Now it’s glasses

A couple of blog posts ago I wrote about a certain pastor’s/prophet’s/wizard’s watch. look! Here it is again if you missed it, and you can read about it here.

It’s a poster in one of those electric light hoardings, somewhere between Morley’s chicken hut and Babur’s tiger palace, in a place that could be Honor Oak Park, or, perhaps, Forest Hill. Maybe, but not quite, Crofton Park? Bromley? Brockley? Narnia anyone?

I don’t know. All I know, it’s not a place to advertise. It’s doomed to failure. It’s a cursed electric light advert zone. First it was the watch. Now, it’s the glasses. What gives, Paddick?

This man wants to be mayor. Of London. Of course, he won’t be. That’s not me being mean. It’s just the truth. And look! He knows it! He’s taken an advert out in the ‘This Watch’ zone. And he’s swapped the watch for glasses. Let’s look closer at those glasses.

What, on Earth, does he want this poster to say to us? Other than, ‘I’ve given up’? Is he hoping, somewhere in a dark place where he hasn’t even realised it yet, for a ‘we all love our patios, don’t we’ John Stalker style ad campaign? For glasses? One day, when he is still not mayor, will he drive a saloon, with a personalised number plate? SPEC5AVERS?

And what of the slogan, You break it. You fix it? It’s a bit much, isn’t it. For someone who’s naturally clumsy like me. I’m always breaking things. I do my best, for sure, but really Brian ‘Specsavers’ Paddick, I can do without further pressure.

I know. I’m being silly. He’s talking about the criminals. As the poster says; ‘I will make criminals repair the damage they’ve done’.

It doesn’t really comfort me. When I was 15 I was attacked by some lads. I had my nose badly broken and spent five days in hospital. I’m still grateful that a qualified surgeon operated on me and not some crack-crazed scobber out for watch related kicks (‘ave yer got the time mate? Looks at my watch. That’s not the time. Whomp! Blackout. I come round, three lads hovering over me. That’s not ‘im, that’s not ‘im. They run and I swim home in a pool of blood.)

I’m glad someone who’s reshaped noses before sawed and hacked and pushed back into place my gristly conk. Brian ‘Specsavers’ Paddick may mean well. This mayor hopeless may well say to the anti- semitic thug; come on lad, you broke it, you fix it. But honestly, no thanks. You’ve done enough damage. Please keep away from me. Please, don’t even enter the operating theatre.

 (The attack was anti-semitic, though I am not Jewish. I was mistaken for being Jewish as I walked through the grounds of King David School in Crumpsall whistling the current no.1, I Will Survive).

But again, I’m being silly. He doesn’t mean that, does he? He means he’ll make them mend doors and locks and glasses (the drinking types) and jewelry and fences and bites from vicious dogs and… Oh, Lord alone knows what he means.

He won’t get to mayor. Look! There’s Red Ken peeking over his shoulder, thanks to some crafty framing by me. And look! Here’s ‘Blue Cock’ Boris giving you a chicken run for your money.

He hasn’t got a hope.

Though all is not lost. The money for this useless campaign with its truly rubbishy slogan may not have been spent in vain. The hundreds, maybe thousands, of pounds will have been used wisely if Brian carries the slogan forward for when he gets his Specsavers job. It’s a cheap insurance policy isn’t it; you sit on your glasses and hey… You break it. You fix it.  And if you can’t, just use your second BOGOF pair.

Who will be mayor? You decide:

The Fourth Plinth rocking horse

Passing though town I happened upon the newly erected fourth plinth statue in Trafalgar Square. No doubt some dignitaries had been there earlier in the morning, but by 1pm there was just a podium, some bouncers and a golden boy on a golden rocking horse high up on the plinth. Here it is.

It’s called Powerless Structures, Fig.101, but I’m going to call it the Golden Rocking Horse and Boy. That’s the best way to approach public art. For me.

