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

Zombie Apocalypse Now

Anyone who knows me is aware of my borderline unhealthy obssession with zombie films, and that it was only a matter of time that a post regarding the 'horror film staple that natural preservation forgot' made it's way into my blog space.

Why the obssession?

Well, for a start the often excellently executed gore effects (signature decapitation-by-rotor blade in Geroge Romero's Dawn of the Dead http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=55fMHSA-16c, a scene that rises to the plate pre-CGI era in a triumphant meeting of real head+animated blades) and more often than not, the laughably terrible audio dubbing (particularly in the Italian-American joint-produced productions such as Zombie Flesh Eaters, The Zombie Dead, Zombie Nosh, Zombie Flesh Eaters 2; I think you see where this list is going).


But for me, the real crux of my fascination is the implied effect that a real life 'outbreak' would have on a society increasingly preoccupied with bursts of uncontrolled consumerism (vis a vis our current economical climate), whilst evermore relying on happy shiny technology. In some ways, a zombie buffet seems like the best solution for a modern problem such as ourselves, a species famous for fucking ourselves in the proverbial in the name of progress.
What if the errors of our ways were only realised when the problem quite literally, and most definitely painfully, bites us in the ass?

Im not trying to preach. But as anyone who has looked into films such as Dawn of the Dead (CLUE: the analogy here is capitalism) can see, if the mindless shopper driven by the bargain were replaced with similarly 'one-track-minded' decaying hordes driven by demand of a different kind (cadavers at knockdown prices), would anyone even notice? Would people begin queuing behind said hordes thinking Harrods were finally having their sale?

Most definitely food for thought.

It could happen....

Movie Review: Night of the Living Dead (or if Michael Moore made zombie movies)

These days, finding a decent zombie film is the proverbial opposite to shooting fish in a barrel, more like shooting one fish. In a lake. From a helicopter. With a potato gun. There are literally thousands of zombie films cluttering up various shelves in the deepest, darkest bargain sections of Blockbuster throughout the land.
There is a broad range in quality, from the fun (Return of the Living Dead, 1984) to the serious (From Beyond, 1979) to the downright ridiculous (Chopper Chicks in Zombietown, 1981). But when it comes to the debate of content over style, George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead (1968) is bar one the film that shaped zombie films as we know them.

In an age where horror is largely popularized via numbers of fresh-faced American teens being dispatched by Lithuanians, or bastardized ‘cut and shut’ jobs on remakes of J-horror classics that maintain the visuals but lose the chills, Night of the Living Dead bares testament to that old maxim that Hollywood tends to ignore; LESS IS MORE.

Shot in grainy black and white (a choice of budget restriction rather than style) Night is significant for a number of reasons. Effectively the first film that gave us the ‘flesh eater’ zombie, as opposed to the schlock styling of the ‘Voodoo zombie’ toiling aimlessly on the plantations under the watchful guise of their master (Bela Lugosi, in the case of White Zombie, 1930). Night also marked the first central performance of a black actor in a horror film in the form of Duane Jones (Ben). Place this into the socio-political context of the burgeoning civil rights movement, which was at full flow around 1968, and it becomes difficult to see why the zombie film evolved into a form of entertainment seemingly meant only for drunken teenagers looking for kicks, and make-up laden Cure fans.

Romero has laid claim to the fact that Richard Matheson’s vampire masterpiece I Am Legend (now a major motion picture) acted as the basis, along with the real life newsreels that were delivering the play by play atrocities taking place in Vietnam at this time. This is echoed in the film, as the survivors pensively receive updates, via radio and television, on the bizarre and brutal situation taking place around them. In an age where we receive much of are information without even leaving our house, or buying a newspaper, due to developments in internet technology and having about a million channels devoted to news, Night of the Living Dead suggests that reliance on truthful media is no less significant now.

As for the zombies themselves, yes, it is very obvious that the budget for special effects make-up stretched as far as several kilos of foundation. It is also particularly notable that Romero’s creatures might place silver or even bronze next to their 21st century counterparts, the ‘running zombie’ (think 28 Days Later), guaranteed to get the adrenaline and legs pumping in equal measures. Romero’s zombies rely on danger in numbers, and the real fear comes from the bleakness of the protagonists’ situation, and the conflict within the house amongst them.
Never has the expression ‘rag-tag’ been used to better effect.
Romero maintains to this day that any issues of racial tension unfolding within his seminal film, as Ben comes up against opposition from the very white and prideful Mr Cooper (Karl Hardman, also a producer), can be attributed to the casting of Jones being coincidental on the basis he was the best actor the director knew.

