Trauma

Lordy, it's been a week of highs and lows. Let's review some of them, shall we?

LOW!

After the wild and reckless dancing at the ceilidh on Friday evening, I fully intended to skip yoga on Saturday morning. Unfortunately, something decided to take advantage of the brief respite in my exercise schedule, and I woke up with a niggly sore throat. Harumph! As the day wore on, though, I felt better, which was good because I wanted to go to a party being held by my local comic shop which, after 22 years, is changing hands. Unfortunately, in the evening I developed a temperature, so instead of partying with boozy comics-types I ended up retiring to the welcoming bosom of my sofa and in finest teenage girl stylee watched multiple episodes of Gilmore Girls.

HIGH!

Still not feeling 100% awesome on Sunday, I skipped yoga again and decided to head off to the cinema with the equally not-quite-feeling-100% Best Mate Jo. We saw the new Sam Mendes movie Away We Go, which was written by one of my favourite authors, Dave Eggers. It was a great little movie - understated, rich in story and characterisation, and featuring some great performances; just the sort of thing I've been into recently, and waaaaaaay better than the vast majority of this year's awful summer blockbusters. So if you couldn't guess already, I highly recommend it.

LOW!

Continued to feel like crap throughout the week, so skipped both my usual run and yoga.

Not. Good.

HIGH!

Saw (500) Days of Summer at the cinema for the third time in two weeks. Seriously, I love this movie BIG TIME. It makes me smile, and each time I've left the cinema I've pretty much skipped back to my car while humming 'You Make My Dreams' by Hall and Oates. I think one of the reasons I've enjoyed this film so much is the fact that I can relate to the main character a little too much, which probably means that if anyone reading this now goes and sees it you're more than likely going to leave a comment recommending some sort of therapy.

OHMYGODZ I'M BROKEN GOODS!

In related matters, check out this music video featuring the star of (500) Days of Summer, and directed by its, er, director!

HIGH!

Two highs in a row? Is that allowed? Outrageous. Anyhoo, feeling a little bit bored on Thursday evening I decided to play around with my computer and Apple TV a bit by trying out the digital copy of the Rolling Stones concert movie Shine a Light. Digital copy, for anyone who doesn't know, is something some film companies have been trying out with new DVD releases - basically you get a second disc with the DVD that allows you to put a copy of the DVD on your computer. In the case of Apple stuff, you basically pop the disc in your computer, enter a code, then, as far as I can see, it just downloads you a free copy from the iTunes store. And it's a one-time thing only, so don't go emailing me asking for the code, you cheeky monkey.

Anyway, so I downloaded the digital copy of Shine a Light, zipped it across to my Apple TV, then enjoyed the sight of Mick Jagger dry-humping Christina Aguilera on my big telly while I did the washing up. Nice.

And, BONUS: I popped Shine a Light on my iPhone too; now I've got a little Jagger in my pocket everywhere I go, and even better - the Apple TV tells my iPhone where I last watched up to, so I can start watching from the point I left off.

LOW!

I got some really awesome looking boots last year. Unfortunately, though, they've recently taken to trying to annihilate my feet. I wore them a few weeks back and ended up with a MA-hoosive blister on the heel of my left foot. Seriously, it was like a water bed or something. And because I'm a boy and we do such things, I picked at it until it burst. I reckon at least two litres of fluid came out.

Anyway, I decided to wear them again on Friday because they can't just sit around the house looking pretty; like a wild horse, they need to be broken in. By midday I was in something approaching agony, and ended up spending the afternoon padding around the office in my socks, fending off a veritable raft of cheese jokes from sympathetic colleagues.

I'd arranged to meet Yazzle Dazzle for a coffee after work, though, and while there are many things I'll do with my socks on, walking down the Goldhawk Road isn't one of them. And so the boots went on again … and let's just say about an hour later I was walking back to my car in a most bizarre fashion.

Still, Round 3 to me: I remembered I've got some wicked-comfy innersoles at home, so I slipped them in the boots and they are my bitches now. This will be confirmed in about two weeks when the epic blisters I have on both heels have sufficiently diminished in size to allow me to actually get my feet in the boots again.

And finally … the TRAUMA.

So this morning, I decided I'd head on back to yoga after not having done any exercise for about 10 days. It all started rather well - aside from the posture where you have to reach around and hold your heels from behind, because that just *killed* my blisters - and I was even doing well when we got to Full Locust Pose and the teacher announced to the class that I always excel at this posture because I imagine myself as being Jennifer Gray in Dirty Dancing (although I maybe didn't do it so well this time because I was laughing so much). Towards the end of the class, though, it all started to fall apart a bit.

And by 'a bit' I mean 'a lot.'

It all started with me getting a bit light-headed. Next thing I know I was feeling a bit nauseous (I did not want to be the first person to spew on the new flooring they had put down last month), and getting pins and needles. In my face. Seriously - in my FACE! What's that all about?! So anyway, I chilled out during the last 10 minutes of class, and then for another 10 afterwards, and after that I was OK. It was kind of like how I felt after my first class back in June, but worse I guess because of having been a bit ill, not having done any exercise for a while, and thinking that I could just jump back into it where I left off in the last class.

I plan on going tomorrow morning just to help me get used to it again, but I'll be taking it a bit easier. Still, if I haven't posted anything by the end of next week, you can pretty much assume it finished me off. You're very welcome to send flowers or donations.

Movie whore week contines

What's the betting I photoshopped myself in under Batman's mask too?

All narcissistic tendencies aside, I've always wanted to dye my hair green. And if this is any indication, I actually think it would suit me.

Where The Wild Tims Are

As if I'm not a ridiculous enough person as it is…

And it's criminal - CRIMINAL I TELLS YA! - that us Britlanders have to wait until December for this movie when it opens next month in the Americas. Not *this* movie, because this is a figment of my warped imagination and tiny, tiny brain; I mean the real Where The Wild Things Are.

If anyone wants me, I'll be in a huff until December.

Huff!

Ceilidh!

And no, I don't mean the Marillion song.

A few weeks ago I got an email from Glittering Lee that said:

"I'm thinking of going to this - interested?"

The 'This' was a Ceilidh, and not having any idea what a Ceilidh was, I said yes.

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An aside:

After the car accident back in April, I came to the realisation that I was saying no to a lot of things. Would you like to do this, Tim? No. We're thinking about going along to this, want to come? No, not really. We should catch up! Um, another time, maybe?

This, I later found out, is actually one of the symptoms of whiplash. Strange, eh? Anyway, upon finding this out, I decided that I really needed to get over it, and in an almost Danny Wallace style I decided I'd say yes to everything. Well, maybe not *everything* but definitely most things.

Especially things that didn't involve people crashing into me.

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Soon after saying yes I decided I'd better find out exactly what it was I'd said yes to. So I hit up Google, and about five seconds after that I'm pretty sure my neighbours would've heard an almighty "Ooooooooh noooooooooo…" emanating from Sparky Towers.

Because a Ceilidh is like some sort of Celtic medieval rave.

