A Problem Of Tone.

I'm probably lagging behind the rest of the internet here, as per usual, but has anyone else heard of a blog called Chase No Face? It's the heartwarming, life-affirming, deeply unsettling tale of Chase, a cat who (wait for it).... has no face. It did have one but it fell off due to a traumatic road accident. Chase now maintains a blog (inevitably written in the first person), has its own facebook page (3,642 fans and counting) and even tours round schools helping people come to terms with disfigurements. I am, I freely admit, struggling with this. I cannot get my head around it at all. I mean, here's a pic of Chase - you might want to brace yourself.

Feel free to take a moment to wipe that dribble of fear-piss off your inside thigh if you like.

It's OK to be scared. We're all scared. Chase's appearance is bizarre and upsetting and the natural reaction is to hit it between its googly, twisted eyes with a lump hammer before running off to find a table to cower under. As a contrast we must also consider the good work that Chase apparently does for charidee and public awareness and what have you; both blog and Facebook page are stuffed with testimonials from people who have used Chase's fine example to help them overcome prejudice in their own blah blah etc etc. So on the one hand: monster. On the other hand: community spirit and goodwill ambassador for the really fucking ugly. The tension between the two is unbearable, and compulsive in that car crash kind of way. I am bemused.

Actually, I know what the problem is. It's the fact that Chase's blog is written in the first person. It's the comments purportedly left by other cats, cats with facebook pages. It's the references to 'mommy'. It's the utterly shameless use of the word 'furmommy' to describe cat ownership. It's comments like this:

i always felt that cats were aliens/gods that were sent to earth to observe and snuggle humans. now i know what they look like under those adorable, fuzzy masks! i am in love with chase and i want to know all her secrets!

Yes, we do now know what they look like under their furry masks - like Seth Brundle's beef curtains. When I hit the comments I was expecting a hundred posts along the lines of 'Why has this animal not been put down, are you fucking mental?' Or: 'Whenever I close my eyes I will see your cat's misshapen wreck of a muzzle and I will never sleep soundly again. Thanks a bunch, shitbirds'. But no. The general feeling was one of support, positivity and sickly, overweening cutesiness. It seemed like I was the only person who was having difficulty. Perplexed? I was, somewhat.

People who treat their pets like surrogate children weird me out anyway but when the pet looks like it's escaped from one of David Lynch's cheese dreams the weirdness is increased a millionfold. It's a problem of tone. Chase ain't your average pussy, no matter how many halloween costumes you staple it in to, so the usual saccharine lolcat treatment is just going to come across as inappropriate and fucking odd. Does no one else notice the incongruity? Am I all alone out here?

Where's my little man? There he is! There's my little Lovecraftian fucking abomination!

Having said that: I still recommend a tour around the blog. It'll make your Christmas, it really will. Then, go to Google images, type in 'disfigured people' and meditate for a while on how many of them poor fuckers have their own Facebook pages. Then do what I'm going to do now: crack open your second bottle of wine and stare at the walls for an hour or two. Peace.

Misguided attempts at creative writing, for your disgusted perusal.

This is going to start happening every so often. I will write things in the manner of a stroppy fifteen year old crapping out criminally shite love poetry for the benefit of a girl who will never (never!) let him put his hand up her bra. These literary gems will then be posted here, to the mutual embarrassment of all. My recommendation: pretend it isn't happening, as you would if you saw two dogs screwing mere feet away from where your nan was being lowered into her grave. Although please feel free to call me gay in the comments section.

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Out the door and round the corner, to the pub for a guinness and a cigarette or three. Monday, and the first real taste of autumn - dusk at 6:30, a chill in the air and a light mist of drizzle hanging suspended in the yellow streetlights. Drops caught swirling in the headlamps of cars. So quick: get your pint, grab a chair beneath the burgundy awnings, pay your 3.50 and take your seat at the human show. The greatest show on Earth, playing tonight and every night, right outside your door. Take your first sip of stout and let your eye laze across the passers by, such as: a girl laden down with a vast and chunky picture frame. A West Indian man sporting a wry and constant grin. A youngish guy who seems to be all fashionable beard, skinny t-shirt and spiky elbows. Then more and more, too many to count, too many to follow. All shapes, all sizes. Coats, hats and scarves of every colour and style. Skin pigments of every hue. Tics and habits and a thousand different defects of character, a million secret origins. And you, fanboy, will never know them all, never even a fraction, never even a per cent of a per cent of a per cent. These people, this race, will remain forever blank and inscrutable, a mystery from beginning to untimely end. Because who has the time to get down and friendly with everyone on the planet? Who even has the inclination? If anyone did, would they find anything of benefit?