I’ve seen the Ship in a Bottle, the People, the Little Jesus, the Airman, the Pregnant Armless Lady, the Upside-Down Plinth, and the Bird Hotel.

Here’s another picture. This time more of a Shadow Rocking Horse and Boy.

Here’s the blurb:

Let the mayor know what you think. If you want.

Here’s what I think; it’s ok.

Here’s what it’s up against:

The Golden Rocking Horse Boy thing is ok. It’s not bad. But I’ll be happier when the Big Blue Cock’s up there.

Image courtesy of (ie. stolen from) Art History News

What’s your favourite? Please vote.

Which comedian has the worst cover?

My last two posts have rudely looked at the comedians DVD’s on sale over Christmas, and then judged them solely on the artwork of the cover. Now let’s see which is the worst.

Remember! You are judging the artwork alone. Not the content. Let us all just judge the comedians by their covers.

You can see all the covers in my two previous posts.

Hey, let’s have two polls! One for the worst, one for the best. Worst first.

And the best cover.

What is Brigitte Nielsen?

Yes. That’s my question today. What is Brigitte Nielsen? It’s not intended to be rude. Clearly she’s just a person, like you or I. So that’s one answer. But is she a movie star? A model? A singer? A reality TV star? The daughter/wife/sister of funnyman Leslie Nielsen? All of these things?

Heading off to see Step Up 3D before going on to the monthly BFI Film Quiz (Hey! We won!) I saw Brigitte (with ‘film stars’ we all feel like we know them well enough to use first name terms. Don’t we?) standing outside Cafe de Paris (Cafe of Paris) just passing the time. look! Here she is!

Look at me! I’m a paparazzi! look at that guy on the right. He didn’t move once during the 60 seconds or so I stood and gawped. I think he might be a heavy. I think he might be looking out for her. I also think he might have a nail-biting problem, but he knows he can’t do it in public so he’s settling for a good pick.

I wouldn’t normally dream of taking pictures of strangers without first asking. It’s just rude. But with these Hollywood folk it’s a little different. I still felt impertinent but I relaxed when I saw others taking pics and Brigitte not minding; in fact actively smiling and looking to the camera. Look! Almost my way!

What’s with the guy to her left? look at the first picture. Both of them can’t look her in the eye. It can’t just be because she is eight feet tall. Perhaps looking into her eyes turns men to stone. Maybe I had a lucky escape.

She posed with the public for a few photos, but I didn’t dare. It’s not often you can get this close to proper Hollywood stars. I once saw De Niro and Pacino in Leicester Square, but they were standing on a balcony above the Empire cinema (Brigitte could have walked passed and had a face to face conversation with them).

So well done Brigitte. Well done for stopping and shooting the breeze with the folk of London. For smiling for photos. And for having a nail-biting minder.

But what exactly are you? I’ll let the poll decide.

Magician’s Knee

I’m catsitting in Richmond. I’ve done it before, I’ll do it again. I’ve also got to read over the second draft of our film (I write with Trev Neal). I’ve been told to prepare myself for the cuts ahead (no dopey, not the removal of the UK Film Council, the cuts in our screenplay to get the running time down). I also know, from all the e-mails flying around, that Trev is happy (ish). So, looking forward to a good read and, hopefully, a screenplay that might possibly someday somewhere get made, I went out to buy two things; a cigar and a beer. Then, a sit in the garden and a read.

Out on my cigar and beer hunt I overheard a woman on a mobile phone. She kept saying “magicians knee, magicians knee.”*

I like it. I wish I had it. I wonder what it is.

It’s got to be one of two things. Maybe three. Or four.

Most likely it’s a fake knee, a little like a hidden pocket. A prosthetic knee “cap” that flips open and in which you can store a pigeon.

That’s the most likely thing it is.

It could also be a medical condition. One of those medical conditions, like Tennis Elbow, where, until you get it, you have no idea what it is.

