Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
The Jeremy Irons Story
I like telling stories. I like telling my own stories. It's kind of my downfall and the prime reason people become irritated with me. I have a habit to intone Yoda style the metaphorical wisdom learned from my own personal experiences at the most inappropriate times. Luckily, most people are far too polite to interrupt or inform me they've "already heard this one" so I usually get to finish with a few seconds of smug satisfaction before the crippling fear of self-obsession and indulgent monologues strikes.
I always planned to write down all my stories, put them in a book and hand them to my friends so that the next time I felt compelled to wax lyrical I could simply tell people to check a chapter at their leisure and not have to bore all those within earshot.
The Jeremy Irons story is my favourite or all my stories, however I have fallen into a near-perfect pitter-patter recollection of it and the whole thing is becoming very tedious. Thus I shall recant the tale one more time before retiring it to the bin marked "not to be touched until the grandkids are old enough to know what speed is" and replace the top slot with the story of me, two strippers and a videocamera in a dressing room. It's not nearly as dirty as it sounds, but it will still have to wait for another time.
Before I tell this sad tale of woe and celebrity embarressment, though, I should issue a warning to all those who may be related to me, or those foolish enough to hold me in any high regard. This is a story of misspent employment, foolish alcohol consumption and illegal activities. If you would prefer to know me as that nice boy you raised from birth, or that charming young man who is currently dating your daughter, you may wish to scroll down to the previous post which is all about International Womens Day and paints me in a far better light.
Way back in 2001 I was working as a runner on a small independant film called Dream which starred Kelly Harrison, Sinead Cusack and Matthew from Eastenders. We worked 11 day fortnights, which means we had the weekend off, then Saturday off, then the weekend etc. Towards the end of the shoot, on one of the intermitent weekends, I was very stressed and tired and needed to seriously unwine. Since I had the luxury of two days off I went to the pub, drank my bodyweight in booze and went and partied my way across town. I would love to tell you where I went and what I did but I have no recollection further than that. It was that good a night.
Anyway. Two days off so plenty of time to recover, right? Wrong. I got a phone call from the Production Manager the next morning saying she needed me for an urgent task. Could I drive down to Sinead Cusacks house in Cornwall (which is about 350 miles away) and pick up some childhood photos of her to be used as set dressing? Her husband would have everything ready but I had to leave now and could I take the Renault Espace as my normal location car was in use. Thanks.
I stalled a couple of hours or so, made sure I was ok to drive - drank the usually hated coffee and forced food down down my throat - but I was still out the door by midday. Driving may have been a mistake, I was really tired and the drive down to Cornwall had to be punctuated with frequent stops and a never-ending supply of luxury service station water. I vibrated, I hung my head out the window like a beagle and I played punk-rock really fucking loud and somehow I arrived at my destination.
All this time, though, I had one thought on my mind. Who is Sinead Cusack married to? I knew it was someone famous, but in my sleep deprived, booze addled brain I couldn't remember who. Obviously this is called The Jeremy Irons Story, therefore she is married to Jeremy Irons, but I didn't realise this until his super-silky tones emitted from the gate speaker and he buzzed me into his house.
On opening the garden gate to this modest faux-rustic farmhouse it all hit me. Everything. The late night, the drinking, the 3 months of 16 hour working days, the stress, the drive, the starch in my stomach and the shock of knowing I was about to meet Hans Grubers brother.* I think I was probably also reeling from the realisation that in coming down here I had done something incredibly stupid... and all of a sudden I was really really thirsty.
Jeremy Irons welcomed me into his house, generously gave me several pints of water and didn't seem fazed when I gulped them down in quick succession. We sat for several awkward minutes and made small talk; how the film was going, Sinead, the weather, the drive etc. It was around the point of the 30 second silence that I realised I was shaking horribly and Jeremy Irons was staring at me with a mixture of fear, horror and bemusement.
