Dear Moffat and Gatiss: An Open Letter Regarding Sherlock: Episode 3

Dear Mr Moffat and Mr Gatiss:

This is a difficult letter for me to write, it really is. Partially because I spilt rather a large amount of Caprisun on my keyboard yesterday, so the letter 'L' is sticky, and a couple of the key vowels have gone rogue. But mostly it's difficult because I have nothing but admiration for what you've achieved over the past couple of weeks. Really I do. (Technically that's not strictly true, but it's the opening paragraph, so let's work our way across the swimming pool slowly, eh?)

Sherlock: Episode One. Even just typing those words brings a blissful, hazy fog into my fingers, almost causing them to forget the 5 attempts it took not to not spell it "Sherock". The entire viewing experience was utter joy. Being an expert in fairly crap detective dramas (and by this I mean I've watched 2 episodes of Jonathan Creek and 1 of Midsomer Murders) watching Sherlock I felt like I finally got what this whole "mystery crimey solvey solvey" thing was about. It was like after months of travelling in a country where my only means of communication were year 8 vocab sheets, someone had plonked a babel fish in my ear. A whole new world opened unto me. It was funny, it was clever, it was slick, fast and starred a man whose face looked like the upper half of a bicycle. I was sold. That was one sexy bicycle.

And, best of all, though the dialogue was fiendishly, weepingly clever the actual plot was fairly simple, leaving you with the ever-pleasant feeling that actually, maybe, just maybe, this whole "consulting detective" thing might look rather jaunty on your own CV:

Sherlock: "But what could it BE, John?
*shot of taxi*
Watson: "I just don't know Sherlock, I just don't."
*more taxis swing by, narrowly avoiding taking up entire shot*
Sherlock: "Something that people get in. Some sort of vehicle. On the street, every day."
*three taxis mount pavement*
Sherlock: "Something that can take people from the airport to their homes, without being a bus, or a train. A mode of transportation that's a car, that you don't drive yourself, that's available in London, or indeed in any large cities"
Watson: *adjusts tie bearing taxi motif* "Shall we get something to eat? My fake limp is causing that taxi driver over there to shake some pills in a menacing manner."

me: *long, long pause* "...bet you its a taxi driver or something." (feels immense pride)

Everyone was a winner guys. Everyone was a winner. Martin Freeman was sort of Tim from the Office, but in a excusably different, ANGRY about the war way and instead of doing the "look to the camera" he did "look at anyone else in the room", and it was perfect. He was perfect. I fell in love with him, I fell in love with handlebar-face, I even loved the murdery driver even though he had that cream on his neck and I didn't quite believe in him. When the credits rolled I screamed "WHO IS MORIATY?!" and some juice fell on my laptop (unrelated), that's how excited I was. Oh and Mark, your cameo as Sherlock's brother was glorious, in the way that only you could have made it glorious. You brought all of your League of Gentleman brilliance - ('is it meant to be funny? Yes. But... he's.... acting really well. That's some really good tension acting. So... is it funny? Well my mind and this really well constructed dialogue says no but my mouth and the laughter coming out of it says yes. HOW ARE YOU DOING THIS MARK GATISS YOU DEMON)

So, bearing all of this in mind, you can only imagine my excitement last night, when I settled down for my second hit of what I was pretty sure was BBC heroin. But that's the problem with heroin, isn't it? It's never as good the second time round. (I'm available for more searing dialogue along these lines if you require it.)

My problems - yes, I'm afraid there were more than one - with last night's Sherlock are painful for me to relate now. But I feel like it's important to get it out, so that the air of awkwardness between us (I could tell from the way you clicked) is out of the way, done with, and we can work together to fill the room of your collective creative genius with furniture worthy of your initial , wonderful architecture.

So. Here we go.

1. What happened to the deduction? We really, really, really liked the whole deduction thing guys. Not being funny, but that was kind of what got the nation spilling in the first place. Remember episode one? "Cardiff - how could he possibly... oh!" "Alcoholic brother? This is madness... oh I see!" "PINK? How can he POSSIBLY... gasp!" This time around, you had one piffly bit with a round the world trip to china and some faff with hand cream. It's not good enough.

2. So, suddenly Sherlock Holmes is fighting some sort of turbaned ninja for no reason, and then its never mentioned again. Now, I get that this is all based on the original Sherlock - I really do - and I get that he is, in fact, a man of combat, and having not read any of them I can safely say that though on some level I respect that, on another, more significant level, I don't care. You can't just have this modern day sociopath who lives above a chicken shop and sticks nicotine patches on his arm fighting a ninja for no reason. If you're update the pipe, surely you have to update your negotiation techniques.

