Christmas Crafting, Cooking and, Well...That's It Actually

Merry Christmas, my beloved readers! I hope you're all having a lovely day as we all come together to celebrate the birth of a child into a socio-economic group so crappy that he was likely not to have lived into his early thirties.

This should have been the least of his worries.

I thought I'd take some time this festive day of good will and passive aggressive dinner chat to tell you about all of the wonderful things I made that you didn't. Oh yes, what jolly good fun! This would most likely have been much more useful to post before Christmas Day, seeing as all of these crafts could have been made by you, yes you, in the comfort of your very own home for the people you love hate are more or less ambivalent towards this holiday season, but the chutney (yes, chutney. Patience, young one) was actually a present for people who may or may not be reading this and I didn't want to spoil the surprise.

"Please, take this token of my unquenchable loathing towards your very mortal coil."

There's a lot to cover so let's keep it snappy shall we? First up...

Don't Look Now, Donald Sutherland Isn't Dressed!

Great, you looked. That's just fandabbydozy...

You know what must suck? Your child dying. Like, seriously, that must be the worst. Unless infanticide happened to be your goal when you stuffed your child into that python-laden crate and drenched it in hydrofluoric acid in which case you're the newest member of a very exclusive club.

They meet on Sundays; Mr. and Mrs. West are bringing finger food.

Our film for today deals with the very tender subject of the loss of a loved one, something that's very difficult to portray well in cinema. It's likely the only thing you've ever really heard about Don't Look Now is the controversial sex scene (yes, that link is NSFW) between Donald Sutherland and Julie Christie and something about people in red macs. If that is the case then I implore you not to Google this movie until you've watched it; spoilers are aplenty in these waters, they are.

The World's End: Not Quite the End for Pegg and Frost

I always feel bad whenever I decide to review a movie that it turns out I like. Reviewing anything you enjoy feels like a cheat; you end up biased in your criticism and just spend the whole thing fawning over it's unadultered epicness instead of, you know, actually saying something worthwhile.

Attempting to explain everything good about David Bowie descends into guttural screaming and a voiding of all bodily fluids.

I'd already decided to review The World's End before I started watching it, and I whole-heartedly regret my choice; this film is awesome. With Edgar Wright back on the writing and directing helm of the last in the fabulously named "Three Flavours Cornetto Trilogy" after Simon Pegg and Nick Frost's disappointing solo effort Paul, The World's End is a funny, painfully self-aware, hyper-violent and utterly charming sci-fi flick that is exactly the same as Shaun of the Dead and Hot Fuzz in all of the right ways. Plus, it's all entirely a build up to the post-apocalyptic wasteland in the Sisters of Mercy Song, This Corrosion.

Who'd have thought something so epic could come out of the Sisters of Mercy, eh?

Seeing as I've already let the cat out of the bag as to my overall opinion on this movie, I'm going to restrain myself for as long as possible and talk about the few criticisms I do have of possibly the weakest film out of an overall impeccable trilogy.

Casting Calls and Creamed Cabbage

Remember those times when you went out and did things and experienced stuff and made memories and such? I think scholars call it having a life. Well, it turns out I have one of them too, and seeing as the scheduled review of The World's End has been pushed back to next week so as not to coincide with The Girl Who Loves Horror's own review of the same movie, this gives me the perfect opportunity to strap you down and force you to listen to my inane crap until you're nothing more than a ball of blubbering mush.

Mr. Kubrick never did give me those home movies back...

It was my brother, Daniel's, 21st birthday this weekend so we all went through to Glasgow for a bit of a celebration. He got a camera, I was jealous. My mum, being the epic bargain hunter/hoarder/crazy person that she is, managed to pay for the hotel and restaurant entirely with Tesco clubcard points.

Meanwhile, my HMV reward points collect nothing but dust and regret.

Italy Month: The Visitor...Visits

Poster design at its finest.

The last week has finally arrived, my children. Movember is drawing to a close and soon we shall bid our lovingly cultivated facial hair goodbye, welcoming back instead the days of smooth skin and itchless chins. December shall be a time to celebrate the dawn of a new era for mankind, with peace and a clean shave to all men.

The birth of Gillette ProGlide; our lord and shaver.