With this in mind, the shock ending still manages to raise an eyebrow, whether you are looking for a message or not.
Though modern audiences may be used to zombie horror at a breakneck speed, ‘Night’ provides that rare combination of fear and philosophy. If you like your satire with a bit of extra bite, look no further than Romero.

A Novel Idea (or how Adam learned that a little ambition is only as good as his output).

So I decided that maybe my ticket out of this less than one horse town might be to try and conjure up some kind of creative powers and write a book.


Yeah, just like that. Its really that simple.



It isnt like I dont have time on my hands right now.

All you need is an idea,and by Jove I think I have one, or at least a cohesion of themes, situations and kooky characters, that could potentially become a new literary darling, a pulpy face-slapping, kick in the ass for the British writing community.

But why stop there.

Time to go global I think.

Here is the opening extract:


CHAPTER ONE


It’s funny, the random bits of information and nuggets of nothingness that you can recall at the most inopportune of moments. Like whimsical lyrics that remind you of a stolen kiss, with whatsherface in that place, or that piece of advice your parents gave you that you disregarded, in favour of the clearly more superior opinions of teenage counterparts, which will inevitably bite you in the ass when you’re doing something completely unrelated in your later years, like shaving or avoiding charity workers in the street.
A good story needs just two things; a girl, and a gun.
However intrinsically unrelated to my life this sentence was at the time, it has certainly just taken on a whole new poignancy, like a DANGER: SUDDEN DROP sign, noticed with an irony more painful then your physical state i.e. from the bottom of the cliff.
Where I heard it, I couldn’t tell you.
Just like I probably couldn’t tell you why a fully grown man is hiding out in a fridge, in a Swedish pantry, as a stray .45 hollow point (oh yeah, extensive firearms training, me) has just burrowed its way into a pound of butter on a shelf above me, whilst the woman I love is waging war outside on those who used to ‘own’ her.
Actually, I probably could tell you that, but the girl and the guns come much, much later.

* * * * * * * * * *
“Mr Patrick...”
I hear the voice, but my mind is over the hills and far away. I'm Dorothy, seeing Oz in all it's glory, with newly Technicolor-tinted eyes. I'm Hunter S Thompson at the wheel of a Cadillac. Hell, I'm Diana Ross in an airport security holding bay.
“Mr Patrick..”
Yeah, there he is again. Why can't I just answer him?
Nod. Wink. Give the kind of acknowledging cough that would be welcome in Parliament; agreement and the sense of disenfranchise in equal measure. Maybe I can stay in this mental limbo if I just nonchalantly reach into my pocket, pull out a fiver, and hand it to the man. Is that enough money for someone to forget your name? Or is even small-time bribery living under the gun of inflation?
Just five more minutes... I like it here... Put another golden oldie on the jukebox...
“Mr Patrick!!”
I'm up, I'm up. And boy do I instantly regret the wake-up call.
Ruby slippers dissipate into the furthest recesses of my head, and are replaced by my dog-eared trainers, upright and stood to attention. Of course. I remember. On this day in reality, I'm being psychoanalysed on that most fabled of settings, the psychiatrist's couch. Yeah, there's always room for a well placed stereotype and a well placed nod to the populist cult of cliché.




PLOT:



The main character is a man on the edge, who seemingly has nothing, emotonally as well as physically.

The opening chapter finds him on the psychiatrists couch, as he is either about to make an attempt on his life, or already has.

After repeated suicide attempts and none more successul sessions, his aptitude for failure is fully realised, and he goes about planning to end his life the only way that seems definite.

A hitman. A contract organised by him, on himself. Surely a professional isnt going to miss the mark?

But wait.. who have 'the agency' sent to carry out this human functionality-ending deed.

She's a trained killer going through her own existential crisis, who is wondering how the hell a nice girl with a non-complex upbringing has found her way on a blood-drenched path of commercial murdering (an increasingly booming industry, no less).

She observes her target, yet whistfully sees something within him that makes that extra pound per inch of pressure on the trigger so hard to apply.

As their two lives become intertwined, and long dead emotions are felt that have long been dormant, how far must the pair go to escape those who are funding the agency?

Are the ends of the Earth far enough?


***********************************
Im curently seeing it as a dark-comical amalgamation of Nick Hornby (Long Way Down) and Chuck Palunhiak (Fight Club), with some Luke Reinhart ( The Dice Man )thrown in for good measure.

Watch this space.

BOOK REVIEW: World War Z by Max Brooks

Max Brooks (yes, son of Hollywood comedy LEGEND, Mel Brooks) follows up his entertaining yet worryingly 'well researched' Zombie Survival Guide with something a little less tongue in cheek. To take a spine quote from fellow zombie-phile Simon Pegg, 'an absolute must-have... Brooks infuses his writing with such precise detail and authenticity, one wonders if he knows something we don't'.