3. Chinese underworld ninja theatre exploding stick death wall climber museum smuggler grafitti artists - what? If this is an actual Sherlock, I apologise, I really do. But there were about seventeen different central "fiendish mysteries", going on there, and I wasn't satisfied by the answer to any of them. There were too many, it hurt my small brain, and I felt I'd paid for a small but delicious prawn cocktail and I'd instead been given 7 loaves of bread. Let's just check how many "puzzles" needed unravelling by the end, and how many were actually really great, clever answers:

- Question: How does a man enter a locked room without getting a key?
- Answer: Turns out he's a circus ninja. And a murderer. And also a smuggler and can shut off all the lights in a museum at a moment's notice, so he might be an electrician as well. (Even my newly glossy "consulting detective" CV pales in comparison)

- Question: Why did two men die after seeing the same symbols?
- Answers: Cos Ninjas and Circus Co woud rather kill two men than get the nine million squid they apparently want more than anything in the world. Rather than forcing journo/banker to tell them where it was - presumably the banker would have preferred actually GIVING them the 9 mil claire's accessory rather than DIE and Ninja co would rather get it back than just KILLING FOR NO REASON and then wandering around aimlessly wearing spangly costumes - they kill BOTH of them, confirming that no-one would ever, ever find it ever unless Sherlock Holmes works it out somehow. Yes. That makes sense.

- Question: Where do you find the magic code for the symbols?
Answer: London A-Z. For reasons that apparently do not deserve explaining, even though this is the point OF THE WHOLE HOUR AND A HALF'S VIEWING.

(on a less "central mystery" note:
Question: Why didn't Watson's bit of totty tip her chair over, and save herself some potential - relatively serious - death by Big Spear.
Answer: She is stupid. Girls are a bit stupid. )

4. Why didn't you use a Yellow Pages instead of the A-Z, considering it was sat outside beautiful Chinese girl's house the whole time, and when totty asked for a good number for a take away it would have been a perfect time for the SUDDEN REALISATION that EVERY HOUSE HAS ONE. (This I include purely because I was shouting it at the screen for about the last 20 minutes of the programme, with growing anger at their failure to comply with my instructions. You robbed me of my self-satisfaction, Moffat and Gatiss. You robbed me of my very smug.)

Ahhhh. God I feel better now. Also the graffiti message-suddenly-covered-up thing was a bit weird. Sorry, sorry, I'm done. I promise. The whole "I took a photo" thing was funny enough to let it slide.

You have to understand, boys, that I am on your side. All I want is for you to succeed. But now I feel a bit like the teacher who's promised the headmaster that the misbehaving kid will get star grades after that meaningful chat I had with him, only to later find out that he took a shit on the next test. You are better than this. We are better than this. I await Sunday with baited breath.
Please, ride that bicycle face to victory.

Yours, with deep fondness,

Natasha Yak

x

The Apprentice: A Pre-Final Explosion.

The Apprentice is fantastic television. Anyone who doesn't see that is a self-satisfied pathetic moron who should probably apply for The Apprentice so that we can watch them, laugh and turn to each other and say "God, isn't The Apprentice fantastic television?"

The Apprentice is brilliant for a number of reasons, and in the fine spirit of people numbering things, I shall number them.

1. You know you are infinitely more intelligent that anyone else on the programme, but at no point do you ever have to justify or prove it.

God they're stupid, aren't they? Aren't they?? It's so simple, you pin-striped grease pigeons, Sir Alan (I don't care, I know he's Lord Sugar now, but in the hearts and minds of the British public he is and ever will be Sir Alan) himself GAVE you a stall in Portobello market, PORTOBELLO FUCKING MARKET, where BITS OF AN OLD LEAF can sell for seven million pounds to the right hippy, just sell the damn home-made jam, get the profit and give Nick a cheeky feel up in the proceedings. Oh God, she's - she's just fallen over. Ha, ha ha, what FOOLS. You know what they haven't thought of? Everything I'm about to say. God I'm fantastic. This is fucking fantastic.

2. There's no horrible, crushing crushing guilt.

Thankfully, almost everyone on The Apprentice is a wanker. This makes the watching experience just so, so much more pleasurable. With programmes like Britain's Got Talent, or X-factor, sure it's fun, but you can't help feeling like you're watching the 21st century equivelent of someone pushing over a horse. Sure, it's funny, we've all had a laugh, but there's a lingering, horse-flavoured shame that's difficult to shake off. It's laughter at the expense of the innocent fool, and though he's put himself up for this humiliation, that's still not reason enough to glory in his pain. The Apprentince, however? From the moment one smug contender leers into the camera "Yah, yah, well, I'm pretty cut throat you know? Business is business, if you can't take the heat, get out of my listed fireplace," you can sit back, relax and sigh happily, safe in the knowledge that this waste of carbon deserves nothing more than having his head mashed repeatedly into the toilet of TV ritual humiliation.

3. Sir Alan is amazing.

He's just fucking brilliant. Yes, every series he looks more and more like a tree grandmother, but by God if everything he says isn't absolute fucking gold. The genius of the boardroom scenes is that it's a lot like holding your breath for a really, really long time, then suddenly breathing in precious, life-giving oxygen - aware in a way you never were before of its purity and significance. Every candidate talks utter, breath stealing bullshit, on and on and profit margins and client negotiation and yes but you didn't blah blah taking the lead, stifling my blah shit shit blah, and then just when you think you can't take it any more, can't physically handle the level of pure verbal muck that's being shoved unendingly into your ears, Sir Alan comes out with "Yeah whatever, but you didn't actually do anything, did you Clive?" And breathe in.

