Where are Mulder & Scully when you need them?

Here’s one hell of a mystery for you:

Let’s set the scene with some atmospheric Mark Snow whistling.

Okay. If this whole thing wasn’t fucking freaking me out, I’d be in absolute bliss over having my first X File here; my very own unsolved case – mysterious, unexplainable, and bordering to the paranormal.

A little more than a week ago, I came home late (and considerably drunk) from work one night and found a parcel waiting for me on my doorstep. Expecting one of my eagerly-awaited Ebay purchases (or maybe not expecting anything in particular, given the fact that I was drunk enough to not even fully remember my journey home) I opened the parcel – and found a book tumbling onto my lap.

A big, heavy, hardcover book covered in dust and shelf marks. A book I had never seen before, or even heard of.

“Sushi for Beginners,” the cover said to me, while two maki rolled up and down in front of a crossed set of chopsticks and two headless crabs waved their tails at me from their nigri deathbeds.

(I admit that this particular occurrence might have been a product of the day’s alcohol consumption.)

As I tried to pluck the book from my lap, careful to prevent any more dust settling on my dress, a piece of paper came fluttering out from under the front cover.

“With compliments”, it said. From a school in Surrey. A school I had never been to, or even heard of.

Unsettled, I checked the envelope again. It had my name printed on it in capital letters, big and clearly, and my address. The new address of my new flat – known only by a handful of people.

Increasingly unsettled, but also incapable of forming any theory due to the low concentration of blood in my wine, I mumbled “WTF?!” at the book about twenty times and fell asleep.

The next working day I called the number printed on the compliment slip, without getting an answer. On the third working day it occurred to me that the school would be closed during half-term week.

Today I called the school again and explained the situation to the secretary. She promised to investigate. Just now, she called me back, informing me that she spoke to every member of staff in the school and that nobody knew anything about me, or the book, or where it had come from, or why it had been sent.

So how did a used, dusty copy of a book I never ordered, apparently sent by a school where nobody knows anything about me or sending the book, end up at my doorstep, in an envelope with my name and address on it?

I think some more atmospheric Mark Snow whistling is appropriate here.

And it’s still fucking freaking me out!

Total Film vs Empire = Total Dilemma

Every month, I find myself faced with the same dilemma: Do I buy Total Film, or do I buy Empire?

And, no, buying both is not an option. Being a poor student with a bank account suffering unbearably from my magazine addiction, I’m obliged to enforce some amount of self-discipline with regard to my monthly magazine budget.

So, every time we get to that delightfully exciting point in the month when the new issues go on sale, you’ll find me stalking up and down in front of the magazine shelves at WHS, pulling out Empire and TF, respectively, scouring the contents, browsing the features, swapping magazines, scouring, browsing, swapping…and swapping some more.

If one contestant happens to have a beautiful woman on the cover, the battle is usually won at this point. (Yeah, I’m that easily swayed. Magazine covers with beautiful women just look too pretty on my wall.) If there are no beautiful women to be found – which is generally the case – the dilemma usually carries on for about a week and involves daily lingering in front of magazine shelves and drawing many suspicious glances from WHS/newsagents/supermarket staff.

But, seriously – how do you choose between Empire and Total Film?

So, Empire may beat TF big time in terms of sales figures. They’ve got some fabulous formats – watching the Hollywood titans make a complete fool of themselves by not being able to answer a few simple questions about their own films is just priceless. And even the Video Dungeon and those little “things we’ve learnt” blobs alone make buying the mag worthwhile. Having said that, I don’t particularly like Empire’s attitude towards people who (usually for good reasons) haven’t seen A Clockwork Orange. (Basically, in that case, you’re not worthy of the mag.) And, no, I’ll never get used to the orange/red/brownish design on the reviews pages. Blech!

Total Film, on the other hand, may forever be cursed with a life spent in Empire‘s shadow. But it’s way more than the cooler little brother. For one, TF is published by the country’s most awesome publisher, Future (who I totally want to work for – and that has nothing to do with the fact that they’ve got a life-size Lara Croft and Captain Jack Sparrow in their London branch cafeteria). The mag is gorgeously designed from cover to cover – the features layouts make me howl with envy every month – and you just got to love the TF folks’ delightfully wicked humour. Then there’s the wonderful randomness of the Predicted Interest Curve™ and the “If You Must…” film chart, along with tons of other weird, wonderful, random little formats. And, rather than make me feel ashamed of what I don’t know about films (sadly all too often the Empire approach), Total Film throws in lots of little bits of essentials and trivia that just make me love films a little more every month.


