you can basically select to not be contacted by anyone who's just trying to bang anything with a pulse. In theory, like.

So I've been on it for about four days and have received hundreds of messages. I say this not to be a dick and boast, because there ain't nothing flattering about 99.9% of them, but to illustrate that when you dip your lady toe into the mire of online dating, you're instantly circled by piranhas with penii.

There have been many, many messages that have gone straight into the bin. A couple of gross ones. Notably from someone who called himself HarryDom. Shudder. Oh, and one, interestingly from a very young Mel Gibson.

I also get the same guys messaging me over and over and over. One guy sent eight messages in the space of two minutes the other day. So now I try to stop this by replying after the second one. Thusly. Note this is from 'NiceWelshman'. His profile went on at length about how he's a really nice guy, into personal development, meditation and spiritual growth. YEH RITE

That must be the end of it. What with him being such a nice guy. 

Well, no. 

What he says here is "Such a shame coz I love yr croocked nose." just in case you couldn't read it due to my very special screen shotting technique. 

Popeye? What's that about? And yes, there it is. I'm 'banterless'. Could there be any more damning insult from lad culture? Imagine being told one is without banter. It hurts I can tell you.

Anyway. As I said to him 'I'm not interested'

After all that, and repeated 'I'm not interested's, he says I'm sound. What in fuck is wrong with these men?Was that flirty banter from someone with an IQ less than 50? Is that what it sounds like? Does he think: "I'm not interested" means that I am interested but just playing super hard to get? 

And then, this morning. 

It was 'friendly abuse'. An oxymoron from an actual moron. It's so good to be back.

Monday, 24 February 2014

Bridesmaids vs SATC

Two chick flicks on Channel 4. Back to back. Bridesmaids and Sex and the City.

I've seen both before. And tonight I watched one with glee and turned the other straight off.

See, here's the thing. I hate Carrie Bradshaw. She's a shallow, narcissistic victim. She chases an abuser for TEN YEARS before practically forcing him to marry her, which he'll only do, by the way, if the wedding is the polar opposite of what she's spent the last million years dreaming of. She rationalises his shitty behaviour and deserves everything she gets. She's a fucking moron.

The message of that show is just abhorrent. After all the preaching in the early series about being single, all of their lives completely revolve around men. All the time. And their stories all end with the 'happy' ending. Hitched and babied up to the max. Even if you have to be completely humiliated by a man who has treated you like a used tissue for years, it's worth it if you can manipulate him into marrying you in the end. That's the dream, right, ladies?

Fuck that shit. If you're lucky enough to meet someone ace and have a genuine relationship, that's one thing. If you're obsessed with a guy who's shown you over and over again that you're worth nothing, then marrying him is not the prize. I know whereof I speak.

For all her bullshit about self respect and feminism, Carrie Bradshaw is a vapid moron. And her clothes look wank.

Kristen Wigg's character in Bridesmaids is totally realistic. The whole film is realistic when it comes to dealing with friendships, relationships and how messy everything gets. Loads of truths are hidden behind the gags and Wigg delivers a character that's completely human in her fuck ups, suffering and self pity.

She's in a relationship similar to Carrie Bradshaw's with Mr Big. Who fucking refers to the man they're with by a nickname? How weird is that. He's a fuck buddy who won't let her sleep the night. They have amazing sex but he's a total dillhole. But he's hot. He doesn't listen to her, belittles her and treats her like shit but she keeps going back. We've all done it. OK, maybe we haven't all done it. But I've done it. And it really fucks with your self esteem, judgement and self worth.

It still has a bit of a fairy tale ending because it's a film but she ends up with the nice and pleasant looking one instead of the hot but twattish one. Maybe there's hope for me yet. I mean, if I based my life on films. Which I definitely do not.

Friday, 21 February 2014

Warning. This is nothing but a rant about the fucking rain. I'd skip it if I were you.

Every night. Every motherFUCKING night.