No doubt wondering what kind of man he had let into his house, let alone who he was entrusting with his wifes precious memories, he made his excuses and went to get the photos. Immediately I dashed to the sink and splashed water on my face, and it was this dripping, vibrating mess that Jeremy Irons faced a few seconds later when he returned. Mumbling something about being very hot, I offered my trembling hand to take the photos and as he passed them, for a split second, I saw a look of contempt flicker across his face.
Not wanting to piss him off further - I've seen Reversal of Fortune, I know what this man is capable of - I practically fled the kitchen and into the fresh air. Jeremy Irons followed me half way down the path and the last thing I heard was his clipped instructions to close the gate behind me. I pulled it shut without looking back and hightailed it to the nearest cafe for a mainline of sugar.
A hearty sandwiche, can of coke and half hour of sunshine set me right and I felt fantastic. With a smile on my face and a song in my heart I headed back to Sheffield, stopping only once to phone my friend Matt and tell him what had happened.
I haven't met Jeremy Irons since, and for that I'm blessed. Drinking is bad for you kids, it makes you do stupid things infront of RSC actors and no-one should ever sink that low.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is the end of The Jeremy Irons Story. I thank you.
*Note to readers. In 2001 Jeremy Irons was still a moderately respectable actor. Dungeons and Dragons had been shot but not released and we were years away from the Time Machine, Eragon and Kingdom of Heaven. I think I'd recently seen him in Lolita, which is an excellent movie.
I always planned to write down all my stories, put them in a book and hand them to my friends so that the next time I felt compelled to wax lyrical I could simply tell people to check a chapter at their leisure and not have to bore all those within earshot.
The Jeremy Irons story is my favourite or all my stories, however I have fallen into a near-perfect pitter-patter recollection of it and the whole thing is becoming very tedious. Thus I shall recant the tale one more time before retiring it to the bin marked "not to be touched until the grandkids are old enough to know what speed is" and replace the top slot with the story of me, two strippers and a videocamera in a dressing room. It's not nearly as dirty as it sounds, but it will still have to wait for another time.
Before I tell this sad tale of woe and celebrity embarressment, though, I should issue a warning to all those who may be related to me, or those foolish enough to hold me in any high regard. This is a story of misspent employment, foolish alcohol consumption and illegal activities. If you would prefer to know me as that nice boy you raised from birth, or that charming young man who is currently dating your daughter, you may wish to scroll down to the previous post which is all about International Womens Day and paints me in a far better light.
----------------------------------------------------
The Jeremy Irons Story
Way back in 2001 I was working as a runner on a small independant film called Dream which starred Kelly Harrison, Sinead Cusack and Matthew from Eastenders. We worked 11 day fortnights, which means we had the weekend off, then Saturday off, then the weekend etc. Towards the end of the shoot, on one of the intermitent weekends, I was very stressed and tired and needed to seriously unwine. Since I had the luxury of two days off I went to the pub, drank my bodyweight in booze and went and partied my way across town. I would love to tell you where I went and what I did but I have no recollection further than that. It was that good a night.
Anyway. Two days off so plenty of time to recover, right? Wrong. I got a phone call from the Production Manager the next morning saying she needed me for an urgent task. Could I drive down to Sinead Cusacks house in Cornwall (which is about 350 miles away) and pick up some childhood photos of her to be used as set dressing? Her husband would have everything ready but I had to leave now and could I take the Renault Espace as my normal location car was in use. Thanks.
I stalled a couple of hours or so, made sure I was ok to drive - drank the usually hated coffee and forced food down down my throat - but I was still out the door by midday. Driving may have been a mistake, I was really tired and the drive down to Cornwall had to be punctuated with frequent stops and a never-ending supply of luxury service station water. I vibrated, I hung my head out the window like a beagle and I played punk-rock really fucking loud and somehow I arrived at my destination.
