Invalid point, Platell

In follow up to my recent (yesterday, in fact) blog regarding Terry Pratchett's involvement in a BBC documentary that explicitly shows the dignified death of a motor neurone sufferer in the Swiss Dignitas facility, I would like to address what one Amanda Platell has bleated about the issue in amongst her dirge of celebrity commentary in today's Daily Mail .

Please find her article here http://www.dailymail.co.uk/debate/article-1377512/Terry-Pratchetts-Alzheimers-hero-BBC-suicide-documentary-hes-wrong.html

Not only has Platell awkwardly sandwiched what is intended as a piece of hard-candy commentary between a gripe at new mum Holly Willoughby's request for privacy during her baby's primary moments on earth, and a piece on the lack of talent now involved in Britain's Got Talent following Piers 'I killed Larry King' Morgan's and Simon 'Make them then Break them' Cowell's departure from the show, but she has slung the word 'propaganda' around with all the contextual misappropriation of a 5 year old at Question Time (or George Bush on a good day).

'To my mind, this is the almost pathologically liberal BBC at its worst, producing a propaganda film for the pro-euthanasia lobby and deliberately significant number of Britons who believe in the sanctity of life.'

Time to put the soapbox on ebay, me thinks, Platell.

My issue here mainly, is the term 'pathologically liberal'. If by liberal, she means fair, unobjective, and balanced (as it should), then fine. But PATHOLOGICALLY LIBERAL? This is a term I personally wouldnt fully commit to unless I had read the instruction manual that came with it first.

And propaganda? Is it not indeed propaganda for 'God' each time the BBC airs Songs of Praise each Sunday evening, as it has done since, oooh, about 1961? Course not. Because its a piece of inoffensive Sunday night programming.

And this is how Terry Pratchett: A Right To Die should be treated. Not as a 'snuff movie'. The fact that Platell has used this term in her article means she has about much respect for this so-called sanctity of life as those who are so offensive and misguided in airing this documentary.

'What makes this all the more insidious is the high moral tone adopted by the corporation. 'The BBC does not have a stance on assisted suicide, but we do think this is an important matter of debate,' says a spokesperson.'

She then goes on to say how the involvement of Mr Pratchett (an Alzheimer's sufferer who has quite openly commented on his personal choice to die, however he sees fit), seems like a pretty blatant stance of opinion to her.

I mean, of course it would be better to have someone completely inappropriate to present this documentary, such as the Chuckle Brothers, Keith Chegwin, or Richard Madelely (Alan Partridge's nominated representative on Earth). Perhaps the end credits to the documentary could be played over footage of the Brothers Chuckles latest moneymaking machine throwing a pensioner down the stairs, or skinning a cat. Lovely stuff.

Let it be known also , the BBC have usually been at the forefront when it comes to cutting edge programming. Im not going to say controversial, because it really doesnt apply. This is real life, and its time people stop avoiding this.

Why is it deemed absolutely fine to air footage of British and American war machines stomping the life out of a schoolhouse, or the ground a hospital used to occupy in the Middle East? All in the name of progress.....

Lets stop spoon feeding from the same tired old end of the pudding dish, and let people make their own minds up' eh? Is that not the 'Christian' thing to do anyhow?

Although Platell might have a point about Britain's Got Talent.....

Terry Pratchett : A Right To Die

Politicians...

Theres an analogy I like to use, and believe me, when I find and analogy I like, I raise it, feed it, and repeatedly force it on unsuspecting members of the public.

Here's my Martin Luther King moment... kind of... well, probably not.

We the people, we are on the shop floor. We do what we can do get the job done. We have our little gripes with the boss, piss and whine when we notice the vending machine is fresh out of quavers, and by god do we love a dress down day. Jeans at work.. mental!

So this is our lot in life, even providing occasional beads of contentment.

And as is the case in almost any organisation, the decisions that effect us are rarely made by ourselves. More so they are made by those who have never set foot on the shop/office floor. Those who have no idea of the detriment and dent to morale when said Quavers have actually been culled due to 'management' seeing them as having a negative effect on production. And we have to accept this blind organisation.

This article isnt going to be about cheesy maize snacks. I promise.

So again with the Daily Mail already, but fear not. Im not criticizing them on this fine morning.

It is more the fact that they have published a very thought-provoking (though typically biased) piece on euthanasia, and more to the point, how current documentaries seemingly 'romanticise assisted death and dying.' Not my words, but the words of TORY MP, Nadine Dorries.

Guess what Nadine. You will NEVER have a say in my life or indeed my death.

So... you know... NER-NER NER-NER NEEEEER-NER, etc.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1377062/Outcry-BBC2-euthanasia-documentary-presented-Terry-Pratchett.html

An already completed BBC documentary entitled Terry Pratchett: Choosing To Die (one of the more misleading titles of late, Im sure), is to show on-screen the last moments of a British motor-neurone sufferer who has chosen to die graciously in the Swiss Dignitas clinic - http://www.dignitas.ch/index.php?id=117&Itemid=166&option=com_content&task=view .

Pratchett, an Alzheimer's Disease sufferer and humanitarian, stays at the bedside of the dying man throughout the end.

Now Mr Pratchett is being heralded as a 'cheerleader for assisted suicide' by medical professionals, politicians, (oddly) human right campaigners, and of course religious leaders.

Why the reaction? Well, to support euthanasia is apparently a big 'fuck you' to the sanctity of life.

What gives anyone the right, other than the individual in question, to deem what is a breach on the sanctity of life.

These.. lets call them 'lifers' (I like that).. need to go and spend, say, a week at the home of someone who is so far gone into their terminal illness that they'd be lucky to have enough breath left for their final 'Amen'. They want to take a long, hard goddamned look at the person lying before them. Frail, broken, immobile, waiting. Just waiting.

These lifers may want to then take a look at the sufferers partners, the dark indelible rings under their eyes, from hours of around the clock care and worry.

They should take a look at the photos on the mantlepiece, the faces of those who not only love the sufferer, but will have to file the memories of the person at their worst, alongside the good ones, before the machines, the tubes, the pills, the vomit. Before a day felt like a painful lifetime.

Yes, life is sacred. Even when its tearing life apart.

Allow me to present a scenario.

Imagine a boardroom. You have the religious reps, the medical reps, the politicians. An axis of assholes.

Lighting a cigarette, the medical rep takes a puff, inhales, exhales - ' We just cant have this euthanasia in place, legally or otherwise. We just cant. The diagnostic industry has already taken a dive. If more people start ending their lives with dignity, thats less people to buy the drugs we produce. And Ive already had to sell my Jag, I'm not parting with the Bentley too.'

Politician, zipping up and sending the 15 year old prostitute out from under the desk and back to the lunchroom - 'Fear not, it will never happen. With the war going on, death is everywhere. Theyll cling on to life in all forms, bereft or otherwise, if we keep showing people how expendable it is. Leave this with me, we will keep things so bad and futile in Britain that bare bones life is all these people will be able to hold hope in.'