Every night I take the Bear out for a 'walk'. It's not a walk. No matter what she thinks. It's an attempt to make sure she doesn't shit in her bed overnight. For the record, my crazy rescue dog from Romania has only done this twice in the whole time I've had her. This makes me inordinately proud. She is so clever.

As I have to get up at arse o clock every morning for the similar privilege of watching her go to the toilet. You have to watch so you can pick it up. It's not a glamorous role, being owned by a dog. Anyway, as I have to get up at arse o clock, I'm tired. I want to go to bed at a reasonable time so I can spend the requisite couple of hours reading/watching shite/doing other stuff. Just stuff, OK? I don't have to tell you everything.

So I like to take her out by 11pm. And every shagging night since she arrived on these shores, it has rained. Every night. I take her out in the pissing rain and beg her to go to the toilet. She looks at me like I'm mental and, more often than not, forces me to take her inside. She does this by bolting for the door and practically ramming her face up against it, like some crazy abandoned orphan dog. I can't refuse her anything so, naturally, she comes in.

And I sit and wait. I wait for the motherfucking cunting BASTARD rain to alleviate enough so that my sensitive pooch will deign to have a piss.

And yes, people have it much worse off than we do on the island. People are living in boats and moving into canoes and shit. I know that. But it's still pretty damn bad down here. Roads are actually disappearing. Pieces of the island are disintegrating before our eyes. And still the rain doesn't STOP.

I moved here on 20 December and we're now on 21 February. Two fucking months of this shit.

I have been a life long lover of winter, grey skies, early darkness and the kind of mizzle that other people seem to hate. The sun used to increase my existential gloom and I perpetually lived within the lyrics of the Stones' Paint It Black. England in the summer is irritating. Everyone dresses badly and acts like they're in a fucking Magners TV advert. It's bogus and fake and very irritating.

I didn't think anything would change my mind on my deep love for winter but this one has done it. I am fucking SICK of it. I'm sick of dressing in sensible fucking cagoules. I'm sick of wearing nothing but running shoes, walking shoes and FUCKING wellies. The last time I wore wellies was at Bestival 2008. Now I pretty much live in them.

I'm sick of being soaked to the skin every time I go out. I'm sick of walking my dog in the rain. I'm sick of the temperature down here barely sinking beneath 10 degrees so what we actually have is warm rain. Warm fucking rain in January and February. What the shit is that about?

I'm sick of sinking ankle deep into churned up bogland if I deviate from any road surface. I'm sick of dodging fallen trees and seeing sandbags everywhere. I'm sick of feeling bad for people who have had their houses ruined and their businesses ruined.

It's shit. And I would like it to stop now.

Thursday, 20 February 2014

Some Americans and a porcine presenter

I have this amazing short story in my head - that might actually turn into something more - but apparently until I can write it I have to write about how much the Brits annoyed me last night. 

I know, it's futile and pointless and why don't I just not watch it if I hate it so much, right? Because it's tradition. Like the Eurovision. And pretending to like my family at Christmas. It's just something I do. I've always done it, I will always do it. Although I can only say that with confidence as James Corden announced it was his last Brits last night. 

I'm not sure how long he's been presenting them but it feels like at least the last five million Brits have been headed by his particularly piggy brand of charm. I don't like to be mean about someone's looks but for him I'll make an exception. He was dire. Charmless, unfunny, awkward, dull, sycophantic. Oink oink. He may as well have just said OINKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK to Pharell Williams. It would have made more sense than whatever the hell he was doing with his stupid hat. 

Every time he sat at a table 'chatting' to the famous types you could feel everyone there and everyone watching clenching their cheeks in embarrassment. Horrible, dreadful awkwardness. 

He managed to call Beyonce shit, make Kylie look like she wanted to be anywhere else but there and be upstaged by that rancid waste of space, Keith Lemon. The tumbleweed was dense. You could see it everywhere. I think, all in all, the viewer at home suffered more as it's clear that everyone there was absolutely battered by half time. 