4. Nick.

If I have to explain it, you'll never understand it.


So there, in utterly non-brief, are just some of the reasons why The Apprentice is incredible. But this time around, there's a whole new level. Teenagers. Just sit back, and think about that for a minute. TEENAGERS. Competing in challenges just as hard (and I use that term loosely), as proper, grown-up apprentice! Dear God, Nick, that was your idea wasn't it? You wily cartoon grandfather clock. Thing is, now there's a whole new level to the scorning of the contestants on the show. Because actually, you have to be a bit frightened of them too, frightened in a way you were never, ever frightened of the toothy goons that flocked into the previous series. These kids are 16.

16.

When I was 16, if i could look at myself in the mirror without bursting into tears cos I'd stuffed my bra unevenly again, I was doing pretty freaking well. These kids want to take over the world. At 16, I was worried that a side-parting was a bit too ambitious. And you kind of have to give them credit for that. Or do you? Because they're still stupid. Still just as stupid as anyone else that has ever graced this show. But they're fucking 16. God, I don't even know anymore, and this kind of delicious distress is wonderful in the way that a tequila shot is wonderful. Am I drunk? I don't even know. I mean, yes technically I am, obviously, but psychologically I've never felt more powerful.

So let's do a quick rundown of the remainding contenders, in light of tonight's final. I cannot wait.

We've got:

Arjun : The asian boy equivelent of that girl from Miracle On 34th Street, Arjun is the favourite to win. He's brainy, he's mathsy, he seems like he hates everyone except Tim, and he treats the programme like an interesting dream he's having - utter bemusement, but with a willingness to go along with what's happening nevertheless, safe in the knowledge that quite soon it will all come to an end

Tim: Half teen heart throb, half hedge, Tim is the charming well-meaner of the group, who unfortunately seems to fall over things rather a lot. He asks some surprisingly savvy business questions, considering he talks about Monopoly so much, and he seems to switch every five minutes to and from being the only one who talks any sense to an utter, utter bastard.

Kirsty: An otter with a fringe, Kristy seems to have no personality traits to speak of, but we can certainly be sure that she's very short, and has massive breasts. Which, as a sixteen year old, is pretty much all you need.

Zoe: Oh Zoe. Zoe is by far the most terrifying person in the universe. Why she thought basing both her personality and appearance on the character of Draco Malfoy was a good idea, I don't really understand. Remember that bit in the first Lord Of The Rings film (second Lord Of The Rings film? Anyway-) where Frodo offers the one ring to beautiful, soft and lovely Cate Blanchett? Remember how she hesitiates before taking it, exploding into a nightmarish vision of a world ruled by a DARK QUEEN? Zoe wouldn't hesitate. Not even for a second. Please don't let Zoe win. For the sake of the world as we know it, don't let Zoe win.

How The David Cameron/Nick Clegg Conversation Will Go

What's almost definitely happening RIGHT NOW



Cameron - "Look. OK Nick, lets get down to the nitty gritty. How about I give you a million pounds."

Clegg - "What?"

Cameron - "Think about it Nick. You and your spanish bit could go away, see the world, we could put that member of sum41 in your place and no-one would be any the wiser."

Clegg - "But - "

Cameron- "It's a good offer. It's an offer for change, Nick, there's no denying it."

Clegg - "Change?"

Cameron - "Change! Change Nick! Change is fucking amazing! Fucking CHANGE, man. I'm getting changed right now!"

Clegg - "oh my god, is that -"

Cameron - "thats right Nick. My lower dangler looked a bit too much like a red tie for my liking, so I had it burnt off, and put the head of a fox in its place"

Clegg- " Oh dear God that's-"

Cameron - "CHANGE, Nick. That's the ticket! Now, about this million-"

Clegg - "Look, I don't want it"

Cameron - "Really? Cos that's... that's never not worked."

Clegg- " Look, you know the deal, if I come in with you now, I'm going to look like a tit."

Cameron - "a tit?"

Clegg - "its like a breast, but... more fun"

Cameron "...................I see."

Clegg - "Though to be honest, none of the bastards fucking voted for me"

Cameron - "Well exactly"

Clegg - "they promised,"

Cameron - "I know they did"

Clegg - "We did pinkie swears Dave-"

Cameron - "Jesus Christ"

Clegg - "and then they.. fucking..."

Cameron - "They're wankers, that's why. Would you like some peacock udder?"

Clegg - "thats, thats not even-"

Cameron - "I like my udders furry, you see, so had the damn animal things fused together"

Clegg - "but... but peacocks aren't even furry."

Cameron "Nick please. "Dog udder" sounds fucking horrible. Sam would rip my balls off. Well, she would. If I hadn't turned them into diamonds."

Clegg - "True."

Cameron- "CHANGE!"

Clegg - "what?"

Cameron - "nothing, sorry."

Clegg - "you need to give me this electoral reform thing, Dave."