Religious Leader, rubbing hands together - 'And if you can all make things soooo bad and keep that standard, they will literally be praying to cling onto the the fragile shards of belief they have left. Dont forger to say a Hail Mary on the way out. Everybody wins.'

Now, this may well be an exaggeration of reality. I mean, I forgot to mention they were all stroking cats at the time, and talking about highly expensive and improbable methods of death for certain secret agents.

But underneath all the posturing, and heralding of the 'sanctity of life', could there be more mainstream motives such as money in keeping assisted death illegal? I believe this would require a whole lot of investigation. Maybe even months worth.

So we have basically gone from originally not accepting the idea of euthanasia, to now not even giving it a fair representation in the media in case it is too glorified.

Well, do we not glorify death anytime we publish a news article about a brave young soldier who died saving members of his platoon? Yes, we do. We have to, as it makes the government look better. 'Congratulations, sorry about the coma. Here have a posthumous George's Cross.'

Of course, THIS method of death is acceptable. Youre dying for this flea-bitten piece of shit country, in a war thats not ours, started by a government that were never acting in our best interests.

Isnt patriotism a beautiful thing.

Its these same assholes who will decide how we die in other forms of life too.

Migration to Switzerland, anyone?

Ding Ding. Round One - Supersize vs Superskinny. Guest Referee - The Daily Mail

Ok, now I dont give much of a crap about this thing we call 'celebrity' (sponsored and funded by...well..you), whether it's their ridiculous pets, make-ups and break-ups, new goddamned fragrances (which lets face it, either smell like diluted piss drenched in ethanol, or new-born baby cross-bred with corn on the cob), etc.

A vast majority of these skin specimens have done little more to gain their status than traded their pride for profit via this 'reality tv' garbage, loosely presented as entertainment . Its hard to believe there may already be a generation of people who dont have a rootin' tootin' clue that Kerry Katona was once a 'real' person as part of Atomic Kitten (and to be fair why should they give a shit?).

A cross examination on the ineptitude of what 'celebrity' is would certainly not be done much justice by myself, nor is it an original observation that Charlie Brooker or the likes could do with more fury and eloquence than I can in my painkiller-fuelled (long story) rants.

I think the point I am slowly yet hopefully limping towards here is that the popular media have more influence than they should. This is our fault. Yours, mine, and all thats in between.

Why, you ask? I'l tell you why.

Because our own single-minded lives arent enough to keep us interested, and as is human nature, we care far too much for someone else's problems/achievements/issues than our own. So we buy the magazines, the DVDs, the celebrity 'pap-apps'. We create the monster, clothe it, feed it, fill its head with horseshit, make it seem more important than it is, and then freak out when it breaks outta the lab and goes global.

And yet, we expect to be told the truth, to be shown whats wrong, and whats right, by the media. What we should care about, how we should judge. Love Thy Neighbour, Hate Thyself. Nuclear good, but only if we own it. What not to wear, what not to eat. Too fat, too thin... End Scene.

So I'm reading the Daily Mail online.. (Im a cheap bastard, and the computer was already turned on, so add lazy to that). Admittedly, Im drawn to an item on Amy Whinehouse, and how she now has a muffin-top and apparently looks just plain obese.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1376526/Time-new-jeans-Amy-Winehouse-fight-muffin-small-denims.html

I know what youre thinking. I'll even do an impression of how your thought process is playing out: adopts whiny high-pitched voice, consumed with self-righteousness- 'Adam, what a hypocrite you are, young man. Youve just ripped celebrity culture, only to then admit you DO give a shit. But my.. you ARE handsome with it.'

Yeah, well... bite me. I was drawn to this story, because its typical of the hypocrisy we now come to not only accept, but in some quarters, except from the media. The same media that informs us of what our oh-so trusted government are up to, or what we should be putting into our mouths (in hindsight the former and the latter arent always mutually exclusive).

My secondary reason is on a completely personal level. I was chastised for much of my childhood, and a small portion of my adulthood about my weight, and for a while it ruled my life.

And the media are bucking this trend by making the rules on whats acceptable and what isnt in the same breath.

Oh, and according to http://www.disordered-eating.co.uk/eating-disorders-statistics/anorexia-nervosa-statistics-uk.html, in the UK 1 in 100 women between 15 years old and 30 years old currently suffer from anorexia.

Go figure. Again, I know Im not the first to point this out. But enough is enough.

Im not particularly singling Miss Whinehouse out for any other reason. Yeah, from time to time I enjoy her music, but I dont care who she's dating, what shes smoking, or what craaazy tattoo she may get yet. She is a genuinely talented woman, who has unfortunately had some problems along the way, but just cant seem to win in the eyes of good friend Media.

Check out this story from 2008 about Miss Whinehouse.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/tvshowbiz/article-1062504/Stick-Amy-Winehouse-faces-police-probe-hitting-fan-face-admits-I-like-this.html

And... its the Daily Mail again. Lets not beat around the bush. This is pretty fucked up. And there is NO excuse for violence (unless someone really annoys you in ways such as stealing your tupperware, or getting your dog pregnant).

And clearly the Daily Mail agrees with these. Summit climbed, moral highground maintained, and we can all hear them down here from up on there high horse. Well done. Top Gun journalism.

But Amy sure as hell isnt beating the crap out of anyone, chasing the dragon, scuffling with fans, or cutting herself in 2011. No, the worst thing she has done is to look a bit healthy and grow a belly. The opposite to her previous condemnations.

What sort of a message are the Daily Mail sending out?

A) the fact shes filled out a bit isnt news worthy and anyone who has an iota of whats relevant on the general scheme of things wont give a shit anyway. Japan, Gadaffi, Iraq... hell, I'll even throw the current state of OUR nation in to that.

In fact, it pains me to think that an actual real life person I work with termed Robert Mugabe as a 'man who did some naughty things', without a trace of irony.

B)Articles like this are also having too much of an effect on an already frail generation who are possibly already struggling to see any hope in our fast crumbling infrastructure. Are there jobs to work towards? Is the personal debt of university worth it? Am I worth a damn in this cold and imagine obsessed land we have forged for future generations? It all sounds a bit dramatic, sure, but these reasonings Im presenting here hold more than a few grains of truth.

C) Of course, theres also the fact (I can prove it) that for every piece of ass-crack article like this one, there may be one, ten, maybe a hundred young people who are now almost so groomed to care about putting on weight and whatnot, that pretty soon its going to be innate from womb-exit. And those statistics are gonna just climb and climb.

So join me on this.

Im not going to pay out for my TV license anymore. Its trash. Unfulfilling, self-governing trash. Whether its the news, reality tv, political broadcasts, celebrity specials.... its bullshit.

Instead, Im going to do some good with that money, most likely I will donate it to an eating disorder charity.

Maybe you can do that too. Or even if its just that 70p or whatever on Heat, Closer, Celebrity Train Wrecks, or whatever the hell it is.

Thanks for your time. And join me again when I will be asking ' Should Lollipop Ladies Be Armed?'