One Direction won some things - interestingly, they won for a song that was apparently co written by Corden himself - who knew he was so multitalented? NOT ME. Talking of 1D, they've grown haven't they? I remember when they were wee pasty things mewling at Cowell and Co and just a few short years later here they are, all dressed like Noel Coward and carefully nonchalant about the whole thing. They act and talk like they're the fucking Beatles. One of them, the one with the big hair, even chose their award moment to go to the loo to have, as he said, a 'wee'. It wasn't a wee was it Harry? It was a big pile of coke snorted off a buxom model wasn't it? We know what you're at m'laddo. 

Other than them there were a few bands that I've never heard of. I don't listen to Radio 1 ever and I just had no clue. One of them seemed sort of Coldplay light and the other was extremely 'urban', which I always find a bit uncomfortable with English people. 

And then there were a shit tonne of Americans. Beyonce. Katy Perry. Pharrell Williams and his extremely boring hat. Presumably he's wearing it to give him some height. Talking of tiny Americans, Prince and Bruno Mars as well. Corden did an amusing 'selfie' thing with Prince. Prince looked the epitome of unimpressed. We all did. 

What's with the many, many American presenters. Beyonce looked unbelievable and belted out some heinous song. Katy Perry looked all quirky and mad and bawled out something or other. Probably about girl power or something. She has a terrible voice but is very pretty. 

A while later one of the 1D children asked everyone in the audience to 'give it up for James Corden'. Literally no one did. 


Tuesday, 18 February 2014

10 things I love about you

1. You're always there when I need you.
2. You comfort me when I'm sad.
3. You give me an excuse to leave a boring conversation/dull as fuck situation/pub
4. You taste good. Don't let anyone tell you any different.
5. I love to breathe you in and make you a part of me.
6. So many people hate you but it just makes me love you more.
7. One whiff of your scent and I'm back in my youth where the fun happened.
8. When I'm angry or upset, you calm me down.
9. You give me things nothing else can.
10. You're a catalyst to new friends.

I miss you Marlboro. I'll never forget you.

Sunday, 16 February 2014

And this is why I don't listen to music

If they need a new form a torture in this horrible world then they could do worse than going with heart wrenching nostalgia. Subjected to that incessantly, like Alex in A Clockwork Orange but instead of images of horror and violence,  images of different times, happier times, younger times, times before your world was shattered for whatever reason - that'd drive the hardest mind to cave.

I find myself home alone. At last. It's been two months since I was on my own for any length of time. It doesn't matter how much I love the person I'm with every day, my skin starts crawling to freedom. I never truly relax unless I'm on my own. I told someone this once and they though it was a shame. I don't know if it is. I just know that when I'm alone my mind relaxes, my body breathes differently and my mind seems to explode with creativity.

The first thing I've done, obviously, is play loads of music really loud. I don't like doing that while other people are around me. Partly because I get incandescently angry when people do it to me and partly because I still haven't quite shrugged off the fear of music judgement by people cooler than me. At school it was a daily battle to make sure you didn't slip up and admit to liking something shit, especially when I started hanging out with people who took their music very very seriously. Of course, no one gives a fuck and I will happily admit to liking the odd Coldplay song actually, thanks very much, but I do like to play whatever I want without fear of someone going: HAHA. You know when you write blog posts sometimes and realise they make you sound mental? This is one of those.

I love music. I love singing badly to it. I love the way it makes me feel. I pay as much attention to lyrics as the tune and when one perfectly combines both it's glorious. But it also seems to unleash the feelings. And I don't like that.

As an over sensitive, over emotional, neurotic mindmelt with anxiety and panic on the side, most of what I do every day is designed to remain level. My medication, my meditation, my writing and my exercise. All of these things help me to level out and get through the day with a modicum of peace and tranquility. That's the whole idea. I've had to adapt my life in order to understand this, recognise it and start to fight it. And that's fine, all of these things make me feel good. Apart from the meds - I wouldn't mind kicking those. But as anyone else who was put on SSRIs in the late 90s'll tell you - fucking HELL, are they hard to get off.