The very promising November 2009 Total Film cover. And I’m not even talking about Ms Fox here…

I guess the point I’m trying to make here is that I usually buy Total Film. Unless Empire comes up with a total stroke of genius – like this month’s ’10 Years – 10 Covers’ Icons Issue:


Empire sets out to impress this December with 10 different ‘Icons of the Decade’ covers. Considering the men/women ratio in their choice of icons, I very much doubt they’ll impress anyone with so much as a single feminist gene though.

Which meant that, this time, I spent my magazine shelves lingering time shuffling through the stack of issues trying to decide which Icon of the Decade I’d like to grace my fabulously shiny metallic-y cover. Aragorn? Wolverine? James Bond? Somewhat upset about the lack of female icons (one out of ten? You’ve got to be kidding me!) I decided to go for the Joker, only to find that all the Heath Ledger-fronted issues had already been snatched up. So I settled for Jack Sparrow, who actually does make a pretty fabulous iconic cover – if you can get over the fact that the silly yellow “security protection” sticker would only come off stripping half the metallic coating off the cover along with it.

Anyway, thank you, Empire, for my somewhat ruined but still rather cool second-choice icon cover.

And to my great embarrassment I have to confess that, with all the excitement of 10 shiny covers to choose from and all, I somehow totally can’t remember what TF had to offer on the December issue. But, well, I’ve still got a couple of weeks to catch up on that before I have to face next month’s dilemma…

I made a magazine

Here’s some of my student magazine work. Or rather, my very own magazine – a dissertation project on the MA Magazine Journalism course at Sheffield Uni.

Unite – the magazine for parents of teenagers.

Click on the cover to get to the full PDF.

re:View – The X Files: I Want to Believe (that this is not the film I’ve waited for for six years!)

The story
Some FBI agent goes missing. Some psychic creep goes all psychic about it. Let’s call Agent Mulder. Much stalking through the snow sans plot ensues. Oh, and there’s some dodgy Modern-Day-Dr-Frankenstein-Thing going on. And dog tranquilizer. For the sake of this re:View, however, we’ll focus on the aspects of the film you’ll actually (possibly) be bothered about.

Act One
No-Longer-Special-Agent Dr Scully works in a Catholic hospital and has a bit of a faith crisis because The Church Folks won’t let her do some Really Totally Radical Risky Brain Surgery to save a little boy’s life. Xzibit Special Agent Mosley Drummy shows up, somewhat inappropriately, asking for Mulder.

Scully tells him to go screw himself cause, ya know, they’re no longer FBI and all. She also kind of annoyingly stresses the point, throughout the film, that she’s a DOCTOR now.

Also, The Creator tries to shock us for a sec by making Scully talk about Mulder like he’s History. But then she totally goes home to convince Mulder to get on the case. With the F-B-I. And the audience goes

“I’m happy as a clam hiding away from the world and cutting out newspaper articles all day”-Mulder says the FBI can go screw themselves. Also, he’s got a beard. Well, not any kind of beard. Maximum eeew!-level kind of beard. He tries an eyebrow wiggle that used to be sexy in pre-beard times on Scully–

and they both go all awkward and you can tell they’re WAY beyond frustrated. And just in case we still don’t get that point, there’s THE PENCILS™!

The audience goes

(The Pencils™ = Universal X Files Symbolism for Frustrated!Mulder – and consequently Frustrated!Scully – since February 8, 1998.)

But somehow The Pencils™ work their magic and Mulder agrees to be airlifted to DC.

Continue reading →

Every time you buy a Pet Shop Boys CD, a rescue shelter puppy dies. (Seriously. Ask Peta.)

The word “absurd” has reached a new dimension of meaning today. Also forever changed have the words “ridiculous” and “ludicrous”.

Animal rights organisation Peta has asked the Pet Shop Boys to change their name. For the sake of shelter dogs. Or pet shop dogs. Or pets generally – I can’t exactly remember which as my mind was too busy jumping back and forth between variations of LOL and WTF while I was reading the Times article.

(Yes, I’m reading Times Online again after a temporary boycot following the Michelle Obama fake lashes investigation.)

So, Peta thinks the Pet Shop Boys should change their name, which they chose for themselves more than 20 years ago, and which has pretty much become a household name in the music scene. Apparently, that rather random band name does not comply with political correctness. In the universe of pets, that is. And maybe also in the universe of complete numpties.

The politically correct name suggested for the Pet Shop Boys by Peta is – and you might want to hold on to your desk for this one – the Rescue Shelter Boys.

And here we pause for a moment to let you finish ROFLing, catch your breath and climb back on your chair.

Yes, they’re serious.

Peta reckons that listening to the Rescue Shelter Boys instead of the Pet Shop Boys will make people stop buying bred pets in shops and get their puppies and kittens from – you guessed it – rescue shelters instead.