After hyperventilating into a paper bag for a few minutes, I considered trying to get out it. But then I realised that would totally go against my newfound 'be positive, say yes' attitude. Plus, any opportunity to hang out with Lee is always welcome; he did, after all, make me burst out laughing at a rather inopportune moment during the second Lord of the Rings film, thus making it far more memorable than it would otherwise have been.

On the plus side I do have something of a track record in this kind of thing. For some inexplicable reason we used to do Celtic dancing as some variation of P.E. at my infants school when I was about seven or eight years old. Lord knows why; maybe because the teacher couldn't be bothered to get a football out? So yes, every now and then they'd get out this ridiculously old radio-thing that looked like it hadn't been used since 1934, pop on a vinyl album of Celtic music, crank up the volume, and make us kids dance up and down the school hall like we were having the time of our young lives. Of course, we all hated it. At the age of seven I was more interested in being a Transformer than learning how to dance, and it also meant we had to be in close proximity to girls, who, as any seven year-old boy will tell you, are smelly and horrible and all kinds of eeeeuuuu.

Another thing that made me think I shouldn't try to weasel my way out of the Ceilidh was that I've recently seen the movie (500) Days of Summer, and OHMYGOD it's the best movie of the year so far (as long as you don't count Star Trek, of course). In fact, I've seen it twice now, and it was every bit as good the second time around. Where was I? Oh yes. About halfway through (500) Days of Summer there's an awesome and totally unexpected dance sequence that made me wish that sort of thing happened in real life.

Of course they don't, so you have to pay to go to organised events if you want to do a big group dance thingy.

Unfortunately, the day before the Ceilidh I made a textbook schoolboy error. I went to Youtube and typed in 'Ceilidh.' The ensuing videos, which I shall not repost here because the mere thought of them continues to strike the fear of God into me, were full of middle-aged people in kilts twirling around. They were almost enough to make me start coming up with excuses as to why I shouldn't go - no, make that *couldn't* go! Things like: my iPhone needs charging; and: I need to put the washing machine on.

Then the next thing I know it's five o'clock on Friday afternoon and I have a text from Lee asking if I'm coming out to play. Um, I s'pose so?

An hour or so later and we've met up with The Boy and the delightful Ness, and are at Vinopolis in central London, getting ready to throw ourselves into some crazy Celtic dancing. Now, one thing that had really confused me about the whole Ceilidh thing was what to wear? The ticket said 'comfortable clothes/shoes' which wasn't very helpful because I always try to wear comfortable clothes and shoes. I eventually went for the classic jeans and black shirt combo, with a light grey knitted jumper and black shoes, which I thought would cover me for any eventuality - comfortable enough to dance in, warm enough for the journey home if it dropped down a bit chilly.

Stupid, stupid me. It was like Bikram Yoga in dance form.

Within about 10 minutes I was drenched in sweat. I ditched the jumper soon after it became apparent that moisture was seeping through in a rather unattractive series of patches, and went with the 'just looked like I showered in my shirt' look. We took a breather outside about halfway through just so we could dry out.

Sweating aside, it was a bloody great evening, though. There was a live band who not only played brilliantly but taught you the dance moves before the dance kicked off. Sadly, nothing the singer said initially made any sense in my mind and she just ended up sounding like the teacher in a Charlie Brown cartoon, so the first few minutes of every dance were a little bit chaotic on my part. I did eventually get to grips with them, though, and thoroughly enjoyed swinging a number of delightful ladies around and stamping my feet like a loon. About the only downside was when we got roped into dancing with a couple of hardcore Ceilidh types who frowned out us if we botched a move and then started freestyling their own moves just to confuse us. I knew they were going to be trouble when I saw the guy was wearing a kilt and the woman had deeply unfashionable sandals on.

Any-hoo, it was the most fun I've had in a long time and I seriously can't wait till the next one. If you're in London in November, you will be coming along - although I advise you not to wear a knitted jumper, or keep your travelcard in your pocket; they tend not to go through the ticket barriers when they're in paper-mache form.

It's in the washing machine right now.

RUDE!

After a particularly arduous yoga class on Saturday morning, I returned to my car, which I'd parked in a nearby side street, only to find that it had been interfered with in my absence.

Let's get this straight right away: I do not like people attaching things to my car - y'know, flyers under windscreen wipers, that sort of thing. Mostly because it either a) rains and they turn to mush on my windscreen, or b) I don't realise they're there until I'm driving, and then they just irritate me. Plus, I don't like strangers touching Clubbie.

Anyway, on this pleasant Saturday morning I returned to Clubbie to find this attached to the driver's side window with a small rubber sucker.

As a bit of a car buff, I know that the new MiTo is Alfa Romeo's Mini competitor, albeit one that looks a little bit like a surprised frog. I detached the offending item with an admittedly satisfying and somewhat comical popping sound, initially believing that Clubbie had been targeted purely because it's a Mini; upon glancing around, however, I noticed that all the cars in the road had been MiTo'd.

I opened up the card to see what it was exactly that Alfa Romeo thought I 'might need.'

And subsequently fell about laughing, because if they think I'm going to sell my Mini Clubman for something based on a Vauxhall Corsa that looks like it once guest-starred on Sesame Street they've got another thing coming.

I feel that they need to know this, as well. The inside of the card has the address of the dealer who distributed this card, so I'm going to return it to them anonymously.

Why? Because I have too many stamps and nothing better to do, that's why.

The Apple TV story

For a while now I've been thinking about buying an Apple TV. And before you ask, no it's not actually a TV - it's a little box that sits under your TV and does marvellous things. A bit like an iPod for your telly. My reasons for wanting one basically come down to the fact that I've bought pretty much every other Apple product on the market I came to the conclusion a few months back that the vast majority of DVDs I buy I tend to watch once before sticking them on the shelf where they eventually gather a rather impressive layer of dust, and it would make more sense - both financially and shelf-space wise - to rent those films I missed at the cinema but still wanted to see. The Apple TV would let me do this via the iTunes store and watch them on my big telly while sprawled out on my comfy sofa, rather than rent them off iTunes and sit in my office chair in front of my computer.

I've never actually been one for renting movies, mainly because I can't be bothered to go through the mental anguish of perusing the battered shelves of the local Blockbuster, rent a DVD that's so scratched it looks like it's seen more action than the average soldier in a war zone, and then have to return the damned thing the next day. Plus, I don't really like using things that other people have used a thousand times before. They tend to be sticky.

So, a few months back I decided I'd go the Apple TV route, because I like Apple products, I trust Apple products, it's as aesthetically pleasing as all Apple products, and I like the fact you get Apple stickers with Apple products. I actually surprised myself by not rushing out and buying one when the thought first entered my mind, and rather unusually for me I actually spent quite a lot of time reading up on the whole Apple TV situation. It seems a lot of people love their Apple TVs, but there are also a lot of people who think their Apple TVs should do more - like act as a hard-drive recorder, or have a Blu-ray drive in them. So I bided my time for a while to see whether there would be a hardware revision or something. I set my cut-off date as Wednesday, the day when Apple had their big key note to introduce the latest iPods. I figured if they introduced something new with Apple TV, great; if they didn't, I decided I'd just go buy one because I'd come to the conclusion it does what I want it to do as it is.