My point is, everything I choose to do or not do is planned and measured against whether it will help me to feel stable or will trigger a spiral into the crazy place. The whole purpose of my life right now is to not feel things that make me hurt and ache and cry and wish things were different. The whole purpose of my life right now is to accept the way things are. I have battled and fought to accept my dad's death. It's been nearly 13 years and I am only part of the way there. But I know that in acceptance is peace. And that's what I want more than anything.

So the songs I listened to this morning that stirred up my grief and pain and sense of injustice and fear and horror and horrible, horrible nostalgia will just have to stay unplayed for a while longer. One day I'll be able to go back to them without the sickening lurch in my stomach and the lump in my throat. But that day is not today.

Thursday, 13 February 2014

What are you doing for Valentine's Day?

I did really well this year. I almost forgot it was Valentine's Day at all. Until today.

And then I got my usual gloomy feeling. That itchy suspicion that every one else in the world will either wake up to piles of cards from secret yet sexy admirers. Either that or they're in such a secure, marvellous and balanced relationship that they don't need a ridiculous made up holiday to show their eternal love for their partner.

In my head, that's basically it. Every Valentines Day, there are those people above and then there's me. Practising my: "No, didn't get any this year. It's totally fine though, I'm not bothered. Oh, what lovely flowers. And a meal? Lovely. Oh, and a necklace. How fabulous."

Then crying into my cat. Every year, seriously, every year since I was six and watched every girl in the class get a card while I sat there like Carrie without the handy psychic powers, Valentine's Day has been a thorn in my side.

I know it's gobshite. I know it's meaningless. I know that well adjusted mature people don't measure their self worth by whether they get some shitty card once a year out of sheer obligation. I know I shouldn't care.

I did get flowers sent to my office once by my  boyfriend at the time. Turned out it really was a meaningless, empty gesture as he accidentally slept with someone else a couple of weeks later.

So I know, in my 38th year, that it just doesn't matter. But I know that won't stop me having a tiny stab of disappointment tomorrow when I see my lovely pile of bills and junk mail. Still, at least my ma doesn't send me one 'anonymously'. That would be the last nail in the old coffin of self respect.

St Valentine by the way had fuck all to do with love and shit until Chaucer made it up for shits and giggles and to grease up to Richard II. Cheers Chaucer.

As it is I am going on a date tomorrow. With myself. I'm taking me to go and see Robocop. I'll probably treat myself to some pic n mix. Oh yeah, I know how to treat a lady.

I know it's not really like that for everyone else by the way. I'm not that far gone but just sometimes I'd like to be the manic pixie dream girl that everyone falls in love with, or the geek who turns out to be stunningly gorgeous only no one noticed till she took off her glasses, rather than the forever single cat lover in the corner.

I do really love cats though.

Monday, 10 February 2014

Animals or people?

As someone who is fond of sharing a cause or two on social media, because, let's face it, what else is it good for? Seeing pictures of your fucking dinner or your twelve thousandth selfie. By the way, when they ALL have the exact same facial expression you could save your time, energy and the hassle by just leaving the one up there all the time. No one gives a shit anyway.

Anyway, as someone who has a predilection for animal causes, I get some grief. And I see that other animal rights campaigners, or whingers, or just people who get sad at the thought of animal torture do too.

Today, for example, a few people have shared the story of that poor giraffe who was slaughtered by a psycho at Copenhagen zoo. He was called Marius and now he is dead. Because he was surplus to requirements. But, in reality, because the guy in charge is a psychopath who clearly gets his kicks by becoming famous for killing animals. Just because he can.

On a completely different note, I have also seen many people share the story of the 'first Briton' to die through the neknomination 'craze'. This lad decided he wanted to outdo everyone else. You know, all those people who couldn't give a flying fuck so he downed a cocktail of floor polish and buzzard spit or something. And people have been sharing this and saying that it's all very sad.

So there you go. Two completely topics du jour.

But it's only on the animal ones where I see commenters saying things like: "Oh god, kids are dying all over the place and no one gives a shit but a giraffe dies and Facebook just stops."