Snatches of conversation float past, providing a melody to the bass of the traffic and the drum roll rumble of the overground. The city breathes, and I breathe with it. We both spark fire, breathe smoke and take in black liquid. We're blurring at the edges. Bleeding together. We are unknown and anonymous components of each other. I plant my feet and tip my head back and I feel the hum of seven million city folk – and exponentially more as the hum extends outwards across the island, the continent, the hemisphere and the whole of the Earth. It's always there, the hum, the thrust of it, ever constant, always ceaseless, no matter how bored or distracted or beaten you may be: it persists.

So don't fret. Don't hide or mither. Lie back. Enjoy, where possible. This is life, and you are from it. This is the city, and you are of it. This is the world, and you are in it.

Then you down your pint and rejoin the flow of people. Drift back around the corner. Just another termite in the nest.

Nostalgia: It Ain't What It Used To Be.

Memory is a funny old thing. A cherished recollection can disappear for decades, seemingly buried under ever-increasing layers of memories about that time you went to that thing with that girl who might, at this point, possibly be dead, so long has it been since you communicated with her. Buried and gone until, one day, something pokes at it and a memory from pre-pubescence emerges, blinking in the harsh, annoying light of your late twenties. Such a thing happened to me today in regards to the Commodore 64 game Creatures.

As an eleven year old I wanted this game bad. I yearned for it. Commodore Format rated it high and parped on about it at every opportunity: for me, this was as cast-iron a recommendation as could be found. I loved CF and dreamed of one day working for them - almost made it too, but that's another story. I shelled out fifteen quid - an impossibly huge amount of money, given that my weekly pocket money at the time was the princely sum of 2 pounds, 50p of which was earmarked for my weekly 2000AD. But I scrimped and saved and the precious game was couriered to my house, possibly on the wings of chesty, nekkid angels. And do you know what? It was shit.

SHIT.

It was a platformer of sorts, interspersed with puzzle sections where the object was to foil a Mousetrap/Heath Robinson style machine that was on the verge of hilariously mudering one of your fellow grey furry creatures. Fail and the unfortunate creature would be chainsawed, dropped in acid, beheaded or generally killed to the accompaniment of lots of cartoonish blood. I liked cartoon blood, and indeed still do to this day, which was just as well because I saw a lot of it due my chronic ineptitude. This, remember, was the good old days when videogames saw absolutely no reason to let you win, or to make life easier for the player in any way; being frustratingly difficult was considered a legitimate way to increase a game's lifespan. I also have a vague memory of the controls being sticky and lumpen, the music being annoying and the titular creatures being pretty unloveable. After a reasonable (for an eleven year old) amount of perseverance I abandoned the game in disgust and went off to discover masturbation.

Heartwarming stuff. When I was scouring the net for information about this hellish piece of software I stumbled on to the inevitable fansite which purports to be the only one of its kind anywhere on the whole wide web, something I have no trouble believing. The retro games scene as a whole has a reputation for being a haven for the more... unconventional type of chap (let's face it - we're talking about males only here. I can't imagine that there's too many ladies out there maintaining regularly updated sites dedicated to Horace Goes Skiing. Harry Potter slash fiction, on the other hand...) and the Creatures site is a perfect and shining example of the form. In the 'about' section the author deviates wildly from his theme and launches into a spittle-flecked rant about how modern games are nothing but soulless pap, shat out by a cynical industry obsessed by the acqusition of filthy lucre. True enough, I suppose, but it's not like Ocean was a non-hierarchichal anarchist collective now was it?