Cameron - "we have. I told you. We will totally open up our discussion panel to the possibilities of of *mumble mumble 1974 mumble and seriously, have some udder"

Clegg - "for fuck's sake, i can't go back to them with that. They'll have my fucking arse"

Cameron- "Oh Nick, come now. Lets just do this step by step. Seriously. We believe in you. You believe in us. Come on, give me a hug."

Clegg - "what? Oh, alright then

Cameron "Come here you,"

*sounds of a tustle*

Clegg "What the hell are you doing?"

Cameron - "what?"

Clegg - "What the shit is this? Is this.. have you just poured some blue paint down my back?"

Cameron- "it looks great. Seriously."

Clegg - "I'm off. If anyone asks, we clashed on the NHS and I stabbed you with a sword made of gold. Call my wife, and tell her we're leaving. Spain doesn't have to deal with this shit."

*He leaves*

Cameron - "Change!"

Election: My new favourite programme.

I have a confession to make. It's not a nice confession, so I'm trying to say it quietly, but "quiet" isn't a font I use often, mostly because it doesn't exist (though there's probably an app for that, much like there's not an app for "shutting the smugging hell up").



OK. Here we go.



I don't understand. I dont understand the election.



Now, please don't judge me too harshly. This is actually the first time I've not understood something like this and I'm not totally sure how it's happened. To be honest, I'm beginning to panic a little. Now stop me if I'm wrong, but firstly, Simon Cowell has yet to give his opinion on the whole thing. In terms of reality TV, that seems a bit weird. Secondly, I'm never totally sure which of the contestants is actually winning, as its very hard to make out what they're doing under all the sequins and glitter. Thirdly (and this is quite a big one), are you seriously telling me that the big prize is being in charge of the actual proper, real-life country? Because they've seriously yanked up the incentive since the "singing Somewhere over the rainbow to the queen" days. And we get to, like, vote for it? As a nation? Whose idea was that? Surely this is far too big a decision to be left to us? Somewhere, somehow, something seems to have gone terribly wrong. And I don't understand how it's happened.



I mean, I did try. I watched episodes one, two and three of "Election", with my ears so strained it felt like they were trying to have simultaneous poos. As far as I can tell, everyone was crooning away to the same song, an angry rock number entitled "Change". Though apparently Cameron sang it first, then Clegg did a disco cover-version, and Brown only released his yesterday after singing it live in front of Citizens UK. I really did like all of them, though Cameron seems a bit pissed off that everyone's stolen his hook. I'm just worried that somehow, despite clicking my fingers to the beat, I'm sort of missing the point.



The problem was that I'm finding it rather difficult to get to the bottom of everything. Now with The X-factor, the contestants each sing a song, the judges comment and we decide based on how nicely they did it. And also depending on whether or not they came from Wales. With this one, I'm finding it hard to see the criteria. It's certainly not "answering the question put to them in a way that is accessible to the great British public". It seems to me to be quite a basic dance routine - one of the three says something universally positive, like "babies are nice", one of the other ones just shakes his head in anger and disbelief and the other other one says "can we please just stop this bickering please". Then they trade places and do the same thing. Sometimes you have to keep an eye on the ties just to make sure you're looking at the right one. Without Simon there to tell them all to stop fucking about, I'm at a bit of a loss. Still, we do at least have polls, which are quite colourful in a "imagine if some lines were stumbling about drunk" kind of way.



But its unfair for me to make a judgement entirely based on three episodes. And anyway, its all online now, right? I thought to myself, why not have a look at the manifestos of the three, (the "about me" section on the "Election" facebook page). And I really tried, I did. But there too lay utter confusion, a spiky hedge maze of "macro-economics", "short -term freezes" and "strategic defense and security reviews", none of which I could really get a grasp of, littered among name-calling and snide remarks about past governing. I'm not saying its not entirely my own fault. I didn't in fact do a degree in economics. But considering the big hit "Change" seems to be the title track in the album "This economic crisis", forgive me for wanting information that I can understand quickly and clearly.



I can probably list on two hands the solid, no fucking about (seriously though, no fucking about)things I know about the party policies. Am I ashamed? Yes. Is this my fault? Possibly. But surely, in an age where we are overloaded with information, where apparently we can learn anything with a quick night-whistle to the owl of Wikipedia, surely it's strange that the most important knowledge about the society we live in has slimmed down to a campaign about three men, rather than three parties? What do I know? I know Cameron is the face of evil, that he climbs into children's bed at night and tells them their parents are made out of toast. Brown? A bumbling cod-fish, whose jaw muscles are slacker than his conversation and as for Nick Clegg, there are rumours that actually, he's one of the members of Sum41, doing this for a laff.