No one comments on the dead kid and says: "Fucking hell, spare me stories of abject ignorance and stupidity in favour of supporting animals who are being killed by people for no reason at all." And, by the way, they have NO CHOICE. This kid had a choice of what to put in his face. He CHOSE to die. He basically committed a really embarrassing suicide. What a waste of a private education.

Anyway, as usual, I digress. My point is, being an animal lover and sharing petitions or news stories or pointing out that, you know, it would be quite nice if people would stop torturing animals to death, doesn't mean that the defender thinks that all small children should die in a fire or that the Nazis were right.

It's not an either/or situation. You can care about dead giraffes AND dead children. You can pontificate on politics AND sign a petition to stop the slaughter of dogs in Romania. Where did this idea come from that if you're an 'animal lover' you give no shit for humanity? Why do you have to choose?

I'd quite like there to be no starving children, no war and no animal abuse personally. Oh and no people stupid enough to end their precious life - their only, precious life - by downing vodka while stripping off in a supermarket.

So just don't assume, because I clearly really like cats, dogs and furry things that I don't give a shit about people. Apart from you. I don't give a shit about you. The one who bothered to comment on the picture of a dead giraffe only to denigrate its plight. Maybe one day the zookeeper will come for you too. We can only hope.

Sunday, 9 February 2014

The best advert for yoga ever

About a week ago I went to see I,  Frankenstein and it was a massive pile of kak. It was not even saved by the monster's magnificent abs.

My brain was so melted by the end of the film that it was desperate for some sustenance. Some movie nutrition. I decided to watch a film called The Skin I Live In. Those of you with Netflix may recognise this as one of the movies you skip over on the basis that it's probably crap and go back to watching repeats of Red Dwarf and Blackadder instead. Or Breaking Bad. Or whatever it is that you've decided that Netflix is probably just about worth the £6 a month for. I have just rediscovered Bottom through the magic of Netflix so I'm well happy. 

Anyway. This film had subtitles and Antonio Banderas, so it was obviously going to be good. It was, interestingly, another movie about creating a monster by messing with nature against someone's will. It's a shocker but completely convincingly carried out. A sort of cross between Dr Moreau and Frankenstein but with added Latino hotness. 

Banderas is a psychopath with style and, as the staggered storyline, with its changes in timeframes and timelines, begins to piece itself together in your head, it's one of those chills down the spine moments. 

The beautiful woman he keeps inexplicably locked in a room turns out to be someone entirely other. And watching his cool, calm way of rationilising his brutal and horrific actions is part of the thrill of the film. Her reaction to what happens to her is utterly convincing and, when you realise exactly what happens to her, that's a shocker in itself.

I wasn't sure, right up until the end, whether she had been driven completely insane and just decided to go with it - her twisted relationship with a man who was at once her father, lover, creator, captor, torturer and rapist. I wasn't sure whether he was turning him into his dead, disfigured wife or his dead, mentally ill daughter. Or something else entirely. 

By the end it's clear that she is sane and clear thinking and she gets out. Returning to her home after six years disappearance, her mother doesn't recognise her. Not surprising, really, as she was most definitely male when she left. 

It sounds ludicrous and melodramatic and it is, in a way, but while watching it you find yourself utterly absorbed in each character's tragic and disturbing story. And it's so repellent but with no gore. More horrifying than stupid shock horror movies that leave nothing to the imagination, it's a set up that's so plausible somehow, that I started to wonder whether this had ever happened before. 

Watch it. It'll encourage you to take up yoga, at the very least. 

Taking it back

I've went for an early morning swim today. So early, in fact, that the pool wasn't even open.

While this would have left me gnashing my teeth and spitting with pointless fury had I been anywhere else, as it was I strolled on for five minutes to the beach. It's one of my favourite beaches because it's still pretty wild and, as it's rocky it doesn't have that sterile homogenised feel of the beaches that are crammed with people during the summer. It overlooks the Solent and you can see the forts rising from the sea like monolithic creatures.