Now. Nothing wrong with Peta’s good intentions here. We all know the devastating consequences of breeding on the health and general well-being of all sorts of dog breeds. And birds don’t belong into cages. And so on. In short, pet shops are bad. I’d go with that any time. I got my dog from a rescue shelter in Greece. The poor pup had been through five years of neglect, abuse and disease, and yet she’s the loveliest, cuddliest, most loyal dog you could possibly imagine. My money, and my pets, will never cross the counter of a pet shop.

But I seriously doubt that a pop band’s name will in any way influence anyone’s pet buying habits. People who like bred cats or dogs will buy ridiculously overpriced bred cats or dogs no matter what the Pet Shop Boys call themselves. I even doubt that name has ever led anyone to think of actual pets. Anyone but Peta, that is.

Well, Peta got me to think about it now. But their suggestion has made me think more along the lines of “are you guys fucking kidding?” than of anything relating to animals.

They’re not kidding, by the way. And neither are they kidding with their campaign to turn fish into Sea Kittens to make them more likeable (and less appetizing). I can’t quite shake off the impression, though, that Peta’s Sea Kittens might fail to appeal to anyone above nursery age.

Just to round up. Peta = good. I’m all for ethical treatment of animals. I mean, I gave up sushi and chicken fajitas for squirrel’s sake (and I’m sticking with it). And I still can’t read about the slaughter of baby seals in Canada without bursting into tears. Well, you get the picture. That said, I really don’t think Peta is doing itself a favour, in terms of being taken seriously or getting people to support it, with petitions à la Rescue Shop Boys (or Sea Kittens, for that matter).

Although I have to admit I’m a little curious what name change they would suggest for Fury In The Slaughterhouse.

Bliss On The Free Range Farm, anyone?

Who the F cares why Michelle Obama is wearing fake lashes and what The Times has to say about it?

In an utterly amazing instance of investigative journalism, Times Online has dedicated an article to the question why Michelle Obama is wearing false eyelashes.

I only made it halfway through their analysis, because my heart was sinking rapidly along with my respect and passion for journalism – the profession to which I have dedicated my future, pretty much all my money, and endless months of hard training.

I’m by no means an expert, but let me humbly offer my own answer to this internationally significant question: Why is Michelle Obama wearing false eyelashes?

Well. JUST BECAUSE.

Because just like some people wear make-up, and some wear mascara, so some people sometimes, or always, or occasionally, wear fake lashes. Big deal. Let’s investigate. Let’s dedicate a news story to it. And let’s throw a sack of random scandal-scented phrases like “D-list celebrities”, “drag-act divas” and “unapologetically fake” at it, too, to make the whole affair sound a little more tacky and report-worthy.

And let’s not forget to stir in a handful of subtle promotional references (read: stuff half of the article with unapologetically blatant product placement, plus online shopping links for your convenience).

Okay, I’ve read the whole article now. Not so much for its, uhm, “news value” as for the sake of a proper rant.

And now you’ll have to excuse me. I need to catch up on the news.

re:View – Lesbian Vampire Killers (It never happened. It never happened. It never happened.)

So, I knew it would be bad. I walked into the cinema fully prepared to see a bad film. But this one completely blew my wildest expectations. And not in a good way.

Lesbian Vampire Killers works by a simple formula. Take two average/loser-type blokes trying to be comedians (James Corden and Mathew Horne, bless yer hearts), some girls flaunting hot pants and fake Swedish accents (“Jaaa.”), a blonde virgin, a swearing vicar, oh and, of course, a bunch of trash-glam vampires sans personality. Lesbian vampires, even. Hence the title.

From there it all goes pretty much as you’d expect. The fake Swedish hot pants models are turned into fake Swedish lesbian vampire hot pants models (“Jaaa.”). Average/loser-type bloke number one turns out to be the Chosen One. Chosen to kill the soon-to-be-resurrected lesbian vampire queen, that is. Said lesbian vampire queen is resurrected, the process involving, in some way, the blonde virgin (by now, of course, the love object of our loser-turned-hero).

Some graveyard-posing, licking, nibbling and punching later, the lesbian vampire queen meets her untimely end by way of a phallus. (Don’t ask. The implications are too traumatic. My mind has already gone into denial. It didn’t happen. It never happened. La laaa. What never happened?) The heroes go on to become lesbian vampire killers, on a mission to eliminate all evil looming all across the world. (Er… Vampires? Lesbians?) And that’s pretty much it.

Never mind the stereotyping. Or the misogyny. That was to be expected. It’s supposed to be what supposedly makes this film funny. (Hint: doesn’t work.) Oh well, if it were only that. The lesbian vampires, when staked/beheaded/exposed to holy water etc., don’t make their exit as you’d expect – ya know, like explode, fall to ashes, go up in flames or whatever method is the fashion among the undead these days. No. Not the lesbian vampires. They turn to spunk. Well, not officially. But there’s an awful lot of squirting of spunk-alike substance going on. Kinda hard to miss that one, really. And about as traumatic as the phallus-induced demise of the queen.