So, when nothing new was announced for the Apple TV on Wednesday, I finally decided the time was right to treat myself. And on Friday lunchtime, I did.

I was accompanied on the jaunt down to the Apple Store in Westfield by Scanner, who I think doubted my conviction to actually buy one and wanted to see me go through with it. For my part, I was hoping to goad him into buying one as well, because he's intrigued by it and is similarly addicted to anything with an Apple logo on it.

Within a couple of minutes of entering the store I had an Apple TV box in my clammy mitts, and was wandering around with a goofy expression on my face looking for an iDude from whom I could purchase it. I found one by the door, and the following, somewhat bizarre exchange then took place:

"Hi, could I get this please?"

"Of course. Cash or card?"

"Card, ta."

"OK. This is the 160gb version - right?"

"Yep."

"Hmmm! Do you own any other Apple products?"

"Oh, you don't know the half of it - in fact, I just bought an iPhone 3GS last week."

"Ooo, nice - 16 or 32gb?"

"Aw, it had to be the 32!"

"I thought so. You look like a 32gb man to me."

"Um, thanks…"

"Do you have an Apple computer?"

"Yeah - an iMac."

"Twenty or 24 inch?"

"Twenty four."

"I suspected as much."

He then proceeded to take my email address, ostensibly so he could email me my receipt, although I seriously wondered if he was taking it for personal reasons, before smiling at me and skipping off to get me a bag. He returned holding the bag out by the strings, and inviting me to slip my arm through to sling it over my shoulder.

Half an hour later I returned to the office, at which point Lovely Boss Lady looked at the Apple bag on my shoulder and said "that's a very girly-looking bag you've got there."

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Excitement obviously reigned in the Sparky household on Friday as I tore the cellophane off the box, ready to set up my Apple TV, although I wasn't so delirious with excitement that I didn't think to document the entire procedure.

The pretty, pretty box.

The traditional Apple legend!

The Apple TV on the left, and the Apple remote on the right. I love how Apple products are so cleanly and simply packaged. That's just packaging facts.

It's mine - ALL MINE!

It was so unbelievably, stupidly easy to set up. One end of an HDMI cable in the back of the telly, the other in the back of the Apple TV. A power cable from the Apple TV to the plug. Boom - we have lift off. After that it was just a matter of inputting my wiffy network password, and another code that linked the Apple TV to my iTunes library, then my Apple TV and my computer were chatting away with each other like two old buddies. In fact, the only problem I had was when I paired the remote for the Apple TV to my computer - but that was just me being stupid, and was easily rectified.

After that I sat back and watched an episode of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia that I bought off iTunes last week that lives on my computer but which synced quickly and easily to the Apple TV, followed by a bit of youtube browsing and a quick glance at some HD movie trailers. It's brilliant.

Right now, I'm in the middle of downloading a rented HD version of the movie Charlie Bartlett (starring new Chekov!), and streaming music to my telly. Good times ahoy - I might never leave the house again!

Where we last left off, and the Richmond to Windsor bike ride 2009

Sorry for my brief absence there - I was off doing holiday things and generally enjoying myself. It won't happen again, I promise.

So where were we? Ah yes! I'd been to Kingston, had an awesome haircut, bought disgruntled kitteh Snow Leopard for my iMac, and utterly failed in my attempts to purchase an iPhone 3GS. Harumph? Harumph indeed. And so we move on to Wednesday…

I returned to Kingston on Wednesday because I had an appointment with my financial advisor. Unfortunately, as I was to discover, this was not the financial advisor I'd been dealing with for the last few years, who was quite frankly a dude, not only for offering sound financial advise, but also because we spent at least half the time we should've been talking about how my money could be working for me by talking about music, books, and whether I should blow all my cash on a Ferrari just as I'm about to hit retirement age. But we'll come to that in due course.

Soon after I arrived in Kingston I found myself at a crossing. Some workmen have been digging up part of the Kingston one-way system, and so someone in their infinite wisdom had decided to assign three police officers to the crossing (I say three - two of them were those community support officers - y'know, the ones that get the uniform but none of the official powers; a bit like when I sit at home dressed as Superman). As I stepped up to the threshold of the crossing one of the officers turned to face me and said, with a totally straight face I might add: "Good morning, we are here to help you cross the road."

Now, because they've blocked off one of the lanes of the one-way system, that leaves about a three-metre distance to cross. And I'd like to think that of all the things I've learnt in my life, crossing the road is one of the things I've pretty much nailed. I was tempted to say something like "what - do I look like I'm 80 or something!?" but I ended up doing what quite simply came naturally.

I laughed at her.

And then, as a rather considerable gap appeared in the traffic, I strolled across to the other side. I was sorely tempted to whistle and put a jaunty step in my stride, but seeing as the police officer on the other side of the road was actually holding people back from crossing, ever-conscious of the fact that there was a car about 20 seconds away, I thought I might be pushing my luck a bit.

Anyway, the financial advisor. Aside from the fact that he blatantly glazed over if I dared mentioned anything that didn't directly relate to a question he asked (unlike the previous guy who actively encouraged my banal conversational habits), it was all going reasonably well - until he popped a most unexpected question:

"What would you do [i.e. how would you generate an income] if you had a terminal illness?"

My gut answers were "probably cry a bit" and "not really give a shit about where the money's coming from." He didn't like those, though, and instead tried to peddle me an outrageously expensive form of insurance to cover me (I swear, they offer you insurance for everything these days; I'm waiting for someone to offer me insurance to cover my insurance). Countering swifty, I made my excuses and left.

Definitely ain't keen on this guy.

On my way back to the car park, I again tried to buy an iPhone 3GS, and again FAILED.

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I got up Thursday morning and immediately started calling around O2 stores to see if I could hunt down an iPhone 3GS. Unfortunately, over the course of an hour and a half, none of them bothered to pick up, which as Marcosy pointed out, is somewhat ironic for a company that's trying to sell you a phone. By midday I was bored and a bit fed-up. I decided to take myself off to the cinema to see an early afternoon showing of (500) Days of Summer.

Half an later I was in Kingston again. Being a bit early, I thought I'd swing by the O2 store in person. I needn't have bothered.

"Have you got any iPh-"

"No."

"Oh."

"Is it an upgrade or pay-as-you-go?"

Ah-ha! This sounded promising.

"An upgrade."

"Oh. I was going to say you could try the Apple Store, but they only sell pay-as-you-go."

I harumphed, and walked out. But something niggled … and I decided to try the Apple Store anyway. Upon entering, I helpfully bumped into the chappy who sold me my first iPhone in February last year.

"Have you got any iPhones?"

"Yes, but only the 32gb o-"

I almost grabbed hold of him and started jumping up and down like a special.

"THAT'S WHAT I WANT! Wait a sec, though - it's an upgrade. Do you do upgrades?"

"Yes, why wouldn't we? Get in line behind that guy over there and my colleague will sort you out [editor's note: not like *that* you filthy-minded filthbags]."

I got in line and waited to be sorted out.