The author states his intention to play C64 games regularly and often, for as long as he is able. Forever, if possible. Nothing that Sony, Microsoft or Nintendo do will budge him from his belief that Commodore put together the ultimate, unbeatable gaming platform, never bettered in any subsequent generation. That, in a medium obsessed with pushing boundaries and breaking new ground (at least in the departments of tits and shiny graphics) is quite a statement. And... it's bollocks. As much as I would hugely enjoy an hour with an old Amiga and a copy of Cannon Fodder an hour is all it would be. A brief flirtation with a happy childhood memory. Then I would pack the Amiga away and go back to wanting to play the new Call of Duty, because new games are, by and large, quantifiably superior to old ones. I would rather play GTA 4 than Magicland Dizzy because, misty-eyed nostalgia aside, GTA is better. It looks better, is more involved, has a better soundtrack, is more rewarding, and contains more hours of gameplay without having to resort to being viagra boner hard.

I'm waffling so I'll cut to the chase: nostalgia, as practiced by the retro gaming community, is not healthy. Admit it - games are better these days. Tekken 6 is heaps better than Tekken. Mario Galaxy pisses all over Super Mario 2. And Creatures was shit. Shit. What you're doing is being nostalgic, not for a game, but for a time when things were simpler. When all you had to worry about was stopping the furry grey blob being dropped into the acid, as opposed to now, when you have to grapple with your crippling credit card debt, or how you're going to cover your fucking rent, or why no girl seems to want to put her hand on your wiener no matter how much you whinge and plead. It's no good. Put the C64 away and get to grips with the present. It might be scary, but at least you get to amuse yourself with this.

For some unknown reason, in Creatures YOUR MOM ran the weapon shop.

Movie Review: The Women

I'm taking revenge for what that bitch did to Parky. The man is a national treasure.

I'm a boy and as such like my movies, loud, explody and filled with armies of brain chewing undead cheerleaders. Taking that as a given I think we all know that The Women was never going to be my bag but I was pant-wettingly astounded at just how wide of the mark this piece of sheeeeit actually proved to be. Seriously, I have never seen a film in such desperate need of a good, honest car chase in my frikken' life. The plot: Meg Ryan is a well heeled society lady whose husband does the dirty on her with the not-actually-as-attractive-as-she-first-appears Eva Mendes. Boo! Meg's coven of SITC-lite girlfriends gather around and do the female support network thing for a while, then she goes back to her man. Hooray! It's awful. Below these words you will find the legendary zombie/shark fight scene from Zombie Flesh Eaters, to provide us with some small crumbs of comfort.

As well as being derivative, unfunny and lumpen this movie displays a staggering level of moral cowardice. Meg's cheating low-down rat of a husband fucks off with some strumpet and what do her assorted friends, family and comedy-relief housekeeping staff do? They spend the entire film convincing her to take him back. Not for the sake of the children, mind - Meg should abandon her last shreds of self respect and let the philanderer back into her bed because he, you know, loves her really. That and the fact that there's a formulaic happy ending to shoehorn in, come what fucking may. The message really does seem to be: sod the betrayal, ignore the humiliation and never mind the fact that he's been paying this woman's bills with the fucking family credit card - all that's needed is a cameo from Bette Midler and an impromptu fashion show and everything will be OK! It's bullshit. Here's the bit from Zombie Holocaust where Ian McCulloch kills a zombie with an outboard motor.



Now I'm not daft. I know that a film based on a 1930's Broadway musical isn't going to be plumbing the skanky, jagged depths of human emotion. People like a nice, tidy ending, which is why fairy stories finish on '...and they all lived happily ever after' instead of the more realistic '...and they were all fucking miserable until they died of cancers and brain embolisms'. But here we have a movie that presumably takes great pride in its girl-friendly, feminist credentials - one of the selling points is the all female cast, with not a male face to be seen anywhere in the whole thing - and it resolutely fails to display anything like a spine. Meg folds like origami and the status quo is blithely resumed. I've got to say, the best women I know are stronger than that. Also: it's boring.

In summation: Glyn was walking through Wordsley once and he came across what, for me, is the perfect metaphor for this movie. To whit: a fork sticking out of a human turd. I thank you.