It is also pretty sheltered so I was able to sit on a rock, hidden from view and hidden from the howling gales. The tide was out and it was generally fearsome rather than terrifying. A few times recently I've been to the beach and been completely awed by the power of the waves. They have been smashing into the sea walls all around this tiny island for the past six weeks, relentless and pounding.

And it's starting to show. It's like living at the start of a dodgy disaster movie. Maybe that one with John Cusack. We're fully into the weird weather conditions which, as we all know, is stage one of the climate change disaster movie. While America freezes in the grip of terrifying ice storms, the UK is drowning. And it's just as they said 20 years ago. The weather is getting warmer and wetter. The South West and the South are drowning.

I've been coming to the Isle of Wight since 1980 and I have never actually seen bits of road disappear before. Now, every day, you can see where the sea has swept in and taken the land back. The coastline is always changing, of course it is, but you can't normally see it happen day by day, hour by hour.

Today I saw that someone's ornate garden and concrete balustrade has just disappeared overnight. It's part of a Victorian house right next to the yacht club in Seaview. A yacht club that's looking less and less likely to stay in one piece. These are buildings and houses and parts of land that have survived over 100 years and they're just gone.

At St Helen's there is a ruined church. It apparently slipped into the sea in the 18th century, apart from one corner that has been painted white and is now used as a landmark for ships. But all around it the road is collapsing.

This tower has been standing since the 13th century and is all that remains of the old church. The sea reclaimed part of it in the 16th century and eventually it was allowed to decline and wash into the sea. Rumours abound as to why this was allowed to happen and, as they revolve around devil worshipping priests, I bloody love it. But soon enough it will be gone, as will the surrounding countryside, the old golf course and the beautiful wild coastline.

We're watching the coastline change around us every day. Roads are developing huge cracks through them. It's not as dramatic as the movies but it's a bit scary. The climate is systematically claiming this island back. And it's a weird thing to witness.

I mean, is this it. Is this the start of it all? Is this the beginning of where we look back and think: "It really wasn't worth all the plastic bags and spray on deodorant and willful, stupid wasting of resources. It really wasn't worth it."

In twenty years time will our children wonder what the fuck our generation was DOING? We're too slow to change, too slow to believe it's actually happening and I think we're starting to reap it. I do, however, watch a lot of apocalyptic films and read a lot of dystopian novels, so it could be that I'm being over dramatic and this is just a randomly bad winter.

I mean, hopefully, if we're lucky and continue to use resources as if they are never ending, and just sit here and ride this out, then we'll all shuffle off this mortal coil before the real bad effects take place. I suspect the human race will adapt. We'll probably grow gills like Costner in Waterworld.

I quite fancy that actually.

Wednesday, 5 February 2014

Why are the streets of Romania running with blood?

I've made various friends online over the last few years. Some through the unlikeliest sources. Like dating sites. And some through Twitter. And some through animal charities.

When I signed up to adopt my small Romanian hound I made a couple more. They are the people who are moving mountains every week to transport the lucky few dogs out of Romania to safety. They are the people who take food to the shelters. They are the people who are screaming for the world to take notice.

I know some people think I'm mental for banging on about it. And I've met a good few people who think I'm insane for forking over a few hundred quid to pay for Sushi to come over here. That I waited three months after paying. That I set up a convoluted journey to pick her up. That I've bothered to do all this when I could have adopted a dog from a couple of miles away.

But they don't see what it means. She may only be one small dog. And there may be tens of thousands of Sushis suffering and dying right now in Romania on state orders. But she is safe. And I saved her. And it feels like I have at least tried a bit.

It's taken me three and a half weeks to fall  completely in love with my dog. She lived on the streets, surviving as they all do by the kindness of some people, by joining a pack and by keeping her head down.

She clearly doesn't trust men. She was left for dead in the middle of the road. She survived by the skin of her teeth. She has clearly had babies, who knows how many litters? She has nicks out of her ears and only three legs. And she is the kindest, sweetest, most loving dog you can imagine.

All she wants is somewhere warm, a cuddle every now and again and company. And she just got lucky.