New fricking song what I just wrote.

WTF ??

The candle I held for you

Was a ticking time bomb

A wedding cake of dynamite

A suicidal song

I took a sip of hope

And drowned it in despair

And you filled my glass

It wouldnt last.

Benefits-bought beer

The best Ive ever tasted

I bit my lip and made a quip

For all my chances wasted

It made you laugh, and then you left.

So long

You said 'tortured soul? You're an asshole'

I said 'I'd have to agree

I did my time and wrote some lines

Downed a bottle of red or three

You took my hope

Like a soap on a rope

And questioned my validity

And now Im done

It was fun.

She came like a prayer

And left like a dream

Like a suicide hotline

She heard all his screams

She drove to him on the highway

Her lights on full-beam

A gamble in the darkness

That paid off, it seems

A kiss on the couch

From a modern-day saint

She gave his worn soul

A new lick of paint

A stab in the dark

And a jolt to the heart

A new fucking chapter

A hell of a start

Love, Reality TV, Taxes and Other Disappointments

'Love, Reality TV, Taxes, And Other Disappointments' is a compilation of poems I'm putting together, with a view of submitting to some online publishers. Enjoy.

First Kiss

She asked ‘What do you do?’

Chewing on the end of her straw,

A look in her eye,

Never seen before ,

‘It’s not that exciting,’ playing it down,

‘I’m a cartoon Sheriff in a lunatic town.’

At this she laughed, a nasal sound made,

Another piece removed, from her masquerade,

She took it as Gospel, no questions asked,

Brushing my knee, contact at last.

This brand new person, I’ve only just met,

But already this feels as good as it gets,

An awkward hand-hold, fingers through her hair,

I leaned in slowly, accepting my own dare,

This dirty old town, suddenly bright behind us,

Her lips on mine, a quiet warm truss.

Fear melted away on that winter-tinged night,

From than on I knew, the world is alright.

Poetry Corner...

Something I found that I must have written a thousand beers ago.

She said 'You're twenty six years old,

So what's with the grey hairs?'

I said 'I toed the line too many times,

fell heart-first down some stairs.'

She threw her head back and laughed

Then stared me in the eye,

She held my gaze and took my hand,

And continued to breathe the lie.

A smouldering sheet of notepaper

Fell from the thirteenth floor,

A scattered dream, never found,

Heard knocking door to door.

The people in the street below

Whispered grievances into the night

A wind of change that gathered speed,

And set the words alight.

10 Ways You Know You're Getting Old(er)

And now.... some age-based humour.

1. They just dont make iphones like they used to.

2. You found another grey hair... on your balls.

3. You're in your late 20s, and you're seriously considering calling the police on your 20 something neighbour, as the horseplay you can hear coming from his is just too darn loud.

4. Your father's once radical opinions (on everything) seem to make alot more sense. In my case. this is perhaps the most fearful of these ten. Although it could be the Bourbon speaking.

5. Scotch+Cheese+Scrabble = PARTY TIME.

6. When applying for a job, you list 'a nice sit-down' as one of your sports/hobbies.

7. You become alot more solemn when it comes to death. Expressions like 'he had a good innings', or 'thats no age at all' become mere verbatim to you. Its worse when youre applying said expressions to everyday items, such as your Playstation 2. I dont have a Playstation 3 simply because the more functions something has, the more that can go wrong with it... Oh God, Im doing it again..

8. You start leaving gigs earlier and earlier so you can get the hell out of there and 'beat the traffic'.

9. Your vocabulary grows. 'Youngsters'. 'youths', 'rascal', and on one occasion 'rapscallion', will al begin to make frequent appearances. Mainly when you're reading the paper. With a nice cup of tea. And a shortbread finger.

10. Youve read all of the above, and are now cringing. (Especially if youre a woman, yet the hair on balls one resonates with you).

The Youth of Today...

WAIT A MINUTE.. HOLD THE PHONE! I am both shocked, and indeed appalled, at the events that took place on this day, 25/9/2010.

It all happened so fast, in broad daylight. And I'm lost for words (apart from these actual real ones before you, otherwise you're possibly hallucinating and this blog doesn't even exist, weirdo).

I was casually walking along with my ladyfriend/carer, laughing at something completely hilarious I had said (possibly a really big and clever one liner about the recession, or cats that look like fascist dictators), just kicking our heels along and enjoying the sights, sounds, and smells (mainly smells) of Truro. We were just so damn lost in the moment, that the trio of youths approaching us from the rear (steady on) went unnoticed. Until...

"Oi, mate. You're shoelace is untied!"

Words that will haunt me, for the rest of my life, or at least until a week on Wednesday.

It was all i could do to rotate this noggin of mine, smile weakly and thank the young lady (whom I will assume was the ringleader), and quicken my pace, taking my companion with me. I very nearly ran blindly into the road, like a lesbian on heat.

'But why, Adam, why so afraid?', I hear you ask. Calm the fuck down! I'll tell you.

I'm 27 now, awfully near 30. Anyone under the age of 25 scares me. I have a three year old niece, and I'm not going to lie, I just plain don't trust her.

It could be that all her laughter EVER is clearly aimed at 'silly old uncle adam', and I don't mean cutesy Disney laughter, but the laughter of hate. Or maybe the times she has ploughed her Dora the Explorer push chair square into my face. I couldn't tell you.

So 16-21 year olds? Forget it.

Today, I was gripped by cold. irrational fear, because it would appear they just didn't want me to trip over said shoelace and fall on my fanny. They didn't want my wallet or phone (to be honest, I dont even want my phone, its the mobile communication equivalent of Schindler's List On Ice), and my cartoonish face and dancer's gait didn't even register a snigger from them. You just know where you are with a stabbing or two sometimes.

I came away from the whole experience feeling significantly shortchanged, much like any time I take in an Adam Sandler film, you know, the one where Sandler writes himself an affable Johnny Everyman role, loved by the townspeople/coworkers/general passers-by, who all club together to help him bag Drew Barrymore, and he learns a lesson about life/love/whogivesashit, and stops being a general douche/slacker/pro-football player/insert non-descript meaningless adjective here , or something equally ridiculous.

I was borderline furious. Where was my 'Local Man Upset at Pesky Teenagers' headline, or my Jeremy-Kyle-worthy chav anecdote? What's it coming too? If its absolutely necessary for these people to have any need to communicate with me, I want it to be because of a mugging scenario, not an incessant need to advise me on my wellbeing and potential (and literal) downfall. I just don't trust it!

You know what'd sort them out? National Service.....

Some Things Never Change

A father and son relationship is a funny thing.

If American television is anything to go by, the measure of a healthy bond between patriarch and.... boy, is one that is defined by tossing a baseball around in an autumnal backyard, or the coming together over the carcass of a dead moose, lovingly decapitated, stuffed, and mounted above a roaring fire. The latter can generally be accompanied by the enjoyment of an oatmeal cookie or two, fresh out of the oven.

Americans, schmaltzy? Never.