On the subject of Christ-like figures in need of a good trim, our final movie of Italy month features one such character. May I introduce you to The Visitor (aka. Stridulum); a film, judging by it's trailer, that can only be described using the very technical film term of a complete and utter mindfuck. Like David Lynch straddling you, rubbing your forehead with a spoonful of peanut butter and whispering the Portuguese lyrics to "A Whole New World" in your ear levels of brain-humpingness.

Why was I not surprised when I Googled "David Lynch holding a chicken" and actually got a result?

Just to clarify, this film is in English and is set in the US with American actors, but it's still an Italian movie because the director is Italian and I say so, so mneh. I think it's best we just get this one over and done with; the glowing 3.8 out of 10 on IMDb is making this too tempting to resist any longer. On with the show!

Italy Month: Salò, or 120 Minutes of Squirming

I wholeheartedly and sincerely mean it when I say please don't read on if you are of a nervous disposition.
Seriously, no jokes for once.
Willy.
Ok, maybe one joke.

Week 2 in the moustache month and things are heating up. Genuinely, I'm getting warm under this thin layer of browny-ginger fur that's continuing to expand across my face at an alarmingly glacial rate. Another few years and I'll almost look like a full on amateur hobo.

Start small, think big...

The Italians, on the other hand, somehow manage to actually look good with a small animal's coat taped to their faces. As such we shall continue our commemoration of their stoic defiance in the face of bristly adversity and focus once again on a cinema classic from the home of homicidal plumbers and funny-speaking immigrants.

Meanwhile, the Russians look on in calm, albeit feigned, drunken disinterest.

Italy Month: Life Is B-E-A-Utiful

It's November, lads. That means put down your razors and get your bum fluff on in support of Movember, the only high-profile charitable event that gives a damn about men's health. If you don't have the capacity to grow hair out of your top lip, draw a moustache on with permanent marker, or maybe even donate some money to the cause by following the very handy hyperlinks scattered shamelessly throughout this paragraph.

The money will then be converted into even more hyperlinks.

But I'm not a man who would take more than a couple of lines worth of time out of my busy schedule to do something nice, so we'll have enough of that charity guff and get on with the moustachio-related matters of this post. In celebration of the month of all thing face-fuzz related, I have decided to dedicate this month's posts to the undisputed moustache champions of the world: the Italians.

Germany will reclaim their title when they reanimate Bismarck.

As such, I will be looking at three classic Italian movies, each famous in their own right, be that good or bad, and giving my usual well informed and witty critique on proceedings in real time, just like the other time that went so well. To start off, we'll be looking at Roberto Benigni's 1997 war comedy-drama Life Is Beautiful, so let's get going.

Me, Myself, and My Amazingly Interesting Life

Oi, you. Sit down. No, not there, that's my seat. Over there. Yes, there.

Scooch over.

Aside from a couple of posts about my new flat (a riveting series of posts that shall be concluded very soon) I've talked very little about the general goings on of my life, something we should all be endlessly grateful for because the last thing the internet needs is another person whining about their supermarket receipts and telling us how cute their pet vulture is.

She's great for cleaning up the children's organs I keep leaving on the lawn.

However it was inevitable that a day would come when I could no longer withstand the inherent human urge to force my crippling tedium on other people and/or I hadn't got round to watching any new films worthy of review yet, so you'd better get comfortable and read the words I'm going to speak at you good like.

How to Please a Goth (Without Using a Choke Chain and Leather Flogger) - Part One

(The following post is in collaboration with Fiona of Scenes From the Cutting Room Floor; check her out some time, she's a'ight)

Good evening, fine readers, apologies for the late post. Seeing as tomorrow is Halloween, the one with all the spooky stuff and such, and my good friend Fiona is one of those weird Goth-types (super-effective against Fairy) I thought it might be a nice idea to amalgamate my ambivalence towards the two and collect them under a more interesting topic: video games.

Nothing brings people together like a healthy dose of asthenopia and passive aggression.

It's always interesting to see how outside parties view our favourite pastime (behind binge eating and masturbation) so I sat down with Fiona and we skimmed through the rich history of video games to find a collection of gaming gems that, through their design choices, gameplay, story or atmosphere, speak not only to our own scaly, pale, cloudy-eyed race, but theirs too.

Heck, we're only one zombie bite apart in the family tree.