But there has to be a winner, doesn't there? There has to be, because every "election aftermath" has gone on and on about "who won this week". And as far as I can tell, that pissed blue little lines is sailing high above where the other two dare to treat. But then, if you ask my Lib Dem literature I was reading today "there are many, many areas where the Conservatives cannot win", and if you ask Labour, the Conservatives only exist if you say their name three times in the mirror, so who knows what's going to happen in the live final. Policy, you have no place here. This is about popularity, its about flashy persuation and its about banging your fist with gravitas. I've lost counts of the facebook groups that want to "get this dead salmon more fans than David Cameron", or "Get Clegg into power cos we did it with Xmas number one". What a great reason to vote, eh? Why not introduce a "vote 4 PM via text", where if you vote enough times, you get entered into a prizedraw to win a 30 second video of Sarah Brown and Sam Cameron wrestling, stripped to the waist? That and a one-way ticket to a country that doesn't pride its election as being a battle for who can shout the loudest. We're so bloody used to being handed the power, that I'm a bit worried we've lost any idea of how important we actually are. Still. It's too late now, eh? To all those who know what you're doing this Thursday, good luck to you. You stuck it out longer than I could. For everyone else, well, it's two days away yet, Cameron might yet stick a wine bottle up his bum and change everything.

McElderry vs Rage: A Practical Discussion

There's been a lot of tomfoolery, humdiggery and fopcockery going on over the last couple of weeks, significantly to do with Christmas, and the shinbobberies of those sail in her. (I think I only made one of the words above, but I can't be sure).

Christmas is a time of beautiful tradition. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire (which doesn't exist, because everyone just has Heinz microwave-a-chestnuts now), velvet scarves, looking at the Christmas tree whilst you put baubles on thinking "wow that's a lot of pine needles that just fell off. For no reason. Like a lot. A really lot though. Should I sweep them up? I should probably sweep them up. Do we even own a broom though? Could use the hoover. But then what if the pine needles block the hoover and mum gets all angry again even though i was just bloody trying to help and its CHRISTMAS for fuck's sake and BOLLOCKS to this, jesus, sometimes you can't do anything right, forget it I'm just going to set the thing on fire."

I've slightly forgotten what I was talking about, but the point is, Christmas presents are great. And also, that the Christmas Number One debate is one that we celebrate like clockwork every year. Remember when 'Mad World' won it? And everyone was all "yeah. fuck YEAH man! Cos like, everything is all shitted up and a bit of shiny fucking tinsel and Simpson's Cluedo doesn't change that you capitalist wankers." Though actually everyone was really just thinking "God its a bit dull, isn't it?" What a year.

So this time around, the debate is raging (hahahahaha yes I know brilliant) between Rage Against The Machine and X-factor winner Joe McElderry. In the pop-tastic, Jonathan Ross and M&S mince pies section of the world, the argument goes that Joe deserves it because he's got a lovely face, he's sung over 7 songs to a live audience and well.. because he just bloody does alright? In the FUCK YOU AMERICA, 'I'm using black tinsel this year' Rage section, the battle cry is more "DEATH TO SIMON COWELL, the revolution is nigh! Grab him by his very world-decision-making tongue and string him to a plastic violin that screeches out 'Bleeding Love' using his very INNARDS until he is ACTUALLY BLEEDING and HOW WE WILL LAUGH THEN"

Both compelling arguments, I'm sure we all agree.

But, in my humble, brilliant opinion, I think everyone is rather missing the point. There's only one way to judge this epic, never-to-be-forgotten (until christmas eve or so) battle. And that is by looking at the songs themselves. Strip away the ragged clothing of context, and gaze upon the shivering, supple product in all its nakedness. One of these songs is a more appropriate Christmas song than the other. Simple as that. One of them brings to the forefront of all of us the true meanings behind Christmas. And it is our job to find out which it is.

So. Lets have a proper bloody look, shall we?

Joe McElderry: The Climb

I can almost see it
That dream I am dreaming- so he's asleep to begin with, which isn't really a good start.
But there's a voice inside my head saying
"You'll never reach it" - a rather depressing message for children around the world at this time, don't you think, Joe?

Every step I'm taking
Every move I make feels
Lost with no direction
My faith is shaking - Oh dear oh dear, blasphemy eh? Did our Lord Jesus complain his symmetrical face off when he was NAILED TO A PIECE OF WOOD?If so, the bible dealt with that entire situation with great subtlety. You're just walking down a road, Joe. Keep it together.

But I gotta keep trying
Gotta keep my head held high

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move- Joe is in fact here saying that he himself wishes to become our God, our Lord on high, and as the bible states "If you worship anyone else, I will fucking rail you"
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb- Joe's love of mountaineering is admirable, but not particuarly fitting with the spirit of Christmas. Perhaps more a comic relief song? He could climb one of these mountains he loves so bloody much for some kids dying of death?

The struggles I'm facing
The chances I'm taking
Sometimes might knock me down
But no, I'm not breaking

I may not know it
But these are the moments that
I'm gonna remember most, yeah
Just gotta keep going

And I, I got to be strong
Just keep pushing on I would rather delicately suggest here that Joe's song is almost entirely about his own personal troubles, an attitude that, at Christmas, is extrememly inappropriate.

'Cause there's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be a uphill battle
Sometimes I'm gonna have to lose

Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side
It's the climb, yeah! I can't help but feel bored and rather insulted at Joe's continuing insistence in telling us about his extreme hobbies. He is perhaps directing this song at his parents? As a way to suggest possible hill-related Christmas presents?