All this time, though, I had one thought on my mind. Who is Sinead Cusack married to? I knew it was someone famous, but in my sleep deprived, booze addled brain I couldn't remember who. Obviously this is called The Jeremy Irons Story, therefore she is married to Jeremy Irons, but I didn't realise this until his super-silky tones emitted from the gate speaker and he buzzed me into his house.
On opening the garden gate to this modest faux-rustic farmhouse it all hit me. Everything. The late night, the drinking, the 3 months of 16 hour working days, the stress, the drive, the starch in my stomach and the shock of knowing I was about to meet Hans Grubers brother.* I think I was probably also reeling from the realisation that in coming down here I had done something incredibly stupid... and all of a sudden I was really really thirsty.
Jeremy Irons welcomed me into his house, generously gave me several pints of water and didn't seem fazed when I gulped them down in quick succession. We sat for several awkward minutes and made small talk; how the film was going, Sinead, the weather, the drive etc. It was around the point of the 30 second silence that I realised I was shaking horribly and Jeremy Irons was staring at me with a mixture of fear, horror and bemusement.
No doubt wondering what kind of man he had let into his house, let alone who he was entrusting with his wifes precious memories, he made his excuses and went to get the photos. Immediately I dashed to the sink and splashed water on my face, and it was this dripping, vibrating mess that Jeremy Irons faced a few seconds later when he returned. Mumbling something about being very hot, I offered my trembling hand to take the photos and as he passed them, for a split second, I saw a look of contempt flicker across his face.
Not wanting to piss him off further - I've seen Reversal of Fortune, I know what this man is capable of - I practically fled the kitchen and into the fresh air. Jeremy Irons followed me half way down the path and the last thing I heard was his clipped instructions to close the gate behind me. I pulled it shut without looking back and hightailed it to the nearest cafe for a mainline of sugar.
A hearty sandwiche, can of coke and half hour of sunshine set me right and I felt fantastic. With a smile on my face and a song in my heart I headed back to Sheffield, stopping only once to phone my friend Matt and tell him what had happened.
I haven't met Jeremy Irons since, and for that I'm blessed. Drinking is bad for you kids, it makes you do stupid things infront of RSC actors and no-one should ever sink that low.
And that, ladies and gentleman, is the end of The Jeremy Irons Story. I thank you.
*Note to readers. In 2001 Jeremy Irons was still a moderately respectable actor. Dungeons and Dragons had been shot but not released and we were years away from the Time Machine, Eragon and Kingdom of Heaven. I think I'd recently seen him in Lolita, which is an excellent movie.
Different Strokes
Recently I have become figuratively addicted to a couple of blogs - both written by women, both offering totally different viewpoints about life on this planet of ours, and both serving as pertinent reminders of the variety of life experience.
The first is the much heralded An Arab Woman Blues which is a remarkably well written and personal insight into a "Middle Easterner ,an Arab Woman - into my 40's and old enough to know better." It is such a passionate blog, every entry drips with emotion and rage and the text is intelligent and informed. While news reports on the Middle East simply fill me with guilt and anger, this blog challenges every preconception about what I thought I knew and gives a genuine, heartfelt and terrifying insight into life in the Western occupied Iraq.
To contrast that I have also been reading News From Chilli which is the blog of retired lady living in Chillicothe, Texas. She updates every day, writing in minute detail about the trivial and important day to day affairs of her life. While it barely moves away from a well-written list of activities, it does give us a snapshot of her character and what life must be like being a middle-class, elderly American.
What separates News From Chilli from An Arab Woman Blues is the absence of opinion. An Arab Woman speaks her mind about politics, about equality, about imperialism and the invasion with striking clarity and an outraged stance, News From Chilli is happy to talk about her husbands fishing trips, her poker games and the haircuts of her dogs ("the girls"). Together they demonstrate the incomprehensibly different experiences of women, and indeed people, in this world. They also represent the fundamental relationship between the West and Middle East... the exploiter is indifferent, unaware and complacent while the exploited is angry, informed and indignant.