This little ode to all things spooky will be split into two posts; the first focussing on the games of old, here meaning anything made before LucasArts ceased to exist, and the second on newer additions to the gaming world. Before we begin, here is a little message from our sponsor:

Film Facts 1: Amélie - Orgasms in Paris

Any good film buff has a good grasp of world cinema, even if it's only the most mainstream of those films; so long as you've seen your Pan's Labyrinth's and Oldboy's, you don't need to worry about not having seen Bombón: El Perro or I'm A Cyborg But That's OK. That said, a must for anyone willing to don the mantle of obsessive shut-in has to have seen Jeun-Pierre Jeunet's Amélie.

"Welcome to the club, make yourself at home. There's crippling anxiety on the table, next to the coffee."

What I love almost as much as watching films, though, is taking unrelated statistics and skewing them in order to come up with interesting facts about said films. And that's where Amélie comes in. There's a particular scene amongst the endless stream of utterly adorable tales that makes up the movie where Amélie is sitting on a rooftop, asking the question "How many people are having an orgasm right now?". The answer is, apparently, fifteen.

We don't ask how she knows...

Have no fear, dear reader; I am here to put your worries aside and assist in determining whether or not this claim is actually true through the power of various statistics and a very lenient grasp on basic mathematics. To do this we need the building blocks of smartness: numbers.

Carl Gauss: Knowledge Breeder

Some Guy and Some Guy in a Robot Costume

Ow. Yellow. It burns.

Who here loves South Park? High five! Yay for being another immature man-child who likes to pretend you watch it for the social commentary.

"Hehe, he's all covered in- I mean, consumerism and government and...something."

Although there should be no need for justification in bringing up such comedy genius, my question has a point. Some long-time fans may remember a certain episode featuring Cartman's AWESOM-O 4000 robot, which, to the uninitiated or those who don't click every hyperlink they see, consists of Cartman dressing up in some cardboard boxes and talking in a monotone voice to convince the town moron that he's a robot sent from Japan to be his new best friend.

*insert racist Asian joke here*

Jack Vettriano: Some Half Decent Pikchurs

I'd be sad if my thumb was that shape too.

So art is a thing apparently. With the painting and the putting things in things and giving it a completely inconsequential name. I've never really got it myself to be honest.

Damien Hirst's latest award-winning installation: "The Effervescent Tedium of a Calcified Pasty".

A Proposition

Dear Sir/Madam/Glarflak the Unamenable,

I have been blogging for a good few months now and despite a steady flow of no readers, I continue to do so indefinitely. Your continued, or new, appreciation of my inane brain farts is greatly appreciated and I think it's about time that I ask you what it is that you want from me.

Breaking Bad Pre-emptive Spoiler

Walt dies.





Or something.





Maybe.


I doubt it to be honest.

I don't know really. Why not just wait until tonight?

Medical School: A Survival Guide - Part 2

Hello, dear reader, and welcome to the second volume in my handy medical school survival guide. What delight is to come next in our exodus into the deep chasm of textbooks and panic sweat that is medicine, wherein no light or hope shall ever escape?

Replace hope with a solid bowel movement and you're talking about Jimmy Chung's.

Well we've already made it as far as the actual medical school so the next thing you're likely to encounter is the thing I touched very briefly on last time:

Friday the 13th Special: Top 5 Survivors

The attentive few among you may be aware that today is not Friday the 13th. Nor is it even a Friday. To be honest, that whole title is a bunch of filthy, filthy lies. I'm not even planning on doing a list article (more shameless Cracked plugging, because those guys really need it). I jest. Yes, this article is a little late for the titular day of unluckiness and gore and such, but I'll be damned if I'm going to give myself more work by not playing by my new posting schedule, so you'll read this five days late and bloody well enjoy it!

He's still on call for another week; don't make me page him.

To celebrate Jason Voorhees' official nameday, I thought it might be nice to commemorate his insatiable desire to horrifically murder vast swathes of people, leaving but one man (or, more likely, one buxom blonde woman) standing, usually soaked in blood and fear pee. So, for your viewing pleasure, I have collated a list of my top 5 survivors in cinema, ranked by the percentage survival rate of their situation in comparison to real world versions. A bit like if I were to suggest the least safe medical procedure performed in a film compared to your likelihood of bleeding to death while doing it in real life.