There's always gonna be another mountain
I'm always gonna wanna make it move
Always gonna be an uphill battle
Somebody's gonna have to lose- slightly sinister?
Ain't about how fast I get there
Ain't about what's waiting on the other side- Damning heaven?
It's the climb, yeah!

Keep on moving, keep climbing
Keep the faith, baby now indoctrinating youngsters to join his hiking, half-awake brainwashing, christianity bashing cult, with HIM at the centre like a grinning, crooning, boot wearing golden idol?
It's all about, it's all about the climb
Keep the faith, keep your faith, whoa.


A frightening look there, into the world of X-factor future.

Now. To the competition.

Rage Against The Machine: Killing In The Name Of

Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. - instantly the song hooks us n with a delightful and very relevent comparison between our daily lives, and the sufferings Jesus McChrist went through on the cross.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.- Helpful to have it repeated, in case you didn't hear it quite right.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.- And again, perhaps with the knowledge that many who will listen to the xmas number one will be the over 70s, whose hearing may in fact be impaired.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!- A harrowing but extremely potent reminder of the Easter result of all this Christmas frivolity. Jesus may have been born. But lets never forget...
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya- their dedication to the hard of hearing is admirable at a time of year when often, the less able among us can be forgotten
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge- a lovely little reference to the decorations of the seasons,
they're the chosen whites- as in 'a white christmas'
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites

Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses.
Some of those that work forces
are the same that burn crosses. It's also nice to see that they haven't forgotten those who may suffer from memory loss.

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of! - the rousing chorus!

And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught ya
And now you do what they taught
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taughtya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taughtya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya, now you're under control
And now you do what they taught ya!!! - A celebration of the traditions that bind us all together at this time of year! Passed down through the generations to create one consciousness, one mind, one very thought at this magical time!

Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Those who died
are justified
for wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
You justify
those that died
by wearing the badge, they're the chosen whites
Come on!

(Guitar Solo)
Uggh!

Yeah! Come on! Uggh!

(Get louder until 9th by which time shouting)
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me. An ironic wink towards the young kiddies on this festive day, the tantrums, the brandy shared between a family row, a cautious but cheeky nod towards the rambunctiousness of Christmas
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.- all together now!
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
Fuck you, I won't do what you tell me.
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!
FUCK YOU, I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!!!

MOTHERFUCKER!!!! Ugh!!- the row descends into a final, happy sigh. An acknowledgement that at the end of the day, no matter what our differences, this is a time of sharing and loving.

I think it's clear that we have our winner. Now go forth, and spread the word.

Bless us, everyone, and remember, "fuck you, I won't do what you tell me".

Merry Christmas.

The battle of the compass

In a few days, I bid farewell to the hills and valleys of Northernville, wave off the four of us who live in Warrington (mum, dad, brother-dad and aunty Gran) and journey beyond the city centre rabbits nests to where the streets shine with gold made of pixels and itune downloads. Londontown is to be my new residence for the next three months. Hurrah for me? Hurrah for me. Indeed.

Everyone has been very kind about this, partly because the people I know are mostly actors and are very skilled at doing 'kind' if they have to. But mostly- i fear- because they view being in the Northern parts of England as some kind of terrible witch's curse, only to be broken by obtaining the employment amulet of AccentPMG. Perhaps I am being overly sensitive to this. Except I'm not. Of course, I have always been a victim of prejudice because of this fact. I don't need to bring up again my first night of University, when a gang of Southey southey sat me in a chair and played the song 'Northern Birds' to me, in order to establish firmly from the off my place in their society. Again, in the Big Apple, ask anyone; the only place in England is in fact London. (to be fair, I also met a man who thought Scotland was in England, so lets not make too much of their geographical knowhow)

I am not saying that London is not a place filled with wonders, jammy centres and so much culture you have to order it on the side to make sure it doesnt fling itself all over your burger. It certainly is that, and much more (probably). All I am saying is that the pitying look in the eyes when I say the words 'I am from Warrington' does not go unnoticed. Its a look that says, 'oh you. Imagine what could have been eh? Imagine had you not been inflicted with such a terrible disability'. Yes, true, Warrington doesn't have what you Southy folk would call 'museums', or 'shops' or 'oxygen', but dammit, Kerry Katona was born here. Kerry. Katona. Think on.