Friday was International Womens Day, and so to note this I'd like to compare a short excerpt from each of their blogs on this day.
An Arab Woman Blues
"I declare today "International women's week of Independence... from men."
And I invite you to experience it first hand the Iraqi way, the way it is applied in the "new Iraq."
By the way, any similarities to other countries are purely coincidental.
And since, by the authority bestowed upon me, I am the natural representative of God on earth, I will not only control your body and the way you dress ...
Did you not hear what I just said ? Cover this strand of hair now! Loose man that you are! Why do you insist on behaving like a slut? Have you no shame? Or are you just after your vain, earthly desires?...
That is it, be good so I can always approve of you and be pleased with you...
Sit straight when am talking to you and uncross your legs and keep them tightly closed... and don't interrupt...
As I was saying, since I am God's representative on earth, I also decree that you no longer have any political, legal or economic rights...Yes you heard me right.
What do you need them for? Everything you need is provided for, you are a father, you have your children ... and your natural place...
News From Chilli
"This morning, Jim and I took off for the new Bass Pro Shop in Olathe - at the intersection of I-35 and 199th street. He also drove me around the relatively new shopping center on the other side of this intersection. We made a quick stop at the Half Price Book store, but struck out on what we were looking for.
I took a book to read with me to the Bass Pro and ended up spending about an hour reading in a very comfortable rocking chair - in front of a fireplace. I did look around the store a little, but the rocker kept looking more and more enticing. Afterwards we headed east on 119th until we reached Metcalf and then south to 135th - and then to WilJenny's for lunch. The place was packed today with most of the business in the bar area as the KU game was on tv. Jim had a shaved, prime rib sandwich with beef broth for dipping - it was divine! I had the usual Louis Mueller - brisket with all kinds of extra hot things on it - hopefully I won't pay too dear of a price tonight, but seem to be doing okay now. We were back in Chillicothe about 3:00.
I had good intentions of not napping, but after having trouble staying awake coming home, the girls and I went down for a two hour nap. The Texas/Baylor basketball game begins at 8:20 - so I know I'll be up late tonight."
The internet is great, it connects you with millions of people and helps you learn about their lives - it can give you ideas, knowledge and insight into experiences you had never even considered before. It does make me feel awfully insgnificant sometimes, though.
The first is the much heralded An Arab Woman Blues which is a remarkably well written and personal insight into a "Middle Easterner ,an Arab Woman - into my 40's and old enough to know better." It is such a passionate blog, every entry drips with emotion and rage and the text is intelligent and informed. While news reports on the Middle East simply fill me with guilt and anger, this blog challenges every preconception about what I thought I knew and gives a genuine, heartfelt and terrifying insight into life in the Western occupied Iraq.
To contrast that I have also been reading News From Chilli which is the blog of retired lady living in Chillicothe, Texas. She updates every day, writing in minute detail about the trivial and important day to day affairs of her life. While it barely moves away from a well-written list of activities, it does give us a snapshot of her character and what life must be like being a middle-class, elderly American.
What separates News From Chilli from An Arab Woman Blues is the absence of opinion. An Arab Woman speaks her mind about politics, about equality, about imperialism and the invasion with striking clarity and an outraged stance, News From Chilli is happy to talk about her husbands fishing trips, her poker games and the haircuts of her dogs ("the girls"). Together they demonstrate the incomprehensibly different experiences of women, and indeed people, in this world. They also represent the fundamental relationship between the West and Middle East... the exploiter is indifferent, unaware and complacent while the exploited is angry, informed and indignant.
Friday was International Womens Day, and so to note this I'd like to compare a short excerpt from each of their blogs on this day.
An Arab Woman Blues
"I declare today "International women's week of Independence... from men."
And I invite you to experience it first hand the Iraqi way, the way it is applied in the "new Iraq."
By the way, any similarities to other countries are purely coincidental.
And since, by the authority bestowed upon me, I am the natural representative of God on earth, I will not only control your body and the way you dress ...