Another landslide victory for improvised amputations!

So lets get this party started with a couple hundred horrific drownings.

Medical School: A Survival Guide - Part 1

You, yes you! Are you interested in a career in medicine? Are you interested in knowing more about medicine? Or being a medical student? Are you simply a regular reader of this blog? Are you lost and slightly confused by this sudden and unwarranted barrage of questions? Do you require medical assistance?

If so then sit down, apply pressure to your gaping wound and read on, the magical healing properties of my amazing literary prowess shall tend to you as I give you a whirlwind tour of the ups, the downs, the further downs, and the rock bottoms of choosing to do a medical degree, all divided into handy, deadline-filling chapters for your ease.

Medical school is hard. Like really hard. I think they use tungsten or something, definitely don't try biting it. There's long hours, tough material, strict rules and a very unusual collection of colleagues to deal with, so if you think you want to do it, it's best going in knowing the basics. I am, obviously, an expert seeing as I have survived a whole year, so listen to my every word and take it as gospel. There will be a test.

"Would you all pass your answer sheets back up to the front, please."

Without further ado, let us begin our endless journey into the fiery chasm of medical school. I'll be using my university as a template but I assume in my infinite knowledge that these things apply at least to every single other medical school in the world.

Now I've Seen It, Now I'm Never Watching It Again

I have a very love-hate relationship with magic. On the one hand, I love the concept of using sleight of hand and mind tricks to create an impressive illusion or even to influence another person, but on the other my insatiable ego cannot withstand the frustration of not being able to work out how the trick was done. It's like loving Ben and Jerry's but at the same time seething with each delicious spoonful due to your lack of knowledge of ice cream production.

How they get the fish in there will forever be a mystery.

Machete Don't Blog

You may know of Robert Rodriguez as Quentin Tarantino's non-union Mexican equivalent, or as the director of Sin City and Planet Terror. I, however, was first introduced to him in my youth through the wonder that is the Spy Kids movies. You know, the ones about kids. Who are spies. Also there are thumbs. Like, literally characters that are just thumbs.

And these things. The fuck was up with this movie?

Why is this relevant to my current post which, due to the title and inclusion of a large poster above, is evidently not about the Espionage Infants series? Other than having the same director, of course. The reason is because there is another, even more awesome link between these films and our subject for today, Machete. They both have Machete in them.

Never Trust A Blogger

Ok, so I lied a little bit. Or at least I didn't hold my end of the bargain. That isn't necessarily lying, right? It's just untrustworthiness.

"You can completely rely on me, I promise."

It turns out that moving into a new flat is not exactly ideal in sticking to a deadline, particularly when your internet hub decides to get itself posted to the wrong address, but now that everything is up and running I can now wholeheartedly issue a late apology for a late (and as yet unfinished) post to you, my beloved readers, who no doubt feel betrayed and ever so slightly disgruntled.

The equivalent of what I have done to you.

On a positive note, though, I can cheerfully announce that I am officially moved in to the new flat, and I think I'm safe in saying that this is going to be a good year. The new carpets and lino have done wonders to the place, it no longer feels quite like a squatter's second home, the toilet no longer looks like it was used as a set in Trainspotting, and with all of my stuff crammed in and the internet now working like a charm, it's starting to feel like home...

Home is where you hang your victims.

Flat posts should be expected imminently, along with a new series of posts helping you eager wee beans start a crash course in medicine. Said posts essentially being a thinly-veiled attempt at pretending to revise while really just getting the opportunity to make terrible biology jokes. You probably won't like it at first, but it'll grow on you. Like cancer.

I was going to be cruel and show a kid with leukaemia, but I couldn't pass up this horrifically informative diagram.

So yes, the next week or so might be a little all over the place as I get into a new routine, but keep the faith, my young padawans, there will be posts eventually!

And on a completely unrelated and utterly shoehorned note, I've decided to plug the new EP by one of my work colleagues from me bar job last month. She's lovely and a pretty gosh darn good music maker what with the strumming and voice noises and such. Have a nosey here or here, even just listen to the previews, and see what you think. I personally don't think it's half bad.

"It's alright." - A glowing review from Ben Thompson, Music Expert

Breaking Radio Silence

Hello?

Is there anybody out there?

Just nod if you can here me.

