Instant Crush

Hello World

I am writing to you from my sickbed wherein I lie with a face the size of Jupiter. I had a tooth taken out this week and really didn’t believe them when they said there would be swelling and bruising. I look like a very dejected, domestically abused Moomin. But worry not! I have of course taken a series of hilarious photos tracking the progress of it all, so I’ll share that with you when I’m better and we’ll all have a right old larf at my expense.

Anyway! I went to see Star Trek last week, so I’m going to review it for you here and now, though I may have to stop for a little nap halfway through because I’ve been living off rodent-sized helpings of yoghurt and flavoured water for the last few days. I know, I know, I’m a hero of the modern age and a “true survivor” of these harrowing times, but don’t embarrass me by going on about it. (NB, I started this on Wednesday, it's now Friday, so slightly more than a little nap...)

First of all, I LOVE Star Trek. I grew up watching it so there’s a special room in my heart where it luxuriates in the flowing rivers of sentimentality and oxygenated blood.

The main thing I noticed about this film is that everyone is really good at running and jumping. And I mean really good. Spock was particularly impressive when it came to running and adding little twirls in the air, as you can see from the photograph below.

The second thing of note was that Benedict Cabbagepatch was wonderfully involved with the emotions of his character. Emotions of note: sad, crying, serious, stony and being horrific.

I’d also like to bring attention to the fact that William Shatner is being played by Chris Pine in this film and I want to applaud his triangular chin. I mean, I have literally never seen a chin so pointy. His chin is a Pythagorean dream made real.

Overall this film is alright. There are several lines that have clearly been shoehorned in to reference the classic TV series and while several people around us in the cinema did a bit of clapping, I have to say I found them momentarily cringey. But Star Trek wouldn’t be Star Trek without a cheesy script and a bunch of fanboys whacking off because they get the joke.

I would like to give this film 19 tribbles out of 6 sexually appealing jumpsuits. 

Turn the Dial

Well, wow. It’s been a bloody long time since I wrote a movie review, innit! Also quite a while since I blogged at all. Sozzzzzzzz ‘bout that, yo! It’s just that…“because of all the mental things that happened to me. I got shallow. And my physical being could have been improved, as well as my mentality.” Literally 1 million points to whoever gets THAT cheeky wee film reference!

As is tradition, I’ll be reviewing a film that’s been bustin’ dem blocks off their rockers. By which I mean Iron Man Third, obviously.

The first thing you should know about this film is that there are LOTS of sunglasses in it. Like, we’re talking a stupidly large array of sunglasses. Nearly every time Tony Storks is on screen he has a different pair of sunglasses on. I sat through the entire film with bated breath, wondering what kind of sunglasses he would be wearing next. I found myself being worked up into a harrowing frenzy. When we were two thirds into the film, I had panic vomited four times.

It may be the case that Tony Storks wanted to give each of his new iron boyfriends their own pair of snappy sunglasses, because there were roughly 600 other iron mans in this film, all of whom had a different outfit and different powers of seduction to get Tony Storks inside them. I’m just speculating though, because we, the audience, are never given an explanation as to why Mr Storks is always sporting a different pair of sunglasses.

My favourite was Fat Iron Man, who had very little head but quite a lot of shoulder.

My other favourite bit was when Tony Storks was inside one of the irons men and he asked Pepper Potts to kiss him on the mouth clit. Pepper Potts is no fool, however, and avoided that mouth clit like the plague. Maybe she was mad that she didn’t get a pair of sunglasses? We can never know, because the huge numbers of sunglasses that feature in this film are never explained.

Overall, and despite all my anxiety over the sunglasses, I enjoyed this film in an average to above average way. Tony Storks is a sassy hero who loves hitting the baddies with one liners almost as much as he likes destroying their insides with weapons illegally produced in his basement without any kind of government checks or regulations.

I give this film 8 million pairs of sunglasses out of 1 movie from the Iron Man franchise. 

Your Terry Underwear

I spent most of the day in a train today, so I wrote a poem about being on a train. I think people will be able to relate really well to this, because trains look like snakes and everyone knows what snakes are. If you have any problems though, do let me know. 

High lights, low nights! Much love x

On a Train in Spring

Hands up who’s been witness to a sheep

in a field, smashed to bits and sinking?

Really? I’m the only lucky soul?

Well, slap me in the face with an arable documentary.

A woman opens a bottle of water, carefully.

Ain’t nothin’ like a pack lunch to make you feel

like Nigella fucking Lawson. It’s incredible

what an egg salad sandwich can do for your self-esteem.

I huddle in for a team talk. I hear myself say,

“Every one of us was made to suffer,

every one of us was made to weep.”

Life is a parched silence without these moments.

Out in the field they’re readying the soil.

