My Hovercraft is Full of Eels

World Pooh Sticks Championship leaves me Speechless

admin — Thu, 18 Mar 2010 13:53:46 +0000

I really don’t know what to make of this, but I’m glad it exists. People throw sticks into the water from the upstream side of the bridge, and cross the bridge to see the sticks come out the other side (just like Winnie the Pooh did). The World Championships is Sunday, in about 10 days time.

http://www.pooh-sticks.com/

Criticism of John Hillcoat’s “The Road”

admin — Wed, 17 Mar 2010 15:08:24 +0000

It’s easy to cast stones, having never produced a movie myself, but I felt there were some glaring mistakes in The Road that any half-witted director should have gotten right. Yes, I understand it’s metaphorical, but it wouldn’t hurt to get it right.

A can of Coke would not retain it’s fizzyness over the years, certainly not through a few thousand freeze-thaw cycles. I am not the only one with problems about this.
When Robert Duvall’s character is given a can of fruit salad (or something) he throws it up. But then he appears to leave the regurgitation. No! Someone starving to death will happily eat vomit.
The cellar where the bad guys are keeping people before eating them. Sure, storing meat isn’t a bad idea, but why keep the people alive and naked and together? Naked is dumb, as they will get cold and shiver and burn fat and muscle. Together is dumb, as they are presumably starving and might eat each other. And alive is the dumbest. Have you not heard of beef jerky? Have you never seen Slim Jims at the counter of 7-11? Meat can be cured, dried, salted, put in brine, smoked, anything. Hell, if it’s cold enough you can just keep the meat frozen.
Lack of shoes. I can understand if people are starving, but they won’t be running out of shoes. Why? Presuming most humans die at the hands of other humans, and shoes are a valuable commodity, the killer will take the better pair of shoes (possibly both). Or, when humans commit suicide or die (our protagonist found 3 suicides and 1 death) their shoes can be taken. As long as the half life of a human is less than the half life of a pair of shoes, then shoes will move up the food chain, the same way mercury does in fish or DDT did when it killed the bald eagles.
If I knew more economics, I could write a proper equation. But basically, as long as (the half life of shoes times fraction of shoes discarded times shoes on someone who dies and their body is undiscovered) is greater than (the half life of humans), there will be a surplus of shoes. This equation does not work if shoes have a finite lifetime (they do, but the movie is set before that lifetime), and admittedly cannibals will have more shoes than non-cannibals. If some economist would write a proper equation in the comments, I’d be most grateful.
Lack of guns / ammo. This is AMERICA for crying out loud. We’re going to run out of people long before we run out of guns. Like shoes, guns will move up the food chain. Ammo, admittedly, might be scarce. But with no animals left, what are you shooting at besides other humans? Target practicing?

That’s just the impossibilities. The characters make some really stupid decisions, mainly the father.

Leaving the underground bunker. If it has been undiscovered for 10 years, hearing something that might be a dog or a human wander by is not a good reason to leave. Stay there until the food is gone (or mostly gone) then move on. Build up strength and fat reserves.
Pulling a cart along the beach. Hello? Carts leave wheel tracks, and anyone following you is going to presume you have food – what else would you be carrying, a flat screen TV? Even if you are pulling a cart for fun, you are still potential food and healthy enough to haul a cart. It’s like a sign that says Please Eat Me! Duh – stay off the beach.
Not killing the second person shooting arrows at them. I don’t care if you’re trying to be a ‘good guy’. There’s some screaming angry woman with a bow and arrow and you just killed her husband in a post-apocalyptic anarchy. She will probably try to shoot you again as you walk out the building. If you won’t kill her, at least take the weapon, it might come in handy and she won’t be able to shoot you with it 1 minute later.
Hiking with a bleeding leg wound. Animals are smarter – they hole up and lick their wounds. Duh. Take some Penicillin (you DID take it from the well stocked bomb-shelter, right?) and spend a week recovering.

OK, I’m done. Maybe I’m just petty, but these things seriously bothered me when watching the movie.

Winter Journey in Yorkshire

admin — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 23:06:22 +0000

While Monty Python may have suggested some rather unsavory things about Yorkshire, it’s my favorite place in England. My godmother Tamar lives there in a 500 year-old stone farmhouse, with little heating and two-ton stone-slab door lintels that I always crack my head against. The door lintels are only 5′10″ high (that’s 180 cm for our Eurotrash readers), and while many people have told me I have a thick head, in battles of Stony’s head vs. solid rock, I have yet to emerge unscathed.