This would of course be the favourable depiction of this sacred bond. A rites of passage, if you will. Whats a bit of cold-blooded killing between father and son, eh? Mano-o-mano. This scenario is one that is positively promoted in the media on both sides of the pond-a mutual respect, as the old man knows that one day the young man will be responsible enough to take care of things for himself.

As an English male, and indeed, a son, I can safely say things are a wee bit different around these parts.

I wish I could say I remember a time when me and my pa could be found on any given Sunday throwing a pigskin around like we just didn't care, swapping manly stories about the 12 pound monster carp we hooked back in the Summer of '69. The fact that I didn't make an appearance until 1983 is irrelevant, but you see what I'm getting at.

Sadly, me and my own Dad didn't have the kind of relationship that Hallmark dreams up for a thousand or more cards each Father's Day. And this is no fault of either myself, or the old man.

Two culminating factors:

• My dad has as much interest in organised sport as Billy Elliot had in boxing. Even to this day, conversation strands to avoid are 'did you see the match last night?', or 'how about that ref? He was a ruddy idiot now, wasn't he?'.
• Which leads quite nicely onto the point that those are conversations are ones I would never even start in the first place. I feel as uncomfortable making any kind of comment, statement, or even a vague enquiry regarding the sporting world ( Having said that, there was a period circa 1993-1995 where I quite gleefully incorporated 'they think its all over... it IS now!' into as many playground scenarios, speech therapy sessions, and on one occasion a Bah-Mitzvah, as possible). My sheer discomfort at any kind of verbal exchange of this kind could be compared to the awkwardness a boy feels in the sex education class where rubber johnny meets banana for the first time, after looking around to find that for some reason your banana is the smallest in the class, and the fucking thing still wont go on.

Sport isn't of course the be all and end all of male bonding pursuits. I believe, possibly more relative to my particular growing pain, that my lack of interest in anything practical, such as shelves, wood chopping, bear wrestling, punching another man in the head, and cars. Ah yes, nothing like the feel of oil and sawdust coursing its way through the follicles, whilst hands, and strangely the bits underneath the fingernails, bare the greasy pinch marks that remain from that stubborn disc brake, or that unrelenting coolant tank cap.

It was of course cars and engines that were sent from the gods for Daddio and I, as if prompting, 'Adam, grab ye your tool and bond like no man and boy have bonded before!'. Though I think if you heard a sentence like that in conversation, more than one or two swift steps out of the room would be taken to the nearest broken woman's shelter.

It was almost too perfect. I wanted to learn, and even had some crazy idea that a father/son garage might be the perfect replacement for the many pets I lost in all of those mysterious fires that to this day hold no explanation....

So imagine the joy, oh the sweet joy, as Dad came in from his current project. A 1987 Triumph Acclaim. Cool for several reasons, but to me just one.

Electric. Freaking. Windows. It didnt matter that they only functioned when 30-40% of one's body weight was gently pushing down on top of the glass. They worked, Godammit. It was the closest thing to real magic I had ever seen, even to this day.

"Ad?" came the enquiring cry up the stairs, along the landing, and around the corner of my bedroom. "Come down here a minute."

I'm not gonna lie. I was a fat, bookish, socially-redundant child. I didn't even smoke my first cigarette until I was 22. Some kid's on the block were having cigarette breaks on level 2 of Sonic The Hedgehog.

But that day, I knew it would be different.

I would breathe air like a real man, tooling around under the bonnet of a classic automobile while the gentle breeze gently encouraged the confident use of such expressions as 'righty-tighty', 'that'll be your tracking', or 'well the job itself is straightforward, but its just the parts that's so costly!', whilst hitching up my best pair of chords and using the big boy voice.

I dropped my Osborne Book of Ghosts quicker than you can say 'Mary-Celeste-is-a-kick-ass story-about-a-boat-but-it-lacks-a-Celine-Dion-soundtrack and got my ten year old ass(could you tell) down those stairs and out to the front driveway.

Gazing over the innards of the engine compartment, I was looking for a problem. A problem so simplistic and fundamental that a mechanic of my Dad's experience and calibre would have just glossed over it. My fresh eyes and total inexperience would of course render the problem obvious, in the same way that someone with no grassroots experience of what it is to be in a modern classroom can then go on to become State Head of Education.

Then came the words that stopped this then would-be greasemonkey in his tracks.

"Hitch this hold a minute," he said,in all his glorious Cornish-ness, whilst handing me a FUCKING TORCH! I was just the monkeygrinder it would seem. I was effectively the spotlight operator. He who doesnt get a mention at the final curtain-call, or even an honourable nod at the Royal Variety Performance.

"Not there, THERE!", came the words, accompanied by a gentle clip around the ear.

Why was I relegated to torch-carrier (insert passing of the torch gag) when I know for a fact my 7 year old brother was all over the pissing Black and Decker workmate the previous weekend.

FAST FORWARD SIXTEEN YEARS

Alot has happened since my torch-bearing days. Being 26. I have owned a number of cars, each with their own little quirks, and indeed fatal flaws.

On this particularly fatal day, car number six, a silver Toyota Corolla, bit the dust. There was steam, spluttering, and some fiercely held back tears, as dreams of putting that beast into retirement gracefully went up, literally, in smoke. I always think euthanasia is the most humane way, in circumstances such as these.

Dad to the rescue.

By the side of the BP garage forecourt, it wasn't looking so good. Not even the musty but oddly alluring fragrance of the Ginsters cabinet could ease the suffering felt by all.

The old man was straight into action. The bonnet went up, and poised, rubbing my hands together, I was ready.

Today, I was gonna show how we fix a car in Adamtown.

Population- Me (and whatever piece of crap car I was courting at the time).

"So dad, I mean, just going by the temperature gage rising at a rapid rate, and then the decrease in actual power driving the car forwards I experienced just a short time a go, I think there are a number of possibilities at play right now which have ultimately led to......"

"Hitch this hold," came the words, as the torch of yore was once more thrust into my hand.

"I.Dont.Fucking.Believe.....," I was cut off by a familiar transfer of kinetic energy, right across the back of the head.

"Not there. THERE!"

Twenty Six Years Old. Some things will never change.

I guess now is a bad time to tell him I just wanna dance.

I might take a leaf from the yanks, as I wonder how my dad might react to me leaving a fully grown dead moose on his front lawn.

Whaddya want, a cookie?

All Along the WatchTower.... Part One

Im not one to have a pop at organised religion. I mean , I respect anyone who is organised, given my general lack thereof.

I dont have a a problem with religion per se. I think in an increasingly bleak world, it can be beneficial to have a rigid belief in something, even if it is just to make sense of the environment around us. Whether it be God, Allah, Colonel Sanders or Noel Edmond's Beard.

But some of these organisations could maybe benefit from a PA makeover.

I was at mein papa's just this evening actually, and for some reason unbeknownst to any of us, he has been recieving publications from the Jehovah's Witnesses for quite sometime.

Note this flyer.