The sun-dried chunks of dirt lie

like the mistreated organs of my circulatory system.

With a little water they’ll be fine. 

You Should Subscribe

Holla!

Going a bit old skool tonight 'cause I can't write. As a writer, that's pretty annoying. In other news I'm listening to the preview of the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs album. So far, I'm saying Yeah. I'm orf to see 'em in May so now I'm super excited :)

Anyway, I'm going to Edinburgh tomorrow which will probably be harrowing and lovely in equal measures. But what's life without love and harrows? It ain't an awful lot, brothers, I can tell you!

Hope you're all well and wonderful. The poem is fairly self-explanatory.

NaPoWriMo day 4. Enjoy!

On Being an Outcast

I sit down in the old Sunday school

for my weekly Pariahs Anonymous meeting.

The group speaker stands up.

“Unwelcome to you all,” he says.

Everybody leaves, buoyed for another week

with boundless self-depreciation.

47 Minutes Late

Shiiiiiiiiit, I am WELL late tonight. Sozzer, it's all down to my hectic social calendar. Await no longer. Here is a poem about lost love and lost friendship and live political views.

NaPoWriMo Day 3!

In the Aftermath of Whixley Burbage

Today I saw a dog posing for a photograph; Whixley Burbage, an old friend of mine. We used to snort coke together and cruise around in his Maserati, looking for bitches. How our times have changed.

I remember the days we did everything in a circle. Have you any idea how difficult it is to loop water? Whixley was testing me, that bastard. Some days he wore only a cummerbund, just to prove his point.

Once, he said to me, “If a pony belongs to a gypsy and the gypsy is always laughing, does the pony really exist?” Then he bit into a sweet potato and said, “I can has?” That’s when I knew things had gone too far.

“Whixley,” I said. “Dude, why you gotta act so loco all the time? Boi gotta eat, man, I know that, but this a poison too far.” Whixley laughed and said, “Bitches be crazy.” We never saw one another again.

Until this morning that is; this newly-wed-excitement of a morning. He was so different. He was dressed as a racist trying to blend in with the rest of society. Did you know that racists wear jeans now?

Whixley was always very left wing. “When I say ‘OVERTHROW’, you say ‘A DEEPLY CORRUPT SYSTEM OF OFFENSIVE FINANCIAL OPPRESSION!’” is what would chant in clubs when the beat was right.

Oh Whixley; you’re a twatbag. You broke my heart and called it progress. I would have cradled you. I would have taken you in my arms and listened to your sadness like it was a song. Like it was something that mattered.

Walking away from the scene I feel like an unseen extra in a movie, who is only there to make the leads feel like they’re really living it all. I touch my hair and somebody calls a cut. I can’t even get that right anymore.

Press Play to Hear

Yo!

Didn't realise the time today, I've been so busy watching this amazing We've Become Mango video that I lost track of the entire world.

Writing has been entirely work-based today I'm afraid so I've found it difficult to slip back into creative mode, which is why I've written a wee haiku. And if anyone thinks that haiku aren't difficult, this bastard took me TWO HOURS. And I'm still not happy with it, so screw you!

Hope you're all well and behaving yourselves in a true and proper fashion befitting of your wonderful natures.  You're my heroes.

NaPoWriMo Day 2!

Conversation

The loose leaf of speech

crackles across the valley;

our modest forum.

After a Hiatus

Well, it looks like the Rattle Bag got a new look, doesn't it? The old one was getting pretty tired and as our pal F. Scott said, “Youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.” So since a sorry chapter of my youth is now over and done with, apparently it's time to move on.

And so I shall move, completely naturally, to the point. *casually places hand to hip and leans towards you with an awkward jaunt* Say folks, did y'all know that April is National Poetry Writing Month? You didn't? Why, then it's lucky I'm here, isn't it? I don't know, is it? Is anything really down to luck? Or are we all just swimming through a cesspit of indecision, constantly searching for the small glances of light that help to guide us in our choices?

Whatever you believe, I'm going to be posting some more poetry this month. I KNOW! You were all super depressed when I stopped last week, and unlike a lot of people, I actually feel guilt, so I could deny you no longer! Be safe, be calm, be loved by being lovers.

NaPoWriMo Day 1!

The Scar

Out in the garden there’s a scar

shaped like a fat-lipped mouth fighting off sickness.

If you speak to it, you’ll come away

feeling like a sack of vehement diarrhoea,

the kind that keeps you up all night;

the kind that makes you pull at your flesh

and cry for the safe slogans

of your mother’s voice.

The more you press the scar

the more violently it will attack

with the little spears of livid grass

that have rooted around its stubborn edges.

I read somewhere recently that I’m a liar.

That scar would sing blue murder

to keep itself out of the shit.

But we can’t trust a word I say now, can we?