A few minutes later I was merrily perched on a stool while a genial genius in a light-blue t-shirt went about his business of sorting me out with a 32gb iPhone 3GS. Amusingly, he was mightily impressed with the condition of my old iPhone, claiming that he'd never seen one in such good condition and that it looked brand new. He even called a colleague over to see how pristine it was. They were rather taken by it. So I offered to sell it to them. They declined, though I could tell they were tempted for a moment.

Anyway, the upshot of it all was that while I missed the movie, I finally got my iPhone 3GS. And it's soooo pretty!

Oh, and I told the Apple guy that O2 were trying to do them out of business - HA!

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Friday was spent back in Kingston, albeit this time on one of my traditional all-day shopping extravaganzas with Sparky Ma. It was well cool, as usual. And, unbelievably, the next time we go we'll be Christmas shopping - how mental is that!?

Saturday morning I went to sweaty yoga, where the teacher congratumalated me on my toe stands (which I only started doing because he forced me to a couple of months back), and then went to see District 9 with Big Bro at the cinema. Highly recommended, people, highly recommended (that's the film, although hanging out with Big Bro is always a plus too!), if only because we spent the rest of the day shouting "get away from me, filthy prawn!" in appalling South African accents.

Oh, and I made a new friend in the evening.

I love the iPhone 3GS' video capabilities!

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And finally, today I did the annual Richmond to Windsor bike ride! Like last year, I was flying solo, but unlike last year (fortunately) it wasn't bucketing it down the entire day. It was a bit chilly in places, admittedly, but on the whole I can't complain. I won't go into too much detail, because nothing terribly exciting happened, but I accomplished the 39 mile route in 3 hours 38 minutes, arriving at the finish line at 12:58 which is pretty respectable bearing in mind I stopped a few times along the way to give my arse a rest from my saddle. I will admit that I struggled a bit en route, which I put down to only having been out once since last year's ride, but bizarrely I coped with the infamous Callow Hill so much better than I ever have before! Go figure. On the plus side, it was nice to see so many people taking part - last year's event felt like it was on a much smaller scale than previous years, due in part, I expect, to the atrocious weather, so it was nice to see a return to form this year.

Aside from that, I got chatting to a guy who looked remarkably like Tron Man, although his lycra was rather more colourful, albeit equally hauntingly taut, and his bike unfortunately lacked the ability to turn 90 degree corners in the blink of an eye, once more heard the wit and wisdom of the Shatner-esque compare, and for the first time ever on the bike ride I got a medal!

I'm now an award-winning cyclist, runner, and go-kart driver! Multi-talented you say?

I was home by quarter to three, upon which time I soaked in a nice warm bath before plonking myself down in front of the telly. All in all then, it was a rather good day - aside from the fact my arse *really* hurts. Anyone got any ice?

I went to Westfield and all I bought was a lousy milkshake

Actually, it was a really nice milkshake made using chocolate Hob Nobs, but we'll come to that in due course.

Exciting stuff, people: I'm on holiday!

Hurrah!

And by 'holiday' regular readers will know that I actually mean I'm sitting around at home dividing my time between a DVD boxset and Scrabble on Facebook.

Actually, it's not quite been so laid back this time around…

Holiday time started on Friday evening with a jaunt to Westfield with Marcosy and a promise that I'd make his trip to Shepherds Bush worthwhile by actually buying something (usually when we go shopping I make all these grand declarations of things I want to get, but never end up buying anything because more often than not they don't have my size). This time, though, I had a number of things I *really* wanted - like a shirt and a hoody in Hollister (the shop that looks like a Mexican brothel) and Snow Leopard for my iMac.

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An aside:

Is it weird that I'm genuinely excited about a new operating system? What's that all about?!

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Unfortunately - for both my Snow Leopard lust and Marcosy's pleasure at seeing me hand over cold hard cash - Scanner, the company IT guru, had told me it would probably be best to hold off upgrading straight away just in case there was a conflict with any of the software I use. So, while I did go into the Apple Store, pick up a copy of Snow Leopard, and stare at it like it was Autumn Reeser on the box rather than a disgruntled looking Leopard (we'll come back to this), I ultimately put it back - despite Marcosy pointing at some random dude and shouting "HE'S BUYING IT, WHY THE HELL CAN'T YOU?!"

To make matters worse, Hollister (the Mexican brothel) turned into an epic FAIL as well; the shirt was waaaaaay too big, despite the fact I tried on a small, and the hoody, while lovely, was … well, it was 60 quid, and I wasn't convinced I wanted to spend 60 quid on it.

Ultimately, then, I made do with the aforementioned milkshake, which was all sorts of lovely and felt a bit like an entire meal in a cup; I had to stop halfway back to my car to rest my hands on my knees and take a deep breath.

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Saturday, sweaty yoga aside, was a reasonably chilled out day. Sunday, however, was another matter.

I started the day with another session of sweaty yoga; as I said to the teacher on my way into the studio, I'm very good at maintaining a regular schedule for this - not, I think, because I know it's good for me, but rather because I know it's cost me a fair amount of money so I should really get my money's worth out of it. I didn't tell him this, of course, because I want to give the impression I'm a dedicated student. I do wonder, however, what they'd do if I happened to fall asleep in the 20 minutes or so before class where I just lie back on the mat and shut my eyes (it's almost happened on at least two occasions). I'd like to think they'd just leave me be, but the reality is that they'd probably point and laugh before nudging me awake with their feet.

Anyway, after yoga I headed home to trim the neighbour's bush. Ahem. I mean the bush that overhangs my parking space. It's been leaning perilously close to Clubbie recently, and seeing as summer's pretty much done and dusted I thought I'd butcher it trim it back so it doesn't shed its scummy leaves all over my bonnet. Job done, I took the cuttings down the tip, then headed home to shower and grab some lunch (not at the same time, mind), before zooming off to meet Best Mate Jo.

Best Mate Jo and I haven't caught up in ages, so we decided to go see The Final Destination in THREE-DIMENSIONS (sorry, I always feel the need to suggest that 3D films are some sort of schlocky 1950s B-movie or something) at the cinema. To enjoy it in all its THREE-DIMENSIONAL glory we had to wear some stupid glasses.

The fact that they're illuminated by the flash here doesn't quite highlight how ridiculous these glasses are. I look like Roy Orbison.

The film was OK, but not as good as the previous Final Destination films. The THREE-DIMENSIONAL effect was without a doubt the best I've see, though, even if it did give me a headache; unfortunately, the glasses couldn't do anything to enhance the acting abilities of the film's stars - they were all universally terrible.

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An aside:

Do you know how many pairs of 3D glasses I own now? Three. That's three; one for the 3D episode of Chuck that was on telly last week, and the other two from cinema trips. They're all on my kitchen counter, because I don't quite know what to do with them. And get this: you're not allowed to take your own when you go to Vue Cinemas - they make you buy new ones every time, the cheeky bastards.