Did you not hear what I just said ? Cover this strand of hair now! Loose man that you are! Why do you insist on behaving like a slut? Have you no shame? Or are you just after your vain, earthly desires?...
That is it, be good so I can always approve of you and be pleased with you...
Sit straight when am talking to you and uncross your legs and keep them tightly closed... and don't interrupt...
As I was saying, since I am God's representative on earth, I also decree that you no longer have any political, legal or economic rights...Yes you heard me right.
What do you need them for? Everything you need is provided for, you are a father, you have your children ... and your natural place...
News From Chilli
"This morning, Jim and I took off for the new Bass Pro Shop in Olathe - at the intersection of I-35 and 199th street. He also drove me around the relatively new shopping center on the other side of this intersection. We made a quick stop at the Half Price Book store, but struck out on what we were looking for.
I took a book to read with me to the Bass Pro and ended up spending about an hour reading in a very comfortable rocking chair - in front of a fireplace. I did look around the store a little, but the rocker kept looking more and more enticing. Afterwards we headed east on 119th until we reached Metcalf and then south to 135th - and then to WilJenny's for lunch. The place was packed today with most of the business in the bar area as the KU game was on tv. Jim had a shaved, prime rib sandwich with beef broth for dipping - it was divine! I had the usual Louis Mueller - brisket with all kinds of extra hot things on it - hopefully I won't pay too dear of a price tonight, but seem to be doing okay now. We were back in Chillicothe about 3:00.
I had good intentions of not napping, but after having trouble staying awake coming home, the girls and I went down for a two hour nap. The Texas/Baylor basketball game begins at 8:20 - so I know I'll be up late tonight."
The internet is great, it connects you with millions of people and helps you learn about their lives - it can give you ideas, knowledge and insight into experiences you had never even considered before. It does make me feel awfully insgnificant sometimes, though.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
Jesus Camp
This.
Is an incredible film.
I don't care how you see it; download it, rent it, buy it
- just make sure you see it. And then have the most amazing inner-dialogue with yourself about every subject raised...
It's a documentary focusing on an Evangelical summer camp in North Dakota that trains children to be Christian soldiers as part of Gods army. Here children as young as 6 are taught the lies of evolution, the evil of abortion and the reverence of our lord George W. Bush. As far as the morality of it all goes, I can only splutter with indignation and struggle to find the words to even begin to describe the injustices being dealt upon these children. As a piece of filmmaking, I can say it's an exceptional piece of work.
The movie focuses entirely on the summer camp and its Pastor Becky Fischer. The only voice of dissidence is a Christian talk radio host who argues that Evangicalism has gone too far in Christs name. There is very little misrepresentation in terms of filmmaking - or as far as I noticed - and the staff and children are given ample chance to explain themselves. Opinions are left to the audience to decide, however since the material is so remarkable in terms of displaying and explaining fundamentalism it's very hard to look upon the subjects favourably. Their rational is clear and concise, but their argument dictates that they hang themselves with their own rope. Which they do. Frequently.
What I found most remarkable was the humanising of the subjects; despite that these children are effectively brainwashed, terrified and forced into a belief of Christ, their eloquence, intelligence and dedication is remarkable. Were it not for an indoctrinated faith and coherced alligance they would be exceptional children - smart, mannered, educated, opinionated - but the fevered rocking and speaking in tongues is enough to make you fear for their adullthood.
Not to make grand statements about religion or anything, but those interested in state control and cult movements should take a look. Not all fascism looks like Hitler, and this is a terrific, front row view into the makings of an indocrinated youth. Their dedication and feverent belief makes you wish their efforts were more positively placed than banning abortions and the creation of a Christian state. The movie is frequently hilarious, and frequently terrifying, when the Pastors explain their methods for ensnaring the young minds - there's nothing like the blood font to explain sin, and you can't beat a 2 inch plastic foetus strapped to a 6-year olds wrist to drive the abortion point home.