The thing is, the way I see it is that in the big old chat with God that the North and the South had, the conversations went like this

God- So, little South of England, I see on your form that you have requested lots of Cafe Neros, thousands of people saying the word 'consumer' and flashing neon lights in every Early Learning Centre'
The South- 'Thats right big daddy, ohh yeah, hit me with that shit.'
God-'Hold on hold on I'm getting to it. Now you realise that with all these 'statue and flags' credits you have none left to spend on 'kindness to your fellow man'?
The South- Come on man, dont get me down, can we wrap this up? I got a party to go to, yeah yeahhhh'
God- 'Oh, alright then. I'll throw in lots of scarves and sunglasses as well, seeing as you've done such a good job of convincing America that we are their sidekick'
The South- 'nice one papa. Check you dogs later'
God-' Right, The North.'
The North- 'Hi God. Everything Ok with you today?'
God- 'Ohh, you know. Its alright. My feet are a bit painful, but'
The North- 'Didn't you create feet? Can't you erase your own pain, and indeed your feet for that matter?'
God- 'Shut up, you're ruining this analogy completely'
The North- 'Sorry God. I made you this cake.'
God- 'Oh great! Are the ingredients Marks and Spencer's?'
The North- 'erm.... no. Asda.'
God- 'oh.. oh.. well great, just put it on that table. Now, I see you've asked for 'excellent pasties', 'patience and empathy with those who don't quite know where they are going' and 'lower drinks prices to the MAX'
The North- 'Yes please'
God- 'I see you haven't checked the 'global significance' box
The North- 'Oh no, no thanks. I have a feeling that people will appreciate the fact that our residents are just as intelligent and savy as people from anywhere else, and wont judge them simply because they say 'bath' instead of 'barth.'
God- 'hmmm. well. We'll see shall we?'

And thus it was.

I spent last week in London, and was on a bus when I heard the following exchange between the bus driver and a girl who clearly had only just come to the big city and was in need of help.
girl- 'a single to teddington please'

driver- *judging silence*
girl- *clears throat and waving money* 'a single, please, to teddington?'
Driver- 'Don't accept that'
Girl *looks down at money, wondering for a second if we had in fact just given in and changed to the dollar* sorry?
driver- 'DOn't accept that'
Girl- 'Erm, I just want a single'
Driver- 'You have to use your card'
Girl- 'my card? I can't use cash?'
Driver- 'CAN'T PAY FOR JOURNEY ON THE BUS.'
Girl- *utterly confused* 'what?'
Driver- 'machine outside. Get ticket there'
Girl- 'I can't just, I can't get it from you? But you're about to leave, aren't you?'
Driver- 'yes. can't get it on the bus. Have to go to machine. Get ticket.'
Girl- 'But won't you have gone?'
Driver- *silence*
Girl looks around for help, and finding none, she exits the bus.

The worst thing was that I didn't say anything. mainly becasue I had no idea what she was doing wrong, but still, even if I hadn't, I wasn't even sure that I could have been any help. London is that kid that is beating up someone else, and you don't say anything so that he wont beat you up instead. If we have been oop North, the exchange would have gone thusly

Girl- 'A single to the barn please'
Driver- 'aye, come on in love, ye money's no good here. Would you like to drive? Here's a pot o tea fer yer troubles.Have my coat, yers look cold. No no, you keep it, my lady will just knit me another.'

fact.

Ok, ok, I admit, I am being hugely unfair. But I cannot help but think that considering everyone wants to move to London, everyone there looks instantly unhappy upon arrival. But who am I to talk? I am doing the same thing. I crave the cavernous underground, the shops open until joke o clock, the culture, the people saying things like 'yes but compaing it to his early work, he really has developed a sense of *vaguely french words*'. So we shall see eh? Only time will tell. It could be that I happily become a London human, stocking up on my spare 'r's for words that have no business having them in in the first place. It could be that like beloved old Kerry, I find the big bad world too much and end up back in Iceland, weeping over frozen sausage rolls. Still. It is rarthar exciting, I carn't argue with thart.

Cut and Paste

So I had my hair cut this week (don't worry, this is scene-setting happening here, I promise not to linger on this, there really is nothing worse than people talking about haircuts. I mean there is, obviously, but on a domestic level its up there with stealing your last bag of wotsits, or someone explaining the back story of a TV cop drama that you're obviously never going to watch again, and frankly, are only watching in the first place this time because THEY chose what was going on the tv EVEN THOUGH they KNOW you've never seen the damn thing before and will never again, but you're far too polite to say 'actually, the inbetweeners is on channel 4, sure its an old series but hey, you never get tired of laughing, right?' and now you're stuck valiently asking things like 'so he was the one who's drug ring got taken down by the prostitute spy?' whilst secretly thinking 'GOD why dont they all just DIE')

So I had my haircut this week. Always the same hair dresser, always the same place. Joanne. and My House. She is the Chicken Korma of hairdressers. Never let me down yet. I mean sure, you have to wash your hair in the downstairs sink before she arrives, and sweep up all the old bits of hair after she's gone, but hey, for a cut and colour for 35 quid, who's compaining? Not I. The thing is, with Joanne, talking to her isnt an absolute hideous nightmare, as I find it is with almost every hairdresser in the world. Oh sure, stick me in a bar with some murderers, I'll chat away like a drunken fig, but put me in a chair with someone holding a brush in one hand, and the gesture that comes with the question 'so have you been watching Big Brother?' in the other, and its like I'm Bond under torturing. Nice try darling, but you'll have to rope ma goolies a LOT harder than that I'm afraid.

So yes, with Joanne its much more like a vague aunt has come to visit, and, loose as they are, the threads of conversation from the last visit are still there to be sewn into the deep tapestry of Mutual Banal Conversation. And it happens in the kitchen, so there's the off chance of a cup of tea if my dad somehow tears himself away from the excitements of the pond.