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Clubbie's been looking a bit dirty recently, so I excepted an offer from Big Bro to help me wash 'er on Monday afternoon. What I failed to remember is that Big Bro has, this year, transformed into something of a car washing nazi wizard. He researched it on the internet and everything. Gone are the days of squirting some random detergent in a bucket and chucking it over the bonnet, oh no. There are stages; many, many stages. My ridiculously short attention span was kept in check during the early stages because I was put on hose duty (dirty) and there's nothing I like more than wielding my hose with a purpose (dirtier), but by the polishing stage my mind was wandering and I almost went running off up the road after a cat. Plus, the polishing stage is really hard work; first you've got to go round the entire car dabbing blobs of polish on, then when it's dried you've got to go round again and buff it off in a wax on, wax off stylee.

On the plus side, after two and a half hours Clubbie looked awesome, and I've got biceps to die for.

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I decided to take advantage of my holiday time today by going to an early yoga class. I've never done a morning class in the week, and as I'd hoped the class was considerably emptier than it is in the evening. Good times. Even better, the class was being taken by one of my favourite instructors, a hilarious lady who keeps you smiling through the anguish of standing head to knee pose (that's Dandayamana Janushirasana to you and me); in fact, I laughed so much I fell out of the posture. Anyway, she also did this remarkable thing to realign me in one of the postures where, I think, she basically jabbed me in the ribs and I straightened up. She didn't literally jab me in the ribs, but she sorted me out so I wasn't slouching before tottering off down the studio to make a rude comment about one of the women at the front of the class.

All in all, it was a cracking class.

In the afternoon I headed over to Kingston for a haircut (awesome, and much needed), and a failed attempt to buy an iPhone 3GS. Can you believe they're sold out *everywhere*!? Well, the 32gb black versions, at least; and I can't be doing with a 16gb one (my current one is 16gb and it's almost full - I need storage, dammit!) or one in pimpy white. Several shop assistants laughed when I said "have you got any 32gb iPh-". I almost bought an Apple TV in desperation because I want one and I was really geared up for giving Apple some money today. I resisted only because there are rumours of an Apple TV update coming soon…

Anyway, I did give Apple some money, just not as much as I'd planned. I bought Snow Leopard (Scanner emailed me over the weekend to let me know he'd installed it without any problems so it should be OK for a simpleton like me to do it).

And back home I did indeed install it without any problems whatsoever. Good times. I do, however, keep looking at the box and thinking that that looks like one seriously pissed off Leopard on the front. Who at Apple drew the short straw of lobbing a snowball at it and snapping a picture before getting mauled?

All in all, then, it's been a rather busy, but very enjoyable few days off work so far. And I have high hopes for those still to come, despite the fact that I expect much of them will be devoted to hunting down a black, 32gb iPhone 3GS…

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Oh, and my DVD boxset of choice this week? Gilmore Girls Season One. It's *awesome*.

Bowie

I've been listening to a lot of David Bowie this last week. The reasons for this are two-fold:

1. I realised that I'd left a hell of a lot of Bowie songs off my iTunes, so I spent one night last week rectifying that. Suffice to say I now have (almost) his complete oeuvre on my iPhone, including the albums that die-hard Bowie fans, and even the great man himself, I believe, only speak of in hushed tones - Never Let Me Down and Tonight. I am enjoying them both GREATLY.

Look - apart from two episodes of It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia and a little wobble where I listened to six tracks by other artists, my iTunes 'recently played' list proves that I've only listened to David Bowie over the last few days.

2. I was flicking around on the iTunes music store last Wednesday when I discovered that a David Bowie VH1 Storytellers live concert recorded in 1999 had been released at the beginning of July. I was on the verge of downloading it via the wiffys straight to my iPhone when I discovered that the physical version of the album came with a DVD of the concert, so I headed down to HMV in Hammersmith where I purchased it from an assistant who appeared to be suffering from some sort of disorder because they wouldn't look me in the eye or talk to me. Hmmm.

A quality version of Drive-in Saturday. I defy you not to laugh during the first 45 seconds where he reveals how Moot the Hoople turned this song down and in revenge he got very drunk and shaved his eyebrows off. Yes, you read that correctly.

So did I tell you I'm a really big David Bowie fan (not literally, mind)? I wasn't always, though. I used to hate his music back when I was a kid, although I had a begrudging, albeit well-hidden, respect for Modern Love. It was only sometime around the late 90s that I finally 'got' his stuff. Shortly after I got my first CD player I went on a bit of a mad spending spree buying loads of CDs, not only because they were something of a novelty, but also because - and this is going to sound very pretentious - I wanted to expand my musical horizons. And so, one day, I ended up buying The Singles Collection, one of the many David Bowie greatest hits compilations available, and one which I chose because it was dirt cheap in Kingston's now defunct Tower Records store.

It all goes a bit fuzzy after that, but the gist of it is that I suddenly developed into the Bowie uber-nerd, buying every studio album (multiple times, in those instances when special editions were released) and live album I could get my hands on in the space of just a few months. I read biographies and interviews, watched documentaries, concert films, Labyrinth, and The Man Who Fell to Earth. And in 2002, I finally got to see him play live.

It was around late september 2002 when Bowie was out and about promoting his Heathen album that it was announced he was going to play one show at the Hammersmith Apollo. Upon hearing this I went nuts (just one of many occasions over the years when my incredibly tolerant work colleagues probably began thinking about buying up some tranq darts) because not only is the Apollo one of my favourite gig venues and conveniently located close to work, it's also the place where Bowie spectacularly killed off Ziggy Stardust in 1973.

I had to go.

Getting tickets, however, was another matter. They weren't going on sale via traditional means, and so I tried entering competitions online and on the radio in an effort to get my hands on some, failing at every attempt. However, on the Friday before the gig (which was on a Wednesday), just as I was about to abandon all hope, it was announced that tickets would go on sale the very next day at 9 am - and the only way to get them was to buy them in person from the Hammersmith Apollo box office.

I was determined to get them, and so I resolved to queue over night outside the Apollo. I had never queued over night for anything before, and never have since, but I wanted these tickets more than anything. A load of us had arranged to go for a drink after work that Friday evening, and although I attended I made my excuses and left early. I was home by about quarter to eight that evening, and in bed by nine. I'd set my alarm for a little after midnight and, amusingly, as I was still living at Sparky Ma and Pa's at the time, I remember Big Bro and I passing like ships in the night as he was going to bed and I was heading out the door.

I drove to Hammersmith, and was at the Apollo around 1 am, where I tagged on to the end of the queue. At some point someone walked along the line and gave me a number - around 275, I think - that meant I could've wandered off and come back later, but I didn't want to risk losing my place. I'd taken a random Star Trek novel that I'd grabbed from the office with me, and some work, but I ended up not really touching either; instead, I got chatting to some of the people around me. Despite the fact that I was wearing a jacket and a waterproof, it was cold, and a lovely, slightly hippy-ish couple in the queue directly behind me lent me a blanket and a pillow while they retreated to the warmth of their camper van. I struck up a conversation with the guy in front of me, who worked in the Ealing branch of HMV and looked remarkably like Wayne Coyne from The Flaming Lips if memory serves me correctly; he'd kind of accidently managed to buy tickets for a forthcoming Bowie gig in New York, but wasn't quite sure if he'd actually be able to afford the flights and accommodation. We talked until the first rays of sunlight peeked over the Hammersmith flyover, and as the queue finally started edging forward he mentioned that I should go see his band play at a pub in a couple of weeks. By that time we were at the doors of the Apollo and before I knew it we'd been directed to different ticket booths; I never got his name, or the name of the pub where he was playing.