So, what' it about?

Where his Zombie Survival Guide put pay to pop-culture myths built up around your decaying friend and mine, the zombie, as well as fathoming out the possible reality of a living dead outbreak, World War Z goes a terrifying step forward with it's 'documentation' and archiving of a full scale global battle with those kooky cadavers, from first bite to the victory of the living. Although the living never really 'win', at least not in the conventional sense.

It all starts 'innocently' enough. Rumours of another pandemic in China that resonate with the very real bird flu epidemic (luckily I have the immune system of an ox) quickly evolve into the world's inner cities becoming overrun with walking corpses, who are only after one thing. And it isnt a Subway club card.
A ten year war follows, and the more deaths amongst 'our' ranks, the higher number of members batting for Team Z, as Brooks terms them 'Zach', a deathly riff on the term 'Gerry' used during the First and Second World Wars for the German opposition.

World War Z is essentially a history textbook for weary future generations, who might wonder what it was like to walk through the streets of London or Manhattan, or the picturesque surrounds of Manitoba's National Park, without having to step over bundles of rag and teeth, ravaged by the effects of an apocalyptic battle with an enemy who isnt going to be worrying about rations, sleep, or the gal they left behind back home. Former soldiers, governmental officials, members of the public, and notable scientists all come forward with their own experiences during the 'The Dark Years' to warn following generations against the perils of playing with dead things.
The obvious fear whilst reading this book comes from the gross and physical acts of violence that natural arise when going mano ee mano with an enemy whose bite is most certainly worse than his (or her) bark.
But for me, it is Brooks' accuracy when it comes to the naming and describing of military techniques and maneouvres, and points of geographical interest that host some of the key stages throughout the decade long struggle. He has truly done his homework and implemented it with great detail and a journalistic sense of informative yet bleak narration.
Like a Soda Stream or chainsaw, every household needs a copy of this book. Because you never can tell...

http://www.thecuresafety.com/v/private%20hoserod/source%20files/4483241.stm.htm

I also heard Brad Pitt bought the rights to produce a film based on the book, so for fuck's sake read it before you see the film, in which its quite probable that the whole war wil begin in Cambodia on a routine Pitt-Jolie baby adopting mission.

Adz

TWAT OF THE WEEK #1: Father Christmas

DISCLAIMER: Adam wishes to make it very clear that this week's choice is in no way based on any religious affiliation or dislike for Yuletide. All opinions are nothing more than simply that. This week's subject is quite likely a cracking bloke.

This is a tricky one. Mr Christmas has not been a part of any direct misconduct towards myself, or any member of my family (though there was that one year that a letter I had drafted to the man in question caused considerable chimney damage when I sent it, due to the amount of liquid correctional fluid applied).
Sadly, in keeping with the festive spirit (and this is as festive as I shall be getting), I have chosen he who symbolises this holiday (him and JC, of course) as the focus for my very first 'TWAT OF THE WEEK'. He must be stopped.

REASONS

• The use of various names over the years. Saint Nicholas. Santa Claus. Father Christmas. Papa Nowell. Why the numerous monikers? What is he hiding? Or is he under some kind of witness protection programme for threatening to squeal on the Easter Bunny's 'love egg' misdemeanour? Either way, can we trust him?
  
• The claim to deliver presents across the land all in one night, operating with a devil may care disregard for time zones and air traffic. Impossible? Yes. Smug tosser? Most definitely.
• Centuries old, yet has successfully cornered the youth market where John McCain failed, even in such contemporary times where an elderly eccentric with a fondness for children is generally treated with the disdain of a paedophile. But then again... hides out in the furthermost regions of the North Pole all year round, making toys, with his 'helpers'...
• Possibly entirely and soulfully responsible for the Credit Crunch as we know it. Constant pressure put upon parents by their offspring for the latest must-have item. Mr Christmas makes promises he can't keep and ultimately flakes under demands. Parents sign up for credit cards, loans, second mortgages, all because the old man couldn't deliver. Case in point: Buzz Lightyear.
  
• Insistence on using a list to determine the behavioural schematics of the children. Im assuming its just a bog standard pros and cons style itemisation. No electronic database, spreadsheets, digital tagging system. Oh, and he only fucking checks it twice. So no back-up. Im still waiting on a sodding Soda Stream and I know why as well.
  