One little ray of (blood-red moon-)light, however, at the end: Upon the queen’s defeat, the remaining lesbian vampires are “cured” from being vampires. But, believe it or not, they’re still lesbians. Thank goddess.

Verdict: Repeat after me: It never happened. It never happened. It never happened. It… – what?

re:View – Vicky Cristina Barcelona, or: Two outta three ain’t bad

Vicky Cristina Barcelona is a film about three women who end up in the bed of (or otherwise under/on top of) a hairy, full-of-himself macho named Juan Antonio:

1.) A boobs-parading superficial? dumb? …uhm, artsy blonde searching for meaning in her boredom-plagued (love) life, aptly portrayed in a dumb, one-dimensional manner by Scarlett Johansson.

2.) Her complete opposite and totally-settled-in-life BFF (Rebecca Hall) who has some remotely comic moments but talks so much you get distracted trying to figure out the cruellest way to kill her circa seven minutes into the film and at any moment thereafter.

3.) The beau’s suicidal/homicidal genius painter (read: maniac) ex-wife, in the stunning form of a completely out-of-control Penelope Cruz. (Who, in all her screaming/sulky gorgeousness, is also pretty much the only thing that makes you want to sit this film out to the end.)

The latter, after much shouting and vicous eyeing of the competition, not so spectacularly snogs the blonde. And then they all randomly, and in varying line-ups, sleep with the macho (who is, frankly speaking, not that irresistible).

As you may have guessed from the title, all this happens in and around a sickeningly postcard-picturesque Barcelona.

The only thing that kind of saves the film is its narrator. His comments, intentionally ill-timed and superfluous, are so painfully clichéd they very nearly gain a poetic beauty (that will grow on you once you’ve moved on from the cringeing stage, promise.)

The ending, I vaguely remember, was a bit of a WTF-experience. Although I have to admit that I don’t remember what exactly the end was. And that’s only 10 days after seeing the film.

Verdict: Two outta three ain’t bad, eh?

It’s a hard elf’s life

The good thing about sitting at your desk day and night in a complete deadline panic is that you get a round the clock insight into your neighbours’ lives. Well, at least if your desk is right next to your window.

Mr and Mrs Across the Street had their decorating day today. I watched them wrestle a fat, dark green needle monster out of the boot and through the front door. A few seconds later, they wobbled it into the living room.

Now, you need to know that Mr and Mrs Across the Street, for some reason, leave their enormous front room window completely uncurtained (and otherwise undshielded from nosey passers-by) at any time of the day. And since the room is just opposite my own and across the street from our backyard, I’m the lucky owner of a front-row ticket to The Life of Mr and Mrs Across the Street.

(The downside is that they, in turn, get an unobstructed view of my late night Salsa body movement practice in front of the mirror. Obsessive hip pushing and nearly-there body rolls may be acceptable if executed in a frilly red skirt in the pseudo-Cuban atmosphere of a badly-lit Salsa bar, but a South Yorkshire terrace house and fluffy baby blue Primark reindeer pajamas are just so not latina. I do use my curtains now.)

But I digress. Having witnessed the arrival of The Tree, I moved my writing agony business from desk to bed for a while – change of perspective and stuff, you know. For the rest of the afternoon I only occasionally noticed some elf-like tree-orbiting across the street when I left my position on a tea or chocolate quest.

As the semi-daylight surrendered to the general meteorological misery and made its exit around four o’clock, I ventured to the window, prepared to admire the seasonal masterpiece.

And there was the needle monster, its vast body embellished with a breathtaking total of five yellow lights blinking a little lost and rather nervously at me across dusky suburbia.

Merry Christmas, Mr and Mrs Across the Street.

The rock’s in the boots. (Who says men don’t notice shoes?)

Place: Empty pub, in the late afternoon.
Cast: Me [playing journalist], Very Tattooed Bar Guy.

Me: “…So do you think I could talk to the owner about this?”
Very Tattooed Bar Guy: “Yah sure.” [Comes round the bar and looks at my shoes] “Are you into rock?”
Me: “Uh?”
Very Tattooed Bar Guy: “Rock music?”
Me: “Yeah. Well, some of it. Why?”
Very Tattooed Bar Guy [pointing at my 11-year-old, scruffy black “the bloody hill is gonna freeze over again and I don’t have time to buy new shoes”-style winter boots]: “You dress like a rock chick.”

Never mind that I spent half the afternoon painting my nails black and blood red. The essence of my style apparently lies in the boots somebody gave me when I was a kid living in the middle of muddy nowhere.

Guess you could say I have a new favourite pair of shoes now.