What I did get, though, was two tickets to see David Bowie at the Hammersmith Apollo. Securing them safely in a zipped pocket, I walked back to my car in a bit of a daze, and was home just before 11 am that morning.

The next few days passed so slowly it was untrue, but eventually Wednesday, 2nd October arrived, and Yazzle Dazzle and I fronted up to the Apollo. Out of interest, we stopped a tout and asked how much he'd give us for our tickets; not that we would ever have given any thought to actually selling them, but let's just say we would've been properly quids in if we'd done it.

The gig was amazing; an incredibly relaxed and vibrant-looking Bowie played for almost three hours. The crowd loved it; we had seats in the circle, but everyone was on their feet throughout, including Roger Taylor from Queen, who was dressed in a tuxedo with a white scarf draped across his shoulders (funny, though, I don't recall seeing him sitting outside the Hammersmith Apollo at 2 am the previous Saturday morning). To this day that gig ranks as one of the best concerts I've ever seen.

Although these were the days before I had a camera phone, at least one person was good enough to get a snippet of the incredible Hammersmith Apollo gig.

Around this time I was also writing a lot of scripts for ideas I'd had for comic books, and I kid you not, I even started writing one about Ziggy Stardust. It struck me that there was a very strong narrative to a lot of Bowie's songs, and I thought it would be interesting to try and tie some of them together. I wrote 108 pages of script for what I envisaged would end up as something like a 300 page-long graphic novel. Comics pal Grum even did some character design sketches. I don't know quite what I thought would happen with it - would I ever be able to send the script to David Bowie himself? Probably not, but as a writing exercise it was a very valuable experience; it remains the second longest piece of fiction I've ever written after my novel. To this day I still think the plot is sound, and although five years have passed since I last looked at it, I often think that I'd like to go back and finish it one day.

The first page of my Ziggy Stardust comics script.

In November 2003 I got the chance to see Bowie play live again as part of his A Reality Tour. This time he was playing at Wembley Arena, a venue not known for being particularly warm and intimate. On this occasion, though, that vast arena was transformed. I have never been to such a large concert where the entire crowd - and I mean literally *everyone* - is on their feet singing along from the very first song. That song was Life on Mars, and I distinctly remember us giving a visibly humbled Bowie several full minutes of applause before he got a chance to move on to the next song.

Not actually from the Wembley show, but you get the gist of it.

Like the Hammersmith gig, the Reality Tour show remains one of the best concerts I've ever been to. I remember coming out of the arena that night and giving serious thought to trying to get tickets for the second Wembley show the very next day - something I regret not doing now. Bowie had to abandon the tour due to ill-health the following summer, and hasn't toured since. After producing such an incredible musical legacy over the years I guess he's perfectly entitled not to head out on the road again, but for purely selfish reasons I'd love to see him play just once more (if only for Big Bro's sake - he's never seen Bowie play live, and after seeing the Reality Tour DVD deeply regretted not taking me up on my offer of getting him a ticket). Until that time, should it ever happen, I'll just have to make do with listening to all those songs I just put on my iTunes - even the ones off Never Let Me Down.

In homage, Part V

Drawn 26/10/95 - 27/10/95. I was always slightly fascinated by the idea of how Starfleet would recover the Enterprise's saucer section from the surface of Veridian III (because in 1995 I had *nothing* else to occupy my thoughts), and loved the idea of some greasy wideboy turning up with his grotty old pick-up truck to tow it away. I'm still rather pleased with how the truck turned out. On the other hand, I'm slightly disturbed by Captain Picard's rather prominent, um, 'package'…

Drawn 26/10/95. As an original series fan, I couldn't face life with the knowledge that Captain Kirk was dead, so I did what any nerd would do and came up with a plausible way in which the old boy could live on. My answer? As a game show host. Yeeeeeeeees… (for anyone who's not familiar with the UK game show The Generation Game, click HERE. That should get you up to speed with what's going on here…).

Any-hoo, this is the denouement of my little stroll down memory lane. Back in the day, I'd actually planned on drawing some more ridiculous illustrations for each of the Star Trek movies that followed Generations, but in the end I simply couldn't be bothered.

Wait - was that a collective sigh of relief I heard? RUDE!

In homage, Part IV

Drawn 21/10/95 - 22/10/95. Counselor Troi is breathalysed as part of the investigation into the destruction of the Enterprise. I don't know why I made Troi's head so massively out of scale here; I've met Marina Sirtis and she has a perfectly normal, rather lovely shaped head. On the plus side I did give her awesomely perky tits and a stunning hourglass figure, so I think it all evens out in the end. Rather less forgiveable, though, is the shocking lack of a correct sense of scale; that registration number should be waaaaaaaaay bigger than it is here. I hang my head in shame.

Drawn 22/10/95 - 23/10/95. A couple of months before I drew this it was announced that Worf was joining the cast of Deep Space Nine, so I decided to fill in a gap in the continuity. I'd always thought of Riker as something of a jock, so I adjusted his costume here to resemble an American Football uniform, and had him chucking a ball at the departing, overly emotional Worf (another blatant disregard of Star Trek lore on my part - *everyone* knows Klingons don't have tear ducts). None of this explains why Captain Picard appears to be groping his own arse, though, but if it keeps him happy, so be it - make it so, you pervert!

Next: An epic finale!

In homage, Part III

Drawn 10/10/95 - 14/10/95. So this drawing was influenced by two factors, the first being that there were all these stories that William Shatner and Patrick Stewart hated each other (not true), and the second being the Star Trek fans' ultimate wet dream that the two Enterprise crews should end up in battle against each other to decide once and for all which was the best. A ridiculous idea, I think you'll agree.

Kirk would kick Picard's ass every time.

Drawn 1/10/95. I think this speaks for itself. Note the addition of two Klingon weapons - a bat'leth and a d'k tahg knife. I'm nothing if not thoroughly nerdy.

Next: the aftermath of the Enterprise crash!

In homage, Part II

Drawn 17-10-95 - 21/10/95. The moment every Star Trek fan had been having impure thoughts about waiting for: Captains Kirk and Picard meet! And they rode horses. Hmmm. Anyway, the horse that Kirk is riding here has a rather mischievous look on its face, and I can't remember why. Also, I'm not totally sure, but Picard might be in silhouette in the background because I was still trying to get the hang of drawing a fairly decent Patrick Stewart and it was just easier to colour him in.

Drawn 22/10/95. Ha ha ha - it's a joke about lady drivers! Because those *never* go out of fashion…

Next: An epic confrontation!

In homage, Part I

Over the weekend, for reasons so long and complex I shan't bother to go into them here, I spent rather a lot of time thinking about the past. This ultimately led to me sitting on the floor on Sunday afternoon, routing through a load of old folders when I would've actually preferred to be doing something more productive like reading a book or taking a nap; I'm right into taking naps at the weekend these days. Anyway, so there I was, searching through some dusty old folders. I was actually looking for something specific, and after a while I found it: an old pink cardboard folder containing a series of photocopied pages.