And so on and so forth.

Buy 'The Dyke', the abridged edition of 'The Wall', now!

The month is over, the war is won, the elves have set sail for Valinor and the B&Q customer assistant finally came back out from behind the flippy-flappy plastic curtain. I'm back! Woo! Today is...Tuesday. My first post getting back into the two-a-week regime should be expected on this very Thursday, incidentally also the day I officially move into my new flat. There is much to do and consequentially much to say; university begins as of Monday, so expect to see a little more variation to posts rather than just the usual film/game reviews.

That's about it for now though, I'm afraid, but I look forward to seeing you, my currently steady stream of 0-3 visitors a day (I'm an internet sensation!), very soon.

Peace.

Walking on the Beaches Looking at the Nectarines (Doesn't Quite Have the Same Ring to It)

Difficulty - 2/5
Duration - 1/5

My good friend/arch nemesis Fiona (no hyperlink for you this time, matey; I've plugged you twice already) came to visit recently and as all best laid plans seem to do, the recent spate of good weather decided to break into full on rain-to-ground water-rape, and said plans to go for walks and little picnics and such were devoured suddenly and remorselessly by a swarm of mouse-men. That is how the phrase goes, yeah?

I didn't really understand the film either...

So its raining. You're stuck in an empty house with your girlfriend and you've got the whole afternoon to fill. What on earth could you do to pass the time?

Of course! Bake! Duh, you guys...

Sweet, sticky, baking.

The Good, the Bad, and the Bar Work

Dear Reader(s),

I have good news and bad news.

The bad news is that I've got meself a new job doing bar work at a festival venue in Edinburgh; the hours are painfully unsociable and I doubt I'll make it to the end of the month alive. The good news is that I'll be posting less on the blog for the next month as a result, so you get a bit of respite from my forever entertaining and informative musings.

"Did I tell you about the time I hunted my fellow man for sport?"

I shall, however, endeavour to post at least once a week. Ish. If I'm lucky. But just so's we're on the same level, the whole Tuesday and Friday at 10am thing will be gone for a few weeks.

That is all.

Sincerely,

Me

Water, Water, Everywhere, But Where's the Feckin' Whisky?

Reviews: now with an introductory poster.

You get a lot of people nowadays who seem to be a little spoiled by colour. Talking to someone about movies, I often hear the same phrase when the conversation moves to older fare: "Oh, I don't like black and white films." The fuck? Are you film racist or something? That's like going for a weekly shop and insisting that you only buy food that is small, round and purple. You're drastically restricting your choice in diet with a sweeping statement that will just make any poor sod who has to spend time with you hate your ignorant, purple-tinted guts.

That said, a diet of nothing but Parma Violets is a diet worth trying.

If you happen to be one of said people who "don't like" black and white, go drown in a bucket of eel hearts, because God made a whoopsie while dragging you into existence. Once you've done that, sit down, preferably on a towel so as not to ruin your sofa with eel juice, and watch any of Psycho, Casablanca, Brief Encounter, Nosferatu, Metropolis, the entirety of George Méliè's back catalogue, Citizen Kane and more. 

If you also refuse to believe that an old film can be good, only watching movies that have come out since Macaulay Culkin's been alive, go shove one of the eels up your own arse and watch one of the modern examples of black and white cinema like Clerks, Eraserhead, Schindler's List, The Artist, La Antena, Young Frankenstein and I think I've made my point.

You may now remove the eel from your anus by doing whatever this guy is doing out of the shot.

Seeing as we've cleared that up we can get onto the film for this week, Whisky Galore! Made in 1949 (that's, like, really old) it tells the true story (with the usual tweaks for artistic licence) of a ship that sank in 1941 near a small island in the Outer Hebrides, carrying thousands of crates of whisky. The locals of the island, on hearing about the cargo, took the opportunity for some free booze and set about nicking it from the ship before it sank.

That's about the gist of the film as well, and although it's funny and has bucket-loads of charm, there is nothing more special to be found here than an hour and a half of plain old fun. If there's nothing special about it, why bother reviewing it? Because of the aforementioned charm, that's why, my good friend. And for the unmissable opportunity to ruin all of the jokes for you.

