Fear leads to anger; anger leads to hate; hate... to creativity?

Monday, 12 October 2015

Last night I attended Jay Rayner's (the Observer's food critic) discussion My Dining Hell at the Ilkley Literature Festival. It was a really good night and I can happily attest that he as funny in person as hi is in writing. The talk discussed our perverse obsession with negative reviews and that fucking awful compulsion we all have to take enjoyment from other people's tales of woe. You know, that same mentality that drives you to stare at a car-crash or laugh when people fall over. As a not-so-secret bitch at heart, I'm always guilty of having a chuckle when someone does something embarrassing in public despite the fact I'm actually really fucking clumsy. Humanity has moved to a point where we get bored hearing about people's happiness but can't get enough of their misfortunes. Basically we're all just terrible people.

TBT: Mr Mom (1983)

Thursday, 8 October 2015

Unfortunately, I've managed to contract the plague this week and have spent much of my day off this week feeling like shit and wallowing in self pity. Unable to focus on anything greater than trawling through Netflix looking for TBT ideas, I stumbled across some classic 1980s Michael Keaton. It should be well documented by now that I have a great love of Mr Keaton; particularly during the 80s. You know, when he was a young comic actor making slapstick comedies rather than depressing us with his attempts at a feelgood Christmas film. The 80s always be one of my favourite eras of cinema, despite the fact that most things look horribly dated by this point. This is mostly thanks to the time spent in my teenage years watching every John Hughes film I could and wishing I was Ally Sheedy. So it seems only natural that I'd love a film that combines the writing prowess of Hughes and the comic timing of Keaton. Right?

With great power comes short attention span.

Monday, 5 October 2015

I know most of my Doctor Who related posts mainly seem to revolve around my hatred of Steven Moffat for turning a beloved show into a steaming pile of shit. However, I'm about to turn this around. We're only three episodes into this latest series but I can honestly say it's my favourite since Moffat took over. Peter Capaldi's first season was pretty good but I didn't think he got the opportunity to be as great as he could be. There was a major highlight towards the end of the series when the Danny Pink love story (yeah, more like love bore-y ) ended and Missy proved that a female version of a male character is actually the best fucking idea ever. Does anyone know if Helen Mirren is still up for playing the Doctor? I think it's time.

TBT: What Maisie Knew (2013)

Thursday, 1 October 2015

Recently one of my closest work friends left the business and I was put in charge of his leaving collection. This is mostly down to the fact that I'm fucking awesome at buying people presents. I'd love to be modest here but it's the cold hard truth that I always find the perfect gift for any occasion. It's a blessing and a curse. Once again, when the time came to present him with my offerings it went down incredibly well. Considering that much of our interaction at work came down to quoting Alan Partridge I knew what I had to do. Amongst other random shit, I managed to track down an Alan Partridge blazer badge, Alan's big plate, some Kiss My Face brand soap and a chocolate orange with superficial damage to the box. Turns out there's a lot of great shit out there for any fan of Steve Coogan's most successful character.

My Little Monotony or: How I Learned to Start Worrying and Hate my Bookshelf

Monday, 28 September 2015

Something happened to me whilst I was reading Haruki Murakami's first novel Hear the Wind Sing recently. I was over halfway through the story when I suddenly realised that I was picturing the main female character as a traditional Hollywood beauty. You know the sort, blonde, thin aloof: in other words every single Sienna Miller character. I was on a train at the time and was so freaked out by my personal discovery that I stopped reading for the rest of the journey. Then, thanks to my endless neuroses, I then spent the rest of the day partly ashamed and partly annoyed with myself. It seemed disrespectful and narrow-minded that my brain was subconsciously changing the Japanese setting to a more familiar Western backdrop. What did it say about me as a reader and a person that I couldn't even imagine the novel as its writer had intended?

TBT: Muriel's Wedding (1994)

Thursday, 24 September 2015

Everywhere I look it seems as though people are getting engaged. Apparently, we live in an age where women of all ages and marital statuses have a fucking Pinterest wedding board. Am I missing something? I don't see the fuss. I'm sure when I was younger I did the whole pretend wedding thing but now I just think it's a little bit unnecessary. A lot of money for one day? My heart-rate has gone up just fucking thinking about it. I must be one of a minority that sees Don't Tell the Bride as the preferable way to organise your big day. No shopping for flowers, venues or the dress: fucking ideal. Hell, I'll wear PJs if need be. 

Top 5 Literary Husbands

Tuesday, 22 September 2015

So I had every intention of writing a great and meaningful post for this week. However, my older sister royally fucked that up by getting engaged yesterday. I mean I'm happy and everything but I had to spend valuable writing time drinking champagne instead. So now it's half 11 on Monday night and I've only just started writing something. It's fucking ridiculous. I'm pretty much back to square one. That can only mean one thing: it's time for a lazy blog post. With marriage now on my radar, I've decided it's time to compile my top 5 list of male literary characters I'd be okay to settle down with. God knows it's about time I give this some thought. Pretty much every YA-focused book vlogger I've ever watched seems to be editing this list on a weekly, if not daily, basis. To be fair, they're lists mostly contain awful YA pretty boys I've never heard of or the awful men who wear breeches in classic novels. When will people learn, Mr Rochester and Heathcliffe are fucking creeps: not the kind of people you should aspire to marry. Anyway, just as some people don't feel comfortable until they have their zombie apocalypse plan in place (yawn), I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep until I sort this fucking list out. So without further ado...

TBT: America's Sweethearts (2001)

Thursday, 17 September 2015

My review of Station Eleven discussed my relationship with YA and the fact that I always come back for more knowing that, more often than not, I'm going to fucking hate it. I've pretty much accepted at this point that I'm an oft disappointed fool who's stubbornness will always be my undoing. It's a character trait that moves beyond the world of shitty books for teenagers/adults that never want to grow up. It's just as easy for me to lie to myself that the work of certain directors or actors that I know have a tendency to be fucking awful will actually turn out to be awesome. The most notable offenders are Woody Allen and the man I'm going to talk about today, John Cusack. Now I've been in love with John Cusack since I first saw Say Anything so I have this ridiculous notion that everything he stars in will be amazing. Unfortunately, this hypothesis is absolute bullshit.