• Coca-Cola sponsorship. So he's a sell-out too. Ive seen it a billion times. Good guy starts off with good intentions. Then the advertising deals roll in. Merchandising. Christmas spin-off single. Anything to make a buck, yet still persists in being pulled around by reindeer.
• Makes it seem alright to be a little bit on the plump side, despite everything Jamie Oliver, Sportacus, most of my secondary school year group, and Jade Goody have done to heal obesity.
  

Though admittedly it feels a bit wrong to be having a pop at a fella who is just trying to bring a big of joy into this increasingly bleak wasteland, but if you can't say it as Christmas, when can you say it, eh?

NEXT WEEK: Mother Teresa of Calcutta.

MOVIE REVIEW: Stranger Than Fiction (or how I learned to stop worrying and love Will Ferrell films that don't contain loud noises).

I love Anchorman. You love Anchorman. I love Talladega Nights. You love Talladega Nights. I love Elf. You love... ah heck, it's Christmas. Why the hell not, eh?

The aforementioned films represent the very best of Will Ferrell's two acting approaches. Hilariously loud, or even more hilariously childlike plus a pinch of naiveity. Not to mention more golden nugget encrusted ad-libs than a certain 'almost former' President of the United States (whom Ferrell excellently portrayed on behalf of Saturday Night Live). And he has indeed cornered this particular market.
But imagine the horror and skepticism (felt by myself admittedly) to hear the beady eyed funster was going to 'do a Carrey' and attempt subtle drama.

In Stranger Than Fiction, Ferrell plays a quiet and self conscious IRS agent (AKA the taxman) Harold Crick , whose life is consumed and ruled by the numbers and routine he has imposed on himself.

Not drawing any sympathy yet? Hang in there.

Like many a narrative driven film, this production features an opening voice over (Emma Thompson) that Harold begins to hear in his head whilst performing a precise horizontal toothbrush stroke for the 19th time. This is the point where any traditional voiceover now becomes a key plot device, as it responds to each of Crick's actions as he carries them out.
Even at this point, no yelling or cowbell jokes.
Circk's thought processes then go through the processes that any of ours would, given that where our life previously might have held no meaning, it is at least narrated by a soft and somewhat sensual English accent, as opposed to German. Or Botswanan.
Harold copes with the apparent madness to a point. Until..

Kay Eiffel: [narrating] Little did he know that this simple seemingly innocuous act would result in his imminent death.

Harold Crick: What? What? Hey! HELLOOO! What? Why? Why MY death? HELLO? Excuse me? WHEN?

As many of us would react, perhaps, Crick visits the shrink (though I think I would by the 18th tooth-brushtroke). Once it is determined that he isnt actually insane, as the 'voice' isnt suggesting anything to him, or influencing him, he is led to literary professor 'Dave' (Dustin Hoffman). Dave concludes that Harold is the centre of a story, and his life (and death) is existing as it is being written. His meetings with Dave prompt him to decide whether his life is a tragedy or a comedy, and judging by the devloping and initially 'butting-of-the-head' relationship between him and a reluctant client, Miss Pascal (Maggie Gyllenhaal), a punky, independent baker who has no business dabbling with 'The Man', it is destined to be a tragedy. Impending death and all.
Aside from the book-within-a-film notion, Stranger Than Fiction is a wonderfully sobering piece that poses the question regarding what would you do knowing death was coming, and you could literally hear it's morosely narrated approach?
Ferrell doesnt disappoint, and even implements a touch of his trademark naiveity to the role of an unwitting literary focus who otherwise has nothing in common with the world around him. Watching his awareness of the world, relationships, and his own quietly held down dreams (in a particularly amusing scene, Harold has narrative help purchasing a guitar) is like watching Bambi take her first trembling steps, and if it doesn't at least light a flicker of inspiration within your own personally dampened wick, I deduce you are a robot. From the future.
Admittedly, the ending initially feels like a cop-out (which I shant give away), but after realising that it might be the only way to end such an existential mindbender, acceptance sets in, as it eventually does with Mr Crick himself.

Jogging

In all my modified wisdom, I recently embarked on a semi-serious health kick which involves no more chocolate, no more cheesecakes, and less beer (note my leniency on the beer policy).
I figured it would be good to drop a bit of weight for the proposed salsa classes I'm debating on beginning in the new year, and besides, all that sugar ain't good for long term friend I hate, the diabetes. And when I say friend, I mean more of an associate.
Someone who I have contact with constantly but only really present themselves when they're in trouble.
Be it money, relationships, or mars bar-induced glycoma.

So far, so good.