Last night thousands of dogs in the public shelters in Craiova were bludgeoned to death. This is the city that has a mayor who blithely gives the go ahead to kill these dogs. Brutally.

This is the city Sushi comes from.

and I've made a friend in the woman who helped to save sushi over there. She volunteers to help the dogs. Her company has a shelter with 300 dogs. And another with 90 dogs. And they also go to the public shelters to take food to the dogs there.

They're starved in the public shelters. And then they are slaughtered.

This mayor will not instigate  a systematic programme of spaying and neutering. But she will order mass culls.

We can keep pretending that this isn't happening. But the public shelters were literally running with blood this morning.

We can keep looking the other way. But it doesn't mean it isn't happening.

I look at Sushi and I give her another blanket. Even though she already has five. Because it's all I can do.

Sunday, 2 February 2014

I, Frankenstein

Oh God why have you forsaken us? For surely, should you exist, you would not allow such an abomination to exist.

I am, of course, talking about I, Frankenstein. Which I went to see today. It only cost £3.50 and, frankly, I feel ripped off.

Viewers who begin this film with any kind of religious fervour will have well and truly have lost it once they've sat through this dire mess of a mixed up morality tale.

Mary Shelley's touching, thoughtful, troubling story of man messing around with God's creation and its tragic consequences is dispensed with in the first five minutes of this feast of excretion. Aaron Eckhart's ridiculous, booming voiceover immediately paints The Monster as a dull voiced pre pubescent who thinks his dad is a giant dick, ratherr than a soulless, lonely creature trapped in tormented agony. Within ten minutes we've seen the last of Frankenstein himself and are fully into the thick of The Monster's story. And man, is he a whiner.

Obviously, Frankenstein's Monster has to be played by a big dude with a hulking presence and preferably tree trunk thighs. And here is where Eckhart excels. Lovely, strong thighs. Particularly when he's running heroically. Which he does a lot. He has a face, however, like a ham. There is none of the pathos you'd expect from the make up department when it comes to a face that's meant to be a composite of many other dead dudes. Instead they just stick some of those crappy rubber Halloween scars on Eckhart's actual face.

Talking of ham, by the way, that pretty much describes his acting style. I can't remember what he was like in anything else. But by golly, he's terrible as Frankenstein's Monster. Or, Adam, as he is subtly named by the Queen of the Gargoyles.

Who, I hear you say? That's right, the Queen of the Gargoyles. It goes something like this.  when Satan was expelled from heaven, he took with him demons, which now take human form. Naturally. The angels came down to protect mankind and are disguised as gargoyles. Obviously. There's a queen, whose name I can't remember and a Demon Prince.

The Demon Prince is played by Bill Nighy. Yep, that Bill Nighy. The one who old ladies think is so lovely and wasn't he good in that Richard Curtis film? No, he was shit. And he's shit in this. His plastic surgery is scarier than his demon make up though, so there's that.

They're all after the Book, which is Frankenstein's detailed notes on how exactly he created his Monster. Apparently in the 200 years since he was made, they haven't been able to replicate it. Yeah, riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

So they all fight a lot. A lot lot. And run around. And then there's this master plan for Demon dude to reanimated thousands of human corpses with the souls of demons. Or some shit. I dunno. I was bored shitless by then.

There's a love interest. She's blonde and beautiful because why fucking change that up Hollywood film makers? She only falls in love with him when she sees his incredible torso though. He has a six pack to die for. And 12 men did die for it apparently. I'm no expert on reanimating corpses, I know, but I'm pretty sure that using bits of a dozen deaders would not result in the torso I saw in that film. I mean look at it.

And that is literally the only reason to see the film at all, so I've just saved you two hours of your life. You're welcome.

It is, of course, based on a graphic novel. So the bastardisation of Shelley's creation isn't solely down to the film makers I suppose. But the screen writer needs putting down and perhaps reanimating with the soul of someone who can write a sentence that doesn't make your bum cheeks clench.

And then it ended.

That bit was brilliant.