This would very much appear to be the SummerSlam of religion. I mean, nothing enables a free thinking individual to decide on a lifestyle choice than being gangbanged by a representative from each division. Its the spiritual equivalent of walking around Currys in the LCD flat screen TV section, only to have twelve plaid shirt-clad freshly pimpled adolescent trainees bouncing all over your clearly feeble brain with the latest offers and advice on HD- Ready.

Personally, I cant decide on the open handed gesture on this flyer. Is it a 'here, check out this religion, behold the perks.' Or is it, 'See this? I call this one the Benevolent Backhand. Feel it on your sinful cheek.' I mean, attitude like that will certainly grab the attention.

But the thing that worries me most... lack of a representative from the Jedi faith. Poor show chaps. I mean that makes a ball breaking decision like that alot easier, surely....

All this from a group of people, who make it their business to arrive on your doorstep proclaiming the end of the world and telling you your birthday is simply just out of order.

Surely a slap from a clergyman is comparatively no great shakes?

Novel Update #1! The Decent Guy

After much deliberation, and even more general laziness, a new direction and title has been decided for the first Adam Mellow novella!

I have settled on a title; The Decent Guy.

Where did this come from? Well, based on recent events, it has been revealed that being a 'Decent Guy' just isnt enough for a modern man to get by in modern society.

Why does it work for the book?
Well.... The character in question (for now called Greg) is one of life's good guys, a good egg, a good old boy, an all round nice guy, a good apple. But very, very emotionally unsound. As a wonky pound.

The man cant hold down a relationship to save his life, even if it was with a fully licensed and trained Paramedic. Girl after girl eventually just gives up on him due to his crippling confidence issues and quirky lack of faith in himself.

A mans problems can escalate in these situations.
Youre telling me!

We actually begin the story to find Dear Old Greg, roundly trounced once more by a woman who seemed to possess everything a pessimist could want, except pessimism itself.
After 3 blissful months, and a perceivable happiness, Greg lets cynicism and a prolonged case of the 'Mondays' take hold.
Exit girl, Stage Right.
Enter contract on oneself, with an equally self loathing but no less black humored female hired gun.


I think this is an excellent title, and am possibly going to apply it to a book of poems I am working on featuring such hopeless characters.

'The Decent Guy and Others'

Keep watching.

LOVE: What the Fuck is that all about?

Having been very recently roundly trounced by both Cupid and his arrow, I have mostly spent this month wondering where, why, how, and when(?) is the right time for me to become involved in a reciprocal, stable, and fun relationship. And where exactly did I go wrong?
Could it have been....


1- Using a dating website : frequently, this can be a tool to meet, woo, and eventually capture a partner. It can almost be used as a pre-date date. You can browse the ones you like, the ones you dont, and the ones you would consider dusting for prints two blocks from a murder in a crack-den. Then you can email each other at your own leisure, without the awkward ad-lib panic a phone call might afford you. And ocassionally it might even actually lead somewhere. So whats the drawback?
It. Isnt. Real. Life. The problem with meeting someone in this way, is an email cant replicate a persons awkwardness, or enable the recipient the would be beads of sweat that follow each horrendous attempt at engaging the co-dater in a conversation that goes further than her hair dressing course. Using a dating website is like being told youre on your way to a certain doom , only,as youve already sort of had a 'bit' of time together online, you know more about this particular doom than anyone who ever took part in the building of the Bridge over the River Kwai. Its like ordering blowfish, than being shown the poison being extracted.

Seriously, if you want to find true love... well.. there are bars for that kind of thing.

2-Allowing the woman to call the shots from day one. In previous experiences, women just pure and simple cant make a decision to save their life, particularly if the decision was indeed between Life or, I dont know, say, Death.

One thing Ive learned. TAKE. THE. LEAD. As if your life depended on it. Never for one flame-haired second assume that women are attracted to a bloke who just appears to do whatever she wants to do. This also applies to bedroom antics. Seriously, paw your woman. Try it on with her. In fact, I would possibly even go as far as to say she would rather drink a seductive cocktail of vodka and rufies than settle for a night of cuddling. Again.

Dont worry if you think your chest is smoother than Ross Kemp's bonce, or you have fatty deposits just above the belt line. GET OVER IT. You want that girl? Take her. Shes chosen you.
Because theres a pretty darn good chance she will shortly get fed up, and move onto someone else (possible in her new sales job, say) , more confident and able than yourself who wont just want to talk about feelings all the time.
WHICH BRINGS ME NICELY ON TO MY NEXT POINT.

3- Becoming a 'best friend'. A wise person once said (and Im pretty sure it wasnt Confuscious), ' I want my best friend and my boyfriend to be separate.
Confused?
Yeah, me too.

This basically comes down to the fact, if you ever get to the stage within your new found relationship, where you are positive you can tell your partner whatever is on your mind, that she only wants you for man duties. Not he-bitch, emotional to-ing and fro-ing, if-ing and am-ing, hugs and tears. Shes got best friends for that shit. She needs you to man-up, take control, and never look back. All that new man bullshit? Well, thats exactly what it is. Write poetry? Bare your soul in a note? Tell her how special she is to you by arranging your Cheerios in a romantic manner (though Im not entirely sure how that works)?

Forget about it.

She would sooner thank you for maybe drowning a puppy, or starting a racially charged fight. Or phoning every elderly relative you have and telling them what a shrivelled up old Nazi they are. Women are fickle creatures. Cold. Heartless. And often monotone. Im not sure theyre actually interested unless theres a good chance you will beat them or cheat on them.

4- Admitting to doubts. This is a huge big no. And if youve made it through the first few points, then youre already far more accomplished a violinist than I (insert quip involving strings, strung, strung along, get it?). Im one of those (pussies) who seems to let his emotions often get the better of him. And also, makes a point of vocalising them.
Like this one time, I was feeling a bit down, and I suppose, in hindsight I could probably have done some Yoga, shot some guns, and gotten over it.

What'd I actually do though? I gave her the chance to up and leave. Me, stupidly, thinking I was doing the big and best decent thing, letting someone that I had truly come to love, go. I didnt want to (but yeah I can see how it looked).
In fact, it helped noone. My mood improved by tea time, and by midnight I was sending out the loving text messages.
Damage undone?
No. Not likely.

Because your doubt, whether it stems from the constant bullshit going around your head, or actual problems with the relationship itself, soon becomes her doubt. Those few months you spent wooing her, making her feel like the most special person in your entire world.. well... you can just about kiss them good bye. Its down hill from there.
Its not like the films, women rarely fall in love the minute you breathe on them, and it doesnt mater how much garlic you have or havent eaten. It takes time, nurturing, trust and alot of bad impressions (Mainly of Zippy from Rainbow) to get their guard down just long enough to show feelings towards them. And it can be snuffed out, in a 10 minute, lunchtime phone call.
Dont say I never told you. It doesnt matter how many flawless months youve had. This can really not go in your favour. Quite understandably.