Fourteen years ago, when I was in Sixth Form college, I decided to create a very personal gift as an 18th birthday present for a friend of mine. At the time we were both into Star Trek (yes, I know, I never grew *out* of Star Trek); this was, of course, around the time when DS9 and Voyager were both on the telly, and the same year in which Star Trek Generations had hit UK cinema screens. I was also doing my A-Level graphical communication project on the topic of starship design evolution in Star Trek, much to the chagrin of my teachers who would shake their heads at me as if to say I was taking leave of my senses until, of course, I claimed the school's very first A grade in the subject - but that's another story.

Any-hoo, as part of my friend's birthday gift, I decided to draw her a series of comedic illustrations (this was also around the time I still harboured a desire to be a cartoonist) based on Star Trek Generations, and the folder I was looking for at the weekend contained the last surviving photocopies of those original drawings (for all I know the originals don't exist anymore). And I thought "who could I inflict these upon for shits and giggles?"

That's where you come in, dear reader.

So here you have it - the first installment of my childlike scribblings from 1995!

(BTW, if you're not too familiar with Star Trek Generations you might want to watch the film to help you get the most out of what's coming your way over the course of the next few days; alternatively, I will be captioning each illustration in a wry, possibly somewhat derogatory fashion. Of course, if you don't care, which is more than likely, that's fine too!)

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This is the title page. It explains what this nonsense is all about. Note the UK spelling of 'generalizations.' If I used that I'd work I'd probably be fired.

Drawn 1/10/95. This is based on a sequence that was cut from the final film where Soran tortures Geordi with a probe that stops his heart. I thought it would be funnier if he showed him some holiday photos. Hmmm. On the plus side, I think you'll agree I totally nailed the look of Malcolm McDowell. I also seem to recall feeling distinctly uncomfortable drawing Geordi's massive nipples and moobs.

Drawn 14/10/95. The comedy here is that, in the series, I always thought Dr. Crusher had ridiculously massive shoulder pads, and paid far too much attention to her tricorder when her patients might be violently bleeding out on the biobed. Nice womanly hips on Geordi.

Next: Two captains meet!

Book rant

I've not had a good rant here for a while, and seeing as Marcosy has once again been harassing me for not having written anything for a few days (I swear he's not happy unless there's a new post at least once a day), I thought I'd go with this (also because it's been swirling around in my brain for a while so I think it's probably wise to get it out before my head explodes).

A few weeks back Sparky Ma and I decided to head out on one of our infamous shopping expeditions to Kingston. I didn't actually need to buy anything, but I know it makes Sparky Ma happy when I do spend unnecessarily, so I thought I'd put together a list of a few books I liked the sound of. I didn't particularly need any new books, because my book stack was already pretty big, and I'm reading a rather epic novel as it is, but I like buying books, so I figured rather than buy them as and when I needed them from Amazon (where they're cheaper, I might add), I'd buy them in a shop and get a nice carrier bag to keep Sparky Ma happy.

From a rather large list, I whittled it down to three books I wanted to buy:

• King Dork by Frank Portman

• Tomas by James Palumbo

• A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius by Dave Eggers

And so, bright and early one Saturday morning, off we trotted. Well, actually, we drove - but you get the gist.

There are two dedicated bookshops in Kingston: Waterstones and Borders. I hit-up Waterstones first. Neither King Dork nor A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius were anywhere to be found, but as both are two years old I didn't necessarily find this terribly surprising; disappointing, yes, surprising, no. I was trained from a very young age to be prepared for disappointment while shopping; not once did I burst into tears when the toy shop didn't have the Thunder Punch He-Man figure I so desperately wanted.

Where was I? Ah yes - two down, one to go. I soon found myself looking on the alphabetically-arranged shelves for a copy of Tomas, and after hunting high and low (like A-Ha) I found it. I grabbed it and looked down at it … only to find that someone had spilt blue ink all across the cover at some point before it was put on the shelf. I looked back at the shelf thinking I'd just grab a different copy, only to discover that this was the sole copy of Tomas in the shop.

So let's get this straight: this was the one and only copy in this shop of a very recently released, critically-acclaimed novel … and it was covered in ink.

This is the point where you'd think I should've rushed up to a member of staff and asked for some money off, but I don't do that with books. Books are something I cherish. I always look for the most perfect copy of a book before buying it. Of course, it's then totally my decision if I want to break the spine, sneeze in it, or hurl ink across the cover, but at the moment of purchase it has to be *perfect.*

I put the book back on the shelf and stormed off, thinking I'd just get it in Borders. If a member of Waterstones' staff had been nearby and I'd just happened to be wearing a cape I would've been tempted to swoosh it dramatically across my shoulder before shouting theatrically "I SHALL TAKE MY CUSTOM ELSEWHERE!" while also noting with something approaching disgust that it's just plain weird that Waterstones, the book-selling division of the HMV chain, now sells Nintendo DS consoles and the top 10 DVDs.

Cut to Borders.

In Borders I headed straight for the 'E's. That's the alphabetical listing of the bookshelves, I should add, and not any illegal uppers that might have been on offer. After locating 'Eggers, Dave' I clapped my hands together like a special when I saw there were three copies of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius on the shelf. Sparky Ma always taught me to choose a copy from the back, so I slid the first two books forward and reached for the one at the rear. Holding it in my hands, though, I noticed that all the corners were a bit mashed up, so I popped it back and took the next one. This one looked like it'd been chewed by a dog, so I put that one down as well, ultimately violating Sparky Ma's golden rule of not taking the first one on the shelf by taking the first one on the shelf. That one had a torn back cover and dirt on it. WTF?!

I put that one back and decided that I'd just go find Tomas instead (King Dork wasn't available here, either). Unfortunately, the only thing awaiting me at the 'P's was crushing disappointing: there was not one copy of Tomas on the shelf. Outrageous. I decided to console myself by looking at the graphic novels; Borders in Kingston has one of the best graphic novel sections I know.

The graphic novel section, however, appeared to have been hit by a bomb. Books were lying everywhere like little wounded paper soldiers. Some were on the floor, others, shoved haphazardly on the shelves with no apparent consideration for a) the condition of the book, or b) any sense of order. I looked around in desperate hope that I might see one of those annoying children you find every now and again in book shops - you know, the ones that decide they're going to pull all the books off the shelf and then put them back in a prettier fashion using the colour of the spine to make a rainbow pattern or something. That sort of thing usually winds me up something chronic, but here that kid could be a hero!

There were no children available, however, so instead I just stormed out. Again. Oh, but not before using Borders' free wi-fi to order both Tomas and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius from Amazon using my iPhone. Both books turned up in pristine condition a couple of days later, and I saved myself £5.59 in the process.

So this is what's erking me. I was really well up for spending more than I needed to buy these books, purely because I wanted the experience of buying them in a real bookshop. But no. It seems the only thing you can buy in a book shop these days that doesn't look like it's been trashed by a wild animal is a DVD of Twilight or the latest Katie Price 'opus.' Ugh. Yes, yes, I know we're in the midst of a recession and the shops probably don't want to hold too much older stock (i.e. anything that the ink has actually had time to dry on, aside from Waterstones' sole copy of Tomas) and they're facing increased competition from online sellers like Amazon, but the impression I get these days is that they just want to make some excuses before rolling over and dying.