Possibly it is just the knee of a magician. It’s not all smoke and mirrors.

Or, and this is, sorry to say, the most likely explanation; she wasn’t saying Magicians Knee. She was saying something else, in a foreign language. Something I don’t understand.

Now to read and have a cigar, like the man in Misery.

* Magicians knee, magician’s knee, magicians’ knee- you decide.

If Cameron wins, blame me

I’ve messed up. I’ve denied myself my right. On Thursday, when you can all vote I, like the insane, prisoners, and the aristocracy (and sometimes these groups do overlap), won’t be able to. I’ll be in Manchester, visiting my mum who’ll have just had an operation. And I live, and vote, in London.

These things are covered. You can vote by post or by proxy. But the deadline for a proxy vote was Tuesday 27th. I checked my poll card. On the back it says “In certain circumstances it may be possible to apply to vote by proxy after the deadline. To change any of your voting arrangements please contact the helpline number shown overleaf as soon as possible”.

I’m not too good at as soon as possible. I left it too late. I phoned today. I explained my certain circumstances. But they weren’t good enough. I asked what would enable me to apply for proxy after the deadline. They said I’d need to be in a car crash. This is true. This is what they said to me.

I want to vote. I’m tempted to plan a car crash but my worry is that, once executed, my plan would clearly indicate that I am insane. It’s one of those catch 22 things.

I’m happy to come clean. if I were to vote I’d vote Lib Dem. If I were dead I’d describe myself as a lifelong Labour voter, but I’ve still some time to go so I’m happy to change and give my vote (that I can’t give) to the man who’s shagged less than 30 women. I’ve shagged less than 30 women too, so I feel a kind of kinship. Give the Sheffield shagger a shot.

Should I let my daughter date David Platt?

My daughter is dating David Platt and I’m not happy.

For those who know me you know I believe Coronation Street to be real. For those who don’t know me, you’ll most likely think I’m just being funny, or weird, or perverse. But the great thing about beliefs is that that’s all you need. Reason goes out of the window. I believe Coronation Street is real… so there!

And psycho David Platt is going out with my daughter!

My daughter is Kirsty Leigh Porter.

Kirsty Leigh Porter (pic courtesy of Holy Soap)

Kirsty was only my daughter for a day. Trev and myself were writing for a show called My Spy Family. Kirsty played Marcy Desmond, and in one of our episodes, The Quiz Night Affair, I played her father Mr Desmond. He was a wild haired weirdo. I didn’t have to do much. Just turn up.

But now she’s changed her name to Zoe and is slowly creeping into Corrie as bloody Platt’s girlfriend. I’m going to have to put my foot down.

Who cares?

Well, no one it seems.

I’ve just been to vote. I walk into a near empty school hall; one person voting, two official people sitting behind a desk. As I hand my card to the official lady I jauntily ask “been busy?” She gives a wry yet kind smile and rolls her eyes heavenwards. I like those sort of conversations.

I’ve waited all day to vote. I work from home and it’s just around the corner. But I wanted to see if anyone called. Who’d make an effort?

I’ve been in all day. No bell rang. No car rolled down the street with two trumpety loudhailers on its roof, booming unintelligible dogma. I’ve not even had a leaflet through the door. Actually, that’s not true. I’ve had a leaflet from USDAW telling me why I should support Labour. Not vote for them, just support them. Well, shy old labour, shamed old labour, don’t get the unions to do your dirty work for you. Come and meet me face to face. Come and tell me why I should vote for you and what all this European parliament thing is.

No. No one’s called. No one’s been around offering me a lift. What’s happened to the politicians of today?

And no one was there voting. In the middle of a large school hall there was a circular table divided into quadrants. Just one table for four people to vote at a time! Even the organisers expected no one to show.

Where were the people who hang around the front doors, asking for your number, just so they now you’ve voted? They used to do that. And then, in the dying hours, if you hadn’t been, they’d come and get you. Pester you. Plead with you for their vote.