The point is, however, that Joanne was telling me about her daughter, Libby, who is 13, in her 2nd year of high school and currently studying for her whatevers (She was chopping rather vigorously at that point and my concentration slipped somewhat as I saw what appeared to be most of my scalp falling onto my own knees) Libby was doing English, and had been given Dracula to read. Now this made me look away from the knee-bound back of my head rather suddenly.
'Hold on, she's studying Dracula?'
'Oh yes, all about vampires isn't it? Was a bit worried for her really.'
'Yes, vampires, yes they are.. rather scary...'
I'd be rather worried too, i thought, as I'm pretty sure from studying it at A level and then in my degree that actually its more about gang-rape than anything. I mean, obviously they're not going to tell the 13 year old kids that Bram Stoker was in fact a mentalist sexist woman-phobe who wrote a book basically to live out his own fantasies of literally sexing them all to death. but still.... I mean.. We did Skellig when I was 13. It was about an angel. I'll give you a small extract from the book just to illustrate what I mean:

'Lucy rose up in her casket, looking pretty much like a massive slut. What a whore. I mean really though, her lips looked like they could take a truck covered in hog grease. Van Helsing grabbed a nearby stake in order to stab that fucking bitch right in the HEART, and then one of the other men, brian or carl or someone said 'my main man Van, is it just me or is this metaphor too complicated?' Helsing cried 'you know what, you're right! This is all getting a bit subtle for my liking! its time to fuck this bitch UP, Renfield style!' Then he threw away the massive stick and they all did her. And it was awesome.' (page 324)

So yeah. You see what I mean? Trying not to put too fine a point on it, I mentioned to Joanne that the book might not be.. well... savoury, for a young impressionable mind. She furrowed her brow, and said that so far they'd only done the first few pages, and that it seemed alright. I shrugged and thought it best to say nothing more. Partially because it didn't seem right to interfere in her child's education, but mainly because all this brow furrowing business was playing havoc with her depth perception. I nearly lost an ear. I tried to remember the first few pages of Dracula, and whether it had hinted at any of the crapness to come. I found a copy post-sweeping (a very soothing experience, its as if you're cleaning away your old, significantly less awesome self) and had a look at the first page. The first line of Dracula is as follows-

'Jonathan Harker's Journal
3 May. Bistritz. __Left Munich at 8:35 P. M, on 1st May, arriving at Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6:46, but train was an hour late.

Jesus Christ. Doesn't exactly set you up, does it? By the sound of this, you're settling down for a 14 hour conversation with the world's most boring dinnerguest. The teacher probably read the first 3 pages, knew there'd been a 'twilight' craze amount the young and nimble and thought bosh. Done.

Dangerous stuff, these first impressions.

Got me thinking though, we're not allowed to judge books by their covers- fair play, there are a LOT of pretentious graphic designers out there who will do anything to get gothic-y typewriter fonts onto front pages everywhere. But, can we judge them by their first lines? Surely, an author's first line is basically the most carefully thought out introduction you can ever have. Imagine the brilliance of crafting word for word the things to say to people upon first meeting them, without fear of vommitting, violent angry laughter or accidently asking them if they'd raped your grandma. That is what a first line is. Sure, thats a lot of pressure, but at the same time- there's a lot of books out there. If any of them lines should count, the first one is the one to go for.

With this in mind, I had a little poke around some of my favourite books, and snooped away at their first lines to test the theory. I print some for you below. If you like the sound of any of them, I'll give you the title. And please add your own. I love a good mystery line and it sounds like Joanne might need a few suggestions for Libby's 3rd year- 'Crack Pimps Uncovered', anyone?

This is by no means a comprehensive collection, but rather lovely old friends I happened to have around me at the time of writing. Enjoy-

'It's hot as hell in Martirio, but the papers on the porch are icy with the news'

'It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers. Even when their own child is the most disgusting little blister you could ever imgine, they still think he or she is wonderful'

'The snow in the mountains was melting, and Bunny had been dead for several weeks before we came to understand the gravity of our situation'

'Once there were four children whose names were Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy'

'Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.'

'Mrs Rodice perched herslef on the edge of her spartan desk and sucked her watery afternoon tea through sullen lips.'

'In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me sine advice that I've been turning over in my mind ever since. 'Whenever you feel like criticising anyone,' he told me, 'just remember that all the people in the world haven't had the advantages that you've had'

'On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.'

'My desert island, all-time, top-five most memorable breakups, in chronological order, are as follows: Alison Ashmore; Penny Hardwick; Jackie Alden; Charlie Nicholson; and Sarah Kendrew. Those were the ones that really hurt. Can you see your name on that list, Laura?'

and finally

'These very old people are the father and mother of Mr Bucket. Their names are Grandpa Joe, and Grandma Josephine.

No amount of TV Cop backstory can destroy how these unimaginably wonderful objects make me feel. The Inbetweeners can wait. And besides. There's always Channel 4 +1.