5- Assuming that you are important enough for just a bit of effort. Yeah, this one is tricky. If both members in this thing we call coupledom are comfortable enough around each other to have gotten themselves into a near routine, particularly if there is some physical distance involved, than it can be frustrating when routine is broken. Spontaenaity is the key.
Saying that, theyre not always right about these things.
Routine implies seriousness, and who wants that in the first few months of a new thing? It doesnt matter whats been said between the two of you. You might be dumb enough to actually believe she knew what she was doing when she said she loved you. And then from that moment on, love might be followed by patience, understanding.
Sometimes yes. Mostly no.

6- Never, EVER say what you are actually thinking/feeling. Im pretty sure they hate that. Like sunlight.
Oh wait, thats vampires, right?


Relationships. They should really be called relationshits. Or 'ships' that noone goes down on.

Out of the mouths of babes.

People always say 'I remember being a child. Such simpler times'.
Of course they were simpler times! You were a child, you bloody idiot. You didn't have a car that would financially rape you on a monthly basis, or a home to run, a family to regiment, or the increasingly alarming grip the media seems to be currently exercising in terms of telling us what we should be worried about.

'Bird Flu Pandemic!' (Not a bird, not a problem).

'Unemployment highest its ever been!' (Though if youre watching this on the lunchtime news, than you probably know what they're talking about).

'Fast Food Coronary!' and then in grim contrast 'Bananas: The Cancer Fruit!'

'Smoking Kills!' (but so can standing around innocently outside a pub,. puffing away, on a Friday night).

'UK on high TERRORISM alert!'. And equally terrifying, 'David Jason: Racist?'.

All this aside, being a child is obviously the simplest of all times, no matter what the era. And even then, is stitching a few hundred footballs a day really that bad? I mean, it's a safe industry, we're always gonna need footballs, as there will always be idiots waiting to be paid ridiculously stupid amounts of money to kick them.

Judging from the current media output specifically aimed at children and toddlers, the current programming is either entertainment in its purest and simplest form. Or sheer. Twisted. GENIUS.

First up, Big Cook, Little Cook. Not a celebrity cook off between the late Andre The Giant and bearded toby jug Anthony Worral Thompson, but a show set in a fantastical kitchen, fronted by a couple of hyper-actively insufferable twats (literally Big and Small, in nature and name) sporting haircuts that signify what might happen if Tony & Guy were at the heart of the Apocalypse.
An apocalypse that must have clearly been incited by all the fucking morris dance-style, hanky-waving hi-jinks this pair get up to. Not to mention the atypically gawdy outfits, seemingly inspired by Gay Night at Santa's Grotto. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XmQz0nwX5n0

Of course, we know in their most formative of years that a child responds well to bold gestures, and dramatic movements, particularly when it comes to a bloody good story time, but is there any real need for jerky body movements for every. Last (Clap!). Syll (Dozey-do!). A (Squat Thrust!). Ble (Jazz hands!). If I was two years old again, I'm sure there would be a good chance that I would grow up thinking it would be wise to stay out of the kitchen, in case I evoked a brightly coloured seizure.

And the kitchen.... Ramsay would shit a brick over it. I havent seen their invoices, purchase agreements, or the new stock coming in. But I dont think these pair have either. And what of waiting staff?? Yeah, forget about it.

Principle set-up. Big COCK and Little COCK dick around, usually after a lame 'size' gag (one should never be defined by one's physical differentials). Until... a customer arrives. No formal order is taken, and the food prep cant begin until theyve had a story from Little Cook's story book. ALAS, still no idea what to prepare. FUCKING ASK THEM!! No, too simple.
So out with Big Cook's cook book. Eureka. Recipe found. But... one ingredient missing, which is typical, particularly when eating in a new Wetherspoons'. Solution? Tell said customer that is simply isnt going to happen, and recommend the Beer and Burger Special.
Im probably being a bit unfair on this show, as my niece seems to love it, and what gives me a bit of peace and quiet when she's here, is just fine by me. Furthermore, this show does demonstrate a little bit of basic food preparation details, and my Jacket Potatoes have only come on leaps and bounds since.

The Teletubbies, what the hell was that all about? To me, it was some kind of LSD-induced bachelor's (or bachelorettes') to live on a golf course, only eat toast and custard, and to ave the hoovering done automatically for you by what can only be described as a poor man's K-9.
And when you thought children's television couldnt possibly resemble the inside of John Lennon's mind anymore than it already does, along comes a piece of quality programming such as In The Night Garden. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MZx1k4woJkk
I personally liken it to a kind of soft edged Lost Boys dynamic, a seemingly fairytale land where the felt and patchwork-style characters remain in a state of vulnerable youth, and grown ups are scarcely found (other than the much needed narration of course, which here is provided by Sir Derek Jacobi).

The show seems to revolve around IgglePiggle (a blue and slightly retarded looking Tin Tin-type entity, fashioning a weird mo ho fringe, who is never far from his crusty red blanket-its stiff as a board), who travels to the Night Garden in his dreams, after falling asleep on his wooden sail boat, devoid of any of the inter-bestial relations set up echelons ago between the Owl and the Pussycat. And no one raised an eyebrow back then, either...

IgglePiggle's best friend within the largely CGI'd Night Garden, is UpsyDaisy, an attractive (for what is essentially a female felt role-model for toddlers) but verbally incoherent quirky type, who dresses as though its Fresher's week, and she is gunning to be known as the 'attractive bohemian one' amongst her male peers. IgglePiggle and UpsyDaisy seem to have a very 'Mulder and Scully' relationship, a sort of will-they-wont-they dynamic, that was possibly only heavily hinted at after IgglePiggle fell asleep on her bed after one brightly coloured cerebral visit to the garden (he always leaves the garden on his boat, before a return to his waking life, which I can only assume consists largely of drinking rum, and avoiding compounded boat repayments).

These two are undoubtedly the 'main' characters, with a supporting cast that consists of the Tombliboos, who are seemingly three travelling circus rejects, in bizarre futuristic gay night garb, and who spend much of their life living in a bush (which isnt a euphanism).

Then there are the Pontepines and Wottingers, two neighbouring families of tiny people, who seem to be the only residents of the Night Garden who have gone through the necessary bureaucratic red tape, to secure accomodation in an actual real house, as opposed to a pine cone, or a pigeon's fart, or something equally magical. These two families are ten-a-penny, sharing two semi-detached terrace houses, with a communal garden. In The Night Garden... commenting on immigration and living conditions? Or a pop at benefit schemers? Too much for a three year old to take in? Or shall we have them inciting socio-political opinions before they can even crawl. Everyone's a critic...

But it is glum faced dullard MakkaPakka I feel most sorry for. He likes to clean. Well, whether he likes to clean or not is quite evidential, rom the fact that... he obviously is a dab hand at it. But one wonders in the current economical climate whether the cleaning job is one he was forced to take, Degree in Accelerated Business Studies or not. I can only liken him to a Community Carer, who on occasion, will clean his own place of residence (he has a STONE for a bed), before travelling around with his trolley of wonderful cleaning things, giveing various members of the Night Garden a firm scrubbing down as he goes. No money changes hands, and one can only assume that this service is inclusive in the Council Tax these people are paying for.