The public don’t care. The politicians don’t care.

Usually they announce how many people voted  as a percentage. This time round they’ll say “Pick a number between one and 10″.

Somedays I don’t know what to write

Today is one of those days. And it’s been a bit like that since I went to see Synecdoche, New York last… what day was it? Last week. But when? Oh, yes, Wednesday. I put a plea out on Twitter for a “follower” to meet me at the cinema; any follower; then we could do the Orange Wednesday thing. Go before 5pm, meet a friend who only has to pretend to be a friend (they can sit as far away from me as they choose once in the cinema) and suddenly we see a film for £3. It’s a bargain. But nobody showed. I’m guessing my Twitter followers thought I was joking… or are only pretending to follow me thinking it makes me feel better. Well, it does. Even when I know you are only pretending. I am happy to have pretend followers where even if you are real followers you are still only following me in pretend because it is Twitter and it’s not real and it will fade and die only to be replaced by MindPamphlet or YouBully.

I can’t write about Synecdoche, New York. Not yet. Maybe never. I don’t know what to say and no one is whispering in my ear. I wish they were. It’s a great film and maybe the saddest film I’ve ever seen and I am going to go and see it again tomorrow. It is a film though that could send me into a deep state of inertia. Sometimes somethings are so true that I truly don’t know what to do next.

If you are thinking of seeing it, see what you think of this; the Minister in the play within the film gives his sermon:

“Everything is more complicated than you think. You only see a tenth of what is true. There are a million little strings attached to every choice you make; you can destroy your life every time you choose. But maybe you won’t know for twenty years. And you’ll never ever trace it to its source. And you only get one chance to play it out. Just try and figure out your own divorce. And they say there is no fate, but there is: it’s what you create. Even though the world goes on for eons and eons, you are here for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Most of your time is spent being dead or not yet born. But while alive, you wait in vain, wasting years, for a phone call or a letter or a look from someone or something to make it all right. And it never comes or it seems to but doesn’t really. And so you spend your time in vague regret or vaguer hope for something good to come along. Something to make you feel connected, to make you feel whole, to make you feel loved. And the truth is I’m so angry and the truth is I’m so fucking sad, and the truth is I’ve been so fucking hurt for so fucking long and for just as long have been pretending I’m OK, just to get along, just for, I don’t know why, maybe because no one wants to hear about my misery, because they have their own, and their own is too overwhelming to allow them to listen to or care about mine. Well, fuck everybody. Amen.”

Or this, from the character Millicent Weems:

“What was once before you – an exciting, mysterious future – is now behind you. Lived; understood; disappointing. You realize you are not special. You have struggled into existence, and are now slipping silently out of it. This is everyone’s experience. Every single one. The specifics hardly matter. Everyone’s everyone.”

You’ll know if this appeals to you or not. And don’t be down, there are some laughs along the way too. Just like in life.

I hope Charlie Kaufman doesn’t mind me pinching bits from his film for my blog. I do it with the best of intentions. And though I will not claim to be his biggest fan or his number 1 fan I do claim my place as fan number 5,432,679.

And today I finished “My Fault” by Billy Childish. If you fancy, there is a good interview with him here. And this too leaves me unable to write. I’d love to write a review of this book telling you how great it is and how you should read it, but I just don’t have the will, the energy, or the little voice whispering in my ear. But do read it. Or just read the interview in the link and look at his paintings.

Ok, let’s end on a summery pic.

mummified frog

Oh, and if this post is a little down, I’m blaming the MP’s.

“I’ve cheated expenses. I’ve fiddled things. You have. Course you have.”

That’s Stephen Fry being interviewed by Newsnight. And when he says “You have, Course you have” he looks down the lens of the camera. At you. You. All of us. Watch the bow tied nutter here.

For another point of view, from one of the “venal and disgusting crowd of people”, try this piece by Brian Reade in the Mirror.

Time for a fight!