There's not a bit of this movie, from the utterly fabulous reaction of the islanders to the sudden whisky shortage (dramatic close ups and doom music abound) to the frantic moment when the drink must all be hidden before the army arrives for a surprise inspection, with bottles slipped into violin cases, grandfather clocks and stacked in the guttering, that you won't be able to watch without a massive grin on yer ugly mug. There's something universally appealing about watching a load of islanders leading a merry chase all for a bottle of whisky.

A bit like watching celebrities die, but without the betting pool.

Whisky Galore! also does a fine job of getting you to know the locals; every character is adorably northern with that little tinge of inbred quirkiness you only find in the harder to reach parts of Scotland. For those of you unaware, island mentality essentially boils down to a small loss in IQ due to alcohol abuse and inadequate schooling being made up for with Casper levels of cheerful friendliness and the uncanny ability to smell tomorrow's weather. That's not really a good description to be honest, the best thing to do would probably be to go visit these places for yourself; the ways of the islanders cannot be done justice with mere words.

Actions really do speak a lot louder.

I don't think there's a person on this island that you can't help but like, even the crotchety old barman who rats on where the whisky is being stored just so he doesn't lose business is still endearing in his own way. But the sweetest soul by far must be the poor bed-ridden old man who wants nothing more than one last dram before he "joins the old woman". This guy is the embodiment of the entire population of the island: simple, honest folk ("honest here meaning wily as old nick himself" - Fiona) with simple needs and simple lives, and this single five minute scene pretty much ensures that we are firmly on the side of the islanders when it comes to the dilemma of whether or not stealing the whisky is a good idea.

If he waits to get one more drink then kicks it with the empty glass in his hand
I'll cry myself to sleep for the rest of my life.

While we're on this guy, actually, you might be wondering who the other bloke in the picture is. It would be the island's only doctor, and he must be the single most irresponsible doctor to ever be portrayed on film, and Hannibal Lecter has had three movies (we don't count Hannibal Rising, because...well, it's Hannibal Rising). The only two points in the film where he asserts his medical authority are in the above scene and one other. In this scene, he insists that our kindly old gentleman take his pipe and some tobacco in order to puff away, only saying that he was sorry he "couldn't bring a wee dram too". This man is encouraging, nay, actively insisting that this poorly gentleman partake in both smoking and alcohol consumption, the two biggest causes of death in the modern world. That said, maybe this is actually the island's only hospital bed and he's just trying to free up room for someone else with acute liver failure or lung cancer.

In the other scene, he is in the company of a young man, hammered on a few glasses of the water o' life, who is about to confront his own mother (think the one from Carrie, but Scottish. So about 300% more terrifying). The doctor's only advice to him is that he should have just one more, so that he'll be "in the ring in the peak of condition", before pouring a large glass and assuring him it's the "right dose". This would all be ok if everyone laughed about it, but they take his word as gospel, being the resident doctor and all, so he essentially spends the entire film finding new ways to horrifically abuse his medical licence. 

"I mixed up all the prescription bottles again. Take this and let me know what it does to you."

It's all in good humour though, and they didn't know much better then anyway, what with drilling holes in skulls to let out the demons and such...that was back in the 40's right? Speaking of old ways that have long since been lost to the ages, the very devout religious views of the islanders lead to one of the best moments in the film. The boat is wrecked, the crew having abandoned it and been taken to the mainland, the men have gathered together on the shore to go grab the loot when suddenly the clock strikes midnight. One man turns round with despair to look at the others. It's the Sabbath. 

"Bollocks."

They have no choice but to go home and wait for the day to end while the head of the Home Guard on the island, and resident Scrooge, Captain Waggett, tries to get a band of soldiers together to protect the cargo, a task also made all the more difficult by the holy day, as his second in command isn't allowed to use the telephone by his mother. 

It's the culmination of all of these moments and more that makes Whisky Galore! a joy to watch; wonderfully staged situational comedy mixed with ridiculous small-town traditions and a rag-tag bunch of memorable characters. There's romance. There's comedy. There's car chases. There's booze. There's suspense. And every last minute of it is utterly wonderful to watch.

He even gets his dram and lives beyond the credits.

Overall Ben Equivalence Rating

Listening to Stories About Your Grandad - 

Ridiculous, over the top, alcohol-fuelled tales of illegal romps through wartime Britain that you could listen to a hundred times over. And every last bit of them is true.