Apoca-watch - a semi regular series keeping tabs on civilisation's inevitable descent into screaming, raping chaos.

...and three weeks later everyone was fucking dead.

Who likes pigs? Everyone. Ahh, Babe - ain't he sweet. Bacon - ain't it tasty. But not so fast, Speedy Gonzalez - it turns out that the the pigs have got it in for us. The news that Birmingham has recorded its first case of swine flu has Pete barricaded inside the house, mainlining lemsip and wearing fourteen pairs of thermal pants. Word has it that swine flu is a hellish chimaera of human, bird and pig illnesses, hatched in the burning mexican heat and out to nick your car and feel up your nan. Terrifying stuff indeed. Now without wanting to cause unfounded panic or hysteria, I can confidently predict that swine flu will devastate the populace, lay waste to our cities and leave the earth a scorched and burning ruin.

Of course, we won't notice because we'll all be watching this.

Fun extra activity - place your bets on how long it'll be before I'm forced to remove the heavily copyrighted image from this week's fun episode of IHIH!

Day of Rest.

Sunday: an official deity-sanctioned day of rest. It's written into the Bible that nobody is doing shit on a Sunday. How generous is that? A whole day off. Lovely. Maybe I'll wash the car.

But let's not forget the small print because if you're following the rule to the letter you won't be picking up anything bigger than an olive - that is verboten. Anything bigger than that counts as work and The Lord will be really shitty with you for working on his specially allotted day off. So no going to the pub - that pint of Guinness is far too heavy for that - no watching TV - ditto the remote control - and no food, unless you're eating olives. One at a time. Fair enough, you can lie in bed all day but what's the point if you can't even make a fucking cuppa? It's fairly typical of religion to give with one hand whilst flicking your balls with the other but as conditions go that one is a right cocksuck.

I'm having a lovely Sunday, as it happens. I picked up a whole egg earlier. God will just have to bill me for it.

Britain's Got Patronising Cunts.

Britain, you do not disappoint. I've only been back a fortnight and this happens. First a video that I couldn't embed because the good people at Youtube wouldn't let me, the shits:

To be fair, she does look like she's been beaten by a tramp with a golf club.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=luRmM1J1sfg

I mean, where do you start with this? The teenage girls in the audience, wrinkling their nose and making snide comments about the mad old bat in the charity shop dress? Pier's Morgan arse-clenchingly smug grin? That blonde wench, all quivering lip and hand-to-breast clasping? I haven't seen anything so sickening since, well.... the last time I was like, really sick.

Making fun of freaks and weirdoes has been good clean fun since the Victorians had it and there's nowt wrong with that. It's woven into the very fabric of British life - the only difference these days is that the freaks volunteer, which saves having to corral them into special pens and is generally a handy timesaver. So when a single, 47 year old, unemployed Scottish lady rocks up and claims that she can sing like Elaine Page (whoever the fuck she is), looking as she does, the brutal mathematics of televisual cruelty kicks in. She's going to make a fool of herself, and we're all going to enjoy it.

But of course, she's amazing, and we are all chastened by the way this plucky underdog has subverted our cynical expectations regarding the relationship between talent and ugly. It's so Disney I could kick myself in my own bollock. Don't stress now: I'm not here to deliver a sermon on the generally accepted belief that good looks equals ability because it's a perfectly natural human reaction and we all do it every day. Let's face it - no one with eyebrows that hefty has any right having a voice like that. That's a given. What really squeezes my lemons is the sight of thousands of people publicly Learning A Lesson, spunking themselves into a big frothy mass of self congratulation. No one is going to go away from this a better person, less quick to judge and more likely to give people a chance before they cut them to fucking shreds - give it five minutes and they'll be back to snickering at borderline retarded people who think they're the next Mariah Carey. But for that couple of minutes they were apparently all tender, kind hearted folk, generous to a fault and blind to the physical imperfections of others. Ahhh. Unassuming ugly person, you have shown us the way - now will everyone please undo the fly of the person next to them and join us in one big communal hand shandy? The most genuine thing in that video is the sight of Simon Cowell nursing a semi at the thought of the amount of money he'll make off this woman's back.

Altogether now: fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

It's good to be home.