It’s also a poignant reminder how small people were back then, and how different their lives were. Where Tamar keeps her Piano, the original farmer, his family, and their cow would have spent the winter.

Kinga and I rented a Streetcar (huge fans of the on-demand car sharing scheme, there’s one 3 doors down from my house), and headed North. This trip had lots of additional concerns, not the least that this was our first trip as a ‘couple’. Could we stand each other, or even the other’s driving styles? Luckily we survived intact (unlike my skull when it hit another door-frame), and even joked about our secret concerns once we returned.

We woke up the first morning to 3 inches of snow, which was beautiful! And difficult – we had to shovel a lot of snow and then drive cars up an angled, snow-covered mud track. Two hours and a bit of burned rubber, the cars were out and I celebrated by leaving the keys in the ignition and the window down. Being Yorkshire, a kind neighbor rolled up the windows and dropped off the keys.

Once we got the car out, our days turned to frolicking! Kinga wore her cute wellies (which Tamar disdained for farm work but appreciated the fashion statement), and we all went for a walk through . . . field and fen? What is it you walk through?

While Tamar had lit the fire on the first night, the second night we went out for dinner, got back a bit late, and it wasn’t really worth lighting the fire. So we made our hot-water bottles, headed up stairs, and simply couldn’t stop laughing as we joked about how completely frozen we were. I’ve been camping in 0 degree Fahrenheit weather before, but you know what you are in for. Here we were with a bed and electricity and a hot shower, and our room temperature was hovering around freezing. In the morning I was surprised my water glass wasn’t frozen.

But I think trips like that make you appreciate the modern creature comforts even more. How else can you appreciate turning up the thermostat if you’ve always had one?

I’ll finish off with my favorite picture from the trip, two horses drinking from a trough. It was completely frozen when they approached us, hoping for sugar cubes or carrots. Finding nothing, they pushed through and broke the ice, and drank what must have been very cold water! In the background is Robin Hoods Bay, the same view you see when looking out Tamar’s kitchen door.

(Almost) Easy on the Eyes

admin — Fri, 15 Jan 2010 17:13:03 +0000

In the spirit of adventure, I responded to a forwarded email from a friend – their colleague was offering a free photo-shoot consisting of black and white headshots (and nothing more, I know what all my male friends are thinking).

I went, lights were setup, photos were taken, and until today that was all I knew, as I waited for the photographs to be developed on film. I got the first few back today, and while the more serious ones don’t suit me, there was a bit quirky, and I like it! Of course, it’s still a face only a mother could love, but it’s the only face I have . . .

Handsome Devil? Or just devil?

Gracious Friends

admin — Thu, 07 Jan 2010 17:15:12 +0000

I’m always been appreciative of forgiving friends, and I feel this isn’t by coincidence, given my personality. So it was a great relief when Jeff was so gracious after I tried to kill his four-year old daughter, Siena.

It wasn’t purposeful – I was at their house eating a chocolate cookie when Siena walked by and I gave her a cookie. A few seconds and one shriek later Jeff was in the kitchen reading the ingredients on the cookie box, checking for nuts. Luckily the cookies didn’t contain any nuts, though the box gave one of those CYA vague warnings about not being suitable for people with nut allergies. The cookie, missing only one bite, was removed from Siena’s little hands as she gave puppy dog eyes to all around.

But I learned not to feed children cookies without checking with parents.

European Girls and their Armpits

admin — Tue, 22 Dec 2009 15:02:18 +0000

Whenever I’m hanging out with a few of my American buddies, and the conversation veers towards girls, I wait for someone (I’m thinking of you, Paul Perry) to inevitably say, “Don’t European Girls have hair armpits? I don’t know how you could date them!”

I simply stare in wonder and ask my friends what exactly they do with a hairless armpit they don’t do with a hairy one, which promptly shuts them up

But the bigger question is, why the armpit obsession? What is it that makes Americans ignore the European topless beaches, lack of morbid obesity, and lascivious reputations and instead go right to the armpits, as if that’s a deal breaker? And how many of my friends have actually seen a hairy european female armpit, in person? About as many who have been in outer space. Urban legend, through and through.