Bottom line. He wakes alone. He cleans faces with not even a thankyou. And he goes to sleep alone. Hugging a rock. Kids, stay in school.
Thogh what is good about this programme, and refreshing, is that as far as I can see, the emphasis is taken from the often patronising 'learning' mission objective of other kiddies programmes, and placed on improvement of relationships between parent and child. One sequence in particular, which features every episode, depicts a child slowly drifting off to sleep whilst mummy makes circular motions in the palm of said kiddy's hand. It sounds disturbing of course, and probably is, if youre 32 years old and cant sleep until this happens to you each night. But it reinforces the idea that all parents should want to share that special developmental time with their bundles of dribbling joy, as opposed being hunched over a laptop criticising children's television... Oh.

Mind you, it's no Teletubbies.

Ok, so Ad fancies himself as a bit of a poet... Dylan Thomas, he is not.

Drugstore Cinderella

She's the prayer that was answered,
Yet fell on deaf ears.
He is a jagged lullaby,
That failed to dry tears,

Her make up is smeared,
Yet her smile never cracks,
His picture speaks a thousand words,
While his mouth utters none,

They prop up the bar,
Close, but never together,
Her glass is half-full,
His always shattered,

The old men watching,
And have seen it all before,
To them she's an angel, yet jagged, yet pure.
But this is his hell,
She falls every night,
But never for him,

Not a thing he can do,
Nor a word he can tell her
'I wish you were mine, my drugstore Cinderella.'

I don't believe in the Apocalypse,
I don't believe in Valentines,
I don't believe in the total eclipse,
My own belief's inside my head.

Leeds Zombie Film Festival 2008 Part Two

The key to this event becomes clear; social interaction through scenes of violent and horrific content. Though this isn’t a group of yobs screaming profanities at a football match as opposed to a group of like-minded people coming together to express joy at pain and suffering.
Oh wait.
But seriously, the people at this event are fans of a film genre that can be fun as well as serious. On the one hand, the element of seriousness comes from the barbs of social commentary that runs throughout certain zombie films (Dawn of the Dead for example is thought to be a criticism of consumerist culture). On the other hand despite, there is an element of fun that comes from playing around with film convention, in-jokes, and now and again a dismembered head performing unmentionable sex-act upon a reluctant young girl (Reanimator, again). The instant that is most prominent in mind, would be during Night of the Living Dead, filmed during the peak of the Civil Rights movement, in which Ben (Duane Jones), a black character who takes charge in the bleak situation, makes a point. Albeit by punching a subtly bigoted white survivor, to a disembodied cry of ‘Get in!’ in a decidedly broad northern accent that echoes around the theatre. This is greeted with a chorus of laughter by all.

Zombie films break barriers. Fact.

“If you thought that was heavy, you ain’t seen nothing yet!” chimes Dominic, paraphrasing the late great Al Jolson in The Jazz Singer. The switch between the plodding Night of the Living Dead to the hyperactive Reanimator marks the theme of ‘serious’ to ‘fun’ viewing material that is continued over the next, how many, oh 10 hours. Zombie Flesh Eaters just seems to fly by, in all its Italian-dubbed glory. Another slow burner, this is followed by the self referential Return of the Living Dead, a punk-rock 80s film which owes more than a sly nod to the original cycle of ‘living dead’ zombie films, and updates it with a highly comedic twist. There is plenty of the green stuff (zombie blood, in this particular mythology) to be had in this one.
Alas, break time, and the crowd amble in drips and drabs out into the daylight. Three or four ‘zombies’ are huddled together near the entrance, enjoying a mid-point fag break. It is almost too tempting to warn a group of corpses the perils of smoking, but self control is a blessing. There are a couple of chaps ‘rearranging their stomach wounds’, making theirs the fifth set of intestines I had seen that afternoon.

No time to dwell; on with the festival.

At this point, we are reminded why the festival is taking place, and where our the proceeds of our £18 per ticket is going to. Dominic actually went to Romania, to rescue ‘dancing bears’, a national past time in which a bear is made to stand on a hot tray or platform, rocking on the balls of its feet to avoid the heat, giving the impression of dancing. This was clearly a humbling venture for him, and it makes the mission of six films in twelve hours a worthy one.

Dawn of the Dead, the second in Romero’s flesh eating saga, begins its poignant commentary on the need to consume. The heroes in this one hole up in a shopping centre, and what might be a consumerists dream for some, soon becomes the stuff of nightmares. Though stylish in content, and clearly a budgetary improvement on Night of the Living Dead, it seems a drawn out affair, perhaps due to it being the fourth film in a long day. One or two audience members are finding it hard to keep up.

Dominic and Mark provide one last introductory ‘passage’. The next film is Planet Terror, a film that was intended as one half of Grindhouse, the Robert Rodrgiuez, Quentin Tarantino double feature in tribute to the low budget exploitation movies of the seventies. According to Mark, “American audiences were too daft to realise it was a double feature, and started leaving the cinema half way through!’’. We are viewing the second and better half, it would seem. The lights go down once more.
Though this film presents us with action and gore aplenty, not to mention apparent gun as fetish (one fake leg you wouldn’t get on the NHS), the only truly atrocious spectacle here is one Quentin Tarantino’s acting performance in a sizeable cameo.
As the event draws to a close, it is time for Dominic and Mark to thank those who “took time out of a Sunday that could have been used for drinking and church-going, in no particular order”, and to judge the ‘best looking zombie’ competition. Though it would appear only around twelve people knew about this category. One lucky cadaver walks off with a 2000 AD goody bag.

Not a bad day to be a zombie in Leeds.