Glycoma aside.Part of my foray into fitness has of course been the addition of exercise. Being a fan of the Rocky films, and indeed any film that contains an inspirational training montage (Flashdance and Footloose included) , I figured that as the world of competitively-priced gym fees restricts slightly, what could be better than the free and equally embarrassing pursuit of jogging.
Yes, placing one foot in front of the other in rapid succession for an extended period of time.
How hard can that be? Rocky did it in the snow, for Chrissakes!!

Obviously, I start the day like this... http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=3EYZCZvV7WM but I swallow them no worries.
I whack on the ipod, with pre-set banging tracks (Dead Kennedies, The Clash, some Metallica, and anything by Abba), don my new trakkies and Hi-Tecs, and hit the trail. And I'm looking GOOOOOD.
The fresh air, the wind in my face, and the Sun on my....ankles.
Five minutes in, still feeling alright. Breathing steady, but slowly paying the rising tax on oxygen.
At this point, I'm pretty sure I've done a mile, so I sit down by a babbling brook to enjoy a scotch egg and recite some neo-political French poetry (inclusion of the scotch egg removes all precociousness).
I commence running once more.
Why am I doing this?
What am I running from?
An obese Britain? I live here, so that's ridiculous.
Obese teen epidemic? No. Cant be. I was a adolescent some years ago, and I did my fat stint then.
Or am I just running from myself? Obviously not. One cannot run physically from oneself as one is oneself, and the two should never be mutually exclusive. That's like taking a break from your shadow, and I shudder to think of the paperwork involved.

I finally make it back to my car (oh yeah, I drive to my run) via walking a bit, jogging less, and walking some more.
I have managed to keep this up for a couple of weeks now, and I have noticed some considerable gains.
My French has improved, for one.
Secondly, I now associate all nice foods (and consequently EVIL) with mild asthma attacks.
Thirdly, if I ever become pregnant, my baby has less chance of inheriting heart disease. So everyone's a winner.
Any further progress will be duly noted on this very blog.

Yours Chafing-ly
Adz


PS All jog and no beer make Adam a dull but lucid boy.

My First Blog, Argentinian Gnomes, and many more.

Welcome, welcome, and welcome. What I meant to say was welcome. This is the very first post of Mr Adam Mellow; a sometime shop assistant and other time writer/dreamer. Cheesy as it is, it is true.
This blog, between now and my almost certain death (cryogenics is progressing every day, or Walt Disney hopes so), will play host to general thoughts, queries, script ideas, short stories and anything else that will either interest you, or entertain me. Or both.
Admittedly, I always held the view that a blog acted as a playground for those who have run out of things to look up on YouTube, and whom have nothing better to do. Well, I have recently found myself unemployed (I hate expressions like 'struck off', or 'made redundant'), and thus have run out of things to look up on YouTube and have nothing better to do.

Case in point:

Argentinian Gnome Sightings http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=q0fPoH2gWzc
If you haven't already viewed this clip, than I implore you to do so immediately, or at least before you pass judgment. And ignore the fact that this is an exclusive on behalf of 'The Sun'(today's 'little-person sighting' is tomorrow's chip paper, after all).
On initial viewing, I must say I found this video disturbing. Not just because it is fairly legit looking, albeit pretty grainy (of course, it would be a group of teenagers armed with mobile phones with low pixel counts that capture this mythological anonymity, as opposed to a professional television crew, in daylight, with a 3CC pixel count). But also due to the fact those young bucks in question are trying on full facial balaclavas in some kind of pre-heist pow wow. And having a ruddy good time doing it.
So I propose... that the appearance of the little fella is the latest exposition in a rapidly escalating gang situation. I'm not saying there is essentially a gang of gnomes, but maybe the other 'cholos' and what have you have sourced a tiny messenger. Either that or he is the latest efforts for the Argentinian neighbourhood watch to conform with equal opportunities legislation.

I find this video particularly amusing due to my being based in Cornwall, where the equivalent dubious 'wildlife' is the beast of Bodmin Moor. No, not a gnome, unicorn, or a plesiosaurus. A glorified moggy with no magic powers who was merely introduced into the wild due to the extravagant excesses of our 1970s forefathers.

Hai Karate in the smellies cabinet, Smash in the kitchen, and a puma in the living room. That is until it was deemed cruel and apparently dangerous to be in ownership of a largely wild predator sharing the food dish with Spot. God bless the 70s. So where do you take a 250 lb wildcat when theres no room at the YMCA?
Precisely.
The poor (yet no less toothy) buggers were unleashed into the relative wilderness of local forestry, causing problems for National Trust members all over the land ('PANTHER STATISTICS ARE NO PICNIC', read one creative and evermore witty headline)
And thats how we got our 'beast'. Or one theory at least.
Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed the video, and will chat soon.
Your friend and mine,
Adz