This movie makes it harder to laugh at those religious nutballs out there, it puts a face to those silly fools who claim dinosaurs are mentioned in the Bible and it gives a legitimacy to a movement that demands ignorance and blind-faith over anything else. It's also a fascinating sociological document, and a very well made movie.
Official Website
IMDB
Wikipedia
Adam Curtis' new series The Trap starts on Sunday night, 9pm, BBC 2 - don't forget to watch it. I'll be at work. Bollocks.
Is an incredible film.
I don't care how you see it; download it, rent it, buy it
- just make sure you see it. And then have the most amazing inner-dialogue with yourself about every subject raised...
It's a documentary focusing on an Evangelical summer camp in North Dakota that trains children to be Christian soldiers as part of Gods army. Here children as young as 6 are taught the lies of evolution, the evil of abortion and the reverence of our lord George W. Bush. As far as the morality of it all goes, I can only splutter with indignation and struggle to find the words to even begin to describe the injustices being dealt upon these children. As a piece of filmmaking, I can say it's an exceptional piece of work.
The movie focuses entirely on the summer camp and its Pastor Becky Fischer. The only voice of dissidence is a Christian talk radio host who argues that Evangicalism has gone too far in Christs name. There is very little misrepresentation in terms of filmmaking - or as far as I noticed - and the staff and children are given ample chance to explain themselves. Opinions are left to the audience to decide, however since the material is so remarkable in terms of displaying and explaining fundamentalism it's very hard to look upon the subjects favourably. Their rational is clear and concise, but their argument dictates that they hang themselves with their own rope. Which they do. Frequently.
What I found most remarkable was the humanising of the subjects; despite that these children are effectively brainwashed, terrified and forced into a belief of Christ, their eloquence, intelligence and dedication is remarkable. Were it not for an indoctrinated faith and coherced alligance they would be exceptional children - smart, mannered, educated, opinionated - but the fevered rocking and speaking in tongues is enough to make you fear for their adullthood.
Not to make grand statements about religion or anything, but those interested in state control and cult movements should take a look. Not all fascism looks like Hitler, and this is a terrific, front row view into the makings of an indocrinated youth. Their dedication and feverent belief makes you wish their efforts were more positively placed than banning abortions and the creation of a Christian state. The movie is frequently hilarious, and frequently terrifying, when the Pastors explain their methods for ensnaring the young minds - there's nothing like the blood font to explain sin, and you can't beat a 2 inch plastic foetus strapped to a 6-year olds wrist to drive the abortion point home.
This movie makes it harder to laugh at those religious nutballs out there, it puts a face to those silly fools who claim dinosaurs are mentioned in the Bible and it gives a legitimacy to a movement that demands ignorance and blind-faith over anything else. It's also a fascinating sociological document, and a very well made movie.
Official Website
IMDB
Wikipedia
Adam Curtis' new series The Trap starts on Sunday night, 9pm, BBC 2 - don't forget to watch it. I'll be at work. Bollocks.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Catflap
Just spent the last hour and a half trying to coax the cats through their new catflap. Hobbes is happy to use it so long as someone else pushes it for him. Mooch is terrified of the door now it's changed and is refusing to come out from under the bed.
Them some weird-assed cats we be raising.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Hopes for the Future
I don't have many ambitions in life, but I have always wanted to have a severed head in my fridge. Not for long, really - just long enough that I can have a friend over, offer to grab them a beer, open the fridge and take the two cold ones that are next to the severed head wrapped in plastic. Maybe I could offer a weak in-joke by throwing the beer to them and saying "heads up."As you get older you begin to realise that not all your dreams are achievable, and that some must fall by the wayside. More practical ambitions offer a better chance at success... this is why last year I finally gave up on my long-standing wish to snort coke of the breasts of a dead Hollywood hooker.
I think I'll keep the severed head fantasy a little while longer, I'm not quite ready to give that one up yet.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
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