I love buying books in shops - I've discovered so many books and authors I love simply by browsing the shelfs - but if bookshops aren't going to offer the choice or justify their higher prices with a decent, passionate service then quite frankly they deserve to go the way of the dinosaurs, the dodo, and Woolworths.

I discovered recently that Borders are closing about five of their UK stores including their flagship Oxford Street branch. And while I'll miss that towering edifice of books in central London, to be quite honest the last time I went in there it looked like a shanty town. Thank god the Kingston branch isn't closing because I love that shop. Of course, I loved it more when it stayed open late and I could stroll in around eight o'clock, buy a book, then start reading it over a coffee in the in-store Starbucks (hint hint); it closes at seven now, meaning that by the time I get there after work I'm just about in time to see them locking the doors.

What I'm getting at, then, is that I want to see these shops working harder for my money, particularly at this time. It's kind of like training a dog, I suppose; if they work harder, I'll reward them by giving them a chocolate drop my money. If they don't, I'll quite happily give it to the Amazonians.

Rant over. Now, if you'll excuse me I have a large stack of books I need to get through.

Well I'd watch it…

G.I. Joe: Rise of … WTF?!

I've just gotten back from seeing the movie G.I. Joe: Rise of the Cobra and I feel compelled to write this while it's still fresh in my mind.

Because lord knows I shall be doing anything and everything to erase it from my brain as soon as I hit 'Publish Post,' including bashing my face against the wall until I break through into next door's living room and get to greet my delightful lady neighbour with a bloodied face and a jaunty wink before passing out.

I can't say I was terribly enthusiastic about seeing this film, but as I had fond memories of owning the toys when I was a kid (known over here in Britland as Action Force, because we were obviously ill-equipped to deal with having to give our action figures American accents) I thought I'd give it a whirl. I subsequently roped in an unsuspecting Willowc to accompany me because, well, she made me see The Spirit so quite frankly she was asking for it.

So I won't beat around the bush: it genuinely was like a live-action version of Team America, only with all the songs, naughty language, and humour sucked out of it. It was really po-faced. I mean *really.* It took itself so seriously it wasn't funny. Literally. Which is a bit of a shame, because if it had some songs monosyllabic star Channing Tatum could've shown off his wicked dance steps; I've seen the trailer for Step-Up, I know he's got some killer moves. So yes, anyway, it was very serious. Even the most ridiculous lines were delivered with earnest conviction by the cast – with the exception of anything that spilled out of dear ol' Channing's mouth, of course; he simply mumbled, frowned, and went a bit cross-eyed with all the effort he was putting in. Bless. Give him a gold star, a pat on the head and send him on his way.

At least he looks like the freakin' doll.

As if the tone wasn't bad enough, the acting was universally horrific. Everyone - and I mean everyone - involved should be utterly ashamed of themselves. I've seen more convincing performances when I recite Star Trek lines to myself in the bathroom mirror in kindergarten nativity plays.

I shan't dwell on Channing Tatum's performance, because unless there was a dance number halfway through the film I wasn't really expecting too much from him. Sienna Miller, on the other hand…

Oh, Sienna - why? You've been forging such an interesting career for yourself and your perky breasts with such diverse roles in … that film … and the … other one … but here! Here, any vestige of talent just flew, FLEW out the window as you concentrated so hard on talking with a crappy American accent. At least I think it was supposed to be American … And what was up with the way you walked? It looked like you had either a club foot or crapped yourself. Or maybe it was trapped wind. May I suggest pavanamuktasana (that's wind-removing pose to you and me)?

I do hope she didn't follow through. That outfit is rather snug.

On the plus side, a scene in which she was in a car that exploded did give me the opportunity to utter the phrase 'burnt Sienna' to Willowc. HI-larity ensued, let me tell you.

Despite the appalling accent and lack of any discernable talent, the producers appear to have spent all their money on Sienna and some truly dreadful visual effects, and thus the rest of the cast was comprised of whoever they could get for what little money they had left.

Channing, of course, is like the poor man's Josh Hartnett, which I'm sure will please Josh Hartnett until I say that Josh Hartnett is also a poor man's Josh Hartnett. As I already mentioned, without an opportunity to break into dance, or any meaningful dialogue to advance whatever seemed to pass as a plot, Channing was left to mumble his way through the script somewhat incoherently. I don't know, maybe his mum wasn't around to help him with the big words. I'm pretty sure the only line he uttered that I understood was "WOO-HOO!" but maybe it was the visual aspect rather than the aural one that led me to understand that; I suppose they could've put him on a rollercoaster and green-screened a different background in later while his eyes lit up like a special on a day trip to the seaside.

Elsewhere, the head of G.I. Joe was played by Dennis Quaid, who I've always thought of as the poor man's Harrison Ford. Here he managed to wear a beret and still deliver lines of dialogue despite the fact that in some scenes I began to suspect that he might be in the midst of having a stroke or something.

Overheard on set: "What the hell did you sign me up for? I'm dressed like one of the Village People, and I can't feel the right-hand side of my body." TRUFAX.

Other than that, there was one of the Wayan brothers (I'm too depressed to go onto the IMDB to find out exactly which one) whose sole direction in the film appears to have been to "do it like Eddie Murphy would do it." Why they didn't just put him in a fat suit and pop a dress on him I don't know. And in the 'REALLY SHOULD KNOW BETTER' category we have Christopher Ecclescake, who after gurning his way through a season of Doctor Who put on possibly the worst Scottish accident I've ever heard for his role as … oh, I don't know, some pantomime villain or something here, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt, to whom I'd just like to say: Jesus Christ, man, you were in Third Rock From the Sun for crying out loud - have some f**king sense!

And don't get me started on Jonathan Pryce. Tut. I'm disappointed in you, Sir.

About the only person I felt sorry for was Ray Park as Snake Eyes (I had that action figure!). Poor Ray Park; every movie he's in he has his face covered by extensive makeup or costume. He must be developing something of a complex. Surely he knows they only want him because he can bust some serious judo-chop moves? He doesn't even get to talk in this movie. Does he realise he's effectively just one step up from a prop?

And so we come to the architect of this tragic affair - James Tiberius Ki- Oh, wait, I was reciting Star Trek dialogue again there, wasn't I? Oops. Right, so Stephen Sommers - WHY?! I really want to like your films. Deep Rising was fun. The Mummy was fun too. The Mummy Returns sucked, quite frankly, and Van Helsing was a mess saved only by Hugh Jackman's laughably ridiculous hat and Kate Beckinsale's heaving bosum. But I just don't understand why Hollywood keeps giving you millions of dollars to go off and make ridiculous, vacuous movies.

Quite frankly, I'm pretty sure I could make a reasonable film if someone gave me a bag of cash - even one, like G.I. Joe, that focuses on a beloved plastic figure.

Hollywood: I'm awaiting your call.