Or so I thought. I just moved into a house-share with two other guys and one girl, all French. I present photographic proof of said hairy armpits of my new flatmate Magalie, hair so thick it can’t even be contained by clothes.

Offensive Gingerbread Men

admin — Mon, 07 Dec 2009 13:05:50 +0000

I was invited to a brilliant and inventive party by a friend of mine, and what made it so great, beyond the great company and vast quantities of smoked ham and soft cheeses I ate, was the gingerbread man competition. We had different shapes, different colored icing, and little sugary decorations – our only constraint was our imagination. The sky (or the gutter) was the limit.

I made about four out of the collection. You may find some of these tasteless and offensive, but I didn’t make those. Really, I swear.

Photo album: (click image to see more)

Anne Boleyn (Henry the VII's Wife)

Soldier and Santa's Helper

Priest with Acolyte

You can see all the photos of the 30-plus offensive gingerbread men (and remember I am the photographer of the cookies but not the creator of all the cookies)

A Touch of Naughtiness

admin — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 23:47:03 +0000

I like to think of myself as a fundamentally good person who is, in both friendship and amour, attracted to other fundamentally good people. But there comes a time in one’s life when, for no reason in particular, one feels compelled to confess dark secrets. Mine include:

Faked a positive result on a Tuberculosis test. For the fun of it.
Fed stunned but living mosquitoes (which recently had dined on me) to an ants’ nest. The mosquitoes were crowd-surfed away.
After a 5 year old child said, “I want my mommy,” I replied “I want your mommy too.”
Convinced a friend that the pivot point of his elbow during right-handed auto-erotica had led to a crippling curvature of his member, and that he needed to use only the other hand for a few years.
Attempted to burn a wooden religious icon when in need of firewood (prevented by others, sadly).
Smurfed a feminist.
Accidentally started a long-lasting rumor that one of our virginal friends had contracted the clap.
Hid a sewing machine in the trunk of a friends car, leaving her and her family to spend an entire week wondering how on earth it suddenly appeared in their car.

Back in Britain

admin — Sat, 24 Oct 2009 14:20:47 +0000

After a long stint in the US, I’m back in Old Blighty. How do I know? The clarification on the pumpkin. Even mentally handicapped American children know what a pumpkin is for – it’s to make a jack-o-lantern. Not the English – their pumpkins come with handy stickers.

In other news, I’m in court today, as a witness for a violent crime – a family ruckus ended up with two people punching each other on my front doorstep. How charming, as the English would say.

Being in Court involves me sitting around for hours waiting for the attacker and victim to show up (neither ever did) and trying to get out of a parking ticket related to the matter. Here’s hoping I see £200 refunded from this.

Any visit to an official building always requires me to first remove my pocket knife from my keychain. It’s technically an illegal weapon, despite having a blade less than an inch.

Britain banned all guns back in the ’80’s when a crazy man shot a bunch of children in a school. People pointed out at the time that this wouldn’t prevent knife crimes, and surely you couldn’t ban knives. Well, after a spate of teenagers stabbing each other, they banned knives as well. Yes, I could face charges for possessing my knife.

God forbid they ever search my bags after I get back from camping – I have a Kill-Bill-esque blade I carry that would get me in the nick in no time.

Weaponized Music

Stony Grunow — Tue, 08 Sep 2009 19:51:38 +0000

I remember back when Panama was invaded and Manuel Noriega was holed up somewhere in a Church, the US Army blasted rock music round the clock in an effort to get him out. How odd and quaint, I thought at the time. But I’ve been on the receiving end of such music, both as a benefactor and a sufferer.

Exit a London Underground station in a seedier part of town and you’ll here classical music played at a decent volume. If you think its for the pleasure of music connoisseurs, I’m afraid your wrong. It’s to keep away the riff-raff and chavs. Apparently young trouble makers hate it while older tax-payers are pleased by the music and absence of loitering youth.

Well, when I was in the library in Barcelona last week, trying to eek out every last minute of opening hours and the free wifi, I was surprised and amused to hear heavy punk rock blasted fifteen minutes before the library shut. People began leaving in droves as their ears were assaulted, and the librarians presumably had no trouble shooing out the one or two remaining stragglers.

What an odd, odd world we live in.