Leeds Zombie Film Festival 2008 Part One

It is no less than forty years since George A Romero’s Night of the Living Dead stormed the newly-born independent film scene, bringing an undercurrent of national sentiment to midnight drive-in screenings all over America. Created on a budget of US$60,000, its black and white grainy façade reflected the daily newsreel footage being viewed in workplaces, suburban homes, and schools, sending images of the atrocities that were an all too horrifying reality in Vietnam. It is this very film that initiates proceedings for the First Leeds Zombie Film Festival. Audience members are welcomed into the theatre to such colourfully titled tracks as ‘Killing Time’ by Massacre, ‘Overkill’ by Motorhead, ‘Kill ‘em All’ by Metallica and the Sex Pistols’ Pretty Vacant playing at an actually quite ear-bending level over the PA system. It would seem there is a theme here.
There is something mildly strange about a film ‘festival’ (I say festival when it’s more of a marathon) of this nature being organised and presented by Mark Charnock and Dominic Brunt. Strange, because the two likeable chaps on the stage presenting each film are two of Emmerdale’s darlings (‘Marlon’ and ‘Paddy respectively), a farm-set soap in which the most traumatic scenes revolve around being served a heady pint in the Woolpack or
receiving food poison from one of Betty Eagleton’s home made scones. Oh, and the occasional plane crash/storm/explosion (circle one).
The two men prove themselves to be jovial hosts who are clearly passionate about the event, ironically in aid of the World Society of Protection of Animals, which surely runs in direct contradiction to a scene in Reanimator in which a reanimated cat is repeatedly smashed into a wall until death takes its life once again, much to the joy of the present audience. This could perhaps serve as the equivalent of watching American History X at a National Front Rally. In the introductory speech, which is essentially a chance for the Dales duo to exhibit some ‘fanboy’ trivia, Mark wishes the audience a good time whilst he and Dominic ‘are of to Vue for a rom-com festival’. Of course, it’s a witticism and the audience laugh and move on from it, allowing images straight from ’68 to swamp the large projector screen, as Night of the Living Dead swamps the stark white projector screen with its iconic opening sequence.
As that trusty Pontiac makes its way up the gravel drive way, whilst the iconic ‘stars and stripes’ blows solemnly in the background, it becomes obvious that the Leeds City Varieties Centre is a venue with character, its faded shades of green and red décor hold no testament to the broad spectrum of acts who have performed here throughout its rich existence (Britain’s oldest theatre since 1888).
From the Royal Shakespeare Company right across the border of where art meets entertainment, to The Krankies, this venue has seen it all and reeks of history. Why not host a zombie festival here? If it’s good enough for The Krankies…. It is mentioned by Dom that Leeds’ Vue multiplex offered to host the festival, but logistically the cinema is nowhere near the town centre which ‘would make ‘going for a pint’ in the interval a problem’. Plus, looking around, there are a few audience members who might find it a problem hailing a cab in various states of decomposition....

Continued in Part Two

Adam Has A Novel Idea: Part Two (or a rare moment of clarity)

So... finally sat down today after a few non-productive months where the novel is concerned.

Outlined the general direction of the story arc, and have set about asking myself some very important questions in regards to who, what, where, when, why, and how.

As I was saying in the last novel blog I wrote, the two main characters who are essentially 'fox and hound' polar opposites fall in love after she tries to kill him.

After this 'event', she feels understandably bad, and gets in touch with him. Thus creating an 'awkward second date' type situation. Or a blind date even, as technically they haven't even met really.

And then it came to me.

The whole freaking glorious story is one big analogy for dating.

It's all there. The nerves as she 'notices' him, albeit through the scope of a high-powered sniper rifle. His inability to 'read' the situation (typical bloke, dont you know) ie, he doesnt know someone is making eyes at him. Clash of personalities (or a bullet in the shoulder/knee, in this case).

This first 'meet' is almost atypical of a 'Blind Date' scenario, and all the second-guessing that comes with it.
And of course, it ends in the all too familiar way. The guy gets shot down, and the woman scarpers, probably to eat Ben and Jerry's or dismantle her gun tripod. You know, what ever it is ladies are into these days.

So the story is on track.

And it got me thinking of some excellent chat-up techniques and 'lines' I have heard (and maybe even tried) whilst out and about.

• Firstly, and with a surprisingly high success rate, is the shouty chat up. You find someone you like the look of, approach the back of her head, and yell at her. If she doesnt punch you or attract the attention of a nearby bouncer, then she will probably be interested in buying you a kebab. And maybe breakfast.
• 'Can I buy you a drink, or would you rather have something else of equivalent monetary value?'
• 'Can I stand here?'
• 'From over there you looked like Anne Widdecombe so I thought I'd come and say hey.'
• 'You, me, staring contest, NOW!'
• 'Do you wanna have sex and get married?' (say this one real fast. The speed of delivery throws them completely).
• 'Oh, you have red hair. Do the curtains match your pubes?'
• 'I'm slipping into a diabetic coma. Do you wanna come back to mine and administer an adrenaline shot to the heart. Maybe call an ambulance?' (low low low success rate...apparently).
• 'I just got the all clear from the clinic, so, what are you doing later?'
• 'Mother says its cool, so if you wanna come over...'

And I'm sure I will think up some more in due course. Some of them havent had the most concise bench test as of yet (bruises , both physical and egotistical to prove it).
So feel free.

Adz

A Deathly Dose of Doubly Dirty Diabetes (or how I learned that alliteration just doesnt sell quite as well as vagrant nudity) PART ONE

For a decade now, or as the French say, decade, I have been living with a silent killer.


No, not a psychopathic mime artist who has cracked due to audience members claiming they can actually see the sides of his 'box'. Nor carbon monoxide.

In the golden Summer of 1998, a glorious pinhole in history that gave us the Furby and Lethal Weapon 4 (thus proving while your'e never 'too old for this shit', you can always be a little too anti-semetic), I was diagnosed with Type 1 diabetes. Which was annoying. I was due to compete in the up and coming school sports day.
Shot Put- for those who are too fat to run and too uncoordinated to toss a javelin.

It struck me at night, rousing me from any hope of peaceful slumber through the double threat of severe dehydration and regular (hourly or less) passing of water.
This went on for maybe ten days. I was shattered, losing weight rapidly (so maybe I could run the 100 in 9 flat after all...), weak, and barely able to even lift a mars bar to my young pink mouth.
People noticed. My parents thought I was on smack, and before I knew it the worldwide media got involved. It was no good.



I needed to see a doctor. Who told me I needed to go to hospital. Which is where I finally learned that diabetes didnt mean I possessed the power to move things with my mind.

Now the science bit...

Within the pancreas the insulin-producing langheran glands have ceased to work, are bereft of hormones. done and dusted, over the hills and far away. Insulin just doesnt live here anymore.

What of this fabled insulin? Well. everytime you eat, the pancreas produces insulin to help control the amount of sugar that enters your bloodstream as a result. No insulin, no blood sugar control. Which is always bad and rarely good.

Which in short means I get sad outside bakeries and funfairs.

So after a week in hospital, and intense diabetes training, I was released.

But what does it all mean?

• If you have a complimentary bowl of candy beans on your coffee table, you had better damn well hide them when I visit. It's like inviting Dracula over for a garlic baguette whilst enjoying the sunrise. In a Church.


• The expression 'kid in a candy store' is a coma waiting to happen.


• Death By Chocolate is a suicide method and not, repeat NOT a dessert option.


• You are treated like a more interesting and less controversial kind of vegetarian when it comes to 'dinner-talk'.


• Woolworths closing down can be attributed to me coming off pick 'n' mix.


• No global expedition can be safely undertaken with out prior and extensive knowledge of all known pharmacies, chemists, hospitals and witch doctors. You dont wanna get 'the shakes' in Papua, New Guinea. Fo Sho.

• You had better call up everyone you've ever slept with ever, 'cos they, um, might wanna get themselves checked out.
  

• You finally realise how retarded some of your friends are when they A) ask you what would happen if they injected some of your insulin and B) recoil in horror when you approach the, syringe in hand and maniacal grin on your face.
  

Shortly I will be posting a list of symptoms and ways to cope if youre at that delicate age, and find you have the condition. I dont want to get too seriousl just yet.
Peace and love.

Adz